Hey guys! It’s been so long since I wrote something. I think I need to start writing again because this took longer than usual to write. I hope I didn’t screw up the English language and I hope you still like this!
The idea came when I read about “the reassurement” Csers will have after 7x01 that CS is still true love and no one will ever ruin this. (*breath* I so hope this is true!) 

Anyway, I don’t think this is spoilery but it’s about Season 7 and includes some little things we know about so it’s up to you if you want to read it or not! Have fun! <3

The noise was louder than he expected when he entered the bar and it made him frown. He considered leaving for a second but he took two steps instead. He was done for today. They had been working the whole bloody day again in a case that didn’t want to be solved. This case had no progress already. Spending his nights too with it, wouldn’t do any help. He needed a strong drink and a good sleep afterwards.

Although, as he reached for the counter a very specific silhouette got his attention.

Keep reading

‘The unmistakable sound of a key rattling in the lock reached their ears, and Emma jumped off of him like she’d been hit with an icy douse of cold water. “Shit,” she said, which pretty much summed it up. ‘


as promised, my purely CS-centric sketch, number two of three, for @unfolded73 ‘s fic This Graceful Path  (which you can also start reading on Ao3 ) for the @captainswanbigbang CSBB. :> don’t you just love it when Snow interrupts hanky panky? one more drawing to go, you can expect it in october and it is appropriately themed, mwahaha~

In which I headcanon that “bracing shower” is a euphemism for touching yourself.  Rated E.  Spoilers for 6x18.

Killian stomped up the stairs, a pleasant tingle in his fingers and toes that made him feel heavy and tingly.

“Tingly,” he whispered to himself, shaking his head, and his hand for good measure.  He grabbed a hold of the railing when he nearly slipped on the landing, socks sliding on the slick wooden floors.

Keep reading

after the final battle

“What was it like,” he asks, “when you watched me die?”

“Hmm?” Emma responds, blinking her eyes open. She was nearly asleep.

The celebrations at Granny’s ended hours ago. They’re in bed now, freshly showered, under the sheets. The window is open and an early spring breeze is coming in. Just days ago it was snowing, but in the last few hours the warmth of spring seems to have settled in Storybrook. Magic probably has something to do with it, but Emma is too exhausted to be bothered by it. In fact, she’s just quite tired in general. Fighting a final battle will do that to a girl.

“What was it like when you watched me die?” Killian asks again.

Keep reading


I just wanted to give Emma a break from her batshit-crazy life and a chance to cuddle on the couch with her husband, but I ended up giving her a cold with a side of angst.

Takes place shortly after the Final Battle.

She’s sick within a week.

Truly nothing serious, but thoroughly miserable nevertheless; she’s put her body and her nerves through too much lately, and now she’s paying the price. Naturally, Killian acts as though she’s dying and given the events of the past few months, she tries to be sensitive about it. He does come from a world where a fever and a sore throat very well could have been the beginning of the end. And, of course, there’s the fact that she very clearly did die (or at least came close to it) right in front of his eyes not even ten days ago.

In a way, it’s a relief. She can’t even think of the last time that she’s been free of gut-sickening adrenaline long enough for her body to succumb to simple illness.

It’s a relief to feel run down and beat up when the cause isn’t some malevolent magical force trying to wrench her away from the people she loves. She’ll take this any day when it means getting to wake up to her husband who still looks at her like she’s the most beautiful goddamn thing he’s ever laid eyes on despite the fact that her eyes are swollen and she can only breathe through her mouth.

Keep reading

the quality of mercy (1/1)

Summary: In which Killian confesses to David and Emma. Spoilers for 6x12.

Rated: T

Warnings: None

Words: ~4.3k

Notes: I had a lot of feelings about the end of 6x12.  Title from The Quality of Mercy by William Shakespeare.  Much love and gratitude to my instrumental wife @ripplestitchskein for reading this through for me.

Also on ff and ao3

The worst of it, Killian thinks, is that for a moment, he doesn’t recall the man’s face.

He was nothing but a liability, standing between his crew and enough riches to carry him from one day to the next, bleeding out a living until he could sink his hook into the crocodile’s neck. And he doesn’t recognize David’s father at first, because he’d been merely one in the stream, one of the nameless voices that whispers to him late at night, or early in the morning, growing louder and louder, until he’s forced out of bed – and out of the endearingly tight circle of Emma’s arms – to wander along the line where the town meets the sea.

