Bleeding Heart

Summary: Killian Jones mourns the centuries old loss of his mother.

Rated: T

Warnings: Mentions of death

Words: ~3.5k

Notes:  So @acrobat-elle and I were crying about her fic, and found ourselves desperately wishing for some motherly affection for Killian Jones.  So here, have some Captain Snow with your CS.

Also on ff an ao3

“They dug his grave with a silver spade.”

Killian trails his fingertips over Emma’s back – up the ridge of her spine, over the curve of her shoulder blade, up along her neck before he reaches back down to draw faint, red lines over her ribs.  He sings softly as he does, an old, mournful shanty he’d learned as a child.  The windows along the east wall are thrown open, sheer curtains fluttering listlessly along the chilly, spring breeze. Light filters in through the haze, casting the room in dreary shadows.  As he draws, as he sings, a gust of wind breathes along her back – shirt bunched up along her shoulders – and she shivers.  He curls over her, grasps at her arm, puffs warm air over her neck until she stills.

“Of captain brave he was the best,” he sings, gently, lips brushing over the small of her back.  “But now he’s gone and is at rest.”

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underneath the nightsky (1/1)

“Fine,” Pan acquiesces, a smirk on his lips. “I’ll let the boy go.”

“You will?” Snow says, her voice pitched high with disbelief.

“I’m in a remarkably giving mood, see,” Pan’s teeth gleam, eerily, in the moonlight with his smile. “Henry may return to Storybrooke. I won’t stop you.”

He found them trekking in the forest, trying to get to the next lead on Henry. They’d assumed that he was just there to taunt them, remind them of their failures. Now, it seems he’s trying a different tactic.

Emma narrows her eyes. “There’s no way it’s that easy.”

“What are you playing at?” David asks, similarly skeptical.

Regina is the next to chime in. “What, do you get his soul while we get his body?”

Hook just stands there, expression furrowed and swaying with his hand on his sword.

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treasures...

Just a warm, snuggly blanket of future fluff for your Saturday reading…

There is little sound to be heard beyond the occasional drip of wax hitting wood, tiny sparks popping from the near burnt down wick by their bedside. Shadows from the flame dance along the planes of her back, golden waves caressing the ivory curves. He can’t help but wonder if she is in fact an angel, a guardian sent to guide him towards the light, this perfect creature who chose to stay once her mission was fulfilled. From all he’s seen, he can’t rightly disregard the possibility.

Her skin is still warm to the touch, the flush of spent passion lingering beneath his fingertips along her spine. Pressing his palm flat, he lets his hand rise and fall with her deep breaths of slumber, hoping not to wake her with his need to touch. He rarely falls asleep first, not wanting to miss the moment she succumbs. There is something intoxicating, fulfilling, knowing he is the one she has chosen to share her life, to share her bed and her home. In breaking down her walls, she exposed his, helped him see that he is worthy, that he can hope and dream and want the life she’s offering. Ever the pirate, he has taken it.

His treasures are no longer of silver and gold, rubies or emeralds, unless you count the sparkling green of her eyes or the kiss swollen red of her lips. His bounty is now made up of moments, this one no less spectacular than the last. A pirate captain who once craved adventure, now marks his conquests by days free from harm, nights such as this with soft breaths and hands reaching towards him in sleep.

The last flicker of the candle sputters out and he closes his eyes, his hand curving about her waist as he places a soft kiss to her forehead facing him on their shared pillow. She stirs only slightly, her arm tightening around his scarred wrist she has cradled against her side. The action threatens to unravel him, tears of unbidden happiness prickling at the corner of his eyelids at her utter acceptance of all that he is, all that he was, all that he has yet to become.

Having been granted a second chance by the Gods themselves, he reaffirms his vow to be the man they saw, the man she helped reawaken from his slumber. As his body relaxes, he knows his heart is wide awake, his soul cleansed along with the lives saved by his actions below. As sleep pulls him in its grasp, he whispers his love for her into her hair, hoping she will hear the words somewhere in her dreams.

Being Alive

[AO3]

It feels good to breathe again.

He inhales deeply – once, twice, three times – taking in the chilled Maine air. It’s cold enough that it stings his throat a bit, but Killian hardly cares. He’s breathing. He’s alive. It’s something that he never thought he’d be again, a funny sort of thought. Then again, he’s a man who ‘s lived centuries and tangled with gods that “never” hardly holds its weight anymore – realms of possibilities and opportunity open to him in ways he not ever thought possible.

