Summary: Killian Jones discovers his Swan likes to be carried.

Notes: For kindredsspirits on tumblr. Includes fluff and light smut. Smut appears between the third and fourth page break.


It was the kiss, he thinks.

There, when she'd held her breath, cast her eyes down towards his feet. There, when the words had come spilling out of her mouth, for no other reason than that she wanted to tell him, wanted him to hear. And there, when he'd thrown his arms around her with abandon, bunching up the soft knit of her sweater in the palm of his hand, hook squeaking lightly over the leather of her jacket as he'd lifted her off her feet.

It was the rush of breath out of her mouth, the way she'd anchored her hands in his hair, tilted her head so she could curl her tongue around his. It was the pleased grunt bubbling in the back of her throat as he'd leaned back, until the warm weight of her belly pressed against his, until he could feel her heartbeat thrumming off the rhythm of his own.

But most of all, it was the way her knees nearly buckled when he set her back down, her toes scraping uselessly against the sidewalk, the way she clutched at his shoulders, protest in the grind of her jaw, the drag of her teeth over his lower lip.

"Emma," he'd said. He'd laughed, really, her hands holding fast to the side of his face as she kissed along his jaw. "Emma. Put your feet down. I can't carry you forever, love."

And he'd meant to make her laugh, but there was a subtle downturn to her lips, a heavy sigh breathed against the side of his face. She'd nodded, taking gentle hold of his hook with both of her hands, and led him inside. He'd thought her sorrowful at first, at least remiss to let go of him, as he was of her. But he'd spotted the blinds stirring over her shoulder, disapproving fingers plucking away at the plastic the longer and the harder he'd held her.

"Rather not give them a show, darling," he'd said.

And she'd answered with an ethereal smile, eyes the color of a sky just on the edge of a raging storm, clashing beautifully with the flowers and vines winding up and down the trellis at her back –

"Yeah."

At which point – breathing one last sigh into the slope of her neck, wriggling his fingers under her sweater to pinch lightly at her waist – he'd forgotten all about it, the uneasiness in her gait, wan frown on her face. About how tightly she'd held onto him, how boneless she'd seemed, how terribly reluctant she was to stand on her own.

That is, until now, here in their home, some days later.

"It was the kiss," he says.

Emma hums, curled up beneath a seemingly uncountable number of blankets and throws, tucked beside the armrest of the couch, her hair a riot and clothes askew.

"What?" she says.

"Nothing," he answers, though he knows she heard, can see the soft, warily expectant look in her eyes.

She protests weakly when he tosses the hefty heap of blankets to the floor –

"Are you ever not cold, Swan?"

"Nope."

– but hums, content, when he gathers her up into his arms.

"You don't have to carry me," she says, softly, lips brushing against his ear.

Please carry me, he hears.

She shivers, and he holds her tighter, urges her to curl around him – her knees up by his chest, her arms locked around his neck. Here on the cusp of midnight, windows thrown open against the breeze, the chilly air ruffles her hair, and stirs the thin, threadbare shirt hanging off her shoulders. Her breath puffs warm against his face, and her fingers curl against his jaw.

"Nonsense," he tells her, when he lays her down on the bed. "I'd carry you anywhere."

She sighs, and pulls him down beside her.

"I know."


Emma Swan likes to be carried.

Killian wonders if she's only just realized. Since he kissed a hearty I love you straight into her mouth in the blinding light of a late, spring afternoon, she's taken to falling asleep in the living room, to leaning heavily on the crook of his arm, to letting her knees fall loose when she pulls him into a kiss. And each time she does it, she seems almost…apprehensive. Because she knows that he knows, just knows, the same way she knows that he avoids the lake. Avoids the park that stretches, quiet and ominous beside it.

But she doesn't want to say it.

So he merely quirks a brow, and smiles, when he drops by the station at the end of her shift.

"Are you going to get up, Swan?"

She scoffs, sinks down in her chair, until her feet are flat against the floor, leaning heavy against the seat. Her hair falls loosely over her shoulder, hiding one half of her face. She peers up at him from beneath her lashes, teeth peeking out from between her lips.

