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krisseycrystal · 5 years ago

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rated: g+

fandom: Ace Attorney

prompt: “Restraining Bolt” + Wrightworth

requested by: @moominquartz (& myself)

sooo “Case 2-4: Farewell My Turnabout” absolutely slaps?? when was somebody gonna tell me? luckily, my husband, who has been playing through the original AA trilogy with me, has a giant-ass brain and so we figured out what to do with the only BTH Bingo prompt that had yet to be requested

enjoy a dramatic reading of Case 2-4...from Edgeworth’s POV

- o - o - o -

So Heavy [Read on AO3]

- o - o - o -

There is, admittedly, several years’ worth of a gap in Edgeworth’s knowledge of Phoenix Wright but even so, there is nothing that can explain the brazen man’s even more brazen behavior on the other side of the courtroom.

Wright acts and speaks in a way true to his name: like a man on fire. His moments of cool composure are few and far in-between. He has always been something of a force of nature, but now, he is a wildfire. There is burning desperation in him in every biting word as he reaches for any scrap of kindle he can get his hands on.

The Edgeworth of a year ago, admittedly, would have written his behavior off with a shrug and condescending tsk.

But the Edgeworth now—somehow, the same Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth who self-purportedly chose death—has in the same day, dragged a shot Franziska von Karma to the hospital, taken her place in the prosecutor’s stand, and come to the very alarming conclusion that while the verdict of Matt Engarde’s guilt in the murder of Juan Corrida should be cut-and-dry, somehow, thanks to Wright’s wild back-and-forth, it is everything but.

He cannot believe the morning has dragged out as long as it has.

He knows full well that Wright has, as of this late March day, a perfect record. For every client he has taken in the past two years, he has successfully won their innocence.

(Somehow. For all of his mad lucky bluffing, hearsay, and guesswork.)

And Edgeworth is familiar with the needy drive of marless perfection, but Wright isn’t. He knows he isn’t. Wright is already too imperfect in all of his broad-shouldered blunder to be hungry for such a thing as a spotless record. Surely, he is humble enough to see his client’s guilt as easy as anything else.

So why does he insist on fighting tooth-and-nail for a not guilty verdict?

(Are his actions born of anger at Edgeworth? He wouldn’t put it past Wright. Wright had drawn a clear line in the sand when he vehemently expressed what he thought of seeing his face again.)

“Why don’t you just say what it is you want, Wright?” Edgeworth demands and means so much more than just, say you’re accusing Adrian Andrews so we can get on with this. There’s also: What aren’t you telling me?

(Why do you brace your shoulders as if you are carrying a burden so heavy?)

As soon as the Judge has his gavel in hand and the words fall off his tongue, “Now then, we shall set Ms. Andrews’ testimony for tomorrow…”, Edgeworth sees it.

The terror in Wright’s face.

“You must pass a verdict today!” Wright shouts and it’s stupid. It’s so stupid; why is he running around in circles as if his life depended on this case? Why is he fooling himself chasing a lie? Is this his characteristic stubborn-hearted, resolute faith in his client rearing its spiky head, or is this something else? Something deeper?

He could have sworn that earlier, Wright’s mouth had soundlessly spoken, “Then Maya…!”

And maybe he still is a fool, but he is not the same fool he was a year ago, and that is all the difference.

“Your Honor,” Edgeworth says and does not move, does not flinch, or laugh or smile to break the important threadline of his eye contact with Wright’s, “I request that you please continue with today’s trial.”

He knows he is not imagining the relief that floods Wright’s face across the courtroom.

- o - o - o -

The calling card with that damn shell on it, spinning idly and harmlessly in Adrian’s fidgeting hand, makes everything clear.

(Almost everything.)

Admittedly, some part of Edgeworth’s case relies on the information Wright tells him the next morning when they cross paths at the hospital. The man is a fool to have brought tulips, however thoughtful he may have thought he was being for Franziska; anyone knows daisies or peonies would have been a much clearer message of well-wishing.

Yet Edgeworth cannot think to find it in himself to hold that against him when Wright loosens his tongue and admits, “Maya…she’s been kidnapped.”

