#me: *does manip quick on my knee*

[hl-obsessed]

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[wickednerdery]

Title: Enthralled Author: @wickednerdery Fandom: Marvel Pairing/character: Loki x Jotun!OC Rating: Mature/Explicit Summary: “Please...I am begging you...” Notes: This is a gift to @manip-loki​ for all the AMAZING fanart (posted at @maniploki​) she’s made for me over the weeks/months based on my FrostBitten series. The concept of a Thrall Collar is from @endlessstairway​ and her amazing stories here. This specific piece is meant to be a sneak peak of the sequel to FrostBitten. Ulfr is a Frost Giant and “played” by Lee Pace. The story is dark, it has mentions of non-con, violence, hints of dub-con, and Loki in a very bad situation and head-space (I’m seriously cruel to Loki in this, sorry) …For all that and its length it gets a “Read More”

To say that Loki slumps is gracious...he’s tossed, left to slip down to the floor. He whimpers, tries to soothe aching head and split lip on cool tile, as the guards laugh above him. A boot sets on his back, flattening him underneath, as his breath is slowly crushed from lungs. His insides feel rearranged and stomach threatens to revolt. The collar holds his neck off the floor, reminds him of a guillotine, and Loki floods with the wish that Odin had simply swung the ax.

“Did you like that, Thrall?” The Ba-Bani guard cackles as he tucks himself back in, does up the flap of his armor once more. “Come on, tell me you liked it.”

“I...” - ‘wanna rip your fucking throat out’ - the binding shocks his tongue, presses in from all angles so Loki feels his head could well cave in. “I liked it...Sir.” There’s some relief, but broken body and rage prevent any true comfort. Slaves are to be meek, pliable, eager to please...Loki’s not quite gotten the hang of such things even now. Even knowing what could await anything but what’s expected of a thrall.

The other guard smirks. “Wanna go again?” He presses the tip of his shoe between Loki’s legs, encouraging Loki to spread once more, when all three hear the sound of heavy boots approaching. “Maybe you’ll have a third on your dance-card this time,” the guard notes viciously, presuming a coworker. “Might have to turn you into a bitch so you can handle all of us together, wouldn’t that be a treat?”

Loki feels himself pressed, pressured, to answer, but stubbornly fights it. Stubbornly hopes, prays to the gods, that this new person is a savior, not the next in line for him. Jaw clenches as the need to answer, the need to acquiesce, builds to almost intolerable pain. “P-Ple...” He holds fast, tears streaming, and is saved by a new voice.

“Didn’t think you guys got free samples.” As amused as it sounds, there’s a hint of threat to it as well.

And, for Loki, a hint of recognition. He can’t look up - position and binding both prevent it - but he knows that voice. Deep, dark, but just this side of delighted.

The Ba-Bani’s foot comes off Loki as he turns. “You can’t be back here!”

“Then perhaps you should do a better job guarding,” the new arrival counters. “Or...you can forget I’m here and I can forget you’re fucking the merchandise.”

Loki’s seized by the metal collar, yanked up on unstable feet. He can barely stand up straight as the urge to double-over washes through him. He closes his eyes to regain balance, to prevent the worsening of the pain in his head, and avoid who stands before him. Whose voice he knows, who’s about to see him in all his newfound shame.

Because this is him now. Without his magic, without power and prestige, without a name. His only property’s a well-worn, elongated, tunic that does little to keep his decency and a Thrall Collar; even those are not truly his. The tunic’s a necessity to keep him from getting ill before purchase and the collar to keep him in his place...in the end they’ll all belong to his new master, including Loki himself. And, just as he received his, when Loki dies the tunic and collar will go to another of his ilk.

“Look at me, Loki.” The voice orders sternly, but not cruelly.

The former king, the former prince, the former Loki is yanked by the hair, ordered to obey by both guards and collar. Eyes open slowly, warily, and he cringes at the results.

“Gods...I still half-expected it to be one giant charade.” Ulfr half-smirks with a tilt of his head. He’s his true self; big, blue, red eyes with a glint of amusement to them. “That I’d find an empty container with ‘Later Losers’ scrawled across it.” He nearly giggles.

“You know him?” The Ba-Bani questions suspiciously. It would not be the first time a loved one, or even an enemy, has attempted to break a thrall out of bondage.

Ulfr gives a derisive snort. “You don’t?”

“I don’t care.” he counters arrogantly in attempts to cover his ignorance. “He’s no one, nothing, but a slave now.” He approaches the Jotun, expecting to intimidate, but finds himself woefully oversized as he closes in. He switches tactics. “You’re interested in him?”

“I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

“Perhaps you’d like to try him out...” the guard smiles as the other begins to force Loki forward. “He fusses to start, but by the end he moans pleasure as any whore would.”

Ulfr’s grin goes wide. “I don’t do sloppy one-hundredths.”

The Ba-Bani’s face falls, the other guard drops Loki onto bruised hands and knees. The god keeps himself curled up a moment before slipping off against the wall, out of immediate reach. Staring without blinking from behind the magic barrier Loki carefully calculates his odds on all sides. Careful not to think of what the binding prevented - escape, vengeance, disobedience - and instead of survival. Of Ulfr’s desires for him, of the odds in the guards convincing him to take a turn with Loki’s abused body, of getting a good master. Or, at least, not someone exceptionally sadistic. His already foggy mind is so full of calculation and, yes, prayers, that Loki completely misses the conversation...

“I assure you, I’ll leave no marks before he goes on the block,” Ulfr smiles as the Ba-Bani slips him a pass into the room on the guards’ way out. He conjures a chair on the opposite end of the container to sit in. “I know you can speak.” He points to the collar with its throbbing light indicator. “I know how these work and I can see yours is blue.”

Loki’s a shell of what he was; hair lanky, eyes sunken in and lifeless, sallow skin. That King of Midgard, that God of Mischief, is long gone. To think this being once had millions at his feet, to think he once had Ulfr there. His throat rumbles in its clearing against the metal symbol of his enslavement; he breathes in effort to find his dignity. “What would you have me say, Sir?” The response is polite, respectful, with just a hint of ‘fuck you’. The magic of the collar sees, hears, senses all and fires pain off within Loki’s mind as the blue dims...it’s worth it nevertheless.

Loathe to admit it, Ulfr forever admires the other’s skill in weaving through loopholes like thread through a needle. “Your brother’s crossing his friends, his family, to make deals, your mother’s begging mercies to a Frost Giant...” Loki’s eyes flare a warning, the blue fades more. “All to keep you alive, keep you safe, but you...you won’t lift a finger to defend yourself.”

“How can I?” Thus far nothing he’s done has been met with anything save brutality and abuse. Both before and after this point in his life, it would seem. And thralls don’t get mercy, they get used until they no longer can be...Then, if lucky, they simply die.

“Defeated so soon?” Ulfr shifts to lounge, legs spreading out and apart. “That’s hardly you. What happened to the god ordering worlds to kneel? The king delighting in the abuse of his peasants, his soldiers?”

Loki sighs, examines the frays of his tunic wondering how many before him had worn it. Died in it. “If you’re here for your revenge make it quick, I’m to be sold soon enough.” The collar punishes, presses in, deciding he’s not humble, meek, enough...it cows Loki into a cringing ball. He grunts in pain as he’s force to spill out the words. “Please...Sir.”

