so kristen was writing 3B cs smut during killian’s cursed-lips phase and needed motivation to finish, and as her smut is simply The Best, i provided some pls-keep-writing art 🙂 GO READ THE THING! IT’S SEXY AND ANGSTY what a combo, i love them
Summary: She always knew Henry would leave home one day. She just didn’t think he’d leave home for another realm, okay? (Starring Emma Swan and Killian Jones, featuring cameos by Henry, Snow and Charming, mention of Regina and others.)
Notes: This is probably the schmoopiest Christmas fic I’ve ever written. Completely and utterly self-indulgent, TBH. It starts off during 702 but then continues with the Storybrooke timeline and our Captain Swan, completely ignoring the hodge-podge of a timeline created in Season 7, because that makes no sense whatsoever as far as I’m concerned. Your mileage may vary, of course. LOL.
P.S. THERE BE MENTIONS OF CANON BABIES IN THIS FIC.
PPS. Merry Christmas to those who celebrate, my lovely shipmates.
~*~
Someday soon we all will be together
If the fates allow
Until then, we’ll have to muddle through somehow
So have yourself a merry little Christmas now
~*~
Henry leaves Storybrooke on a sunny October morning, the
week after Emma’s birthday, two weeks before Halloween.
Emma bites back the urge to ask him to wait until after
Halloween, until after Thanksgiving, until after Christmas. Maybe even wait until she doesn’t look at him
and see that little ten year-old standing on her ratty welcome mat outside her
Boston apartment, looking up at her with hope brimming in his eyes.
God, she’s going to miss him.
He politely shuns his grandmother’s best efforts to throw
him a going-away party, telling them he doesn’t want to make a fuss, or worse,
tempt the fates by having a happy celebration at Granny’s.
Emma has to admit, the kid has a point.
He’s not a kid anymore, though. He’s now officially an adult,
and that’s kind of the problem.
Problem? No, not a
problem, she tells herself, as though if she says it enough times, she might
actually believe it. She understands why
he wants to leave, she does. That
doesn’t mean she has to be happy about it, though.
But he’s gotten enough grief about his travel plans from
Regina, so Emma just keeps smiling until her lips feel like they’re starting to
fray around the edges, matching the tiny threads that are peeling loose around her
heart.
Henry makes the rounds of the town in the week before his
departure, and Emma can’t help feeling proud at the effort he’s putting into
making his farewells. By the end of the
week, she’s pretty sure he’s consumed his body weight in pizza and soda in the
pursuit of spending some quality time with Archie, Granny and the rest of the
usual suspects, to steal a line from one of his favourite movies.
In between the pizza fests, he manages to squeeze in a few
last motorcycle safety lessons with August, honing his skill to the point where
Regina had finally managed to stop watching him through white-knuckled hands.
(This last development?
Not exactly Killian’s favourite thing, much to Emma’s eternal amusement.)
Last night, he’d had dinner with his grandparents and his
toddler uncle (and Wilby, she assumes, lying in wait for any dropped crumbs as
usual). This morning it was their turn, a late breakfast involving way too much
food. The three of them will be eating
leftovers for days.
No, wait. Not three. Her breath snags in her throat. The two of them.
Damn it. This is
going to be harder than she thought.
Henry’s been packed for a month, she knows, but she can’t
help herself. “You’ve got Killian’s
magic message-in-a-bottle-thingy?”
Her son and husband exchange a knowing look over the kitchen
table that makes her want to laugh and weep in the same heartbeat. “Sure do.”
Henry grins at her, and there’s the ten year-old kid again. “It was the first thing I packed.”
They linger over breakfast, but Emma knows she’s just
delaying the inevitable, and as much as she might like, she can’t wish for the
clock to stop ticking. Finally, it’s
time for him to head to Regina’s for one last lunch together and feeling like a
child dragging its heels, she follows Henry and Killian to the front door,
watching in silence as her husband helps her son don his backpack.
“Enjoy your adventures, mate. Take care of yourself.”
Killian gathers her son in his arms, a bracing hug with more than a little
back-slapping.
“I will.” Henry’s reply is muffled against Killian’s
shoulder, making him sound much younger than his years, and Emma’s fingernails
curl into the swell of her palms. “You’ll
look after everyone while I’m gone, right?”
“Aye, you can count on it.”
Killian’s eyes are suspiciously bright as he takes a half step back,
almost fumbling as he retrieves a small box from the sideboard and presses it into
Henry’s hand. “A little something for the journey, my lad.”
Emma never thought the sight of a box of Pop Tarts could
make her cry, but that was her old life.
In the here and now, she manages to see that they’re S’mores flavour –
Henry’s favourite – before her eyes blur hotly with tears. “Really?”
Killian’s arm tightens around her shoulders, and Henry
quickly takes her hand in his. “I’ll be
home again before you know it.”