"The car's all the way out there," she says.

He laughs, and mirrors her pout, the whinging lilt to her voice.

"Not all the way out there," he says, aghast. He leans against the door frame to her office, taps his hook against the faded, painted metal. The heavy thud thud echoes loud and tinny alongside the pattering rain.

She snorts, wrinkles her nose. "I've been here for fourteen hours, most of it spent flopping around in the world's most uncomfortable chair. I think my butt is going to fall off."

He laughs, harder. "We're but twenty paces from your salvation, my love."

She eyes him, then looks out the window. The rain falls hard and heavy, straight down upon the ground. Muddy, ephemeral rivers rush down the side of the road. Rumbles of thunder echo dimly from the west. Then she turns back to him.

"Just go on without me," she says, with a familiar air of dramatics.

He bites at his lower lip, regards her for a moment before he closes the distance between them with hardly a single step. He sweeps her up into his arms, and though he's certain it's what she wanted, she still seems surprised, a startled noise slipping out from between her teeth, puffing over his face as he holds her close.

"For the sake of your arse," he says.

Her laughter follows them all the way out the door, down the hall, and into the downpour.


"I just feel bad," she says, against the jut of his chin.

Killian is walking slowly along the beach on a cloudy afternoon, boots sinking softly into the sand. Her boots and socks have long since been abandoned, under the pretense of a hatred for sand in her shoes. Her chest is pressed along his back. He can feel each breath she takes, can feel her breasts against his shoulder blades. He listens to the gentle lap of the water against the shore, watches the gulls circle overhead. He breathes in the smell of salt, of algae, feels the grit of mud between his fingertips.

"Why's that?" he says.

He can feel her shrug, too. She reaches down, down until her fingertips are scratching through the hair on his chest, pressing the vernal chill into his flesh.

"Here you are…" she says, and hefts herself up, so she can curl her chin over his shoulder. "…lugging me around the beach, and I can't even return the favor."

He laughs. "You can carry me any time you wish, love."

"Pretty sure I tried, and we all lived to regret it."

He shakes his head, and keeps along his wandering path, until they reach the rocks on the north end of the bay, and he picks his away along the sea wall. The longer she rests against him, the straighter she pulls at the lines of his back, and an ache settles along the ridge of his spine. But her hair tickles against his neck, catches in the scruff on his jaw. She smells of lavender and leather, and she feels of boundless trust, the loose heft to her limbs as vulnerable as the words she often whispers on the edge of night.

So he answers –

"You do carry me, Emma."

She hums, and he sets her down, gently, into the push and pull of the tide. She bites the smile from her lips, and presses up on her toes, a bit shocked by the chill of the water, he imagines. He turns, looks down at her, and smiles. He brushes her hair over her shoulder, nudges at the turn of her jaw.

"You do carry me," he repeats.

And she smiles, speaks straight into his mouth –

"I know."


"You like to be carried."

"Uh," she says, words caught in her throat.

He pulls her shirt over her head – his hand brushes heavy over her skin, over her chest, back around to the ridge of her spine – and she picks at the buckles of his brace. Cotton and metal alike both fall to the floor in a heap, even as he falls to his knees. He drags her pants down her legs, follows the trail with his mouth.

"It's alright," he says, from between her legs.

"Uh," she says, again, when he closes his mouth over her heated flesh. "Do we have to talk about this now?"

"Darling," he says, replaces his mouth with his fingers when he rests his chin against her thigh. "You've just told me you love me. There's not a stitch of fabric between us – "

"Your socks are still on."

" – barely a stitch of fabric between us. If you like to be carried. If you like anything, if you need anything, please love…"

He trails off as his fingers draw her higher and higher. He pulls his fingers back, dipping into her while he works at her, gently, with the flat of his tongue. She falls, trembling, not a minute later, sweat beading at her brow, a crystalline haze dulling the flecks of gold in her eyes. He stands, leaves a wet, wandering both up her body – along the jut of her hips, between the swell of her breasts, over the cords of muscle twisting up her neck.