Lips quirk slightly as eyes catch the stains of others’ pleasure on cloth and thighs. “It looks like more than enough have taken their revenge on you today.”

Curling up more - as much from shame now as pain - the thrall does, says, nothing save hide his face behind unwashed hair. He won’t admit it, but binding aside, he lacks the strength to reply or even look the other in the eye anymore.

“What I want is simpler, far less messy, but possibly more enjoyable.” Loki sighs, just grateful there’s no question or order he must respond to; Ulfr continues with a smile. “I want you to beg.”

The god looks up, unsurprised, as the collar goes to work, immediately pressuring him to comply. To beg. Only Loki’s unsure what he’s to beg for and, in getting it wrong, the collar will have its own punishments for him.

“I want you to crawl to me, Loki, like a good pet, and beg for my mercy.”

The use of the phrase is not lost; the former king remembers saying those words to others, to that bold girl they once battled over...to Ulfr himself. He supposes it’s fair turnabout he should be ordered in the same manner now. It’s certainly the least abhorrent thing request or order he’s been given since finding himself in this position.

Hands and knees move slow - reluctant from soreness and wisps of pride he stubbornly hangs on to - head remains down. Loki knows the lighting here, he knows it exposes him through the tunic; he knows what once was a predator’s stalk is now a beaten dog’s slouching. He knows Ulfr sees it too. “Please...” he mutters as he reaches Ulfr’s feet.

“That’s it? That’s the beg?” Ulfr chuckles in amusement, in effort to show pleasure in Loki’s pathetic attempt, so as to prevent another harsh punishment from Loki’s collar; to keep lights blue and Loki verbal. He shifts to nudge Loki’s shoulder down with the heel of his booth until head and chest brush the ground. “You can do better than that...and rumors are that some of Thanos’ children are out there, so you really have to.“

“Please...I am begging you...” he can smell sweat, blood, sex, and disinfectant on the floor, his breath fogs the tile. “For my life...for my...” Loki isn’t one to beg, he doesn’t even know what to say. “For my mother’s peace of mind.” At least that one’s genuine. “For my brother’s...honor.” Always seems important to Thor. “I-I know I’ve no right to ask it of you, but please, Ulfr...please protect me.”

Most seems like bullshit, Loki telling him what he thinks Ulfr wants to hear, but still... “Not bad for an amateur.”

Loki stays down; his body begins to shake, the raw pains of it flooding to him in full. It isn’t the beg he was just forced into, it’s that Ulfr so easily accepts it. Surely he know it’s false, that thralls are be punished for such a wretched show, but Ulfr accepts it with a smile. It’s a relief and the relief comes with the realization he’s not gotten such a thing in many weeks, maybe months, and he may never get it again.

“Look at me, Loki.” The voice is stern, but still soft, and Loki obeys before the collar has to press him. Ulfr takes a breath, gives a sigh, as he leans forward. “Don’t move.” Because he guesses the instinct will be to fight, to flinch.


The god shivers anticipation, watches hand as it gently presses thumb against his busted lip. Eyes widen as lip heals, as the comforting energy spreads throughout. Skin pulls together, muscles sooth, mind grows light, but collected. He doesn’t notice his own change - the blueing of skin, reddening of eyes, the appearance of ridges. Without realization Loki’s Jotun lips part slightly, move to capture the other Jotun’s thumb between them.

Ulfr holds his breath with his gaze as he feels Loki tongue press against the tip of his finger, his teeth grazing the pad. He knows it may well be the Thrall Collar, urging Loki to be submissive, to appease, to pleasure, but that doesn’t make it any less enjoyable. Other hand strokes Loki’s head to smooth and clean hair, brushes past collar to soothe raw skin underneath, rubs down back, healing and cleaning as it goes. Head lowered, breathing in the scent of his former king’s hair, fingertips stretch to reach the top curve of buttocks.

Loki shudders as that area also heals, inside and out. He lowers his head. “Please don’t leave me to this,” he mutters against his former (still?) rival’s lap. “I will not survive it.” Without his magic, his freedom, his fight...without someone to protect him Loki will not survive what others may plan.

“When on the block I suggest you not look others in the eye. That you look broken, submissive,” Ulfr whispers against silky black hair. “I suggest you hide your face if you can...we may outbid most, but not all.”

Loki’s hand grips the ankle of the other. “P-Please...Ulfr...” Loki is gently maneuvered off and away so that he settles into a ball on the floor. He hides himself, hides tears. “Please...” Just...Please...

“Return to your human form.”

The order is direct, clear, but makes Loki shudder. He did not know he’d turned and is certain he cannot use his magic to turn back...yet the binding does not attack as he attempts to do just that. Loki watches in awe from within his curled up position as he’s allowed, able, to use his magic in order to return to his usual appearance. He straightens up on knees, looks to Ulfr to answers.

Yet Ulfr avoids answering to stand, chair fading in a wave of his hand. He shifts in his look at Loki, who’s eyes have dropped an appropriate ways down to satisfy the collar’s rules. “Bold of you to presume you’re the only one who’s dealt with the dark underbelly of the universe.”

Hardly an answer - the man knew more than Loki did of this collar, its magic - but it must satisfy for now as the Thrall Collar will not allow Loki to press further and Ulfr is clearly unwilling to share. “Ulfr...Sir...”

Ulfr turns only after stepping out of the container. He smiles. “Save your strength, Loki. It’s going to be a long day.” A long life, most likely.

First and foremost I fully acknowledge I was terrible to Loki - that was the point, lol! @manip-loki​ enjoys whump and so whump she shall have...I just hope it was enough to to satisfy, haha! Second this is a sneak peak of what I’m planning for the FrostBitten sequel but don’t hold me to this as things can change. Again, the genius concept of a Thrall Collar come from @endlessstairway, who’s been lovely enough to allow others such as myself to play with the idea as well. Ba-Bani is a militaristic alien race so I figured they’d make good guards, lol! Lastly, no idea why things got weirdly intimate between Ulfr and Loki at the end or the full story behind Ulfr’s experience with these collars, but I suppose we’ll all find out eventually, LMAO!! 😉

(Gif made by me via two gifs I found on Google.)

Tagged: @manip-loki @welcome-to-fangirl-hell @chibiyanai @wadeyouwitch @creedslove @lady-crowned-with-stars @moonfaery @annievvv7  @ladyfluff @holykryptonitekitten @lokilvrr @janebrownnie @lokis-little-kitten @alexakeyloveloki @theangelsfightwithdevils @the-blue-tiefling @lokis-lady-death @dangertoozmanykids101 @prometheasmother @vethrvolnir  @wintertink @amethyst-dreams-and-candy-canes @drakonwild @starscreamloki @hiddles-rose  @the-lady-witchitery @galaxies-inside-my-head @jackheart180  @lukeevansandjdmobession @fassyownsmyassy …I tagged everyone who requested to be tagged in FrostBitten!!

[orangeyouglad8]

While waiting for the Clexa xmas manips to appear, do you have headcanons how your thirsty lawyers spend their holiday together? Do they get a tree? Does one of them go overboard with the decorating? What gifts do they get each other? - Secret Citrus

Well, well, well, it’s your lucky day my dear Secret Citrus Santa! As a present to you, and all of my lovely followers (including my assigned SS), I’ve worked out a few words for you. Guess I’m feeling the holiday spirit! Enjoy.