The ground reminds him that it exists when his legs feel weak.

“K-kidnapped? What does the kidnapper want?!”

“An acquittal.”

And suddenly the weight on Phoenix’s shoulders has a name.

“I see,” Edgeworth murmurs, “I had no idea.” And it feels so little, so underwhelming compared to everything else he wants to say but does not have the composure for. Anger: you fool, Wright! You should have told me this from the beginning! Fear: another life is in danger and we must all dread carefully here because it was mercy that took the blood off my hands last time; it will not be so if this goes wrong. Clarity: this explains why Wright was so desperate yesterday. Dread: this confirms the defendant is indeed the assassin’s client and, in fact, guilty.

To…something else, entirely. Something touched.

(Is this what trust feels like?)

“I will prepare a rescue team as soon as possible, and resolve this by tomorrow,” Edgeworth promises.

He doesn’t expect Wright’s cooperation. The spitting anger that Wright throws in his face immediately afterward is more than just a year-long in building. Wasn’t the very reason he became a defense attorney to see Edgeworth again? And here Edgeworth turned his back on that and abandoned him for months on end.

Well.

The Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth truly will choose death before abandoning him now.

(No one ever said you must bear the weight of your burden alone, Wright.)

- o - o - o -

The instant Wright has his arms around Maya again, the world is as it should be. Maya is weak and she is starved and she is pale and dirty, but she is alive and smiling and in one piece and it is all they have hoped for.

The three of them sink to the floor in the middle of the courtroom lobby: Wright, Maya, and Pearl. They clutch each other like the patchwork-quilt family Edgeworth knows they are.

There are two more soundless words Wright mouths to him over Maya’s tangled hair: “Thank you.”

They are needless. Edgeworth was only returning the favor Wright did him a year ago; he was not working to be thanked. But with grace, he crosses his arms over his chest and reluctantly accepts it anyway.

#bad things happen bingo #bth bingo #ace attorney #phoenix wright #miles edgeworth #wrightworth #restraining bolt #farewell my turnabout #basically case 2-4 but from edgey's pov #he's got a fun voice #krissey writes a thing #forgive me for taking liberties i kno the restraining bolt trope isn't supposed to Be Like This #but it fit

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alexandralyman · 6 years ago

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bedtime stories (beyond the horizon)

I missed my original posting date but it’s still October and this is my contribution for @cscocktoberfest! Another extra scene in the BtH-verse, where Princess Emma finds a very interesting (cough*dirty*cough) book on the shelf in the captain’s quarters and has some questions about some unfamiliar words that Killian is all too happy to answer ; )

Also on ff.net here

"Killian?"

"Aye, love?" he answered without looking up, grease pencil in hand as he marked a port on the map in front of him and measured the distance from their current position, doing sums in his head and somewhat distracted by a particularly tricky bit of calculation.

"What does it mean when a randy young lad is secretly polishing his knob?"

"It means...what?"

The figures he'd painstakingly laboured over for the better part of an hour all flew out of his mind and her words lodged there instead while his head jerked up and he met Emma's curious gaze across the cabin. She was sitting in her chair with a book in hand, skirts spilling over the sides and her ankles crossed, tucked away demurely underneath the seat and looking the very picture of a well-bred lady.

"After spying on the chambermaid in her bath, the randy young lad retires to his master's empty study to polish his knob with renewed vigour. I'm guessing from the context that the author did not mean the knob on the door? And when he finishes, he gives a loud groan that almost rouses the whole household and hides the evidence in a handkerchief. The evidence of what?"

Killian blinked at that, the pencil going as limp in his hand as presumably the randy young lad's knob did when he was done, slack-jawed and feeling that he probably bore more than a passing resemblance to a startled codfish at the moment. When he finally managed to find his voice it came out much higher than normal as he squeaked out, "What on earth are you reading?"