One such thing being holding Emma Swan again.

Their fingers are tangled together, squeezing in such a way that he knows his rings must be digging uncomfortably into her skin. If it bothers her, it doesn’t show. Emma makes no move to loosen her grip, clinging to him so tightly as if afraid that if her hold were more slack, he would float away.  Killian doesn’t blame her on that. The memory of their last goodbye, what they believed to be their final goodbye, still weighs heavily on his soul despite the fact that his heart now beats wildly in his chest.

He had almost forgotten what it felt like for his heart to race.

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this love came back to me. (1/1)

a/n: so i never write canon fic for ouat (this is literally my first one) but i couldn’t resist y’all that ep was so!!! much!!!! i’m emotional and this is what comes of it. captain swan obv, immediately following the events of 5x21 (i hope i got the ep number right??) anyway go easy on me, i hope you like this!

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All of Me

It’s the first thing she notices - the cold, the rain - after the euphoria fades.  

She has her face tucked into his neck, breathing in the scent of wet earth, the sweet smell of rain falling just this side of the advent of spring.  His hair is cold and rough between her fingertips, teasing at the sensitive underside of her wrist.  His breath is hot, heaving out of his chest and down the back of her neck, ruffling the collar of his shirt.  His heart - oh God, his heart - is thumping wildly, answering on a stuttered echo to hers.

But her toes -

“You must be freezing, love.”

“I don’t care,” she says.  

And she really doesn’t.  She throws her arms back around him until her hands are locked over her wrists, scrambling up until she’s standing on the tips of his toes, and he’s grunting into her temples.

“Ow,” he laughs, squeezing her back just as tight.  

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She presses her nose into his neck, feels his pulse steady and sure beneath the palm of her hand. She hasn’t - she hasn’t quite stopped shaking yet, but his hook is wrapped low around her waist, blunt end rubbing gently, and she thinks she’ll be okay. 

Just like this. 

For the rest of forever, maybe. 

“He told me,” Killian swallows around his words, nudging her back so he can drag his thumb to the dent in her chin. He lingers there, rings blissfully cold against her skin. “He said it was time for me to go where i belong.” He grins then, wide and stupid, and her cheeks are hurting and she - god - she can’t stop shaking, but she revels in it. Because if there’s a crick in her neck from where she refuses to look away from him and if the rain is starting to slip between her socks and boots, then she knows this is real. She knows this isn’t a dream.

He drops his forehead back to hers and his necklace bumps her chest. Her fingers knot there, tugging tight. 

“I was afraid to hope, love. But I should have known - “ He exhales, his breath a white cloud between them, a droplet of water sliding off the tip of his nose. “I only ever belong next to you.” 

Killian was the one who was looser with the displays of affection, before. It’d be a kiss to the forehead by a space heater or a kiss to her cheek at the station or one last kiss to her hand while he watched her go up the elevator shaft. His hand was the one to seek hers, more often than not, and the praises for her spilled from his lips constantly. Even when they were enemies it was ‘beautiful’ or ‘brilliant’ or ‘tough’.

Emma was more open with her displays of affection, before. With Neal she kissed him constantly, beamed as bright as she felt, tugged him along with a laugh and a grin. She felt it all come out of her with the click of the cuffs around her wrists. 

Being open, being free, being loving wasn’t worth it, after that. Wearing your heart on your sleeve only led to disappointment.

(She wouldn’t even kiss her one night stands, most of the time. Emma wouldn’t let them, just would lean back and tell them not to make it more than it was.)

Emma kissed Killian for the first time to prove a point.

She kissed his cheek retreating from Granny’s, once, with the pressure of everything else pressing down on her. It was fleeting, quick, thoughtless. Emma was affectionate with Killian, sure, little by little. But it was rarer, before she could think better of it, an automatic reflex rather than an intentional gesture. 

When she turned around in that graveyard, seeing Killian on the other side - back from the dead - it was all intention. Emma couldn’t think, couldn’t decide, couldn’t listen - all she knew was that he was here and with her and she couldn’t stop trying to feel him, trying to cling to him, trying to never let him go. She kissed his cheeks and his neck and every spot she could reach - laughing against him in a delighted sound and hearing a deeper version reflected and telling him, telling him how relieved she is and how happy she is. 

Emma leads him back to their house, their home, their future and she doesn’t stop kissing him.