Another Christmas arrives the same way it always does. Her old bed creaks with her movements and the room is frigid around her because the window is drafty. Her parents are already up and chatting downstairs, the smell of coffee and breakfast making its way up to her bedroom.

And it's the same as it always is. There's nothing particularly special about it. Not even the stellar bloody marys her father makes every year. The ones she always gets a little drunk on before crashing onto the couch. Not here. At home. Alone. There's nothing special about being back home. It's routine and familiar and the same.

Except there is something so very special about this year. And this day. And the warmth that ignites Lexa from inside and oozes from her. Everything softer and merrier than ever. Even here, even miles away from the source of that warmth. There's a smile that seems permanent. There's a giddiness that sits on her skin. A wonder and a pleasantness she hasn't felt in years. Even if she pouts just a little bit at being away from Clarke on a holiday that is meant to be shared with loved ones. It doesn't take away from the happiness that lives within at just the thought of her and that one certain smile she always has for Lexa.

Lexa stifles a yawn and debates a nap. She hasn't been sleeping well alone in her old bed. In a different city. In a different life. It just doesn't feel right.

Her father is droning on about something or other when the phone on the table in front of her flashes with a name that makes her own heart thud wildly in her chest.

Griffin

She stands and grabs it off the table, disappearing back into her old bedroom. Ghosts of her youth still littered everywhere.

It's always odd being here. Especially now.

She shuts the door and slides the call open with a smile. "Hey."

"Hi." Clarke's voice is quiet and soft and sounds so achingly warm.

"Merry Christmas." Lexa doesn't let herself say anything else. Bursting with the need to say this. She knows it's still early, knows that they've only just gotten on the same page with each other, but she hates being away.

Hates being here.

Doesn't feel whole.

"Merry Christmas," Clarke answers and Lexa can hear the smile that plays on her lips through the phone connection. "You've already said that at least once on text."

"Yeah, but, now you're on the phone."

"How many drinks have you had, Woods?"

"Oh… um…" She blushes, entirely caught.

"Hmm, that's what I thought. Too bad you're not here right now. Tipsy you is so very fun."

She groans. "Don't remind me."

Clarke just laughs. A cackle that's loud and lively and warms Lexa from the inside out. "My mom just left for the airport…" Lexa can practically hear the way her eyes darken as she teases.

"Clarke," she warns.

"So, tomorrow then?"

"Tomorrow. Late morning."

"Yes, I remember."

They both lapse into silence for a moment, enjoying the quiet.

"Why did your mom leave so early?" Lexa flops back on the bed, hand resting on her stomach and staring at the tiny, almost barely there patch of her ceiling that they forgot to paint over when they did this room. It hides away normally, but she knows just where to find it.

"Surgery early tomorrow. She's probably elbow deep in her files on the plane. I actually can't believe she flew out for the holiday."

"Hmm."

"Plus, she didn't even stay with me. You really missed out, Woods."

"You have such a one-track mind, Griff."

"Usually that works out for you."

The teasing is nice, welcome even. But, but.

"How was your visit?" Lexa hedges. Pokes.

Clarke hesitates. There it is.

"It was like it always is now."

Her voice is so small, so full of nostalgia and grief. It feels heavy even from thousands of miles away. Lexa can't bear it. Not when she is too far away to do anything about it.

"What will you do for the rest of the day?"

"I'm going to Raven's in a little bit. Her family is here and they do a whole thing… poker, food, coquito."

"Sounds festive."

"Festive is one word for it. And you?"

"Well, my dad is glued to the basketball and my mom is fluttering around the kitchen. Aden is supposed to be calling soon. I'll probably go across the street at some point to visit the neighbors."

Clarke hums, yawns. Lexa wants to kiss her. She loves Clarke like this. Open and soft. Vulnerable with her. For her. "Oh, I'm glad he can call."

"We are, too."

She remembers when she first told Clarke about her brother. Overseas. Following the family footsteps so well. Unlike her.

They hadn't been sleeping together long when it popped out. A missed call and a frown led to the questioning. She'd never been able to hide anything from Clarke, for as much as the other woman could be blind to it all.

Clarke was soft and gentle.

Flipping Lexa inside and out with her quiet questions and her steady smile.

She yawns again now through the phone.

"Are you in bed?"

"You don't think I'd be calling with all these suggestions if I wasn't, do you?" Clarke tries to purr but she's too mumbly.

"Well, yeah, you're you."

"Touche, counselor."

"What did you do with her today before she left?"

"She stayed at the hotel but came over early. We did a whole thing. Breakfast and presents."

"Good thing we got you that tree then, huh?" Lexa smiles. It had been a point of contention that she'd won with a wiggle of her eyebrows and a few deep kisses. Clarke folded without much fight after that.

"Mhm." It's content. "She pestered me with questions about you, was mad I didn't let her meet you."

Again, Lexa flutters. "Oh?"

"Yeah…" Clarke's voice trails off, almost gone.

"Take your nap, Clarke. We'll talk later." She wants nothing more than to get the story out of Clarke, but she knows it's a lost cause right now.

"Okay…" It's barely a word. Lexa finds herself more amused than anything. Completely endeared to Clarke and her see-through motives. "Love you."

It still makes her heart stop beating in her chest for a full breath before it kick starts and runs away with her.

Those words.

From that girl.

"Love you, now sleep." She barely gets it out, her smile so wide.

Xx

Lexa is antsy.

Has been since the night before when she packed up her bag.

Since a quick shower and breakfast with her parents and a short ride to the airport.

Since sitting down on the plane and buckling her seat belt.

She is antsy and she is beyond caring at this point. All she can think about is Clarke.

And how the holiday apart was weirder than it had any right to be, but she's not willing to talk herself out of it anymore. There's a tiny wrapped gift in her bag. Small and not even a thing, but something.

Because, really, what do you get the girl you've been in love with for ages, sleeping with for months and only just now finally starting a relationship with?

There was hemming and hawing over it for weeks. Internal debate. A quick pass by Anya that was regretted as soon as it was said.

In the end, it felt right.

Because it's Clarke.

And she is in love.

And now she sits in a car on the way to Clarke's loft, antsy and bouncing her knees. Checking her phone and firing off texts. Flirting her way through traffic and ready to walk in and scoop up her girl.

She arrives at Clarke's building still a mess of excitement and a slight bit of anxiety.

Nervous excitement.

Like she feels before a big case.

Her hands tingle and her smile is already embedded in her cheeks. She waves to the doorman and gets on the groaning elevator and tries to breathe.

She gets two soft raps on the door before it's opening. Clarke is there with bright, shining eyes and a ridiculous Christmas sweater on her frame. Her smile, though. Lexa can't look away from her smile.

Even more astounding than usual.

Lexa will claim that smile. It's hers. It belongs to them in this moment more than anything else. She burns it into her memory.

"Hi," she breathes out. Breathless just from Clarke opening her door.

"Hey, stranger." Clarke reaches out and grabs her wrist, tugging her inside. "I'm glad you're back."

The door shuts behind them and Lexa's bag goes on the floor, where her work bag usually rests. Her boots slide off and her coat works its way off her shoulders with Clarke's help. Lexa stands and watches it happen.

Watches Clarke move around her. Get her comfortable again.

Hang the coat over the back of the couch and run her hands up Lexa's arms.

The seeing and the feeling overwhelms her.

They've spent longer time apart. Busy schedules and the ambiguity of their relationship had led to stretches apart at times.

