#finished this a bit ago but i just went in and added a newer rendition of aethon. yaeyyyy

[worldofbalance]

guys that stand in a big long row: hey

"""central""" cast lineup for 'ALBIAN UNDERNEATH' aka messed-up-potamia. "theoretical" comic, large-scale worldbuilding brainstorming cess pit.

(from left to right - Juris, The Vessel, Aethon, Hulios, Drapere, Edaen, Pherion, Neythos, Phobos, Levrus, Iris, Litho IV, The Sun-Robber(s))

[thejollyroger-writer]

Captains & Corsets - A Cocktoberfest Fic

A/n: This story started out as something completely different, not even for this event, and then my muse told me that this was supposed to be my Cocktober story, and not the other one I had planned. It seemed to all work out in the end, though. Special thanks to the @cscocktoberfest mods of this event, and to my excellent beta, @littlescorpion  -- your attention to detail inspires me, and this fic would not be the same without you!

Summary: Emma Swan is the manager of Belle's bookstore, helping at the last minute for a Halloween party where her only costume choices involved corsets. Captain Killian Jones has moved to America, having lost everything in England he cares about and has returned to the care of a good friend. Neither of them may be searching for a relationship, but that doesn't mean that they won't hit it off, in more ways than one.

Rated E - it’s cocktober, guys. 

Read on AO3!

“You can’t be serious, Rubes,” Emma sighs, trying to pull Ruby’s tank-top up to cover at least a little of her chest. “I don’t know why I ever thought that any of your costumes would be… appropriate.” She lifts her eyes to meet her best friend’s through the mirror.

“Come on, Ems, you should know better than that.” Of all the times Emma has described her best friend’s smile as ‘wolfish,’ none of them described it just as well as right now, standing behind Emma in her little red riding hood costume. Or, what Ruby describes as a costume, but really turns out to be a bring red corset, black shorts, and a red velvet cape with a hood.

“You know this is a costume party at a bookstore and not a night at the world’s sluttiest club, right?”

“So what?”

Emma looks over herself in the mirror again, already embarrassed to be seen in Ruby’s rendition of “Robin Hood”: a green corset-slash-tank top with high-waisted khaki shorts, black knee-high boots, and a little green pointed hat, not to mention the hip quiver and longbow slung over her shoulder.

“I can’t go in this!” Emma finally tears her eyes away from her reflection and whips around to face her best friend, whose smile and eyes only widen seeing the front of her not through the mirror. “

Why not? You look excellent.”

“Ruby! I am the manager of the store, I can’t show up in a corset!” Ruby waves her hand between them, then rolls her eyes and turns back to her closet. “Fine, fine. I have…” She pages through the hangers, looking for something that might be more appropriate. Holding up a skirt that can’t be more than six inches long, Emma shakes her head again. “Since you’re the manager, why didn’t you find a costume before the night of this Halloween party ? ” Ruby pops her head out of the closet at the last bit of her question, accentuating her words with a raise of her eyebrows. Emma rolls her eyes before Ruby steps back into the closet.

“For your information, I was actually not supposed to even be at this party, so I didn’t think I was going to need a costume until this morning when Belle went into labor.”

“Fine, fine! But you can’t come to me for last-minute help and then berate me for my belongings.” Emma opens her mouth to speak, but before anything comes out, Ruby’s hand flies out of the closet, tossing something at her: a pair of pants. No, a pair of red leather pants , with laces in place of the regular zipper…

“Come on, ” Emma whines, but Ruby stops her again. “I feel like you’re trying to make sure I get laid tonight.”

“Listen, would getting some really be half bad? How long has it been since Neal left, anyway?”

Ruby gives Emma an opportunity to answer, but she stays silent. Too long .

When Emma’s eyes fall to the floor, Ruby leaves the subject untouched. “And I have closets full of shorts and skirts, and those are just about the only pants I own, unless you want the white pair?”

“No! No, these are… these are fine. But what costume are they a part of?” Pulling off her jeans, she begins the shimmy into the leather, and when Ruby pulls the rest of the costume out of the closet, Emma is surprised she missed it her first (and second) time through the closet: a black off-the-shoulder flowing shirt with a black and red corseted vest.

“I’ve had this pirate costume since college, and I don’t think I’ve worn it in just as long.” Emma pulls her t-shirt over her head, and Ruby hands her the black shirt, which falls perfectly off her shoulders (and reveals that damned swan tattoo on her shoulder, an alcohol-driven reclamation of the last name of her first foster family, but it’s the least of Emma’s worries for tonight), and as much as she hates to admit it, the corset cinched around her waist actually doesn’t look half-bad.

She’s almost looking forward to wearing it in public, getting laid or not. Especially once Ruby hands her the prop sword, though she thinks she might go without the hat.

She is most definitely not getting laid tonight, especially since she knows everyone in town. Tonight might not be nearly as bad as she originally expected it to be.

******************************************************************

“How in the seven hells did I let you talk me into this, Nolan?” Killian asks, eyeing his best friend out of the corner of his eye, finishing the bottle of beer in his hand.

