A/N: An incredibly belated Birthday gift to my cutie pie, passing-fanciful. Thank you for your words and the endless source of joy and entertainment you bring to the fandom. Hope your special day was wonderful!
This little Soulmates AU – and by little I mean an 11,826-word monstrosity – is inspired by my favorite poem, ‘25 Lives’ by Tongari, which I recommend reading before you dive into this :)) [x]
P.S. If the Read More doesn’t work on the App, I am SO sorry. xD
The very first time I remember you, you are blonde, and you don’t love me back.
Killian gestures from the photos clutched in her hands to the building he’d just vacated on his right, tone borderline impatient because they’ve wasted so much valuable time already. He is done with this curse, done with this city, and beyond done with the empty looks she pins him with every time their eyes meet.
“If you think these are forgeries, then why’d you spring me from the brig?” he asks, though the question itself is rhetorical.
His eyes fall back to her, to the way her eyebrows pinch together and how her brain is desperately trying to decipher the puzzle he’s presented to her. There is hope sparking in his chest now, her uncertainly about what is real and what isn’t, fueling his efforts to bring her back — to bring her home — with renewed vigor.
“Because as much as you deny it,” he answers for her. “Deep down you know something’s wrong — deep down you know I’m right.”
“That’s not possible.” She shakes her head, stares at him with stormy green eyes full of skepticism. “How could I forget all of this?”
“I promise you, there’s an explanation-”
“Not one that makes sense.”
She doesn’t snap, but it’s a near thing, and he can sense some of her own frustration creeping through her carefully constructed composure. There’s fire in the look she gives him, a determination to uncover the truth, and it brings him some small comfort to see that there remains things in which memory-stealing curses could not change.
He reaches down, pulls a jewel blue vial from the pocket of his vest. It sits heavy in his palm and he takes a steadying breath, sending up a silent plea to every single God that might be listening — please, let her take the potion, let her believe — as he offers it to her.
His voice is quiet in the busyness around them. “If you drink this, it will.”
Her chest visibly rises and falls with every inhale and exhale she takes, and the undercurrent of anxiety that comes with the action is of no surprise to him — accepting the outrageous is asking quite a bit, after all.
“If…if what you’re saying is true…” Her voice wavers as the rational portion of her mind takes over. “I’d have to give up my life here.”
“It’s all based on lies.” He can feel her slipping away and the panic begins to edge in. He has to hold himself back from reaching for her, from anchoring her to him (perhaps anchoring himself to her).
“It’s real,” she insists. “And it’s pretty good — I have Henry, a job, a guy I love!”
His heart, still not yet healed from their time apart, nearly splits in two at the look on her face and the words she cuts him down with. He glances at the spot between her feet, unable to look at her. There’s a gnawing ache all the way down to his bones and much to his chagrin, he clearly remembers the way he never stopped thinking about her…wanting her, loving her. The way he’d so desperately tried to mask his pain and anger by foolishly turning back to a life that no longer suited him. No longer suited him because it was a life without her — empty and pointless and dull and bleak.
But she’d gone on without him — not that it was entirely her fault, she’d had no choice in the matter and had been under the influence of the curse, but still. She’d forgotten everything, built a life with her son and fallen in love, while he’d suffered endlessly, haunted by the memories of her — the hot press of her mouth in the dense jungles of Neverland, her strength and courage, the unamused roll of her jade green eyes by his blatant advances, the quiet understanding that always seemed to pass between them.
There’s not a day will go by I won’t think of you, he’d promised.
Good, she’d told him, tears clinging to her thick lashes, the corners of her mouth pulled up in a bittersweet smile.
Good.
She had stayed with him, as he had vowed, had been everywhere with him, even when he’d tried to forget, and he…he had been no where with her, no matter how fiercely he loved from realms away.
“Perhaps there’s a man that you love in the life that you’ve lost,” he tells her — vulnerable, open, stupidly hopeful. “Regardless, if you want to find the truth, drink up.” He waves the tiny bottle at her once more, glances up at this godforsaken city (resents it with every fiber of his being for having what he could not).
