this is the previous blog of raiseddean, now being used as an archive.
| (I will never be okay again. Prepare your souls for endless smut and fluff this summer.)
Hold on, we’re going home.
The boat is small, tethered to the dock at the end with all the other discarded vessels – certainly nothing at all like the grandeur of the Jolly Roger. It’s seen better days and could definitely use some work, but she knows nothing about boats (besides what Google told her and even then – her knowledge is shaky at best) and she doesn’t want to mess anything up before he even gets a look at the damn thing so –
“What’s this?”
He stops right in front of it, thumb running back and forth over her hand as he peers at the little fishing boat and she resists the urge to turn and head for the hills. She isn’t good at this – grand gestures – at least not like he is (she is being spoiled with his flowery words and wide grins over breakfast in bed, his lips nudging for hers in between syrupy bites of pancake that are definitely not cooked all the way, but he tried and that’s all that really matters). She probably should have slapped a bow on it, or at the very least thought out what she was going to say, but it’s a bit late for all that.
“Uh.” She shifts her weight back and forth and he darts his gaze to her, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. “It’s yours?”
One eyebrow arches and his grip tightens. “Pardon?”
God, every other time he reads her like a god damned book and now he doesn’t get it? Of freaking course. Heat climbs her cheeks and spreads and he watches its journey with the utmost fascination, dropping her hand and wrapping his arm around her waist, dragging her closer and pressing a kiss against her temple.
“Well, you’ve got to stop stealing boats every time you want to go out.” He snickers at that and she rolls her eyes. Really, the amount of phone calls she got from Leroy every time Killian wanted to take to the open sea – it was killing her bill. “And I know it isn’t the Jolly, but –“
Oh bk- thank you for already fic writing! Can you help w a question I'm struggling with? Why did they block the kiss at the end the way they did? It was so weird to pull the camera out like that so you couldn't see the first contact! And keeping them seated!!! Made me so mad! I see after a million kind Gif makers slowed it down how hit it was-/ but damn sure I wanted it that hot on first viewing!!! Grr. Can you help me think my way out of that disappointment? Or help me imagine what came next?
(I know, I definitely wanted a zoom in of the first contact but I was made content with what happened after – so soft and slow. The fact that it was tender, with an underlying heat I just – I can’t – I actually cannot with the whole thing. It is everything I wanted for them and more and disappointment is a far off concept where this episode is concerned. Not even in the same realm.)
(Plus I think the whole framing - with the Storybrooke sign in the background - the lights overhead - so significant and romantic and meaningful. I loved it - all of it.)
She pulls back and he follows – lips chasing lips, warm breath brushing against her nose, her name a whispered sigh in the quiet twilight of the town. The clock tower lets out a muted tone as the hour strikes 8:15 but it’s nothing but buzzing in her ears – his touch far more consuming of her attentions. She leans back into him without any hesitation at all because it’s been far too long – far too many longing looks and doe eyes – the memory of heated jungles and mouths crashing together haunting her in the moments between sleep and awake. He hums low in his throat, the soft sound a symphony in the silence outside Granny’s, his fingers brushing back through her hair and anchoring there. She sighs and presses herself closer, slides her fingers against the warm skin of his neck until she can feel his pulse – warm and true and real – thrumming under her palm.
She leans back and he presses a kiss to the corner of her lips, the dent in her chin, hesitant to pull away fully. She lingers there because she knows the feeling, keeping her eyes closed to preserve the moment, breathe him in.
“We should go inside.” She mutters but she doesn’t move, instead moving closer, further into his embrace. His hook slides down her arm and she shivers – images of exactly what else he could do with that hook flashing through her mind. He chuckles – deep and rumbled – and she blinks open her eyes. His own are hooded and dark and he presses another kiss to her lips – soft and chaste.
“Aye.” He agrees. “You’ve got a family to see.”
Her nails scratch along his hairline and he groans lightly, resting his forehead against hers. The noise from the party is spilling out into the small courtyard and she feels light and airy – home and happiness swirling inside of her and beating in time with her heart.
“You’ll come too?” Her question is soft and the look he gives her in response makes her breath catch in her throat. His blue eyes are so hopeful she almost breaks – her barbed words and callous looks tugging at the back of her mind. But he soothes it away with a thumb across her chin and she grins, leaning back in for one more kiss – just one more.
His eyes dance with the reflection of the twinkling lights above.
“I’ll follow you anywhere.”
