Staring at gifs on tumblr sometimes inspires bouts of late-night fic- writing. Just some fluffy speculation in the run-up to 4x04.
Dinner was fine. Quite nice, really. They ate at a little restaurant down near the docks, with white cloths on the tables and candles casting shadows over everything. Funny, in this world, when people wanted ambiance, they eschewed all their remarkable technology until the world looked almost recognizable to him again.
The food was quite a step up from Granny's, though he'd never tell her that. And he and Emma talked. Not about who's life was currently in danger, or how they could possibly defeat the latest magical threat to the town. They talked about her childhood (grim) and his days of piracy (best forgotten, to be honest). She told him about the handful of children she still remembered from foster care, the ones she thought of as siblings, the ones she still missed. He told her about Liam and the shenanigans they'd gotten up to as boys.
His stories and hers were quite different, which might have made him uncertain about their prospects, except that she was here. Against the odds and despite everything they had working against them, all the reasons they shouldn't happen, she was here, sitting across from him, smiling at him over her wine glass. It was her choice. She'd asked him. Because as improbable as it seemed, the magnificent Emma Swan wanted him, too. It was too much good fortune for a villainous blackguard like himself. He kept waiting to wake from the dream.
Her hair was swept up, leaving her neck bare and his thoughts to wander. Her lovely pink dress left her shoulders and arms nearly bare, too. He'd rarely seen so much of Emma at once. It was bloody distracting as hell.
With dinner finished, they left the restaurant, walking slowly back up Main Street through the quiet, darkened streets of Storybrooke. They held hands, fingers entwined. He still wasn't used to the peculiar sensation of having a left hand again, although Emma's palm pressed to his made him immensely grateful it was there.
Conversation continued on, more reminiscing from their previous lives or minor comments on the people and places of Storybrooke. His mind turned to how the evening might conclude. He'd never spent an evening in the company of an attractive woman that didn't end with a tussle in the sheets. Somehow he didn't think that's where his evening with Emma was headed. Oddly, he was all right with that. Not that he didn't want that. He did. Rather desperately.
But what he wanted more was a future with her, one that lasted years and lifetimes. And he wasn't going to rush his fences if it jeopardized that future. Emma had given herself away casually ever since Neal, he knew that. He didn't want it to ever be casual between them. When they came together, he wanted to leave himself imprinted on her soul, just as she was on his. That didn't happen during a quick fuck at the end of the evening. Honestly, he wasn't sure what the timeline was on such a coupling. He was quite out of his depth. So he'd follow her lead. When she was ready for it, the way he wanted it, then it would happen, and not before.
That meant for tonight, he was perfectly content to walk her home and say goodnight. Perhaps a kiss. Or a few.
At the Charming building, she spent a moment digging through her bag for the keys. He wasn't sure he'd ever seen her carry such a thing before, small, pink, sparkly and impractical. He wasn't sure how she'd managed to lose the keys in such a small bag in the first place. Her constant stream of inconsequential chatter led him to believe it was nerves affecting her usual cool competence, which was silly because they'd gotten through an entire evening together and it had been quite nice. Success!
Flashing him a nervous smile, she finally produced the key and unlocked the downstairs door. The stairwell leading to the Charming loft was mostly dark, with only a small light burning on the landing a flight up.
"Let me go first, love," he said, moving in front of her. "It's hard to see."
He hadn't even set his foot on the first stair when he felt her fist curl into the back of his jacket and tug. He turned to look at her and she grabbed his shoulder, spinning him around and backing him into the wall.
It was hardly the first time Emma Swan had grabbed hold of his person and manhandled him, but generally it was because his life was in immediate danger. So naturally his thoughts went there first, wondering what threat she'd suddenly sensed in the stairwell.
"Emma, what—"
He didn't get to finish that thought. Her lips were on his, cutting off the rest of his sentence. He was so startled that it took him a moment to realize what was happening. He wasn't about to die. Emma was kissing him. Which, on second thought, might lead to his demise because the woman could kiss like no one he'd ever encountered in his very long life.
His hands came up to her hips, resting lightly there. What a wondrous thing to have both again. He began to kiss her back, gently at first and then more aggressively when she seemed to want that. Her hands fisted into the front of his jacket, pulling herself close to him, until he could feel her breasts pressed against him.