Dave turns to face his old captain, a man he hadn't seen for almost ten years, the best friend from his younger years that showed up on his porch the day before, all of his belongings in a backpack slung over his shoulder and looking exactly as Dave had remembered, minus the twinge of reddish-grey in his dark hair and beard and the prosthetic left hand, the injury that sent him home the last time David saw him. “You're the one who showed up decked out in that pirate costume, when I was all ready to just come as myself.”

Killian turns to face him, one eyebrow raised high on his forehead. “We both know that your wife would not have allowed that, mate.” He follows Dave's eyes across the room, where he finds Dave's wife holding a tray of caramel apples — some of which Killian even helped her make the night before. Mary Margaret must feel their eyes on her, and she turns towards them with a wave and a warm smile.

“You're right, Jones,” Dave says, his eyes still set on his wife, even after she's turned away from them. “And that's why I'm here now, dressed in this Popeye costume, which I thought was outrageous until I saw yours.”

“Just admit it, Nolan. You're jealous of how dashingly handsome of a pirate I make.” As if to prove his point, he straightens the collar of his jacket, then runs his prosthetic hand through his hair, pushing it off his forehead, a salacious grin spread across his face.

Of course, he's right. Dave is not an idiot and has never failed to recognize that his friend is beyond just handsome , but for some reason, the pirate costume accentuates all of his best features: the collar of his jacket parallels his sharp jawbone, and with the top few buttons of his shirt undone, lined up with the V of his vest, the sharp lines call the eyes down the muscles of his neck to where his dark chest hair just becomes visible. Not to mention his dark leather pants, which are tighter than Dave would ever feel comfortable wearing in public.

Seeing just how much lighter Killian's beard and hair has become, Dave thinks of a phrase Emma had brought up a few weeks ago and realizes that it describes his friend perfectly: a silver fox.   Killian Jones has become a silver fox.

“Want another?” Dave asks, taking the empty bottle from Killian's good hand before he can answer.

“Please, mate,” Killian answers, pushing himself off the wall they were holding up. “But let me come with you.”

It’s only been two days since Killian packed everything he didn't sell into a backpack and hopped on a plane, finding himself at David Nolan's door just the morning before in Storybrooke, Maine, and in those two days, he's met a good handful of people; but that in no way means he feels comfortable enough to be left alone at a party.

He follows Dave across the small bookstore to where they have temporarily converted the coffee shop to a small bar. Ordering them two more beers and adding them to his tab for the evening, he notices the tall brunette bartender dressed as what Killian believes to be Little Red Riding Hood, though he's never seen a rendition of a children's story character that utilizes a corset, and she smiles across the counter at him.

“Who’s your friend, David?” she purrs, making sure her fingers brush Killian's as she hands him his bottle.

Dave can't help but roll his eyes at the tone of her voice, but he still answers her question, introducing her to Killian—and noticing that Ruby's hand stays in his longer than necessary as she introduces herself.

“Well, thanks, Rubes,” Dave says bluntly, turning away from the bar and hoping that Killian follows as he walks away. Searching the crowd for his wife, Dave heads in her direction, hearing the clicking of the heels on Killian's boots behind him.

Mary Margaret’s eyes light up as she watches her husband approach her, and Killian can't help the smile that flashes across his face when he sees this, the obvious love that the two of them share. Something that he thought he had, until she changed her mind.

But that’s part of what he came here to forget.

“Emma and Belle did such an excellent job putting this whole thing together, didn't they?” Her smile grows with her question, scrunching up the tip of her nose, and Dave leans down to press a kiss to the top of her head.

“Definitely,” Dave replies, but Killian's mind is elsewhere.

“When will I get to meet this sister of yours, Dave?”

Killian's been hearing about Emma for almost as long as he's known David, remembers when he had to leave the base right after their graduation because she showed up in Storybrooke again after running away from their foster home years before. He's seen pictures of her, the ones Dave brought with him on their tours together, and then the newer ones that he has around his house now. The pictures showed him the most beautiful blonde woman he has ever seen, though he's never had the opportunity to meet her in person.

Until today.

“Actually, she's right here!” Mary Margaret waves her hand to grab her attention from across the room, and Killian watches in awe as the crowd parts to reveal her to him. He knows it’s an absolutely cheesy cliche, but damn if she is a million times more beautiful than the pictures that truly do her no justice. She is a goddess on land, the most ethereal angel he has ever seen, dressed as, of all things, a goddamned pirate , in sinfully tight, bright red leather pants with a corseted vest over a black off-the-shoulder shirt, a costume comparable to his own.

As soon as she locks eyes with him, after smiling at her brother and his wife, neither of them break away from the stare. Her eyes widen at first, seeing him for the first time, then narrow as she takes him in approaching him. The moments it takes her to cross the room stretch into hours, watching her watch him, and the corner of his lips pulls up into a half-smile when she stops in front of them. David wraps his arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer into the circle.

“Ems, this is Captain Killian Jones, a good friend of mine from the Navy.” She smiles at him, a wide smile that he can swear physically radiates light.

“Captain Jones, it’s a pleasure to meet you after all this time.”

A smile spreading across his face, Killian holds his hand out towards her. “Darling, please call me Killian. And I assure you, the pleasure truly is all mine.”