But it's different now.

Now that they're… them.

Clarke runs her hands up Lexa's arms and wraps around her shoulders, pulling their bodies closer. Her eyes are dark and her smile is wicked and Lexa wants nothing more than to lean down and take it from her. Swallow it whole.

But she can't move. Not yet.

Frozen with the way Clarke studies her. Feels her.

Her own hands rest on Clarke's hips, slide around to the small of her back and lessen the space even more.

"Miss me?" She means it to sound teasing and light. And it does, but there's an undercurrent. It draws Clarke's eyes to hers.

"As much as I don't want to deal with your monster of an ego, I will admit that I did."

A buzzing starts then. In her heart and works out from her insides. Reaches out for Clarke.

"I missed you, too."

Clarke perks up at that and Lexa can't wait any longer. Finally kissing her. Claiming those lips again in a kiss that's so gentle it almost kills her.

It's all she's wanted for the barely three, more like two and change, days that they were apart.

This moment.

She is not too big to admit it.

She finally has all of Clarke now. Leaving when it's still delicate, still new and not quite balanced, was harder than she ever thought it could be.

Clarke is the one who pulls away. Who leans her forehead against Lexa and breathes her in. Who scratches the back of her neck in that way she always does when she's feeling too much to vocalize.

They stay there for a moment. Readjusting. Getting their bearings. Sharing quiet intimacy.

"I brought you something," Lexa breaks the comfortable silence. Remembering the small gift that sits wrapped in her bag. "It's… not a lot, but, I saw it and…"

"Lex-" Clarke stops her flustered speech with a soft kiss. A barely there brush of lips that sends a jolt throughout her body.

"Okay, it's in my bag." She doesn't move to grab it though. Pulls Clarke back in instead for another kiss. Deeper and fuller than their last. Her hands slide up under Clarke's sweater in search of skin. She's rewarded with a light nip. "I like this, by the way."

"My horrendous sweater?"

"Mhm," she hums, leaning back in for yet another kiss. Not wholly satisfied in her reacquaintance with Clarke's mouth. "It suits you."

"It suits me?" Clarke moves her head and ducks Lexa's next attempt.

Lexa laughs, "What?"

"You're just… weird sometimes."

"You like it."

"I do," she purrs and closes the gap, running her nose up Lexa's neck and dropping a few pecks there. "Mom got me this, it's a thing she has- she used to get them for my dad and now she gives them to me. One a year. Plus I have a few of his old ones."

"You mean to tell me you've been holding out on me, Griff? A secret Christmas sweater collection has been here this whole time?"

"Oh? I've been holding out on you?" She raises an eyebrow and cocks her head and heat pools in Lexa's belly.

"You're gonna have to show me the rest now," she says. Low and close to Clarke's ear. Enjoying this little game they've stumbled into. "This one might be my favorite though, just because it was the first."

"Yeah? It's also itchy as fuck."

"Well, I might be able to help you out with that…"

"Hope so, Woods." Her eyes are dark but there's a cheeky look on her face. Her hands move and shove Lexa away. "I want my present first though."

Lexa rolls her eyes and steps out of Clarke's hold. "Why am I not surprised?" She leans down and rummages through the bag, pulling the small box out, suddenly nervous again.

"Don't get all weird, Lex. I got you something, too." Clarke kisses her cheek and accepts her gift. Scratching at the plaid wrapping paper carefully and pulling the box out. She opens it and her eyes widen and soften and Lexa releases a breath.

It's a small sliver business card holder. Lexa spotted it when she was at the mall with her dad trying to help him find something to give her mother. Last minute and frantic as always.

Clarke tilts it in her hands and the etching catches on the light that filters into the large windows from the sunny winter day outside.

Clarke Griffin, Esq.

"Lexa…"

Lexa shrugs. "I figured you're starting your new position soon and you'll have some new cards now. You've gotta make all these new contacts."

"It's perfect." She looks up and the smile lives in her eyes and on her cheeks. "I love it."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Clarke kisses her, quick but full of meaning. "This is great! Plus I didn't have one before."

"I know, I've seen you dig around in your bag to hand out cards and... really, Clarke? Come on."

Clarke giggles and Lexa feels that burst of pride she has grown accustomed to.

"I just never got around to it, okay?" She whines but pulls Lexa in for a hug. Drops another kiss on her cheek.

"Mhm, sure, Griff."

"Do you want your present or not, Woods? Because teasing me is not the way to get it."

"Oh? You think that's true? I have a few tricks up my sleeve…" She grabs Clarke and pulls them close, growling playfully into her neck and enjoying the squeal she earns. Clarke just laughs louder and Lexa's heart swells and swells.

"Alright, alright…" Clarke is breathless and shining. She steps back out of Lexa's grasp, but tangles their fingers together and tugs towards the bed. "Come on, then."

"To bed? Is my present dirty?" Lexa smirks, Clarke rolls her eyes.

"Three days away has you thirsty."

"Absolutely parched."

Clarke pulls them to the closet and opens the door wider, gesturing inside. It takes Lexa a moment to catch up. To see the message that is now there, clear as day.

Space.

Clarke made her some space.

"Griff," she whispers, too scared to look at the skittish creature she has attached herself to.

"You also have two official drawers in the dresser, a shelf in the shower and some more space in the bathroom for your stuff."

"Yeah?" She does look then. When Clarke's fingers tighten around her own and she inches closer to Lexa. Needing the steadiness.

"It took a while, but I finally figured you should have some actual room…" She looks down for a second before back up, eyes searching Lexa's face.

"I'm happy to have it." Lexa's free hand finds Clarke's face. Fingertips dusting along her cheek, tucking hair behind her ear. The kiss is sweet. Sweeter than anything yet. Stretching inside and pulling Lexa apart seam by seam only to be remade on Clarke's lips.

"There's one more thing, though." Clarke's breath is warm on her lips. They're still so close. She reaches back behind her to the dresser and grabs the tiny box that rests on top. It's glittery, with a little white bow. She blushes madly as she holds it out for Lexa.

And Lexa's hearing fades out, heartbeat thrumming wildly. Her hands feel shaky as she opens it, unsure of what could possibly be inside.

Clarke doesn't look away, and Lexa's breath catches when she finds a key nestled inside the box.

"I wanted you to have one, so you don't always have to knock or wait for me to get home. I know you've charmed the doormen downstairs but… you should have a key."

Lexa's mouth goes dry.

"Clarke," she starts, then stops. Clarke's hand tilts her chin up from where her eyes are still locked on the key to her own.

"I'm serious about this, about us. I wanted to show you that I mean it."

"I know-" she stops and swallows, tries to wet her tongue. "I know you are, that you do."

"Good. But that doesn't mean I won't stop showing you."

Lexa nods. Overwhelmed by Clarke and the strength with which she loves.

The key goes back on the dresser and Lexa's hands wrap around Clarke, pulling her in for a greedy, needy, kiss. And Clarke meets her beat for beat, hands twisting in her hair, gripping and possessive. It's always been the easiest way for them to speak. Like this. With mouths and hands and bodies.

They break apart, breathless. Eyes wild and lips red and bruised.

"Can I take you to bed now?" Lexa gets it out, miraculously.

Clarke nods. Bites her lip and smirks deviously. "You better." Her voice is tinged with lust, vowels huskier than normal. It sends a shock straight to Lexa's core.

