A/N: Yes hello! Here is an extra long, chapter for this my new baby story. I'm sorry it literally took five million years to upload it but 1) my muse is dead and 2) we're nearing finals season in law school and i'm actually a walking corpse. don't ever do this to yourself. just don't.
Anyways, I hope you like this chapter, I'm pretty excited where this story is going so have fun y'all!
-Steph
Chapter Three- I Know Places
It has been the worst three weeks of my life, of that I am one hundred percent sure. Not only is Killian Jones the most abrasive, chauvinistic, insufferable asshole I have ever met, but also spending nearly a month in his constant companionship has been the bane of my entire existence. He said that he wanted me to give it a chance because it would mean the world to his mates. Well if it means so much to him that I commit to this suicide mission, why is he completely failing to put up his end of the deal?
How is he failing, you ask? Well for starters, he's late 99% of the time. The longest I've waited for him is three hours, for a fucking meeting in which we needed to discuss the minute details of our lives. Any and every aspect of our superficial backstory was to be shared so we knew how to answer random questions by red-carpet journalists and by random interviewers. We are supposed to be preparing for awards season, yet he can't commit to get to stupid meetings on time. Furthermore, he's rude. We got into this mess knowing that we had nothing in common, but every time I say something that he doesn't care about or doesn't like, he goes off on a tangent telling me how awful they actually are. So what if I like a TV show about modern retellings of classic fairytales in which they're stuck in New England leading their lives not knowing that they're fairytale characters? I like it and he has no right to shit on it just because he does not.
Killian has also managed to stand me up not once, but twice, at our first scheduled coffee date. Normally, if this happened there wouldn't be a second coffee date and I would most certainly tell the guy to get lost. But no, I cannot do that. As much as I want to tell Killian Jones to get lost and never ever talk to me again, I am forced to sit here at the Starbucks in Sunset Boulevard, waiting to get stood up by Killian for what's most likely the third time this week. I've been drumming my fingers on the table I'm sitting at, scrolling idly through social media on my phone, impatiently waiting for him for the past thirty minutes. There's simply no use in me being here, he's not showing up (a thought I text Mary Margaret yet she simply responds for me to suck it up, that David said he was on his way, and that Killian was going to be there). I sigh, (but whether from relief or disdain I'm not sure yet) when I hear the door open and in strolls Killian Jones wearing a white Henley and dark wash jeans, his aviator sunglasses perched on the top of his nose.
It annoys me even further that I can't deny that the man is attractive.
"Hello, love." He says sitting on the chair in front of me, taking the sunglasses off his face and hooking them on his shirt collar, fixing his intense blue eyes on me.
"You're late." I say, my lips pursed and my demeanor generally unamused. Killian just sighs and looks at me plainly, he doesn't want to be here anymore than I do.
"Yes, but I am here." He snaps at me, crossing his arms against his chest. I strive to look at anything but at the way his strong tanned forearms look against the soft fabric of his Henley.
"Which is incredibly surprising, because I thought I was going to be stood up again." I smirk, my sarcastic tone earning me an eye roll form his part. He stands up and holds his hand out.
"Come on, Swan. I'll buy you a drink." He says from above me as I take his hand and he pulls me out of my seat. He doesn't even wait for me to get my wallet and instead walks towards the line at the register.
"I can pay for my own coffee, Killian." I whisper once I'm the line standing next to him. He looks at me and rolls his eyes again, a common trait I'm beginning to think.
"And I have no doubt about it, but seeing as I'm here taking you out on a date I'm afraid it's my treat." He whispers back, shaking his head at me. He then proceeds to place his hand on my back, guiding me forward.
"What are you doing? Why are you touching me?" I say, his touch being a foreign concept to me. I see Killian take a deep breath, a clear sign that I was driving him up a wall.
"Swan, I'm curious. Have you ever actually been in a relationship?" He mutters with a smile on his face as he pushes a strand of hair behind my ear. Once again, I have to admit that I jumped back a little bit at his touch.
"Of course I've been in a relationship." I snap. How insensitive can this man get? The only reason I ended up in rehab in the first place is because of a failed relationship—well that and some internalized abandonment issues what with me being an orphan after all.