“Do you really want to live a life of lies?” he wonders after a moment. “You know this isn’t right.” His gaze flickers back to her, but he can’t stand to look at her for long, fearful that even after all this, she’ll refuse him. “Trust your gut, Swan, it will tell you what to do.”
She cants her head at him, something shifting in her expression, softening it. “Henry always says that,” she replies quietly.
“Then if you won’t listen to me, listen to your boy.”
Her eyes bore into his for but a heartbeat, it seems to go on forever though, and then she’s glancing down, eyeing the bottle he holds. Her fingers slip around the top — careful not to brush against his, he notes — and when she plucks it from his grasp, he feels the weight of the past year lift from his shoulders.
She uncorks it, locks eyes with him once more, and he can feel it, the anticipation heavy in the air around them. He just wants her back, longs for the way she looks at him like she wants him to mean something but is too afraid to let him — the exact same way she is looking at him right now.
He feels that spark of hope in his chest bloom as he watches her steel herself, feels it spread through his veins the second she lifts the vial to her lips and tips her head back to down the contents. She swallows then abruptly staggers back, her eyes moving rapidly behind closed eyelids. His body stills and waits, releases the breath he holds only when her eyes pop open and she looks at him — really looks at him.
“Hook,” she breathes.
The edges of his mouth tip upwards, relief coursing through his limbs, mixing with every beat of his heart as he tilts his head to the side, contemplating her. “Did you miss me?”
The next time you are brunette, and you do.
He comes to a skidding halt in the kitchen — glasses askew, shirt half-buttoned, blazer dangling from one arm and shoulder, and a string of curses spilling from his lips. He’s late, fucking late, and Professor Jones can’t afford to be late his first day at a new University but if he doesn’t eat breakfast, he’ll surely pass out before lunch and-
The door of his apartment swings open in a wide arc and he sighs in visible relief at the sight of her leaning casually against the threshold of the entryway. She’s a vision in black, a tight little skirt that clings to her shapely form and leaves little to his overly vivid imagination. She wears it beneath a crisp blazer that is tailored perfectly to her — all clean lines and smooth material — and a pair of spiky heels that makes his pulse jump and steals every thought from his mind.
Her power suit.
She must have a meeting today, or she’s intended to drive him daft with wanting before his first lecture. He idly wonders if she’ll keep the heels on for him later. Just the heels. His pulse quickens even further at the thought and he absentmindedly licks his lips while he stares at her legs (and absolutely does not imagine them wrapped around his hips while he takes her against the wall, or whichever flat surface they make it to first — the floor would do quite nicely as well, he thinks).
She draws his attention back to her face with the clearing of her throat and waves the items in her hands at him as his eyes lift back to hers — a cup of something hot (large Americano, no doubt, just the way he likes it) and a brown paper bag (a sausage croissant with cheese and a side of hash browns, he’s certain).
Gods, he’s never loved her more.
“Tis a bloody Savior you are, darling,” he grins, eyebrow quirking in amusement at the way she rolls her eyes at him.
“So I’ve been told,” she mutters.
There’s no heat in her voice, though, and his smile grows even wider. She watches him as he approaches, passes off his breakfast into his eager hands when the tips of his shoes bump against the tips of hers. Then she reaches up, straightens his glasses while he sneaks a sip of his coffee and wiggles his eyebrows at her.
She shakes her head at him, fingers moving down to pull on his shirt before sliding two more of the buttons through their proper holes. She leaves the top three alone, out of habit or unconsciously, he can’t be sure, but it makes him grin nonetheless. When she’s finished, her thumb runs along the chain of his necklace where it rests against his clavicle, peeking out from beneath his shirt. There’s this look she gets on her face — some soft, affectionate thing — and her free hand moves to rest lightly over the charms hidden under pressed material.
His heart clenches, as she appears to be in a bit of a nostalgic mood, and he shuffles the bag into his coffee hand, balances it carefully between his fingertips so that he can cup her cheek in his palm. He thumbs at the dimple that appears next to her mouth, searches the emerald green of her eyes and returns the gentle smile she gives him.