Only now, this one has a name, and the longer and harder he peers down at the drawing, the more familiar he seems. Not only from a hazy memory, but from the set of his brow, the swell of his cheeks, features he sees in the man he now calls his friend, and in the woman he longs to call his wife. And here, in the midnight shadows of the home he shares with her, he holds tight to the incriminating pages, a wisp of the darkness still stirring in his heart suggesting he surrender them to the sea.

Keep reading

@thesschesthair was like “here’s a CS prompt” and I was like “Well seeing as how thinking about this made my stomach swoop…”

“Aw, Swan, do you find me handsome?” Killian asks, grinning at the mug.

Emma does her best not to roll her eyes, going back to the counter to clean up the spilled coffee grounds. She almost regrets buying the mug on a whim (if it made her smile, it definitely would make him smile), but she does, on occasion, like stroking his ego – especially when it usually means he strokes something in return. “I married you, didn’t I?” she retorts, sweeping the mess into the sink and rinsing it down the drain.

He sounds amused, his voice muffled slightly by its proximity to the mug. “The truth comes out, you only love me for my looks.”

She scoffs, turning on her heel and giving his ear a tweak as she passes him. He makes a noise of complaint and she appeases him by pressing a kiss on the crown of his head before heading into the laundry room. It’s Killian’s day to do it, but he always forgets to take her bras out before swapping things into the dryer and while he denies purposely destroying her lingerie so she doesn’t have any to wear, she doesn’t want to take the risk. There’s also a few other delicates that need air drying, so she takes care of that too, leaving the rest for him to take care of later while she’s at work.

Emma’s turning, with her arms full of bras and lace-back shirts, when her husband swoops down and kisses the living daylights out of her. She drops the clothes in favor of throwing her arms around his neck and he lifts her off her feet. There’s words between kisses, she thinks, she’s a little too dazed to recognize more than “perfect” “woman” “bloody” and “marvelous” and much too interested in this new turn of events to try and piece together what he could mean.

Killian sets her on top of the washing machine and a wicked thought crosses her mind, but before she can make any suggestions, he’s cupping her face with his hand and looking at her like she’s put the damn moon in the sky. “Wow,” she breathes. “Good morning to you, too.”

“You are a tricky little minx, my love, but the coffee mug was perfect.”

Emma giggles, giddy from his burst of affection and the loving way he’s tucking her hair behind her ear. “Man, I should make you coffee more often if this is how you’ll react.”

One eyebrow twitches. “I’d hope it’s not more than once a year, love, we do need to make sure you rest.”

She opens her mouth to respond, then closes it as it dawns on her that she has no idea what he’s talking about. “Killian?”

“I actually don’t believe it’s possible, though there are twins of course, but I’m more than happy to give you all the children you could possibly want–Swan?”

Thoroughly puzzled now, Emma gently pushes him aside so she can slide down off the washer and goes back to the kitchen. His new mug sits empty on the table and she picks it up, examining it much more closely than she had in the store.

‘You’re going to be a daddy.’

Her eyes close and her heart seizes. “Oh, Killian…”

I didn’t know.

“You didn’t know.”

He’s right behind her and he sounds so disappointed and she can’t stand that note in his voice, the neglected one that whispers of lost hopes and bitter dreams. “I wouldn’t have bought it if I did. I’m so…”

Killian presses a kiss to her forehead, shushing her softly. “Don’t apologize, darling. I should have guessed it wasn’t your intention, you’re much more blunt and to the point about these sorts of things. You did practically scent out your engagement ring and demand I propose to you, after all.”

“I did not,” she says, but she’s laughing a little. “I’m still sorry I got your hopes up.”

He kisses her again and she tucks herself into his embrace. “I’m sorry too,” he says, and that’s how she knows this hurts him more than he lets on.

Emma tilts her head up, considering him. “Well… we’ve been trying, haven’t we?” she asks. At Killian’s inquiring look, she dares a small smile. “No reason we can’t try again now, right?”

He smiles and she hopes it won’t be long before he loses the wistful air about him. She does hate to disappoint.

The next time she uses the mug in the morning, she puts a sticky note on the outside, “Seriously this time, I promise”, and sits right on the edge of the bed to watch as the words sink in for her sleep-addled pirate.

the night before (pre-wedding night super short ficlet; Emma has trouble sleeping)
~800 words

She can’t sleep.