Taking his hand, she expects his to shake it, but instead, he pulls it to his lips, pressing them against her knuckles, a motion that causes her entire face to redden, a blush that brightens her jade eyes, and he is surprised to feel a warmth to stir in his chest.

Emma, on the other hand, has possibly never been more turned on in her life.

To say that she is attracted to Captain Jones is the understatement of the century, an understatement that grows larger when she notices the brightness of his eyes, a shade of cobalt blue that shouldn’t be possible on a living, breathing human. She’s never been one to have a thing for older men, but there’s something about the man standing before her, a mixture of the patches of silver in his hair and the bright red vest that reveals dark hair that she can only imagine trails down his entire body, that intrigues her in a way she has never been intrigued before, starts a fire in her chest that travels down her body and settles behind her stomach.

Fuck, she doesn’t want to admit that Ruby may have been right, but for what seems like the first time ever, she’s actually hoping that Ruby’s joke about getting laid from earlier becomes a reality.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watches her brother roll his eyes, a motion that reminds her that her brother is standing right next to her , makes his arm slung over her shoulder suddenly weigh her down.

Pull yourself together, damnit.

“You did an excellent job putting this whole thing together, Emma,” Mary Margaret says finally, breaking the moment of silence that took over the group, and Emma finally tears her eyes away from his, turning instead to her sister-in-law.

“Thank you, really, but most of it was Belle. She planned everything, bought all the decorations, everything. I wasn’t even going to be here until she went into labor this morning.”

“Well, then it really is my lucky day, isn’t it?” Killian’s not sure what brings him to say it, and until David turns towards him, he’s not entirely sure he’s said it out loud.

Emma blushes again, and it does incredible things to him, stirring heat in parts of him that he wasn’t sure still worked. Thankfully, before he can say anything else just as embarrassing, someone across the room calls Emma, taking her attention from them for just long enough for David to reach out and hit his shoulder with the back of his hand.

When Emma turns back towards them, she says, “Excuse me, I’m sorry,” before smiling at them weakly and turning away.

Once Dave hopes she is far enough out of earshot, he turns to his friend. “I understand you have an inherent need to flirt with everyone, Jones, but does that have to include my sister?”

Killian flashes the same smile at David that he usually saves for the best of his conquests, which only causes him to roll his eyes.

“Okay, fine,” David concedes before Killian even gets the chance to respond. “Just… try not to do it where I can see you, okay? That’s just—it’s just weird.”

******************************************************************

Killian watches the party from afar, switching at some point from beer to rum, and after spending some time browsing the bookshelves in the small store, he decides on a rather sizable thriller that he remembers someone recommending to him—a book that he fully intends on purchasing before he leaves, especially after the condensation from his glass drips down onto one of the pages. Not paying for it would, of course, be bad form.

Every once in a while, he turns his eyes back to the room around him, most of which he can see from the seat he has chosen, and he usually finds David or Mary Margaret looking towards him, sometimes with rather somber expressions, sometimes smiling when he meets their eyes, but always leaving him alone.

A good book is exactly what he needs right now, after the year he’s had. After Milah leaving him, deciding nine months ago to go back to her husband and “give him another try,” that bloody bastard. Where was her husband for the four years they were together?  

And losing Milah hurt him, but not nearly as much as it hurt when he got the call from the police… damn, was it already a week ago? After his stint in the Royal Navy, shorter than Killian’s time in the American military, Liam turned to the police force, a decision that ended up being the one that took his life fifteen years later.

It was at Liam’s funeral two days later that Killian realized everything that he had returned to England for—namely his brother, but finding Milah along the way hadn’t hurt until the end—was gone. Liam was the only tie back to reality that Killian had.

So he sold everything he had, packed what was he needed into his backpack, and bought a ticket to America, thankful that he and David had kept correspondence since his injuries sent him home from deployment, including Christmas cards from Dave’s lovely wife that included his address.

Realizing that his eyes stopped taking the words in, Killian pulls his thoughts back to the pages in front of him, blinking the glaze away from his eyes. It works for another few pages, until he realizes that his thoughts have floated off the page and back to his brother once again.

Damn him.

Killian finishes the rest of the rum in his glass in a quick mouthful, then pushes himself away from the table, noting his page in the book before he closes it. Finding his way back to the bar, the one part of the room he cannot see from the table, the brunette bartender flashes him another smile when she passes the glass back to him over the bar.

“Thank you, love,” he drawls, smiling back at her before taking the first sip, and lets the liquid sit in his mouth for a moment before coating his throat with the sensation of it.

Turning his attention back to the party, he remembers David’s sister, though how she ever left his mind is beyond him.

But at the same time, he does have a lot on his mind, so he forgives himself for forgetting about the beautiful blonde for a little while. Though turning his attention towards her would definitely help him forget about Milah, which he realizes he desperately wants. He scans the room, trying to find her and those damn leather pants somewhere, but when he cannot, he drops his head, hitting his chest with his chin. Running his fingers through his hair then across his stubble, he sighs, then decides to return to his table, and to his book. Hopefully.

But as he turns the corner away from the bar and towards his table, he spots her, her back to the party, sitting at the very table he just left, her slender fingers carefully running over the book he left on the table.

For a moment, he wonders what it would be like for her to run those fingers over him, before he curses himself. He takes another careful sip of his rum as he fills the rest of the space between him and the table.