(It’s easier without the armor, to show how much she loves him, how much she cares. It’s a bit of who she used to be, the girl with the heart on her sleeve and grin on her cherry lips and a sparkle in her glasses-covered eyes. She’s all grown up, now, but she can retain that. The girl who she used to be, the hope she used to have, the hope she can have now.)

(The girl who hoped for a future and the woman who can, now.)

(They both keep their promises.)

The last kiss of the night comes long after he’s fallen asleep, when she refuses to take her eyes off of him for fear he’ll disappear. Emma presses a kiss to his heart, beating steadily under her ear, and finally falls asleep once her eyes can’t stay open anymore.

If she presses up against him any more, she’ll melt right into him. From where she is, she can see the raindrops clinging to his eyelashes as he blinks at her, his smile forming soft and slow the longer his eyes linger on hers.

She wants to kiss him again but instead presses the cold tip of her nose into his neck for a few seconds, feeling his left arm tighten around her waist in response. Then she’s pulling back only enough to clutch his hand between hers and drag him out of the cemetery.

Her trudge to Granny’s is slow, equal parts because of how sluggish she feels after the events of the day, and because of the fact that she’s latched herself onto the pirate beside her and wants to keep him for herself just a little longer.

His arm finds his way around her shoulders when she inhales heavily, a shaking sob dislodging itself from the back of her throat. It’s all so overwhelming and unreal, but she’s had faith in less and been proved wrong before. Emma has a lot of questions but they all fall away with every featherlight touch of his.

How did you get the pages to me? A kiss on her cheek.

Zeus? As in the old guy with the orange aura and the Santa laugh? The trail of random patterns he leaves with his fingers on her upper arm.

Whose heart is in your chest? His breath fanning over her forehead as he releases a huff of laughter that sounds a lot like disbelief.

The flat of her palm finds the side of his neck, feeling the steady thud of his pulse, its rhythm a reminder to everything she thought she’d lost. She has so many questions and yet the only thing that comes out of her mouth is a quiet, “You found your way back.”

And it seems like another conversation from another time, when her heart was only just exposed to the darkness and he hadn’t been battered and bruised and dead, and Has anything stopped me before?

His lips brush the side of her mouth. “To you, always.”

If Emma has faith in one thing, it’s that.

what it means to be a home.

because thinking about how the dark swan house can shift from this symbol of how everything can get so twisted to a safe space for them to just be gives me a lot of feels. 

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More Than Roses

Also on ff and ao3

Emma brings the lilies on a Tuesday.

“Hey,” she says, like she always does, like she always did.  

She lays them down across the overturned earth.  The grit lodges up underneath her fingernails, smears across the palm of her hand, over her wrist.  She leans forward, tracing the letters of his name.

“I know…” she starts.  

But she can’t finish, can’t hardly speak, teeth chattering, jaw clenching against the sob that rises in her chest.  She stands on warbling legs, her boots sinking into the ground.  It’s been raining something fierce as of late and it’s just - 

“Bloody hell, I hate the rain,” he says, pulling his collar up against the wind, hunching down in front of her as they walk.

She laughs.  “Uh, excuse me, I am not your rain shield.”

- it’s just too familiar.

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Rising over him, her hands tremble as she runs them down his body; fingers featherlight and near reverent as she traces a shaky path across his warm and flushed skin, the roughened dips and edges, the hardened angles and scarred curves she knows so well. Her eyes soaking in the sight of him, her mind not quite able to fully grasp it all just yet—he’s here, he’s real, he’s not going away—she leans down, moving her lips over his bared chest, dusting them just above his heart, once, twice, before tasting him with the tip of her tongue; his hand fisting in her long curtain of hair, tugging on it just a little as she continues to move down his body, lower, lower and lower still. The feel of her own heart pounding wildly against her ribcage and echoing in her head as she takes and takes and takes, sending a heady rush of excitement and anticipation coursing through her veins.

She knows she should slow down.

Take the time to leisurely re-explore his body with whispered words of love and devotion and faith.

But she had lost him, truly lost him, and there’s a dull and nagging ache still resonating in her chest, the threat of tears pricking at her eyes, and she’s trying so hard to just hold it together somehow.

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hands over our hearts (built our own house) (1/1)

He can tell Emma doesn’t quite expect it. He drags her down to the docks once it’s over and as calm as Storybrooke will ever be. Killian had held her to her promise to sleep. He’d holed up with her for two days in their home while they allowed themselves the luxury of sleep, dragged their hands over each other’s skin in the quiet moments between and remapped the shape of one another.