It’s stupid how much she’s come to rely on his warmth and the steady thump thump of his heart beneath her ear to lull her into dreamland. A few years earlier, she never thought she’d ever rely on anyone for anything, and yet here she is, lying in the big bed that belongs to her and her very-soon-to-be husband, a little jittery with nerves, full of excitement, and just too restless, too wired, and too dreadfully lacking of his physical presence to even close her eyes.

Tomorrow they will be married. Freaking married.

“I do.” She rolls the simple words around on her tongue like she’s tasting a fine wine, repeating them aloud in various cadences. “I do. I do. I… do.”

She sucks in a breath.

“I, Emma… take you, Killian… to be my husband.”

It feels so strange to say. She feels like she’s being shoved into the starring role of a play, having only glanced through the script once. It’s terrifying. But also not. In a way, it’s almost a relief to know that it will be over soon.

She doesn’t like thinking of it that way; it’s not that she isn’t looking forward to it. She most certainly is. It’s her wedding day. Like, him in a tux – she thinks he’ll be in a tux – and her in the classic, regal white gown that her mother helped her pick out. Her wedding day; as in, flowers and walking down the aisle with her parents at her side.

Her wedding day. The day she marries the man she loves oh so much, who loves her back. The day they become husband and wife.

Keep reading

playing footy

Yeah, yeah, one of what is sure to be many Captain Swan soccer AUs after today’s game. Featuring Elsa, since Georgina was also playing.

“You owe me big time for this.”

Elsa tossed her gym bag in the backseat and climbed into the Bug, pulling the door shut behind her, “Believe me, Emma, I will make it up to you, I promise.”

Emma threw the car into gear and started to back out, not even bothering to check for oncoming traffic. There was no oncoming traffic, it was six am on a Saturday and the streets were completely deserted. As well they should be, because who aside from her somewhat uptight roommate was up at six am on a Saturday? Emma hadn’t been, not after she’d only come home to their shared apartment less than five hours earlier after another fruitless stakeout for her latest skip. She’d been sleeping very well in her flannel pyjamas and the eyeliner she hadn’t bothered to wipe off when Elsa had burst into her room and woke her up, explaining breathlessly that her car wouldn’t start and she needed a ride. Elsa couldn’t drive stick, so Emma had thrown her hair in a messy topknot and swapped the pyjamas for yoga pants and a tank while Elsa paced outside the bathroom and called for her to hurry.

Keep reading

Happy Beginning

Damn this show and how it’s invaded my feelings.  Crying over my cereal this morning.  Sigh.

A morning drabble cause when it hurts, I write.  A little bit of fluffy sexy times for our Captain Swan.

Originally posted by captainswansource

He wakes to the dip of the bed beneath him, sunshine bright against his closed eyelids.  Giving a groan, he rolls and opens his eyes to find an angel sitting beside him.  She smiles, reaching out to lace her fingers with his and he can’t help but lift her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss above the set of rings she now wears.

Wife…she’s his wife and the memory of her in white, walking toward him with a smile on her lips has him grinning from ear to ear.

“What?” she asks, blushing as he presses his smile to the beat of her pulse, trailing his nose after it before dropping their hands back to the bed.

Keep reading

tea for two... (1/1)

“you’ve been camping in a crappy tent next to my really comfortable caravan/motor home and it’s been raining cats and dogs for ages, do you want to come in and have a cup of tea to warm up?” (5000 words, rated M) AO3

Setting her Kindle down on her chest for the third time in ten minutes, she covers her eyes with her palms and tries to shake away the thought that keeps creeping past her well-constructed rules. Rules that don’t allow welcoming strange men into her camper. Rules that don’t care about the flash flood warning that keeps popping up on her phone and definitely don’t care that his tent is at the bottom of a hill. Sure, he’s seemed relatively harmless the few times they’ve crossed paths, twice at the showers and once down at the lake. His smile had been friendly each time, mildly flirtatious and devastatingly sexy, but not smarmy and he’d left her alone. A casual wave is as much as she’d gotten, one that she’d returned without thinking. She’d seen him sitting at his campfire the night before, seemingly transfixed to the flames as if lost in thought, or memories maybe, but that had just been her spinning tales as she’d gazed upon his fire-lit profile. Even after the logs were little more than ash, he’d stayed there, waiting until the last ember floated away on the breeze before turning in for the night. She can admit to herself that there’s something about him that intrigues her, his confidence in his solitude, perhaps, something she knows a bit about herself.