Blinking back her tears, she squeezes his hand. “I’m fine, really.” She’s not fine, but that’s not Henry’s burden
to bear. He might be almost as tall as
her these days, but it’s still her job to keep his heart safe. “Do you need a
ride to Regina’s?”
Her son’s grin is unabashedly proud as he lets go of her
hand to smooth his fingertips down the front of his new leather jacket. “My
bike’s outside.”
“Right, of course.”
Then Killian is opening the front door, letting in the cool
Autumn air, and she has to gulp down the sudden knot in her throat. “I love you, kid.”
I’m Henry. I’m your
son.
The hug Henry gives her is tight enough to make her ribs
creak, and she never wants it to end. “Love you too, Mom.”
He extracts himself from her arms with typical teenaged
awkwardness, making her heart lurch, but Killian’s hand is warm at the small of
her back, holding her steady. “Your grandmother may never forgive you for
depriving her of organising a farewell party for you, you know.”
“I know.” Henry looks
faintly embarrassed. “I just wanted to say my goodbyes without everyone
watching.”
A dark memory flashes through her thoughts at her son’s choice
of words. Beside her, she feels Killian stiffen, but his reply is cheery enough. “Perfectly understandable.”
The next few minutes are a blur, another hug, another kiss
on her cheek (God, her little boy has stubble on his chin, when the Hell did
that happen?), another handshake for Killian.
And then he’s roaring up the street on his second-hand bike, his new
black helmet gleaming in the sunlight, and Emma knows he’s taken a piece of her
heart with him.
(Not literally, thank God. Sometimes she forgets how often
that actually happens around here.)
They linger in the doorway until he disappears from view,
and Emma’s sigh feels like it’s been dredged up from the soles of her
feet.
“Interesting turn of phrase.” Behind her, Killian lets out a
soft breath, his hand coming up to rest on her hip. “Did you tell him of our farewell in the
Underworld?”
His tone is light, almost playful, but the weight of memory
behind it has her turning to face him. “No, never.” She buries her face in the
curve on his neck, inhaling the clean tang of him as she wraps her arms around
his waist. “Maybe it’s in his book?”
“That bloody book.” She
feels the curve of his smile against her temple. “Is nothing sacred?”
She tries to laugh, but it comes out as a stuttering sob.
“Come on, love.” His lips are warm
against her skin, his hand trailing down her arm to entwine his fingers through
hers. “Let’s sail away.”
Leaving the breakfast dishes in their wake, he leads her
back to their bedroom, and in the sunlight strewn tangle of sheets, she lets
him chase away the sadness from her thoughts with the heat of his kiss and the
silken brush of his skin against hers.
(They leave the condoms in the top drawer, just as they have
every time they’ve – well, you know – for the last year.)
When they fall, breathless and giddy with pleasure, they
fall together, his fingers still tightly wound through hers, the pounding of
his heart fluttering against her own chest.
Closing her eyes, she presses her forehead against his, her free hand
slipping unbidden to rest on her belly. Maybe
this time, maybe not. If it doesn’t
happen, Henry will always be enough. She
and Killian will be enough.
That doesn’t mean she can’t hope for more.
“Good thing I didn’t bother making the bed,” she eventually
quips as she rolls onto her side, and he laughs, pressing a smacking kiss to
her bare shoulder.
“Well, we now officially have the house to ourselves,
Swan.” She turns her head just in time
to see him wriggle those ridiculous eyebrows of his, his gaze sweeping hotly
over her from head to toe. “We may never
make the bed again.”
They do, of course, because he’s a stickler for keeping
their cabin shipshape.
Besides, there’s always the couch.
~*~
Halloween comes and goes without much fanfare, at least in
their home. While his Swan is a lifelong
devotee of candy, it seems she can’t muster the energy to enjoy the festivities
with her young man gone.
When they’re not dodging national holidays, they go about
the business of settling into normality, enjoying the novelty of married life
and all the highs and lows that come with it.
He would be exquisitely happy if it weren’t for the fact that he can
literally see the sadness chipping away at the woman he loves.
He does his best to make up for Henry’s absence. Some days, he thinks he almost succeeds. Other days, when he finds her wiping away
surreptitious tears she doesn’t want him to see, he knows he’s failed her.
The very real fear that he is not enough sends a chill through his heart far too often, but he is
a patient man, and he knows his Swan.
She is strong. She will get
through this.
When Thanksgiving arrives (yet another gluttonous occasion)
a month later, he doesn’t have much more luck raising her spirits. Thankfully, her parents are all too happy to
fill the gaps in conversation at the late luncheon they host at their
farmhouse.
(They’d all already indulged in a sumptuous brunch with
Regina, Zelena and young Robyn at the Mayor’s mansion, and Killian is quite
sure he never needs to eat another candied anything
in his lifetime.)
After the meal is done, Emma and her father take the young
prince for a stroll around the vast garden behind the house. Killian, knowing the best way to his
mother-in-law’s heart, insists on helping with the dishes.