She is the same in every way, save for the deep chocolate brown of her hair framing her face and cascading down her back. He hasn’t quite gotten used to it — the deeper, richer shade — but strangely enough, it suits her just fine. She is still Emma.
“I love you,” he whispers.
She accepts his kiss without hesitation, sighing at the way their mouths perfectly align and how his nose presses into the curve of her cheek.
“Henry at three, dinner at six, don’t be late,” she teases as she pulls away, keeping close and resting her forehead against his for another moment before leaning back to meet his gaze.
Killian brushes his lips to the tip of her nose, shrugging on the other side of his blazer while he continues to study her. “I’m never later, you’re just always early.”
She snorts at that and he chuckles, grabbing his keys and his satchel from the side table while she steps out into the hallway and waits for him to lock up the apartment. When he turns to bid her farewell, he suddenly finds himself trapped against his door, her body pressing into his, hands latching onto the lapels of his jacket, lips slanting warmly over his mouth — sneaky and greedy like a thief, like a pirate.
“I love you, too,” she tells him.
After a while I give up trying to guess if the color of your hair means anything, because even when you don’t exist, I’m always in love with you.
It’s just another morning when he sees it, a bright flash of gold out of the corner of his eye as he crosses a street on his way to work. He turns abruptly, drawn to the sunshine bright color (always drawn to that particular color), feels the world around him tilt off its axis, slowing down all movement and sound, before going completely still.
He is afraid. He’s been far too empty and miserable in this life, too alone, and every blonde he sees slams his heart up into his throat and he’s afraid to hope.
Her gait is the same, so is the sway of her hips. He’d know the set of those shoulders anywhere and he feels his pulse slowly begin to thud to life again, drawing noise and color and movement back into his consciousness with every beat of his heart. It reaches thunderous levels as his body jolts into action, pulling him in the direction of her retreating form. He veers off course (work be damned) and beelines straight for her as his surroundings pass by in a blur. Her name is stuck in his windpipe, trapped by anticipation and the fear that he is wrong.
He can’t be wrong.
“Excuse me!” he calls, unashamed at the way his voice trembles with too much want. “Excuse me, miss?”
She turns as he nears her, eyebrows raised in question, and he stops immediately in his tracks. Her eyes are brown. Her eyes are brown and her chin is too narrow, her cheekbones not as sharply defined.
Disappointment — harsh in the light of the morning — curls around his heart, digs its bony little fingers into it until he can actually feel the tiny fissures as it breaks.
“Um…can I help you with something?” She gives him a curious look, drags her eyes over him in mild interest, then offers her best smile.
It’s wrong. It’s completely and frustratingly wrong.
“Apologies,” he murmurs, scratching uncomfortably behind his ear. “My mistake, I thought you were…someone else.”
He doesn’t give her a chance to respond, simply turns on his feet and heads back the way he came.
I remember most fondly those lifetimes where we get to grow up together, when you share your secrets and sorrows and hiding places with me.
They are seven when Her Royal Highness, Princess Emma of Misthaven, steals his heart like a master thief. She stands protectively in front of him, her bright green eyes flashing in challenge at Granny Lucas, her chin tipped up defiantly, looking every bit the regal being her title entails, and she steals his whole heart.
“Don’t you lay a finger on him, Granny,” she snaps, and while he is not on the receiving end of her ire, he thinks it rather wise of him to be fearful of her anyway.
Granny sighs, the vein on her forehead throbbing violently as she glares between the two of them. The King and Queen abruptly appear in the threshold of the kitchen to see what all the ruckus is about, and Killian blanches so quickly, he fears he may simply pass out at the Princess’ feet.
He kneels as he was trained to do, though the words of respectful greeting are caught somewhere in his throat. He does not move from his place when the Princess speaks up. She lies, insisting he is not to blame, says she is the one who stole the sweets from the kitchen (despite the blatant stains of chocolate on his fingers and smudged around his mouth), and he is dumbfounded behind her, heat burning in his cheeks and the tips of his ears.