"Brilliant. Then why do I have to explain to you why it is strange that I, as your boyfriend, am putting my hand in the small of your back?" Killian then weaves his hand around my waist and he pulls me closer to him, his chin resting on my shoulder while I'm pressed up against him. Out of the corner of my eye I see a teenage girl snap a picture of us and I let out a sigh of relief. Being that he's the most insufferable man I've ever had the displeasure of keeping in my company, it's sometimes hard to remember just why we're doing this and that girl snapping a picture of us is just the first step to both of us (but most importantly me) getting back where we want to be.
"Just try to keep it north of the border, okay Casanova?" I smirk at him, pushing myself a few spaces away from him.
"I wouldn't dream about being inappropriate with you, Swan." He grins at me, his hand on my shoulder now pushing me forward towards the register.
"Why because suddenly you're a gentleman?" I tease him as he pretends to observe the menu and a devilish smirk appears on his face as he ponders his answer.
"No, because you're not remotely my type." Oh, so we're back to this? And here I thought we were about to embark on a beautiful friendship. But no, I guess it's time to make a mental note that Killian Jones is still—and probably will always be—an ass. "Now, what can I get you, love?" He asks me.
"Just get me a hot chocolate with whipped cream and cinnamon on top." I tell him stoically and wait for him to finish paying for it.
"Bit childish, but I respect it." He cocks his eyebrow at me while walking back to our table.
"That's a first." I answer him.
"What is?" He sighs exasperatedly.
"You respecting something that I like." I respond sounding as if it's the most obvious thing in the world because…it is.
"What's that supposed to mean? I respect you and the things you like." He asks, seemingly offended at my thinking that he doesn't respect me. You know, because he doesn't.
"You shit on my shows." I answer him. He grins at me.
"I do love how crass you are, Swan. And for the record I'm teasing you. Boyfriends do that."
"Right, except you don't tease me you write dissertations on why something I like that you don't is actually the worst thing in the world." He's about to snap back at my comment when the barista calls his pseudonym, "James Hook"—idiot, the man is an idiot—signaling that our order is ready.
"I'm going to go get our order, my love. I'll be right back." He tells me and stands up.
"This conversation isn't over." I singsong after him and I almost laugh when I see him come back with a determined expression.
"Perhaps I did get carried away with that text." He tells me as he places my cup of hot chocolate in front of me and sits back down.
"It was three pages long. I'd say that was more than being a little carried away." I exclaim, laughing despite myself. "What are you doing?" I ask as his hand covers mine.
"Swan, I trust that I don't have to explain to you that boyfriends hold their girlfriend's hands."
"Sorry. I just wasn't expecting it." I say, unaccustomed to the feel of his calloused fingertips tracing circles on my palm. "Your fingertips are rough." I observe, thinking nothing of the feel of Killian's hands in particular, but thinking about how different his hands felt in mine in comparison to Neal's.
"Oh, sorry." He says quickly, his hands slipping away from mine. "Guitar." He offers as an explanation, scratching the back of his neck rather nervously. He does that a lot, actually.
"No, it's okay. I kind of liked it." I add sheepishly and he smirks at me. He takes his right hand and grabs my left again. He absentmindedly traces circles on my palm once again and I can't deny that it feels very nice. I still hate him and he's an idiot, but this…this is nice.
"You're very honest, Swan." Killian states before taking a sip of his iced coffee. "Why is that?" he asks.
"I guess I don't like lying." I shrug disinterestedly, sensing that the conversation is taking a turn for a more serious one.
"You're an actress, you lie for a living." He counters.
"I like to think that I act for a living, but whatever floats your boat, Jones." He smiles at me and narrows his eyes as he takes another sip of his coffee. Pointing a finger at me he starts, "Swan, you're avoiding the question."
"I just don't like liars or lying in general. That's really it." I roll my eyes at him. Seriously, this guy is insane. I really don't like how he keeps trying to pry into my psyche. Sir, my walls are up for a reason.
"Come on, Swan. Tell me something personal." He says exasperated and I shake my head at him. "I'm sorry you have to be a level four friend to unlock my tragic backstory." I say and he cocks his head at me, reminding me more of a confused puppy than anything else.
"Did you just make a joke?" Killian asks. I'm actually offended that he's so surprised, just because I was suicidal doesn't mean that I can't be funny.
"Well, I am human. A sense of humor is part of the package."