CSex is on it's way so I'm wondering: Who's louder in bed? Emma's fav position? Killian's fav position? Their kinks? My mind is a terrible place lol
He likes her splayed out beneath him – back arched, head thrown back, hair falling over her shoulders in a golden, messy halo. He likes the way she looks laid out for him like a bloody dessert – all pale, creamy skin and parted pink lips. He likes to lean back until he is on his knees above her, thrusting with slow, deep movements – her chest bouncing with each meeting of their hips, her arms raised above her head in silent supplication as she watches him – eyes hooded and dark.
He likes to tangle his fingers in her hair – silky strands of sunlight wrapped tight around his fist. He likes to pull until she keens, angling her body just so, pushing harder, faster, deeper – his fingers massaging her scalp as he pulls again, the echoing whimper settling deep in his bones with the most primitive of urges.
He likes the sounds she makes when she’s close, the way her hips rise in time with his, her legs scrambling for purchase against his sweaty skin. He likes the low whine in the back of her throat that is always, always followed by his name on her lips – a desperate plea for more, god Killian, more. He likes the groan when she finally gives in (his beautiful, stubborn lass) – a whispered breath against his shoulder as she shudders and shakes under his ministrations.
He likes the way she lays tangled with him – boneless and sated, her lips dragging against his neck with a silly little smirk.
He likes the way she whispers mine.
He likes it very much indeed.
-/-
She likes it when he pushes her up against the door, takes her with a frenzied need that has his body trembling against hers, his hand down her pants before she can even breathe – fingers searching and finding just what she craves with startling accuracy. She likes the way he tears at her clothes and growls against her skin, hitching her up high against him and pulling them to the floor, because he can’t wait, doesn’t want to wait.
She likes it when he takes her from behind, pushing down on her shoulders with his hook, spreading her legs further apart with a rough jerk of her thigh. She likes how he stretches over top of her, his chest solid and warm against her back, his charms pressing into her skin, his teeth biting into her neck and leaving bruises for her to admire later.
She likes the constant stream of praises that tumble from his lips as he moves within her – seemingly unconscious – whispered words of love and good girl, good girl, just like that, gods as he pulls her tighter, hotter, higher. She likes the way he brushes them into her skin with his lips, his smile wide and warm as she does just as he asks.
She likes the way his eyebrows furrow when he comes, the way he bites at his lower lip with a grunt and a whimper, body stilling completely above her, fingers clamping hard. She likes the way he sighs and collapses into her shoulder, scruff nuzzling at her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair.
She likes the way he whispers mine.
She likes it a lot.
She grabs onto him just as they’re about to enter the ballroom, jerking him backwards by the arm. “Wait, Killian, wait,” she whispers, her voice high and panicked.
His eyes fall to her hand, slowly drawing along the length of her arm, and trailing up her neck before finally resting on her eyes. He closes his hand over her own, and guides them behind a pillar. “What is it, love?”
“I don’t…” Her eyes flick out onto the ballroom, following the movements of dancers, so graceful and elegant and she can look the part all she wants, but she’ll never be the part. She’s even actually a princess, and she’ll never pass for one. “I can’t go out there.”
He smiles at her, eyes crinkling at the corners as he inclines his head down. “Blasphemy,” he murmurs, gaze darting to her lips.
She won’t look at him, her attention still trained on the dance floor. She exhales. “I don’t know how to do this. Dance like that. I…it wouldn’t…it would give us away. I’m not…elegant.”
He clicks his tongue. “Do you know why I call you Swan?”
Her eyes snap to him, narrowing. Her lips twitch. “Because it’s my name?”
“Because you are one,” he replies smoothly, raising an eyebrow. And before she can ask him to explain (if she even wants to know, god, the way he’s looking at her—), he tucks her arm under his and leads them out through the crowd.
Panicked, she tries to pull back, but he’s gripping her firmly and then suddenly twirling her, his hand coming to rest at the small of her back. Hesitantly, she wraps her fingers around his gloved prosthetic, and then he whisks her around.
Her heart stumbles erratically in her chest, scanning her eyes across his face as he guides them in circles. “Emma,” he murmurs after a moment, smirking.
"What?” She’s surprised to hear herself—all breathy and feverish and Jesus he should not be allowed to look like this—
“We’re dancing,” he whispers it conspiratorially, like letting her in on a secret.
