unfolded73:

Captain Swan, Rated E, ~3000 words.

My fluff offensive continues. This started as just a bunch of dirty lady banter

that amused me (because do I have a weakness for writing women oversharing with each other? I do), and then it turned into dirty sex. Oops. For the purposes of this fic, I just pretended all the side characters I wanted are still in Storybrooke. Set several months after the final battle.

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It was the third margarita that made Emma open her big mouth. That and the fact that her mother, usually present at a girls’ night such as this one, was absent. 

“You need to advocate for your own pleasure,” Zelena was telling Aurora as Emma came back into the room with her drink. “If he’s not doing what you need him to do to get you off, then you tell him what he needs to do.” 

Emma’s gaze met Regina’s and the two of them had a silent conversation through strategically widened eyes about how these nights always devolved into sex talk and oversharing. 

“Exactly,” Ashley agreed. “Or show him.” 

Aurora looked slightly scandalized at that. “Show him?” 

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this-too-too-sullied-flesh:

omg “behind these hazel eyes” by kelly clarkson

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Dear Swan–

Your last letter left much to be desired. Tell me, what did you hope to accomplish in breaking this poor sailor’s heart? Details, Swan. I need details. What, exactly, were you wearing when “that rude jerk” spilled a beer on your head? What kind of beer? If it was American beer, I’ll risk going AWOL just to travel to the colonies and kick his arse for you, though I suspect you did your own kicking.

I’ll leave this letter short like your last. There, how do you like that? I need a nice, long letter in your chicken scratch for next time, then you’ll get one in kind. I think I’ve gotten far too used to your rambling and cannot possibly defend Mother England with any sort of true patriotism without your insipid American slang to keep me going.

-Your favorite seaman,
Lt. Killian Jones

Dear Swan–

Love, I hope I didn’t offend and I only ask that you belay my last. I was merely joking! I thought we’d written each other often enough that you’d understand my humor, but since it’s been months since I’ve received any word, I have to ask if my poor sense of what is both funny and acceptable has lost me a truly delightful friend such as you. 

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losttalongthewayy:

breathe

cs future family — ღ —
CaptainCharming II CaptainCobra — “I broke down crying in your Grandfather’s arms the night my daughter was born…” — or, you
know, the night the wee babies are born and how these guys handled the whole
thing. 

(slightly)angsty fluff? 🙂

This is obviously never in a million years happening in canon, but I’m still craving already all the Daddy!Killian/Grandpa!Killian
fluff, so here’s THIS anyway! I very selfishly needed it! 😀 Flashbacks are in
Italics. 

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    Killian
wishes he knew the exact way or words to help the lad. He knows in his heart
that everything is going to turn out fine regardless, but he still wishes Henry knew this as
well.

And
he knows, oh Killian knows rationally
Henry probably knows everything’s going to be okay already, but Killian also knows, from his own experience,
that right this second, rationality isn’t exactly first on Henry’s mind.

So
he waits it out. Killian doesn’t exactly want to approach Henry with his
unsolicited opinion, but he still knows the two of them are bound to exchange
some words at some point this day anyway.

Killian
knows it’s not the right time yet though. The lad is seemingly trying to appear so
tough and in control of the whole situation and Killian respects that.

Killian
has to commend him for it even; he’s doing a much more believable job than Killian
ever did once upon a time when he was in Henry’s shoes.

Needlessly
to say, Killian Jones can’t be prouder of his lad right now.

— ღ   —

He’s losing it.

He’s shaking and he feels as though
someone has a very tight grip on his heart right now. He feels sweaty
and tingly —as though he’s being suffocated from the inside out. He tries to
force himself to breathe but it comes out shallow and rapid. He shudders; eyes
squeezing against the tears he doesn’t wish to cry.

His chest almost hurts and he wants— he
doesn’t know what he wants —he just needs to do something, but he’s useless.
All evening he’s done nothing but watch and it’s —it’s too bloody much for him
to handle.

Killian turns facing a wall, his palm flat
on the cool surface steadying him. He doesn’t trust his legs to hold him up so
he leans heavily onto the wall, his forehead touching its surface. He breathes,
harshly and unsteady, he wants to scream really —cry perhaps too, out of
frustration and—

“Breathe,” a voice calls, and Killian
hears it muffled by the sound of his very own heart pounding in his ears.
“Breathe,”

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