A hand moves to her chest, followed by gentle pressure. She lets Clarke push her back against the bed. Falls against it as Clarke leans over her, moves against her with unbridled hunger. It's deep and real and courses through Lexa's veins, sinking in through skin as they touch.

The wool sweater lands on the floor with a soft thud and Clarke's bra follows quickly and Lexa's mouth works over every inch of skin that it can. Soon she's being stripped of her own clothes and flung up higher on the bed.

And she follows Clarke.

Her lead. Her tone. Her mouth, her hands.

Comes quick and hard around Clarke's fingers and doesn't bother trying to catch her breath before she's working her hand between them and dipping inside Clarke. Clarke undulates against her, moves with ease, with need. Dips down and hides her face in Lexa's neck, her hips never slowing. Never stopping.

She only lifts her head up when she's on the edge of it. Lexa can feel it begin, can feel the end getting closer and closer. Clarke looks up and finds her waiting. It's a look that levels Lexa. Completely shakes her off balance. And then Clarke is breaking, Lexa's name said in a rush of heat.

Xx

Lexa dozes. Sweaty and almost too hot, but not willing to move an inch with Clarke on top of her. Tucked into her. Hand softly grazing her ribs. She sighs and Clarke's lips drop a soft kiss against her collarbone. Another on her jaw. She hums happily and Clarke props herself up with a smile.

"Have I mentioned that I'm glad you're back?"

"And you're the one who called me thirsty. Imagine that."

Clarke laughs and drops down to kiss Lexa. Her laughter tastes bright and real.

"So you liked the present, then?"

Lexa studies her girlfriend, trying to determine if this is merely Clarke posturing. And she is. Mostly. But there's a genuine curiosity to her features.

"I loved it." She squeezes Clarke's hip and holds her eyes, waiting for Clarke to hear it.

"Good, yeah." She nods and readjusts herself, pulling her body more directly over Lexa's. Not even bothering to try to hide her intent.

"What's good is that your ego matches mine." She rolls her eyes and accepts the playful nip that Clarke leaves on the hinge of her jaw.

"Yeah, yeah, Woods." She works her mouth along Lexa's neck. A knee slides between her legs and hips start a slow grind.

"Did you just yeah yeah me?" Lexa gasps, opening her legs wider for Clarke.

"I did."

"Wow. Very romantic, Griff."

"I gave you a key. And closet space. And some drawers. I'm very romantic." Her mouth moves slowly to Lexa's collarbones.

"You did, you are."

"And a few orgasms." Lips brush up against a nipple.

"Probably some more soon, too."

"If you play your cards right." The other one gets attention now. Pulled between teeth.

"I can play nice," she husks out. Hands twisting in Clarke's already messy hair.

"Oh, I know you can, Lex" She moves further down and purrs. Lexa's stomach flips and plummets with that purr. Clarke moves lower and lower. Looking up one last time from between Lexa's legs. "Merry Christmas," she says with a smirk.

And it's the last coherent thing that's said for a while.

Xx

It's not until later, much later, that Lexa feels it. That feeling she was chasing all day yesterday.

It finally feels like Christmas.

Sitting on the couch in one of Clarke's itchy Christmas sweaters, long legs settled over Clarke's lap as they sip spiked cocoa and watch lame, cheesy movies. The lights on the tree in the corner twinkle in the evening light. Clarke's little laughs and whispered asides sink inside. Her soft, small, absent-minded touches have Lexa practically purring with contentment.

She wants to live in this moment for as long as she can. Stretch it as far as it will go and then some.

And she never wants to have another Christmas without Clarke by her side.

Everything is so much better with her.

"What?" Clarke notices she's being studied. Her eyebrow quirks up and her eyes sparkle even more with the Christmas lights. She smiles, knowing the answer.

"Nothing," Lexa shrugs. Blushes fiercely. "Just… I like this Christmas."

"Who knew the holidays got you so sentimental?"

Lexa scoffs and playfully kicks at Clarke's stomach. Clarke rolls her eyes but leans across their bodies anyway. Dropping a soft kiss on Lexa's lips.

"I love you, you absolute goon."

[accio-ambition]

Hello, and welcome to another episode of what in the world are you doing to me, Maggie? In this episode, we'll feature adorable drunks, bedsharing, and sexytime boot scenes. Tune in for that and more, coming up!

A million and bajillion thanks to @shipsxahoy, @queen-icicle-fandom, @sotheylived, and those crazy kids at @captainswanbigbang. With each new chapter, I get a little sadder that this project is wrapping up and I don't think I'll ever be able to thank them enough.

Summary: Bouncing around with her son for the majority of her life, Emma Swan has told herself she’s happy in the city. It’s where the most camera operating jobs are, and that’s how she makes her money. But when an old friend calls her and asks for her help on a new project in small town Maine, Emma finds herself in a place she’s never been with people she doesn’t know filming a profession she knows nothing about. But when the captain of the ship she’s filming begins taking a keen interest in her and her life, she finds herself wondering whether she might just catch something other than fish. Deadliest Catch AU Rating: M Content warning: Character death, some violent situations Chapter warning: Foul language, clothed foreplay if that needs to be a warning

FFnet/Ao3/Cover/Snapshots/Gifset/Manip

Chapter Seventeen

A couple nights later, Henry sleeps over at Grace’s house after a long week at school and Emma takes advantage of the empty house by getting drunk on the rum Killian and Liam brought over for Christmas - which she still hasn't finished m. It’s not the smartest idea she’s had ever, but work has been rough lately. Since she doesn’t like to drink immensely with her son around, she tends to go hard on the few occasions Henry’s gone. Sad movies, drinking out of the bottle, the whole nine yards.

She’s probably a half hour into Pretty Woman - Julia Roberts telling off that snotty woman at the store is her favorite part, let’s be honest - when it starts to rain and Emma, perhaps influenced by the copious amounts of alcohol she’s consumed, goes outside to take it in. It seems to fit the mood: getting wasted and hanging out in the rain, letting the water wash away whatever worries and negative thoughts are bumping around in her brain. It’s rejuvenating, even if a bit chilly.

Which explains why when she gets a burst of energy, she absolutely has to run down to the Joneses’ house. What’s a better way to warm up then to run?

It really is freeing, having the raindrops pelt against her skin and drench her sweatpants. She makes it up to their front door without feeling out of breath at all, and knocks on the door with a bright, wide smile on her face.

While she waits, Emma realizes she’s stepped in a puddle or two on the way down there. The bottom of her pants pull the rest of them down, her bare ankles and feet nearly covered in the excess wet fabric. She crouches down to roll them up a little bit, but her hands aren’t working properly.

She’s still trying to hike up her pants - or maybe the mission has changed to wringing out the water - when the door creaks open and Killian answers, confused.

“You should really do something about your puddles.” she says in greeting, rising and effectively giving up on whatever she was trying to do.

“Pardon, love?”

“Your puddles,” she repeats, pointing behind her. “You should do something about them because they were in my way and I stepped in them and now my feet are wet.”

“Swan, are you…” he starts, and then dissolves into chuckles. “Swan, are you drunk?”

She shrugs, nervously twisting at the waist. “I’ve had a drink,” she admits. “Or seven.”

His chuckles grow louder as he shoots her a delighted smile. “Oh Swan,” he murmurs, holding out his hand. Naturally, she takes it. “My lovely adorable drunken Swan.” That makes her happy, a dopey grin growing on her face as she takes a step closer to him. “Where’s Henry?”