She furrows her brows and let’s him spin her. She’d almost forgotten where they they are, and even what they’re doing, actually so distracted just by staring into his eyes and oh god she is never reading Mary Margaret’s romance novels again. Despite herself, she breaks into a smile. “You’re dancing. I’m not doing anything.”
Suddenly, she’s flush against him, his fingers ghosting around her hip. He tuts softly. “I told you long ago that we were a team,” he says, and she ducks her head into the crook of his neck.
She’s still not sure if she should go to New York. She’s still not sure if she’s ready to give him what he’s given her so many times over. She’s not even sure if she already has.
But she lets herself have this moment.
She inhales, and exhales.
Sorry museelo, I know you wanted angst but I am incapable of writing anything but snuff at the moment. Hope you still enjoy it.
(My first installment into #cs bangarang, my summer project with jadeddiva and singallyouwant in which I just write smut during the entirety of the hiatus.)
Rated M
Two ships in the night (passing closely)
He doesn’t bring it up often - actually, he only brings it up twice - but still, she can see the hurt flash in his eyes - the idea that she almost had something with a version of himself that he is loathe to remember - that a man he spent so long repressing was able to get more of her affections than him. She knows it eats at him in a way that isn’t right or fair, even after she’s given him more than anyone else before. She can see the way panic seizes his features for the briefest of moments before he fixes a cheery grin on his face, distracting her with his lips on hers or a careful brush of his hand through her hair.
She doesn’t know how to apologize for seducing his drunken past-self except to, well, seduce his drunken current-self.
Tit for tat, and all that.
He catches on quickly, the smug idiot, and the smile that turns the corners of his lips as she pours him another shot in the quiet of the empty loft is enough to make her chest swell and burst. One eyebrow arches as he throws the liquor back and her chuckle is rough and quiet, her fingers already inching up his thigh.
He’s giving her that same look - surprised and aroused and blue, blue eyes.
(What are you boys playing?)
Can we have captain swan pregnancy kink?
boom boom pow.
She feels boneless - body deliciously used and chest heaving as she struggles to catch her breath, fingers absentmindedly grazing back and forth over his bicep. He shifts in the bed next to her with a low grunt and she is instantly reminded of the sounds he made not five minutes ago - his body shuddering above her as she arched and wrapped herself around him tighter - the heat unbearable.
She feels desire rise in her belly again, thighs clenching beneath the light cover of the sheet. She bites back a groan of frustration and turns her head to him.
“Killian?”
“Hm?” His eyes are closed, sated smile curling his lips and god damn it, she wishes this feeling would just stop already.
Stupid pregnancy.
Stupid hormones.
“Killian, I -“ She pauses and huffs, rubbing her thighs together. Blue eyes blink open sleepily and glance over at her, widening slightly when he sees the look on her face.
“Bloody hell, woman. Again?”
She bites her lip with a small sort of nod, inching her body closer to his. “The hormones are crazy, I just -“ The churning in her stomach grows to a dull roar and god, she just needs more. “I need you to -“
“To what?” He looks slightly horrified as her fingers land on his chest, anchoring in the charms of his necklace. And alright, maybe four orgasms is a bit excessive to be left still wanting, but the hormones are relentless and she now knows form personal experience that if she doesn’t take care of it, it only gets worse. “I’m not a machine, love.”
She rolls her eyes. “What happened to enjoying the challenge? Anyway, I don’t need,” She gestures in front of them with her hand. “You know.” He arches an eyebrow with a smirk and she barrels on. “Just use your fingers.”
He stares at her blankly for a moment. “I’m starting to think you only want me for my body, Swan.”
She huffs and pulls herself back, flopping dramatically back to her side of the bed. He watches her in bemusement as he swipes along his bottom lip with his tongue and fine - if he wants to play it like that -
“If you’re going to be a jerk about it, I’ll just take care of it myself.”
“Oh?” An eyebrow arches high on his forehead as he shifts to his side. He watches her hand in interest as she slips it beneath the sheet. “Do tell.”
“Shut up.” She mutters as she closes her eyes, hand gliding along the slight bump of her stomach on it’s way to it’s destination. She hears him swallow audibly and it’s almost enough for her to grin in victory but she is throbbing and she needs relief.
It’s been like this for weeks - her body demanding satisfaction while being insanely, ridiculously sensitive. And while at first it had been a very real perk of the whole pregnancy thing (God, the way it felt to have his mouth on her, hot and heady and everything - her senses enhanced, his touch electric - burning her from the inside out), now it was just irritating.
