the vague musings of an osmosis girl

Prison Break turned TEN YEARS OLD on 29th August

msgenevieve — Sun, 30 Aug 2015 10:33:50 GMT

clair_de_lune has always been a bit of a fandom hero as far as I'm concerned, and this month is no exception.

Prison Break turned ten years old on 28th August, and she has come up with a cracking idea to have a little celebration of the show that so many of us once loved so much.

Given that a revival of the show is now actually on the cards, what better way to dip our collective toes (whether we have eight or ten, it matters no) into the old familiar waters than to relive some of the glory days. Click on the link below, and you'll read all the details.

http://clair-de-lune.livejournal.com/394714.html?view=2335706#t2335706

Go forth and spam your favourite social media at will, my fellow erstwhile PB fans. Oh, and to inspire you, here is one of the most ridiculous photos I have of the cast ever. Come on. Do it for Went's terrible hat. You know you want to!

Practicing Restraint - Once Upon a Time (1/1)

msgenevieve — Tue, 22 Apr 2014 12:31:53 GMT

Pairing: Emma Swan/Killian "Hook" Jones (aka Captain Swan)
Rating: M
Genre: Angst, romance, UST, humour, smut
Summary: "You’ll look for any excuse to use that thing, won’t you?" (Basically, Emma does not think that there is something weirdly sexy about that hook. Not at all. Nope.)
Note: So I watched 318 again (yah for holidays!) and decided I was tired of angst and it was time for some smut. The plot insisted on creeping in, though, so I’m not sure what to call this. Smangst? Smuffy angst? Sexy angsty times? Either way, please have at it.

~*~

“You’ll look for any excuse to use that thing, won’t you?”

At first, he thinks she merely sounds peevish, irritated at what she sees as his childish antics with his hook, but then he hears it, the almost undetectable note of something else.

It’s curiosity, and decidedly not of the morbid variety.

Well, well, well.

After she’s yet again walked away from him, he follows her through the frozen landscape, indulging himself in the study of the way this realm’s trousers cling to her magnificent arse and legs, his mind cataloguing their past conversations. It’s an easy feat, given that he remembers every word she’s ever said to him.

He thinks of the way her lips had parted on a shocked breath when he’d first hooked his steel around her wrist, pulling her injured hand towards him after their beanstalk climb. He thinks of the way her breath had come harder and faster the instant he’d put her on her back at Lake Nostos, the piercing scrape of his hook along the length of her sword that still seems to ring in his ears at times. He thinks of challenging her with the most clichéd of taunts from a hospital bed, talking of attachments and things being in perfect working order, and how something dark had flickered in her eyes before she’d slammed the shutters down. He thinks of the blush that had touched her cheeks when he’d donned his hook upon their arrival back in Storybrooke, the way she’d let him flick the bright strands of her hair without flinching.

Smiling at her elegantly stiff back, he files away his theory for another time, a time when they will have nothing and no one to distract them. He’s a patient man, but even the most patient man can grow weary of interruptions.

~*~

His kiss is cursed, his love defiled, all his sacrifices for naught.

His failure burns through him like a forest fire, but he still knows one thing.

No matter what the cost, he will keep her safe.

~*~

An evening of black magic at the behest of the Queen, and he would be lying if he said his insides weren’t soured at the thought of Cora tainting this realm once more. But it’s a necessary evil, if an unpleasant one, and he will do whatever is asked of him.

Mary Margaret takes his good hand in hers, her clasp surprisingly strong, and he feels Emma’s gaze upon him. His hook has been a part of him for centuries, and he has long grown to accept its presence, even revelling in it, but he’s never regretted sitting to the right of someone more than he does in this moment. He lets his gaze meet hers, and there’s a mute appeal in her eyes has him stretching out his left arm as though in a dream. Her touch is hesitant at first, then he feels the weight of her hand on his wrist, her fingers curling around his hook brace.

It’s been an age since anyone has touched him thus and, for an instant, the instinct to pull away is stronger than his desire to help. Emma’s hand tightens around his wrist, pushing it down gently onto the polished tabletop, her thumb resting against the curve of his hook. The shared knowledge that he could easily pull away from her touch hums between them, and he feels the tight knot of tension in the middle of his chest loosen, if only a little. The hook is undeniably a part of him, and that is apparently acceptable in Emma Swan’s eyes.

Regina’s dark magic works, as he suspected it would, but there is no happy ending this night, not for Cora’s second daughter. And perhaps not for himself, because Emma Swan had gripped his hooked hand as though she was afraid to let him go now that she’d finally touched him, the very fabric of his long-held dreams, and there was nothing he could do about it.

~*~

Later that night, having coaxing him into staying by her side, his torment continues, Emma’s smile curving with the pleasure of teasing him as she playfully vanishes his hook right from his hand. If he had suspected earlier that she had accepted every single part of him, he now knows for certain.

She’s laughing, joy shining brightly in her eyes, joy in her triumph over her own fears, and only the deadly burden of Zelena’s curse keeps him from taking her right there in the diner, her back flat against the hard tabletop, his body finally claiming hers in a hot rush of mutual capitulation, pleasuring her until a very different kind of magic engulfs them both.

Instead, all he can do is be angry - angry at himself, at the Witch, at life’s cruel sense of timing - and the one person with whom he’s not angry is the one he’s wounding the most, and the irony twists hotly in his gut, the pain as sure as if he’d been skewered by his own damned hook.

Irony, indeed.

~*~

He confesses his burden. This time there is no Echo Cave, no witnesses. There is only the two of them alone in her home with his wretched bloody secret.

At first she’s furious, telling him that he’s an idiot for not telling her sooner and she’ll never forgive him for making her think that he no longer cared about them. Then her face softens, giving him scant warning before she grips his coat lapels and hauls him closer. Panicked, he tries to pull away.

“Swan, don’t!”

Rising up on her toes, she kisses his forehead softly, a lingering caress that sinks right down to his very bones. “We’ll find a way. I promise.”

Their shared moment is soon interrupted by the arrival of the Prince and his wife and the rest of their trusted soldiers, but he wears the brand of her lips like a shield the whole day.

He is still cursed, but he is no longer alone.

~*~

They’re holed up in a small shack near the docks, waiting for Leroy to join them. Knowing they only have a short time before their privacy is once again disturbed, he decides to test his theory. Things are easier between them now, although the spectre of the forbidden still looms large at every turn. Still, that’s not to say that they can’t discuss the matter, surely?

Holding up his hook to the light, he watches the sunbeams bounce off the curve of it. “You know, Swan, when you left me shackled at the top of that beanstalk-“

From her position at the small window, she turns to glare at him, but not before he catches her eyeing the hook surreptitiously from beneath lowered eyelashes. “Seriously? You’re bringing that up now?”

“I had many hours in which to meticulously plan how I was going to make you pay for your betrayal, all of them involving my cherished namesake.” Her pale throat works as she swallows hard, and his tongue itches to taste soft skin there, just below the curve of her jaw. “Some ideas were bloody.” Her eyes widen, and he gives her a reassuring smile as he comes to lean one shoulder against the wall beside the window. “Many were quite dramatic, I must say.” Reaching out with his left arm, he captures her wrist in his hook, watching her carefully. “Most of them, though, involved conquering you in a very different manner.” He gently tugs her towards him, letting his hook slide up and down the length of her forearm. “I can be quite creative with this particular attachment if the occasion calls for it.”

Her chest is rising and falling rapidly, her green eyes dark in the dim light, and he feels the heat of her calling to his most carnal of urges, a bloody siren’s song. “And yet you ended up locking me in a dungeon.”

There’s no recrimination in her tone, but he simply shrugs, knowing that this subject is perhaps a conversation for another time. “Not my finest hour, I admit.” Turning back to the window, she scans the outside world carefully, then moves to stand before him, effectively trapping him against the wall. “What are you doing, Swan?”

Her hands tighten on the front of his vest. “Seizing a good moment,” she shoots back in an urgent whisper, then he feels the brush of her lips on his throat, the scrape of her teeth on his skin, and a rush of heat blooms in his blood. “Why don’t you show me how creative you can be, Captain?”

Mentally, he feels as though he’s been winded, his body clamouring to oblige. He knows she’s seeking a distraction from their woes, seeking the fun he once promised her, but he can’t. They can’t. “Zelena’s curse-”

“Fuck Zelena, and fuck her curse, too.” The coarse words falling from her lips has him instantly, painfully hard. “Just don’t kiss me and we’ll be fine.”

He knows a challenge when he hears one.

Before she has a chance to protest, he spins them around until she’s the one pinned against the wall, catching both her wrists in his right hand and raising them above her head. Her eyes lock with his, and he sees both permission and pleading swimming in their depths, and his cock aches with the need of her. He slides the curve of his hook up her thigh, watching her eyelids flutter at the sensation. “Is this what you had in mind, Swan?”

The tip of her tongue comes out to touch her bottom lip. “Maybe.”

He deliberately avoids touching her where he knows she wants it most, instead trailing his hook up her belly until it reaches the curve of her breast. Her eyes fly open at the feel of him dragging down the neckline of her sweater, then a moan vibrates in her throat as he rubs the curve of his hook over the jut of her nipple, teasing it through her undergarment. “God,” she mutters, shifting her weight against him, and his mouth burns with the hunger to kiss her until she is senseless with want.

“Swan.” He can hardly get the words out, but he has to put a stop to this. “The dwarf will be here soon.” She twines one long leg around his, an unmistakable invitation, and he can no longer resist the urge to press her back against the wall, hard, letting her feel the rigid thrust of his cock against the soft mound between her thighs, letting her feel what she’s doing to him. “Emma-”

“I know. I know.” Her head drops to his shoulder, her breath hot against his throat, and he’s never come closer to taking a woman where she stands in his life. He releases her wrists, and her arms are instantly around his neck, pulling him closer. She’s trembling in his arms, but then he’s hardly rock-steady on his feet himself, his senses literally overwhelmed by the force of her. Not a single item of clothing has been removed, and he still feels as though he is being burned from the inside out.

Sighing, she bring her hands to his face, once again kissing his forehead. “Who’d have ever thought you’d turn out to be the one who showed restraint?”

“Restraint?” He knows his smile is shaky and lopsided, but he doesn’t care. Their future may be clouded, but he sees her more clearly in this moment than he ever has before. “I’m not the one with the thing for manacles, love.”

His bicep is still stinging from her punch when the dwarf arrives.

~*~

Afterwards, when it’s all over (well, after Zelena has been vanquished at least, as he’s come to share Emma’s belief that things will never be over, not in Storybrooke), he watches her as she sleeps on the narrow bunk in the Captain’s Quarters.

His beloved ship and the woman he loves. Two things he never truly let himself believe he would have in his life again, and yet here they both are. He feels lighter than he has in centuries, almost weightless, his feet barely touching the ground despite the gentle rocking of the Jolly.

The Saviour sleeps like a restless child, he observes with amusement, kicking off the top sheet, long legs akimbo. She’s on her stomach, arms tucked under his pillow, and his gaze feasts on the sight of her lovely back and magnificent arse. They’d slept naked last night, but now in the soft morning light, he can finally admire what his hand and mouth have already explored. Sitting on the edge of his own bed, he takes the luxury of simply looking at her, the pale skin dotted by the most charming array of freckles and what he referred to as beauty spots (they’re called moles, she told him with a derisive snort last night).

Stars above, last night.

It had been long overdue, admittedly, but even he had been unprepared for the ravenous blur of need and release it had become, a celebration of life and triumph over death, and this morning he feels pleasantly battered and bruised. His Swan is indeed a tough lass, as fierce in the bedchamber as she is in battle, and the memory of that first thrust inside the tender clasp of her body has him aching for her again in the space of a heartbeat. His faintly swollen lips carry the memory of kisses too numerous to count, a heady reclaiming of what had been stolen from them, and it’s a discomfort he will gladly bear.

He hadn’t worn his hook last night, afraid that he’d be too clumsy in his weariness and need of her, leaving himself open to the possibility of scoring her delicate skin. Now though, in the cool light of morning, his hook is as steady as a rock, and he will be taking his time.

After a few enjoyable moments, his gentle explorations finally rouse her from her sleep, her voice muffled by the pillow. “What are you doing back there?”

“Mapping out a course, Swan.” He dances the tip of his hook lightly over her creamy skin, mapping out imagined constellations between the tiny dark spots scattered across her flesh, admiring the way the goosebumps rise up in its wake. “Every sailor knows that preparation is the key to a safe journey.”

He hears a snort of laughter, then she rolls onto her back, giving him a glorious view of her breasts, all sumptuous curves and tight pink nipples. “What? No safe passage jokes? I’m disappointed.”

He smiles down at her, aware of her gaze traveling hotly over his own bare chest and shoulders. “The day is young, love.”

Reaching out, she drapes a lazy hand on his thigh, her touch warming him through his hastily donned linen trousers, the brush of her thumb tantalisingly close to his rapidly burgeoning erection. “Come back to bed.”

Feeling almost incandescent with longing, he shakes his head. “First things first, Swan.” He holds up his hooked hand, and watches with smug delight as her eyes widen with erotic realisation. “I believe we have some unfinished business.”

~*~

Amends - Once Upon a Time (1/1)

msgenevieve — Sun, 23 Mar 2014 09:52:39 GMT

Pairing: Emma Swan/Killian "Hook" Jones (aka Captain Swan)
Rating: M for Mild Sexy Times
Genre: Angst, romance, UST, humour
Summary: When she gets the first text from an amused/annoyed store owner one Saturday morning, she thinks nothing of it. He’s done stranger things, after all. But after the second and third message from different sources, she thinks maybe it’s time to investigate.
Note: For scribblecat, who gave me the prompt of: 'Killian feels bad about some past conduct and makes a list of apologies he needs to make to people in town aka my name is earl. Emma helps him to remember the good things he's done too'.

~*~

When she gets the first text from an amused/annoyed store owner one Saturday morning, she thinks nothing of it. He’s done stranger things, after all. But after the second and third message from different sources, she thinks maybe it’s time to investigate.

She finds him at Granny’s, in a booth rather than propping up the bar, armed with a large mug of black coffee and a weary expression. He looks at up at her approach, his eyes brightening with anticipation, and the usual flutter of something dances through her stomach. “Do you always look this radiant so early in the morning, Swan?” He tilts back his head, his gaze sweeping down to effortlessly catalogue her from head to toe. “Or is that something best discovered, as they say in this realm, up close and personal?”

She really should be used to his flirting by now, she really should, so why does she suddenly feel as though her underwear is suddenly two sizes too small? “I heard you were doing some shopping this morning.” She smiles down at him, watching carefully as a muscle flickers in his clenched jaw. “Or trying to, at least.”

“News travels quickly in Storybrooke, it appears.”

She ignores his sour tone. “You were looking to buy,” she glances down at her phone and recites the second text message she’d received that morning, “an ink pot, a new quill and parchment. You were also asking each store owner, and I quote, what kind of bloody stupid establishment won’t take gold coin in payment?”

He scowls at his coffee cup. “Are you quite finished?”

“Oh, I haven’t even got started yet.” She slides into the booth beside him, enjoying his startled reaction. Normally she endeavours to keep a healthy distance between them - no sense asking for trouble before she’s ready to deal with it - but there’s something about his disheartened expression that makes her heart twinge. “Are you running low on writing supplies?”

He hesitates for a few seconds, then breathes out a loud sigh. “I’m afraid so.” He picks up something from the seat on the other side of him and she can’t help smiling, because Henry has obviously bequeathed one of his unused notebooks from school, plus a ballpoint pen that’s clearly seen better days. “I encountered your son in here earlier, and he was most helpful, but this pedestrian writing tool isn’t worthy of the strangely coloured ink that fills it, to say nothing of the poor quality of this parchment.” Drumming his fingers on the notebook, he gives her a small smile that borders on wistful, and she finds her breath catching in her throat. “I realise it’s a trivial complaint, given the gravity of the circumstances in which we constantly find ourselves, but -”

He breaks off, but she reads the rest of his words in his eyes. But it matters to him. And if it matters to him, it matters to her, whether she’s ready to deal with that or not. She covers his hand with hers, not caring that the diner is half-full of weekend breakfast dawdlers. “I have an idea.” She slides out of the booth, then jerks her head to where her car is parked outside the diner, her words coming out in a rush before she does something sensible like changing her mind. “Come on. We’re going on a road trip.”

His answering smile of delight makes her think that the time for being sensible is long gone.

~*~

She has a cherished memory – false, of course, but still in her head and her heart nevertheless – of taking Henry to FAO Schwarz for the first time when he was five years old. Unlike the other children around him, he’d walked calmly and carefully, his manner almost reverential, his eyes huge in his head as he trailed his fingers gently along the displays, up and down each aisle, almost as though he was touring a museum, not speaking, just drinking it all in. (She has to hand it to Regina for knowing her son so well. Even in his fake childhood, he’d behaved exactly as he would have done in reality, and that small fact comforts Emma.)

She thinks of that memory again now as she watches Hook trail his right hand along the display of sealing wax and ornately carved seals. He’d been full of chatter and his usual droll observations on the five mile drive from Storybrooke, but he hasn’t said a word since she led him into this speciality stationery store. His expression now is almost an exact much for five year-old Henry’s, and again Emma feels that disconcerted swell of tenderness welling up in her chest, clogging her throat. He stops at the shelves of luxurious fountain pens and individually hand-pressed sheets of paper, touching them with gentle fingertips. The scent of paper and ink fills the air around them, and as she watches he inhales deeply, closing his eyes, his mouth curving in a smile.

“I take it you approve.”

“Aye.” He opens his eyes with a start, looking faintly embarrassed to have been caught so deep in reflection. Reaching for the small leather pouch on his belt, his smile fades as his gaze meets hers. “Would I be correct in assuming this fine establishment will also be of the opinion that gold coin isn’t suitable legal tender?”

She waves her hand. “I’ll take care of it.”

He frowns, clearly torn between the lure of finally acquiring something so comfortingly familiar and letting her pay for said items. He shakes his head, good form winning out, it seems. “No, that’s not proper.”

“Says the pirate.” Something dark flashes in his eyes, and she instantly regrets her teasing words. “We can work something out later,” she promises hurriedly. “We’re here now and my credit card hardly ever sees daylight in Storybrooke, so just go to town, okay?”

He quirks a quizzical eyebrow at her, and she grins again. “I mean get whatever you want, and we’ll sort out how you can pay me back later.”

And just like that, the darkness in his eyes is gone, replaced by a flirtatious gleam that makes her toes curl in her boots. “I can think of many a way in which to repay such a generous gesture, Swan.”

Emma clears her throat, trying not to think of curling her hand around his silver pendants and dragging him between the dimly lit shelves and letting him thank her right this very second. “Why am I not surprised?”

~*~

“Are you still keeping a Captain’s log?”

They’re back in Storybrooke once more, and right now she’s making nervous small talk because she’s just finished helping him carry his new possessions down to the Captain’s quarters of his ship, and now that task is done, there is an air of anticipation simmering between them that makes her think maybe she should have just dropped him off and let him cope with the bags of stationery alone. His new treasures are now neatly stacked at one end of the table at which she’s sitting, and he’s given her a handful of gold coins that will definitely be far too much money once she’s managed to change them into real world currency, and she supposes she should leave him to get on with his plans for the day-

“Aye, but there are other things I wished to record.” There’s a glass tumbler sliding across the small wooden table in her direction, and she knows that a swift and graceful departure has just been delayed. She watches as he pours them both a measure of rum (thank God he’s starting buying it from The Rabbit Hole, because at least she’s familiar with that brand and can steel herself for that first sip) then raises his glass to her in a toast. “Thank you for my new supplies.”

“Don’t mention it, and you’ve definitely repaid me for them, so let’s call it even, okay?” She takes a small sip of rum, because seriously, it’s only just gone midday, but what the hell, right? It’s Saturday and David’s on-call this weekend and Henry is with Regina until tomorrow afternoon, so it’s not as though she has anywhere else to be right now. “Uh, what other things do you need to record?” She’s tells herself she’s not vain enough to think his writing has something to do with her, but still -

He hesitates, then shrugs out of his coat, tossing it onto his narrow bunk bed before dropping into the chair opposite her. “Last week, your son shared a movie for my entertainment.” To his credit, he doesn’t stumble over the word movie in the slightest, and she can’t help but be impressed, if a little confused by how watching a movie with Henry could lead to a sudden need for new ink and paper. “It was a tale in which a young woman was sent to an asylum by her family, who had been publicly shamed by her being a drunkard.”

She grins. Either Captain Hook was subjected to two hours of Sandra Bullock or Meg Ryan, but either way, it had obviously made an impression on him. “Okay, but what does that have to do with your sudden shopping expedition?”

“The twelve steps mentioned in this tale, they are well known, are they not?”

She stares at him, because whatever she’d expected him to say, it definitely hadn’t been that. “They are."

He nods, visibly relieved that he doesn’t have to explain the concept further. “There are people in this realm whom I have wronged, Swan.” He breaks off, his tanned throat working as he swallows hard. “I would have a care to make amends.”

Her head is spinning, but it’s got nothing to do with the rum. Firstly, she can’t believe they’re having this discussion, and secondly, trust him to skip the first seven steps and head straight for the one that means the most awkward conversations around town. “You want to make a list of the people you’ve wronged.”

“Yes.” His mouth twitches in a smile, but there’s no humour in it. “As you can imagine, my need for parchment and ink for such a task has exhausted my supplies.”

Emma looks at him. “You’ve done a lot of good things, too.”

He lifts one shoulder in an elegant half-shrug. “Perhaps.”

“I’m not saying you haven’t done a lot of bad things, because I’m pretty sure you have.” There’s no point denying what they both know is true. They’ve come too far to hide behind a smokescreen of bullshit. “But you’re not a bad man.”

He gives her that look, his patented ‘stubborn ass pirate’ look that always makes her want to dig in her heels and argue with him until her throat is hoarse. “I beg to differ, love.”

The temptation to clock him over the head with the bottle is growing stronger by the moment. “Tell me something. Why did you become a pirate?”

“Because my brother died a pointless death, not an honourable one as he’d always hoped.” He pours himself another measure of rum, but doesn’t drink it. “Due solely to the treachery and lies of a king we’d both sworn to honour and serve.”

She blinks, taken aback. She’d had some inkling, but clearly there is so much more to the story, more than he’s willing to tell her now, but God, she wants to know. She wants to know all of him, both before and after and now, and she’s tired of pretending that she doesn’t. “And why did you set out to kill Rumplestiltskin?”

“He ripped out Milah’s heart.” His fingers flex on the tumbler in his hand. “She died in my arms and the coward laughed as she breathed her last.” He downs his drink, his hand steady as a rock, but she hears the trembling grief in his voice. “And my quest to avenge her death was the only thing that kept me breathing for a very long time.”

Tears prickling hotly at the back of her eyes at the pain in his voice, but she determinedly blinks them away. “So basically, you didn’t just wake up one morning and say, screw it, I think I’ll become a pirate and go around doing a lot of bad deeds just because I can, did you?”

“No.”

She looks at him, at this man who has walked through fire more than once to save her and the people she loves. “One more question, and then I’ll leave if you want me to go.” She takes a deep breath, feeling as though she’s about to open the biggest can of worms known to mankind, but she can’t do this anymore, this dancing around each other, because it’s exhausting. More importantly, she needs him to say it when it’s not a life or death situation, and those moments are pretty rare in this town. “If you’re not a good man, then why are you still here in Storybrooke, still helping us?”

His gaze locks with hers. “Because I can no longer imagine a life without you in it, Swan.” He gestures towards the door to his cabin with his now empty glass. “I have no wish for you to go, but you are free to leave without injuring my pride, lass.”

She doesn’t leave. It’s as though she’s welded to the chair, because this man has laid his heart at her feet and his cards on the table, and to leave now would be to turn her back on everything he’s offering her - heart, soul, body, loyalty - and she can’t. She just can’t.

He pushes back his chair with a sudden shove and gets to his feet, putting his empty glass on the table, his eyes glittering with something that looks a lot like anger. “Either bloody well say something or get out, Swan, because the last thing I want is your pity.”

She starts to rise, her eyes never leaving his face. “Pity is the last thing I’m feeling, trust me.”

To her relief, he hears everything she’s not saying, and by the time he reaches her side and hauls her into his arms, she’s lifting her arms to wind them around his neck. His mouth closes over hers in a fierce kiss that has her seeing stars behind her eyelids and fireworks sparking low in her belly, and nothing short of another mermaid attack is going to stop her from kissing him for a long, long time. She vaguely registers the sound of things falling to the floor - rustling papers and the smashing of something that might be a new bottle of ink - as they stumble against the wooden table, then she’s falling backwards onto his narrow bed and he’s in her arms, kissing her as though she is now the only thing keeping him breathing and maybe she is.

The world narrows down to the feel of his skin against hers, the taste of his mouth, the rough groan that shakes him when he’s finally inside her, her name a muttered oath against her shoulder. They barely speak, the only sound the pounding of her pulse in her ears and his breathing against her skin, harsh and helpless as they twist together on the rough bedclothes, pushing each other higher and faster and harder.

When they finally fall, they fall together, clinging to each other as though the ship is being tossed by a fierce storm, their skin slick with sweat as though they’d been drenched by pounding rains.

Later, he writes patterns and sonnets on her skin with his fingertips, composing a silent symphony down her spine, skimming poetry down the backs of her legs. When she finally rolls over onto her back, his eyes are glowing brightly in the late afternoon light that filters through the windows above his bed, gleaming with all the unspoken words he’s tracing on her body. She kisses him again and again, pulling him down until the weight of him presses her deep into the mattress, finding new answers to her unasked questions each and every time he touches her, the sheer heat of them slowly dissolving the line between good and bad and all that grey that lies between the two.