Emma held up the volume, it was slim, cloth-bound, a bit worn around the edges and entirely unassuming in appearance with no title visible on the cover or spine. She frequently read in the evenings while he updated the logbook or plotted out the ship's course for the following day, plucking one of his books from the shelves to occupy herself with as he worked. They were a jumbled lot collected piecemeal over the years, sailing lore, dry texts on navel regulations that he no longer followed but kept around for reasons he didn't think about too closely, old legends, tales, histories of lands he'd visited (and plundered, usually) and novels. He supposed Emma had chosen a novel, since he certainly didn't remember Uniform Code of the Royal Navy, Fifth Edition or Krakens, Great Squids and Whales: Hunting and Butchering Techniques to include any randy young lads polishing their knobs among the instructions for tying a cravat in the correct knot for an officer or detailing the best method for harvesting whale blubber.

"So what does it mean?" she repeated.

"It means…" Killian realized he had started to make the corresponding motion with his hand and he felt his cheeks colour, suddenly feeling more like a young lad himself than a man of almost thirty who was well-versed in the many pleasures of the flesh, both with a companion and without. Princess Emma was looking at him expectantly, obviously waiting for his answer. Sweet, gently-reared Princess Emma, unfamiliar with the more bawdy terms tossed about with ease in disreputable company like pirates and their usual bedmates of tavern wenches and ladies of the night. He tried to phrase it in as delicate a manner as he could, he was a pirate now but he had been a gentleman once.

"It's when a lad, or a man, um, er...gratifies himself by hand, to satisfy his lust when he doesn't have the company of a lass."

She glanced back down at the book and went, "Ah. I see." in a tone he couldn't decipher. Then she flipped the page and squinted, running a finger over something on the paper.

"There's illustrations."

Killian was up and across the room in a heartbeat, snatching the book from her hands and feeling his eyebrows rise nearly to his hair when he took his own look. There was an illustration of the scene in question that left no ambiguity as to just what type of knob the young man was polishing, although the anatomy was greatly exaggerated. It was nearly as long as the lad's thigh, for one. He recalled the first time he'd seen such a drawing, on a crude pamphlet passed around below deck and sniggered over by leering crewmen when he was just a lad who had barely sprouted whiskers and how scandalized he'd been at the sight of it when it was thrust into his hands with a knowing look by a soot-stained gunner. Scandalized...and titillated, by the smudged image of a woman with her skirts hiked to her waist and her blouse undone.

Emma was gazing up at him, her hands folded loosely in her lap and her cheeks tinged pink even in the yellow glow from the lantern. Killian glanced from the illustration in the innocuous-looking book to her face, meeting his eyes square on with one delicate blonde brow faintly arched. Perhaps princesses and pirates were not so different in some respects and she was also feeling that warmth pooling low in her belly, desire sparked by the unfamiliar words and deeds depicted in pen and ink. Somewhat unfamiliar at least, she was now rather well acquainted with his own "knob" and the thought of just how well acquainted she was with it sent a sharp throb right through his groin.

"He recalled the maid's Bountiful breasts, brown and Bonny and the very Sight of them floating atop the bathwater had nearly caused his Lust to spill right in his breeches as he crouched unseen in his Hidey-Hole behind the wall. Oh, to cup the Bouncing pair of them free of her Shift and Stays, heavy, round and full as a Wineskin, and to then Suckle upon such tender, Womanly flesh would be a Dream."

The rosy flush on her cheeks only grew deeper while he read aloud, her own breasts rising and falling against the lace-trimmed neckline of her gown in a manner that kindled Killian's lust to a burning flame. Firm, yet soft, like a ripe peach, an unimaginable luxury at sea, he could easily unlace her gown and take one in his mouth, or order the copper tub to be filled and watch at his leisure while she bathed, openly though, not hidden away in a cupboard, he was the captain, master of the ship and not a voyeuristic boot black like the lad in the story, polishing himself instead of his lordship's boots. Both were appealing prospects, but he had another idea.

"Shall we read the rest of this rather provocative tale together, Princess? So I might….clarify any other sections that you require?"