“I am planning on paying for it, just so you’re aware.”

He does not think he spoke loudly, but he still notices that he caused her to jump a little before she turns to him, watching him take a seat across the small wooden table.

“I never doubted that, actually.” Her smile is small, just the beginnings of the radiance she flashed him when they were introduced. He hopes he can get her back to that brilliance.

“Shouldn’t you be attending to your party?” He gestures around the room, but her eyes do not leave his face.

“You’re also at my party, aren’t you?” Her smile grows, but only a little. “It’s not like I’m being completely antisocial, sitting in the corner by myself.”

Her words tear a hole in his chest, but when her face reddens and she drops it to the table, hitting her forehead against her crossed forearms, he doesn’t think she meant it in the way he was taking it.

After a moment, she straightens back up, and she looks so absolutely devastated that he can’t help the laugh that rattles in his chest. “I promise I didn’t mean that like— as an insult, I just— ” Her eyes meet his, taking them off of the book sitting between them, and the softness of her features proves his thought is correct. “I’m sorry. You’re in a completely new town with people you’ve never met before. If I was in your place, I would be doing the same thing.”

He smiles gently at her, reaching across the table and covering her hand with his. “Truly, love, it’s alright. Though I hope you never find yourself in my place.” He doesn't know what calls him to say it; the last thing he wants to do is spew his tragic backstory to the gorgeous blonde sitting across the table from him. But, taking another careful sip of his drink, he watches her eyes turn up to him in question.

But her response doesn't force anything from him: "Well, whatever brought you here, Killian, I for one am thankful for it."

She smiles at him again, closer to the divine radiance from their meeting, and after a moment, he returns the smile. "Thank you, love," he says finally. "I appreciate that. Truly."

A beat passes between them, softened by both of their smiles, and when she turns her eyes back down to the book still on the table between them , he notices the twinge of red that takes over her cheeks, darkening further as she changes the subject.

"You know, Dean Koontz was one of my favorite authors in college. I haven't read this one in particular, but all of the reviews I've read or gotten about it make it sound interesting."

Killian nods. "I heard a few great things about him before, but this one in particular was mentioned in an article I read on the plane here from England. I was just perusing, searching for an activity to pass the time when I came across it on your shelves and decided to give it a try."

"You're from England then?"

For some reason, it is not a question he was expecting from her, and part of him believes that she's simply making small talk to be civil. But the genuine interest he finds in her jade eyes is just the push he heeds to convince himself that, maybe, not everyone views him as a sob story. He truly hopes that Emma does not.

"Aye, from a small town in the north."

"But weren't you in the Navy with my brother?"

"I was. My mother was American, so when she left my father and returned to America, I joined her. I was twelve, and my brother was nineteen and joined the Royal Navy at the same time that we left."

She nods, obviously intrigued by his story, most likely trying to fill in the gaps from what David had told her. "But you went back to England after you were injured?"

He attempts to smile, but it doesn't come. "Aye, by that time, sickness had taken my mother and Liam had gotten a job in England, so I went home to be with him."

"You and your brother are close, then?" Her question is harmless—she is genuinely interested. Even still, unknown to her, the words hit him like a blade to the heart and he has to swallow the lump that forms in his throat before he can answer her.

"We were." As much as he was trying to avoid the 'retelling of the tragic backstory' part of the night, he finds that he actually wants to tell her. "He passed a week ago. Killed in the line of duty."

For the second time—because yes, she was counting—she reaches out and covers his hand with her own.

"I'm so sorry, Killian. Is that—is that what brought you here, then?" Her voice is soft, a sort of real niceness that reminds him of the time he had spent with Dave's wife, Mary Margaret. He's incredibly thankful for it. For her.

"Aye. There was nothing left for me in England, and Dave was really the only person from my time in the military that I've stayed in touch with so coming here was the only sensible idea in my mind."

Her eyes fall back to the table, to where her hand is still resting on top of his. Neither of them make a move to change that.

"Well, I hope you find Storybrooke as healing as I have."

"I have a feeling it might be exactly what I need." He's fairly sure he's not talking about the town and, finally, when she looks at him again, he sees that he has succeeded in bringing her smile back.

They sit in a comfortable silence for a few moments, Killian’s attention back to the book as much as it can be with the gorgeous woman sitting across from him, Emma pulling her phone out of the pocket of the vest and staring down at it for the moment of silence she has before someone approaches her, a dark-haired woman in a simple black dress and a witch hat, and Killian raises his eyes to her before Emma notices her presence behind her.

“Emma,” the woman says, "I need you to look at something for me, if you're not busy?"

Smiling gently up at her, Emma turns back to Killian. "Captain Jones, this is Mayor Mills. He was in the Navy with David."

"Pleasure," she says, though the look on her face paints the opposite picture, so Killian simply raises his glass to her before turning his attention back to the pages.

"Excuse me," Emma mumbles as she pushes herself away from the table.

******************************************************************

Slowly, the party begins to come to a close. People leave, one by one or in groups, each thanking Emma before finding their way out of the building. Killian watches it all from his corner of the room, watches her intently even though he pretends to read any time someone turns towards him. It is almost midnight once Emma actually takes a moment to look at her phone, the screen filled with notifications, people tagging her in their Instagram pictures and their Facebook posts, plus pictures from Belle of her new daughter.