Even later, she helps him gather up scattered paper and sealing wax from where they’d spilled onto the floor, carefully tucking them away in the drawer of the desk before they can meet the same fate a second time.

Just as the sun is setting, she discovers that ink has seeped over her jeans where they’d lain on the floor, but she can’t say she cares. After all, she does have enough gold coins to buy herself a new pair. But, she thinks hazily as he draws her into his arms once more, his mouth exploring a warm, lazy path along her bare shoulder, it’s not as though she’s going to need a new pair of jeans tonight. Or any clothes at all, for that matter.

The third time’s a charm. The fourth time almost breaks the table, and she’s vaguely grateful to have saved the stationery supplies. It would be a shame to ruin all that fancy new paper as well as her jeans.

~*~

He makes his list. Slowly, he tries to make amends. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. Either way, she doesn’t interfere or attempt to talk him out of trying. It matters to him, and therefore it matters to her, and that’s all that matters.

~*~

Our Lips are Sealed - Once Upon a Time (1/1)

msgenevieve — Tue, 18 Mar 2014 06:58:09 GMT

Pairing: Emma Swan/Killian "Hook" Jones (aka Captain Swan)
Rating: S for a bit of salty language
Genre: Humour, romance, UST
Summary:The thing is, there are only so many times you can be told something’s true before you start believing it yourself. Especially if you’ve known it was true all along.
Note:Prompt: Fic based on I Wont Say I'm In Love from Hercules maybe everybody getting on Emma's case and her denying then confessing. (Okay, I’ll admit it. I have never seen Hercules. But now, thanks to my anon prompter, I have watched this song many times on youtube. Ha! I had to tweak the timeline a little (okay, so a lot, and then leave out a heap of stuff because SPOILERS) but I really hope they like it. P.S. I’ve slipped in a few of the song lyrics as dialogue here and there, so obviously they don’t belong to me either!) Title is courtesy of The Go-Gos.

~*~

“So. You and Hook.”

Emma almost spits out the sip of coffee she’s just taken, because her father’s question is so obviously not a question and where is this even coming from? “What? Uh, no.”

David’s quirk of his eyebrow could give their subject matter a run for his money. “Are you saying that he comes by the station every day just to bump into me?"

Briefly wishing she’d ordered the jumbo coffee - at least that way, she’d have a larger mug to hide behind – she gives her father a pointed look. “You tell me. Last time I checked, you guys were the ones who had the budding bromance happening.”

Her father’s knowing smile tells her he’s not buying her deflection routine for an instant, then he reaches for his own coffee. He looks briefly as though he’s struggling to find the right words, then reaches across the table to pat her on the hand in an endearingly awkward way. “You could do a lot worse, you know.”

She stares at him. “You’ve changed your tune.” There’s that knowing smile again, and she realises she’s supposed to be denying the subtle accusation, rather than quizzing her father on whether he actually really likes Hook now. “Not that it matters.” Coffee, she thinks as she studies her cup as though the answers to the life, the universe and everything are engraved on it. More coffee will help. “Because there’s nothing going on with me and Hook.”

David’s chuckle seems to brush against her reddened face. “No, of course not.”

~*~

She finds herself walking along the beach a lot during her afternoon breaks, which isn’t really that strange when you live in Maine, but it’s not just geography. There’s something else, something that keeps drawing her gaze to the docks where the Jolly Roger’s familiar outline is dark against the white hulls of the other boats. As long as his ship is here, then he is still here and she can keep putting off dealing with the thoughts that keep clawing and clawing at her head and her heart.

It’s one of these afternoons that Mary Margaret finds her, in the exact same spot her father had found her when she’d skipped out on her lunch with Neal. God, that seems like a lifetime ago. In a way, of course, it actually is. She eases herself down to sit next to Emma, one hand curved over her swollen belly as if for balance. “Penny for your thoughts"

Emma gives her mother a wry smile. “Not sure they’re worth that much.”

They sit in a companionable silence for a while, then the other woman clears her throat. “So, I saw Neal today.”

Oh, no, not this again. It’s been a while since her mother waved the Team Neal flag in Emma’s face, and she’d almost started to hope that the subject had been dropped. Obviously, she’d been a little too optimistic. “Mary Margaret-”

Her mother ploughs on as though Emma hasn’t spoken. “He was with Tinkerbell.” She hesitates, carefully studying Emma’s face for clues. “They seemed very close.”

“They’re old friends.” Emma shrugs as though this news doesn’t worry her in the slightest and, to her utter relief, it’s the truth. “And if it’s anything more than that, well, I’m not his keeper.”

Mary Margaret’s face is a picture of conflicting impulses, and Emma feels a pang of sympathy. She knows that her mother only wants her to be happy and find a happy ending like her parents, but she and David are the exception, not the rule. “So you’d be okay if Neal was with someone else?”

“More than okay.” One day, she will sit her mother down and tell her the whole story of how and why she ended up giving birth to Henry in prison, but not today. That Neal is the reason why she has so much trouble believing that certain people will always be there for her. “He’ll always be Henry’s father, but there’s no happy ending waiting for the two of us, trust me.”

Silence falls over them again, and again it’s a comfortable one. Finally, her mother starts to laugh softly. “Remember when I used to come to you for relationship advice, and then completely ignore everything you said?”

“Yep.” Emma finds herself laughing, her mother’s amusement apparently infectious. “Look, I know you’re a big fan of True Love and all, but sometimes I think that no man’s worth the aggravation.”

“Some men are.” Her mother’s smile is a soft, secret one. “You just have to find them.” Rising to her feet awkwardly (at this point she resembles a well-dressed beach ball on legs), she looks down at her daughter. “Or let them find you.”

Emma feels a flush of colour come into her face. There’s only one man who has crossed both realms and oceans to find her, and they both know it. “Seriously?”

Her mother’s bright eyes gleam with mischief. “Funny how other people can see things that we can’t, isn’t it?”

“Hilarious.” Emma narrows her gaze, praying her mother will think that her blush is due to the cold afternoon breeze whipping off the water. “Shouldn’t you be getting home? David will be worried.”

“Actually, he’s having a drink at The Rabbit Hole with Hook.” The mischievous glint in her mother’s eyes seems to have taken up permanent residence. “He said something about learning to appreciate old-school ale.”

“Good grief.” Emma tucks her hand through her mother’s arm, and gently draws her closer. “So that’s why I’m on-call tonight.” Her voice sounds casual and light-hearted. Good job, Emma. “They’ll be there for hours, if last time is anything to go by. What the hell could they possibly find to talk about for that long?”

Her mother shoots her an uncomfortably familiar ‘really?’ look, and Emma puts up a warning hand. “Don’t. Just don’t.”

Patting the hand that’s tucked into the crook of her elbow, Mary Margaret merely smiles. “I feel like pizza for dinner. What do you think?”

I think that if I have to have one more of these conversations about Hook with either you or my father, I might actually lock you both up,Emma thinks, then smiles. “Sure."

~*~

Two days later, she drops Henry at Regina’s house, and finds herself lingering in the marbled foyer long after Henry has vanished upstairs on pounding feet into his room. “Regina, can I ask you something?”

Regina pauses in her study of her perfectly applied lipstick in the mirror. “If you must.”

“Why did I end up in New York?” It’s a question that’s been niggling at her for weeks, ever since Hook found her. “Why not Boston, or Tallahassee, somewhere I’d actually lived before?”

“Well, my dear, isn’t it obvious?” When Emma just shrugs, Regina rolls her eyes. “If anyone was going to find you, it was going to be the pirate, and I knew he was already familiar with that particular city.” The other woman’s red mouth curves in a smirk. “Call it an insurance policy.”

Oh.

Emma leans against the door jam, trying to ignore the sudden fluttering in the pit of her belly. “But how did you know he’d be the one to find me?"

“Oh, please.” Regina tosses the lipstick tube into the small drawer of the hallway table. “How you managed to survive in the real world for twenty-eight years with so little self-awareness astounds me. The man’s in love with you, as ridiculous as it might sound.”

Emma feels the blood drain from her face. This is not a conversation she’d banked on having when she asked her question. “Forget I asked.”

“Oh, and you’re in love with him, which is even more ridiculous.” Regina has noticed her discomfort, of course, and her smile is gleeful. “The Saviour and the Pirate. It’s almost too clichéd for words.”

“I gotta go.” Emma’s feet are heading towards the door almost of their own accord. “I’ll see Henry on Friday, okay?”

“Yes, you run away, Sheriff Swan.” Behind her, Regina sounds more amused than Emma’s ever heard her. “That will definitely help you with your pirate problem.”

Once she’s sitting in the sanctuary of her car - it had taken her a few tries to unlock the door, her hands were shaking so much – Emma grips the steering wheel and closes her eyes, trying to will away the last ten minutes from her memory. When that doesn’t work (stupid stubborn magic), she decides on the next best thing. There’s a bottle of wine in her parents’ fridge with her name on it, and if that doesn’t help, there’s always that bottle of rum that Hook left the last time he was visiting-

Shit.

The memory of that night flashes into her head, bright bursts of feeling and warmth and laughter and flirting and a pleasant buzz of anticipation because they hadn’t been alone, but every time his eyes had caught hers, she’d read a promise in their bright depths. A promise that they wouldn’t always be in a crowd, and she’d revelled in it.

She bows her head, so low that her forehead is almost touching the steering wheel, because she is so, so fucked.

~*~

“Seriously?” Ruby looks from her, then to where Hook is sitting at another table near the window, apparently absorbed in a sailing magazine. “Who do you think you’re kidding?”

Emma keeps her focus squarely on the woman standing at her table, and does not look towards any other patrons in any way, shape or form. “I’m just eating my lunch.”

“Read my lips, girl.” A request that’s pretty easy when Ruby’s mouth is the lushest and reddest mouth in all the realms, Emma thinks, then Ruby bends down to whisper in her ear. “You’re in love.”

“Give me a break.”

Straightening, Ruby taps her nose. “Wolf. I can sense these things, you know.”

Emma offers her friend (ha!) a stiff smile. “Can I have the check now?”

“You know what this is like?”

“I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”

“This is like watching a replay of Snow and Charming pretending not to notice each other in here.” Ruby’s eyes widen. “God, you two are even at the same tables they used to sit at!”

“Okay, that’s it.” Emma slides a couple of bills across the table and pushes back her chair with an abrupt scraping on the hard floor. Her well-trained peripheral vision spots a black figure to her right shifting in his seat as if to rise to his feet, and she knows she’s on borrowed time. “Gotta get back to work.”

She makes a hasty exit, but as she heads back towards the station, she has the feeling that her escape is going to be short-lived.

~*~

She’s right.

“When are we going sailing on the Jolly Roger?"

“What?” Distracted by the instructions on the back of the cookie dough packet, it takes her a few seconds to tune into Henry’s question, his first words as he comes through the door after school. “Uh, I don’t know. Some time, I guess.

Her son drops his school bag onto the floor, then his body onto the couch. “What’s the point of you dating Captain Hook if we don’t go sailing?”

“Um, I’m not dating Hook.”

Turning to look at her over the back of the couch, her son wiggles his eyebrows at her. “That’s not what Granny says.”

“Is that so?"

Flopping back down, Henry reaches for the TV remote. “He likes you,” he tells her, tossing the words over his shoulder.

“Well, he’s not exactly subtle.”

“And you like him.”

In the middle of sliding a tray of cookies into the over, she narrowly manages to avoid burning the inside of her arm on the hot wire shelf. “How do you figure that, kid?”

“You laugh a lot when he’s around.”

She’s very glad Henry’s back is turned. “Yeah, but most of the time I’m laughing at him, not with him.”

Her respite is fleeting, because her son is once again hanging over the back of the couch, grinning at her. “And you look at him the way Robin looks at Mom when he thinks she’s not looking,” he finishes triumphantly, as though delivering a closing address before a jury.

Emma blinks. Regina and Robin Hood? Seriously, how has this become her life, she muses, then the deeper implications of Henry’s words sink in. She can’t have this conversation right now, not with the man in question, and definitely not with her teenaged son.

“I’m not dating Hook.”

“But you want to, though, right?”

The heat in her face is surely from the oven, she tells herself. “Do you want these cookies or not?”

~*~

The thing is, there are only so many times you can be told something’s true before you start believing it yourself.

Especially if you’ve known it was true all along.

~*~

“Swan! To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“We need to talk.”

“I’m all ears, love.” His smooth reply belies the sudden wariness in his eyes, but she doesn’t care. She just has to get this out, and then she can leave. She pushes past him, her boots clomping loudly on the hard wooden floor of the captain’s quarters, trying and failing not to notice that he’s only dressed in his shirt sleeves and leather trousers, and that the room smells of lemon soap and bay rum and clean sweat.

“You know, you’d think I’d have learned my lesson.” She knows she’s babbling, but the floodgates are open, and she just can’t stop. “Oh, it always feels good when it starts, but then the yelling and the lying and the crying starts and the getting your heart ripped out - not literally, I should point out, God, this town, although it feels that bad sometimes - and now everyone’s on my case about how they know and how I should just admit it and it wouldn’t be so awkward if I didn’t have all these ridiculous feelings for you and I just can’t.”

“You just can’t what?”

“Admit it.”

“Admit what, love?”

“This.” She stops, bites her lip, her breath coming hard and fast now that her words seem to have dried up. Her hand flutters between them helplessly. “You.”

“Emma.” She looks at him, her heart starting to hammer against her ribs as he takes two slow steps towards her, his eyes never leaving hers. He’s smiling, a smile that loosens the tight knot in the pit of her stomach and sends the butterflies soaring. “I’m going to kiss you now."

And he does.

~*~

They take Henry sailing the next day.

Everyone else can wait their turn to gloat, she thinks.

~*~

A Time and a Place - Once Upon a Time (1/1)

msgenevieve — Sat, 15 Mar 2014 12:09:49 GMT

Title: A Time and a Place
Fandom:Once Upon a Time
Pairing:Emma Swan/Killian "Hook" Jones (aka Captain Swan)
Rating:M for mild secy times
Genre:UST, romance, wee bit of humour
Summary:There’s a time and a place for everything, but when you’re the Savior, it seems finding both those things at the same time can prove more than a little challenging. But Hook isn’t the only one who loves a challenge.
Note:scribblecat has been at me to write a Captain Swan story that involves laughter, the leather coat and cold night air that makes your breath come in little while clouds. Took me a while, Sez, but here you go, my darling. It’s actually a continuation of There’s a First Time (for everything) and I hope it pleases you.

Since when is there a phone on this ship?

The question filters through the solid layer of sleep, piercing holes in the foggy cocoon surrounding her. Coming awake slowly, Emma blinks, then frowns, then sits up in bed.

It’s not her bed, though.

Oh, and she’s naked.

She’s also alone, but the space in the bed beside her is still warm, so she hasn’t been alone for long, and what the hell is that sound?

Ringing phone.

To be more precise, it’s her ringing phone, which is kind of a good thing, because if she follows the sound of her ring tone, she just might be able to find her jeans.

She manages to tug the top blanket off the narrow bunk, wrapping it around her toga-style in an effort to feel not quite as exposed, then miraculously finds her phone - and her jeans - before it stops ringing.

She doesn’t recognise the number, but she does notice the time on the display before she answers, and God, is someone really calling her at seven in the morning? This is what she gets for diverting the station’s switchboard to her cell phone after hours. Surely it’s David’s turn this week? “Sheriff Swan.”

The next few minutes are quite surreal. She’s standing half-naked in the captain’s quarters of the Jolly Roger, listening to a disgruntled Storybrooke resident complain that someone keeps knocking over his trash cans and stealing his newspaper from his front porch. Resisting the urge to ask who the guy’s alter ego was in the Enchanted Forest (usually she likes to know in advance exactly who or what she’s dealing with, but she just can’t face it this morning) she makes the required soothing noises and promises to pay him a visit within the hour.

And so begins the juggling of business and pleasure, she thinks as she ends the call.

“Stealing away in morning’s early light, Swan?” An arm slides around her waist, tugging her backwards against a lean, hard body. “Is this where you tell me how much you hope we can remain cordial, but this shan’t happen again?”

Her breath leaves her in a soft woosh. She hadn’t heard him come back into the room, but she’s certainly not complaining. “No.” She slides her hands along the arm that’s wrapped around her waist, momentarily startled to discover he’s already reattached his hook. Turning in his embrace, she splays her hands across his chest, pleased that his morning activities haven’t yet reached to finding a shirt for himself. “But duty has already started calling, unfortunately.

“Is someone dead?”

“No.” His chest is warm and solid beneath her hands, and the thin cotton trousers he’s donned are doing nothing to disguise the fact that he heartily approves of her current state of undress.

Bowing his head, he presses a line of soft open-mouthed kisses along the line of her collarbone, then her bare shoulder. “Mortally wounded?”

She closes her eyes, swaying against him. “Not as far as I know.” She really, really wants a hot shower and to clean her teeth and find some fresh underwear, but when he slants his mouth over hers, his tongue tracing a delicate line over her bottom lip, none of those things seems to matter.

“Then perhaps it’s not quite as urgent as your caller might think,” he murmurs, his lips teasing the corner of her mouth, his hand sliding between the folds of the blanket to stroke a bare breast, and she has to agree that vandalised trash cans and stolen newspapers don’t really constitute an emergency, and oh God -

They kiss for a long time - slow and soft but still heated enough to make her toes curl into the wooden floorboards – and when he finally lifts his head, his breath is coming short and sharp in his chest, a perfect match for her own. He rests his forehead against hers, his hand stroking the length of her spine, venturing lower with each downward swipe, until she’s almost melting into him. “I brought you some fruit,” he says, clearing his throat on the last word as he nods towards the wooden table beneath the porthole. “I thought you might be hungry.”

She glances in the same direction and smiles. Slices of orange are piled onto into a metal bowl, along with two tankards of what looked like fresh water. “Thanks for not dishing up any apples.”

He grins, his eyes gleaming. “Yes, well. I have an inkling you aren’t very fond of that particular fruit.”

A few minutes later, her clothes are still on the floor (along with the discarded blanket and his trousers) and she’s kissing him again, and this time his mouth tastes of oranges, his skin faintly of lemon soap and sweat and her. He tumbles her gently back onto his narrow bunk, and this time he keeps the hook on and she’s falling, falling, falling, lost in his mouth and his hands and his body, white hot pleasure shuddering through her, kissing him fiercely as he falls apart in her arms.

It’s past eight o’clock by the time she finally extracts herself from his embrace. “I really have to go.”

He presses a lazy kiss to her shoulder, his answer muffled against her skin. “As you wish."

She narrows her gaze as she flings back the covers, making a mental note to ask her son if he’s been feeding Hook modern movie trivia lately, because come on. Deliberately putting some distance between herself and the bed (because she has to go), she dresses quickly, making a face at the feel of yesterday’s underwear and clothes. Behind her, she can feel the avid gaze of a very appreciative audience, and suspects her blush could be seen from space at this point. “I should be free tonight.” Feeling suddenly wrong-footed (which is ridiculous, considering the last twelve hours) she turns to look at him. “If you’d like to see me, that is.”

His smile is answer enough, and its warmth sinks deep into her skin. “My nights have been my own for a very long time, Swan.” He’s propped up on the haphazard array of pillows, his dark hair looking for all the world as though he’s been pulled backwards through a hedge and enjoyed it thoroughly. “And now they’re yours.”

~*~

Turns out, she isn’t free that night, or the next nine nights after that. Drunken bar fights, Gold’s shop being egged, Henry fighting with Regina (and her) about not wanting to go back to school, Mary Margaret and David spreading out ovulation charts all over the dining room table every night. Every time she makes plans to vanish discreetly in the direction of the docks, something or someone thwarts her plans, and she’s starting to feel as though she’s being punk’d.

A week and a half later, that ‘alone time’ is still to materialise, and she’s not entirely sure how Hook feels about the situation, but given that she feels as though she’s going to split her skin with every new moment she’s not touching him, she can certainly guess. The days are busy, at least, but the nights - when she finally staggers to her bed – are filled with dreams so erotic she can hardly meet her parents’ eyes the next morning.

Today is the tenth day since she spent the night on the Jolly Roger, and it looks like it’s is going to be yet another day filled with people and problems both great and small. She’s not entirely sure how Hook is filling his days but again, she can take a guess. He’d told her once that there was always work for a captain to be done aboard his ship, but she knows he’s also been flitting in and out of the library (which had been more than a little awkward at first, at least until he’d issued an even more awkward apology to Belle for his past conduct, one which she’d graciously accepted) and then Granny’s, library books still tucked under his arm.

His voracious need to learn everything he can about this new and unfamiliar realm doesn’t surprise her - he’s a man who has spent the last three centuries keeping one step ahead of anyone and anything who might take him by surprise, after all – but she can’t help wishing that he was filling his days (and nights) with her instead.

As he has every single day since that night on the Jolly Roger, Hook appears at the Sheriff’s station at precisely three o’clock that afternoon, carrying a tray with three takeout coffees from Granny’s. He’s taken to bringing one for her father as well, and it amazes her how easily the two men can fall into conversational step with each other. That said, she’s not sure David is ready to hear that his new friend, aka the dread pirate Captain Hook, is sleeping with his daughter.

Sleeping? Emma sighs to herself as Hook makes his way across to her desk. Make that slept, and only once at that.

He offers her the tray with a shallow bow, and maybe it’s just her imagination, but he may have just clicked his heels together. Good grief. “Your coffee, milady.”

“Thanks.”

He picks up his own coffee - he drinks it black with no sugar, immune to the lure of syrups and flavoured creamers - and looks around the office. “And where is the Prince this afternoon?"

“My mother called.” She wrinkles her nose at him over the top of her coffee cup. “He’s gone home for an hour or two.”

A devilish gleam comes into his bright blue eyes. “Ah.”

“Don’t say another word, I mean it.” She shakes her head as she buries her nose in her coffee cup. She so doesn’t want to talk about the fact that her parents are trying to get pregnant, let alone think about the fact that her deputy, i.e. her father, has left work in order to make another attempt at achieving that goal.

Hook perches on the edge of her desk, close enough for her to hear the creak of his leather coat, his gaze sweeping over her. She’s got her hair drawn back in a ponytail today, and he seems more than a little interested in the exposed length of her neck. “What’s good for the Prince is good for the pirate, don’t you agree?”

And just like that, her pulse spikes like she’s just run up three flights of stairs. She tilts back her head to look at him. “Meaning-”

His smile is slow and insolent and makes her think of fingernails digging into sweat-dampened skin. “Meaning that if the Prince can take time away from his public duties to pursue a dalliance with his love, then surely the town sheriff can be afforded the same privilege.”

Staring up at him, she sees the exact second he realises that the word love is lingering in the space between them. He tilts back his head, watching her with hooded eyes, waiting for her to speak. “Well, maybe, but that would mean everybody in town knowing our business,” she mutters hastily, putting her coffee to one side. “And I don’t really want to do that yet.”

His gaze locks with hers. “So you keep saying, love.”

Such simple words, but she hears the anxiety threaded through them. She bites her bottom lip, trying to find the right thing to say, but how can she explain it properly to him when she doesn’t understand it herself? In the end, all she can do is try. “I just want something that’s just mine, at least for a little while.” The tense set of his jaw softens, and she reaches out to catch his hand in hers. Holding his gaze with hers, she lifts it to her lips and presses a lingering kiss to his palm. “It’s nothing to do with how I feel about you.” His hand shifts in her grasp as he threads his fingers through hers, but still he waits, letting her lead, just as he always does. “Look, I should be finished here by five.” She squeezes his hand lightly. “Why don’t I pick up some dinner and bring it to the Jolly Roger?”

Leaning down, he brushes his nose against her temple, his breath warm on her skin. “That would be grand, love,” he mutters, his voice low and rough, “but while I’m on the brink of expiring from deprivation and hunger, it’s not for the bloody food.”

Oh, God.

She turns her head, blindly seeking his mouth with hers, her grip on his hand tightening as his lips brush against hers in a maddeningly light caress. “Uh, maybe I could make it four o’clock instead-”

“Emma, you here?”

Hook swears vividly under his breath, straightening up as the outside door to the office is flung open to reveal an irritated looking Leroy. “Did you get my message?” he asks loudly as he stalks into the inner office, pulling up short (no pun intended) when he sees she’s not alone, his frown changing to a sneer.

“Pirate.”

Hook merely smiles at him, blue eyes glittering with amusement. “Dwarf.”

Emma clears her throat loudly, partly to cover up a laugh. “I haven’t got to your message yet, sorry.” Leroy looks at her, then at Hook, his expression clearly indicating what he thought she’d been doing instead of working, and even more clearly indicating what he thought of the idea. “What did you want to tell me, Leroy?”

“There was another break-in at The Rabbit Hole overnight. Black slime and weird footprints tracked all through the storage room.”

“Black slime? Really?” Emma sighs, not looking at Hook. She already knows she’ll see her own frustration mirrored back at her. “Tell them I’m on my way.”

That night, she dreams of the rocking of the ocean and the feel of his hands on her. She wakes with a start, alone in her own bed, her face wet with tears she doesn’t remember crying, and wonders how something so simple can also be so very complicated.

~*~

The next afternoon, three o’clock comes and goes without any sign of her usual visitor. Her father, always a quick study, jokingly checks his watch at ten past the hour. “I don’t want to alarm you, Emma, but we’re going to need a caffeine hit pretty soon.”

She rolls her eyes, trying not to show that she really really cares that there is a Hook-shaped hole in the room. “Did you want me to go to Granny’s?”

He waves away the offer. “No, I’ll go.”

She watches as he gathers up his phone and keys, then takes a deep breath. “Hey, David?”

“Hmmm?”

“If we get any late calls tonight, do you think you can take care of them?"

Her father looks at her carefully for a moment, then nods. “That’s not a problem.”