He held out his free hand and after a moment's hesitation Emma nodded and accepted it, letting him pull her to her feet. Killian brushed a kiss across the back of her knuckles and gave her a cheeky wink, gentleman and scoundrel in one (and hers, his love was the prize she had taken for her own even as he'd stolen her away) and led her to his chair instead. It was wide enough for him to sit back comfortably and settle Emma on his lap, round arse nestled between his leather-clad thighs and his arm snaking around her waist to pull her back to his chest while he rested his chin on her shoulder and opened the novel back to the page he'd been reading from.

"Now," he said, clearing his throat and forgetting about his maps and charts entirely. "Where were we?"

It wasn't just the one story, the book contained several short tales all of a similar nature. After the lusty young lad spied on the entire household in various states of en déshabillé, (the cook, the laundress, the butler, the cook and the butler, and finally, his master and mistress in their splendid bedchamber) the setting changed to a bucolic farm in the countryside where the farmer's daughter held secret assignations in the hayloft with the village farrier (who wielded his own fleshy tool as deftly as his hammer and heartily plowed the daughter's ripe and eager field, seeding it deep) and then to a story of a dashing masked highwayman who waylaid a highborn lady on a deserted road and found himself drawn to much more than just her fine jewels (imagining a different sort of pearl necklace around her creamy throat) while they traded remarks laden with innuendo and circled around their growing attraction. Killian continued to read aloud, pausing as he went to explain the various euphemisms. Like knob and tool, a lot of them were other words to describe a man's cock, and his strained even more against the confines of his leathers every time Emma shifted in his lap, turning her head so that his beard brushed the curve of her jaw while he spoke low into her ear and murmured words not fit for a lady (quim, tits, swive, member) rolling his tongue around them the way he wanted to roll his tongue around her hidden pearl and feel her writhe from the pleasure he could draw with his own intimate tales writ upon her skin. In the book, the handsome highwayman bowed to his intrigued captive and proclaimed himself to be, "A Linguist most Cunning, should your Ladyship wish for a demonstration of my Prowess, you have only to ask."

"Ah," Killian said, tapping a ringed finger against the page. "Now what you see here is an old play on words, for cunnalingus is term for when a man kisses a woman not on the mouth, but somewhat, ahem, lower down. So when he calls himself a cunning linguist and offers to demonstrate, he is, in fact proposing that he-"

"Kisses her...quim?" Emma finished.

The book fell shut as a shudder ripped through him and he answered in a rough voice, "Aye."

"And is there a word like that for when a woman...kisses...a man on his...cock?"

Killian could think of many words to describe the act she meant, the act he was now picturing much more vividly in his head than any woodcut, but he chose the one that matched as neat as the sun and the moon.

"Fellatio."

Emma made a 'hmm" noise low in her throat that only served to remind him even more of how it felt to be fellated by her, golden hair tangled in his fingers and all eloquence lost to the sheer bliss of her mouth, sliding over his cock and taking him past those pink lips, matching his thrusts with the bob of her head until the sensations completely overwhelmed him, warm and wet and perfect.

"The royal tutors never taught me those words," Emma mused. "This has been very educational indeed, Captain. Shall we continue?"

He left the book on the table when he lifted her up, carrying her the few steps to the bunk with her arms around his neck and her fingers toying with the hair at his nape.

"I think we'll continue with a more practical exercise now, Princess. If you're amenable, that is. After all, there's only so much one can glean from a book. Direct, hands-on experience is always best."

His sure hands made short work of her gown, leaving her in nothing but stockings and shift while she worked the little jet buttons on his waistcoat. It came off and she rested her fingers on his belt, just above the obvious bulge in his trousers. Emma glanced at it and then up at him, curiosity creasing her lovely face. "Do you ever do that? Er, polish your knob, I mean. Like the boy in the book?"

The question made him pause for a moment. He had, in fact, touched himself several times to thoughts of her after taking her hostage from her own ship, though he'd never stooped so low as to spy on her unaware in the brig or during the times when she bathed in his quarters, before he'd bedded her and pledged his ship and his sword into her service. He was still that much of a gentleman, at least. But the query reminded him suddenly of his own youth, when he would have traded what little he had for even a glimpse of a comely lass in nought but her skin and stole away from his duties to darkened corners whenever he could to stick his hand down his trousers and relieve that ache of unsatisfied lust.