He can feel the King’s eyes on him, studying him quietly. The King has always had kind blue eyes, but when he too sighs, Killian cannot bear to see if that has changed about him. He swallows thickly when the King approaches and kneels to his level.
“Is that true?” he asks gently. “Did Princess Emma steal the cakes from the kitchen?”
“You don’t have to answer him,” she whisper hisses, and Killian feels sick to his stomach — of course he has to answer him.
“No,” Killian breathes, shaking his head that is still bowed in shame. “It’s not true.”
He cannot allow her to lie for him and he will not lie to the King, not when he had permitted him to stay, given him a home when he had nothing and no one left. He winces at the aggravated sigh the Princess expels from her mouth.
“It was me,” Killian confesses, and he prides himself in the way his voice remains steady despite the tremor in his bones. “It’s…it’s my birthday, I just- I wanted-”
He cannot finish the thought, the sting of tears behind his eyes making it difficult to speak. His mother used to make those same cakes every year, until the year she passed and there had been no more cakes, no more singing or celebration, nothing. There’s a stillness that settles over the room, a quietness that amplifies the beating of his heart, and when the King places a gentle hand on his shoulder, he sniffles.
“Apologies, your Majesty,” Killian says, barely above a whisper, feeling stupidly nostalgic and fearing how much it will cost him.
“Well,” a voice speaks up. “We can’t very well celebrate a birthday in the kitchen, can we?”
He glances up at the rustling noise by the door, meeting the Queen’s soft smile and patient gaze.
“Emma, honey,” she says. “Why don’t you help Killian bring some plates out to the main hall? Granny and I will take care of the cakes.”
His jaw drops, a tear slipping onto his cheek as he stares at them in shock. He had expected a lashing, no food for days as just punishment for his transgression. At the very worst, he’d expected them to ask him to leave.
“I think that’s an excellent idea,” the King chimes in. “I’ll get us a jug of milk.” He winks at Killian, squeezes lightly at his shoulder.
Then Princess Emma is standing in front of him — eyes bright, smile beaming — and she cheerfully takes his hand, sending a jolt up his arm that makes his head spin for some strange reason.
“I didn’t know it was your Birthday!” She tugs him along towards the cupboards, and while he doesn’t miss the way she playfully sticks her tongue out at Granny, he carefully keeps his face neutral as he passes by her too. “Come on, Killian!”
———
They are sixteen when he realizes how very in love with her he actually is. She races ahead of him, pale blue skirts billowing around her legs, golden curls whipping behind her back. “Come on, Killian! Hurry up!”
He rolls his eyes, grumbling under his breath about the whims of princesses (and the stupidity of simple kitchen boys), while dimly thinking that she needn’t ask twice — he’d long resigned himself to the fact that he would gladly follow her to the ends of the world…or time for that matter, but that’s neither here nor there.
She ducks between two hedges, fearlessly leaping off a small ledge — your Highness, wait! — and frightens the very wits out of him. She lands in a bed of wildflowers on a breathless giggle, rolling over onto her back and staring up at the sky and its wisps of clouds. He swears she’ll be the death of him someday, but when her laughter sounds like wind chimes — musical, light, happy — and her smile is that radiant, he imagines there are worse things that could end his life.
He doesn’t jump after her, but carefully climbs down and stands over her with his hands on his waist. He doesn’t scold her about skipping her etiquette lessons, he knows she hates them and besides, it’s not his place (not to mention it’s rather hopeless to order her about, stubborn lass that she is), but he can still wordlessly express his distaste over her actions. She is royalty, after all, and she has responsibilities that need her time and attention, and she certainly shouldn’t be ignoring them in favor of spending her afternoon with the likes of him.
She is unperturbed by the chastising look he gives her though, grinning wide and stealing more of his heart as she reaches up and tugs him down beside her. He sighs because he is hopeless, a lost cause where she is concerned.
They spend an hour making pictures of the clouds — beanstalks, ships, swirling portals to exciting new worlds, and whatever else their imaginations conjure. She begs him for a story — Oh please, Killian? You tell the best ones! — and he’d never actually been able to deny her anything so he weaves one for her, a vibrant tale of a scoundrel pirate and a lost princess, full of adventure and just enough romance to keep her interested (the grand, sweeping kind that makes her weepy and smile softly when he passes a handkerchief to her).