“David’s normally the one who does the dishes,” she informs
him with the lofty air of a warrior princess, trying and failing to hide her
smile. “I suppose you’ll do, though.”
They work well together, and they spend a pleasant ten minutes
discussing harmless town gossip while the pile of dishes grows smaller and
smaller. Eventually, though, her hands
grow still, and he follows the line of her gaze through the kitchen window to
where her family is engaged in an energetic game of fetch with the dog. “Emma looked a little sad at lunch.”
“Aye.” He tightens
his grip on one of the ornate whiskey glasses that look as though they date
from the Enchanted Forest. “She misses the lad, and nothing I do seems to help.”
“I’m sure you help a lot. It’s just a worried parent thing.” Snow flicks him a knowing smile as she
plunges her gloved hands back into the soapy water. “You’ll be one yourself one
day.” She bites her lip, then hastens on, “Not that you haven’t been an amazing
stepfather to Henry-”
“It’s fine, love. No offense taken.”
Snow hands him one of young Neal’s dinner plates, and he can’t help smiling at the coloured bunnies that adorn it. “You miss him too, I’m sure, just as Charming and I do.”
“That I do.” There is definitely a Henry-shaped hole in his life, but he’s hardly one to complain about a young lad wishing to seek his own story in the world.
“As for being a parent myself one day, I’m not too sure of that.”
He finds himself thinking of the monthly
ritual that always begins with hope and always ends with disappointment. Twelve months in a row, and nary a sign that
they might be blessed with an addition to their family. “It’s been a year now and we haven’t-”
He breaks off, but it’s too late. Snow’s green eyes are already wide with
sparkling delight. “You and Emma are trying to have a baby?”
His mother-in-law has the sense to whisper, but he’s still
kicking himself for speaking so freely.
He tries one of his best leers on for size, hoping to distract her.
“Frequently.”
The toe of her small booted foot finds his ankle with a
pointed jab. “You can cut out the sleazy
pirate act, you know we don’t buy it anymore.”
Damn it.
She’s still watching him with those bright green eyes, eyes
that always see far too much, just like her daughter. “Yes, we’re trying.”
He can actually feel the excitement humming through her, and
he bumps her shoulder gently with his. “Please wait until Emma tells you
herself?”
Snow draws herself up to her full height, her pink-rubber
hands laden with suds, and fixes him with a haughty stare. “Are you implying I
can’t keep a secret?”
He’s not sure who starts laughing first, but they’re still
laughing when Emma and David make their way back to the house, young Neal
perched high on his father’s shoulders, the canine at their heels. Pausing in her massaging of the dog’s ridiculously
fuzzy ears, Emma looks from Killian to her mother, then back again. “What’s so
funny?”
“Granny’s giblet patties.”
“Food babies.” The
room seems to grow still at the word babies, and Snow presses her lips together for the second time in as many
minutes. “Damn it.”
The look Emma tosses at him is one of pure exasperation as
David’s head swivels, to look first at his daughter, then at Killian. He
carefully manoeuvres young Neal down from his shoulders to balance him on one
hip, hopeful anticipation etched on his face. “You’re not-”
Killian’s gaze locks with Emma’s, his heart lifting when her
expression softens. “No, I’m not
pregnant.” Reaching out, she takes her
little brother from their father’s arms, burying her nose in the tangle of
curls Killian knows smells of sunshine and soap. “But we’re trying.”
“And that’s where the too much information begins.” David is
suddenly at Killian’s side, grinning as he relieves him of the dishcloth draped
over his shoulder. “Why don’t you practice your fatherly charms on my son for
an hour or so while the ladies relax?”
“With pleasure.” Killian clicks his heels together. “Dad.”
David winces, and Killian’s not entirely sure it’s 100%
teasing. “Still getting used to that.”
Much later that night, Emma stretches out beside him, one
leg hooked over his, her hand coming up to give his stomach a gentle poke. “Food baby?”
“I’m afraid so, love.”
He didn’t think it was possible for a human being to ingest so much
food, but every holiday season in this realm seems to prove him wrong. “Perhaps
you should regale me with more tales of my Wish self to ensure I keep myself in
good health.”
Emma laughs softly, tangling her fingers through the silver
charms on his chest. “I’ll help you work off those extra calories, I
promise.” She pokes him in the stomach
again, grinning as he groans. “Not
tonight, though.”
“Definitely not.”
Rolling onto his side, he gathers her into his arms, relishing the feel
of her bare skin against his from chest to knee. There’s a lot of be said for having total
privacy in one’s own home, not to mention being married to a woman who can cast
a heating charm with the flick of her slender fingers. “One of the joys of married life surely must
be knowing the other person will be there beside you when the sun rises.”
“Unless there’s another curse, of course,” she mumbles
sleepily against his shoulder, and he slides his hand down the supple length of
her back to bestow a light pinch on the curve of her arse.
