AN: This is for my bestie Selina (captainwiley on tumblr) who requested a second part to all of you (is my favourite sweet spot) and so, here it is bb! 2000 words of PURE SWEET FLUFF AND SORTA KINDA SMUT. I hope it's to your liking!
There is absolutely no point to this story other than CS being fluffy and making sweet love to each other. And I'm pretty sure our fandom will take all the fluff we can get, amiright?
P.S. No need to read all of you. Unless you want a toothache from all the sweet!
Maybe it's her hair.
After all, it was the first thing about her that caught his eye. He's a pirate, see, and the color reminded him of treasure.
From then on, he'd been endlessly drawn to it – like during the beanstalk when he playfully arranged the ends of her hair against her shoulder. Or that time they returned to Storybrooke after their year apart and his hook had brushed against her curls. Then there was their stint in the past when she was dressed in stolen clothes meant to conceal and he had completed her look by raising her hood and thoughtfully placing her locks to frame her face.
And of course, in the conclusion of that adventure, when they kissed and he wound his fingers through her tendrils so gently like it was spun gold.
Her back is to their window and it frames her silhouette, the sun reflecting off her skin from behind but casting her front in shadows.
All except her hair.
Her hair catches the light and as the rays bounce off the curling tendrils, creating a halo about her head and making it shine, he thinks, perhaps it is made of gold.
And well, pirates do so love their treasures.
But it's probably her hands.
The way they mold to his, the weight of them when her creases press against his – he loves the way it makes him feel both grounded and afloat.
As he tangles their fingers in one hand and she curls hers around the skin of his wrist in the other, he admires their soft and feminine curves and how it masks the quiet strength and the absolute power beneath her palms.
He feels it, the low hum of her magic under her skin when their hands are joined like this and he reminisces of the other times they had been entwined.
The reassuring way they reached for each other when the fairies had been released comes to his mind. And the small moments in between – walking down the street on their way to their work, as they stroll to Granny's for lunch, skin touching skin and warmth seeking warmth.
But he never forgets the first time it occurred – in the (terrifying, panic-inducing, freezing) aftermath of the whole 'trapped-in-an-ice-cave-with-an-ice-wielding-queen' fiasco, when he encircled her into the warmth of his embrace and refused to leave her side unless it was absolutely necessary (and only then it had been once, to retrieve the space heater the moment the power came back on).
She had woven their fingers so closely there was no such thing as space between them and despite the presence of his rings, he couldn't help but feel like the way their hands wound was the most perfect fit.
Felt it even deeper when she pounced on him the moment they got back from that dreadful and corrupted version of their stories and they fell in a heap of tangled limbs on her bed, save for their hands. There was nothing misplaced about the way she slipped her fingers in between his and squeezed as she worked up the courage to tell him the most important three words and eight-letter combination he'll ever hear.
(She tells him, I wanted to thank you but he hears I love you anyway and it's enough for him. She's enough for him, always.)
Entrenched in each memory, he remembers the buzz of her magic whenever their palms are connected, making his entire body tingle, especially when she traces a path from his wrists to his neck, before running her fingers through his hair and settling on his shoulders.
It's a heady feeling.
But her eyes catch his, bringing him back to the present and he decides right then that that's it, it's got to be her eyes.
He admits, it's the second thing about her that captured his attention.
Emerald orbs peeking curiously at him when he told his sorry little blacksmith tale and eventually turning hard and suspicious as she saw right through him, and isn't that some kind of wonder?
She saw him.
And even more miraculous, he saw her too.
An orphan's an orphan, that's what he said and the veil that shrouded her vision lifted to reveal the sorrow there, the pain and loneliness and longing – the very same heartache that encapsulated him, reflected right through her very eyes.
Every moment after that she had regarded him with a large serving of skepticism, even when he gave up his chance for escape to help save her boy and only amplified when they returned to Storybrooke after a year apart.
(Oh how her eyes haunted his dreams then.)
But they had fallen through the time portal, braved black nights and past selves and the Dark One and shared their first dance.
And when she looked at him that night, how her eyes sparkled underneath the fairy lights that littered the front of Granny's – for once, completely open and vulnerable and tender and he thought–
How could he not love her?
He need only look at her beautiful, green eyes and he knows without her having to say, everything that she feels but cannot say.
And it broke him, when they lost that connection as she spiraled deeper into her role as the Dark One, nearly destroyed him when she followed him to the Underworld and he almost chose to move on.
But he remembered the fierce determination that drove her to him, the fire behind her eyes as she told him, you can come home and you just have to forgive yourself.
Suddenly, there was no choice to make.
(Because of course, of course, it's Emma he chooses. Three hundred years without living till she came around and brought him back to life, their story was not done yet and he'd be a fool to leave it so open ended like that, not when they had the best shot at a happy ending than anyone, I'll never stop fighting for us, echoing through his head as he declares his intention to come home with her.)