Even so, with all the work and clean up she knows is ahead of her, she somehow finds herself back at the table in the corner, glass of whiskey in hand as she stares across at Killian who has turned his eyes up to hers in an incredible staring contest.

"Can I help you, love?" he mumbles in a voice that Emma might even define as a growl, a sound that strikes Emma right to the core. She can't quite understand it, but she is suddenly overcome with a need , an incredibly physical desire, an attraction unlike anything Emma has ever felt.

And Killian feels it too, staring across the table at her. He never thought he would feel this way towards a other woman, thought he had wasted what was left of himself on Milah. But sitting here, across from his best friend's sister with the bright green eyes filled with desire, he feels it again.

"God, I hope so," she whispers, so quiet that Killian is not even sure that she meant to say it out loud. But after the night they have had during the course of this party, staring at each other across the room as if their eyes were magnets, drawn only to the other, he by no means is against what her words insinuate. Emma may have only had a few glasses of whiskey over the hours of the party, but Killian has been at it regularly all night—and though he has never had a problem holding his own, it continues to strengthen his innuendoes shared only with her the few times she found enough time to join him again.

Leaning across the table on his elbows, he reaches out to press the tips of his fingers against her arm, needing to feel some part of her against him.

"Just give me the chance, darling, and I promise you won't be disappointed."

The bright red that quickly rises to tint her cheeks assures him that what he assumed earlier was correct, that she didn't think she actually spoke the words that crossed her mind.

Staring across the table for a moment longer, Emma covers his hand against her arm with her own. Then, as quickly as it started, the moment's over.

Emma clears her throat. "I need to clean up."

"Do you need assistance?"

"Please, Killian," she laughs, squeezing his hand below hers. "You're a guest here. The last thing you need to do is help clean up after people you don't even know."

He returns her smile with his own. "If you change your mind, love, you know where to find me."

"Of course. Thank you," she whispers before getting up from the table once more.

But keeping away from him, keeping her attention anywhere but him as she and the few partygoers left stuff trash bags and wipe down tables, proves to be a much harder task than she anticipates. Every time she turns her eyes back to him, sitting alone at the table with the book before him, she finds his eyes trained on her, no matter where she is in the room.

Ruby must pick up on this as she cleans up her own bar stock, making her own eyes at Emma when she meets them.

"Remember what I told you earlier,” she whispers, sliding past Emma with a box of bottles. "It wouldn't hurt to get a little action tonight."

Emma huffs, rolling her eyes at the words of her friend. But, at the same time, Emma realizes that Ruby may be right, thinking of Killian in ways she has tried her hardest the whole night to avoid: trembling above her, holding her in his arms as she feels every muscle of him against her.  

Inside her.

It's been almost two years since she left Neal, learning that his trips to Boston for "work" were really for him to see his other woman. Two years since he had broken her heart, since she decided never to trust another man.

But letting Killian have his way with her, letting him roam her body with his hands, his tongue—that doesn't mean opening her heart up to him.

Not necessarily.

Suddenly, every moment begins to suffocate her. It is bubbling up inside her, threatening to take her over, this need for him. And so, she does what she can: she sends the remainder of the guests home, David and Mary Margaret and a small handful of others.

But not Killian.

Killian stays. Even when David tries to insist his friend leaves with him, then Killian joins the conversation.

"I've done nothing but sit on my hands all night, mate. The very least I can do is make sure she gets home safely."

"Fine, fine," Dave gives in, clapping his hand on his friends shoulder. The look they share in that moment recalls Dave's comment from earlier about flirting with everyone to his memory, but he hopes that Dave is not thinking of the same thing. "Just don't stay out too late," he adds with a smile, then wraps his arm around his wife, who looks like she could collapse from exhaustion at any moment and leads her out the door. He looks back at his sister one last time through the store window, and then they are gone.

Emma and Killian are alone. Before turning towards him—because when she does, she fears she may not be able to turn away—she locks the door behind her brother, then lowers the blinds over the windows.

Then, once she is sure that they are safe from any interruptions, she turns to face him, his bright eyes and sly smile peeking out from above the book in his hands.

For what feels like eternity, neither of them move as if the world has pressed the pause button, her hands set on her hips, and one of his eyebrows locked high on his forehead.

And then, finally, it gets to him, and he gets up from the table and fills the space between them, taking her face in his hand and resting his prosthetic against her hip.

"I was hoping you felt as I did," he says softly, but keeps the rest of the space between them for her to choose to fill herself. “Just two ships passing in the night,” he whispers, overwhelmed by the need to make some kind of joke about their costumes.

She takes a moment to stare up at him, to take in the details of his face that she had failed to see throughout the night: the small scar on his cheek, that she runs her thumb over; the flecks of light that twinge his dark beard, not just silver-grey but red; and, perhaps most prominently the streaks of white in his hair, hair that calls to her to run her fingers through. So she does.

It is much softer than she expected it to be, light as a feather and softer than she's known anyone's hair to be.

“Passing closely, I hope.”