“He’s at a sleepover.”

“Well, I suppose it’s good you don’t have to care for him tonight.” Killian ushers her inside, tugging on her hand. He disappears for a moment, letting her drip alone on the hardwood floors of the entryway, and comes back with a pair of socks way too big for her as she ungracefully flops on the couch. Ever the gentleman, he takes one of her legs and places it on his lap, carefully rolling the socks up and onto her foot. He does the same thing with her foot, before tapping her shins.

“I’d suggest we start a fire, but we haven’t any firewood, so I’m sorry about that.”

“But then we could make s’mores.”

He laughs, sparking some warmth within her better than any fire could. “Yes, Swan, we could, but that would involve burning some furniture and I shouldn’t think Liam would be too pleased with me.”

She sighs dramatically, sinking further into the cushions. “Who cares?” She gets up, goes to kitchen to get herself some water, and peruses the fridge’s contents. Even the mention of s’mores makes her hungry for something sweet. Maybe they’ve got whipped cream and ice cream.

Emma opens up the freezer at the same time, trying to focus one eye on each side of the appliance, but all it’s doing is giving her a headache. She shivers.

“Is there something specific you’re looking for?” The contrast of the cool blast in front of her and the heat of his body behind her is far more intoxicating than the alcohol she’s drunk. It forces her to unconsciously sway back into him, her shoulders gently nudging into his chest. She takes a swig of water and turns around, letting both doors close behind her.

“No. Not really.” She shivers again.

Killian gazes down at her, a little smirk on the corner of his lips. “You should get out of those wet clothes,” he says, taking a step back. “Can’t have the boss falling ill, can we?” He takes her hand once more and drags her to the laundry room.

“I’m not your boss,” she whines, coming to a stop right in the doorway. Killian releases her and goes digging through the clean laundry. He hands her a shirt and a pair of shorts from atop the washer. “What are these for?” she asks.

“Change into them.” He leaves the room, shutting the door behind him. Through the wood, he says, “Change and throw your wet ones in the dryer. And when you can’t figure out which buttons to press, go ahead and shout.”

Emma wrinkles her nose. “I know what buttons to press, asshat,” she shouts.

She strips down and throws her clothes in the machine. She puts his shirt on and take a quick sniff and, ugh, even his shirt smells good.

(Bastard.)

She wants to prove him wrong, she really does because she’s not that drunk. She ran down here, didn’t she? And she didn’t fall flat on her face nor did she get any glass in her feet or skin her knees on rocks. Emma is a strong independent woman who doesn’t need help from any man.

“Killian!” she yells. “Killian, the dryer is broken!”

Far too quickly, he enters the mudroom chuckling. “Are the words moving as well?” he asks. “Is that how it’s broken?”

“The buttons won’t go down.”

“That’s because you’re not pressing on the buttons, you’re pressing about two inches above the buttons.” He programs the machine and it starts to rumble to life. When he sees she isn’t completely dressed, he turns away, the one ear she can spot tingeing red. “Those shorts should fit you. A conquest of Liam’s left them behind.”

Looking down at herself, Emma can see that the hem of his shirt covers her ass and, yes, it falls a little high on her thigh, but she’s covered. When she goes to give him a sassy reply, he’s already gone. To appease him, she forces her legs into the gym shorts, grumbling under her breathe the entire time.

Emma heads back to the living room and sprawls her body across the couch. “Where is Liam, anyways?” she asks.

“Last I knew, he was on a date with Ms. Belle French.”

“I knew it.”

Killian replies in surprise. “You know her?”

Shrugging, Emma begins to play with the tips of her hair, curling them around her finger in front of her face. “She hung out with Liam in the hospital when you needed to shower. And Henry reads like I film during the summer. We always gets to know the librarians.” She sighs and nods harshly. “About time. Good for them. Good match.”

“I’d have to agree,” he says, joining her on the sofa. Killian stares at her feet for a moment before deciding to forcibly lift her feet so he can sit. Her heels come to settle on the tops of his thighs. “The lads and I have been trying to get them to agree to dinner for quite some time.”

“That’s nice.” Emma crinkles her nose, overwhelmed by the menial tasks of comprehending Liam’s love life as well as the comforting feel of physical touch.

Naturally - and drunkenly, let’s face it - she decides that’s been enough of that.

“I should probably leave then,” she says. Emma takes her feet from Killian’s lap and struggles to get vertical. Crossing her arms over her chest, she shrugs again, this time much more awkwardly. “Wouldn’t want to intrude of any after-date activities.”

“No.” Following her suit, Killian stands, reaching out to rest his hand on her arm, steadying her. There’s a bit of urgency or something else along the same lines in his voice that surprises her. “He’ll text me if something should occur, though I don’t think it will.”

“Yeah, Belle is a bit of a prude.”

“Emma,” he scolds her sternly. “Watch your tongue. That’s not only my brother’s date, but a friend of mine.”

“I’m sorry,” she apologizes, licking her lips. “I don’t know why I said that. Belle’s super nice.” He’s still touching her, his hand slowly falling down toward her wrist, and it’s a bit distracting. She shakes her head, trying to clear the fog in her mind, regardless of whether it originated from alcohol or tension. “Can we watch a movie or something?” Emma asks, her gaze flicking toward the TV to her right.

He chuckles. “First you show up at my house unannounced, nearly break my dryer, insult my brother’s date, and now you ask if we can watch a movie?”

She shrugs, casually returning to the couch. “I’m not used to being in that big house alone.” Emma lies down again, letting her body span the length of the couch. With one eye squinted, she looks up at Killian. “So can we?”

Killian sighs and takes a seat on the couch once more, lifting her feet up to take their place and setting them gently on his lap. “What genre do you want?” he inquires, stretching out to the coffee table for the remote and turning on the TV. Save for the shift of bending forward, Emma’s feet stay snug on his lap.

“Something funny,” she requests. “Or something with a car chase.”

“How about Hot Fuzz?”

“Never seen it.”

She’s staring at the screen, which automatically scrolls through newly-added titles instead of the quick flicking Killian usually took to. Glancing down the couch from her, Emma sees his eyebrows touch the tips of his bangs. “Then that’s it,” he declares, leaning closer to her. “It’s both funny and has a car chase.”

Emma gasps dramatically, her hand falling on her chest. “Be still my beating heart.”

“You’re going to love it, Swan,” Killian assures her, searching through the menu until he finds it.

After pressing play, he rests his hands on her, one on her foot and the other on ankle. It’s almost domestic, like they’re on a date night in or something, the rain gently pitter-pattering on the windows and the hum of the movie on in the background. The alcohol still buzzes through her veins and gives her an overall sense of contentment. Her eyes begin to droop and she must fall asleep, for the next thing she knows, she is coming to surrounded by fluffy pillows and a luxurious blanket that most certainly aren’t hers.

The beginnings of a hangover headache gently knock on the inside of her forehead. Emma groans and fights her way out of the little cocoon she’d wrapped herself in. Her feet touch hardwood floors and she knows she’s not home.

“Killian,” she grumbles, wiping at the sleep still in her eyes. Her voice is deep and gravelly, so she clears her throat and repeats herself a bit louder.

Her ears perk up at the sound of quick footsteps in the hallway and before she can properly search the room for a weapon against an intruder, the door creaks open and Killian’s face peeks in.