So why is she lying here fighting an urge to save him? Who says he even needs, or wants, to be saved?

Frustration has her shucking the covers from her legs so she can stand and pace up and down the narrow walkway between her bunk and the kitchenette. Each time she passes the small window she pauses for a longer look, the rain pelting the window obscuring the view the faint glow of a lantern illuminating his tent from the inside. Eventually, she just stops and stares, waiting to see if she will see his shadow move past the light. When she does, it’s like a flip gets switched and a decision she doesn’t remember making is already made and she’s shoving her feet into her hiking boots and fumbling her head through the hole of her $3.00 rain poncho.

Her jeans and face are soaked almost immediately after stepping outside. Curses fly from her lips as her boots sink into unseen puddles of mud and she nearly topples down the hill, her hand grabbing a nearby tree catching her fall. By the time she’s reached the side of his tent she’s convinced this was the dumbest idea she’s ever had. It’s only seeing the shadow of him standing and moving to the entrance that stops her from turning around and heading back up the hill.

A dark head of hair emerges from the zipper, one hand shielding eyes she knows are the brightest of blue from the unrelenting rain

“Everything alright, love?” 

Bristling slightly at the endearment, she aims her flashlight pointedly at the puddle overflowing into the opening of his tent.

“You seem to be taking on water there, Captain.”

Keep reading

Little baby bit in which Killian only dreams of Emma. 


He dreams of blonde hair brushing against his skin, terribly tangled and smelling of honey. It tickles him when he brushes his nose against her neck, his fingers anchoring just behind her ear as he tips her head back and follows with his lips.

He dreams of piercing green eyes that crinkle at the corners when she smiles, that shine like the sun on the water when she barks out a laugh. They watch him carefully in the muted light of his dreams, most times happy, but sometimes impossibly sad. Come back to me, she’ll whisper, and he’ll wake in a tangled mess of sheets in his bed – everything quiet and still and alone.

He dreams of the taste of cinnamon on his tongue, on the jut of her collarbone, on the swell of her breast. Her sighs taste sweeter still and her moans a delicious indulgence. He dreams of panted breaths and smooth, pale skin – his hand a contrast as he drags his palm low against her belly, lower still until she bites out a name that is not his but feels like maybe it should be.

He dreams of her draped in a black robe, her head tucked against his shoulder as she curls against him on the couch. He hums and wraps his arm around her, tugging her further into his space, until he can feel the press of her toes against his.

“I miss you,” she whispers, tilting her chin up and catching his gaze. “You think you could remember soon?”

He catches one of her golden curls, twists it around his finger again and again. “How could I ever forget you, my love?”

She smiles, rises up on her knees above him to kiss him right and proper.

“You didn’t.”

He wakes with a gasp – a shuddered breath and a splitting headache.

“Emma,” her name bitten out in a rasping question, alone in a house that is not his, in a city he does not belong.

(Without the woman who is his wife, his love, his world.)

He smiles.


Kiss me, I'm Irish ☘

Just a little smutty Friends to Lovers (with no pining!) fun for this holiday, dedicated to @swallowedsong for various reasons. Sláinte! (rated M, 3000 words, AO3)

She almost choked on her green beer as her best friend’s feet came up off the ground as the burly, flanneled lumberjack (well, big guy in flannel shirt) at the bar planted a smacking kiss right on those unsuspecting lips. She’d told Killian what would happen if we wore that shirt, but he didn’t listen. Emma’s laughter is lost in the packed pub filled to the brim with St. Patrick’s Day revelers, but she knows Killian hears it, his telltale eyebrow lifting as Paul Bunyan releases him and gives him a jovial pat on the back.

“You had to know that would happen at some point, lad.”

“Aye, mate…sláinte!”

Emma shakes her head at Killian’s seemingly unflappable facade, watching as he shares a big grin and a toast with his kissing buddy at the end of the bar. But as he makes his way back to her she can see the signs of his mild embarrassment in the red glow of his pointy ears to the sheen of sweat at the hollow of his throat.

“Regretting that shirt yet?”

“Why Swan? That was the best kiss I’ve had all night.”