“Hush, Swan.” She
snorts daintily, but burrows closer all the same. “Today is the day for being
thankful, not tempting fate.”
Lifting her head, she puts a soft hand on his cheek, her
gaze burning into his in the darkened room. “No matter how much I miss Henry,
never think that I’m not thankful for you. Not just today. Every day.”
“And I you.” Her mouth
tastes of toothpaste and the faintest trace of strawberry lip gloss, and the
throaty moan that rumbles from her chest to his as he flicks his tongue against
hers is almost his undoing. Thankfully,
given he’s quite sure his performance would be decidedly subpar, her next kiss
is soft and sweet and speaks to him of slumber.
“See you when the sun rises, sailor.”
“Aye aye, captain.”
He rolls onto his back, closes his eyes as she settles into her
favourite sleeping position stretched out beside, her hand over his heart. “It’s a date.”
~*~
Less than four scant weeks later, it’s Christmas Eve, which
means dinner alone at home, just the two of them, before the next day topples
them into a maelstrom of family and townsfolk at the Mayor’s annual Christmas
celebration. Tomorrow they will dine on
traditional roast beasts (he does so enjoy that particular joke) and every
vegetable under the sun, but tonight?
Tonight they’re eating Chinese food and drinking soda, their
choice of beverage all the better with which to toast young Master Mills. There
will be enough grog flowing at Regina’s mansion tomorrow, thanks to the
dwarves, and he’s more than happy to abstain tonight to ensure he’s in peak
condition after dinner, as it were.
When they’ve organised themselves on the couch, cardboard
boxes lined up on the coffee table and one of Emma’s favourite festive movies
flickering on the television, he holds up his glass of soda, clinking it softly
against Emma’s tumbler. “To Henry.”
“To Henry.” Her eyes are shining brightly with the threat of
tears, but her smile is steady. “He brought me to Storybrooke and gave me a family.” She taps her glass against his a second time.
“Even though it was an accident, he also led me to you.”
“Indeed he did.” He grins at her, doing his best to ignore
the lump in his throat. “Good lad, that one.”
“I guess I always knew he’d have to leave one day.”
“It doesn’t stop us from missing him, though.”
Her sigh makes his heart ache. “No.”
“We’ll see him again, I’m sure of it.”
She lifts her chin, as if accepting an unspoken challenge. “I
know.”
There’s my brave
lass.
He puts his glass on the coffee table, then relieves her of
her own untouched drink. “Until then, my
darling, we’ll have to muddle through somehow.”
She rolls her eyes at him, but laughter dances in her voice.
“You’re quoting Christmas songs at me now?”
“I’m a shameless man. If I can borrow from a lovely song that always
makes your eyes come over all dreamy, I certainly will.”
She’s blushing as he bend his head to hers, teasing the
curve of her ear with his lips as he sings the words in a whisper. “Someday soon we all will be together, if
the fates allow.” He
touches his mouth against hers, tasting the warmth of her sigh. “Until then, we’ll have to muddle through
somehow.”
Her eyes close, her mouth curving in a small, oddly secret
smile. “You should sing more often, you know.”
“Outside the shower, you mean?” Her cheeks turn pink, and he knows she’s
remembering their shared shower of the previous week. By candlelight, no less, which had made all
those slippery curves and hollows beneath his questing hand and mouth so much
more intriguing. “Perhaps I’ll finally be tempted to join in with Granny and
her kraken machine tomorrow.”
Her laughter is music to his ears and eyes, her smile lighting up her whole face. “That’s karaoke and
you know it.”
(They both know it will be a cold day in the Underworld
before he sings modern ditties in public.)
“Speaking of tomorrow.”
Her gaze meets his with such tender force that he can’t help blinking. “I
have an early Christmas present for you.” She shifts closer, but makes no move
to retrieve a gift from beneath the glowing tree, which in hindsight, should
have been his first clue. “Which is ironic, really,” she mutters almost to
herself, “the early part, I mean, because it’s all about being late when you
think about it.”
As he struggles to catch up with these enigmatic words, she
takes his hand and slips it beneath the hem of her shirt, encouraging him to
touch her belly, stroke his fingertips from her navel to the swell of her pubic
bone.
“Guess what?”
It all comes together with a click, in his head, in his
heart, beneath his suddenly trembling hand. His chest grows tight, his tongue suddenly
refusing to work properly. He looks at
his wife imploringly. “Swan?”
Pressing his hand to her belly, she leans forward, her nose
almost touching his. “That’s not a food baby.”
Joy courses through him, and he finds himself sliding off
the couch, sinking to his knees in front of her, his hip banging painfully on
the side of the coffee table. He doesn’t care.
How he doesn’t tumble the boxes of Chinese takeout to the floor, he has
no idea.
“Are you sure?”
“Two positive tests and a doctor’s visit this morning say yes.”