The story itself forms easily enough in his mind, spills even easier from his lips, like the words themselves are written in his very bones. Strange thing that, but he doesn’t think too much of it.
They are quiet for a long time after, lost in their heads, a comfortable silence settling around them. She turns to look at him after a while and he angles his head towards her in response. He frowns at the tear stains marring her cheeks, tsks as he leans up onto his elbow and reaches for the handkerchief resting on her stomach — careful not to touch anything but the corner of the cloth — before gently wiping the last remnants of them away himself.
“Your Highness, I’ve upset you.”
She gives a quiet laugh, shakes her head at him. “No, I loved it. It was a beautiful story.”
He hums noncommittally, and there’s an odd sort of pressure building in his chest, an ache down in the pit of his stomach, and he hasn’t the faintest clue why.
“Killian?”
He quirks his brow at her, cants his head to the side as he studies her.
“Why do you never call me, ‘Emma?’”
“It’s not…proper,” he says the sentence slowly, confused why she would even ask such a thing.
She rolls her eyes at that and abruptly sits up, a heavy breath puffing out through her nose. She rises to her feet and begins to pace restlessly, wearing a path between the flowers of her favored hiding place she retreats to whenever she wishes to escape the world for a time. He tries to ignore how her hair seems hellbent on rivaling the sun with its glow, how pink and lovely her cheeks are, and instead focuses on the mood that’s taken hold of her.
“I’m so sick of being ‘Your Highness’ and ‘Your Majesty’ and ‘Princess,’” she tells him, casting a petulant look his way. “I just want to be Emma for once.”
There are times that the weight of the Crown — the weight of her future — sits too heavily on her shoulders. It worsens the older she gets, too much adventure in her blood, too much desire to see the world instead of rule it.
He pushes up to stand with her, before her, and sighs as she tips her head back so she can meet his gaze. There’s an itch in his fingertips, to soothe away the lines between her pinched brow, but he does not touch her — that would be improper as well (besides, if he did, he may not stop at such innocence, he may be inclined to do something foolish, like lean forward and press his lips to hers, steal a kiss he does not deserve but wants more than anything) — instead he simply contemplates her.
He reads the things she doesn’t say through her jade-green eyes, easily navigates every nook and crevice of her innermost thoughts. It used to unnerve her, the way he just understood, but instinctively he knows it doesn’t anymore. She lets him see, lets him in, and that already is more than he could have ever hoped for.
“Alright,” he says finally. He cannot give her much, but perhaps he can give her this. “Here then.”
“What?”
“Here-” He gestures with his hands as he looks around at this quiet space tucked away from the outside world. “Here you’ll simply be ‘Emma.’ Nothing more, nothing less, just…Emma.”
My Emma. (He doesn’t dare say that part out loud though.)
“We’ll speak nothing of balls or courts or politics-”
“Or suitors,” she interrupts, and the way she holds his eyes feels impossibly significant.
“Or suitors,” he agrees, more than happy to oblige.
“Or your plans to join my father’s Navy in a few years.”
He sighs at that, as it’s already become a tired argument, but nods nonetheless. “As you wish.”
“You’ll still tell me stories?” she wonders, refusing to linger any more on the subject than she has to.
“For as long as you like,” he promises. The elation on her face is staggering, makes his hopeless heart skip a full beat.
“Do you swear, Killian?”
“Have I once told you a lie?”
She squeals in excitement, stuns him to the core when she launches herself into his arms and wraps her arms around his neck. He is frozen in place, breath caught in his lungs, mind completely blank with shock.
“Thank you,” she breathes, squeezing him tight. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
All thoughts of propriety are shot to hell at the feel of her heart beating against his, the warmth of her seeping into his very being. He is the world’s biggest fool, and he’s probably going to hell, he’s quite certain, but even that cannot stop him from lifting his arms and resting his hands gingerly against the middle of her back. He doesn’t pull her closer — he isn’t brave enough to push his luck — but he closes his eyes, tilts his head down just enough to rest his chin over her shoulder as he holds her and wishes and wants.