Her fingers find the wetness pooling between her thighs and she groans, spreading her legs wider, her foot nudging against his beneath the comforter. His breath hitches next to her and she sighs, letting her free hand graze her breast, thumbing at her nipple with an arch of her back.
She feels him tug the sheet down around her waist, the cool air making her chest pucker to the point of pain, a breathy gasp escaping her when his lips press against the hollow of her throat. Her fingers circle her clit in gentle motions (she is so sensitive, it is unreal) as his lips move to her ear, tugging on her earlobe with his teeth.
“Shall I get your magic wand?”
“God, just shut up.” Jesus, you show the guy a vibrator once, and he brings it up every single time thereafter. “Just let me finish.”
“Don’t you need any help?” His teeth nip at her collarbone as her fingers speed up their motions, his hand covering her unattended breast with a rough pinch to her skin. She squeaks and he chuckles against her shoulder, the sound warm and solid and happy.
“I thought you didn’t, oh -“ She cuts off on a whimper when his hand abruptly knocks hers away, pressing down firmly over her clit with rough, measured strokes. She whines and pushes her hips up, chasing the release that is rapidly building in her stomach.
He hums above her and she can feel it, swimming just under her skin - hot and thick as he pushes his hand down lower, thrusting two fingers into her slick wetness, the cold metal of his rings a delicious contrast to her heated skin.
“That’s it, darling.” She opens her eyes to see him grinning down at her, eyes trained on the slight glow coming off her skin. Another ridiculous bonus of this whole thing - her skin freaking glows when she gets close.
She will never understand magic.
She cries out when his fingers curl, rubbing against that secret spot inside her, clamping her legs shut around his hand. But he persists and when his thumb strokes a messy swipe against her little bundle of nerves, she crumbles - the magic inside of her bursting into an array of light behind her eyelids (and within the room, she’s sure, judging by the rough chuckle in her ear). She ruts her hips against his hand as he brings her down gently, pressing a sweet kiss against her brow.
“Better?”
She mewls and stretches, body finally sated.
“For now.”
He smiles softly at her as his hand glides over her stomach, lingering there and rubbing back and forth gently. “I am glad.”
She sighs and pulls him down by his necklace, pressing her lips to his. “Me too.”
Summary: Emma and Killian meet during their college’s production of Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night.
This fic is for my lovely, perfect, gorgeous turtle bemusedbicycle, who told me to write a College AU after I (incredibly coincidentally) received a cup from her alma mater.
Happy Birthday, BK. You are my brain twin and enabler. What would I do without you? <3
cs fic: if shakespeare be the food of love
It begins with a tempestuous roll of thunder and a shipwreck.
Emma’s last show of her college career - the spring production of Twelfth Night - has been cast, and she assesses the curious spread of peers under her charge as stage manager.
“Can we cut the storm?” she hollers to the sound board, and with an abrupt clash, all is silent.
Going down the row, she makes a note of each member under the watchful gaze of Professor Gold, the director.
“Okay, folks, grab a chair!” her voice hits the low ceiling of the college’s small auditorium. “First read through!”
She looks down at her list again, and there’s one name unchecked. “Killian Jones? Is Killian Jones here?”
Her questions go unanswered, and she sighs deeply. So that’s how it’s going to be.
This will be the only spec fic (spoilers, obvs) I write because I am so excited I want to throw up. Just little snippets of things I want to see next week but I will not get my hopes up about.
(My hopes are up.)
You reflect in this heart of mine.
She can feel the swirling under her feet – like she’s suspended in midair (which she is, sort of, except midair is coming from the floor and what the actual hell) – violent winds whipping around her as he screams her name. There is blinding light and flashes of heat and she’s had just about enough of this cataclysmic portal shit. She’s willing to bet the farm (quite literally, seeing as how it’s being sucked into a pit of doom) that this bad boy doesn’t lead to New York and the terror that this time she is alone - that Hook’s hand is slipping against hers and she is steadily falling further back, his blue eyes wide in terror because he is losing her – strikes her fast and true.
What the hell is she supposed to do when she lands god knows where? How is she supposed to get back? She has no magic, no family and no fucking clue.
Christ.
If she makes it out of this alive, she is definitely instituting a do-not-follow-the-bright-lights-and-swirling-winds rule, and maybe she should listen to Hook more (his desperate - Swan, no - is on loop in her brain like a mocking diatribe and she just wants it to stop). But then his hand slips and the sound that leaves her throat is inhuman and mortifying and she doesn’t have time to worry about semantics. He’s panicking, she can tell, and it makes her panic – fingers desperate against the leather of his coat.