“Bloody hell.” He
kisses her once, then twice, then she’s showering his face with kisses of her
own, her cheek wet with tears against his.
In between kisses, she cups his face in her hands, finding his eyes with
hers.
“Do you mind that I went to the doctor without you?”
He opens his mouth to deny the gentle charge, then searches
his heart. There are no lies or
half-truths between them. Not anymore.
“A little, perhaps.”
“You were so busy helping Regina set up for the party this
morning and I just couldn’t wait.” She brushes her thumbs at the dampness on
his face. “It’s also nice to be able to tell you when we’re alone.” Her smile is as radiant as their festive
tree, and he suddenly knows exactly what she’s going to say. “You know, without
everyone watching.”
His heart is so full, he’s not sure he can find the right
words. In the end, it’s a simple thing. “I
love you.”
“I love you.”
Dashing his eyes with the back of his hand, he clears his
throat. “My gift can’t possibly compare,” he gestures towards the tree, feeling
positively giddy. “But if I may?”
She beams at him. “Definitely.”
A moment later, she stares at the small jewellery box, her
eyes widening with surprise. “Where on earth did you get this?”
It’s exactly the reaction for which he’d been hoping, and
makes two months of fretting utterly worth it. “Marco knows a little pixie
silversmith.”
“Of course he does,” Emma laughs. “God, it’s beautiful.” Pulling the rose gold chain from the box, she
holds it up so the small compass charm catches the light from the fireplace, her
gaze intent. “Wait. It looks exactly the
same as the one we had to steal from Anton.”
“The pixie silversmith takes direction very well.”
She looks at him. “You designed this?”
“Well, I’m not one to brag-”
She doesn’t deign to rebuke such an obvious untruth. “From
memory?”
“Of course.” Taken
the chain from her hand, he drapes it carefully around her neck. “I remember
every single detail of our first adventure together.”
Her smile is a beautiful, trembling thing. “You are something else, you know that?” The
tenderness in her gaze makes his knees turn to water, making him thankful he’s
resumed his seat on the couch beside her. She pulls the thick curtain of her
hair aside so he can settle the chain against the nape of her neck, smiling
when he feels the goosepimpled skin beneath his fingertips.
The new chain and compass charm gleam against her skin, and
he has a sudden (and lurid) image of her wearing nothing else, her naked body dappled
with the colourful reflection from the Christmas lights.
(They haven’t christened that particular rug yet, he realises.)
He touches one fingertip to the compass, the memory of
weighing its full-size counterpart in his hand seared into his soul. He didn’t
know it then, of course, but that moment had been the beginning of a long and
winding journey to his own happy ending.
“Swan, I don’t care if we have to muddle through, or if we
know exactly where we’re going in this life.” He smooths her hair back, letting his fingers
linger in its golden strands. “There is
nowhere else I’d rather be than at your side.”
“Me too.” Her answering kiss is filled with the same promise
she made on their wedding day, making his heart race. “Merry Christmas.” Her dimples flash in her cheeks, and he
braces himself for the teasing he knows is coming. “Dad.”
He grins. “Unlike your father, I am going to greatly relish
getting used to that.”
In the end, they don’t make it far enough to christen the rug,
but that’s okay. As luck would have it, the reflection of the Christmas lights do
reach as far as the couch, bathing them both in a myriad of colours as they
slowly move together, the lights flickering wildly as Emma finds her peak,
seeming to keep time with her pleasured gasps.
Afterwards, he gathers his breathless, languid wife into his
arms, half-wondering if he should make the effort to heat up their cold takeout so she doesn’t miss out on eating a proper meal. She kisses the skin above his hammering heart,
then brings his hand down to touch the tiny swell of her belly, derailing that
thought. “I never thought I’d get to have any of this.”
Just when he thinks there are no surprises left in this
evening, she finds a new way to make him fall in love with her even more. “I
know that feeling all too well, love.”
They kiss, long and slow and sweet, and when it’s over, she
breathes out a long sigh of contentment. “Should we
tell my parents the good news tomorrow?”
“Definitely.” He grins. “There is a chance Regina might be annoyed at us stealing her thunder at
her own party.”
Emma’s eyes light up with mischief. “Wouldn’t that be a terrible shame?”
Pirate, he thinks
proudly but doesn’t say. By the impudent
smile she flashes in his direction, however, he knows she’s read his thoughts. Definitely a pirate.
They eat their reheated Chinese takeout much later than can be considered sensible for a pair of responsible adults, but Emma assures him they don’t have to set anyone a good example for at least another six months.
As the clock ticks past midnight, taking them into Christmas
Day morn, he dreams of golden hair and compasses, of ogres and beasties, the
flash of swords at mock battle and the gurgle of the young Charming prince’s
laughter. Henry – no longer a boy but a man – embracing his mother, both their
faces alight with identical joy. Emma’s face glowing with effort and pride, the
weight of a squirming babe placed in his arms.