"Sorry, I'm still in shock. Dragon Lady Emma Swan makes a joke. Someone call the New York Times." Okay, I can make a joke. He cannot.
"You're terrible." I tell him.
"And you're going to have to get used to it, Swan. You are stuck with this dashing rapscallion for a minimum six month engagement." He wiggles his eyebrows at me—he can move both and it's actually kind of disturbing—and places his hands behind his head.
"Are you referring to yourself as a dashing rapscallion? What are you three hundred years old?" Seriously, who says that anymore? He ponders my question and gestures his hand in a sort of motion. "Give or take." He concedes.
"Good to know." I nod, taking a sip of my hot chocolate and when I put my cup back down he laughs at me. "What?" I ask. He shakes his head and reaches his thumb towards me and wipes what I now realize as residue whipped cream off my upper lip. "You had a little something." He mumbles a small smile gracing his lips. He sits back and we just look at each other, not really knowing what to say at something that came out so naturally.
"So, have you done this before?" he asks to change the subject.
"Done what?" I ask.
"Fake dating a person for publicity." Killian answers as if it's obvious. You know, because what we're doing is totally normal.
"Oh yeah, a couple of times. Usually it's a lesser amount of time that I have to spend with the person and the fate of my career doesn't rest on it." I nod.
"Does it work?" he asks me seriously.
"It gets us noticed, yes. Which is what we want." I nod again.
"Do you think it's working now?"
"What do you mean?" I ask him, completely forgetting that he isn't as used to this kind of publicity strategy as I am.
"Well, is it working now are we gaining attention with this outing or are we just wasting time and money at a Starbucks in Sunset Boulevard?" he asks me plainly. Oh, this is precious. He's so naïve.
"Killian, a seventeen year old girl has taken exactly fifteen pictures of us in the last ten minutes. She's sitting three tables down and one across from us. I'm going to spitball here and say that she's already sent it to all of her friends, who sent it to other friends. I'd say that by the time that we walk out of this place the parking lot is going to be swarming with paparazzi. Trust me, we're gaining attention." I finish and he stares back at me dumbfounded.
"How do you know all this?" he asks, and I almost laugh because his voice is full with awe.
"First of all, I've been in the business for a while longer than you have and second of all, TMZ already posted the picture this girl took. Mary Margaret sent me a screenshot of it with five thumbs up emojis and sixteen firework emojis."
"Wow." He responds. "That's insane."
"Speaking of insane, that's the way it's going to get around here if we don't leave soon. The paps are probably on the prowl." I tell him and he nods, getting up and holding out his hand for me again. I gladly take it and I've got to admit that it surprised me that neither of us let go of each other's hands as we walk out of Starbucks.
"We should do this again." He says, still holding my hand, as we get to my car.
"I think we have another one next month." I tell him.
"No, I mean not planned. I'd like to get to know you outside all of these special timeframes and for us to just have a chance to be us." The fact that he's asking me out on what sounds like a date perplexes me. He doesn't like me like that and I certainly do not like him like that…so what's the point?
"I mean, I'd be okay with it if you're willing to stomach me for a couple of more hours." I laugh, resting my body against my SUV, his forearm—gorgeous, strong tanned thing that it is—resting against the side of my face.
He smirks at me.
"You're not that bad, Swan. Plus, it's not like it's a date or anything. It'll just look like one." Sigh of relief! We are on the same page, thank God.
"I've got to go." I tell him. "I have a meeting in thirty minutes."
"Friday? I'll pick you up at seven?" He asks me, his deep blue eyes staring into my green ones hopefully.
"Okay." I say. Trust me, it's as hard to believe for me, as it is to you that I've accepted a dinner invitation from this man (i.e. a safe bet that the night will end in indigestion). He grins and kisses me on the cheek—more for show than anything else—and walks back to his own car.
-/-
That Friday, Killian picks me up—surprisingly on time—at seven. He tells me I look stunning as he regards my choice outfit of a little black dress, doc martens, and a red flannel shirt tied at the waist. No, I am not a slob, he just told me that we were going to Santa Monica for the night to hang out at Pacific Park and I hardly thought that a Balmain dress would have been appropriate. We arrive at the pier around eight and have dinner at the Harbor Grill. Dinner consists of double cheeseburgers with bacon, two Pabst Blue Ribbon beers—each—and a mountain of onion rings.