Smiling up at him, she wraps her hand around the back of his neck and pulls his lips to hers. He lets her guide the kiss for a moment, not forcing her into anything she does not want— though, by the way she presses her body against him, he erases any doubt that they are not already on the same page; but when he feels the warm flick of her tongue against his bottom lip, he grants her entry, wrapping his arms around her waist to pull her flush to him, to make sure that she feels every inch of him against her.  

“Killian,” she whispers, her lips still pressed against his, and he hums in response. “We can’t do this here.”

“Aye, love. I was thinking that, but Lord knows I wasn’t going to stop you.”

She laughs against him, running her hand against the stubble that covers his cheek, which earlier that day he cursed himself for not getting rid of, but feeling her fingers against it makes him glad that his laziness got the best of him. “My office is in the back” she says, pulling away from him just enough to look into his eyes.

“Lead the way,” he mumbles back, but not before he can grind against her, the leather of his pants failing to hide anything from her, showing him half-hard and growing beneath the fabric, a sign that he wants this just as much as she does.

Pulling away before she loses the ability to, she takes his hand in hers and pulls him through the store. But when she leans against the door into the back, pulling at the handle to push it open, she finds it locked— of course it’s locked, because why would it have been open?

She turns back towards the store, trying to figure out where her damn keys are, but Killian misinterprets the movements and presses his body against hers, needing to feel her again, trapping her between him and the door. His lips find hers again, hot and dominating in a way that she didn’t know she needed until he was on her, could feel the hardness of him against her own leather pants.

“Killian, wait ,” she pleads again, his lips on her neck, and when she begins to laugh, he stops his movements and stares up at her, his head still ducked below hers, blue eyes blown wide with both his desire and his confusion. “I need to find my keys. The door is locked.”

“And this is funny to you somehow?”

“The last thing I want you to do is stop, but I can’t find my damn keys to get into my own office. That’s what’s funny.”

A smile grows across his face, all the way from his dimples to the lines that form around his eyes. “Aye, that makes more sense. Have you any idea where they might be?”

Pinching her lips together, she raises her eyes to the ceiling, trying to remember what she did with them when she arrived here hours ago, after putting them in the pocket of her jacket like she always does. When her mind fails her, coming up blank, she tosses her head back even further, hitting the top of it against the door behind her.

“I’ll help you search for them, love,” Killian comments, his voice deep and hoarse, and she suddenly becomes immensely aware of all the places he is touching her: his left hand on her hip, the fingers of his right blushing softly against the back of her neck, partially tangled in her hair—not to mention the heat of his hips pressing her into the door, the hardness of him apparent even through both of their pants, fueling the fire that he has already started in her core.

God damn this fucking door.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, letting her head fall until her forehead is pressed against his, and the thumb of his right hand comes up to run gently across her cheek.

“I can assure you, Swan, there is nothing for you to apologize for. Nothing says foreplay like a scavenger hunt.” He is completely serious for a moment, and Emma is terrified that somehow, he’s not joking—until his facade breaks, and a smile grows across his face. “They have to be here somewhere.”

He pushes away from her, leaving her leaning back against the door, and her body is suddenly overcome with a chill, missing the heat that he was passing to her.

“They’re in my jacket— did I say that already? It’s leather. And, uh, red.” Her face begins to turn the same color, somehow realizing for the first time that her beloved jacket is the same color and material as these damned pants that have started to become too tight in the past few minutes.

“Bloody hell,” Killian mumbles, hopefully not loud enough for Emma to hear, but the blush that is already running across her face makes him believe she hasn’t.

After taking a moment to gather herself, she pushes herself off the door to her office, needing to find something to do to make up for the fact that she’s not doing Killian.

Damn, that’s cheesy.

But when he calls to her from the corner of the store, behind the checkout counter that Mary Margaret had turned into a candy bar, she suddenly doesn’t care how cheesy it was, because it’s true.

“Did you find it?”

“Unless someone else also has a red leather jacket that they left here with their keys in the pocket, then I’m fairly sure I found it, love.”

His smile does absolutely terrifying things to her insides, warming them up in a way that can’t be safe, and when he presses his lips to the back of her neck as she finally unlocks the door, she feels like she might just catch fire.

He closes the door with her body, pressing her against it faster than she can close it behind him, covering her with his own body as his lips find hers again. They pick up where they left off before, but it quickly becomes more, Emma's hands finding the buckle of his belt as his snake further up her thighs, landing finally on her leather-clad ass. She unsnaps the button on his pants, the zipper practically undoing itself, and he stops to pull his head away from her, just far enough to look her in the eye. His cheeks are flushed, his lips swollen from hers, but his eyes are so sincere, searching for any part of her that doesn't want this as much as he does.

She does, of course, and this is the answer that he finds behind the walls of the emeralds in her irises when she nods to him, and he smiles softly at her for just a moment before covering her mouth with his again. Wrapping his arms around her once more, she pulls her away from the door and leads her to the small couch against the windows, setting her down on it before reaching down to slide out of his boots, and she does the same.