Killian wakes at dawn, faintly bewildered by the array of dream realms his mind had seen fit to visit as he’d slept, but he feels an odd sense of peace, his heart
fuller than he could have ever imagined. His family’s course is now set true
and, no matter what lies ahead, no matter which realm in which they find
themselves, they will never lose their bearings again.
Merry Christmas! YO-HO-HO!! ‘Tis I, your Secret Santa! Thanks for chatting with me the past couple of weeks. I hope you enjoy your gift. I was an absolute pleasure to write it for you!!
Based on the prompt: I just wanted to put
Christmas lights up but I ended up falling off the ladder and crashing into you
while you were delivering a package to my door but oh god you’re hot, AND your
expressed love for the snowed in trope. Enjoy!
Rated: M – for sexy times / ~7600 words / Also available on ao3 and ff.net
beta’d
by the amazing @ilovemesomekillianjones, who also came up with its brilliant title. Thank you!
Emma finished securing the ladder to the side of
her house and began the perilous ascent to the rooftop. These probably weren’t
ideal conditions for hanging outdoor Christmas lights, but this was her only
day off for the next several days, and with a snow storm set to blow in later
that afternoon it was her one chance to get lights up before Christmas actually
came.
And she was gonna get these lights up.
And get the rest of her house decorated.
Before her Christmas tree was delivered.
So she could spend a cozy evening decorating her
first ever Christmas tree, in her first ever house, with the first snowfall of
the season swirling outside the windows that were all her own.
All hers.
Emma Swan had never had much that she could
actually call her own, which made this Christmas in her first house all the
more special. She planned to go all out. Garlands, and wreaths, and fake
candles in the window sills, lights on the outside of the house, and even a
real live Christmas tree.
Yup. It was going to be the best Christmas ever.
If she didn’t kill herself getting the house
lights up first.
In typical Maine fashion they’d had several days
of wet, dreary yuck leading up to the first potential snowfall, so everything
had a coating of moisture that would surely turn icy as the temperature began
to drop throughout the day. Emma meticulously worked to hang the outdoor lights
with as much haste as she could, without sacrificing precision. She’d just
gotten to the last stretch along the front of the house when she heard the
telltale sound of tires on gravel, indicating that someone was pulling up to
her secluded home on the outskirts of town.
As deputy of the small, coastal town of
Storybrooke, Emma got her fill of the citizenry day in and day out, through her
profession; so when the opportunity came to buy a home several miles out of the
way of the hustle and bustle of town, she’d jumped at it. Sure it was a little
inconvenient, but the privacy was exactly what she’d wanted, and the forest
views that surrounded most of her property weren’t too shabby either.
The distance, and slightly sketchy bridge that
spanned the little brook just off the main road, did sometimes make her feel
bad for those who had to trek out to her neck of the woods. Those like the
person currently making their way up her drive with a full and lovely Christmas
tree loaded in the back of a truck that had Jones Tree Farm displayed along its
side.
The same person who, ever since he’d arrived in
town five months prior, turned Emma into a ridiculous swooning cliche of a
woman.
Killian Jones.
The little… er, younger brother of
resident park services manager, Liam Jones.
The hot, seductively sinful, but slightly nerdy,
and totally sweet, (and single) brother of Liam Jones.
Oh, anon. I totally fucked up this prompt and didn’t really fill it properly at all. Singing karaoke in a bar became singing sea shanties in a tavern, and long story short, this turned into a Pirate Emma x Deckhand Hook story. Sorry? 5500 words of Deckhand Hook being deflowered, rated Very Explicit.
“Captain!” came a chorus of drunk voices from the tavern benches as the captain of the Jolly Roger entered the room.
A flagon of ale was pressed into the captain’s gloved hand. With a grateful smile for her crewman, Emma Swan lifted the mug to her lips and drank.
She made the rounds of the room, clapping her fellow pirates on the back, checking that none of their gambling contests were likely to lead to violence, at least for now. There was nothing like having to stop one of your crewmen from stabbing another over a pair of weighted dice to ruin a nice evening. Emma also made a mental inventory of the sex workers who were plying their trade in the tavern’s common room. It was inevitable that not a few of her men would end up spending a pleasurable evening with these women and if they did, Emma would make certain the prostitutes were fairly compensated come morning. The last thing she wanted was for any men under her employ to cheat these women out of their hard-earned coin.
Once she was satisfied that nothing was amiss, she slid onto a bench next to her first mate. The wolf didn’t look up, focusing on the tumble of a pair of dice over the rough-hewn surface of the table. They landed on snake eyes, and Ruby raised her hands in the air, victorious. August, the ship’s navigator, and Broderick, the ship’s boatswain, groaned together at their lost wagers.
“I thought you’d never turn up,” Ruby finally said to her after she’d collected her winnings. “Seeing as how you tend to forget that shore leave is for relaxing.”