I've got to say that Killian does know how to show a girl a good time. We were enjoying the rides, playing different carnival games—I won a stuffed shark, which he told me that as his date I should give it to him to which I responded by telling him to fuck off, that we're not really dating, and that the badass shark was mine—he even bought me some funnel cake. It was one of the most fun if not the best night I've had in a while, and I could sense that it was the same for him.
However, I knew that on the back of each of our minds was the worry that the fun would cease abruptly once the media got word of where we were. After the Starbucks date, the picture of our coffee date had gone viral. We were on every online story, sources "close" to us were even saying that we had been dating for months and that Killian planned to propose to me soon. Wouldn't that be a riot?
"This has been so fun." I tell him as we step off of the Ferris Wheel.
"Aye, it's been bloody fantastic. You're one hell of a time, Swan." He agrees with me—and I register the compliment but I don't respond. I sensed the atmosphere change the minute we got back onto the pier. Suddenly, I realized people focusing on the position of Killian's hand on the small of my back, the fact that he was carrying my stuffed shark, and that I was wearing his LA Dodgers cap.
Fuck, we've been ratted out. And as I come to terms with the fact that we were back in the public eye, camera flashes start to go off all around us. Instinctively I go to take Killian's hand in mine but the crowd starts to swarm around us and we get separated, the last thing I see is Killian's terrified gaze searching for mine. I push through the throng of people closing in around us, virtually blinded by camera flashes as I try to search for him. I hear his voice call out my name and suddenly a familiar calloused hand grabs my hand tightly.
"What do we do?" he asks me frantically.
"We need to run." I tell him, tightening my grip on his hand and pulling him with me as I run through the barricade of paparazzi. I feel my shirt tear, but I pay no mind to it. I don't stop running until I reach the parking lot, Killian following dutifully behind me.
"What the fuck was that?" Killian exclaims, shocked by the whole ordeal.
"I told you we're infamous, now give me your keys." I say coolly, struggling to keep my composure and stick the key in the ignition. I haven't been followed so hard since I got out of rehab. Killian slides into the passenger seat, his face stricken with terror. Poor thing.
"We need to get out of the public eye for a bit." I say pulling the car out of the parking spot and speeding out of Santa Monica as fast as legally possible…and maybe ten miles over that.
"Where the bloody hell are we going to do that?"
"I know a place, don't worry." I say as I take the back-roads towards my family's house in Malibu, expertly dodging any van that tried to follow us. Killian mumbles something about reflective covers on his license plates so, whatever picture they took of us, they won't be able to locate the car.
I park some thirty minutes later in front of the house my adoptive father used to own in before it was conveyed to me upon his passing. I turn off the car and sigh, turning to look at Killian.
"Are you okay?" I ask him sincerely. The poor man has been shocked silent ever since we left Santa Monica.
"Has it always been this way for you?" He asks as we get out of the car and start making our way to the dark house.
"Not always, that was one of the worst it's ever been." I tell him, closing the electric fence behind us.
"That was absolutely terrifying." He continues, waiting for me to go open the door to the house. "It's okay." I tell him, digging in my purse for the keys to unlock the door. "They won't find us here."
"Where are we?"
"I kind of…grew up here." I say shabbily, taking a page out of his book and scratching the back of my neck nervously. I've never really brought anyone here ever since my father passed away six years ago. Not even Neal.
"Are your parent's going to be okay with us hiding out here?" Killian asks, and it kind of pains me for him to talk about my parents still in the present tense. In all honesty, were they still alive, my parents would have absolutely loved to house me here. I don't remember much of my mom, but I knew that she wouldn't have minded having me home. At least, that's what I like to think.
"No one lives here anymore." I say quietly and Killian's eyes widen in understanding. I like that he doesn't press more questions.
"I'm sorry." He says, his hand outstretching towards mine and I let him hold it for a few seconds before I drop it to turn on the lights in the house.
"Don't be…it was a long time ago." He nods and doesn't say anything else merely follows me into the kitchen where I dig up some glasses and a bottle of rum left in the cabinet. I fill the glass with ice and pour the clear liquid into it, pushing one across the kitchen island towards him. "To surviving our first paparazzi attack." I say, raising the glass towards him. Killian smiles and clinks his glass against mine and takes a swig.