“Everything alright, Swan?” he asks, his voice scratchy as well.

Emma pushes herself off the mattress and walks toward the door while Killian presses it open wider. “Yeah, I was just surprised to wake up not in my bed,” she explains.

“Oh,” he says, his voice and eyes falling a bit. “I thought I heard you call for me.”

“I mean I did,” she admits. “Kind of. I was trying to figure out what was going on with my voice.” His mouth opens slightly in understanding. “How did you hear that?”

“Ah,” Killian says with a smirk. He gestures to the room next door. “I was resting in Liam’s room. For as lavish as this house looks, the walls are deceptively thin.”

Emma nods, glancing about the room. “So this is your bedroom?”

“Yeah.” She hums, taking it in. It’s pretty sparse, but somehow perfectly encapsulates Killian. His window looks over the backyard and the waters beyond. The floor is spotless, his closet doors and drawers closed completely. A few aesthetic pictures - mostly of ships, unsurprisingly - decorate the walls and his dresser has a few shells and what looks like a photograph of the Roger’s crew on display.

(The man lives and breathes the sea.)

A movement catches her eye and she looks at him as he goes to scratch behind his ear. “I figured it’d be bad form for you to be woken if my brother and Belle decided to come in.”

“He’s not home yet?” she asks. “What time is it?”

“Close to two, I think.”

Silence falls between them, Emma hovering by his bed and Killian still standing in the doorway. “I should get home,” she murmurs, searching for her phone and readying herself to cool dampness outside.

“Don’t.” His request startles her, the earnestness and sincerity behind it confusing. She whirls around to face him and, if she’s not mistaken, she detects a hint of a blush on Killian’s cheeks. “You’re still a little inebriated, which means I would have to walk back with you and it’s still raining,” he explains. His hand casually gestures between the two of them before falling to his side. “Besides, you don’t want to be alone.”

Ignoring the army of butterflies that begin fluttering in her stomach - he remembered, she didn’t want to be alone - Emma’s independence roars its head. “I could walk home fine by myself,” she insists.

Killian gives her a side eye and scolds her in a low voice: “Swan.”

They stare each other, mentally willing the opponent to concede. Always up for a challenge, Killian takes a step closer to her, and Emma does the same, until they’re sock-clad to bare feet.

(It’s not fair, her mind tells her. Even when he’s not doing anything, the color of his eyes are distracting.)

“Fine,” Emma finally says on a groan. “I’ll stay here tonight.”

Grinning wide, Killian wraps his arms around her shoulders and pulls her into his body. His warm, sturdy body, a weakness even when she’s completely sober and awake. It’s basically her kryptonite now that she’s coming down from intoxication and a nap.

Emma hears the tell tale sound of the front door opening and closing a floor below them. The heavy fall of male footsteps swiftly follow.

“Looks like Liam’s home,” she remarks quietly, pulling away from Killian’s embrace.

“Indeed,” he murmurs, letting her move freely. He takes a step back, closer to the door. “I’m going to speak with him, but you can go back to bed. I’ll bring you some water.”

She nods absentmindedly before his words really register. “Wait, where are you going to sleep?”

“The couch,” he said, as if it's the most obvious answer in the world. Then he points to himself, a wry smile growing on his face. “Gentleman, remember?”

“Killian, no, I’ll sleep on the couch,” Emma offers, moving toward the bedroom door herself. “I came here unannounced and interrupted your night. Let me sleep on the couch.”

“I won’t have it, Swan.”

Groaning, she throws her hands up in the air, exasperated. “Fine. Then we’ll share your bed.”

“What? That, Swan, sounds like the exact opposite of any sort of solution.”

“No.” Emma, grumpy as she is from being woken from her nap, makes it back to the rumpled sheets of the bed and sits on them, staring intently back at Killian. “You won’t let me sleep on the couch and I demand you sleep in your bed.” She throws her arms wide, gesturing toward the empty side of the mattress. “It’s big enough for the both of us.”

Killian glances over his shoulder quickly before shutting the door. “Of course,” he mumbles, shuffling over the hardwood toward the bed. “Won’t even notice you’re here.”

“Thank you.” Now that he’s settling into his side of the bed, Emma allows herself to bury beneath the covers, barely warm from her earlier snooze. She sighs contently and falls unconscious with the echo of Killian’s constant breathing ringing in her ears.

0000

She’s awoken at a much more reasonable hour by the heat of a heavy weight on her hip. On her hip and across her stomach. It’s not uncomfortable, per se, just unusual. Henry’s not one to cuddle up to her like this. No, her son is very much a child to lay on top of her, just as she positioned him on her chest soon after he was born.

But this weight comes with more hair and muscles than any 11-year-old should have, even if they’re a chronic steroid abuser. As she’s waking up - much faster than she originally thought she would - Emma comes to realize that it’s not Henry.

It’s Killian.

Emma breathes deeply through her nose, a reaction of surprise more than anything. It’s been a long time since she slept - just slept - with anyone who wasn’t Henry. It’s comforting, she finds, coming to with the knowledge that someone else is beside you.

Carefully, she turns about to face Killian, trying her best to keep his arm around her. He’s a lot closer than she expected: her nose skims the tip of his as she establishes herself in her new position.

For a moment, she observes him in what will likely be the last moments of unconsciousness. He’s always been a looker, she won’t deny herself that. But there’s something about him when he’s not putting on an act. He’s not in front of the camera, pulling off the dickish captain, or Liam, acting as the worshipful little brother. There’s lines around his lips that show past laughter and bags under his eyes from endless night at sea and otherwise.

He’s even more handsome like this.

She must unconsciously move some part of her body, for Killian stirs, his eyes blinking away the remnants of sleep slowly. His vision must come into focus because he squints, as if he doesn’t really understand the sight before him.

“I insisted on sharing the bed ‘cause I couldn’t stand the idea of you sleeping on the couch,” she explains quietly, running her hand up his arm. It’s the first question she would’ve asked - what are you doing here? - were she in his situation.

Killian opens his mouth with an ah of comprehension. “I do remember that now,” he says. “Practically dragged me into bed, if I recall.”

“Did not,” she chuckles, squeezing his upper arm. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Perhaps.” His hand tightens at her back as he stretches, chin dipping to his chest and legs extending beneath the sheets. When he settles, his blue eyes connect with hers. “Although you have to understand why I’d think that when I have a lovely woman who forced me here in the first place is wound around me.”

“Hate to break it to you, buddy, but I’m the one who woke up with someone hanging off me.”

He sighs, burrowing his face into her neck. Emma can’t help but giggle.

(She tries not to focus on how nice this feels, the scratch of his scruff on her still sleep-warm skin, the comfort she draws from his breath on the crook of her neck. It’s more than she thinks she can handle.)

Killian keeps his face buried in its spot, his thumb rubbing at the small of her back. She returns the favor, moving her hand up into his hair and echoing the motion. They stay wrapped up in one another for what could be minutes or hours. Emma can’t be sure.

“I don’t think I realized how nice this is,” Emma says softly, trying to extend the moment for as long as possible. At his indistinct questioning noise, she adds, “Just sort of hugging someone. Holding and being held.”

Readjusting to be better heard, Killian asks, “How long has it been since someone held you, Swan?”

Emma shrugs, her voice going deep and hoarse. “I couldn’t even guess.”