I love how you play along with my bad ideas, before you grow up and realize they’re bad ideas. (And in our times together I had many many bad ideas.)
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.”
He kicks his feet lazily, moves his arms gently back and forth at his sides to stay afloat in the pool. His eyes are locked on her, distracted by every inch of skin that is revealed as she tugs her t-shirt over her head and shimmies out of her jeans.
“You needed a study break, love,” he replies, tongue darting out absentmindedly to lick his lips while she stands there — all porcelain skin and soft curves — glaring at him in her undergarments, her hands on her hips.
Gods, she’s a vision.
“Normal study breaks generally mean having a snack,” she retorts. “Maybe some stretching or a walk in the quad.”
He tries not to groan when her hands move behind her back and work at unclasping her bra (all bets are off though when she leans forward and allows gravity to pull the article of clothing down, breasts spilling free for his hungry gaze and making the noise tear itself from the back of his throat as the heat simmering in his belly moves swiftly south).
“Normal study breaks,” she continues. “Do not entail breaking into the swimming complex at 2-freaking-AM-” (She whisper hisses that part.) “By crawling through a window to go skinny dipping with your idiot boyfriend.”
She sounds annoyed and he can’t help but smirk at her, but her thumbs hook into the top of her panties on either side of her hips anyway, and whatever smartass comment he was going to make about her sense of adventure is abruptly forgotten as she slides her underwear down to her ankles then impatiently kicks them off.
“Bloody fucking hell,” he mutters, in absolute awe at the sight of a naked Emma Swan standing before him.
He has to give himself a mental pat on the back because this is, by far, the best fucking idea he’s ever had in his life. He’s burning everywhere now, eyes eagerly taking her in. He wants to touch and taste and have — wants to suck a bruise into the delicate line of her collarbone, kiss a path from heart to navel, then veer off and sink his teeth into the jut of her hipbone. He wants to sit her down on the edge of the pool, make her come with his mouth before he drags her in and takes her with the warm water lapping around them. (Maybe he’ll turn her around, make her grip onto the ledge while he pounds into her from behind, dragging his teeth over her shoulder and whispering filthy things into her ear.)
The noise of the splash and the water that rains on his face draws him sharply away from his distracting thoughts. He has no time to gather his bearings though before he feels two hands circle his ankle and tug him roughly downwards. He manages a gulp of air before he goes under.
It’s a mistake she always makes — forgetting how much he loves the water, how strong of a swimmer he is — and it doesn’t take him long before he’s got her trapped against him. She kicks and squirms, but he’s stronger and manages to maintain a grip on her. He playfully drags his fingers along her ribs and the breath explodes out of her, bubbles spewing wildly from her mouth. He pulls them up to the surface, laughing delightedly at the way she sputters and gulps for air when they reach the top. She looks adorably mussed with her face red and locks of her hair plastered to her forehead, cheeks and neck.
He guides her legs around his waist, giving her something to anchor to while she catches her breath, and enjoys the feel of her bare breasts against his torso as she slings an arm around his shoulders and uses her free hand to smooth her hair back and wipe the water from her face.
“Alright there, Swan?” he chuckles.
She gives him an indignant look and flicks the tip of his nose with her thumb and middle finger. He laughs again, a rumbling sounds in his chest, and leans away before she can do it again.
“Don’t be cross, darling,” he tsks. “Let’s just kiss and make up, hmm?”
His wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, reminds her of their very naked state by running a hand down her spine and all the way to her ass. Emma rolls her eyes in that adorable way he loves when she’s having none of his shit, but she doesn’t resist when he leans forward and nudges her nose with his.
“Give us a kiss, Swan,” he implores, his voice low and breathy.
She holds back, teases him with the barely there brush of her mouth, and he presses forward, chasing after her lips. She leans back, turns her head away and he growls impatiently at her. When her eyes meet his again, they are sparkling mischievously like a blasted minx, and then she takes pity on his poor soul, closing the space between them, shutting him up with the slide of her mouth over his — insistent and warm.