"Aye," he said with a nod. "As a young lad, when I had some spare time and could find a bit of privacy, I would. Not the easiest thing to obtain aboard even a galleon, alas. And hardly satisfying, to have to tuck myself away again and quickly return to swabbing the deck or pumping the bilges before I was missed."

He peeled the shirt from his shoulders and let the belt drop to the floor in a heavy thump of leather, not missing the way Emma was eyeing his bare chest and feeling a surge of masculine pride at the way her gaze darkened with desire. He was no lowly cabin boy or underfed deckhand anymore, he had pillaged and plundered his way across the realm and his name was spoken with fear and awe in the dockside taverns and pubs, Captain Killian Jones, master of the Jolly Roger, the finest vessel to sail the seven seas. He didn't have to make do with a bawdy drawing or chase after a serving wench, an actual princess lounged on his bed in an utterly scandalous state of undress and she was more beautiful to him than any jewel, more valuable than any prize. Emma reached for his necklace and pulled him to her by the chain, falling back against the pillows as he braced himself above her on one arm. Her other hand slipped under the waist of his leathers to graze across the wiry hairs until she found her prize, where he was hard and aching and pride quickly gave way to need while his hips jerked and he twitched in her grasp, hot and firm and eager.

"Like this?" Emma asked, tongue poking out from between her teeth as she stroked him up and down. In one pump he swelled that last little bit, fully erect and the fearsome pirate was completely at the princess's tender mercy. Killian rutted shamelessly into her hand, closing the gap between them to cover her lips with his. The book had mainly described the baser acts and there was no ode to the pleasures of kissing on the mouth as there was to the many joys of fellatio and cunnalingus both. But it was somehow more intimate to share breath itself with his lover, to sweetly nip at her bottom lip until it was as red as a ripe cherry and to taste the wine she'd drunk at dinner still lingering on her tongue while he palmed her full breast through the thin silk and rocked his hips steadily into her touch. A quick study his princess was, she'd learned exactly how he liked the be stroked and polished and he was forced to still her movements with a hand on her wrist before he utterly embarrassed himself and spilled too soon.

"Have you ever gratified yourself, my darling?"

While he was more than ready to gratify the both of them with his cock aching to find the welcoming harbour between her thighs, Killian was curious. He'd lived almost his whole life among randy sailors, he knew men did, and do so as often as they could in most cases. But a highborn lady like his princess? He would had assumed no, it was completely absurd, but that was before he met Emma.

She didn't answer immediately, not with words at least, looking down with her lashes demurely touching her cheeks and finally giving a shy little nod that made his belly flip and his voice drop to a throaty growl.

"Show me."

Her stockings were tied with ribbon garters just above her knees, revealed as the shift was slowly hitched up. The little bows did something to him, he wanted to untie them with his teeth and suck a mark into her flesh, leave love bites all over her inner thighs and make her fall apart with his tongue, but he was completely transfixed by the sight of her slim hand, inching higher and higher up her leg. The pink of her cheeks was nothing compared to the dark rose of her cunny, exposed to his avid gaze when she spread her legs fully and already glistening in the lamplight. Her fingers twitched, hesitated, but at his encouraging nod they finally slid through the damp cleft with a touch that was soft and delicate, barely making contact for several torturous, slow passes until Emma finally reached the nub at the top and began to rub and circle it with firmer strokes. Killian felt an answering throb in his groin, a faint echo of the growing pleasure he could see in the catch of her lip between her teeth and the rock of her hips up into her exploring hand.

"Does it feel good, Princess?"

"Yes."

She looked at him with a heavy-lidded gaze while her hand continued to work between her thighs and he couldn't stop himself from wrapping his fingers around his shaft, pumping it in time to the movement and swiping his thumb over the swollen head whenever she touched her own sweet spot and a shudder rippled under her skin.

"Does it feel as good as when I touch you?" he asked, voice hoarse with desire.