Keep reading

i’m missing you like crazy

summary: based on this prompt: “Established long distance relationship, one of them surprises the other by showing up right before midnight [on New Years Eve].” with a side helping of vloggers au! (a mixture of angst and fluff beyond this point)

word count: ~3600

an: happy first day of au week! I probably won’t post very much this week due to juggling way too many mcs, but I hope you enjoy this humble offering that I sort of threw together last night. :)

Emma Swan sits in her favorite booth wearing her favorite slightly oversized sweater with her favorite drink at her favorite diner, across from one of her closest friends, Mary Margaret Nolan.

Mary Margaret has a sweet smile on her lips as she chats about the goings-on in her life, including but not limited to the newly acquired husband Emma had thought Mary Margaret would stop talking about post-wedding.

Turns out, love is inescapable. So is the impending feeling of sadness and guilt over her own love life.

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

Can you possibly write about what would have happened if Snow hadn't come in when she did? I'd die happy!!

omfg anon I WASN’T PLANNING ON WRITING THIS because flkjhlkj i have so many things i should be writing (and also i have work today that i’ve been putting off) but like… i get it cause that scene fucking ruined me too, so here you go, have some porn with feelings. aslkjhs.

the scene (kitchen table sex with no interruptions) – AO3
~1800, explicit, obvs

“To hell with the pancakes,” is a sentiment that Killian wholeheartedly agrees with. He much prefers the taste of her tongue and the smell of dried sweat and lingering morning sex on her skin to anything else right now. And, it seems, she has nothing on her mind now either, aside from consuming his groans of pleasure and sliding her deft, teasing fingers across the back of his neck, down his shoulders, his chest, his tense abdomen, all the way there, where he is alive and awake and quite ready for another go at it.

He loves kissing her, always has; she’s a hell of a kisser and she knows it. Though he may have a few more centuries of experience, she’s managed to master the art in her short decades on this earth. Push, pull. Tongue, teeth. Wet lips, plush and pliant, with a gentle ease even when forceful and wild. He could drown in her kisses, although he has, in fact, been resuscitated by them once before. (Whatever excuse she’d had about that “CPR” nonsense had been just that: nonsense. It was definitely the press of her lips that saved him, of that he is entirely certain.)

It’s the combination that does him in – her mouth on his and her hands massaging him through the jeans that he wished he hadn’t even bothered putting on this morning. He can’t stand it, is too revved up and desperate for her that he couldn’t care less about anything else.

Keep reading

Uninterrupted (1/1)

Summary: What would have happened if Snow hadn’t burst into Emma and Killian’s house with wedding plans? Unashamed and un-beta’d smut that’s what.

special shout out to @caprelloidea for screaming about that scene with me and leading me to this idea. and to @hellowherearemypeople who pointed out the robe.

Emma flipped the (slightly overdone) pancakes onto a plate, hoping to surprise Killian with breakfast in bed after a long night of celebratory engagement sex. Her surprise was ruined when she felt him press himself against her back, his breath hot on her neck and sending shivers down her spine.

“Something smells delicious,” he whispered, his lips gently brushing against the shell of her ear.

“It’s just from a box,” she smiled and bit her lip, she could feel his erection pressing up against her backside. She would have been surprised at his stamina had she not already experienced a long night of near marathon love making and fucking the night before.

“I’m not talking about the pancakes,” he growled before she turned and properly kissed him. Her hand rested itself on his cheek and the other pulled him even closer. Hungry moans escaped her lips as she came up for air before being swallowed again by Killian’s lips. And it struck her just then how domestic the whole scene was and just how happy it made her.

She pulled back and looked up at him, her fiance who had crossed realms to find her just as she did for him, who loved her with every inch of his soul, body, and mind, and she couldn’t help but smile as she ran her hands up his chest. It was real, he was real and they were getting married, something she had never thought she would do.

“What?” he asked, a smile spreading across his face.

“I’m just… happy,” she shrugged. “Sometimes it still surprises me.”

“Aye love. Me too,” he said before leaning down to kiss her again. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders, fingers threading themselves through the hair at the nape of his neck. They pulled each other close so Emma could feel every inch of his body through her thick robe.

“To hell with pancakes,” she moaned against his lips, walking them back until Killian hit the kitchen table. Emma wasn’t concerned about making it to the bedroom and it didn’t seem like he was either as he palmed at her ass and ground against her.

“Swan is this my robe you’re wearing?” he asked, his hand now toying with the tie at her waist.

“Yes,” she smiled and cocked her eyebrow at him.

Keep reading