She knows she doesn’t have to explain, but she tries to, anyway. “It’s just - I just need a night off.”

A fleeting (and all too knowing) smile tugs at her father’s lips, but he doesn’t mention Hook’s name. “You want a bear claw with your coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

It’s after seven when she finally locks up and leaves the station. She’d sent David home earlier, seeing as he was on-call for the evening. The cold night air is a shock after being stuck indoors for so long, and she pulls her light jacket around her a little tighter. Still no word from Hook, and she hesitates as she pulls the security door shut behind her. Home? Docks? Rabbit Hole to get wasted in a corner booth alone? Damn him, she thinks with a sudden flash of irritation.Of all the times for him to pull a vanishing act, the one night she’s actually got some free time -

“Swan.”

“Jesus, don’t do that!” She doesn’t exactly clutch at her racing heart, but it’s a close thing. He, of all people, should know not to creep up on her in the darkness. “What are you doing out here?”

Hook pushes himself off the wall beside the station where he’d been lurking in the shadows. Typical pirate behaviour, she thinks with a private smile. “Waiting for you.”

She gives him an arch look as he slips his arm around her shoulders. “And where are we going?”

“To my ship.” To her surprise, he steers her away from her car and starts marching them both in the direction of the docks. “Now, before you receive yet another electronic summons that will keep you from my bed.”

She’s glad he’s got his arm around her, because her knees suddenly seem to be made of jello instead of bone and cartilage. “But my car-”

He doesn’t miss a step. “I know you’re proud of your little yellow machine, love, but it stands out like barnacles on a mermaid’s bum.”

She laughs, and he flashes her a pleased grin. “I’m quite serious, Swan. Your townsfolk catch a glimpse of that bright yellow carriage, and they’ll be flagging you down to tell you every single minute mundane problem of their little lives.”

They’ve reached the Rabbit Hole’s block, and her heart sinks as an all too familiar sight comes into view. “Shit, squabbling drunken dwarves at twelve o’clock.”

He grabs her hand, pulling her across the road. “I believe your official duties are finished for the day, Sheriff. Let the Prince sort it out.”

She knows then that he’s talked to David today, and she should be annoyed that they’re talking about, well, her, behind her back but she can’t seem to summon the required indignation. If anything, it makes her think that maybe her father won’t summon the dwarves for a pickaxe party if he finds out that she and Hook are seeing each other.

Then again, she still might tell her mother first.

A few minutes later, they hear the sound of a car alarm going off on Main Street, but his hand merely tightens around hers. “Ignore it.”

“Planning to.”

When she sees Archie and Pongo in the near distance, looking for all the world as though both man and dog intend to stop for a long and in-depth chat, she sighs. Is it just her, or is the whole town out having an after-dinner stroll and/or making mischief? She tugs on Hook’s hand. “Quick. Let’s make a break for it.”

“Sheriff Swan! Captain!” They both stop in their tracks at the sound of Archie calling out to them. “Is everything alright?”

She doesn’t dare look at Hook. God, is it that obvious that they’re in a rush to get somewhere? “Uh, just checking out a disturbance near the Captain’s ship.” She smiles at man and dog in turn. “Probably nothing serious, but you guys should maybe head home.”

Archie tips his cap to her, then offers Hook a smile that is only slightly strained, proving once again that Archie is second only to Belle in the forgiveness department. “Will do.”

After that, they take no chances, practically jogging towards the docks, darting between the shadows. Not exactly what she was planning on doing after a full day’s work, but the clasp of Hooks’ hand is warm, his long fingers threaded through hers, the simple touch making her feel as though she’s grounded and flying at the same time.

“Is this really what my life’s become?” she asks as they finally reach his moored ship, wrapping her arms around herself. Despite the unexpected exertion that’s warmed her blood, the night air by the water is still cold, almost frigid, and each word is a white ball of heat floating in the air between them. “Playing hide and seek with the whole damned town just to get a few minutes privacy?”

There’s a dark swish of leather, then his coat is being draped around her shoulders. She barely has time to register the welcoming warmth of his coat - it’s thick and heavy and smells just like him with a whisper of lingering magic - before he’s stealing a move out of her Neverland playbook and gripping the lapel and hauling her against him. “Only a few minutes?” His lips brush hers, a fragile caress that still manages to send a rush of heat straight to her groin. “You greatly underestimate my stamina, love.”

The last ten days have done nothing to dull her memory of their night together, and she knows that’s not an idle boast. “That wasn’t a challenge, you know.”

“Wasn’t it?” She shivers, not entirely from the cold, and he smiles. “Come below, Swan.” His hand tightens on the lapel of his own coat, tugging her even closer, his stubbled chin scraping against her throat with a deliberation that makes her whole body shiver once more. “I’ll warm you up soon enough."

~*~

Sometime before dawn, she reaches for her phone, and taps out a text message to her father.

Staying at a friend’s place. Taking the morning off. Will be in after lunch. If it’s an emergency or Henry needs me, send me a text? E xo

She hesitates briefly, then takes a deep breath and sends the message on its way. It’s out there now, winging its way to her father’s phone, which will mean that soon enough he and her mother will put two and two together and come up with Hook, and that’s strangely okay, because this is the happiest she’s felt in a week and a half and she knows that’s what will be important to them.

Eventually, anyway, she thinks wryly.

She slides back under the covers, fitting her body against the long, hard warmth of his. He murmurs in his sleep, his arm slipping over her hip, one lean thigh nudging between hers as effortlessly as though they’ve been sharing a bed for years, rather than hours. Closing her eyes, she slowly sinks into the blissful oblivion of sleep and this time, if she dreams of the rocking of the ocean, it’s quite real, the soft ebb and flow of the tide keeping time with the beating of her heart.

~*~

The next morning, they sleep late.

That afternoon, he brings her and David coffee at three o’clock precisely.

That night, he comes to the loft for dinner at her mother’s insistence and ends up in a ferocious video game battle with Henry until midnight. Very bad form, Swan, letting your son keep me up so late.

The next night, she parks her very conspicuous little yellow carriage next to where the Jolly Roger is moored, where it stays until long after the sun rises the next day.

By the next morning, the whole town knows their business.

She doesn’t care.

They sleep late.

~*~

Team Bonding - Once Upon a Time - AU (1/1)

msgenevieve — Sat, 15 Mar 2014 12:01:58 GMT

Title: Team Bonding
Fandom:Once Upon a Time
Pairing:Emma Swan/Killian "Hook" Jones (aka Captain Swan)
Rating:S for slightly saucy
Genre:AU, UST, lawyer!AU
Summary:There's team bonding, and then there's team bonding.
Note:This is for hookslovelyswan, who gave me the delightful prompt of: AU story where Killian and Emma are playing laser tag or some competitive sport together, end up trapped together briefly, and share an unexpected kiss.

~*~

Emma spins on her heel and dives behind the nearest shelter, cursing the white collar executive who first thought of the phrase ‘team bonding’. As she huddles behind the fake galvanized trash can, she directs even more curses in the direction of her Managing Partner who, after taking his team out for drinks to celebrate a trial win, decided to then strong-arm them into a spontaneous evening of indoor laser tag.

Doing anything that requires this level of coordination after consuming half a bottle of red wine is not for the faint-hearted, not to mention her extremely non-sensible pair of heels. Her head and her feet are not going to be her friends in the morning.

Not only that, this is not exactly the group of people with whom she’d normally chose to spend a Friday night. Her team is fine, great even, but there are a few extra hangers-on, favourites of the boss, and she’s not sure she’s entirely comfortable hurtling around in the dark with some of them, especially dressed in her best ‘impress the judge’ black suit and killer heels with a serious alcohol buzz going on.

Especially him -

No. She cuts off her own thought. She is not going to think about the annoyingly good-looking new senior associate, the wunderkind from London who is now heading up their Maritime Law division. Not going to think about how he seems to have already charmed every single female in the firm without once throwing a ‘good morning’ her way. And she’s definitely not going to think about how she’s caught him watching her more than once, or the way that her pit of her stomach curls up like old parchment set on fire whenever their eyes meet.

He’s here somewhere, at the express invitation of the boss no less, and she smiles at the thought that she might be the one to shoot him out of the game. Not, she thinks as she adjusts the ridiculous fluoro flashing vest she’s got strapped over her red blouse, that she wants him to notice her. Because that would mean that she’s noticed him, and she’s determined not to notice him, because he embodies everything she’s pretty sure she doesn’t want in a man. Unless (if the whispers from said females in the firm can be believed) she was just looking for a good fu –

High-pitched shrieking laughter (and a whole lot of swearing) to her left almost splits her eardrum, the flashing lights of two of her colleague’s vests almost blinding her in the near-darkness. Emma crouches lower behind the trash can, trying to work out if they are friend or foe. They had split into teams at the start of this ridiculous game, but Emma can’t tell who was who in the darkness. Come to think of it, she can’t actually remember who’s on her team.

“There’s Emma!” The booming (and more than a little tipsy) voice of her boss’ personal assistant breaks through the madness of buzzing lasers. “Get her!”

“Shit!” With a speed she didn’t realise she could muster in this outfit, Emma is on her feet and darting to her right before her pursuers can aim a single shot. She has no idea where she’s headed, only that she can’t bear to ‘die’ after only ten minutes. Clutching her weapon tightly, she spins and fires wildly behind her, grinning as she hears the ‘wah wah’ sound of her colleagues’ vests being hit. Maybe she’s not so bad at this thing after all-

She’s barely had two seconds to gloat when two vaguely familiar figures appear to her left and, judging from the way they’re raising their laser guns, they’re not on her team either. “Any last words, Swan?”

“Bite me!” She keeps running, ducking around corners and behind low walls, adrenaline pumping in a way she hasn’t felt in the longest time (not even during the most strenuous of boxing classes) until she comes to a dead end and knows she’s toast.

An arm snakes out of nowhere, a hand wrapping itself around her elbow and pulling her into the dark shadows. She splutters, too out of breath to protest, and a few seconds later she’s wedged in a narrow space between two mock shelters, hidden from even the most ardent of pursuers. She’s also wedged against a decidedly warm, definitely male body, and turns to read them the riot act, because this is just not something that’s happening tonight.

She turns to the owner of the arm and the hand (which is still wrapped around her elbow) and opens her mouth, but her indignant, “what the hell?” dies on her lips, because Killian Jones is grinning at her, looking infuriatingly pleased with himself.

“I was hoping it’d be you.”

Emma stares at him, painfully aware of the somersaulting butterflies that have just taken flight in her belly. He’s wearing his usual black shirt, but he’s lost the tie (and several buttons as well, it seems). His dark hair is tousled, his forehead and the long line of his tanned throat gleaming lightly with perspiration. He looks mad, bad and dangerous to know, to coin a phrase, and Emma feels a violent quiver in her knees and several other interesting places, rendering her speechless.

Well, shit.

"I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced.” He shifts against her (oh, this is not happening) trying to find some space between them, then holds out his hand. “Killian Jones.”

She looks at his hand, then back up at his face. “I know.”

If her refusal to shake his hand shakes his confidence, it doesn’t show. If anything, he only seems more pleased with himself. “My reputation precedes me, I take it?”

She’s had too much wine to have this conversation. She’s definitely had too much wine to be this close to him. She goes to step out into the corridor, then shrinks back at the sound of pounding feet and her name being called. “If you can call being gossiped about by the secretaries over the photocopier preceding you, then yes,” she whispers back to him in a low hiss.

He grins at her, white teeth flashing in the semi-darkness. “Careful, Swan.” The way his accent lilts over her name shouldn’t make her feel as though she’s wearing too many clothes, but that’s exactly what it does. “To the untrained ear, you might come across as a tad envious.”

“Didn’t realise you knew my name, Jones.” She sucks in a deep breath, trying to put some space between them, but all it does is fill her senses with the smell of his aftershave, something warm and spicy that probably cost more than her shoes.

“Emma Swan, rising star of White and Mills?” His knee bumps against her as he leans closer, filling the space between them with his gleaming smile and glittering blue eyes. “I’ve heard all about you, love.”

“Love? Seriously?” She gives him the best glare she manage, trying to summon up every available ounce of outrage. “This is New York, Jones, not Old Blighty, and you’d better get used to women not falling for that tired old routine.”

To her complete and utter annoyance, her whispered tirade only makes his smile widen. “Oh, you’re a tough lass, aren’t you?”

She should be furious. She should tell him to fuck off and leave her alone. But the words don’t come and the only refuge she has is escape. She doesn’t care if she’ll be lasered to death as soon as she steps out into the open, she just needs to get away from Killian Jones and his lush mouth and laughing eyes. Shoving her shoulder hard against his, she tries to move past him. “Well, it’s been a real treat, but I’m-”

Her right stiletto, such a good wardrobe choice at seven o’clock this morning, catches on the laces of his left shoe, and she stumbles into him, pushing him back against the wall behind him. She hears him inhale a sharp breath, then she hears him drop his laser gun, his hands coming up to rest lightly on her hips. She’s pressed against him from shoulder to thigh, and she should be scrambling away from him and beating a hasty retreat, but her pulse is humming in her ears and all she can think is that she wants to kiss that smirk right off his mouth.

It seems she’s not alone in the impulse. In the near-darkness, his gaze is scorching over her face, lingering on her mouth. “You’ll die out there, Swan.”

Her laser vest suddenly feels way too tight, making it hard to breathe. She barely knows him, and she has to work with him, and this is such a bad idea. So why isn’t she leaving? “I’ll take my chances.”

He drops his hands from her hips, but he doesn’t step away. “What are you doing after this?”

“Going home.” She licks her lips, a nervous gesture she’s never been able to control, and his eyes darken. “Alone.”

“That sounds like a terribly dull plan.” He dips his head, his lips almost brushing her ear. “Let me buy you a drink instead.”

Goosebumps are dancing down her spine and her arms. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“I beg to differ.” Leaning back, his gaze locks with hers. “In fact, I think it’s the best idea I’ve had in a long time.”

The nearby sound of pounding feet and laughter suddenly invades their hiding place, and she doesn’t know if she’s relieved or disappointed. Killian looks over his shoulder, then back at her. Before she can move, speak or even guess at his intent, his hands are cupping her face. “A kiss before dying, my lady?”

Then he’s kissing her, his mouth gentle and warm and devastating, tasting of mint and top-shelf rum and she’s sinking into him, her hands splayed awkwardly across his laser vest. Without thinking, without hesitation, she opens her mouth to kiss him back with a hunger she hasn’t felt for a very long time, letting his tongue sweep across her lips to tangle with hers. A rough groan rumbles deep in his chest, and she feels an answering spasm of desire shoot through her. Jesus, what was happening here?

“Ha!” A hail of laser sound effects and flashing lights pierce the darkness around them, and she jerks away, her heart hammering, belatedly recognising one of the junior associates from her team. “Two kills with one shot! Woohoo!”

Her face burning, Emma can’t think of a single comeback, but it seems she doesn’t have to.

“Nice work, lad. A noble kill worthy of a true warrior.” Killian Jones claps the other man on the shoulder, a gesture that turns into a gentle but pointed shove. Not that the guy notices; he’s too busy celebrating by running back down the corridor, leaving them alone once more.

“Now then, Swan.” He smiles at her, a slow, knowing curving of lips that are still wearing the faintest trace of her lip gloss, and she feels her knees once again turn to water. “Care to continue our team bonding over that drink?”

~*~

The Honey Trap - Once Upon a Time (1/1)

msgenevieve — Sat, 15 Mar 2014 11:51:33 GMT

Title: The Honey Trap
Fandom:Once Upon a Time
Pairing:Emma Swan/Killian "Hook" Jones (aka Captain Swan)
Rating:PG-13
Genre:AU, fluff
Summary:She notices him long before the Frisbee lands in her lap.
Note:Written for a tumblr prompt, which asked for Killian using his nephew to get women, but it doesn't work on Emma.

~*~

She notices him long before the Frisbee lands in her lap. She would have had to have been blind not to notice him. Messy dark hair, dark stubble decorating a square jaw, and long, long legs that fill out his faded jeans to perfection. Just the type she usually likes and sadly, also just the type she doesn’t find out is married or dating someone else until the morning after.

And, of course, he’s playing Frisbee with a mini-me version of himself, just to rub salt into the proverbial wound. She learned a long time ago that no good can come over pining after an already attached man. Been there, done that, bought the t-shirt.

Still, he’s a very nice distraction during an otherwise dull lunch break spent in the park closest to her next job. There’s nothing like a sandwich, some Vitamin D and a browse of a mindless romance novel to get her in the zone before tackling her next scheduled bail absconder, but watching a very pretty man with a perfect ass leaping around after a Frisbee isn’t bad either.

She watches him surreptitiously over the top of her sunglasses for a while, doing her best to ignore the way her damned heart pings every time the kid beams up at him. Cute kid, too. Dark curly hair, same colouring as his father, same habit of rolling his eyes every time he misses the Frisbee. The kid’s not very good at the whole tossing thing, and the guy does quite a bit of stretching and leaping, and Emma would be lying if she isn’t impressed each time his black t-shirt rides up to reveal a flat stomach and a line of dark hair that vanishes intriguingly into the waistband of his jeans.

Giving herself a mental shake, she tries to concentrate on her book, but she’s fighting a losing battle. There’s a free live action performance happening right in front of her, and she’s starting to wonder if the two of them have inhaled a Red Bull each, because neither of them seem to be flagging in the energy stakes.

It’s only when she catches sight of both of them huddled in deep conversation a third time that she begins to suspect things might not be as simple as they seem, because the kid keeps looking over at her around the guy’s legs.

Aha.

When it finally happens, she can’t help smiling, because it’s perfectly executed. There’s a cry of “Look out!” and then their Frisbee drops neatly into her lap. A few seconds later, the guy trots over to the bench where she’s sitting, his pretty face arranged in an apologetic expression. “So sorry about that, love.”

Oh.

Well, this complicates things. It seems like he has a very pretty accent to go with his very pretty face. She’s still not buying it, though, because the last thing she needs is to get tangled up with a single dad, newly divorced dad, whatever the hell he might be, no matter how devastatingly attractive he might be.

“Not a problem.” Handing the Frisbee back to him, she gives him a detached smile, telling herself it would be mean to give him any false hope. “Any more off course and you’d be buying me a new Kindle, though.”

Now that he’s close enough, she can see that - as well as all the other attributes she’s been admiring - he also has a very nice smile and the bluest eyes she’s ever seen. “I’m glad to hear it.” He juggles the brightly coloured Frisbee from one hand to the other, his gaze never leaving hers. “Perhaps I could just buy you a cup of coffee instead?”

She opens her mouth to refuse, then shuts it again. Her usual MO in this situation would be to roll her eyes and make a hasty retreat, but something about this guy makes her want to needle him a little, just to see what happens, and she honestly can’t remember the last time that happened.

So, instead of leaving, she looks at the little boy hovering at his side, then back at the adult, whose nicely muscled chest (okay, she’s been looking for a while now, and his t-shirt is kinda threadbare) is rising and falling with the effort of all that leaping and stretching. “I’m impressed. Most guys use a puppy, you know?”

“Pardon?” His mock confusion is more than a little appealing, and she feels her hands tighten around her ebook.

“Let me give you a piece of advice, pal.” She smiles up at him. “I track down shady types for a living. I know there are all kinds of honey traps, and this little guy is a pretty cute one.”

He quirks a dark eyebrow at her, wide mouth still curved in a smile. “That’s quite the cynical outlook you have there, lass.”

“Maybe, but you know what they say.” She nods at the kid shifting from one foot to the other beside him. “Never work with children or animals.”

“Uncle Killian, can we go now?” The kid tugs at the pocket of the guy’s jeans, clearly having reached the limits of his attention span. “You said I only had to throw it until she talked to you.”

Emma raises her own eyebrows as Uncle Killian shoots her a sheepish grin, then fights off just another weird ping in her chest as he crouches down to talk to the child. “Of course, laddy.” He hands him the Frisbee, then turns him around to face in the opposite direction. “Your da should be back with your ice-cream by now.”

Sure enough, there’s another dark-haired guy loitering in the background near the swings, ice-cream in hand, and Emma notices two things at once. Uncle Killian isn’t wearing a wedding ring, and the kid looks way more like the other guy. Once the child is safely headed towards his actual father, the perpetrator of one of the most clichéd pick-up scenarios in history turns back to her and raises his hands in mock surrender.

“Well, now I’m the one who’s impressed.” His sweeping gaze is subtle, but she still feels it burning from the soles of her knee-high boots to the top of her pony tail, effortlessly taking in everything that lies between the two. “You must be very good at your job.”

“I am.” Pushing her sunglasses to the top of her head, she tilts her head back to look at him in the eye, which pretty much backfires instantly, because the moment his gaze locks with hers, the pit of her belly explodes with something she wants to say is just lust but might just be a weird kind of recognition and she so doesn’t need this right now. “And coffee would be nice, actually.”

He looks startled, and she knows how he feels, because she didn’t plan on still being here, making conversation, let alone accepting a date. And yet here she is. “Really?”

“Yep.” Getting to her feet, she gathers up her things and starts to back away, before she does something stupid like stepping closer to him to see if he smells like she thinks he does, sunshine and clean sweat. “I won’t be free until six, though.”

“That’s fine.” He finally jolts back into action, closing the distance between them with a few easy strides. “Wait, love, I didn’t get your name.”

“That would be because I haven’t told you it yet, love.” She turns to walk away, but not before she sees the broad grin that flashes across his face. No point making things too easy for him, because if he doesn’t enjoy a challenge, then he’s picked the wrong girl. “It’s Emma.”

“See you back here at six then, Emma.”

His accent caresses the two syllables of her name almost lovingly, and something clenches low in her belly. She blows out a heated breath as she walks away, feeling his gaze on her the whole way across the park. She almost hopes the next perp puts up a fight, just so she can blow off some steam, because she feels restless and uncomfortable, like her clothes are suddenly a size too small.

Oh, and apparently she’s just been snared by one of the oldest honey traps in the book, and all with her full knowledge and consent. She’ll definitely have to make sure her boss never finds out.

~*~

His name is Killian Jones, his brother’s name is Liam, his five year-old nephew’s name is James. And when he finally kisses her - five minutes before midnight - his hands on her face as gentle as his mouth is fierce, she can barely remember her own name.

~*~

New York State of Mind - Once Upon a Time (1/1)

msgenevieve — Wed, 12 Mar 2014 11:19:58 GMT

Title: New York State of Mind (1/1)
Fandom: Once Upon a Time
Genre: UST, Angst, Romance. You know how it goes.
Characters: Emma Swan, Killian Jones/Captain Hook
Pairing: Emma/Hook
Rating: PG-13
Summary: He stares at his brimming glass, wondering how much he will have to drink in order to forget that Emma has left him alone while she attends to another man, a man she’s allowed to love her for the last eight months. A man whom, in her own words, she cares too much about. (I know that many people have already written wonderful post 312 stories set right after the Monkeygate scene, but this has been bashing around in my head since yesterday so it had to come out. If I’ve duplicated anyone else’s tale, I am truly sorry. Thank you, Billy Joel, for the loan of the title.)

~*~

He stares at his brimming glass, wondering how much he will have to drink in order to forget that Emma has left him alone while she attends to another man, a man she’s allowed to love her for the last eight months. A man whom, in her own words, she cares too much about.

Only one way to find out, he decides.

The rum burns as it should, but it doesn’t take away the taste of guilt that stains his thoughts. He suspects nothing ever will, because apparently remembering who she really was – and who he really was – had been like waking up from a really good dream. She had been happy, and he has taken that from her. He cannot excuse himself on the premise that he only did so because her parents were in danger, not when he has made her his personal quest for last year. Not when he had already gone to the ends of the earth to find a way to reach her side. The message he’d received had simply been a sign that he was on the right path, or so he’d thought at the time.

He knows now that he would have taken anything – anything – as a sign.

She had hardly spoken to their journey from the constabulary to her apartment, and he had respected that. Let her be alone with her thoughts (all of them, lies and truth mingled together) despite his eagerness to talk to the real Emma Swan once more. Once they were in her apartment, she had poured them both a drink without speaking, just as he had done below deck at the start of their journey to Neverland, and the same wariness had ebbed and flowed around them like a leaden tide. There is much he hasn’t told her, and much she hasn’t bothered asking, and picking up the thread of the thoughts and words that had last lain between them is proving more difficult than he ever imagined.

Glad to see you haven’t changed.

There wasn’t anything for me in the Enchanted Forest. Why would I stay?

Only one shared moment - open and honest and raw enough to give him hope - before they were once again interrupted, and now she is with another man (one for whom she cares too much) and Hook wants very much to believe that he is an honourable man and won’t indulge in the sin of envy, but he knows he is feeling far from honourable at this moment.

Pirate.

The scraping noise above his head has him on his feet, a knee-jerk reaction that rips him from his chair. He stares down the hallway, feeling his muscles twitch as if poised for flight, knowing she won’t thank him for needlessly interfering, knowing she can take care of herself.

But knowing is one thing; believing she’s not in danger is quite a different matter.

The sound comes again, followed by raised voices and an unholy screech that makes his blood run cold, and his feet are moving before he can catch a steadying breath. Taking the two flights of stairs to the roof in four long strides, he’s never cursed his lack of hook or cutlass more in his life.

His shoulder slamming into the door, the cold night air is a shock to his heated skin as he finds her standing alone on the roof. She’s alone, and that makes no sense. “Swan! What in blazes was that?”

Her breath coming in heavy gasps, she stares at him. “A reminder.” Her voice is flat, devoid of emotion, but cold fury radiates off her in waves. “That I was never safe.” Her eyes are blazing, her grip white-knuckled on the length of metal in her hand. “That what I wanted, what I thought I could have was not in the cards for the saviour.”

