killians-dimples:

Happy Valentine’s Day, my lovely cobblers. 

She tells him she’s never really been one for roses, so he
buys her tulips instead. Yellow ones that match the way her hair shines in the
early light of morning, tangled against the pillow and between his fingers. Daisies
that he puts in glasses all over their kitchen, watching the way her face
lights up when she walks in from a long day at the station. How her cheeks pink
and her smile softens into something secret when she tucks her hair behind her
ears and bends close to brush her nose against the petals. He buys her orchids
and lilies. Daffodils and peonies. Carnations that make her bark out a laugh
with how truly terrible they are.

She tells him she wouldn’t even know how to cut a damn fancy
steak, so he brings her grilled cheese instead. The grease seeping through the
bottom of the bag, just the way she likes, with enough onion rings to feed a
small army. He finds the nice plates she keeps stacked in the highest cabinet
and candles below the sink – sets it out on the table with the carnations
proudly in the middle. He watches the way the flickering light dances along her
skin – along her cheekbones and down her neck. The jut of her collarbones
beneath her thin sweater.

She tells him she doesn’t know how to dance, so he helps
her. Takes her hand in his and smoothes his thumb along her knuckles. Guides
her steps around their living room with music playing from his phone box, her
eyebrow arched and a quip from her lips about him being a most adept modern man. He shushes her and tucks her
close until she relaxes, sweeping her about the room and spinning her around and
around until she laughs. Tugs her closer as they fall into something slower,
simpler, delighting in the way she brushes her lips against his jaw and
breathes out his name on a sigh.

She tells him she doesn’t like the holiday, but he persists
anyway. They go to the docks early, gray light creeping over the weathered wood
of his ship, her yawn wide and loud as she curls up against the mast with a
blanket pulled tight. He watches her doze as he guides them to their
destination, far enough away from the town that no one or nothing could
possibly bother them. He wakes her with his lips against her forehead, his arms
about her waist. They spend the day snacking on breads and cheeses – a bottle
of wine (or two) he slipped into his bag. He spins fantastical stories of his
days on the high seas and she reciprocates with tales of her bail bondswoman
days. Stories of might and bravery, color high in her cheeks and her smiles
easy.

He makes love to her beneath the stars as they come to life,
her noises soft and delicate as he moves above her. She watches him with heavy
eyes, a smile curling the corners of her lips, her fingers tracing patterns
along his back. It’s soft and easy, the way he moves against her, much like the
tide pulling them gently back to shore. She locks her ankles at the small of
his back and he loses himself in her. In the way she chases his hips with hers,
a dirty grind that has him gritting his teeth. In the way she whimpers out his
name on a choked groan as he drives her further towards madness.

She tells him she’s never felt this way before, with him,
and he agrees quietly. A whispered return in the dark stillness of night, her
body curled around his in their bed, her toes cold and pressed between his. He
tells her he never thought – never in his most wild imaginings – he never
entertained the possibility that he could have –

“Yeah,” she whispers, soft and sure, her fingers pressed
tight over his heart. “Me, too.”