“I haven’t forgotten it’s for relaxing, but I heard a rumor and I had to run it down.”
Emma lifted her head, flipped her pillow over, and punched it before flopping her head back onto it. She closed her eyes, counting to fifty. She rolled onto her back, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes hard enough to see spots, groaning in frustration.
There was just no possible way she was going to fall asleep.
Finally, she sat up with a determined frown and swung her feet down onto the cold floor. She reached for the extinguished candle on her bedside table, then thought better of it, leaving it where it was. Emma pulled on her robe and walked over and carefully opened her bedchamber door, listening for the footfalls of a night watchman. Hearing nothing, she slipped out into the passageway.
On the eve of their wedding, Killian had been put in a room in a different wing of the castle, far from Emma’s bedchamber. But after so many years of sneaking down to the kitchen for a midnight snack, it was an easy matter for Emma to avoid the watch’s patrol pattern and make her way to Killian’s bedroom, the location of which she’d made a point of memorizing. Ducking into an alcove and waiting until she was certain she wouldn’t be observed, Emma dashed to the door and carefully opened it, letting herself inside. She locked it behind her.
She heard a fumbling sound, and with her eyes straining in the dim moonlight, she saw Killian’s hand shoot out and knock his candle off the table.
“Who’s there?” he said, his voice raspy with sleep.
“It’s Emma,” she whispered, hurrying over to the bed. “Don’t… raise the alarm or whatever.”
Emma Swan, avid reader of romance novels, appreciates them for their vapid characters and incredibly unrealistic settings. She never imagined that she’d ever stumble into one—or that the man she’d find living alone in a mountain lodge would be the male lead in her own story. (Or how quickly it would escalate—and how okay with that she was.)
4.6k | AO3 | Rated M for Mountain Lodge Lovin’ | for @csjanuaryjoy
Though she was an avid reader, Emma wasn’t one for the literary classics. Those were far too stuffy and time-consuming for her and her life. But romance novels—the kind in the checkout line at the supermarket, covered with pictures of over-muscled hunks draped with busty maidens—those were her guilty pleasure, and she hated that she loved them.
Maybe it was the vapid characters that she never got attached to, or the fantastical love scenes that were physically impossible but still arousing, but there was just something so wonderfully fake and cheesy about them that made it the perfect escape from her simple, solitary life.
And she’d read more than enough of them to know that, like it or not, she’d somehow wandered right into one.
It was her own damn fault for getting lost in the woods, she supposed, but it had been a perfect, crisp fall day and the leaves were the most brilliant red-gold against the blue autumn sky.
Until it grew later, with the color of the sky increasingly matching the color of the leaves, and one wrong step had her twisting her ankle on a knobby root, and she was way too far off the trail to even begin finding it while limping.
The sound of chopping wood made her jump at first, but it wasn’t far away and she was willing to risk whatever lumberjack forest person she would find if it meant not having to spend a night in the elements. She knew how to handle herself, after all, and she just needed a ride to her car.
But when she hobbled to the edge of the clearing, she wasn’t at all prepared for the idyllic sight in front of her—not in reality, at least. There was a picturesque log cabin, a trail of smoke coming out of the chimney and light coming from clear windows giving it a homey character. An older but well-maintained pickup truck sat in the driveway. And next to the house, chopping wood, was who she assumed to be its owner.
He was a lumberjack alright, dressed in a plaid flannel, well-worn jeans, and work boots, but where she was expecting Paul Bunyan or the Brawny man, she got the cover of one of her boudoir fantasies.
Tousled, short-cropped, dark hair framed a face that could only be described as ridiculously pretty: large blue eyes, high cheekbones, full lips, and a sharp jaw covered in gingery scruff looked completely out of place in this setting.
The strain of his back muscles against that blue plaid when he hefted an axe said otherwise, though, and the flex of his bicep was visible even from where she was, yards away. The fit of those jeans only highlighted his assets, and when he stood to take a breather, resting his axe on his shoulder, she got a view of the dark hair dusting his chest via the fair amount of undone buttons on his top.
She’d hit her head when she fell, surely. This had to be a hallucination, because all this scene was missing was the scent of a Mountain Lodge candle.
Trying to get back into the swing of writing, so voila: 3500 words of mostly porn. It’s the post-4×02 canon divergent smut I’ve always wanted to write. I fiddled a little with canon to get Henry and Elsa out of the loft. Rated E.
Emma stirred into wakefulness and cracked an eye open. The heavy weight of several blankets pressed down on her, but she still felt a bone-deep chill that all the heat and blankets and cuddling from Killian hadn’t been able to touch.
“What’s this?” she heard Killian ask, and she turned her head and focused on him. He was frowning with confusion at a pile of clothes that Mary Margaret was holding out to him.
