Hi there: here’s a stupidly-long take on 10 minutes in the morning after their adventure to the enchanted forest. What can I say? Time dilates when you’re happy.
She knew where she was when she woke up, so when she finally opened her eyes she was prepared for the wallpaper to be different. Everything is different drifted through her head, and she smiled at the roses that climbed up the wall behind granny’s rubbed-wood dresser. In this mood she could see them animated like in a Disney movie, singing, everything is different! to little bluebirds flitting onto the windowledge. She was that happy. Like, shiningly happy this morning, which was, she admitted, definitely different. She usually needed music, or cocoa, or on really bad days a hard run or something to change her channel when she woke up. People like her, they didn’t often like dreamland, which wasn’t always that sweet, and so first thing in the morning Emma wasn’t usually either.
But today….she bit her lip, pressing experimentally back on long, slim, warm body lined up against her back and ass and legs. She listened to his breathing for a second and, wanting a few more minutes of being the first one up, chanced a careful scoot over onto her back. She slanted her eyes left.
He was asleep on his stomach. He’d kicked (or she’d stolen?) the covers from his upper half, and she ran her gaze from his ridiculously soft, stupidly pretty black hair – she was besotted by the little point it made at the nape of his neck – down his long, lean-muscled, scarred and –was that a swan curving up his left side? yes – tattooed back.
And then, feeling like an 8 year old, but not being able to help herself, she quietly, quietly lifted the granny-made quilt covering them both and peeped at what was beneath. Holy. Fucking. Hell. She raised an eyebrow, lowered the covers and her head back to the pillow, and let her smile finally take over her whole face. She closed her eyes and tried very hard not to giggle. Who the hell was she right now?
He sighed in his sleep, a breathy sound, and she felt something flash in her stomach and radiate through to her skin. She knew what it was. One time when she was little, she’d been taken to the seashore with a foster family. She hadn’t learned to swim yet so she’d stayed the whole day sitting and digging in the shallow wash, fascinated by the way it drew up and sucked back over her little feet and bottom, over and over. And when she lay in bed that night she’d felt the ebb and flow on her body again.
That was this – her body re-feeling the night before, her hungry body feeling again soft kiss after kiss after kiss, the stroke of his hands on her face and the back of her head, and his chest under her hands finally. She felt mildly electrocuted. She could get used to it. She rolled her eyes at herself. Fuck it, she loved it. She’d never had sex like that before – some combination of teenage delirium and grown-up, er, execution that was…well, her body flashed again, remembering:
He’d led her upstairs, away from Regina, and the party that was unwinding, away from an audience while Emma processed her mistake. When she couldn’t stop shaking her head and repeating – What the Hell? Why Can’t I Do Anything Right? –he’d finally swooped his head in to hers, kissing her litany quiet. When he pulled away, she’d started, “But,” and, then he’d rolled his eyes with his most martyred expression and clapped his hand, gently, over her mouth. He swept his hook gently through her hair, brushing it back and smiling. “Swan. Emma.” He’d kissed her forehead. “It’s awful now, yes. But. Take a minute to see the long haul.” She scowled under his hand. “He’d have found out she killed his wife eventually. And then it would be Over, over for good. Yes?” he raised his eyebrow until she nodded. “Of course you did the Right Thing. But, Swan,” here he’d winced at the little bite she’d tried on his hand, “You also gave Regina the only chance she could have to get something Right herself. And believe me, Swan…that’s the only way she’ll earn real love.”
His eyes had gone from merry to disarmingly soft. He cautiously pulled his hand from her mouth and tilted his head at her. She looked at him –this astonishing man saying, as ever, astonishing things – threw herself into his embrace. She couldn’t help it, she’d tentatively swept her tongue over his, drawing a plaintive, low moan from him. Then, simultaneously forgetting whatever mental vows they’d had to take it slow, their kisses grew frantic, and they’d stumbled together to his door, knocked it open somehow, falling into the room, tearing at each others’ clothes –the bare skin of his shoulder thrilling her so much she swore to god wanted to eat him, he smelled and felt that good. They’d tried to pull the rest of each other’s clothes off without breaking their kiss and hadn’t quite succeeded, so that finally they’d given up and wrestled with their own boots. Looking up as she unclipped her bra, Emma had seen his Killian naked, body and face: his expression, flashed open by the sight of her…reverent (the word magnificent trailing through her mind…did she hear him say it or had she thought it about him?). And then he’d raised his pirate eyebrow the tiniest bit, and making her flush and swollen and tingling and, oh god, wet.