She steps away and around him, her gaze sliding away from his. “We leave in the morning.” She vanishes through the door to the stairs, but not before tossing aside her makeshift sword with a harsh clatter.

He stares after her. It’s the outcome he wanted, but something is quite wrong. “Swan?” He’s chasing after her yet again, bloody woman. “What the hell happened? Where the devil is your man?”

She doesn’t pause in her flight down the stairs. “Turns out he wasn’t my man.” An unsteady laugh tumbles from her lips, but there is no humour in the sound, rather it’s filled with a bitterness that makes his chest tighten. “God.”

She leads the way back down to her apartment as though the devil is at her heels, and by the time he shuts and locks the door behind them, she’s already refilling her glass and throwing back a measure of rum. “I should have known it was too good to be true.” She slams her empty glass onto the table top, so hard the base of the tumbler cracks. Stepping to her side, he puts his hand over hers on top of the glass, and feels the tremors that shake her.

“What happened?”

She doesn’t look at him. “He wasn’t who I thought he was.”

He curls his fingers around hers, willing her to look at him. “Hate to tell you this, love, but that’s a common complaint amongst the fairer sex.”

Pulling her hand away with a determination that stings him, she finally meets his gaze with hers. “He wasn’t what I thought he was, either.”

Her eyes are still glittering with the light of battle, but her face is pale. Too pale, he thinks. “How do you mean?"

“He changed,” she says in a flat, almost mocking tone. “Wings, teeth, claws, the whole shebang.” She looks away again, as though she doesn’t want to see his reaction. “A demon, a flying monkey, who the fuck knows what he really was?”

Stunned into silence, he can only watched as she picks up her cracked glass, walks into the kitchen and flings it into the wet sink. The sound of shattering glass briefly fills the quiet apartment, then there is nothing but the ticking of her wall clock and the sound of their breathing. “Eight months.” She leans back against the sink, arms wrapped around herself as though trying to ward off her own thoughts, her gaze fixed on the floor at her feet. “Eight months of lies on top of the fake life Regina had already shoved in my head.”

He stares at her, shocked at how close he had come to losing her, losing her forever while he sat swilling rum in her apartment. Even here, she hadn’t been safe. She never had been. If he was still looking for a sign that he was right to come for her, he has found it. “Emma-”

“You know, I get it now. I do.” Her voice is louder now, and there’s a hysteria twisted through the words that has him clenching his fist at his side to stop himself from reaching for her. “I don’t get a happy ending, and that’s it.”

“You’ll be in good company then, love.” He finally yields to the lure of her, picking up his own empty glass before moving to stand before her, so close he can smell the fresh scent of her perfume and the more familiar scent of her skin, her warmth. “I’m a pirate, remember. I’m a villain, so apparently I don’t get one, either.”

She lifts her head, her eyes meeting his at last. “You’re not a villain.”

The conviction in her voice sends tiny tendrils of warmth though his chest. “Aren’t I, though?” He smiles at her, desperately wanting to see the shell-shocked look vanish from her eyes. “You’re the one who had me tossed in the brig today, after all.”

“I’m also the one who bailed you out.” The corner of her mouth twitches. It’s not an actual smile, but it’s a start, he thinks. “Sorry about that, by the way.”

“Not at all,” he tells her, inwardly shuddering at the culinary memory of his incarceration. “If anything, it was reassuring to know your self-preservation instincts were still intact, despite Regina’s meddling in your head.”

And just like that, the shutters come back down. “Apparently, not as intact as they could have been.” She takes a deep breath, then looks over his shoulder, studying the apartment behind him. “I’ll have to drive back to Storybrooke, I can’t leave the car here.” She pushes herself away from the sink, but that only brings her closer, close enough to make his heart stutter in his chest. She hesitates, dark eyelashes fluttering as she blinks, and he sees the pink flush that stains her pale cheeks. “Uh, where did you stash your ship this time?”

He knows he should take a step back, give her some space, but he can’t quite bring himself to do it. “I didn’t sail here, love.”

She frowns. “Then how did you get here?”

“That’s a bit of a long story, Swan, and one best kept for another night.” He’s always been quite the master of understatement, and it appears nothing has changed. “You should rest.” He places his own glass very carefully beside the wet sink. “I’ll return in the morning to rendezvous with you and your boy.” And with that, he knows he must go, before he befuddles her thoughts and her heart even more by telling her the truth of his. Without touching her, he bows his head quickly, then turns to walk down her hallway.

“Hook, wait-”

He closes his eyes. Please, Swan. Just let me leave while I still can. He turns back to face her. “Yes?”

“If the Jolly Roger isn’t here, then where have you been sleeping?” He says nothing – he has his pride, after all – and her eyes soften. “Have you even been sleeping?"

He shrugs, wondering if his exhaustion is as obvious as it feels, as though it’s sinking down into his very bones. The park benches and bus shelters in this area are far from comfortable. That detail is moot at this point, but he is not about to tell her that he plans to spend the rest of the night keeping watch outside her apartment door."

“Seriously?” She’s become all too adept at reading him, it seems. “Okay, you take the couch.” She looks at the clock on the wall. “As long as you’re gone by the time Henry gets home at seven, it should be fine.”

“Spending the night alone with a pirate?” He flings the teasing words at her, praying they mask the hope he fears is blazing in his face. “What would your parents say?”

“Hook, it’s been a long day and now I remember that I know how to use a gun.” She shrugs off her red coat and tosses it carelessly over the back of the nearest wooden chair. “You’ve already done enough today, okay? Just give it a rest.”

Stung by the unspoken dismissal (which settles in nicely next to the guilt wedged in the pit of his stomach), he doesn’t bother sugar-coating his retort. “Remember what they say - don’t shoot the messenger, love.”

They stare at each other for a long, loaded moment, and he can feel the air practically bristling around them. Too much left unspoken, too much time between them. “Is that what you are?” She finally takes a step towards him. There’s an underlying challenge in her words, matching the subtle lift of her chin. “Just the messenger, sent to bring me back for the greater good?"

“I already told you.” He stands his ground, because he always did like a challenge, even if every word feels like it’s cracking a fissure through his heart, just like her bloody glass. “I came back to save you.”

“And you did. Thank you.” Her eyes glitter with the tears he knows she’s desperately trying not to shed in front of him. “But right now I’m angry and I’m tired and I’m so over nothing and no one ever being what they seem.”

“Does that include me, lass?” He steps slowly towards her, his hands (both flesh and leather) raised in supplication. “You said yourself I hadn’t changed.”

“No.” Her bottom lip trembles faintly, and he sees her pale throat work as she swallows hard. “I know exactly who you are."

Exhaling a heavy, thick sigh (because the time has long passed for leaving with his heart intact, it seems) he lifts his right hand to touch her face, the smooth skin of her cheek warm and silken against his palm. He waits the space of one, two, three heartbeats, then he kisses her.

It’s a chaste tasting of her lips, nothing more, but his blood is already thundering in his ears. Her hands come up to clutch at the front of his shirt, pulling him closer, then her mouth softens and opens beneath his, sharing her heat and the taste of spice and rum, her tongue tangling languidly with his. The rush of desire that slams through him almost sends him staggering backwards, but her hands tighten in the fabric of his shirt, holding him steady.

Despite the raw hunger that is clawing at every inch of him, the kiss stays slow and soft, almost lazy. Time seems to slow and accelerate at once, stretching and warping around them, his world narrowing down to the feel of her mouth on his, the gentle rhythm of her breathing, the scent of her teasing his senses, making his head swim.

When it’s over, he can scarcely breathe. His arms are tight around her, although he has no memory of moving, and her body is pressed against him from shoulder to knee and there is nowhere for him to hide from the fact that he is beyond in love with this woman.

Time to take a step back, at least for tonight. “Get some rest, Swan,” he murmurs, his lips a mere breath away from hers, praying she will again have the strength of will she displayed on that wretched island and walk away from him while he can still let her go. “It’s a long drive back to Storybrooke tomorrow."

Confusion flashes in her eyes, then she nods, a jerking bow of her head. “Good idea.” Swallowing loudly, she untangles her hands from the front of his shirt, takes a step backwards herself, then hastily takes him up on the escape he is offering her. “You can let yourself out in the morning. Come back at eight o’clock.” With that, she’s gone. A few seconds later, he hears a door slam at the other end of the apartment, and he can only assume she has found refuge in her bedroom.

He takes the couch.

He barely sleeps.

He doesn’t care.

~*~

The next morning, he is up and moving before the sun appears on the horizon, a lifetime of rising with the tides built into his very bones. He resists the urge to wake her, knowing that to linger would be courting danger of a very complicated kind. The thought of visiting her bedchamber in the soft morning light while she sleeps fills him with thoughts more carnal than he cares to admit. There will be a time and a place for such things, and sadly, it is not the here and now.

The city is still filled with both strange and wondrous sights, but he barely sees them. All he sees is Emma. He can still taste her on his tongue, still feel the soft curves of her burned into his palms. He lingers in the early morning sunshine, waiting restlessly until the hour reaches eight o’clock, then he returns. This time, he does not have to manoeuvre his way past the wired gates and glowing red locks and charm elderly women by offering to carry their paper bags of supplies. He had taken the liberty of arming himself with the white pass key he’d found on Emma’s kitchen counter, and he cannot help but marvel at this realm in which he has found himself. It has a magic all its own, it seems.

He knocks, as custom dictates he must, and the door is opened with gratifying haste. It’s an odd replaying of their first meeting in this new setting, and the difference between then and now - her tentative smile warms him through - makes him feel as though he could slay dragons with his bare hand.

“You ready, Swan?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her blush.

Pirate, he thinks, and smiles.

~*~

Q and A (Once Upon a Time) - 1/1

msgenevieve — Mon, 10 Mar 2014 02:34:31 GMT

Title: Q and A (1/1)
Fandom: Once Upon a Time
Genre: Smut, Fluff, UST, Angst
Characters: Emma Swan, Killian Jones/Captain Hook
Pairing: Emma/Hook
Rating: R
Summary: She's allowed to ask him as many questions as she likes. He's an open book as far as she's concerned, he tells her. There's just one catch. After she's done, he's allowed to ask her one question. Only one, but she must answer truthfully. What could possibly go wrong? Written for rumsy4 on tumblr for the Captain Swan Secret Shipmates (aka how to survive the hiatus without going crazy).

~*~

“Don’t bother, you’re not in there.”

At the sound of her voice, Hook starts, and Henry’s book closes with an audible (and hasty) thump.

Emma does her best to bite back a grin, keeping one eye on him while she opens the bottle of wine she’s liberated from David’s collection. Her guest clears his throat as he sits back on the couch, arms stretched out on either side of him, and she has no doubt she’s about to receive an extremely inventive excuse as to why he was scanning her son’s book so avidly his nose was almost touching the paper. "You sound very certain that young Henry’s book contains no mention of me, Swan. Have you already perused these pages in search of me?"

Ah, the old ‘answer a question with a question routine’, she thinks. One of his personal favourites.

He’d been casting curious glances at Henry’s book on the coffee table from the moment he’d arrived, and it seems he wasn’t able to resist when she’d gone to open the wine. Having overheard some of their most recent conversations, she can only assume she has Henry to blame for Hook’s current interest in learning more about the various versions of his namesake. At least they haven’t gotten to the Google stage yet, although she can only suppose that’s coming, and dear God, can she pre-emptively ban Henry from owning a laptop, like right now?

“Admit it,” she shoots back as she pours two glasses of red wine, thankful that she’d managed to successfully dissuade him from producing his perpetual flask of rum. “You wanted to make sure they’d got your hair right.”

“Not to mention my pretty face.” The light of battle shines in his eyes at her jibe, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “No, your son had already informed me that my handsome visage doesn’t appear on the pages of his beloved book.” He grins up at her as she walks towards the living area. “But enough about me, love. I believe I asked you a question you have yet to answer.”

“Shut up and drink your wine.” Emma hands him one of the glasses as she rounds the corner of the couch, doing her best to ignore the brush of his fingertips against hers as he takes it from her.

“Come on, Swan,” he inveigles softly, one dark eyebrow arching. “You can tell me.”

Puffing out an (overly, she admits it) dramatic sigh, she drops down onto the other end of the couch, conscious of keeping him at both a literal and emotional arm’s length tonight, because her parents have gone out to dinner and Henry is staying at Regina’s. She should have revelled in a night alone, but instead found herself asking Hook if he wanted to keep her company. No big deal, she'd told herself at the time (a rushed conversation outside Granny’s) but now she’s not so sure, because no big deal might have been a slight miscalculation on her part.

He’s been sitting on her couch for less than an hour now, and she feels as though she’s covered from head to toe in itching powder, and the temptation to scratch one particular itch is gnawing at her insides with increasing ferocity with each passing second. She meets his gaze steadily, determined to keep this evening’s schedule on the straight and narrow, and not just because her parents don’t tend to linger over dinner.

“That book is one of the most important things in my kid’s life,” she tells him. “I’ve read the damned thing from cover to cover more than once, trust me.”

He smiles at her, and she feels the warmth of it from her scalp to her toes. “Ah, but that wasn’t what I asked, was it?”

Apparently they teach mindreading at piracy school in the Enchanted Forest, Emma thinks mutinously, because he’s completely right and he knows it and she knows that he won’t let it go. She takes a long sip of wine, vaguely appreciating her father’s taste in vintage even as she struggles with the temptation to simply give in and stop deflecting for one freaking moment. “Okay,” she finally says, because screw it. “If I admit that I read this book again after meeting you in the Enchanted Forest to check if you were in it, will you shut up and drink your wine?”

“Yes, I will.” He drums the fingers of his right hand lightly on the back of the couch, his smile widening. “There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

He looks so pleased with himself that the impulse to punch him hard in the arm fades slightly. Taking another sip of wine, she studies him over the rim of her glass. “To be honest, I was kind of disappointed.”

“Are you saying you'd like to know more about me, Swan?” He presses his hand theatrically over his heart. “I’m honoured.”

“No, just looking for ammunition.”

His face doesn’t exactly fall, but there’s an odd ripple in his expression, like someone’s tossed a pebble into a still pool, and she suddenly regrets her words. “But while we’re on the subject,” she goes on quickly, “you know a lot about me.” She has the sudden sense of biting off more than she can chew in more ways than one, but she can’t do a U-turn now. “I hardly know anything about you.”

Leaning forward, he puts his wine glass on the coffee table, then resettles himself on the couch, his body turned towards hers. He’s made himself at home while still dressed in his usual black from head to toe (his heavy coat is thankfully hanging on the back of a kitchen chair and his boots are in a heap on the floor and God, even his socks are black) and he should look out of place sitting on Mary Margaret’s shabby chic couch, but he doesn’t. “Ask away.”

Emma blinks. “You're serious?”

“Quite serious, love.” He gestures towards himself with his right hand, a sweeping flourish that she’s determined not to follow with her gaze, because she’s already having enough trouble keep her eyes to herself. “I’m an open book as far as you’re concerned.”

She stares at him, her head swirling with everything she’s ever wanted to ask him and everything she doesn’t know about him. “Well-”

He gives her a smile that should come with a flashing danger signal. “On one condition.”

“I knew it.” She sighs loudly. “There’s a catch, right?”

“Pardon?”

“There's always a catch with you.”

“You may ask as many questions as you wish, milady.” He goes on smoothly as though she hasn’t spoken, his wide mouth curving in a slow smile. “And afterwards, I may ask you one question.”

She opens her mouth to speak, but he holds up his hand. “The catch, as you so charmingly put it, is that you must tell me the truth.” His gaze locks with hers, and she feels her breath catch at the back of her throat. “The complete and utter truth.” Reaching for his glass, he lifts it to her in a toast. “Do we have an accord?”

She should say no. She should find that bloody Pirates of the Caribbean DVD and distract him with it. Because no matter how much she wants to know more about him, she already knows she’s not ready to answer whatever it is that he’s going to ask her. She opens her mouth to speak to say no, and hears herself promptly agreeing. “Deal.”

Damn it.

~*~

“Tell me about your brother.”

He feels himself flinch. He should have been expecting the question, should have known that Emma Swan was a determined woman, and he’s already brushed her off once, and while he would gladly tear out his own heart and offer it to her on a silver platter, he doesn’t know if he can -

“I don’t mean how he died.” She’s shifting on the couch beside him, closing the gap between them, her hand fluttering in the air between them as though she might touch him. “Tell me about him.”

She doesn’t want to know how Liam died. She wants to know how he lived, and the thought makes his heart sing.

She’s watching him carefully now, her eyes soft with an emotion he doesn’t dare define, and he suddenly feels as though he could spend another three hundred years searching for someone who makes him feel as this woman does and come up empty-handed and empty-hearted at every turn.

“His name was Liam, and he was ten years older than me,” he begins slowly, “a fact of which he took great pleasure in reminding me on a regular basis.” He pauses, his thoughts filling with Liam’s face in a way they haven’t since leaving that cursed island, and then Emma’s hand is on his arm, the warmth of her palm warming him through his shirtsleeve.

“You don’t have to-” Her eyes are filled with concern. Concern for him, he realises, and a subtle warm twist through his chest.

“I’ve had precious few intelligent folk with whom to converse for the last few centuries, Swan.” He takes a generous swig of his wine, but he’s not going to hide behind his drink. Not tonight. “Even fewer who are interested in hearing tales that don’t involve plundering and pillaging.” He offers her a smile, but it feels tight on his lips. “If you would care to listen, then I will like to tell you.”

She squeezes his arm gently, just the once, then leans back, picking up one of the many decorative cushions and cradling it in her arms. “Tell me about him?”

He does.

He tells her how Liam had been his hero from the moment he’d been old enough to stagger after him on unsteady wean legs. How Liam was only fourteen when he’d left home to join the King’s navy, and how he had missed his older brother every single day. He tells her how Liam had tracked him down in a dirty portside town after their father had abandoned him aboard ship - Emma starts at this revelation, her fingers digging into the cushion cradled in her arms - and how he’d convinced his Captain at the time to take him on as a cabin boy.

He starts to tell her the story of the first time he’d tagged along with Liam on shore leave, but something about her expression gives him pause. “You alright there, Swan?”

“How old were you?”

He swallows hard. He’s spent three hundred years avoiding the minor details of that particular event, and the only other person he’s even discussed this with is Baelfire, and that just makes this all the more fragile a conversation, but she’s looking at him expectantly, and he decided a long time ago that he would never lie to her. “Seven.”

Emma lets out a shaky breath, her gaze locking with his, and he sees all his fears and grief mirrored in her bright eyes. “That’s how you knew.” Her mouth trembles faintly, and he sees the white of her teeth as she presses them against her bottom lip. “On the beanstalk. About me.”

There’s a tremor in her voice, and he knows that he has lost control of this conversation, if he ever had it at all, and all he can do is hang on and hope his heart emerges unscathed at the other end. “Aye.”

She looks at him for a long moment, long enough for his heart to start hammering against his ribs and his blood twitch with the need of her, her warmth and comfort. “He sounds like he was a very good brother to have.”

“That he was.”

“From what David told me, it seems you were the same to him.” Again her hand is on his arm, her thumb idly stroking, a small, soothing caress, and he can no more stop himself from leaning into her touch than the sun rises each morning. “I didn’t mean to dreg it all up for you again, I’m sorry.”

He puts his hand over hers, barely managing to resist the urge to entwine his fingers with hers. “Don’t be sorry, lass. It’s been a long time since someone cared enough to ask.”

And with that, her hand is gone, flitting away like a frightened hare, and he curses his careless words. His heart sinks as she tosses the cushion onto the coffee table, narrowly missing her wine glass. “So, what did you want to do tonight? We could watch a movie, or-”

He should be surprised by the abrupt change in direction, but then again, this is Emma Swan. “You’ve only asked one question, love.”

She waves her hand, as if absolving him, and perhaps she is. “I’ll take a raincheck.”

He nods, filing away her curious answer to decipher at a later time when he doesn’t feel as though he is about to take that last step off the gangplank with nothing but air and the black night ocean beneath him. “Well, before you drag out one of your son’s strange moving adventures, perhaps you’ll allow me my side of our agreement?”

“Oh, but-”

“When was the last time you did something that was just for you?”

She stiffens, the air between them immediately changing, a faint crackling of awareness he knows bloody well is far from one-sided, and he goes on quickly, pressing his advantage while he has it. “Something that had absolutely nothing to do with being the Saviour and everything to do with being Emma Swan?”

She blushes prettily, twin spots of colour staining her cheeks, but she lifts her chin and meets his gaze steadily. Her answer, when it finally comes, makes his own skin flush with heat. “When I kissed you in Neverland.”

It’s almost fitting, he thinks as he gets to his feet and slowly moves to sit beside her, close enough for his thigh to brush against hers, that both one of the worst and one of the best memories in his life have been on that bloody island.

“Do you regret it?”

He sees her throat work as she swallows, and his tongue burns to taste the pale skin there. “That's two questions.”

“Pirate,” he murmurs, more out of habit than anything else, because he’s long changed from the man who would renege on an accord with her, and they both know it.

“No.” She doesn’t move away as he rests his arm along the back of the couch, his fingertips almost but not quite touching the pale flax of her hair. “I have never regretted it.”

He’s surprised she cannot hear the mad tattoo of his heartbeat. “May I ask a third question?”

Her eyes are burning into his, seeing into him and through him, and it’s all he’s wanted for so long, he can scarcely believe this is real. “Yes.”

He can feel the heat rising in his blood now. So close, so close, and he is about to take that final step off the edge of the world as he knows it. “Would you like to seize another such moment for yourself tonight, Emma Swan?”

She smiles, and with one word, sweeps them both away. “Yes.”

This time, he kisses her. This time, it’s slow and warm, an inhalation of taste and touch, her mouth opening like a flower beneath his. Her tongue dances with his, and that’s where slow ends, because he is instantly, painfully hard, his cock drawing up tight and thick, the pit of his belly shuddering with lust. She wraps one arm around his neck, pulling him closer, pulling him down, and then she’s lying beneath him and he can’t think, can’t breathe. “Emma-”

“Shut up.” She kisses her own name from his mouth, her body arching beneath his, a subtle rocking of her hips that has him counting to ten (and then bloody twenty and thirty), before she shifts, her thighs falling open to cradle him, and his cock is pressed hard against the heat between her legs and he is halfway done for, gone before she’s even touched him. A rough groan shudders through him as he fights the urge to simply take her, wrench down those blasted trousers and lose himself in the tight slickness of her body.

But this is Emma, and this is been the fabric of his dreams for so very long, and he will not be rushed. He also knows they will not be alone for long, and the knowledge is almost a relief, because possibility is far too tempting an option with the woman he’s craved for so long twisting beneath him as though his kiss and his touch are setting her alight.

He kisses her throat softly, then a little harder, finding the pulse that beats wildly beneath the curve of her jaw, revelling in the jagged sigh that echoes in his ear. “Your parents won’t be dining at Granny’s forever, love,” he murmurs against her throat, but her only answer is to run one hand down his chest until her fingers reach the first clasp of his vest. Two seconds later, her hand is sliding inside his shirt, fingernails scratching just hard enough to raise gooseflesh.

Right, then.

He takes her mouth in a kiss, deep and fierce and wanting, tasting her until he can feel the gasp of her breath on his tongue, the trembling of the thighs tightening around his hips. He rocks against her, pushing his aching cock hard against the soft hollow between her legs, her answering moan of pleasure more intoxicating than the finest aphrodisiacs in all the realms.

When he finally lets himself touch her as he’s so often dreamed, sliding his hand beneath her sweater, she bites down none-too-gently on his bottom lip, and he smiles into her kiss at her impatience. Her undergarment is a flimsy thing, easily defeated, then he is cupping the soft weight of her breast in his hand. She murmurs something under her breath at his touch, and when he swipes his thumb over the rise of a tight nipple, her hands are suddenly at his hips, urging him closer. He rocks against her as she arches against him, a slow dance that has his blood aflame and his cock pulsing to the beat of his hammering heart.

He hears the words please and harder in a small, plaintive voice at his ear, and the need in her voice would break his heart if the warmth of her body and her kiss and her smile hadn’t already smoothed over every crack. Gods help him, her parents will be walking through that bloody door soon and there’s no time for what he wants, but perhaps there is time enough for what she needs. And quickly, because the urge to simply take her is still vibrating through him, pounding at his very bones.

He kisses her again and again, rolling his hips against hers in slow, deliberate thrusts, delectable friction against that soft secret place between her thighs, letting her feel his hunger for her, letting her take whatever pleasure she can find, the release she’s craving, no matter how stolen the moment. Her hands are everywhere, sliding between them, sliding down to cup his arse, her mouth hot and slick against his, and when she finally stiffens beneath him, her breath catching in a soft cry of surprise, he exhales in both frustration and relief, because a few moments later and the Prince and his wife would have been greeted with quite the surprise upon their arrival home.

Emma’s eyes are closed, her breathing deliciously laboured. Brushing back the hair from her damp forehead, he ignores the painfully tight fit of his trousers and gently pulls her sweater back into place. At his touch, her eyes flutter open, and for a fleeting, terrible moment, he is afraid of what he is going to see in them. Then her clear green gaze meets his, and he sees her, truly sees her, sees himself through her eyes, and it’s all he can do not to put her over his shoulder and carry her to the Jolly, the rest of the bloody town be damned, at least for tonight.

“You alright there, Swan?”

“Yes.” She exhales softly as she lifts one hand to touch his face, fingertips cool against his cheek, her voice gentle in the quiet room. “But you need-”

The scraping of a key in the lock has them springing apart like a pair of bloody teens caught in the first flush of puppy love. He has enough time to be relieved that he didn’t let her have her way with the rest of the buttons on his vest, then her parents are pushing open the door and Emma is sitting at the other end of the couch and saying in a loud, clear voice, “But if you don’t watch the first movie first, you won’t be able to follow the second one properly.” She gives him a smile that wouldn’t be out of place in a bloody convent, then turns to address her parents. “Did you guys have a good time?”