As he stands back up, she tries to pull him back to her, but instead, he drops to his knees before her. Her eyes sparkle in the light of the office, never leaving his face, and when his hands slide up the inside of her thighs the palm of his hand pressing lightly on her core as he begins to untie them, she can’t stop the moan that escapes her lips. His fingers snake into the top of the material, slowly sliding it down her legs, followed closely by his lips. He struggles a little to remove them completely, the material tight against her skin, but when she is finally free of them, he tosses them aside, kneeling between her legs once more.

She sighs when his lips find the soft skin inside her knee. His lips trace up the inside of her thigh, and the moan that escapes her lips when he flicks his finger under the hem of her lace panties and across her folds is enough for him to feel his erection jerk in his jeans, and he wishes he would have let her finish removing them.

“Tell me what you want from me, love,” he growls, running his lips back up the inside of her thigh, the coarse hair on his chin tickling her just as she imagined it would.

“I --” she starts, but when he slides his finger between her folds, whatever she was trying to say is replaced by a sharp intake of breath, followed by a thick, mumbled, “Oh, fuck me.”

“Patience, darling,” he says, his lips pressed against the top of her thigh, then flicks his tongue out right above where his fingers have entered her. She moans again, this time softer, and he feels her stomach clench when he slides his fingers further into her as he presses his tongue against her clit. “Now, I'm going to ask you again, love: tell me what you want.”

It takes all the strength she has not to finish for him right then and there, with his fingers inside her and his lips against her, his mumbled words reverberating against her core.

In place of an answer, she lets out a groan. “Oh, Killian,” she breathes, and when he feels the way she is responding to him, he stops, sliding his fingers out of her almost all of the way, the tips remaining as a teasing whisper. “No, please,” she whispers, moving her hips towards him, trying to get him back, and when she opens her eyes, he is staring at her from between her legs, a sly smile spread across his face.

“All you have to do is tell me, love. Say to me what I want to hear, and I'll give it to you.” His voice is still just a growl, but hearing him turns her on more , which she wouldn't have thought possible if she hadn't felt the clenching of her thighs, felt the heat that came with it.

“Make me come, finish me with your fingers and your mouth before you let me ride your cock.” Her breathy words tumble out of her, but they are the most she can manage at the moment.

For just a second, he does not acknowledge them, and she is afraid that, somehow, that wasn't what he wanted to her.

And then he smiles at her, darting his tongue out to wet his bottom lip. “Aye, love, I think I could make that happen,” he whispers, then watches her intently as he fills her with his fingers again, focusing on just the right spot with his tongue to make her come apart for him after just a few more thrusts. When he feels her contract against his fingers, he moans, by far the sexiest sound she has ever heard, and when she finally opens her eyes to meet his again, he is smiling. “Attagirl, Emma. Give me all you got.” He doesn't stop, holding her in her high until she can't handle it anymore, finding his hand with hers.

“Killian,” she says, her voice no more than the breath she lets out, and he pulls away from her, though only for long enough to rid himself of his pants.

She wants to be surprised, learning that he had gone commando beneath the sinful leather, but she’s not . As much as she wants to pull him down to her, wants to taste his lips on hers again, there is something else that she suddenly wants more. Standing before him, she pushes his jacket off his shoulders, hearing it land with a thump against the floor, then undoes the buttons of his vest one by one, following her hands with her lips, soft against the dark hair on his chest, hair that leads all the way down to beneath his legs, and then further still.

When she is finished with the vest, he pulls it the rest of the way off, depositing it somewhere in the room, and her lips continue to trail downwards, stopping at the darkest patch of hair that his erection is jutting from as she wraps her hand around him, running her tongue over the tip of it to catch the fluid dripping from it.

“Emma, darling, you don't—” he starts when he realizes what she is beginning to do, but when she does take him in her mouth, one hand wrapped around the end of his shaft and the other gently cupping his balls, any words he was attempting to say are replaced with a deep groan, followed by a whispered, “ Bloody hell, you siren.”

She laughs around him, starting to pump him with both her hand and her mouth, and his hand tangles itself in her hair, needing an anchor to something before he loses control completely. When she feels him begin moving with her, rocking his hips in time with her hand, she stops, sliding her mouth off of him with a pop, and her sarcastic comment is on the tip of her tongue when he kneels down beside her, his fingers still in her hair as he guides her to the soft carpet of the floor and finds her mouth with his.

Their kiss is rough, all fire and passion and fury, tasting themselves on the other, and by the time he pulls himself away from her, anything she was planning on saying to him is gone.

Slowly, he begins to unlace the back of her vest, his fingers hot against her when she does feel them, and she snakes her arms free of it before he runs his hands across her stomach to her hips, finding their way beneath the black shirt, lowering himself so he can kiss his way up her stomach as he removes it, pushing it over the swell of her breasts to find nothing beneath the shirt but the perfect ivory of her skin, the peaks of her perfect pink nipples slowly hardening under his gaze, even as he pulls the shirt over her head and deposits it with the rest of their clothing.

He says nothing, his eyes locked with hers, and a soft smile spreads across his lips, one that she can't help but return. “What?” she whispers.

“You're just so bloody beautiful,” he whispers, and though from anyone else in his situation, the words would have scared her— feelings where there should only be action —she somehow does not feel the same hearing them from him. “Do you still want what you told me before?”

The question is endearing, assuring that she has not changed her mind, even as they both lay completely naked on the floor of her goddamned office.