“Pajamas,” Mary Margaret said like it was perfectly self-explanatory that Emma’s mother would be handing him clothes to sleep in. When he continued to look confused, she huffed. “I’d rather there be someone to keep a close eye on Emma tonight, and I assume you wouldn’t be opposed? You can sleep in Henry’s bed.”
“Where is Henry going to sleep?” Emma asked, her voice coming out in a croak. “He can’t go to Regina’s – she won’t let anyone in the house right now, not even Henry.”
“Actually, he finally was able to speak to her on the phone a few minutes ago, and she wants him to stay over tonight. David’s taken him over there now, and then he’s going to get Elsa a room to rent at Granny’s.”
Emma struggled to sit up, one of the quilts falling to the floor. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” A lot of decisions seem to have been made while she was sleeping, and she was a little annoyed by it. Killian rushed over, prepared to bundle her up again, but she waved him away.
As requested, here is the first-sex-after-the-baby-is-born Captain Swan smut. Rated Explicit, obvi.
Warning the first: this got long, and clocks in at ~7500 words.
Warning the second: this is what you guys asked me for, so there are some less than sexy, perhaps even unpleasant, things in here of a biological/sexual nature. I think on balance it’s sexy, but I wrote it, and YMMV. Read at your own risk. (Also, this is based as much as memory allowed on my own experiences, not on a thorough, scientific survey of postpartum women, so again, your mileage likely varied. Which is fine.)
Thanks to @j-philly-b for the beta. Probably not her favorite thing that I’ve written, but she read it enthusiastically nonetheless!
Killian stood at the front window, swaying back and forth and patting the baby on the back. It made a satisfying thumping noise, the way his pats resonated in her tiny chest. Sunlight streamed in through the window, warming his face and contributing to the sense of well-being he was filled with, here in his home with his daughter. Maureen nosed against his clavicle through the burping cloth, uttering soft baby grunts as she fidgeted.
A bright yellow car pulled up and stopped in front of the house. “Mama’s home,” he murmured, kissing the top of the baby’s head.
His eyes followed Emma as she let herself through the front gate and trotted up the walk. Her long hair hung loose, cascading over the shoulders of the red plaid wool coat she wore. Her leather jackets were buried in the hall closet (I can’t even zip this one up, she’d moaned of her favorite jacket part of the way through her pregnancy, and he hadn’t seen it since). As the door opened, he turned to greet his wife.
“He loved making love. Not in the physical, sexual sense – though she could bet he liked that too. But in that old-world, courtly, talking dirty behind a respectable veil of suggestion, way. Except, on him, and with a face he knew looked like it did…Respectable? Only barely.”
Worried about Hook post 4×12, Emma goes to check on him. They talk. They Netflix. They chill.
Emma was thinking of Killian when she walked back into the loft after dropping Regina and Henry off at their place.
She’d been thinking of him all the way back from the empty house, since Henry mentioned villains and happy endings, even. Or, no, it was more accurate to say that he’d been distracting her since she kissed him goodbye at Granny’s with a promise to call him tomorrow. He’d given her that rueful smile, just as he always did when they parted. But this time it was a little more…bleak?
And really, Killian had been on her mind since their weird, stiff encounter that afternoon, the wrongness of which she now knew she had Gold to thank for.
Summary:Killian returns from dealing with Captain Blackbeard and makes
good on his promises of wish fulfillment.
Notes: Much love and thanks to @kmomof4 and @winterbaby89 for being kick ass betas and cheerleaders. Love you, ladies!
Rated M for sexy times / also available of ff.net and ao3
Killian
made his way silently into his home, not wishing to make his presence known
just yet. He knew it would not be long before word traveled from the docks that
his ship had made port early that morning, but he wanted to surprise his Emma
with the news of his return.
It had
been three long months since he’d seen his beloved. Three months of chasing
down the treacherous Captain Teach, who had waged a personal war against
Killian’s shipping empire after the man had been dismissed from its service. A
vendetta that had run much deeper than Killian had first known, and had only
discovered upon the precipice of its conclusion. A conclusion that very nearly
cost Killian everything he held dear. Something that sent a shudder through him
even now, many weeks later.
He could taste the black powder in the air. It mingled with the
metallic scent of battle, choking his senses as he clashed swords with the foe
he’d been hunting for months.
They’d finally caught up to Teach. After just missing him in port
after port, and being duped with misdirection that had caused them to waste a
fortnight of searching in the wrong direction, his ship had finally been spotted.
It had been Killian’s intention to take Teach, or Blackbeard as he was referred
to now, alive, and he had ordered an attack that would urge the opposing vessel
into surrender. But Teach wasn’t going down without a fight.
Both vessels had sustained substantial damage, and fighting had
spilled across each of the ships’ decks. Nearly impossible to gauge whose crew
actually had the upper hand, it seemed that the outcome would be decided upon
the current bout between the two ships’ captains currently locked in fierce
combat.
cshappybeginning 