Gripped by the twin emotions of admiration and disbelief, he can only watch as she chats casually with her parents, looking as though being ravished by a pirate is the furthest thing from her mind. Finally, after he’d managed to pull on his boots with shaking hands and contribute to the conversation once or twice - much later he won’t have a clue what he actually said – the Prince and Snow busy themselves in the kitchen area, boiling kettles and clanking mugs, and Emma turns to him with a smile that makes the breath come short in his chest. “I thought of a second question.”

“Fire away, love.”

She rises gracefully to her feet, smoothing her rumpled sweater with a surreptitious hand. “Feel like taking a walk?” Her eyes meet his, and the familiar thrill begins to hum beneath his skin. “Maybe towards the docks?” Her voice is low and throaty and meant for his ears alone, and he’s never wanted her more.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

~*~

There's a First Time (for everything) - Once Upon a Time (1/1)

msgenevieve — Sun, 02 Mar 2014 03:40:03 GMT

Title: There's a First Time (for everything)
Fandom: Once Upon a Time
Genre: Smut, Fluff, UST
Characters: Emma Swan, Killian Jones/Captain Hook
Pairing: Emma/Hook
Rating: R
Summary: The first time she kisses him, it’s in Neverland. The second time she kisses him, it’s in New York. The third time she kisses him, it’s in Storybrooke. Every single time, it means something. By the fourth time, it means everything.
Author's note: No Spoilers past 3x11.

~*~

The first time he touches her, it’s the skim of his roughened fingertips over the back of her hand, a lingering touch that is as unnecessary as it is unsettling.

“There’s a good girl.”

There’s a spark there, flint flaring over the dry tinder of her distrust, and it makes her blood quicken in a way she hasn’t felt in a long time. Then the cuff tightens around her wrist, and she knows she doesn’t have the luxury of feeling anything that isn’t going to get her back to her son. She grits her teeth and climbs the beanstalk and finds the compass, all the while trying to forget that every time he touches her, the last thing she feels like being is a good girl.

~*~

The first time she meets him after leaving him with Anton, she wants the ground to swallow her up.

She’s spent three days telling herself that what she’d done hadn’t really been a betrayal, not in any serious way. They’d only spent a few hours together, it had been an alliance of convenience, a means to an end, right? Then he looks at her with darkly glittering eyes, his body stiff with a quiet anger. “You should have thought of that before you left me on top of that beanstalk.”

“You would have done the same.”

He takes three very deliberate, slow steps towards her, only stopping when his face is inches from hers, the gnarled bars the only thing separating them. His eyes never leave hers, and it’s all she can do not to take a step backwards. When he speaks, his tone is soft, almost disappointed. Disappointed in her, she realises with a shock.

“Actually, no.”

His eyes lock with hers, letting her see the truth of him, the wounded man beneath the anger, and it’s too late to make amends, too late to take it back, and of all the things she expected to feel at this moment, she would have never have guessed it would be shame.

~*~

The first time in a long time, someone comes back to her, for her.

He comes back for her. Captain Hook, a storybook pirate with a thirst for revenge and a never-ending supply of double entendre and a healthy dose of ego all twisted up with a reckless lack of self-worth. He offers himself and his beloved ship, laying them at her feet to do with as she needs, and this should be unbelievable and ridiculous but it’s not. He’s the only thing that makes any sense right now, and that alone should be a danger sign but quite frankly, she doesn’t give a damn.

She doesn’t know it yet, but it won’t be the last time he comes back for her.

~*~

The first time she kisses him, it’s in Neverland.

The second time she kisses him, it’s in New York.

The third time she kisses him, it’s in Storybrooke.

Every single time, it means something.

By the fourth time, it means everything.

~*~

The first time they’re alone on the Jolly Roger, he points out the constellations.

She’d come here to talk to him - amongst other things - about Henry’s apparent decision to become a teenaged dirtbag, complete with a teenaged dirtbag attitude. As always seems to happen lately, they’ve ended up sharing a drink and swapping barbs and war stories until the air of intimacy makes her throat feel tight and her skin hot and scratchy. Such conversations are fine in broad daylight in Granny’s or at the station, but tonight they’re sitting on the deck of his ship in the darkness, their backs against the cabin wall, legs stretched out, an almost empty bottle of rum and two shot glasses the only thing keeping her thigh from touching his.

The night is warm. His heavy coat has been discarded, and she can feel the heat of him through the thin cloth of his black shirt every time he gestures towards the inky sky, his shoulder brushing against hers. There’s a static buzz humming through her blood, and it’s not because of the rum. Two weeks ago, they’d shared a brief but heated kiss in the midst of a ferocious argument about something she can no longer remember, and he’d been carefully avoiding her ever since. It seems he’s still making good on his promise to step back and give her space to breathe, and she is growing mighty tired of it. “How the hell did you learn our constellations so quickly?”

He taps the side of his nose and gives her a secretive smile. “I’m a quick learner, love.”

She tilts her head back, the stars swimming faintly above her, and knows there’s no way she’ll be able to drive home, at least not for a few hours. She can’t say she cares about that right now. “Jack of all trades,” she murmurs, almost to herself, and practically feels the quizzical glance he gives her.

“Come again?”

Turning her head, she smiles at him. “It’s just an expression,” she offers, wondering if he’s ready to learn the delights of a good dictionary or, better still, a thesaurus. She’s pretty sure David owns both. “It’s when someone is good at lots of different things.”

His mouth twitches. “Are you actually admitting you’re impressed by me, Swan?”

She puffs out a derisive breath. “In your dreams, Jones.”

His eyes darken, hidden emotional depths shifting and realigning, and she rues her impulsive jibe. It’s not as though he needs any more ammunition, she thinks, but then he moves, twisting his body until his mouth is at her ear, his breath warm on her skin. “You’re many things in my dreams, darling.” She closes her eyes, her fingertips clawing into the smooth wooden deck as his lips brush a soft trail of heat and sensation along her jaw. “Shall I tell you about them?”

Her heart is hammering - more like a freaking drum solo – and there are two ways that this can go, but she’s no longer interested in the way that would have her leaving here tonight. “Tempting, but I’m more of your visual kind of girl,” she tells him without opening her eyes. Unclenching her left hand, she slides it along the hard length of his thigh, smiling at the shudder that goes through him at her touch, the way his muscles flex beneath her palm as though she’s bewitched them into life. “Why don’t you show me?”

Two seconds later, when he kisses her - finally, finally - she’s still smiling.

~*~

For the first time in a long time, she lets her heart take a leap of faith, taking her body along for the ride.

Somehow they make it below deck to his quarters, but it’s a near thing. The buttons of her blouse are long gone, and she suspects his vest may have walked the gangplank, but the notion of one of Storybrooke’s inhabitants disturbing them finally propels them to their feet, staggering across the deck in a drunken dance of need, his mouth on her throat, his hand on her breast, her fingers digging into his shoulders in an effort to stay upright.

Maybe they should be taking their time, but it’s as though their bodies have snapped into fast-forward as soon as his mouth covered hers in that first kiss, a kiss that left her panting and breathless, her hands fisting in the soft leather of his vest.

He breathes her name now, a soft sigh in the stillness, then the door of his cabin is kicked shut behind them and she’s suddenly standing alone, her head trying to catch up with her body. He’s lighting candles with a shaky hand, she realises, and a sudden wave of longing washes over her, tightening her throat and making her feel things she has no idea she’s ready to feel. “Hey, remember me?”

He tosses the lighter (a rare concession to modern times) carelessly onto his desk, and closes the distance between them with two loping strides. He touches her face, cupping her cheek with his right hand, the cool metal of his hook brushing against her hip, his lips curving in a rueful smile. “I’m not the one with the memory issues, love.”

“That was hardly my fault,” she protests mildly, but then he’s slipping her shirt off her shoulders and his mouth is hot on her skin, and she no longer cares about semantics.

He loses the hook (“next time”, he promises her with a lascivious smile that makes her stomach clench), quickly followed by his shirt, and the expression on his face when she unhooks her simple cotton bra is a mental picture that will stay with her for a long time.

“Oh, Emma, love-” Whatever else he is going to say is lost as he gathers her into his arms, his mouth hard and fierce on hers, his tongue curling around hers in a heated dance, tasting of the rum they’d shared and something else, a dark spiciness that has haunted her thoughts since Neverland. His skin is hot wherever it touches hers, the crisp hair on his chest teasing her breasts, tightening her nipples and making her shift restlessly against him. Not enough skin, too many clothes, and she’s tired of him being a gentleman. Her hands drop to the front of his trousers, and she swears she hears him stop breathing. Tilting back her head to meet his gaze, she palms the hard heat of him through the thin leather, watching as his eyes flutter shut, lashes dark against his skin as he arches into her touch, a tight muscle twitching in his jaw. “Holy fuck, Swan-”

Things move pretty quickly after that.

Their discarded boots thud loudly onto the wooden floor. Her jeans land somewhere near his trousers, and she doesn’t have time to slide her underwear down her legs before he’s kissing her belly, then her thigh, then his mouth is between her legs, hot and slick and tormenting and she barely has time to dig her nails into his scalp before she’s coming, a fast-rising tide of pleasure crashing over her, leaving her breathless and twisting on the rough sheets, a sob stuck in the back of her throat.

“You alright there, Swan?” In another life, maybe she would have thought his smile was a smug one, but she sees his shell-shocked expression, and knows he’s having trouble believing this is real, that she is here with him. So she simply kisses him, tasting musk and rum and a hunger that calls to her very bones. He kisses her back, deep and slow and lazy, the silky brush of his erection teasing her thigh, his hand on her breast, and she has the hazy thought that if he’s trying to give her a moment to catch her breath, it’s totally not working.

When he finally lifts his head, there is an expression of unutterable tenderness on his face, and she almost wants to hide her face against his shoulder, but he doesn’t let her, holding her gaze with his as he moves above her, the rigid length of his erection finding the tender ache between her thighs. She hears herself whisper now and please, sees his throat work as he swallows hard and then - finally, finally - feels the slow, thick slide of flesh and heat as he pushes himself into her.

Oh, God.

Echoing her thoughts, he curses softly, making the harsh words sound like a prayer. He’s holding himself unnaturally still, tension radiating from his whole body. “Emma-”

Wrapping her arms around his neck, she pulls his mouth down to hers, the truth of her heart finally spilling from her lips to his. “I want this. I want you. Don’t be gentle. Not this time.”

Heat blazes darkly in his eyes, and she suspects her words have just sent Gentleman Jones on his way and invited Captain Hook to have his wicked way with her. A few seconds later, she’s a hundred percent certain, because she feels as though she’s being thoroughly pillaged, his hand and his mouth and tongue her undoing, the feel of him inside her turning her bones to water and heating her blood and she can’t think, can’t speak. There is only the thick slide of him buried deep inside her, the rub of his chest against her breasts, his mouth on her throat, teeth biting and scraping and as the pulse of sensation pulls and tightens deep in her belly, she wants more, wants him beneath her, watching her as she takes everything he has to offer her.

He lets her roll them on the narrow bed, she’s sure of it, just as he’s let her lead so many other times, then he’s on his back, gazing up at her from beneath hooded lids, red kiss-swollen lips parted on his harsh breathing. “I like a forceful woman,” he murmurs unsteadily, his hook-free arm sliding up her thigh to curl around her hip, his other hand sliding down his own stomach to where he’s buried inside her, his fingertips seeking and finding with an accuracy that has her gasping and arching her spine. “But perhaps you’ll be so kind as to let me take care of you first, darling.”

She wants to say something, but his fingers are tormenting her even as the heavy thrust of his cock drags and pulls at the tender flesh inside, and she feels like a string on a bow, being drawn tighter and tighter, the sensation pulsing between her legs, growing thicker and heavier, nerves sparking down the backs of her legs and the tips of her breasts and she can’t, she can’t, she just can’t -

She comes harder than she ever thought possible (it’s the second time tonight, she just doesn’t-) and his name - his real name - tears from her throat as she shudders above him, straining and pushing, her fingernails digging into his thighs, his solid flesh an anchor as she goes down, down, down.

“There’s a good girl.”

She hears the words over the muted buzzing in her ears, her eyes flying open at their familiarity, and she wonders if she’s imagined them. He’s sitting up now (God, she can feel him twitching inside her, hard and full and aching for her) pulling her closer, close enough for her to see the grey flecks in his bright blue eyes. “You’re bloody beautiful when you come, love.”

She closes the space between then, touching her lips to his. “Your turn,” she whispers, licking her tongue along his full bottom lip, and the rough groan that shudders through his chest sends an echo through her own body. He bends his head to her breast, his mouth hot on her nipple. She puts her hands on his shoulders and begins to move, dancing her hips against his in an increasing urgent rhythm, shuddering at the answering nip of his teeth over her nipple.

He’s cursing under his breath (pirate, after all) and his hair is sticking up everywhere, corded muscles in his shoulders and chest straining, his hand tightening on her hip, his body arching beneath hers, trying to climb inside her skin, his mouth taking hers in a kiss that is no longer graceful but messy and desperate and hungry and she takes everything he’s offering her, pushing him higher and higher, then pushing him a little more, harder and faster and then he’s falling, falling against her and into her.

Her name is little more than ragged groan when he comes, bucking against her, pulsing deep inside her, heat spilling from his body to hers. She tightens her arms around him, trailing her fingers down the length of his sweat-dampened back until he finally buries his face in the crook of her neck, his chest heaving. Still entangled, they slump backwards onto his narrow bed. She presses a languid kiss to his throat, tasting the salt on his skin beneath her tongue, tasting the soft sigh that rumbles up from his chest. His mouth is warm on her temple, his long fingers sliding through her tousled hair, his chest rising and falling in time with her own, and the thought of moving away from him seems all too complicated. Instead, she closes her eyes, entwining one leg with his as she rests her head on his shoulder. His arm tightens around her, pulling her closer and, for the first time in a long time, the idea of falling asleep in someone’s arms doesn’t fill her with sharp edged anxiety.

Her last thought before oblivion takes her is that he’s beautiful when he comes, too.

~*~

The first time in fourteen years that Emma Swan stays the whole night, it’s aboard a pirate ship.

She cracks open an eyelid, thinking vaguely that even her eyelashes feel heavy and exhausted. It’s early, the room hazy with that weird grey stillness that always comes just before dawn, and she is cocooned in the warmth of both antique bed linen and someone else’s body heat. She closes her eyes and waits for the familiar feeling of regret and panicked ‘how soon can I get the hell out of here?’ to come over her, but it doesn’t arrive.

He’s still asleep, his soft rhythmic breathing teasing the back of her neck. Lying behind her, his hand tangled with hers, his body pressed against hers from head to toe, one lean thigh pushed between her legs. Spooning her, for God’s sake. She should feel smothered, but instead she feels - she struggles for the right word here, because it’s been so fucking long since she trusted someone enough to spend the whole night in their bed – she feels, well, she simply feels good.

She feels safe.

The thought should be enough to freak her out on a global scale, because seriously? A pirate - with whom she has just spent the night having mind-blowing sex, thanks very much - makes her feel safe. She again waits for the familiar morning-after panic to set in. Again, nothing happens, and she burrows deeper into the soft warmth surrounding her.

She’s hovering in the hazy no-man’s land between sleep and waking when the brush of a stubbled chin against the nape of her neck sends a flurry of goosebumps dancing down her spine. “Good morning, Sheriff.” His voice is raspy with sleep and enough to curl her toes with those three words alone.

“Right back at you, Jones,” she mumbles lazily as she stretches against him, enjoying the feel of the rough hairs on his thighs teasing her skin. Burrowing her head further into the surprisingly plush pillow, she closes her eyes again and inhales the lingering scent of him and her and them (sex and booze and sweat), mingled with a sharp citrus tang she recognises as the soap Granny puts in all her guest bathrooms. She smiles into the pillow, wondering if she’d find a stolen cache of Granny’s soaps in her host’s personal effects if she did a room search. “What time is it, anyway?”

“Why?” His stubble rasps against the back of her neck again, and this time the sensation goes straight to her nipples, making them tighten with indecent haste. “Do you have somewhere else to be?”

She shakes her head, sinking her teeth into her bottom lip at the feel of his growing erection pressing against the curve of her ass. Desire clenches like a fist between her legs, making her squeeze her thighs together. Jesus. “Definitely not.”

His hand is sliding beneath the bedclothes now, cupping her breast, his thumb teasing her nipple before skimming down her belly. “Good,” he murmurs, then his mouth is hot on her throat, his teeth sinking into her flesh in a tender bite that has her arching back into his arms. She opens her mouth to speak, but his hand is between her legs, his long fingers delving and sliding and finding her warm and wet and waiting for him, just him, and there is nothing she needs to say. Not right now.

Twisting in his embrace, she finds his mouth with hers, curling her hand around the heavy thrust of his erection, his thick groan of pleasure tasting like nothing else she’s ever found. It’s been a very long time since she trusted a man enough to fall asleep in his arms, and even longer since she stayed around long enough to make love in dawn’s first light.

But there’s a first time for everything.

~*~

Souvenir - Once Upon a Time (1/1)

msgenevieve — Mon, 24 Feb 2014 23:11:28 GMT

Title: Souvenir
Fandom: Once Upon a Time
Genre: Gen, angst, family bonding
Characters: Emma Swan, Mary Margaret/Snow, Mr Gold, mention of Graham Humbert
Pairing: Implied/past Emma/Graham
Rating: G
Summary: It's hard to explain, the things we choose to hold onto, the things we choose to let go. Perhaps the best explanation is that there really is none to be had. Emma and Mary Margaret finally talk about Graham. (spoilers for 107, mention of character death)
Author's note: The wonderful show deals with so many characters and plotlines, it's inevitable that certain things go unseen and unexplained. I find myself thinking about many of these things, and rather than go round the twist thinking about them, I decided to start writing about them. This is a personal head canon and all concrit is happily accepted.

~*~

She finds it in Mr Gold’s shop, of course - where else would it be? – and stretches out a faintly trembling hand, fingertips splayed against the cool glass cabinet.

“Ah.” She lifts her head to find the proprietor smiling at her. “Of course.”

Swallowing the sudden lump in her throat, Mary Margaret taps one finger gently on the glass. “May I see it?”

“But of course, dearie.” Gold says again, his head tilting to one side as he studies her with bright, too-knowing eyes. “It’s yours, after all.”

Pushing aside the usual frigid flutter of unease she always feels when she’s reminded that her memories have never been hers alone, she cups her hand, closing her eyes as he drops the hand-carved whistle into her palm.

It will bring you aid. You’ll be led to safety. Now go. Run!

Oh God.

Graham.

“How much do you want for it?” she hears herself ask, and is answered with a soft, flat chuckle.

“Well, you tell me, dearie. How much is it worth to you?”

Tightening her fingers around the slender reed, she lifts her head to meet his eyes in an unflinching stare. Perhaps he still thinks he’s dealing with a shy school teacher, but that woman is long gone. “More than I can ever afford to pay you, but you already know that, so why bother asking?”

Admiration flickers briefly behind the mirrored surface of his dark eyes, and his smile widens. “Tell you what.” He nods at the whistle in her palm. “Why don’t you take some time to share the story behind that keepsake with your daughter, and I’ll waive my usual fee.”

She stares at him. “And why would you do that?”

Gold merely smiles. “Because I suspect you and your daughter have far more in common than you know.”

Snow hesitates - because doing something Rumplestiltskin wants is rarely a good idea - but the weight of Graham’s legacy is suddenly heavy in her hand, and the need to share his sacrifice with someone who cared for him is bubbling up inside her, torching her caution. In the end, she simply swallows the half-dozen retorts that are clamouring to be tossed in Gold’s direction, and gives him a smile in return. “Thank you.”

His unspoken, ‘don’t thank me yet, dearie’, hangs heavy in the air at her back as she leaves his shop.

~*~

Emma winces as the door shuts with a very loud bang behind her, immediately darting an apologetic glance in her mother’s direction. To her surprise, though, Mary Margaret hasn’t even seemed to have noticed that she’s arrived. “Hey, how was your day?”

“Mmm, what?”

Dumping her coat and bag, Emma wanders closer to the dining room table where her mother is sitting, cradling something in her hands, an odd, almost faraway expression in her eyes. “You okay?”

“Just remembering.” Mary Margaret gives her a melancholy smile that makes Emma’s heart twinge. “You know, there are so many things we haven’t had time to discuss since the curse was broken.”

“Oh, God.” The words are out of Emma’s mouth before she can stop them. “Do I need to get wine first?”

Her mother laughs softly, and the twinge eases. “Maybe.”

Emma starts towards the refrigerator, then frowns at the unfamiliar object sitting on the table between the other woman’s splayed hands.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a whistle.”

Emma wonders if that’s supposed to mean something to her. “Okay.”

Mary Margaret looks at her, her eyes glittering with unshed tears. “Graham gave it to me.”

At the sound of his name, a cold shudder ripples through the pit of Emma’s stomach. “Here in Storybrooke?”

Her mother shakes her head. “No, before.”

Standing on suddenly unsteady legs, Emma finds herself sinking in to the chair opposite her mother. “You knew him? Before, I mean?”

Mary Margaret laughs softly again, but there’s little humour in it. “You could say that. Regina sent him to kill me.”

Emma literally cannot think of an answer to that. How is it possible that they've never talked about this?

“But he changed his mind, and he let me go.” Her mother touches the crudely made whistle gently, almost reverently. “He gave me this and told me to use it if I ever needed help.”

Emma stares at the whistle, the leather ties wrapped around her left wrist suddenly seeming to tighten, making her pulse quicken.

“Mary Margaret-”

“He saved my life, and I never had a chance to thank him.” Her mother picks up the whistle, balancing it on her palm. “I’d forgotten all about this, and then I saw it in Gold’s shop today.” She lets out a soft sigh, rubbing her thumb over the thin reed. “I’m so glad I finally have something to remember him by.”

Emma closes her eyes tightly, a futile effort against the sudden warmth of tears, her fingers twisting through the leather shoelace around her wrist, fingertips rubbing like a touchstone. As though from a distance, she hears her mother's voice.

"Emma, what's wrong?"

“He died because of me.”

She feels the cool press of her mother’s hand on hers, stilling her fingers frantic movements. “What happened that night?” Her hand is squeezed a little tighter. “You’ve never really said much about it.”

I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.

Emma takes a deep breath. Opening her eyes, she finds the strength she needs in her mother’s eyes. “We were at the station. He’d just told Regina he wasn’t going to be with her anymore.” Her words are tripping over themselves, coming fast and furious now. “He kissed me, and I felt this-” she pauses, struggling to find the right word, “this weird kind of shockwave go through him. He said that he remembered, and he thanked me, for God’s sake, and then his face just-” She gulps back a fresh wave of tears and regret. “He was gone before I even knew what was happening.”

Mary Margaret's eyes are brimming with tears. "Oh, Emma-"

“He died in my arms.” She’s holding her mother’s hand tightly now, an anchor in the swell of the memory of that fucking terrible night, the memory she fights every day to keep at bay. “He’d been trying for days to tell me that something was wrong, that Regina had taken his heart, but I just -” She breaks off, sucking in another shaky breath, finally saying the words that have etched out her insides for so many weeks. “Why did he remember? The curse wasn’t broken yet.” She swipes at her wet eyes with her free hand. “I don’t understand why him and no one else.”

“I don’t know why.” Her mother gives her a sad smile. “Maybe it was because someone had a grip on his heart. It made him fight that much harder to remember who he was.”

“You think Regina really-?” She can’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t want to finish the sentence. Because Regina is Henry’s mother too and he’s with her right now, and if Emma thought for one minute that -

“I don’t know.” Her mother shakes her head. “Actually, though, I meant you.”

Emma feels a dull flush creep up the back of her neck at the thought, the memory of that last soft kiss making her chest twist with an unsettling mixture of longing and confusion. “Graham and me, we weren’t - it wasn’t like that.”

“Maybe not.” Mary Margaret squeezes her hand. “But there was something there, right? The two of you had connected, and that always means something.”

They sit in silence for a long moment, and Emma feels something deep inside her heart crack, a hairline fracture of grief and missed chances. “He saved your life, and just look how your daughter repaid him.”

Her mother straightens in her chair, her bright eyes sparking, her jaw set, and Emma suddenly knows she is no longer talking to Mary Margaret Blanchard but Snow White, the rightful ruler of the Enchanted Forest. “You gave him back his true self, Emma.”

The bitterness would burn a hole in her tongue if she let it. “For all the good it did him.”

“He was a man of honour.” Her mother’s voice drops to a soothing murmur. “If he died doing the right thing, he would have thought it a good death.”

Emma presses her lips together into a tight line. One day she might buy the line Mary Margaret is giving her, but it’s not today. Knowing she’s reached her capacity for confidences about that night, she gives her mother an unsteady smile, then touches the bootlace wrapped around her wrist. “Speaking of keepsakes-”

“I’ve been wondering about that.” Her mother offers her a gentle smile. “I don’t remember seeing you wear it before-”

She stops, a faint flush colouring her face. Ignoring the words that are shimmering in the space between them – before Graham died – Emma shrugs.

“I didn’t have anything to remember him by. Gold gave me those walkie talkies for Henry, but I wanted something more-"

“Personal?”

“His spare boots were still in his office when I took over.” Emma smiles at the memory, and the hurt is still there, but it’s tempered, faintly dulled around the edges. “He’d made such a big song and dance about how both laces had broken within an hour of each other, and how he’d swap me a donut run for a trip to the store to buy a replacement pair.” She looks at her mother. “It sounds crazy, I know, but at least it was something, you know? Something that I could keep.”