It had been nearly idyllic. Domestic. Fairytale, if you will.

Killian isn’t foolish enough to think this won’t mean something, to both himself and Emma. The thing about their home is that Emma had furnished it, magically, entirely by herself. He’s hardly complaining, he’d picked the house after all and the little details are somehow a wonderful mix of the two of them. Killian’s only known two homes in his life - his ship and Emma Swan. He’s willing to take the chance of adding a third to the list.

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the shorter story (1/1)

She gets the call around midnight.

It’s a little frustrating, given that she was this close to being able to go home. She usually waits until midnight at the station, resolving that if no one calls by then she’s going home and just turning her phone on high volume in case anyone happens to need her. Still, Emma chose to take the night shift. It’s her fault. She could have let David take it again, could have gone home like he’d insisted, but she didn’t. That means she has to answer calls about drunks who need an escort home.

Go, her.

“Sheriff,” Kronk greets, looking up from the glasses in his hand when the bells attached the door chime to announce her arrival. It’s a little too much, she thinks, to attach loud, ringing objects to a door in a place full of drunks, but maybe that’s the point. Kronk is an eccentric guy, after all.

She isn’t going to think about how llama guy - or the guy that accidentally turned the other guy into the llama, if not the actual llama - is serving drinks at the Rabbit Hole to a bunch of fairytale characters. Of which she is technically one.

She is definitely, definitely not going to think about that.

“Yeah, you…pulled the lever, Kronk,” she attempts, the joke falling flat. Emma isn’t fond of herself for trying it in the first place, “now I’m here.”

Kronk grimaces. “Do you know how often I get told that joke by drunk patrons, here? It gets a little old.”

“Right,” Emma nods curtly. “Got it. Sorry. What was the problem?”

He gestures to where a man is slumped over at the corner of the bar, all black leather and dark hair. His face is barely visible, the way he’s slumped, but ringed fingers are clenched around a bottle of rum and there’s a glimmer of metal on the wood of the table.

Emma sighs. It was only a matter of time before Hook came out of hiding. “I’ll take care of it,” she assures Kronk.

Kronk frowns. “I mean, I feel bad for the guy…alone like that. Seemed sort of sad, if you ask me.”

Emma’s mouth downturns. “You do, huh?”

He lifts up his hands. “Just my two cents.”

Emma sighs. Then, she moves to sit in the chair beside the nearly slumbering pirate. He doesn’t acknowledge her.

She clears her throat. “I see your injuries healed.”

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4 a.m. (1/1)

Killian/Emma, 769 words. Set at some unspecified time shortly after the end of S5, but doesn’t reference anything from the upcoming season finale.

Find it on AO3 here.

Emma wakes at close to four in the morning to find she’s rolled toward him, curled into him, during the night. One arm is sandwiched between them, her hand pressed against his bare chest as if to reassure herself that his heart is still beating, the other is slung over his waist.  Lifting her head to glance at the clock, she sighs. There’s something about this hour of the morning that if something wakes her, it’s a struggle to go back to sleep, if she can at all. Carefully so as not to disturb Killian, she rolls onto her back to begin her staring contest with the ceiling.

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They finally sleep. 

They don’t even make it to bed. Her head falls against his shoulder, eyelids fluttering closed. His head rests on top of hers as he pulls her body even closer. 

The sofa is surprisingly comfortable. 

Or maybe it’s that neither of them have slept since Camelot.

.

They’re oblivious to the sounds of knocking at the the front door, the insistent buzzing of her cell (and his). 

.

They wake up here and there, her hips rolling into his, latent desire growing in the heat between their bodies. There’s a pleasant ache between their thighs, a knowledge that it will be time, soon, to address that need. 

But sleep, first sleep. 

.

She wakes first. 

His hand is tangled in her hair as she nuzzles into his chest, his scent almost fresh and clean (and she wonder at that, at what must have transpired in that glowing land of Olympus to make him feel so clean, to be so shiny.)

She wakes him with the soft trace of her fingertips on his skin, as if to convince herself that he’s real, and that, yes, it is his heart, his real heart, beating in his chest, underneath hers. 

She listens, she feels it as his heartbeat speeds and his eyes flutter open. 

If she could keep that smile of his forever, she would.