He follows me out onto the porch and sits next to me on the swing. It's funny, for as much as I dislike this man, I have no qualms about his arm being draped around my shoulder. I guess that there is things that bring people closer together and you just can't deny their company after a while, and surviving a paparazzi attack is definitely one of those. We sit on the porch quietly enjoying each other's company and polishing off the already half empty bottle of rum. I start wondering just how long we've been sitting out here in silence, peacefully listening to the waves crash against the shore, when Killian speaks up.
"You know, my mum died when I was five years old and my dad he was barely ever around after that. If it hadn't been for Liam, I don't know how I could have gotten through that." I don't know why he starts listing off his life story, but he does. He tells me how Liam, who is seven years older than him, basically took on both parental roles for the sake of Killian. He taught him to play guitar and how to read music in addition to both getting Killian into trouble and out of it. He keeps talking for ages it seems, but it's soothing and welcome.
"Why are you telling me all this?" I ask him once he's done. He shrugs and looks down at me, his eyes glossy from the alcohol, his thoughts probably as fuzzy as mine.
"When we met at the record studio, you told me that we had nothing in common. I guess I wanted to show you that we did."
"Just because we both lost our parents doesn't mean we have anything in common." I tell him.
"No, but it does mean that we both know loss in the same way and believe it or not, Swan, having that kind of knowledge changes you." He whispers quietly, his eyes locked intensely with mine. "Your turn. Tell me something personal." He says and I notice that his gaze shifts momentarily to my lips, then back up at my eyes.
"I'm actually kind of glad that I'm getting to know you." I say, surprising even my drunken self.
"Aye." He whispers, looking down at my lips before he brushes his against them.
-/-
"Emma, are you awake?" I hear Killian ask from the other side of the closed door at the edge of the bedroom. What is he doing here? It's so late, he shouldn't be here.
I sit up on my bed, not knowing what to do. Should I even answer him? "Emma." His muffled voice singsongs through the wooden door. I stand up without realizing it, and my feet carry me towards the door. I don't know why, but I'm hesitant to open it.
"I am now, Jones." I tell him and a thud on the door makes me realize that he is resting his head against the door.
"Can I come in?" he asks. I don't remember opening the door but suddenly it's wide open and he's in front of me. His hair is disheveled, his accent thicker with grogginess, his body swaying lightly on his feet due to the remnant inebriation from tonight. I scan his body quickly and my own responds instinctively to the way the white undershirt clings tightly to his upper body, leaving little to the imagination.
It only takes a nod from my part for him to enter the room and close the door behind him. The air is thick and pulsating with tension and I'm pretty sure it would be fairly easy to cut it with a knife. I know we're both thinking about the kiss we shared earlier, but we both chucked it to being drunk and lonely. We came to terms with the fact that were going to be strictly professional from now on, we said that. We meant it.
Except the way he's looking at me doesn't seem like he meant it. I see Killian lick his lips instinctively, his insidious self biting down on his lips before he takes three long strides towards me and crashes his lips onto mine. If possible, I like this kiss better than the one we had earlier. That kiss was sloppy and unremarkable compared to this one, this one was needy, hungry, and filled with want. My body responds naturally to him kissing me, there is a fire coiling in the bottom of my stomach as his tongue parts my lips and starts deepening the kiss. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on edge as his calloused fingertips thread my hair between them. I bite down on his bottom lip and the moan that escapes his lips makes goose bumps erupt all across my skin.
I want him.
How did we even get to this moment? A month ago I hated him more than I ever thought I could hate a person, two weeks ago he was still insufferable and barely tolerable, and now here we are in my house in Malibu making out in the middle of my room. Here we are, swaying in the spot, one of his hands dug deep into my hair the other palming my breast over the thin layer of fabric I am wearing, kissing and biting each other like it's our last night on earth.
I gasp for air and he spares no time in attaching his lips to my neck, biting and sucking the exposed skin so hard I'm fairly certain that tomorrow I'll have something to show for it. Somehow I ask him for more and he chuckles, his breath hot against my skin. Killian pulls away and raising his hand lazily, he places it on my chest and pushes me lightly back onto my bed. I decide to sneak a peek at what I'm going up against and it's fair to say that right now, Killian Jones wants me as much as I want him.