They’d lunged at each other, hands everywhere, and fell on the bed together. She’d locked her legs around his back and pressed herself into him, too frantic for connection to line anything up, and when he’d raised his lips from her neck to look at her, vivid eyes searching hers, it was easy, as natural as breathing, for him to push all the way into her, smoothly gliding home like a key in a lock. That’s when she had started smiling – which became a laugh at how funny it was, somehow, that it had taken thislong. And he, so, so serious all night, had slowly curled a smile of his own, and then lowered his face to smile widely into her neck, breathing her in. But when her laugh shook their bodies in the place where they were joined, his low chuckle had turned into a groan – then, she was holding on for dear life with arms and legs as he pulled out slowly and plunged in again, his back flexing beneath her hands and god – the slick, heated drag of him.
She couldn’t get close enough, needed his mouth again on hers – he met her kiss as he pulled almost all the way out, lifted her leg just one more inch watching her and there, she gasped and oh, everything was wet fire. She wasn’t thinking anymore, just luxuriating in the ripple of his body over and into hers and the pull of hers on him. His mouth on her nipple without warning and suddenly she was about to come – she stilled under him for just a second, gasping, hands spasming as she gripped his back waiting for it and he growled in response and plunged hard into her. She swore she saw stars as she exploded. Through the full, full feeling of it she heard his breathing change too. She opened her eyes, still coming, and saw him watching her. He pulled out the tiniest bit, and then his eyes fluttered closed and she moved up to him as he moved into her and then he was pulsing inside her, beat after beat after beat.
She wasn’t sure what had happened next: they hadn’t slept in days so most likely both of them collapsed, sweaty and drunk with the smell of each other and completely heavy bodied, into sleep.
Remembering, she shuddered and sighed, and couldn’t help reaching for him, smoothing her hand over his back.
“Mmm. Don’t wake me Smee. I’ve been having the most exquisite dream. There was a blonde in my bed. I don’t mean to wake up today.”
“Hey!” she laughed, and dug her fingers into his ribs. He jumped and curled onto his side, catching her hands in his one. “A blonde?”
“Lele was it? Lets see, no…Lina? Leia?”
“Idiot. Emma.” She whispered her name, feeling ridiculous because she was blushing a little.
He burrowed with her hand like a prize further under the covers. His voice came to her, muffled under Granny-quilt. “Hmm. Well, if you say so. Then I’m really not getting up today. I’m still dreaming.”
“Shut up!” She popped him in the shoulder with her free hand.
He emerged from the covers twinkling at her, and kissed her palm. “Well then, you’ll have to wake me up nicely. Because Emma Swan will not be won. I’ve given up. She only likes monkeys.” He ducked another pop on the shoulder.
“You could win her still, maybe” she murmered, “If you play your cards right.” They curled on their sides, beaming at each other. What a luxury, she thought, to get to look at him like this. Why hadn’t she before, much earlier? He was so, so beautiful, those eyes with their long, black lashes. “Hey!” she said, furrowing her brow. “How do you look like that first thing in the morning?”
“Like what?” he said, actually batting his eyelashes, the shit.
“Pretty! I mean, your eyes…they’re not even smudged.”
He raised his eybrow to cartoon-Hook proportions. “Pretty!” She smiled. “You think I’m…pretty! Swan, at last! I knew you would eventually surrender to my good looks! I usually say handsome, but I’ll take pretty, because it’s you.” He put his arms behind his head and sighed a happy, triumphant sigh at the ceiling.
“Shut up! I mean, how do you do it? Did you reapply or something in the middle of the night?”
“What are you talking about, Swan?”