Mary Margaret pushes back her chair with a sudden scrape, then leans down, curling one arm around Emma’s shoulders and hugging her tight. “I’ve been staring at a thirty-year old whistle all afternoon,” she murmurs, a faint tremor in her voice. “Who am I to say what’s crazy?”

Emma chokes back a bark of stupid, ridiculous laughter (because how can she laugh when she feels as though all they’ve done this afternoon is open up a whole new can of worms) and wonders how the hell she is going to look Madam Mayor in the face without punching her in said face the next time she sees her. But the solid warmth of her mother’s small frame is more comforting than she had even imagined possible, and maybe one day it will be possible for her to keep putting one foot in front of the other without looking backwards with every step. “Is it time for wine now?”

She feels the brush of her mother's kiss on her forehead, and wonders just who is comforting who. “Definitely.”

~*~

Spice up Your Life (1/1) - Once Upon a Time (Emma/Hook)

msgenevieve — Thu, 20 Feb 2014 09:34:50 GMT

Title: Spice up Your Life (one-shot)
Fandom: Once Upon a Time
Genre: UST, humour, fluff
Pairing: Emma Swan/Killian "Captain Hook" Jones
Rating: M for Mild sexy times
Summary: In hindsight, maybe she should have warned him. Then again, she thinks, this is the most fun she’s had in days, so maybe not.
Author's note: I don't know what this is, to be honest. I was cooking Mexican food on the weekend and had a sudden mental picture of "Hook vs The Hot Pepper" and it kind of snowballed from there. It's set vaguely in Season Three (with no Big Bads currently chasing them).

~*~

In hindsight, maybe she should have warned him.

Then again, she thinks, this is the most fun she’s had in days, so maybe not.

“Bloody hell!” He chokes out the words through his teeth, his normally melodious speech-pattern a strangled shadow of its usual self. He coughs once, then twice, glaring at the generous layer of green sauce he’d just splashed over his hunter’s stew. “What kind of dark magic is this?”

“No magic,” she tells him, biting the inside of her mouth to keep from smirking. “Just Granny’s homemade jalapeno sauce.” He looks at her blankly with watering eyes, twin spots of colour staining his cheekbones, and she realises he has no idea what she’s talking about. What was it about the Enchanted Forest people and Mexican food? “Jalapenos. They’re a type of hot pepper - hey, are you crying?”

His reply is swift, and a complete and utter lie. “No.” He blinks rapidly, long eyelashes glistening with tears, dabbing his mouth with a paper napkin in a quietly frantic way that she knows from experience will do nothing to alleviate the chilli burn he’s suffering. She sips her hot chocolate and waits, knowing an entertainingly eloquent diatribe is surely on its way.

He doesn’t disappoint. “Why would anyone create such a disagreeable potion?” He taps his fork hard against the side of the glass bottle of Granny’s admittedly scarily hot homemade sauce, almost knocking it over. “What is the point of streaming eyes and a tongue so scorched that a man can no longer taste his food?”

“Granny always makes it extra hot.” She shrugs, watching him as he tries to wipe his watering eyes without her noticing, enjoying the show more than she cares to admit. When he’d dropped uninvited into Henry’s newly vacated seat across from her with a winsome grin, the thought of telling him she’d rather eat dinner alone hadn’t even occurred to her. Not that they’d actually eaten dinner together - she’d finished her meal before his had even arrived - but he’d entertained her with stories of his adventures on the high seas (of varied and occasionally dubious validity) while she ate, and made her laugh more than once. Her days have become kind of predictable lately - that was saying something in this place – and despite the fact that being with him made her feel as though someone has turned her insides into a butter churner, he’s good company. Company that is currently red-faced and teary-eyed, she thinks with a pang of empathy. “Some people like to add a little kick to their food.”

Muttering something that sounds very much like a string of curse words most likely to be favoured by a 300 year old pirate, he reaches for his tankard of beer, obviously wanting to douse the fire on his tongue. Before she knows what she’s doing, she’s wrapping her fingers around his wrist, stilling his hand.

“Don’t drink that.”

He frowns, then his gaze drops to where her hand is curled around his wrist, fingertips pressed against his pulse. Lifting his eyes to hers, he licks his lips, and something hot tightens low in her belly. “Why not?”

She suddenly very much wants to brush her thumb across the back of his hand to see if it’s as warm as the soft skin of his wrist, and the realisation has her awkwardly releasing her grasp. “It’ll only make it worse.” She toys briefly with the idea of explaining how capsaicin stimulates the tongue and why alcohol definitely won’t help, but God help her, she cannot have a conversation with this man about his tongue. Besides, Henry may have left the booth, but his half-finished milkshake remains. “Drink this, it’ll help,” she assures him as she slides the glass across the table. “Hope you like chocolate.”

Whether he likes it or not, he doesn’t say, but either out of discomfort or complete faith in her, he doesn’t hesitate. He gulps the chocolate milk down like a liquid lifeline, reddened lips pursed and cheeks faintly hollowed out, and watching him drink a milkshake through a candy-striped straw shouldn’t make her shift uncomfortably in her seat but it does, and she has no freaking idea what she’s going to do about it.

After downing all but an inch of Henry’s chocolate milk, his eyes have stopped watering, the flush gradually fading from his face. Carefully scraping the layer of green sauce to one side, he takes a cautious bite of unsullied stew, then swallows with obvious relief. “I’ve seen the Prince pour that devil’s liquid all over his food on more than one occasion.”

He sounds faintly resentful, and it suddenly becomes clear. Ah, she thinks, and it’s even harder to keep from grinning. Monkey see, monkey do. It seems her dinner companion is not above taking his social cues from her father. Which is all very well, she supposes (if a little weird) but who would have thought the dread pirate Hook would be bested by a condiment?

Finally giving into the urge to grin, she smiles at him as she wraps her hands around her mug. “David likes his food spicy.”

His gaze drops to her smiling mouth, dances lightly over her neck (the ponytail seemed like a good choice this morning, but right now, she’s not so sure) then back up to meet her eyes. “Is that right?” She would swear that he hasn’t moved an inch in his seat, but his knee is suddenly close enough to brush against hers underneath the table, and there is no way that the simple contact of a kneecap against hers should make her think things she has no business thinking in broad daylight in public but again, it does. “Tell me, love. Are you your father’s daughter when it comes to liking certain things…hot?”

He clicks his tongue on the last word, the T sounding hard and ridiculously tantalising, and a prickle of heat dances down her spine, spreading across her chest and belly until she’s sure she’s blushing from scalp to toenails and every single nook and cranny in between.

She should say something. She should definitely shift her knee away from his under the table, but something seems to be short-circuiting the connection between her brain and her body, and that something is sitting across from her in this damned booth, his mouth curved in a smile that makes more than clear he knows exactly why she’s fidgeting in her seat.

His knee presses against hers once again, then she feels the brush of his calf against hers, and she suddenly feels as though she’s swallowed a bucket of Granny’s green sauce herself.

“Mom!”

She’s saved by Henry, who suddenly materialises at her elbow, talking a mile-a-minute about his horse and how David was going to show him how to joust. Doing her best to ignore Hook’s ‘this is not over, Swan’ expression, she hastily slides out of her side of the booth. “Jousting? Seriously?”

She shoos Henry back towards the counter and David, then leans down, putting her lips to Hook’s ear, belatedly answering his question with one of her own. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

A muscle twitches in his jaw, then he tilts his head, just enough to let his mouth hover dangerously close to hers. “I think we've established the answer to that question, love.”

Safety in numbers no longer feels safe in any way, shape or form.

After another hour or so spent with Henry and David (who would have thought she would be related to people who could talk about sword fighting for that long?), an hour during which she very carefully doesn’t look in Hook’s direction, it’s finally time to flee while her dignity is still semi-intact.

“I can drop Henry at Regina’s if you like,” David offers brightly (and a little too loudly) as they make their way to the door of the diner. “You’ve pulled the early shift all week, you should go home, put your feet up.”

She barely has time to blink before Henry agrees, hugs her tightly, and then they’re gone, leaving her to make her way out of the diner alone. A moment later, she’s utterly unsurprised to find her erstwhile dinner companion strolling out behind her into the early evening cool. The familiar thrill of tension starts to hum through her blood, and she suddenly wonders just how much longer she can keep running around in circles with this man.

“Leaving without saying goodnight, Swan? That’s hardly a good example for a well-mannered sheriff to be setting.” He’s walking beside her now, matching his gait to hers, his leather-clad shoulder almost but not quite brushing hers. “What would the Mayor say?”

“Well, I won’t tell if you don’t,” she says lightly, and is rewarded by the sound of his rough chuckle. Perhaps she should be irritated that he’s once again dogging her every step, but there is something innately comforting about having him trudge alongside her. The streetlights have already flickered on, glowing in the darkening street. She knows the illusion of being alone with him is just that, an illusion, but it’s enough to make her feel faintly reckless.

“How’s your tongue?” He quirks a suggestive eyebrow, and she feels a dull heat creep up the back of her neck. Damn it. She used to be so much better at this sort of thing, and she’s pretty sure she knows the reason why she constantly feels as though she’s tripping over her own thoughts these days. “I mean, no lasting damage?”

His right hand curls around her elbow, drawing her gently into the shadows thrown by the side wall of Granny’s dinner. Leaning back against the wall, he tugs her closer, his hand sliding up her arm until his fingertips brush the end of her ponytail. “Well, it’s hard to say,” he murmurs, his fingers tangling softly in her hair, fingertips teasing the line of her collarbone. “You tell me.”

Then he’s kissing her, his mouth warm and firm, his hand curling around the nape of her neck. It’s a slow, languid tasting at first, keeping time with her breath and her heartbeat, then she opens her mouth to his kiss and his tongue tangles with hers, and it’s no longer slow and no longer languid but a greedy hot living thing that has her clutching at his shoulders and arching against him. He tastes sweet and spicy, like chocolate and salt and God help her, green chili, and she wants to devour him whole. Sinking her teeth into his bottom lip, she pushes him against the wall with the weight of her body, her feet almost tripping over his in her haste.

He mutters something rough and broken, then his hand is sliding into her hair, dislodging her ponytail with a gentle jerk, the cool metal of his hook finding the thin band of exposed skin at the small of her back, making her shudder. “Emma,” he mutters in a dark, thick voice, his breath hot against her throat, then his right hand is sliding down her back and pressing her hard against him, letting her feel him, the rigid thrust of him finding the soft, hollow ache between her thighs. Oh, God. Operating on pure instinct, she hooks one leg around his, rocking her hips against him, and the pleasure that shoots through her is verging on the point of pain.

A low groan shakes his chest, and she thinks she can taste the shudder that goes through him. This is madness, she knows, but she’s so tired of being so many things to so many people and right now, she’s the woman this man wants with every breath in his body, and that’s a heady intoxication all its own.

“Maybe we should get out of-” His mouth covers hers in another kiss that has her scrambling to get closer, stealing her words. Her hands slide over his chest, gliding beneath his heavy silver pendant, finding warm skin and crisp hair and tight muscles that tense at her touch and why on earth has she waited so long to do this –

“Emma? Are you still here?”

Fuck.

The sound of her father’s voice calling her name is like a dozen buckets of cold water. Hook swears softly under his breath, but when he lifts his head, his smile is one of resignation, as though he’s not in the least surprised they’ve been interrupted.

Putting one hand flat on his chest, she pushes him back into the shadows, then lifts a finger to her lips. He raises his eyebrows, his kiss-reddened mouth curving in a smug smile, but he finally nods. Smoothing back her hair, she plasters a smile on her face and strolls back to the front of Granny’s diner to find David’s truck idling at the kerb, her son’s apologetic face at the passenger window. “Sorry, Emma. I left my game in your car.”

She smiles at him, truly hoping he’s naïve enough not to wonder why her lip gloss is now smeared ten ways from Sunday. “Can’t survive a night without it,” she agrees wryly, making her way to her car on legs that feel like cooked lasagne noodles. She finds the game shoved down the side of the passenger seat, then tosses it to her son with a grin. “Good luck beating that high score, kid.”

“Everything okay?” David is looking at her with wide eyes. “We were heading back to the loft but then we saw your car was still here-”

“Everything’s good. Just checking a few things out.” Smiling, Emma goes to tap the sheriff’s badge on her belt. When her fingers find nothing but her belt, she realises that her badge must be lying on the ground in the shadows behind Granny’s place. Right next to the boots worn by the pirate she’d just been kissing and feeling up. You know how it is, Dad.

David doesn’t look convinced, but to her relief, he nods. “Don’t stay out too late.” He flashes her a grin. “I can’t have my boss burning out.”

She waves them off (again) with an audible sigh of relief. Without turning her head, she addresses the man who has magically materialised at her shoulder. “Are you staying at Granny’s?”

His hand is on her back, under her leather jacket, one single fingertip trailing down her spine, shooting tiny arrows of sensation in its wake. “Not tonight.”

She closes her eyes as the hand slides further down, his palm warm against her hip and then the curve of her ass, making her inhale a sharp breath. “Want a lift to the docks?”

His hand stills, then she feels the warmth of his breath on the nape of her neck, the perennial three-day growth of stubble of his chin scraping lightly against her skin. “Are you sure that’s wise, love?”

“Pretty sure it’s not.” She leans backwards, her back pressed against his chest, her hips pushing back against his with an accuracy that has him sucking in a sharp breath of his own. “But maybe it’s time to spice a few things up.”

“If you insist, Sheriff.” He curves his right arm around her, hand sliding across her belly, fingertips brushing the zipper of her jeans. Her legs turning to water, she opens her mouth to tell him that she can’t, not here, God, please don’t stop, then she feels the click of her badge being clipped onto her belt. “I confess I’ve acquired a sudden taste for it myself.”

~*~

Six Impossible Things (Before Breakfast) - Once Upon a Time (1/1)

msgenevieve — Thu, 19 Dec 2013 02:02:14 GMT

Title: Six Impossible Things (Before Breakfast)
Fandom: Once Upon a Time
Genre: Angst, UST, missing scene, Emma POV
Pairing: Emma Swan/Killian "Captain Hook" Jones
Rating:M (some salty language and mild sexy times)
Summary: Once upon a time (the time she usually thinks of as Before Henry), Emma Swan had a basic grasp of fairy tale lore. She knew the basics, as much as any child shunted through the foster system can know them, and it seems to her that every single day of her life now (otherwise known as After Henry) brings a new way to debunk every single story she thinks she knows. (spoilers for 2.05, 2.06, 3.05, 3.10 and 3.11)
Author's note: This is a companion piece to "The Long Game", because I simply couldn't help myself. It contains spoilers for the above episodes and dialogue that was certainly not written by me.The title and theme was inspired by, of course, "Into the Looking Glass".

~*~

Once upon a time (the time she usually thinks of as Before Henry), Emma Swan had a basic grasp of fairy tale lore. She knew the basics, as much as any child shunted through the foster system can know them, and it seems to her that every single day of her life now (otherwise known as After Henry) brings a new way to debunk every single story she thinks she knows.

One thing remains the same, though. She’s still trying to believe six freaking impossible things before breakfast. It’s not as though she’s short on new things to let sink in, after all.

Today’s impossible thing? Oh, well, now that’s a doozy. That’s a one-handed blacksmith with the kind of face and white-toothed smile she last saw in the pages of a GQ magazine she’d liberated from the communal laundry room in her apartment building.

“So much for fortune favouring the brave,” she comments mildly, smiling inwardly as she sees the veiled insult hit home. This one doesn’t like being accused of being anything less than courageous, it seems.

“It was all I could do to survive.” There’s a catch in his voice that doesn’t ring true. It’s a coward’s voice, mouthing excuses, and it’s a voice completely at odds with the banked fire of determination flaring at the back of his bright blue eyes.

Putting her elbows on the roughly hewed table between them, she leans forward, invading his space in a way she’s done to so many people over so many different tables. When she’s close enough to see the way his pupils dilate and smell the strange scent of his skin and hair (brine and dust and what she’s come to recognise as the lingering handprint of magic), she smiles at him. “I’m going to let you in on a little secret.”

His jaw twitches, and for a split-second she sees the real man behind the façade. Then it’s gone, and he’s staring at her earnestly once more. Oh, he’s good, she thinks with grudging admiration. Most people would fall for his ‘poor me’ act, but unfortunately for him, however, she’s not most people. “I’m pretty good at knowing when someone is lying to me.”

Again his jaw clenches, and she knows she has him. “I’m telling you the truth,” he insists softly, his eyes never leaving hers, and she again feels a flicker of admiration. Which is one flicker too many as far as she’s concerned.

She watches him as he does his best to butter up her mother – you have a grandson? – and smiles at Mulan and Aurora as though meeting them has been the best thing that’s ever happened to him. So intent is he on charming them, he doesn’t notice her slip behind him, her dagger steady in her hand. “It so happens that I know this land well. I can guide you-”

Okay, Blacksmith Boy, that’s enough. Let’s find out who you really are. His words die in his throat as she pulls his head backwards, her hand fisted tight in his hair. “We’re not going anywhere until you tell us who you really are.”

His throat works as he swallows hard, his eyes frantically searching hers. “I already told you.”

“Well, about that.” She lets the point of her dagger press just hard enough against his pulse to make him suck in a sharp breath. “I know what you told me. Now I want to know the truth.” He says nothing, his chin lifting as they stare at each other, and she feels an odd sliding sensation, something flaring between them that unsettles her mental footing, making her want to take a step backwards.

Time for a change of tactic, she decides hastily, and luckily the Enchanted Forest has quite a few resources for what she has in mind. Seriously, would it be too much to ask for an ogre or two back in her world when she needed them? She can think of a few takedowns when one would have been very handy.

Her current target continues to protest his innocence as Mary Margaret and Mulan tighten the ropes holding him against the most intimidating tree she can find, and he doesn’t budge from his story, not even when the air above them begins to shake and she can literally see the cracks in his assumed identity growing wider with every passing second.

The trees around them and the earth beneath them tremble, the tremors coming faster and faster, a dire warning that they are all in danger of death by ogre if they don’t move. Finally, she knows she either has to deliver a sucker punch for a confession or cut her losses and leave him behind to die - the latter prospect strangely unappealing – so she throws the dice one last time.

It works.

“Good for you!”

She turns back, pushing aside the unexpected feeling of relief that she’s not going to have his death on her conscience. As she walks towards him, he sheds the persona of downtrodden blacksmith in front of her very eyes, making her blink. His grin is more devilish than imploring now, and the gleam in his eyes has her wanting to reach for the dagger tucked into her boot. “You bested me,” he continues almost cheerfully, looking at her as though she’s passed some kind of test she had no idea she was taking. “I can count the number of people who’ve done that on one hand!”

“Is that supposed to be funny?” He shrugs, a cavalier lifting of his shoulders, and it’s clear he’s in the habit of making jokes regarding his missing hand before anyone else can get a word in edgeways on the subject. “Who are you?”

He gives her a mocking little nod, and she has the sudden sense that it would be a mocking little bow if he was able. “Killian Jones.” Another self-depreciating smile. “Others have taken to calling me by my more colourful moniker.” His smile vanishes, his gaze locking with hers. “Hook.”

She stares at him. Okay. Better make that seven freaking impossible things before breakfast, because nothing she's ever read or seen about Captain Hook in the real world could have prepared her for this guy. “As in Captain Hook?”

He looks absurdly pleased for a man tied to a tree against his will. “Ah, so you’ve heard of me.” He turns to address her mother, nodding towards the bag in her hands. “Check my satchel,” he instructs, and soon Mary Margaret’s gasp and the sudden gleam of silver in the fading sunlight confirms his story, but Emma didn’t need confirmation. He’d stopped lying to her as soon as he’d admitted she’d bested him. Very odd behaviour for a pirate, but then again, what would she know?

A few minutes later, her head filled with stories of Cora and golden compasses and enchanted wardrobe dust, she makes her choice. The trees and earth are shuddering around them, a hoarse unworldly bellow renting the air. Time to go. “Tell me something,” she says in a rush, her dagger a reassuringly solid weight in her hand, “and whatever you say I’d better believe it. Why does Captain Hook want to go to Storybrooke?”

“To exact revenge on the man who took my hand.” He glares at her, and she almost takes a step back at the impact of his gaze. “Rumplestiltskin.”

Crap. He’s telling the truth again, and despite the fact that he’s basically telling her that he plans on murdering one of her fellow townspeople, she can’t help but admire his gumption. They study each other for a long moment, and she has the oddest sense of empathy. Which is impossible, of course, because he’s a fairy tale pirate bent on bloody revenge and she’s, well, she’s still working on that one. “Fine,” she finally spits out, ignoring the pointed silence from the women behind her. “But if you put one foot out of line-”

His mouth twitches. “You have my word.”

“Pretty sure that’s not as reassuring as you think it is,” she mutters as she glances at Mulan over her shoulder, wordlessly asking for help releasing their captive guest.

“You have me at a disadvantage, love,” he murmurs in a voice clearly meant only for her ears as she slices at the ropes binding him. “I don’t believe I caught your name.”

“It’s Emma.” She keeps her tone as flat as possible, because the last thing she wants to do is invite small talk with this guy. Why she then tells him her full name, she has no idea. “Emma Swan.”

Something flickers in his bright gaze, a dark knowledge that burns for a few seconds, then vanishes just as quickly, leaving behind nothing more than a smirk that makes her want to punch him. “That’s a lovely name, lass.”

She rolls her eyes, already regretting her decision to allow him to accompany them, but he’s told her the truth and he can find a way for them to get home, and a deal’s a deal.

She cuts him free.

~*~

“Have you even been in love?”

Emma’s left foot almost misses its target, and she quickly scrambles for a better hold. This is quite possibly the most bizarre conversation she’s ever had, and considering what’s been happening in her life over the last few months, that’s saying something.

Climbing a giant beanstalk while wearing an enchanted bracelet in order to knock out a bean-destroying giant to steal his golden compass? She can deal with that. Climbing said beanstalk while a handsome (yes, she has eyes, okay?) pirate quizzes her on her love life? Pretty sure she never signed up for speed dating, Enchanted Forest style.

“No. I have never been in love.”

Denial is a good distraction.

As their climb wears on, though, it’s as though she can’t help herself. He’s just so fucking enthusiastic about the whole thing, taking each of her monosyllabic answers and turning them back on her. She’s never had someone speak to her the way he does, and she doesn’t think she can blame it solely on him being from another time, another world. His bright blue eyes sparkle as he tosses yet another quip back at her, his mouth curved in a perpetual smile, and she can’t help feeling that his claim of enjoying a challenge is all too true. She’s at a loss to understand his motivation in wanting to get to know her better. Quite frankly, she’s never met anyone like him in her life.

Then again, she’s pretty sure he’s never met anyone like her before, either.

She’s barely aware of slicing open her palm with her last grasp of the vine before they reach the top, so how the hell he noticed, she has no idea. His concern takes her by surprise, but even more surprising is the awareness that flares into life the moment he catches her arm with his hook and pulls her close. A worrying handsome pirate who has been showing an intense interest in her psyche for the last few hours is one thing, but that same worryingly handsome pirate playing doctor and doing incredibly dexterous things with his mouth to dress her wound is another.

He finally finishes his ministrations, his breath hot on her knuckles. Her throat is dry, and if a giant red flashing ‘danger’ sign had magically appeared above his head, she wouldn’t have been surprised. She can feel her spine starting to arch, the instinct to sway closer to him itching at her skin, and she gives herself a mental shake.

No. This – whatever the hell this is - is not part of the plan.

Then again, neither is grabbing him to stop him from falling over a trip wire a few minutes later and feeling the solid warmth of his body flush against hers for an endless second. Neither is the flutter that squeezes her chest when his long fingers toy with the strands of her hair as he invites her to repeat the performance anytime she likes.

Time to get the compass and get the hell out of Dodge, she tells herself. Once they’re back on the ground, she’ll have the others around her and the incessant flirting might stop and she can get a chance to catch her breath. Because every passing moment she spends with him, she feels that initial sense of empathy evolving and growing and becoming something that unsettles her to the point of making her want to jump out of her skin.

Hook’s down for the count when she finally gets the upper hand with the giant (his name is Anton, as it turns out), and she doesn’t want to think about the relief that sweeps over her when she sees the pirate’s chest steadily rising and falling where he lays near the rubble that fell from the roof. She and the giant (sorry, Anton) reach an accord surprisingly quickly, and she belatedly recognises yet another soul who has been left all alone.

An orphan’s an orphan.

Hook had been right, but she can’t afford to have his voice in her head.

More importantly, she can’t afford to trust him.

She can’t, because she can’t trust her own instincts, not when it comes to this. Because when she looks at his face and his smile and the touch of his warm hand, she sees a very different face, and she’s not going through that again. Not now, not ever.

“You want to leave him here with me until midnight?” Anton is looking down at her, his puzzled expression almost comical as she finishes telling him what she wants him to do for her. “I don’t understand. Isn’t he your friend?”

Emma edges closes, keeping her voice low. “Not exactly. We only just met today, you see.”

The giant frowns. “But he was helping you, right?”

Ouch. She nods, ignoring her prickling conscience. “He was, but he has also been helping someone else. Someone who has been trying to kill me and my friends.”

Anton scowls. “That’s humans for you.”

She beams up at him. “Some of us are very friendly.” Darting a quick glance at where she can hear the faint sounds of her guide stirring, she looks back at Anton. “Just – don’t hurt him, okay?”

The giant shrugs. “A deal’s a deal.”

He slips away (although ‘slips’ isn’t exactly the right word when each footstep makes the ground shake) by the time Hook gingerly starts to get to his feet, shuffling forward on his hands and knees until he reaches her side. His smile, though, could light up the whole of Storybrooke, and the pricking of her conscience suddenly gets a whole lot sharper. “You are bloody brilliant! Amazing!” he announces as he takes her outstretched hand, letting her help him clear the last of the rubble. He’s shaking his head, as if he can’t believe his luck, as if he can’t believe her. “May I see it? The compass?”