There is a great tug - like the vortex wants what it came for - and she falls.
Full Story on Tumblr / FF.net / AO3
Chapter 6
Blue eyes, hooded and dark as his nose nudged against hers – his body warm, so warm, as his fingers grazed her skin (calloused from his glove and rough, she idly wondered what it would feel like sliding up her thigh, pulling her leg higher up against his waist). He had exhaled a sharp breath against her lips, her name falling like a curse and a plea, fingers clenching, searching as she finally gave in, tilting her head up –
Fuck.
She stares down at her now ruined latte, coffee spreading on the floor of the press box slowly – a little pool of mocha heaven being absorbed by the terrible grey carpet. She pinches the bridge of her nose and grabs a stack of napkins off the corner desk (she’s never been more grateful of Sidney’s dedication to the food selection in the press box, really) and tosses them down on the puddle, picking up the now empty cup with a wounded sigh.
Just what she needed.
“I’ll get you another.” Ruby supplies and she’s about to argue with her when the brunette goes bounding off in the direction of the coffee cart, red heels clicking methodically. She scoops up the mass of napkins and the empty cup and deposits them in the trashcan, mind inevitably being drawn back to the other night.
She almost kissed him.
She wanted to kiss him.
I’m so very thankful for all of your comments and messages – thank you for making writing so fun. It warms my heart every single time I get a little notification. Hope you enjoy! (We are wading into T territory with this one.)
Another update will be coming on Saturday, so keep that in mind with the ending of this chapter.
Also, Teresa ships it.
Full Story on Tumblr / FF.net / AO3
Chapter 5
When he was a boy, he craved physical contact – always climbing into bed with Liam in the early hours of the morning, tucking his small body under Liam’s outstretched arm until he could bury his nose in the soft material of his t-shirt – the smell of the sea clinging to him even after he had turned in for the day.
When he found Milah, they were joined at the hip – fingers tangled together as they walked, his hand threading through her dark curls, his arm slung over her shoulder, folding her body neatly into his.
The press of skin against skin calmed the buzzing in his head and made him feel wanted – alive and needed and connected to another human being. A pat on the shoulder as Liam passed him in the kitchen, a brush of Milah’s nose against his cheek, his mother’s gentle fingers as she adjusted his school tie – he needed it.
And then everything changed (in a blur of frantic screaming and the terrible sound of metal against metal) and physical contact only made him feel sick – the only touch he could bear one muted by alcohol, numerous women floating in and out of the drunken haze that descended on his life.
Crashing and screaming and blood – god, so much blood.
A clap of thunder yanks him from the reaches of sleep and he startles awake, fingers clamping down on warm skin in reflex. The body pressed up against his chest stirs, soft whine lodged in the base of her throat as her hips shift and push back into his. Blonde hair tumbles over her shoulder with the movement – honey and cinnamon and woman ghosting over him as she stills again.
Can you puh-leaaaase write a thing with Hook confronting the Charmings or Emma about the whole trust thing? We've seen so many Emma-snapping fics but I want to see Hook snap. Pretty please!
Confrontation with Charming because I need them to have it out about the shit that went down last episode (and there’s a pinch of something nice *cough* captain swan *cough* towards the end that I thought might counteract the angst)
“To what do I owe the pleasure?”
David is hardly surprised at the icy tone that saturates the acknowledgement as the pirate continues to throw darts vigorously at the board. For a man with one hand, he’s outrageously accurate; each shaft embedding deep into the foamy surface of the smaller circles as he throws. The thud of each one is methodical, a steady and monotonous beat that the prince subconsciously follows as he walks through the diner’s tables to stand a few feet away from him.
“Zelena took Snow and my child,” he answers, voice dragged down by the memory of a screaming newborn baby, his inconsolable wife as – for the second time – they had their child ripped from them. Hiding beneath the exhaustion is fervency and conviction. But for the moment, he just feels defeated.
Hook stills when the words settle in the air like dust and David can see his jaw twitch, arm pausing mid-throw as he considers the statement. There’s a thump as he releases his wrist and projects the dart into the board, face schooled into indifference as he says, “And you’re here talking to me because?” He throws another dart, more forceful this time as his brow pinches together and he speaks with a brand derision that is somehow unfitting on him, “Shouldn’t you and the rest of your dynamic hero squad be gallivanting off to save the babe?”