Hey. Hello. Hi. I fully came here expecting to request one of those stress-writing prompts that had some sort of mutual pining or something like that, but instead, I find myself asking for #32, which is something along the lines of "a soft smile before leaning in for a kiss." Feel better, be less stressed, I'm sorry you're going through the shit you're going through. 💕💕

You are the best. Honestly. Thank you! Here is just…a copious amount of fluff. The prompt here is, in fact:

32. A soft smile before leaning in for a kiss.

There’s just enough sunlight poking through the curtains to be annoying. It dances on the inside of Emma’s eyelids, finding its way through the comfort of the bed and the small mountain of blankets, an arm slung around her middle that’s equal parts surprising and the complete opposite of that. 

This is not the first time they’ve done this. 

She’d been tracking this guy for weeks, nights spent in the front seat of her bug with the windows barely cracked so she could hear without also freezing to death and even longer days prowling the sidewalk looking for any trace of him. And it had all paid off the night before, the clack of handcuffs and the sneer on the asshole’s lips almost as good as the check Emma will get later that afternoon.

Almost.

Although getting the check would also mean that she has to get out of bed and she is almost frustratingly comfortable. 

It’s a weird string of words. 

Mostly because Killian was not at all surprised when she’d slumped against his front door at, approximately, three in the morning, a little sweaty and still a bit out of breath, the straps of her heels hanging from curled fingers. 

This is not the first time they’ve done this. 

So she’s not going to think about anything else. It’s fine. It’s normal. Tradition, or something, a concerned streak that runs several miles both ways with a very impressive current. Or whatever. 

Honestly, whatever. 

Emma squirms further under the blankets, ignoring the thoughts and the light, squeezing her eyes closed tighter and she knows the precise moment Killian wakes him. He laughs. Directly in her ear. 

“Oh, shut up,” she grumbles, but that only draws more laughter and this is fine. Yes. Fine. Friends do this. They worry. They share a bed. They ignore daylight.

“I did not say a single word, Swan. Well, expect those words.”

“You’re frustrating.”

Killian hums, fingers fluttering dangerously close to the edge of her shirt. His shirt. She showed up in her book em dress that morning. Emma isn’t sure if she imagined the way Killian’s eyes widened when he realized. 

This is not the first time they’ve done this. 

“And you’re comfortable,” he mutters. “Don’t move.”

“I’ve got to. If I don’t show up by noon August won’t wait and then I’ll be totally screwed for the next two days.”

“One cannot survive on ramen alone, after all.”

“Seriously, this is not helping your frustrating cause.”

He chuckles, a breath of air on the curve of her shoulder. The shirt is too big. And Emma’s not really sure when, exactly, it changes, but she just knows that it does, flipping on her side in a twist of blankets and a pretzel of limbs and, somehow, she didn’t realize Killian was shirtless. 

She will blame that, eventually. 

And the grin and the glint in his eyes, but mostly the shirtless thing and Emma’s head drops on instinct and want and the several dozen times they’ve done this before. Her lips ghost over his collarbone, not much more than a brush of a touch and Killian freezes. 

It’d be insulting if she wasn’t certain she was dying. 

Emma’s eyes widen, large enough that they start to water, but that may be something else entirely and–“Oh my God,” she breathes, swallowing back a wad of emotion and embarrassment. “Oh God. That’s…oh my God, oh my God. Shit, shit, shit.”

She leaps up, knocking several pillows on the floor in the process. Killian still hasn’t moved. 

“Damn, fuck, damn,” Emma mumbles, darting towards a dresser and drawers where she knows Killian keeps gym shorts and she’s going to steal his shorts. After inadvertently kissing him. 

Kind of. 

“Where are my shoes?”

“What?”

“My shoes,” Emma repeats. “I…I need shoes. You know what, fuck it. I don’t need shoes. I will get my shoes eventually and–”

He catches her around the wrist, the pad of his thumb pressing lightly against her pulse point and Emma knows he can feel that. Even if he weren’t touching her. It’s like that with them. “Swan,” Killian mutters, a note of something that sounds a hell of a lot like wonder in his voice. “You can’t go outside barefoot, love, you’ll get tetanus.”

“I’m not planning on stepping on any rusty nails or anything.”

Killian scoffs, glancing up from underneath his eyelashes and, that time, Emma freezes, his mouth dragging across the bend of her wrist and the back of her palm, like he’s trying to brand her with feeling and emotion. It’s not all that uncomfortable. 

“What is happening right now?” she asks softly, and it’s probably the wrong thing to say. It makes Killian laugh again. 

“Nothing I planned on, actually.”

“No?”

“No.”

He stands up, impossibly slow, nudging her away from the bed and Emma is disappointed when he lets go of her hand. She’s less so when he cups her cheek, thumb brushing over skin and half an inch away from the lip she’s got caught between her teeth. 

The smile stretches across his face like it belongs there, easy and normal and like he’s simply been waiting for the right moment. Maybe they both have. “You left sandals here when you picked up that skip in July,” Killian says. “Because you hate wearing the heels back out.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s right.”

He nods, smile still obvious when he ducks his head and Emma’s left knee wobbles precariously under her. It doesn’t matter. Killian’s arm circles back around her waist, holding her against his chest and kissing her like they’ve been doing this forever. His lips trace over hers, the tip of his tongue and the feel of his breathing and, suddenly, Emma doesn’t care about the light peeking through curtains she helped him pick out. 

It feels like waking up, anyway. In a metaphorical sense. 

“I can probably tell August I’ll be late,” she mumbles, and Killian makes a noise that sounds a lot like an agreement, tugging her back towards the bed. 

In which I am stressed and writing to relieve it, so send prompts if you want to