"Like what you see, love?" he teases, grinning wickedly at me.
"It seems impressive," I hear myself say, "but do you know how to use it?" He raises an eyebrow at me, clearly impressed by my challenge. He licks his lips again and walks closer to me, his lips merely centimeters away from my own.
"Oh, I know how to use it, Swan." He tells me, his hand brushing away a stray lock of hair from my forehead. "But I'm much more interested in having you beg for it."
Whatever witty response I have for him dissipates as soon as I feel him press the palm of his hand against my core, which has been aching for him since he first kissed me earlier today. I hear him give a dry chuckle as I moan at the pressure he's adding. "What do you want, Swan?" he asks. God, he's so infuriating. He's teasing me when I need him to do the opposite. "More." I moan, the wetness between my legs becoming more and more prominent with each passing second. I hear him whisper "bloody minx" as he realizes that I have no underwear on when he pushes my cotton shorts to the side, before slipping two fingers inside of me. He doesn't reach my spot the first time but it still feels incredible. The second time he does reach my spot, my body reacting instinctively to his touch.
It's been so long since I've felt like this that I had forgotten how much I love it. His fingers work furiously inside of me, each time the pleasure getting more intense. I want to go over the edge and I know full well that it's what he intends for me to do. He must know that I'm close because he nods his head against my inner thigh—where it has rested for this whole experience while he switched between biting and sucking whatever exposed flesh was nearest to him, most likely leaving another mark that will totally be visible tomorrow—as my breaths get shallower and faster, moans dying deep in my throat. I crumble quickly after I feel his mouth closing in on my center, lapping his tongue around my clit and sucking it as I ride out my orgasm against his fingers.
That was incredible.
"What do you want, Swan?" Killian asks, his gaze darkened with lust. He wants me to beg for him and I'd be lying if I said I didn't want him. After the performance he just gave me and the way he made me feel, I'd be crazy to say I didn't want to find out what it felt like to be completely ravished by him. I drag my hands up and down the toned forearms that are placed on either side of my head. His skin is warm and welcoming, and as I look back up to him I see that he's transfixed, the intense look of longing etched deep in his eyes.
"I want you to make me yours." I breathe and that's all he needs. Kneeling on top of me he smiles before he kisses me again, his lips forceful against mine, and takes my hands in each of his, pining them above my head. His lips drag back down towards my neck, making quick work on the spot he bit fervently earlier, for a few seconds until he traces a path down to my clavicle. He licks his lips as my chest heaves up and down with my raggedy intake of breath. He stops as his mouth is nears my breasts and his breath feels warm against the thin fabric of my shirt. He looks back up at me as if asking for permission, I nod not sure if it's what he wants but it seems so because he runs his tongue against my nipple, the wet fabric making an amazing friction. "Killian, please." I hear myself beg, my hips grinding against his knee, my body having had enough of his incessant teasing.
"I like it when you beg, Swan." He laughs, his lips closed against my shoulder now that he's finally taken my (and also his) shirt off.
"Oh fuck off and get on with it, Jones." I snap, my hips grinding against his palpable erection, making the smirk on his face disappear almost immediately. He slips off his boxers and throws them to some darkened corner of the room.
"As you wish." He replies before taking off my shorts and sliding into me all in one swift motion. He cusses against my shoulder, his strong forearms—which are quickly becoming my favorite feature of his—back on either side of my head. As he thrusts into me I realize that I do not know how long, if at all, I'll be able to hold my composure. He hits the spot every single time, making his name the only thing I'm able to mutter through my moans. He kisses me deeply one more time, and if there's something I'm sure of is that I never want to feel another set of lips against my own. I feel myself smiling as he says my name over and over and over, almost like a chant or a prayer. I know that he's close, I can feel him throbbing and pulsating inside of me. His breaths become shorter and more ragged as he thrusts into me and I can't hold it in any longer. I scream his name and come again, bringing him over the edge with me, my hips still grinding against his as we ride out what's left of each other's orgasm.
A moan escapes my lips as I wake up and find myself in an empty bed inside my darkened room. It's three in the morning and my hand is inside of my shorts, clear evidence that I had actually dreamed what I feared I did.
I dig the heel of my palms into against my eyes and all I can think is: "Fuck no. Please no."
A/N: ha, gotcha.