Emma shook her head, golden hair spilling over the pillow. "No...it feels, it feels good, but when you touch me, when you're...inside me...it...it feels, it feels like nothing else ever has. I never want you to stop."

"Never," Killian promised, a dark chuckle escaping him. "You're my treasure now, my love, and I'll never stop. I could have you every night and never tire of your velvet quim, so snug and perfect around my cock when you wrap your legs around me and take me all the way to the hilt. I dreamt of it from the day you set foot on my ship, taking you to bed and touching you all over, these perfect breasts, your shapely arse, kissing your mouth and all along your white throat, down to part your thighs and sup to my heart's content on your sweetness."

He moved to kneel on the bed, between her spread legs and ducked down to kiss her, one hand braced to hold his weight and the other snaking down to grasp her wrist. "Don't stop," he warned, while she panted with her impending release and moaned quietly into his mouth. Killian placed his hand on top of her own and together they continued to stroke her towards the peak, when he sensed she was just about to fall over the edge as her free hand grasped his shoulder and her nails dug into his skin he abruptly thrust two fingers inside, curling them upwards and feeling her squeeze around them with a soft cry falling from her kiss-swollen lips. No buxom bathing beauty, nubile farmer's daughter or haughty duchess could compare to his swan princess, bright-eyed and pliant in his arms. They kissed with unhurried languor, his erection had not abated but the night was still young, there was no need for haste. It was worth it to delay his satisfaction to watch hers, as the lad in the book had watched the maid in her bath. Emma's nails trailed pleasantly through his chest hair and toyed with the charms on his necklace, thumbing over the skull and dagger.

"Does it feel as good as when I touch you?"

Her hand drifted down and brushed his flat stomach, the muscles quivering under the contact.

"Definitely not," Killian breathed, head tipping back a bit and his eyes closing. She drew nonsense patterns with her nails, moving lower down, a gentle caress that was so unlike whenever he felt the need to gratify himself and took his cock in hand. Her hand was much smaller, lacked the calluses formed from years of raising sails and playing out rope, and yet it had had him completely at her mercy from the moment he had first lifted it to his lips and brushed a kiss across the back of her knuckles.

"I wouldn't describe it as a knob, though," she said, sounding somewhat displeased by the term.

A ripple of mirth ran through him at that. "No?"

"Knob implies something rather squat, like a doorknob. Perhaps some men are shaped in such a manner, but you are most certainly not."

Killian had lived almost his whole life in the close quarters of ships populated almost entirely by men. Privacy was a luxury he'd not known until he became an officer, he'd seen plenty of sailors stripped down to the skin and more male appendages than he could count. Princess Emma had no such basis for comparison, and wouldn't, if he had any say in the matter.

"Is there another word you would prefer then?" he asked, propping a hand under his head and angling his hips back so that his groin was on full display for her. "Since 'knob' obviously displeases you, and we can't have that. Member? Tool?"

She shook her head with each one, thoughtfully eyeing the part of his anatomy in question. Never had a woman taken such time to peruse him so closely before the bedding, measuring him with thumb and index finger, examining his length and girth.

"Larger than I expected," she murmured, which made him smile (and feel more than a little satisfied to have exceeded her expectations thus). "I didn't see at first how it could possibly fit...and so warm to the touch. Not cold and blunt as a tool."

So he wasn't the village farrier come to plow the farmer's daughter. Just as well, straw itched something fierce. Emma traced along the shape of him with the pads of her fingers, still engrossed in her task. Killian didn't care how she decided to refer to his cock, she could call it his pecker, his phallus, his mast, anything she wanted so long as she kept doing that.

"But a fair amount of heft, when I handle it like this."

The "handling" made his eyes roll back and he thrust helplessly into her grip. "You can handle it whenever you please," he moaned, rolling them in the bunk so that he was on top. "Whatever you wish to call it, Princess."