"What—?" he muttered between kisses.
"Once we're upstairs, we can't do this. And I really want to do this."
"As you wish, milady."
She groaned into his mouth. He'd fully intended to keep it gentlemanly, but Emma's hands slid up into his hair and the things she was doing with her tongue were positively sinful, and so he gave himself permission to explore a bit.
For over a year, he'd thought about her body. He'd looked at it extensively. In their idle moments, between brushes with death, he'd watched her surreptitiously. He'd made quite the study of her tall, athletic frame. At this point, his eyes were well acquainted with every dip and curve of her long legs, her shapely arms. He'd spent ages learning the exact shape of the nape of her neck and the cant of her jaw. He could probably approximate the span of her waist with his hands from memory. He'd made an extensive survey of her rather perfect breasts, or at least what he could see of them in her clothes. And when he wasn't looking, his vivid imagination was filling in the blanks, picturing the parts he hadn't seen yet.
But touching… he'd been woefully deprived of actual physical contact with all her lovely parts. He'd felt her lips for a few incendiary moments, and he'd cradled her head, felt the luxurious satin of her hair. After she'd been trapped in the ice, she'd let him hold her, albeit through multiple blankets. And she'd held his hand, entwining her fingers with his. That small moment of intimacy had made him inordinately pleased, considering some of the depraved sexual acts he'd engaged in over the course of his life.
Now she was pressed against him, hand gripping the back of his neck, tongue stroking his and he was rather certain he was finally being invited to touch.
Releasing his tentative hold on her waist, he slid one hand up to cradle her face, because he loved to touch her as he kissed her, to trace her lips between kisses and rub his rough thumb over her cheek. His other hand (oh, the glory of having two!) slid up her back, splaying between her shoulder blades and pressing her more firmly into him. He could feel something under her dress, and he'd seen just enough of this world's magazines and television programs to know it was a bra. If it was anything like the ones he'd seen pictures of, it was small, lacy and cupping her breasts in a delectable way. Just the thought had him hard. Captain Hook, driven to a state of shaking need just imagining a woman's undergarment.
But it wasn't just any woman. It was this woman. And he wasn't just imagining it. He was imagining the day, not too far off he hoped, when he'd be sliding the thing off of her, leaving her bare for him to look at.
That thought had his hand moving again, tracing the bottom edge of it around her ribs to the front and then it was only a small shift of his hand until he was cupping her breast.
Emma moaned into his mouth. He took that as encouragement and squeezed, earning him another breathy moan and a wiggle as she pressed herself closer. Her hands were moving, too, sliding up and down his sides, down to his hips where she pulled him in closer to her. Now it was his turn to moan as his hardened cock brushed against her hips underneath her dress.
He shifted his weight and cocked a knee, sliding it between hers. She settled delectably against his thigh just as his thumb swept across her nipple. Her breath caught. Taking advantage of her gasp, he took her mouth again, plundering deep, fingers knotting into her hair. Gods, he'd wanted her this way for so bloody long.
One of her hands slipped around his hip, landing on his ass, and he thrust against her instinctively. Her other hand pressed against his cock, straining against the front of his jeans. He hissed and broke their kiss.
"Gods, Emma, I can't…"
"I know…" she muttered desperately. "I'm sorry. I just…"
"I know, darling. But you either come back to my room with me tonight or I walk you upstairs to your parents' loft."
Emma didn't respond as quickly as he'd expected and he realized she was bloody considering it. But in moments, she sighed and shifted her hands safely to his waist.
"Sorry. I don't think I'm ready for that just yet."
He smirked, tracing her features with his eyes in the near-dark. "I didn't think you were. This was a bit of a surprise. Delightful, but a surprise."
"Soon," she whispered, looking up at him with wide eyes. "I won't make you wait long."
"I'll wait as long as it takes. Because Emma? When it happens between us, that bloody book will rewrite itself to take note. We'll change the fabric of this realm and every other. I want to create something with you that can't be undone. And that, my dear, is definitely worth waiting for."
She blinked twice. Then slowly she leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. "I'm going upstairs now."
"And I'll see you tomorrow, my love."
Emma smiled, a small, private smile, and ducked her head. "Yes, you will."