A/N: Quick disturbingly light and fluffy and quirky drabble based off the spoiler pics for tonight's episode...written earlier in the week...
She's not entirely sure how she ended up in this position—pinned against the wall, right outside her parent's apartment, his mouth devouring hers hungrily, desperately, hands fisted in her hair, breath, hot and spicy, washing across her lips.
(That's actually a lie; she knows exactly how it happened,)
(She has little if any self-control when it comes to him.)
(She's working on it.)
(But not really.)
There's a lot she'd meant to do that night.
And a lot she definitely hadn't meant to do.
And to be honest, she can't help but mourn a little—her well-thought out, carefully considered plan for the evening.
(A plan that in the end had turned into nothing more than a big, confusing, jumbled, upside-down-hot-fucking mess.)
She'd meant to stay cool.
Poised, calm, and collected.
Her nerves, doubts, and insecurities doing a number on her—her stomach in near painful knots, a fine sheen of sweat glistening across her forehead, sticking with her since the moment she had asked him out—she had tried to disregard them, had attempted to pretend that every single one of her barriers—barriers that had guarded her, protected her, in the past—were not threatening to crumble and collapse, leaving her stripped and defenseless, and almost completely exposed.
Shaking hands and racing thoughts overlooked and purposely ignored, she'd scoffed at the cold and creeping panic; had scolded herself, demanding that she stop acting like a damned child, reminding herself that a date, one stupid date, meant nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
Not in her world.
(Had cringed when a little voice in her head had laughed and questioned her.
After all, she had put herself out there.
And she's in deep.
So, so deep.
Way too deep.)
Aside from the nerves, the dress hadn't been planned either.
She'd meant to play it fairly casual.
A date in Storybrooke doesn't exactly call for formal attire.
But somehow, without realizing it, she'd found herself making sure every strand of hair was perfectly in place, her makeup meticulously applied, the pale pink of her dress—so utterly feminine and sophisticated and leaps and bounds classier than the short and tight numbers (ones that screamed of smoky bars and dark corners) she was used to wearing when taking a guy out—practically shimmering in the bright light of the bathroom as she had checked and rechecked her appearance for the umpteenth time.
(Her parent's reaction to the dress however was something she'd been depressingly prepared for.)
(And they hadn't disappointed.)
Dress and nerves and hovering parents intentionally forgotten, she had also meant to make it to the restaurant without incident.
Had braced herself for awkward small talk, averted gazes, and uncomfortable silences.
Jumping him hadn't really been a part of the plan.
(Not yet anyway.)
But almost as soon as the door to the loft had closed behind them and they were a safe distance away from her parent's prying eyes and straining ears, she'd been unable to stop herself.
And really, she isn't about to take the (full) blame.
He had looked so different—good different, sexy different, dangerous different—in his modern clothes with his perfectly tousled hair and his disturbingly blue eyes and his shy almost unsure grin, shadowed only by the challengingly high arch of his slanted dark brows. And Jesus Christ he has two hands now; two fucking functional hands made of skin and bone, and that had thrown her, disarmed her…alarmed her? She hadn't known what to feel, what to think…and damn if she hadn't been a little overwhelmed.
She's not good at dealing with feelings and emotions.
It scares her.
(He scares her.)
She tends to act on impulse when they blindside her.
(Hence the ongoing make-out session to drowned out her overloaded brain that even now is blaring its alarm bells, despite the way the rest of her body is reacting—gleefully, gratefully, willingly—to his more than enthusiastic response.)
Still, after all of that; the nerves and dress and the impromptu kiss—his hand is creeping up her thigh now and she's already planning on tossing their dinner reservations out the window because her mind is screaming SEX! and her body is weeping and begging YES! and she has no control, no control at all—the one thing she absolutely, without a doubt hadn't meant to do…
Was simple really…
Allow him to take her by surprise.
(Again.)
Because as stupid and immature and completely juvenile as it may sound…
She hates surprises.
People make mistakes when caught off guard, they reveal too much, allow others to see too much.
And Lord knows he can already read her too well.
(Open book and all.)
But take her by surprise he does…
(Again.)
Apparently dry humping in the hallway of her parent's apartment building is not on the (his) agenda for the night.
Apparently he has more self-control than she.
Apparently he thinks she deserves better than that.
(Or maybe he's just a tad scared that David will catch them.)
When he pulls away from her and smooths her hair back into place (the hair that she had painstakingly fixed herself) and runs his hands down her body to straighten her pretty pink dress (the dress she hadn't meant to wear) and gives her a soft and genuine little smile sending her nerves (the nerves she's still pretending don't exist) reeling almost out of control before grabbing her hand and holding it tightly in his (with the one he's not supposed to have) she can't help but feel a little stupefied.
Baffled.
Downright bewildered.
(She honestly would have fucked him right there, against the wall, outside of her parent's home, her sophisticated and classy dress hitched up around her waist, his tight leather pants rubbing between her thighs.)
For all the talk, the swanky banter, and colorful innuendos, it never ceases to both amaze her and perplex her….
(Maybe even irrationally irritate her.)
The way he treats her.
This terrifying mixture of adoration, awe, and respect, like she's more special than she really is, more delicate than she deserves, more innocent than even possible.
It's nice.
Confusing.
Refreshing.
Scary.
Shocking.
Annoyingly surprising.
(But nice, ultimately nice.)
So instead of protesting—her legs trembling a bit, the lingering feel of his knee wedged against her as she had captured his mouth with hers, a tingling yet pleasant side-effect—she squeezes his hand gently, reveling a little in the soft warmth of his flesh against hers; still uncertain what to make of it, curious about the strange sliver of want and yearning for cool and curved steel, before letting him lead the way down the hall; smiling softly, tenderly, when he turns his head to the side and catches her stare—the crinkling around the corners of his eyes and the sheer brightness in his gaze nearly stealing her breath.
No, she hadn't meant to be caught off guard by him.
Hadn't meant for a lot of it to happen.
(Any of it.)
Unprepared, stripped and exposed.
Vulnerable.
Her plans certainly aren't working out accordingly.
She's very nearly a failure.
But as his thumb brushes over her skin, and he hums a lilting and unfamiliar tune under his breath as they walk out into the crisp and cool night air—comfort and warmth settling over them instead of the uncertainty and awkwardness she'd been expecting—she decides, that for now—for one night (maybe more, probably more)— perhaps she can happily live with it…
The unexpected.
(But she still plans on jumping him later).