“Yes.”

He smiles at her again. “Good.” He kisses her forehead, then her lips, then pulls his head back just far enough to watch her as he finally, slowly, slides his cock inside her.

“Oh, Killian,” she moans, meeting his hips with hers in hopes of filling her up more.

They find a rhythm that works, his mouth venturing between her nipples and her lips, her nails raking into his back, until she stops suddenly, her hands planted on his hips and her eyes finding his face, waiting for his to meet hers.

“What is it, love?” he asks, his face painted with concern, but she just smiles at him, wrapping her legs around his ass and pulling him to her.

“If I remember correctly, I already asked to be on top.”

He returns her smile, and she presses her palm against his cheek, raising her eyebrows in warning before they both try—and fail—to roll over. She begins to laugh first, and he joins in automatically as she finds her place above him, her knees straddling his hips. Taking his hand in hers, her other against his shoulder and his left on her hip, she rocks her hips against his erection, pressing her folds into him for a teasing moment before she positions him under her, lowering herself around him. At this angle, she finds he fills her better, more fully, and when he shakes his hand free of hers to tangle itself in her hair, he grabs as much of it as he can in a fist, trying (and succeeding) to find something that would bring her closer to a second orgasm. Her free hand finds her own breast, pinching the nipple between her thumb and forefinger.

“You're fucking perfect,” he growls from below her, releasing her hair from his fist only to use it to grab her hip, his fingers hard against her skin to leave marks, but she doesn't care, especially once he stretches his thumb out to find her clit, rubbing it in slow circles to match the pace she is setting with her hips. “Come again for me,” he demands, and it is only moments before she does, coming undone for him for the second time that night.

She is still riding her high on him when he mumbles, “I'm close, love, where do you want me to come?” and she rocks her hips hard against him as he thrusts, allowing him to be as deep inside her as he can, even if just for a moment.

“Right there, yes, fuck,” she says, rocking against him again, a movement doing wonders for her own orgasm.

“Are you sure, Emma?” he asks softly, slowing for just a moment, and she swears that she has never met anyone with enough simultaneous self-control and respect for her to make sure of that in the last moment, not allowing themselves their own release just to make sure she has taken care of everything.

“Killian, yes , I'm fine. Now, please,” she pleads, her hand against his cheek as she tries to help him return to the pace they were at before. “Give me what I want,” she whispers, and his fingers dig into her hip again.

“Okay, darling. Okay.” And he does just that, pumping himself into her until they are both, finally, spent.

Holding him inside her, she falls onto his chest, pressing a kiss into his forehead and his cheek before her lips find his neck, a movement that pulls a soft chuckle out of him before he asks, “Do you, uh, need to clean up, or something? I've never not used protection before, though I imagine it still has to go somewhere, right?”

She leans up again, her elbow on his chest to rest her chin on her hand as she raises her eyebrow at him. “You've really never not used a condom?”

“Aye, love, what's so hard to believe about that?”

Shrugging, she pulls a few tissues out of the box on the corner of her desk, thankfully within her reach, pressing them between her legs as she slides away from him, then searches for her underwear.

“I guess it's just been a while since I've used any that I forget it's some people's main source of protection.” She turns away from him, collecting as much of their fluid as she can before she finds her underwear, still tucked into those damned leather pants. She pulls them on, opting to allow her body to cool back down to a normal temperature before attempting to squeeze back into them. In place of the rest of the costume, she digs through the bottom drawer of her desk until she finds the plain black t-shirt that she’s stored there, though it never had a purpose before tonight.

Pulling it over her head, and though it covers her skin, it fails to provide the protection that the padding in the off-the-shoulder shirt had across her chest, as she notices when she turns back towards Killian.

When he realizes she is facing him once more, his hand slides up his neck to grasp the hair behind his ear, having managed to don his own pants again, but the dark hair that still covers his chest is still on full display.

“As much as I enjoyed that activity, Swan, I was really hoping to ask you to dinner sometime.”

Emma feels her eyes grow wide, astounded both at the question itself and at just how much of a gentleman Captain Jones had proven himself to be throughout the whole of the evening. This was not supposed to happen.

None of this was supposed to happen.

The worst part, though, is not the feelings attached to asking her out, but the fact that she completely, utterly, overwhelmingly wants to say yes.  To her brother’s best friend.

To her brother’s best friend.

“What will David think?”

It is, without a doubt, the last thing he expected to hear from her as a response, and he raises his eyebrows at her—though when he realizes his own answer, he can’t stop the smile that flashes across his face.

“I would assume that he would much rather I court you than learn that I’ve fucked you senseless in your office just hours after I met you for the first time.”

God, he’s good.

“Is that what you think you’ve done?” Now it’s her turn to smile at him, cocking her head with her question.

“Perhaps not senseless, though I would at least like the opportunity to try again.”

******************************************************************

That opportunity presented itself after their second date, exactly a week from the Halloween party. For the first time ever, and thankfully at the talented hands of Captain Killian Jones, Emma learned what it meant to be ‘fucked senseless’ after he had pleasured her with his fingers, then his mouth, and finally, his cock, laying beside him too drained to move, to think, to feel.

It’s definitely a feeling that she wouldn’t mind experiencing again.