Come on, she tells herself as he coos over the compass cradled in her hand. You can do this. You’ve done this a hundred times before. It’s nothing personal, just a quick apprehension for the greater good.

His smile falters only slightly when she slides the compass back into her pocket, his eyes still alight with the glee that only comes with success as he holds out his hand to her. “Come, let’s go.” She swallows hard, then takes his hand in hers. His grip is firm and warm, the sudden reality of what she’s about to do making the perfect fit of his palm against hers that much harder to dismiss.

I’m sorry.

The click of the metal shackle as she closes it around his right wrist seems to reverberate through the cavernous room. He’s on his feet in a heartbeat, his shock painfully evident. “What are you doing?” When she doesn’t answer – she can’t – he raises his voice, straining against the chain. “What are you doing?”

Saving me from myself, she wants to say, but doesn’t, of course. “Hook, I-I can’t-”

“Emma, look at me.” She does, and immediately regrets it, because he is looking at her as though she’s the only person worth a damn in his life. Which can’t possibly be true, so why on earth isn’t she already halfway down the damned beanstalk? “Have I told you a lie?” His faith in her ability to sniff out liars might have been flattering if she wasn’t in the throes of a crisis of conscience. When she doesn’t answer, he goes on, his voice breaking on every other word, and she knows everything he is saying to her is the complete and utter truth. “I brought you here, I risked my own safety to help you. The compass is in your hands.” His shoulders slump, arms falling loosely to his sides, his eyes fever bright. “Why do this to me now?”

“I can’t take a chance that I’m wrong about you.” The truth trips over her tongue in a reluctant whisper, but it’s not a good enough reason, not for him. He waits, his shocked gaze burning into hers, and she knows she has to leave now before she changes her mind. “I’m sorry,” she tells him, and it pains her to realise just how sorry she is.

Her apology isn’t good enough for him either. “You’re sorry?” He spits the words at her, sounding beyond furious. “I got you here. I got you the compass.”

“I got the compass,” she shoots back, knowing she’s merely clutching at semantic straws, but strangely enough, he seems to accept that particular argument.

“Well, are you just going to leave me here to die?” She sees his throat work as he swallows. “Have that beast crush me, eat my bones.” For the first time since she held her dagger to his throat, she sees real fear in his eyes.

It’s not something of which she’s proud, but guilt tends to make her defensive, and it seems today is running true to form. “He’s not a beast, and you’re not going to die.” She starts to back away, her hand curved over the weight of the compass in her jacket pocket, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. “I just need a head start. That’s all.”

She flees, and the sound of her name being invoked as a brand new curse word (interwoven with the ferocious clanking of metal) lingers in her head long after she’s reached the ground.

It’s only two days later, when she faces him through the bars of Rumplestiltskin’s old cell, that she realises just how deeply a betrayal can wound a man. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he truly mourned about the loss of their budding partnership. “You would have done the same,” she tells him, knowing she’s asking for validation, for reassurance that she’s not the bad guy here, and his eyes gleam with an emotion she can’t begin to fathom.

“Actually, no."

Her heart drops. Just two words, but they sure pack a fucking giant punch. Then he’s gone, trailing after Cora, leaving her behind, and this time, no shouting of his name will bring him back.

~*~

“Please. You couldn’t handle it.”

His eyebrow quirks, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Perhaps you’re the one who couldn’t handle it.”

That damned eyebrow thing and the fact he is clearly laughing at her are more than enough to make her hands twitch with the urge to slap him. Afterwards, she will struggle to pinpoint the moment she decided to call his bluff instead. Right now, all she knows is that she wants him to shut up.

It’s a moment of pure madness, and she willingly yields.

We’ll see about that, she tells him silently, then her hands are gripping his lapels and jerking him forward and her mouth is on his and she is kissing him. It’s one-sided for a heartbeat, then he’s kissing her back hungrily, his mouth opening to her kiss, the first touch of his tongue against hers sending a shock of desire clawing through her.

His hand slides into her hair, holding her steady, his mouth tasting hers again and again, but still letting her lead, letting her take from him exactly what she wants. Oh, and she wants.

She feels the scrape of his beard against her cheek and imagines how it might feel against other, softer skin, and her hands tighten on his coat as a rush of heat floods her blood. God, she needs to stop, they need to stop, but she doesn’t and they don’t, the kiss going on and on and changing and becoming dangerously more than just calling his bluff. They sway together, his right hand still cupping the back of her head, her fingers digging so hard into the lapels of his coat that she knows without looking that her knuckles are white. She tastes his groan, feels the desire thrumming through him, and knows if she pressed closer, let her body find his, she’d feel him, the hard thrust of his body against hers, right where she’s suddenly aching and empty and needing –

Fuck.

Needing him like this was not in the plan.

She can’t. Not now.

She finally finds the willpower to pull away, but her hands don’t seem to want to obey, and neither do her feet. They stand together in the warm press of Neverland air, the sound of insects and god-knows-what else surrounding them, an endless moment of indecision and she just needs a moment to remember who he really is, what he really is, but the warm pull of his body so close to hers is making it impossible to think.

His breath is rough and hot against her mouth, his nose brushing against her in an unspoken invitation. His right hand ghosts over the curve of her hip, the faintest brush of his fingertips against the fabric of her shirt making her shudder. She hears him inhale a long, dragging breath, then two words that seem to come up from the depths of his chest. “That was-”

Suddenly afraid of what he’s going to say, she finds her errant willpower. She can’t do this.

“A one-time thing,” she tells him, tells herself, the words a buffer between his mouth and hers, a desperate attempt to stop herself from leaning forward and catching his kiss-swollen bottom lip between her teeth. She pulls back, releasing his coat lapels, her hands damp, her stomach roiling with an uneasy heat that has nothing to do with the jungle around them. She turns on her heel, putting one foot in front of the other, putting enough distance between them so it will be easier to pretend her heart isn’t hammering against her ribs so hard that the whole of freaking Neverland can probably hear it.

“Don’t follow me. Wait five minutes.” She falls back into the one thing she knows, making plans, thinking one step ahead. Covering her tracks. She needs to get away from him before she does something she’s afraid she won’t regret. “Go get some firewood or something.”

“As you wish.”

The soft words wash over her, making her falter, her stride trembling for an instant. There’s no way he could know that reference from her world, she tells herself. It would be impossible, she thinks.

But since when something being impossible ever stopped him?

~*~

She doesn’t realise how much she’s taken his presence for granted until he’s not there.

Back on dry land, it’s as though everything that passed between them in Neverland never happened. She’s swept up in reunions and hugs and praise, and every time she tries to find his gaze with hers, he’s very carefully not looking at her. Finally, she gives up, letting herself be carried along by the tide of her family (and Neal), fighting the urge to look back over her shoulder to make sure he was following.

Henry, too, is strangely distant, his gaze alighting everywhere except her face, and he suddenly seems so much older than his years. A cruel irony that, in the one place where time was supposed to stand still, her son’s eyes seems to have aged a lifetime in only a few days.

They all end up at Granny’s, eating and drinking (and using the indoor plumbing, thank God), and she can’t hold back the wave of the relief that washes over her when she sees Hook’s familiar profile at the counter. She knows he’s seen her (it irritates that she can read his body language so well but still have no idea what’s going on in his head), but he doesn’t turn to greet her. Instead, he sips his beer and makes small talk with the dwarves, and she should be happy that he’s trying to fit in, but all she feels is abandoned. Which is ridiculous, because she’s being literally smothered by people every single moment. They’re just not the right people.

The long day unfolds and, time after time, she finds herself turn to speak to him, to share something with him. And every time he’s not there, his absence is like a punch to a bruise, a dull pain that niggles and burns beneath the skin.

Neal, however, is another story. He’s at her shoulder, smiling at her whenever he can catch her eye, bringing her Henry’s storybook as though presenting her with some kind of prize. He’s home, Henry is safe, his father has redeemed himself, so apparently he’s decided that it’s time to mend fences with her.

The problem is, she’s not sure they’re worth mending.

She’s well aware of her mother’s thoughts on the Neal issue. She’s also well aware that Mary Margaret is an eternal optimist who doesn’t know the whole story when it comes to Henry’s father. She loves her mother, she does, but right now, she’s suffocating, and the last place she wants to be tomorrow at lunch time is sitting across a booth from Neal making awkward conversation about why he never came looking for her once the curse was broken.

She finally leaves Granny’s just before midnight, planning to accompany her parents back to their shared apartment. Hook is still there, tucked into a back corner with Grumpy and Tinkerbell. Whatever story the fairy is telling them, it clearly has both men enthralled. As though he senses her watching him, Hook lifts his head, his gaze meeting hers with a dark accuracy that makes the gooseflesh rise up on her arms. She wonders briefly if she should join him, but they haven’t spoken a word to each other all day, and the strangeness of the situation has her wrong-footed in all the worst ways. Instead, she merely nods to where her parents are standing at the door waiting for her, and he gives her a tight smile, raising his beer tankard to her in what feels like a mocking salute. By the time she reaches the door, he’s already turned away from her, back to Tinkerbell and her pretty laughing face and Grumpy’s slaps on the back.

Fine, she thinks as she strides out into the cold night air. He wants to be detached? She can do detached better than anyone.

Henry is gone, having asked to spend the night at Regina’s – which is a whole other world of weirdness that doesn’t seem to bother anyone else – and she sleeps in her own bed for the first time in what feels like an eternity. Her dreams are filled with jungle green mist, the cries of the Lost Boys, the unearthly screech of shadows as they swoop above her head. When she jolts awake just before dawn, the sheets tangled around her bare legs, she knows she was dreaming of him. Slumping backwards, she punches her pillow, biting her bottom lip hard as though that might chase away the dream, the memory of his mouth on hers, hot and hard and wanting.

The next day, she doesn’t go to the diner.

Instead, she heads towards the water. She doesn’t go to the dock where the Jolly Roger is moored - she’s not that much of a glutton for punishment - but she’s close enough, and every passing moment that she doesn’t see his familiar swagger along the shore, something dims a little inside her. She needs to talk to him, needs to talk to him about Henry, to have him listen to her in his quiet watchful way, the way in which no one else ever seems to listen to her.

When a man-shaped figure does appear, it’s her father. She knows her mother has sent him, and she knows why he’s here. She doesn’t want to talk about Neal, though. She wants to talk about Henry.

Her father – very gently, of course – brushes aside her concerns. Henry’s been through a lot, he’s re-adjusting, by tomorrow night he’ll want to come home again. When the conversation turns to Neal, as she knew it would, she bites back her sigh of frustration. She’s never going to hear the end of it unless she gets in that truck and goes to Granny’s, so she does, feeling as though every step is taking her closer to a waiting trap, like Pan’s damn shadow being sucked into that coconut.

As so often happens in Storybrooke, things go awry very quickly. Chaos descends the moment they reach the diner, a woman’s shriek piercing the air. She barely has time to clamber out of David’s truck before she almost smacks headfirst into Hook and Tinkerbell, who have just rushed out of guest accommodation entrance of Granny’s. The captain looks like a man who’s been up all night, his hair mussed, his face flushed, and he seems to be finding it very difficult to meet her eyes. Next to him, Tinkerbell looks as though she wants the ground to swallow her whole, and the words are out of Emma’s mouth before she can stop them. “Wait, were you two-?” Appalled at herself, she bites off the words, but the damage is already done.

The fairy looks scandalised. “No!”

Hook, on the other hand, merely shrugs, his eyes finally meeting hers. “Perhaps,” he tosses back at her, his tone almost defiant, and something dark and unpleasant burns in the pit of her stomach. They’re the first words they’ve exchanged since their return to Storybrooke, and it’s not exactly the conversation she’d been planning.

Another scream echoes through the air. David and the fairy are faster on their feet, leaving her alone with Hook and no time in which to slap some answers out of him. He’s still watching her, as if he’s waiting for her to do just that – or something else, something she’d done once before when he pushed her to the edge of her mental rope – but instead she turns away and begins to run.

When they sprint through the streets, she feels him match his stride to hers, keeping pace with her, and her spirits begin to lift at the solid shape of him at her shoulder.

~*~

The Blue Fairy is dead, Pan’s shadow is back, Henry is clinging to Regina like a baby koala and Hook has once again vanished into thin air, possibly with Tinkerbell. The fact that the last bothers her at all when so much else is happening irritates her like itching powder, niggling at her until she can’t sit still. She’s got an hour before she’s expected at Gold’s shop, and she’s going to spend it getting some answers out of a certain pirate.

She checks with Granny at the front desk before she heads upstairs – there’s no polite way to ask if someone is going to be in a compromising position when a visitor arrives, but thankfully the older woman hears the question Emma isn’t asking. “He’s up there. Alone. Still sleeping off last night’s hangover, if you ask me. Seems like he was trying to drown his sorrows a little too enthusiastically.” Granny’s shrewd gaze sweeps over her. “Can’t imagine why.”

Emma assumes her best Sheriff expression. She can do detached. “Thanks.”

She climbs the stairs, silently vowing that she is not doing this to quiz him about his love life. She needs to talk to him about Henry, and that’s all that matters. Rapping her knuckles on the door to his room, she hears a muffled voice utter a weak, “Yes?” and that’s good enough for her.

It’s only when she’s inside his room that she realises that she could have walked in on him in bed. Or naked. Or both. He’s neither, and she tells herself that she’s glad. He’s wearing his usual black shirt loose over his leather trousers, his vest and coat strewn across the unmade bed. She turns her back on the bed, because if there’s any evidence he shared it with someone else last night, she doesn’t want to see it.

She takes a deep breath, but it’s a mistake. The room smells like unfamiliar spices and rum and Granny’s favourite guest soap, and she knows that if she buried her face in the crook of his neck, he would smell the same. “We need to talk.”

“Do come in, love.” He still looks like hell, but it appears his sarcasm quota must still be met. “Haven’t we already had this conversation?” Folding his arms across his chest, he lounges against the windowsill, looking irritatingly amused. “Something about my brother and your father and the Crocodile doing you a favour?”

She doesn’t have time for this. “So, Hook, tell me something.” It’s as close as she gets to telling him to shut the fuck up and let her speak, and his mouth presses together in a tight line. Good. She needs to talk to him about Henry, but how can she confide in him when there is this great freaking divide between them? She needs to clear the air, but if he keeps talking, goading her and pushing her, she will never get the words out. “Where you come from, is sleeping with other women thought of as customary behaviour when trying to win someone’s heart?”

There. It’s said and done, and now she just has to wait for him to laugh and wave her concerns away with an airy hand. But he doesn’t. He simply stares at her, as though he can’t believe she’s in his room saying these things to him. She waits, but he still says nothing, and the jittery niggle is back, pinching at her last nerve. “Well?”

“Emma, I-”

Screw it. Not for the first time in his presence, she decides on a final throw of the dice. “Because in this world, that sort of thing just makes you kind of a dick.”

Her voice catches on the last word and it makes her angry to feel so vulnerable, especially in front of him, but he’s coming towards her now, his eyes dark with concern and an apology she’s not sure he owes her. “Emma.” Her hand is swallowed up in his, then he’s tugging her closer, catching her hand against his chest. He dips his head, meeting her gaze steadily, the truth of each word ringing as clear as a bell. “I am not having a dalliance with the fairy.”

She closes her eyes, breathing in the scent of him, letting the warmth of him soak into her skin. The absurdity of their conversation suddenly hits her, and she almost laughs. “And to think, that won’t be the strangest thing anyone says to me today.” Opening her eyes, she can almost feel the press of the tension in the air around them. She’s been in his arms twice before, but always when he was wearing his protective leather armour, and she can no more resist the urge to feel the heat of his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt than she can step away. Twisting her hand in his grasp, she flattens it against his chest, over his heart, and fights the urge to rest her head on his shoulder. She suddenly feels utterly weary, yet strangely energised.

“Now I have a question for you, Sheriff Swan.” His hand moves, coming to cover hers, holding it hard against his chest. “Would you care if I were?”

She hesitates, feeling faintly sick, as though she is about to put a foot out into thin air, knowing there is no safety net. But she is here, and there’s nowhere to run. Not this time. “Yes.” There’s a sudden lump in her throat, making it hard to speak. “I would.”

His left arm slides around her back, and she feels the press of his hook low on her spine. Oh, God. His mouth is against her ear, his breath warm as it skitters over her skin. “Emma-”

It’s just like Neverland, only much worse. Heat slides through her belly, tendrils of awareness snaking through her blood, finding every inch of skin and setting it ablaze. “I - we can’t do this. Not now.” Brave words, when all she wants to do is push him backwards onto the messy bed and climb into his lap and lose herself, finding refuge in his skin and mouth and flesh until she can’t remember her own name.

He stills in her embrace for a long moment, then sighs lightly. “I know.” His breath teases the sensitive skin just behind her ear, making her wonder what the scrape of his teeth would feel like, just there.

She inhales sharply. It’s time to rejoin the real world, because if she stays here in this room, there is only one possible ending to this particular chapter. “There’s too much happening, and I just can’t-”

Pulling her hand from his chest, he lifts it to his mouth. “I know.” It’s almost a rebuke, swiftly tempered by the lingering kiss he presses to her palm. He’s kissing her scar, she realises, the one he dressed at the top of the beanstalk, and an odd little swoop of tenderness twists through her chest. “Have I never mentioned how long I’ve already waited for you, love?”

“No, you haven’t.” She feels her mouth twitch with the start of a smile, and she knows it’s the first time she’s smiled properly in hours. “You’ll have to share that story some time.”

“Oh, I will.” He shoots her a grin over the top of her hand, his mouth hot against her knuckles in one last kiss before he releases his grasp. “Until that time, let’s just say that I’m a very patient man when it comes to you, darling.”

She’s no slouch in the eyebrow raising department. “So patient it only took you one day to give up on me.”

“Ah.” Twisting gracefully, he retrieves his vest from the bed. “Truth be told, there’s more to that story than meets the eye, love.”

She feels her smile widen. So much for detachment. Damn him. “I’m sure there is,” she replies, “but right now I have to go to Gold’s shop.” She watches him as he effortlessly shrugs into and buttons his vest with one hand, not letting herself think about how nimble those long fingers truly are.

“Checking on Pan’s shadow, of course.”

His words are like having cold water dashed over her, a reminder that this is all very far from over. “Not just that. There’s something else. Something’s not right about Henry,” she says in a rush, the words tripping over themselves now that he’s finally here to listen to her.

He frowns. “What do you mean?”

“It’s nothing concrete, nothing I can put my finger on.” She looks at him, wondering if he can tell how long she’s been waiting to find someone to believe her. “But I know him, and I know something’s wrong.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “I’ve never know your instincts to be wrong, Swan. If you think something is wrong with the boy, then we need to investigate.”

“Thank you.” A heady wave of relief washes over her, and she has to curl her hands into fists at her sides to stop herself from reaching for him. The last time she thanked him with a kiss, it was almost their undoing. Judging by the wistful glance he gives her, his thoughts have travelled the same path.

“Another time, perhaps.” He clears his throat loudly. “I must rendezvous with Baelfire and Tinkerbell to retrieve the coconut,” he says as he picks up his coat from the bed. “But I’ll escort you to Gold’s shop first, and you can tell me exactly what’s troubling you about your son.”

A few moments later, they’re walking together along Main Street, his shoulder brushing against hers with every step, and despite the fear for Henry that’s clutching at her heart, she suddenly feels as though nothing is impossible.

~*~

Whatever she was expecting at 8:15am on a Saturday morning, it wasn’t a dark, handsome stranger wearing a black leather pirate outfit. Her brain ratchets into overdrive. Singing telegram? Strip-a-gram? Menu delivery guy for a new all-you-can-eat seafood place?

Whoever he is, he’s staring at her as though he’s seen a ghost. She stares right back, taking in the dark hair, the blue eyes, the five o’clock shadow, and finally the joy etched on his face. Wait, back up. Joy?

“Swan.” He takes a step forward, one arm outstretched as though to gather her into his embrace. “At last.”

What the fuck? “Woah.” She throws up a defensive hand, painfully aware of the fact that she’s in her pyjamas and that her pepper spray is tucked into her purse and too far away to do her any good. “Do I know you?”

She knows she doesn’t, so why is she not slamming the door shut in his face?

“Look, I need your help. Something’s happened, something terrible.” His voice is faintly accented – British? – and more than a little mesmerising. “Your family is in trouble.”

Okay, either someone is punking her, or she’s dealing with a nutjob here. Either way, it’s not funny. “My family’s right here,” she snaps at him, her fingertips tightening on the door. Just shut the door in his face. “Who are you?”

“An old friend.” His gaze is searching hers frantically, as if trying to peer inside her head. “I know you can’t remember me, but-” He breaks off, giving her the chance to recognise the pain in his eyes - why does it pain him and why would she fucking care? - then he’s stepping forward, closing the distance between them before she has the chance to say or do anything. “But I can make you,” he says in a rush, then he’s kissing her, his mouth warm and firm on hers, his hand cupping the back of her head as though he’s kissed her every day for the whole of his life.

For a brief few seconds of madness, she closes her eyes, because she knows this, knows the taste of his mouth, knows the feel of his hand tangled in her hair.

Holy crap.

She jerks back, her knee instinctively finding its target between his legs. Putting both hands on his chest, she gives him a panicked shove, sending him staggering backwards, his back slamming against the hallway wall, a very different kind of pain etched on his face.

“What the hell was that?” Her whole body is awash with a sudden surge of adrenaline, and again, why is she not slamming the door in his face?

“A long shot,” he grits out, scrambling to get to his feet. “I had to try.” He clutches at his side, obviously winded from his collision with the wall. “I was hoping you felt as I did.”

She stares at him. Her mouth is still tingling, her hands still feeling the solid heat of his chest beneath her palms. Door. Shut the door. “All I gotta feel is the handcuffs when I call the cops.”

He’s on his feet again, moving back towards her, his hand outstretched, his eyes pleading with her. “Look, I know this sounds crazy, but you have to listen to me. Please, you have to remember.”

She can’t.

She slams the door shut, closing out his frantic face and his voice and his pleas. She’s only vaguely aware of throwing the lock, but it’s finally done. Henry looks at her, his fork halfway to his mouth.

“Who was that?”

She opens her mouth, a name on the tip of her tongue for the briefest stolen fragment of time, then it’s gone. “No idea.” Smiling at her son, she tries to shake off the very real thought that her visitor – whoever the hell he was – was telling her the truth.

Because that would be impossible.

~*~

The Long Game - Once Upon a Time (1/1)

msgenevieve — Tue, 17 Dec 2013 02:46:37 GMT

Title: The Long Game
Fandom: Once Upon a Time
Genre: Angst, UST, missing scene
Pairing: Emma Swan/Killian "Captain Hook" Jones
Rating:M (some salty language and mild sexy times)
Summary: “I’m in this for the long haul,” he tells Baelfire, and he means it. There are days – like today – when he feels like he has been waiting for Emma Swan for a very, very long time. (spoilers for 2.05, 3.05 and 3.10)
Author's note: Well, I succumbed to a new OTP. *facepalms*

~*~

“I’m in this for the long haul,” he tells Baelfire, and he means it. There are days – like today – that he feels like he has been waiting for Emma Swan for a very, very long time.

~*~

When he first hears her name, it’s from Cora’s lips. “Emma Swan,” she tells him with a twist of red lips, “the daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming. The Saviour who broke my daughter’s curse.” He hadn’t been in camp while she’d worn Lancelot’s face and entertained their Storybrooke guests, but Cora is all too happy to share the details, obviously relishing the information gleaned while masquerading as one of the realm’s most revered knights. “She and her mother were searching for a portal to take them back to their land.” Her smile widens, and something cold flutters down his spine. “Quite the useful little Saviour, it would seem.”

“How so?” He does his best to inject the question with the required enthusiasm, but the details of who and what and why matter little to him. All he knows is that twenty-eight years have passed without him taking a single breath, and now it is finally time for him to run the Crocodile to ground. They’ve been biding their time in this bloody peasant camp for far too long, and he has grown very weary of playing the part of a downtrodden blacksmith.

Cora looks at him, amused. “My dear Captain, haven’t you been paying attention?” She wraps her hand around the wooden handle of her parasol, every movement as deliberate and precise as that of a praying mantis. “All we have to do is wait, and the Saviour will be the one to lead me to my daughter.”

“And me to the Crocodile,” he reminds her flatly, and the hand on the parasol twitches.

“But of course,” she murmurs, tilting her head as though listening to a faraway music only she can hear. “That is, assuming you’re able to carry out the next part of the plan.”

“And what would that be, exactly?”

“Why, to use that pretty face and clever tongue of yours to convince them to trust you, of course.”

He grins, relieved to be back on familiar ground. “Well, I hate to brag, but I’ve been known to be rather charming when the occasion calls for it.”

She smiles at him again, and again he feels a cold finger of unease trace his spine. “Oh, it calls for it.”

Twelve hours later, after slender but strong hands pull him from his hiding place beneath the stinking corpses, he finds himself blinking up at both the bright sunlight and Emma Swan’s face, and he’s not sure which burns his eyes more.

Not a scant hour afterwards, the Swan girl’s arm is tight around his neck, the feel of her pressed against his back filtering into his senses even as her blade grazes his throat, her earlier claim to an affinity with the truth obviously not an idle boast. He’d be impressed if he wasn’t so furious, but with his hook tucked safely into his satchel, there’s nothing to be done as the four lovelies bind him tightly to the closest tree (something that would be extremely pleasant under different circumstances) and he’s once again faced with the point of a dagger. His eyes are drawn to Emma Swan’s furious gaze again and again despite his best efforts, and he struggles to find his footing, stumbling between outrage and admiration. Frozen for twenty-eight years, bested in a bloody heartbeat, he thinks darkly, and it suddenly dawns on him that perhaps Cora is no longer his best chance at finding his Crocodile.