"Please, Emma," he says, at length. He wraps his arms around her, firm at the small of her back. He lifts, until her toes just barely touch the floor. "Just tell me."

He looks down at her, and she looks up at him. She gnaws on her bottom lip, breathes deep and long before she says –

"It just…seems silly, I guess. After everything we've been through. To whine about having to walk, of all things…"

He smiles, presses his forehead against hers. "My Swan, my love." He pauses, shakes his head. "Do you or do you not draw pictures on my back, at my request?"

She looks down at his lips, tries in vain to hide her smile. "I mean, yeah, but – "

"And do I not then guess at what you're drawing, much to your consternation?"

Emma laughs, and he can feel it against his chest, straight down to his bones.

"Too bad you suck at guessing," she says.

He hums, lifts her higher, until they're eye to eye, presses her back against the wall. "Your questionable drawing skills aside – "

"Hey."

" – I would do anything." He stops, urges her higher, coaxes her legs around his waist. He nudges his lips against hers, presses her harder against the wall to free his left arm, to caress her side, her arm, her thigh, and back again. She reaches down, takes him in hand, and he shudders, puffs warm, wet breath over her shoulder.

"Anything," he says, and he slips inside. When he settles, flush against her, she grasps at the nape of his neck, pulls him back, looks down at him. He's at a loss for words, but he speaks to her nonetheless, with the tilt of his brow, with the flare of his nostrils, and she back, with the hitch in her breath, the clutch of her fingers.

"I – " she starts, and cries out, softly, when he shifts, bringing him closer, deeper. "I like it."

He quirks a brow, ruts, slowly. "Like what?"

She rolls her eyes, half in pleasure as pulls back yet again, half in exasperation.

"When you carry me," she says. Then, whispering, "I like it."

"Aye," he says, and she urges him on, to quicken the pace. Sweat trickles down her neck, pools in the hollow behind her collarbone. A beautiful flush creeps down her neck, and he follows it with his lips. "Aye, love."

Emma tightens her thighs around his waist, pushes at his shoulders until he leans back. She blinks, and smiles, shines down at him, and he watches as the shadows swirling in her eyes dissipate.

"Will you carry me?" she says.

He smiles. "Of course, love."


"It was the kiss," he says.

Emma lays, full and supine atop him, long into the hours of night. Her hands are planted on either side of his head as she looks down at him. Her hair curls to one side of her face, sweat drying it into gentle ringlets by her brow, down by the arch of neck. She leans down on her elbows, stretches until her toes tickle down his shin. She presses her lips against his, just enough so that when she speaks, even quieter than the night singing softly through the window, he can feel it more so than he can hear it.

"What was the kiss?" she says.

"How I knew. That you liked to be carried."

"Oh."

She lets her hands curl around his neck, pressing her cheek against his. She breathes, slow and measured. And he waits.

"I do," she says, at length. She sighs, and leans back, staring just above his eyes, reaching up to smooth her fingers over his brow. "I love you."

He smiles. "I love you too."

"Even though you're still wearing your socks."

And he laughs.


Killian wakes to one hand scratching through his hair, the other tapping gently against his stomach. He opens his eyes, squints against the light fluttering in through the bay window, ears twitching against the song of the blackbirds.

"Emma," he sighs, reaches up to thumb at her cheek.

She smiles, and her eyes glitter in the dawn. A rush of affection settles low in the pit of his belly, and his jaw thrums with the force of his grin. He drags his fingers, lightly down the side of face, along her collarbone. He brushes against the underside of her breasts as draws a meandering path to her hip, pulling until she leans over him. He kisses her, a light press of his lips against hers, the faintest brush of his tongue over her bottom teeth.

"You're up early, love," he says, against the corner of her mouth.

She leans back, palm flat against his chest. She smiles, again, toothless, crinkles around her eyes.

"Yeah, about that," she says. "I just wanted to make sure you knew that I don't plan on walking anywhere today."

He laughs. "Oh?"

She tilts her head, and her hair falls over her shoulder, tickles at the skin of his arm.

"Yeah," she says. "Carry me?"

He turns on his side, takes hold of her fingers, speaks his answer against her palm.

"As you wish."