“Your eyeliner – the black…you know, how it makes your eyes more blue…” she finished lamely, nearly done in by his grinning face. If he’d had a tail he’d be wagging it. “Gah. Nevermind. Mine must be crazy smeared…”
The penny dropped.
“Oh Swan.” He said, reaching to touch her jaw with his thumb, and running it down her neck to take up a handful of her hair and bring it to his nose. “You are beautiful, as I’ve said all along.” And then his voice took on much more breath, and he added, “And you have never looked more lovely than you do this morning.” He stroked his lock of hair. “You don’t know much about sea travel do you?”
He laughed . “My eyes. It’s kohl. Sailors use it to reduce glare on sunlit water. It works wonders. Mine’s permanent - tattooed on - not a process I’d recommend for comfort, but it does cut down and bother and…” he grinned, “It means I’ll always be pretty.”
Her heart leapt a little, she wasn’t sure why – who knew she was attached to the eyeliner? To cover, she said: “Huh. I’d say you put in plenty of bother. You’re a pretty…er..fancy dresser.”
He was happy to play along. “Swan, are you questioning my masculinity? After …” and here he quickly grabbed her by the hip and flipped her on top of him, “all we’ve been through? I’m not a cretin, and a gentleman pirate is allowed a certain latitude in his dress.”
“Pretty.” She said, blushing.
He craned up to kiss her, softly, biting her bottom lip softly and then licking the bite. Nose to nose, he whispered, “So are you.”
From somewhere on the floor, a french horn called an imperious note. Her father’s ringtone. Both of them scrambled apart, panicked, until she found the phone in her jacket pocket. She stared at it, confused, and a second later the calls stopped. “My dad,” she started.
“I know,” he said from the wardrobe to which he’d retreated with Granny’s quilt. “That’s his…song on your telephone.” He scratched his ear and looked up at her from under his (impossibly black) lashes. “Sorry. I haven’t had to deal with…angry fathers…in some—well, ever.”
Emma gave him her best stern eyebrow raise as he shuffled back to bed. She put her other arm into shirt she’d gotten an arm into somehow (his black frilly one - smooth, Emma!) in her mad scramble and burned a look at the appreciative noise from the pirate in the bed.
“Where are my underwear?” He waggled his eyebrows at her, offering no help. She spied them, kicked with her pants near the – was that actually a victrola? – at the wall. No, it was a turntable and an old-fashioned speaker – the grammophone horn was decorative—and a little attached basket full of records. She bent down to flip through them, ignoring the appreciative hum that came from behind her. Interesting. She saw an odd assortment – things cursed granny would love (Tom Jones, Neil Diamond in his glittery shirt) and some classical.
A thought occurred to her, and, trying not to look too curious, she lifted the LP that was on the turntable itself. Solomon Burke – Cry To Me. Huh. She vaguely remembered a scene from Dirty Dancing…seduction, rain, dancing…huh. With a quick glace over her shoulder – he was on the other side of the bed, rummaging for clothes - she put the record back on the player and turned it on.
Clattering into the room came the song she’d remembered. “When you’re all alone,” sang Mr. Burke, “In your lonely room…” She heard a yelp and Solomon hadn’t gotten halfway through singing about how there was “nothing but the smell of her perfume” before Killian reached her grinning self, tripping while still pulling on his leather pants, trying to reach the on/off knob of the player. She waggled her eyebrows at him, grinning wider.
“Don’t make fun of me.” He pleaded, catching her up in his arms. “Emma,” he grinned. “I had to have my heartbreak somewhere.”
The joy she’d been feeling all morning finally erupted like fizzy water, and she threw her head back laughing. “Cruel princess.” He said. “Torturing a poor pirate. I missed you. And then you were going away…I…”
“You had the blues.” She said.
She thought of him there in the flowered room, listening to sad, sad music, and softened. She pressed her lips to the chest that was so close to her, scratching her fingers gently through the ridiculous black fuzz that had been torturing her for months. “And now?”
“Now,” he bent his body and kissed her throat, and she was suddenly very aware that she’d never got on her undies, and that he didn’t wear any under the laces of his leather pants. “Now I have you.”
She grinned into his mouth and steered them toward the bed, hands at the laces of his pants. “You do.”