A very useful Saviour, indeed. He takes a deep breath, letting the unfamiliar scent of Emma Swan’s clothing and hair fill his lungs, then prepares to fall back on the ancient exit strategy of a desperate man.

The truth.

~*~

Ten hours. Ten fucking hours he spends shackled at the top of that fucking beanstalk.

When his wrist is raw from straining against the manacles, he slumps to the cold ground, his anger hot enough to keep him from noticing the chill. “I can’t take the chance that I’m wrong about you,” he mutters furiously in a feminine sing-song voice, finding some small measure of comfort in mimicry. Bloody buggering wench. How dare she? How could she have done this to him, after everything he’d done to help her and her company? When he catches up with her, he is going to take great pleasure in –

In what, exactly. Killing her holds little appeal, he admits, although tying her to a tree and tormenting her has its charm. Perhaps he could borrow her little dagger, scrap it along that lovely jaw, just hard enough to leave a mark. Perhaps he could show her how his hook is useful for so many more things than just climbing a bean stalk, trail the cold metal down the long, delicate length of her neck, slide it down over the curve of her breast until she gasps –

No.

No.

She’d wronged him. Betrayed him. He wishes to do her harm, not - that. When he catches up with the pretty little Saviour - and he will catch up with her - it’s not going to be about that.

Ten hours is a very long time.

The giant doesn’t help matters. After blissfully ignoring his restrained guest for several hours, he takes it upon himself to sit in the nearest corner and make conversation, something Hook could have happily lived several lifetimes without. “Just so you know, Emma made me promise not to hurt you.”

“How kind of her.”

Sarcasm doesn’t seem to be popular in the giant’s world. “Yeah. She said she needed a head start, that she needed to get back to her son and she was worried that something might go wrong.”

Hook stares at the lock of the shackles, as if some weak spot might have escaped his notice during the last five hours of staring at the bloody thing. “Fascinating.”

A frown creases the giant’s forehead, one huge hand worrying at the pendant around his neck. “I don’t understand, though. If you were working with her and helping her, why would she do that?”

“Why indeed?” Hook mutters, maintaining a fast grip on his rage, pushing aside the unbidden memory of Emma Swan’s face when he’d told her that ‘an orphan‘s an orphan’, the shock that had flickered at the back of her bright eyes. With an effort, he dismisses the unfamiliar pang the memory invokes. Whatever she’d suffered in the past, it didn’t justify the fact that he is now at the mercy of a socially awkward giant and no closer to snuffing out the Crocodile’s life than he was when he was at the bottom of this wretched beanstalk. “Tell me, giant –“

“Anton.”

Oh, stars above, save me. “Tell me, Anton. What else did the lovely Emma say?”

“Not much else.” Two tremendous shoulders lift in a shrug. “We talked about my bean keepsake, but that was all.”

Bean? Keepsake? His fury fades slightly, watered down by hope and the promise of a bargain to be made. “Anton, my good fellow.” Dusting himself off, Hook gets to his feet and gives his host the most charming smile he can muster, given the circumstances. “I should love to see such a treasure with my own eyes.”

The giant gives him a guileless smile, obviously pleased, and Hook supposes he should be grateful to the Saviour for softening the monster’s stance on humankind. Then again, he thinks as he feels the shackles cutting into his skin once more, perhaps not.

~*~

“Perhaps you’re the one who couldn’t handle it.”

Three hundred years and he’s kissed many a wench since Milah, and yet he can no longer remember any of those kisses, because Emma Swan is kissing him as though he is her entire world and he can barely breathe, barely stand, barely remember his own name.

Heat skitters down his spine, like the ghostly fire that teases a ship’s mast whilst crossing the deepest of oceans, a low groan rattling in his throat as her tongue slides against his, teasing and taunting and taking. His right hand buries itself in her hair, as much to hold her mouth to his as it is to stop himself from sliding it down her back and gripping her hip and pulling her into him, making her feel him hard and wanting against her. The dark sweetness of her mouth is better than the finest rum he’s ever stolen, the soft crush of her breasts against his chest making him want to shove her to the moss-covered jungle ground and simply take her, hard and fast and well, her parents and the evil queen be fucking damned.

Then it’s over, but she doesn’t step back. Her breath is hot on his lips, still breathing in his ragged gasps, her body swaying against his as though she’s also having trouble remembering how to stand.

Her kiss has left its mark on his lips and tongue, leaving him barely able to form the words he finally manages to utter. “That was-”

Her lips almost brush his again, and he feels the tremor that shivers through her. “- a one-time thing.”

A one-time thing. As though it was nothing more than a pleasurable morsel shared between them, forgotten as soon as it was done. She turns on her heel and flees - there’s no other word for it - and if he hadn’t seen the unsteady path her boots take as she walks away from him, he might be more inclined to believe her.

Three hundred years, and a week in Neverland has proven to be his undoing.

~*~

Three hundred years.

Twenty-eight years.

Ten hours.

A week in Neverland.

A day spent watching her with her family, the family that does not include him, despite the camaraderie that blossomed reluctantly in the depths of Pan’s jungle.

If he wasn’t a patient man, he might wonder just how much longer he should be expected to wait.

Then again, he’s nothing if not a patient man.

~*~

Emma’s knock on his door at Granny’s is cursory at best, the heels of her boots clicking on the hard floor of his room before he’s even bade her enter. “We need to talk.”

“Do come in, love.” His head is pounding, his body sluggish from last night’s onslaught of rum after an unfamiliar period of abstinence. He’s not about to turn her away, though. Leaning back against the window frame, he prepares to toss back a carelessly teasing reply, but finds the words dying on his tongue at the sight of her face. Her eyes are gleaming with anger, her mouth a tight line of displeasure. Displeasure directed at him. Oh, joy. “Haven’t we already had this conversation? Something about my brother and your father and the Crocodile doing you a favour?”

She ignores the jibe. “So, Hook, tell me something.” Coming to an abrupt halt in the middle of the room, she digs her hands into the back pockets of her trousers as though trying to keep them still. “Where you come from, is sleeping with other women thought of as customary behaviour when trying to win someone’s heart?”

He stares at her. Whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t this. To have such a direct shot fired across his bow, so to speak. It’s not her way, not when it comes to him. There’s no mistaking the hurt threaded through the words, and he’d be lying if he didn’t admit to a heady thrill of satisfaction at her poorly-concealed jealousy. She stops her pacing, her gaze as sharp as broken glass. “Well?”

“Emma, I-“

She cuts him off, wrenching her hands free as she speaks, her long fingers painting her anger in the cool air between them. “Because in this world, that sort of thing just makes you kind of a dick.”

“Emma.” Closing the distance between them with two long strides, he catches her right hand in his, pulling it hard against his chest, tugging her close enough to smell her hair, her skin. Close enough to see the flecks of gold in her green eyes. “I am not having a dalliance with the fairy.”

Their eyes lock, and he feels the familiar magnetic tug between them, as reliable as his ship’s compass. After what feels like an eternity, she closes her eyes, a wry smile curving her mouth. “And to think, that won’t be the strangest thing anyone says to me today.” Opening her eyes, she slowly twists her hand in his grip, splaying her fingers across his chest. If she means to push him away, it doesn’t happen, just five pinpoints of heat, covering his heart, her fingernails scratching his skin just enough to raise gooseflesh.

“Now I have a question for you, Sheriff Swan.” He covers her hand with his, pressing it harder against his heart, wondering if she can feel it pounding beneath her touch. “Would you care if I were?”

Her eyes widen, and he sees the urge to flee flicker across her face. Her gaze roams his face, dropping to his lips, then lifting to meet his eyes, and he thinks he might just be drowning on dry land. “Yes.” Her reluctant whisper slides over his skin, making him think of darkened rooms and throaty sighs and the remembered taste of her mouth. “I would.”

Just two words, but the hope they hold makes his chest tighten. He swallows hard, suddenly very much aware of the fact that they are finally alone after days and days of being surrounded by far too many people. He bows his head to hers, ghosting his lips against the curve of her ear. He can almost taste the heat of her faint blush, smell the sweet musk of her skin. “Emma-”

He feels her shiver, her hand shifting against his chest as she turns her head, the warmth of her breath trembling against his throat. “I - we can’t do this. Not now.”

He begs to differ - he’s actually fairly certain they could do quite a few things right now – but he understands, finally, the words she’s not saying. That not now doesn’t mean not ever. “I know.”

He doesn’t move, because the next step needs to come from her. She sways slightly on her feet, towards him, then away, like the swing of a pendulum, putting a foot of space between them. It’s a gentle withdrawal, a faint echo of their embrace in Neverland, but it still carries the same sting. “There’s too much happening, and I just can’t-”

“I know,” he says again as he pulls her hand from his chest. He lifts it to his lips, turning it so his mouth finds her palm. Her soft gasp is music to his ears as he kisses the faint scar marking the wound he once tended, tasting the tremor that goes through her at the feel of his lips against her skin. She tastes of salt and lemon soap, and he has to fight the primal urge to bite the fleshy curve beneath her thumb. Mound of Venus, he thinks, and feels a shudder go through his own blood. “Have I never mentioned how long I’ve already waited for you, love?”

“No, you haven’t,” she murmurs, and while her smile isn’t bright enough to blind his weary eyes, it’s definitely a start. “You’ll have to share that story some time.”

“Oh, I will.” He grins, pressing a hard kiss to her knuckles before reluctantly relinquishing her hand. “Until that time, let’s just say that I’m a very patient man when it comes to you, darling.”

In it for the long haul, indeed.

~*~

An Enduring Tradition - Sleepy Hollow (Abbie/Ichabod) - G

msgenevieve — Wed, 11 Dec 2013 12:03:28 GMT

Title: An Enduring Tradition
Fandom: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Pairing:Ichabod Crane/Abbie Mills
Rating: G
Genre: Mild UST, expanded canon
Summary: It seems the male of the species hasn’t changed that much in two hundred and fifty years, after all. (Spoilers and dialogue from 1.10 "The Golem")

~*~

Crane being Crane, he notices the low-hanging branch first, if only because it almost smacks him in the forehead. “Mistletoe,” he announces happily, sounding for all the world as though he’s rediscovered an old friend.

Seems the male of the species haven’t changed that much in two hundred and fifty years, after all. She wants to indulge in an eyeroll, but contents herself with a grin. “That, you remember?”

“An enduring tradition,” he begins with the self-assured air of a man confident in his subject matter, “to the imminent peril of all the pretty housemaids.”

He trails off at the last, his university professor demeanor seeming to desert him. His gaze flicks to her, then away again. Abbie stares at him. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he was blushing. Or (again if she didn’t know better) she’d think he was looking at her lips and weighing up the chances of getting his face slapped.

Okay.

“Let’s get to work,” she rebukes him with a smile, because they’re not alone and if they were alone, that would even more reason not to indulge in this particular enduring tradition. Because a kiss, even under the mistletoe, is something you can’t take back.

In other words, trouble.

He nods, looking relieved and still more than a little flustered. Two minutes later, he’s figuratively charming the starched panties off the unhelpful librarian as though the world is about to end and they are the only two people left who could repopulate the earth, and all without a single blush or stammered word. Apparently, he has no problem flirting with municipal employees as long as they’re not her.

A hot prickle of something scratches at the inside of her head, and she’s suddenly very grateful that they’re not alone.

Like she said. Trouble.

~*~

Seeing (isn't always believing) - Ichabod Crane/Abbie Mills

msgenevieve — Fri, 08 Nov 2013 10:22:16 GMT

Well, you know how it goes. scribblecat draws a thing and asks me to write a thing to match her thing, and I can never resist. So here is our joint toe-tipping into the Sleepy Hollow fandom, and just for a change, it's pron. LOL.

Title:Seeing (isn't always believing)
Fandom:Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Pairing:Ichabod Crane/Abbie Mills
Rating:NC-17 (only just, though)
Genre:PWP, smut. 353 words of sex, basically.
Spoilers:Nope. Just sex.
Summary:There is more than one way to be proven wrong.
Author's Note:scribblecat's lovely NSFW artwork is HERE.

~*~

She'd once told him that she only believed in what she could see. That she didn't believe in magic.

He - and the maelstrom of death and fear that had quickly surrounded them - has proven her wrong, time and time again.

But there are other, more enjoyable, ways to be proven wrong.

She'd forgotten that there is a form of magic to be found in the ordinary world. Magic unseen, and yet no less real, rediscovered in the heated slide of flesh against flesh, in the thrum of blood beneath skin taut with anticipation, in the ache of arousal that stings your very bones.

Behind her eyelids, she imagines the sparks that flare at the touch of his roughened fingertips across her belly, the brush of magic that sinks into her skin, a siren's song that beckons and teases, her spine arching as though being pulled by invisible, golden strings. His mouth covers hers in a languid blur of teeth and tongue and coffee and toothpaste, the ordinary becoming extraordinary, a heady elixir that pulls the breath from her body and softens her bones. Her breasts are slick against his chest, her fingernails digging into the tight curve of his ass, and she thinks that if he doesn't start moving soon, she might just melt into nothingness just like the freaking Wicked Witch.

"Patience is still a virtue, surely," he murmurs against her ear when she twists restlessly beneath him, his warm breath raising goosebumps everywhere. She opens her mouth to retort in kind but he starts to move against her, above her, the rigid thrust of his erection pressing into the tender ache between her thighs, hide and seek, advance and retreat, burning her through thin, damp cotton, and all her words dissolve, leaving only his name, a thick stutter on her tongue.

"Crane-"

His only answer is a smile, his lips curving warmly against hers, his hand sliding into her hair to hold her in thrall with the lightest touch. When he kisses her again, she knows that seeing isn't always believing, and finally understands just how powerful ordinary magic can be.

~*~

the ups and downs of prisonbreakfic.net

msgenevieve — Sat, 08 Jun 2013 07:14:09 GMT

Hello to my fellow Prison Break fen (and everyone else who might like to read along).

Over the course of the last few weeks, I have been discussing www.prisonbreakfic.net with elizabethb in a friends-locked post on her LJ. I've let her know that I'll be putting a post here, letting people know what she's told me, because so many people who have a vested interest in the future of that site can't participate in the conversation we've been having. Given the LJ messages I've gotten, a lot of people are in the dark as much as I was about what was going on with the site.

I welcome your input of all shapes and sizes, but please be polite and try to be as constructive as possible. I have invited elizabethb to come here and read everyone's posts. Having said that, please don't feel as though you can't be open and honest about the subject. :)

Basically, the site was taken down due to lack of funds - not sure when, but it was before the end of March. elizabethb put a note on the site itself before she took it down, telling authors that if they wanted back-up copies of their stories, she would send them to them. I missed that note, and I suspect a whole lot of other people did too.

In the interests of full disclosure, I will tell you all that I was angry when I discovered all this, and not just because I have over 150 stories on that site. I was angry because that site is basically the written history of the Prison Break fandom and to find out that it was just GONE, well, I admit that I was quite open about my feelings when I approached Elizabeth. I said my piece, then asked if the site and the stories are gone forever.

She said no, it's closed down but not forever, and that she has been trying to find a free hosting space for it. RL (and health issues) has been keeping her busy so it would be a few weeks before she could organise anything.

I pointed out that several people in the fandom had contributed (some of them very generously) via Paypal to the cause of keeping the site open, and they deserved to know what was going on. I also suggested that if keeping the site running was a continued financial stressor, Elizabeth should consider passing ownership of the site over to someone else, and that there would be no shortage of people willing to help her out with that.

So, there is it. I know that many of you have been feeling frustrated by the site's constant disappearances, especially this last one, so now is time to make your feelings heard. Tell me your thoughts? Suggestions?

So, what's on your must-see list these days?

msgenevieve — Sun, 19 May 2013 11:20:20 GMT

Since Prison Break ended (I *still* haven't watched all of the Final Break), I haven't found anything else that makes go quite the same level of fangirl crazy. I haven't been actively looking, to be fair, but I fell into PB accidentally when my husband decided to watch it, so accidentally is how most of these things happen, right?

Anyway, although there's nothing that is making me want to write fic or buy multiple posters, there are a few shows that I just love. And here they are.

1. Castle, with the delightful Nathan Fillion and the delicious Stana Katic. I resisted the lure of rosie_spleen's happy Castle posts for the longest time, and then one day I was dying for things to watch and my dear friend koalathebear sent me the first few episodes of S1 Castle and S1 Nikita (the reboot). BOOM - OTP. Castle grabbed me and I basically mainlined the first season over the course of a long weekend and didn't look back. I got up to date as Season Three drew to a close, so then had to wait out the long hiatus before Season Four started. Which sucked. LOL. But! I have written one Castle fic, inspired by a naughty drawing by scribblecat, which felt like old times. The show has had its up and downs, but I'm still loving it, and am currently cursing the fact that we've just started a four month hiatus until Season Six.

2. New Girl, which I resisted for a long, long time, because I say 'thanks but no thanks' to quirky girls and their weekly issues. But I kept catching bits and pieces of the show on my television, and one of the people I follow on tumblr kept posting rather hilarious gifs and then "Cooler" aired and I saw spoiler pictures and again - BOOM. Hello OTP, where have you been all this time? No fic by me but there are some great ones out there. Yes, even on fanfiction.net. LOL. Again, it's hiatus time with this one.

3. Elementary. I LOVE, LOVE, LOVE this show. I can't tell you how much I enjoy it, mainly because I haven't used my writin' words for so long, I am out of practice! Johnny Lee Miller and Lucy Liu are truly outstanding in their roles of Sherlock Holmes, a recovering addict and Joan Watson, a former doctor hired by Holmes' father to be his son's sober companion. In NYC. Acting as consultants to the NYPD. Also starring Aiden Quinn, who will always have my teenaged fangirl heart. So, yes. Much love. Lots of great Elementary fic at AO3, too.

4. Derek, written by and starring Ricky Gervais. Anyone seen this one? I cried. Cried and cried and cried. Then I laughed. And cried again.

5. The Office (US). The very last episode aired two days again, and I have already watched it several times. I have watched this show for so long, it's very hard to imagine that I will never seen anything new from these characters again. But I have nine seasons to rewatch, again and again. And yes, I cried during this finale. A Lot.

And then there are the things on my list to watch:

Game of Thrones
The Following
Downton Abbey
Dexter
Cougar Town

So. What about you? Tell me your favourite things. :)

I do hope I remember how this thing works

msgenevieve — Sat, 18 May 2013 06:31:26 GMT

Well.

I'm not even checking the date of my last LJ post, because that would be too depressing. Because then I might think that it's been far too long and I'm so far out of the LJ loop that there's no coming back, and that would make me sad. So, ignoring the date of my last LJ post, I really just want to say hi, hello, hey to my LJ friends.

I haven't forgotten about you. Any of you. I just haven't been in the right headspace for a long time. RL has thrown many a curve ball over the last two years and my ability to chat and write and basically interact with people in a fandom space went flying out the window, much to my disappointment. Many's the time I've sat here at my computer, mouse hovering over 'post new entry', only to realise that I really didn't have anything to say. Besides the fact that I had nothing to say, of course. LOL.

This isn't going to be a long post. Baby steps, you see, but when it comes down to it, I really don't want the LJ part of my life to vanish. I know that tumblr has taken over so much of the fannish audience, but LJ is still so very special to me.

I have been feeling especially nostalgic this week. I spent a few hours uploading my Prison Break stories to "An Archive of Our Own" from LJ (as pbfic.com is still kaput) and reading through my PB posts on LJ was quite the journey into the past of a very passionate fangirl. Despite how it all ended and how the real canon still makes me RAGE, I miss that passion a lot.

And I miss of all you, too. I miss how abuzz with glee and despair and gossip and squee LJ used to be. I don't think I will ever get that back, but I can definitely kickstart things by coming out of self-imposed exile, that's for sure.

xo

The Age of (Un)reason

msgenevieve — Fri, 24 Aug 2012 10:14:55 GMT

Originally posted by scribblecat at The Age of (Un)reason

Originally posted by spoiled_andrea at The Age of (Un)reason

Originally posted by tuesdaeschild at The Age of (Un)reason

Originally posted by clair_de_lune

~~Oyez, oyez~~
Hear Ye, hear ye!

Seven years ago, on August 29th, the very first episode of Prison Break aired on TV. Now, we have a quiet - a very, very quiet - fandom, but isn't a birthday the best time to celebrate? (That question is rhetorical; the answer is yes *g*)

In order to do so, you're cordially invited to post in uncuffmybrother anything Prison Break-ish, let's say for seven days between August 29th and September 4th. Anything. It can be a fic or a drabble, a rec, a prompt, a pic, a picspam, a rant, fond memories, a 'top' of anything from favorite characters to favorite episodes to favorite snarky Kellerman's quotes. Anything Prison Break-ish is fair game.

Prison Break is seven year-old: if you manage to include in your contribution the number seven, you'll get a virtual origami crane.
Seven favorite scenes, seven favorite fics, seven favorite minor characters, seven ways for Michael to visit the infirmary, seven places our heroes visited after the end of the show (non-epilogue compliant FTW!!), seven times Michael tried to tell something to Lincoln, the seventh birthday of Michael Jr., the seventh anniversary of Michael and Sara's wedding, seven times Sucre called Michael Papi...

Post your contribution directly in the comm or link to a post in your personal journal. (If you link to an entry in your personal LJ, please do not friend-lock it ;))

*blows out candles*

castle video and season five renewal

msgenevieve — Thu, 17 May 2012 10:09:06 GMT

Castle has been given a Season Five. Season Four of Castle didn't end with someone's head in a box. On the whole, I'm very, very satisfied with these two things.

The youtube thingy below is one of the best promotional videos I've ever seen. Please to be watching it if you want to get all 'eeeeeiiieeee' about Teh Caskett and their fellow players.

scribblecat made me an updated OTP banner for my LJ. It is a thing of beauty. Of course, one more OTP and things are going to get a little squishy up there!

RL is actually going smoothly at the moment (ssshhh, you'll jinx it!) and I hope to actually do some writing on the weekend. Zounds!

So. How are all of YOU?

the irony of this particular icon is not lost on me

msgenevieve — Tue, 08 May 2012 11:50:54 GMT

Thank you, Castle (and your actors and writers and everyone who has anything at all to do with making you) for giving me back no small amount of my fangirl mojo, last seen being stomped by a certain other TPTB's feet.

Because, seriously, that may have just been one of the best episodes of anything I've ever seen.

So.

Anyone want to talk about it? Maybe post some spoilers in the comments? Oh, how about some shiny gifs from tumblr?

P.S. AM DEAD. REGRET NOTHING.

happy birthday Sezzy McSez!

msgenevieve — Tue, 27 Mar 2012 09:39:11 GMT

Dearest scribblecat,

Here is 2012's birthday offering. Your Maxie was too busy to make it to the photoshoot, so we had to get a stand-in.

Hope you had a fabulous day!

Cynaera

msgenevieve — Sat, 25 Feb 2012 05:10:36 GMT

Some of you will have already read this elsewhere, but I wanted to share it with a wider audience.

cynaera passed away early last week. You can read Browneyes/Maxine's post about it here:

http://savelfn69411.yuku.com/topic/5710/Cynaera-we-will-miss-you

I know that most of the LFN people on my flist knew Cynaera (Ann), many of you since the beginning of the LFN online fandom. She and I had lost touch over the last few years, but this news has saddened me more than I can say. I have no wish to intrude on her family and close friends' privacy, but I know that Cyn would have been the first one to want to honour the passing of an LFN old-timer.

So, here's to you, Ann. Thank you for your joyous enthusiasm, your absolute belief that even the smallest of creatures deserved to live like kings, and for the hand of friendship that you extended to so many, over and over again. You truly wanted everyone to get along, and when we didn't (oh, those flamewars), you took it to heart, no matter how many times people reassured you that these things just happened and you weren't the one responsible for solving the fandom's issues.

We hadn't spoken for quite a while, but not because of any falling out. You really disliked Prison Break and you told me this very sweetly in a note explaining this was why you were taking me off your flist. It was the nicest, most polite defriending ever, and I long forgave you for not liking Wentworth Miller.

The La Femme Nikita fandom would have been a very different place without you in it, and I for one am very glad to have known you. Rest in peace, dear Ann. May you be forever soaring with your beloved music singing in your ears.

Update on Split Personality Archives

msgenevieve — Tue, 10 Jan 2012 11:19:11 GMT

Hello LFN people!

I have chatted to Ranma via email and let's just say that she was overwhelmed (in a very good way) by the response on the storyboards and here on LJ. She is beyond touched and grateful by the posts and the emails she's received. She very much wants to keep the the archives going but as she said in her initial post, the annual bill is something she just can't manage at this time. She gave me all the details and is very happy to talk about what to do next. I'm sure she won't mind if I cut and paste a little from her email here:

I called my host and found out I have a bill for $168.00 (if you can believe it, it did NOT go up in price) due on February 15, 2012. I also found out that I can only pay for one year at a time. They do not take PayPal, only check, debit card or credit card. So, I set up a PayPal account under ranma@cox.net that links to my savings account (which I have a debit card for). I do not qualify as a non-profit charity, so people cannot make donations, but they can make personal payments.

Looks like there are heaps of LFN people who want to chip in to make this happen, so I think putting the PayPal link on the Storyboards (and pimped on LJ by anyone who would like to do so) would be the way to go, but I'm totally open to other suggestions! On a side note, I have completely forgotten how to make one of those fancy PayPal buttons that people can click to take them straight to where they need to go - anyone know how to do that particular bit of magic?