“I’m glad I could be of service.” Groaning, Killian extricates himself from her hold, sitting up and scooting back until he sits against the headboard. His arms go up, coming to rest behind his head and Emma feels the loss keenly. “If you should need anything else, I shall strive to be of assistance.”

As silence settles between them, a traitorous thought pops into Emma’s mind. There is one thing he can...assist her with.

(And honestly, the fact that she’s even considering this means something. What exactly, she can’t be sure, but she is sure that in this moment, with him, she feels warm and safe and happy.)

Before she can stop herself, Emma leans forward, cupping his face in her hands. She kisses him, almost attacking him how hard she presses her lips to his. And for one moment, she’s shocked him. It’s a bit like kissing a pillow or a dead fish, something that doesn’t kiss back. For a moment, she regrets even thinking there was any sort of attraction between her and him, even though they’ve done this before. Maybe all those times was just the alcohol talking.

But then Killian’s one hand is tangled in her hair and the other is wrapping around her waist, pulling her closer to him, causing her to straddle his legs. He tugs at her hair to direct her, tilting his head in turn.

“Emma,” he mumbles, his lips leaving hers. “We shouldn’t. You’re-”

“Please,” she whispers, her voice hoarse again. He pulls back a fraction and she shakes her head. “Killian, I swear, I want this. This isn’t alcohol or the moment or whatever or anything. This…” Her laughter fans off his cheek and back to her ears. She’s nearly breathless when she admits, “This is a long time coming.”

Even as close as they are, Emma can still catch the raised brow he sends her. She feels the grin against her own lips. “Are you saying you’re in this for the long haul?” he murmurs back.

She chuckles again. “Let’s start with the one time and reassess from there.”

Killian adjusts her on his lap, pulling her hips closer into his. “Well, if I only get one time, I’m damn well sure going to make it count, love.”

He’s passionate, to say the least. His lips are insistent on the skin of her neck, leaving marks and bruises and making her sigh in pleasure more than she’s ever done in her life. Back with Neal, he’d been more to the point: get her wet enough to get his dick in without hurting her, then getting himself off in as few minutes as possible. Between borrowed rooms and simple selfishness, she’s sure, there was never really time for them to actually enjoy sexual acts.

But this. This makes her toes curl. Feeling his mouth follow as she swallows, his nose brush against the tense tendons of her neck. He bites softly at her collarbone through her shirt and, if she were younger, she’d lose her mind completely.

“Fucking fuck,” she breathes, enjoying the new-old feelings that bubble up in her stomach.

“Finally,” Killian chuckles against her skin, words partially garbled as he moves back to her neck. “A verbal reaction.”

Glancing down as best she can, Emma asks, “Is that what you’re trying to get out of me?” When he doesn’t answer immediately, she grabs at his hair and gently tugs it back to look him in the eye.

“Among other things,” he admits with that smirk of his. “I like to think of verbal responses as the gateway to the rest of your inner thoughts.”

“Trust me, you do not want to be inside of my head.”

“Your head is not the first thing of yours I want to be inside right now.” He cocks his eyebrow, his tongue peeking out from between his lips. “But if it takes me that way, then I’ll gladly take the detour.”

Emma’s laugh turns to breathy moans as his hand falls a little lower and he grabs at her ass. “Fuck, Killian.”

He stops.

“Say it,” he whispers. “Say it again.”

His words catch her off guard. All she’s said is...oh. Oh. “Killian, please,” she groans again, taking joy in the way his breath catches in how his name comes out. She realizes then that, though she’s trying her best, she still doesn’t use his given name too often. To say it in an intimate context as this - she gets it.

(She wonders if he gets the same thrill in the pit of his stomach as she does when the Ms in her name roll off his tongue.)

“Fuck, Emma.” He attacks her anew, pulling at the collar of her shirt to reach still-untouched skin. Her head rolls back on her neck, relishing in the feel of teeth lightly nipping at her collarbone.

“That’s the goal,” she responds belatedly.

He chuckles against her sternum. “My god, Swan, your commentary is both welcomed and unnecessary.”

“How so?” Emma asks, arching her back unconsciously, trying to get closer to him as his nose skims across sensitive skin.

Pressing a kiss to the side of her breast, still tucked away in her bra and shirt from last night, Killian rises up so he’s face to face with her. “I’m a fan of every part of you,” he whispers into her pulse point. “From the snark to the sky high walls I’m knocking down brick by brick.”

A sappy smile crosses Emma’s face. “Stop talking like that, you’ll build them again.”

Killian mimics it, smacking his lips to hers before working his way further down her body. “Then by all means,” he mutters.

She’s got more hickeys in this moment than she’s ever had in her life combined, surely - she can feel at least three blooming on different places on her neck and another with the way he’s mouthing at her skin right now - and she loves it. Killian’s marking her as his, belongs to her, no one else’s but –

“I’m not yours,” she grumbles, her words a little muffled as, together, they quickly disrobe him of his shirt.

“What’s that now?” Killian asks.

“I’m not yours.” She pulls back for a moment to connect their gazes. It’s a bit silly, she’ll realize in the afterglow, because Emma knows that Killian knows her boundaries. But still, it’s important he understands. “I’m my own person. I am me and no one owns me. I’m just sort of…” with a hand on his shoulder, she gestures wildly with the other one, looking for the phrase best suited for the situation, “lending me to you.”

He cocks an eyebrow in question. “I know that, darling,” he answers, his thumb brushing at the underside of her bra. “I never asked or said otherwise.” Killian kisses her gently, lingering but not heating it up. “But I do hope you’d like to ‘lend’ for now at least, maybe longer.”

“One step at a time, Jones,” Emma says with a chuckle. “For now, just kiss me again.”

He does as she wishes, a peck before whispering, “With pleasure.”

His hand may or may not drag up her outer thigh – and her inner thigh for that matter – while she scoots closer to him. And she might grind herself against him unabashedly but she doesn’t care. Killian has done so much for her and she so much for him since moving to Storybrooke and honestly? That shoulder to cry on he and his brother keep telling her about? She’s found it.

She’s found it in him.

He does something weird and oddly pleasant with his tongue, dragging it between her breasts above her shirt and she can’t be having that. Pushing him away gently, she tears her shirt up and over her head until just her bra is left.

“Go hard or go home, right?” she jokingly asks.

“Darling, your words couldn’t be more correct.” He grabs her by the wrist and pulls her hand down to his prominent erection, jutting up between their bodies.

“I feel like we should take care of that,” she quips.

Killian tilts his head to the side, rolling into her tightening grip. “Only if you want to.”

She smiles genuinely. “Are you not going to add ‘because I’m a gentleman’?”

He shrugs. “Didn’t think it was necessary.”

“Well, I think this is the first time it actually fits.”

Killian draws back and rests a hand on his bare chest. “Love, that almost hurts me enough to diminish this.” He gestures down toward where they’re still clothed but connected, her hand still resting on him.

Emma places her hand atop his, and entwines their fingers together. “Alas, not enough completely.” She kisses him with renewed vigor. “I’ll have to assuage you somehow.”

His hand buries itself between her skin and her clothes, gripping at her ass beneath her pants.

(He’s an ass man. Killian Jones is most definitely an ass man.)

“I’ve got a couple of ideas on how to remedy that,” he says with his signature smirk.

Emma returns it happily, her grin growing when his hand pulls her infinitesimally closer. “Oh, please, do tell.”