gfx!cs

Happy belated Birthday Emily aka @swan-road!!!! Domestic CS! (why are there grocery’s yet to be put away? I’m going with someone wanted to take of their shoes and coats and then got distracted!) (also lets cross our fingers now we get some domestic CS this season!!) 

Special thanks to the wonderful @seethelovelyintheworld for dealing with me and helping me with critiques! 

Please do not repost :)

“Better Than Drinking Alone”

Colored pencil on paper.

Part Sixteen of myLove in Details” Series (Part One, Part Two, Part Three,Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven, Part Eight, Part Nine,Part Ten,Part Eleven, Part Twelve, Part Thirteen , Part Fourteen , Part Fifteen). If you have a favorite Emma and Killian small moment, check out my post and send me your idea!

This small moment was requested by @nothingimpossibleonlyimprobable .

Special thanks and hugs to @fairytalesandtimetravel, who gave me great imput, and was so patient with my grumbling about the joys of drawing hands. :-)

This and other OUAT drawings can be purchased here on my Redbubble page. Please don’t Tweet, and please reblog instead of reposting. Thank you very much!

Tagging some lovelies: @emmaswanchoosesyou  @brooke-to-broch  @optomisticgirl  @disastergirl  @nowforruin  @spartanguard @laschatzi  @on-the-nightshift    @lenfaz  @fairytalesandtimetravel@ @startswithhope  @annytecture @the-lady-swan @caprelloidea  @gusenitsaa   @duathadun  @ripplestitchskein @xpumpkindumplingx 

the hand I hold...

AN: I started writing this a few days ago when I saw this gifset on my dash and put it in my queue. I wasn’t expecting to be inspired to write domestic smuff from hand holding, but here you go. ;)


A slight chill creeps along her skin as the t-shirt she grabbed to wear to bed sticks to her spine from her still wet braid. With a quick flick of her fingers the fireplace in the corner flares to life, casting a warm glow across the deep red quilt and the two matching pillows. Her lips curve into an admittedly sappy smile as she hears the sound of the shower curtain being drawn back in the adjoining bathroom and the unknown melody Killian is humming to himself.

Moving closer to the fire, she lets the heat lick up her bare legs, drying the last water droplets her own shower left behind on her smooth skin. Killian, reluctantly, had given her privacy to have a female moment, not intruding on her shower so she could shave her legs and condition her hair without his wandering hands of distraction. Of course, he’d managed to pull her back in with him when his turn came around, not wasting a moment to drop to his knees and slide his tongue along her now baby smooth inner thigh. She’d tried, halfheartedly, to warn him of the not limitless hot water, but soon succumbed to his determination to leave her breathless.

“Ah, a fire, I’m chilled to the bone.”

Throwing a chuckle over her shoulder, she holds out her hand in invitation as Killian emerges from the bathroom with just his towel wrapped low on his hips.

“I warned you about the water.”

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in this comedy of manners, we play like fools

yes, this is the AU based on this post i made yesterday, for reasons. one-shot. fluff. tagging @peggyyswan, @tobsjpalfrey, and @46andtwo because they asked for it.

Emma Swan had had this job for just about four years now, and she was fairly sure there was nothing more it could do to surprise her. She had stopped being gobsmacked around the time, after just having taught a roomful of household staff that the proper way to store caviar was in a champagne glass (because clearly, a champagne glass) one of them raised their hand and asked what brand of glassware it should be, because if there was a wrong brand and they used it, their employer would be Very Unhappy at this dereliction of duty. Or when she saw sixteen-year-olds who had as many therapists as they did extracurricular activities, pouring into the International Young Achiever program to mingle with their serried peers, so they’d be the better prepared to go straight from Oxbridge to the Fortune 500 board room. The thought of working a starter job at Primark or Caffè Nero was a fate worse than death, and one which these people never had to consider anyway. On the unlikely chance that they couldn’t get one of their daddy’s rich friends to take them on, daddy himself would provide a monthly allowance equal to the deposit on most middle-class homes.

For that matter, Emma had no idea how she’d ended up here. Debrett’s was the oldest and most prestigious etiquette school in London – or at least that was how it had started out. It had now evolved into a full-service boutique firm for the really, obnoxiously, you-are-the-reason-the-economy-sucks stupid rich. From teaching the subtle nuances between white tie and black tie dress codes, how to properly address the Queen when she invited you to the state dinner at Buckingham Palace, to arranging your personal shopping experience in Paris (minimum one day) or Milan (minimum two days), to weddings (you can only imagine how those went) to the events of the Social Season and who would be at each, to dealing with nepotism at the office (really, that would be a problem? Who could have seen that coming?) – she, Emma Swan, had done it all. None of her clients knew she was actually American, as she had perfected her Received Pronunciation, and of course it would never do to have a Yank instructing them in these time-honored rituals of expensive snobbery. Privileged bubble did not begin to describe it.

Thus, Emma had a certain cynical outsider’s perspective on the whole thing. She had not been born into money – quite the opposite, in fact. Didn’t see this job as much different from a long-term acting gig, having gotten hired despite her disgracefully un-pedigreed background by working hard, being willing to put up with their shit as long as it kept the paychecks coming, having a certain Look (here meaning thin, blonde, and pretty) and allowing the bosses to feel as if they were doing a good deed and being demographically diverse, down-to-earth, and relatable to the plight of the common man by employing her. Besides, she was a living success story. If an American ex-foster kid, who had never tasted champagne in her life until her first day on the job when she was supposed to be advising a client which one to buy for her society wedding, could learn how to do this, anyone could.

This, however. This might prove to be her white whale, the final quest to trip her up just before the finish. Sir Brennan Jones was one of the billionaires who turned up in the news for buying a private island or being busted for tax evasion (once more, who could have seen that coming?) or appearing at various red-carpet events with his equally handsome sons (they were a good-looking family, she’d give them that) or writing self-righteous newspaper editorials about how they needed to fix the country, apparently with zero awareness that he and his dipshit oligarch buddies were a big part of the problem with it in the first place. That Brennan Jones. He had just engaged Debrett’s to give his two sons a crash course in being successful rich people, as that was different from just being rich people, so they could follow him into the family business.

And Emma was the lucky, lucky woman chosen for the job.

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