Thankfully, those dark days are behind them and their life is a joyous one, for gone is the wall that heavily guarded her gaze. These days, they gleam with the love she has for their ever-expanding family and he loves the way the corner of her eyes crinkle with mirth as with each dawn of the sun, her laughter comes easier.
Bright jade fills his line of sight, sparkling with mischief as she runs her hands down the length of his body and her mouth forms a smile.
Bloody hell, he muses. How could he have forgotten?
Cause now he's quite certain it's her mouth.
There's just something about her mouth that drives him absolutely mad.
Mad with irritation (the sarcastic way she spat his moniker as she discovered his true identity, the subtle but caustic tone she used as she murmured quietly by his bedside, if I were to pick dead guy of the year, I'd pick you).
Mad with suspicion (The vehement way she told him that he could be a part of something felt… off. There was fire in the way she declared the words, yes, but there was more she wasn't saying that he was able to coax from her and suddenly, it all made sense).
And this one was the worst – mad with longing (he sifts through many memories, starting with the heated jungles of Neverland and ending with the cold depths of the Underworld, the word future and the taste of it on her tongue flashing across his closed eyelids).
And finally, his undoubtedly favorite descent into insanity, mad with desire.
Yes, there's definitely some kind of magic happening every time Emma Swan touches her lips to any part of him that will surely end in his demise.
(But honestly, what better way to go?)
Like right now – there's the not so innocent way it curves into a salacious grin, as she traces the seam of those luscious, pink lips with her tongue before taking his member all the way in.
He groans and swallows a curse, lest the whole town hears him spilling himself like the teenager he hasn't been in a long time.
Then there are the more innocent gestures of course, the way she sinks her two front teeth into the fleshy middle of her bottom lip when she's nervous or confused; and how they feel underneath his own lips, soft and supple things that taste of heaven and perfection, whether they're battling him for dominance or melting into his kiss.
There's a storm in him, a storm made of his demons and if he lets it, and he does let it for he's a weak man when it comes to his darkness, it rages on and on. But Emma kisses him, breathes life back into him when her desire spills from her lips, her perfect mouth delicately forming the words, I love you, and everything inside him stills.
"Killian."
He can't bring himself to open his eyes just yet because he loves the way she says his name, so gentle yet precise, like every letter, every syllable is important because they matter to her–
–like he matters to her.
"Killian," she says again only this time, her tone is laced with amusement as she stands from her place kneeling on the floor to straddle his hips. She frames his face with both hands and traces his eyebrows with her thumbs.
He opens his eyes and smiles lazily at her.
"Hey."
"Hello, love."
"Where'd you go just now?"
He hums, tracing a path from the tips of her hair, down the length of her arm before twining their fingers.
"I haven't quite decided…"
He trails off and she looks confused, her teeth finding the dent in the middle of her lower lip from all the previous times she's bitten into it, but the smile that graces her face never fades.
"Decided what?" She merely continues to humor him as she runs gentle fingers across the lines of his face and that's when it hits him, why it's so difficult to pinpoint the one thing about Emma that he can't get enough of.
Because that's the thing, there is no one thing.
Her hair, her eyes, her hands, her lips… these are all parts that make up Emma Swan and each one laid perfectly to express her very core – her heart. The very same one that found a way to break through the walls she built around it to accept the love of the people that make up their family and to return that love in droves. Her capacity to love those that had previously caused her pain (himself, included) continues to astound him and it is glorious… so glorious to be loved by her.
He lets go of her hand so he can lay his on her chest, right on top of the space where her heart resides, where he can feel it beating underneath his palm – strong and steady.
"Killian," she brings his vision from his hand on her chest to her eyes. "Decided what?"
He exhales and stares intently at her as he says, "decided what on earth it is I did to deserve you, that I might keep doing it so I never have to leave you again."
This time, she sucks in a breath before pressing her forehead against his. She shakes her head.
"Just love me, Killian. Love me and it will be enough. It is enough."
He sighs, winding his arms around her and bringing her to him so closely till her every line and curve is matched to his.
A perfect fit.
"And what an honor, to love a woman like you, Swan. And I do. I love each and every part that makes you, you."
It is then that he flips them over, her hair fans out across the pillow in a sea of golden waves and her eyes fill with wonder and delight as her mouth curves into that beatific shape that relays her happiness.
He entwines their fingers.
"Really?" She teases. "Will you show me?"
Without prompting, her legs fall on either side of his hips and he enters her in one, fluid thrust.
She moans.
"If the lady insists."
If this is the last lifetime he gets, then he's happy to spend the rest of it unlocking the secrets of her body, the history behind every mark, the story behind her eyes…
…the depths of her heart.
And as they chase that golden peak together, again and again, green eyes locked onto blue, hands tangled and hearts beating in time, each time he comes to the same conclusion – a lifetime doesn't come close to sufficient.
He'll never get enough of Emma Swan.
But it's quite alright, he muses. As the sun dips towards the horizon, bathing the two of them in an orange glow, the mark of another day passed in each other's company, as he breathes her in and they come together, he thinks to himself that luckily–
They have time.