Killian spread her thighs open with his knee and rested between them, feeling her hand guide him across that last bit of distance. He slid in with almost no resistance, just the voluptuous sensation of being wrapped in silken heat, a balls deep dive into waters uncharted to all but him. There was no word for this moment, no way to describe the feeling that seized him from head to toe as he started to move. All eloquence fled, there was only the slide of his body inside hers, the slick push and pull of the quickfire rhythm that matched the beat of his heart under where her palms lay braced on his bare chest, not to push him away, never that, but to welcome him home and home again. Whoever he was, Killian Jones, sailor, pirate, captain, he was hers, nameless in her arms, her lover, joined as they were in the most intimate of ways. The light from the lantern was am amber spill over their entwined limbs, turning her skin to honey that he tasted with his tongue, chasing her pulse as it fluttered in the hollow of her throat, rolling a pert nipple between his fingers when she arched up against him. The lines and edges were blurred in a haze of passion that left him unable to tell where he ended and she began. His downward strokes were matched by the upward tilt of her hips, a delicious drag of his rigid flesh along her inner walls that started to increase in pace as he felt the familiar tingle of impending release. Killian kissed a line down her throat and buried his face in her neck while Emma clutched at his arse, pulling him even closer with her thighs tightening around his hips. All the ways there was to describe the act that he'd ever heard from sniggering sailors, crude boasts of bedding, swiving, rogering, coupling, and the only one that came to mind now as he spilled with a groan and groped for her hand, lacing their fingers tight against the mattress, was lovemaking.

"Do you think they had a happy ending?"

The question pulled him from the lazy afterglow where they lay on the rumpled and well-used bed with Emma's head pillowed on his shoulder, still fully nude save for the single stocking that had somehow managed to cling to her leg throughout their exertions. The other was draped half on and half off the bunk while her shift lay in a tangled heap on the floor with his discarded trousers and he had no idea what she was talking about.

"Who, love?"

"The highwayman and the lady in the book. It was my favourite of all the tales and we didn't finish it. Do you think they had a happy ending?"

Killian stared up at the ceiling and felt his chest rise with a breath as he considered how to answer. He was certain that there had been a happy ending in the story of the dashing highwayman and the spirited noblewoman he waylaid on a deserted road, but not the kind that Emma probably meant….

"Do you think they did?" he asked carefully, tilting his head to look at her. He realized suddenly that perhaps there was some...similarities, in their situations, having waylaid his own noblewoman on the high seas and stolen her jewels, even though he had given them back (eventually). But the book Emma had found on his shelf was meant for titillation, fodder for a wank, a bawdy laugh and nothing more, and he very much doubted that there was any real happily ever after to be found in its salacious tales.

Her bare shoulder lifted in a shrug. "I don't know. We could read it tomorrow, and see for certain."

He could hear the note of hesitation in her voice and he tightened the arm he had wrapped around her while her hand spread flat on his chest, over his heart, the sea diamond resting on her finger. Gave her back her jewels and then some.

"They did," he said firmly, running his fingers over hers. "They ran off together and had all sorts of grand adventures, and they had a very happy ending."

Emma let out a pleased murmur, nose pressed to his neck. "Even though he threatened to pierce her with his dirk?" she mumbled.

"Darling, sure you know that was simply another witticism and that he wasn't actually referring to a knife."

Her hand drifted lower, resting just above where he was spent and soft against his belly. "Another word for this, then? Is that what I should call it? Your dirk? Or perhaps something a bit more...lengthy."

Killian felt his cock begin to stir as her voice turned sultry, the siren song of such words on her lips luring him in again.

"A dagger?" he offered.

"Mmm, too pointy. Not a rapier style of blade, more like a….cutlass, or your sabre. It's even curved just a tiny bit too."

Her lips curved in a smile that made his heart skip a beat even as he thought ruefully that their next sparring session was sure to result in some dreadfully tight leathers.

"More than the barest prick, I imagine."

The noblewoman of the tale had retorted to the highwayman's "threat" with a disdainful comment that she was sure to feel only the barest prick from his dirk. Killian laughed, taking Emma's hand and guiding it back down, down, down...

"Oh I think you're well aware, Princess, that when I jab you with my sword, you'll feel it."

#cs fic #cs ff #my fic #cscocktoberfest #cs smut

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