She tastes like the coffee she’s been sipping all night, except richer somehow, spicier, and he is utterly lost when she tangles a hand in his hair and guides his head further to one side so she can deepen the kiss. She traces the fingertips of the other hand over his clavicle, dips her tongue into his mouth and he moans in appreciation, trailing both of his hands up the bare expanse of her back and pressing her closer still.
Her hips roll against him, just a little, and he’s not sure whether it is unconscious or intentional, but the gesture reminds him that he is hard and wanting, trapped between their bodies. She catches the tip of him where she’s warmest when she repeats the movement and fuck — it’s definitely intentional.
“Swan,” he breathes, breaking the kiss to drag his mouth down the slim line of her neck.
He moves one hand lower again, pressing it to the small of her back and guiding her movements so she rubs against the whole length of him. She tilts her head to give his lips better access, hums in pleasure when he grinds her against him again and gets the perfect amount of friction on her clit.
“Better than a walk in the quad, wouldn’t you say?” he asks.
“Shut- oh!”
He scrapes his teeth along the juncture where neck and shoulder meet, presses her just a little harder as he rolls his hips back. He loves the little gasping noise she makes, tells her so by hitching her just a little higher and lowering his head, closing his mouth around her breast. She arches her back when he sucks roughly, a quiet — oh, fuck — spoken brokenly just above his head. He clamps down with his teeth, uses the tip of his tongue against the tight little bud to-
The door of the pool shakes with the force of the fist pounding into it from the other side. “Hey, you kids!”
They both jolt apart, swearing at their luck and the security guard jangling keys and rattling the door knob. They spring into action, a rush of adrenaline that ignites through their veins fueling their movements and burning away the hazy lust they’d been trapped in just moments before.
“Shit!” she says, and she starts to swim towards the side of the pool. “Oh shit!”
“Hurry!” he tells her, matching her stroke for stroke as he swims beside her.
He’s snickering by the time they make it to the ladder and he helps her up it, giving her a boost then quickly pulling himself after her. They work in tandem to gather their clothes then beeline across the room.
“There’s an exit through the girls’ bathroom!” she shoots over her shoulder, leading the way. He can’t stop laughing, but he still has enough sense to appreciate his view as they barrel through the door.
“Quit staring at my ass, Killian!” she snaps.
He moves by her, holds open the back door so she can slip past and then wiggles his eyebrows at her because, well, it’s one hell of an ass. He gives her a companionable little slap on said delectable derriere as she goes by him and even though she rolls her eyes, he doesn’t miss the way the corners of her mouth tug up into a smile.
When we meet as adults you’re always much more discerning. I don’t blame you.
He watches the silhouette of her framed in the window of his quarters as he lounges in the bed, studies the line of her profile, and envies the way the moonlight caresses her skin before the garment she pulls over her head hides it from view.
“You don’t have to leave.” The words taste selfish on his tongue but he doesn’t care. He wants her to be reckless for once, wants her to forget about her responsibilities, wants her to stop thinking about everyone else.
“I’ve ruined your reputation enough, I think,” she replies.
There’s a smile in her voice, an even softer one on her lips if the way her cheek curves is anything to go by. She doesn’t look at him though, and instinctively he knows its because she will stay if she does.
(He wishes she would look at him.)
Instead she draws the shirt down, adjusting it until it skims the tops of her thighs, then she tucks her hands under her hair and pulls it free from the neckline so it spills down her back in an endless waterfall of golden ringlets. It’s mussed from his hands, from the way he’d wrapped it around and around his wrist to tug her head back and make her back arch as he’d pushed roughly into her from behind.
He craves to touch it again, to touch her again, but he stays where he is, ignoring the familiar ache of desire that dips below his waist, the ache for her that lingers in his very bones.
“What will your crew think?” she wonders, voice mildly teasing as her head turns this way and that to search for her undergarments that were hastily discarded on their way to the bed.
He fingers at the scrap of silk he holds — damaged by hook and hand, unwearable — and a spark of heat burns through his blood as he remembers the way he’d torn it from her body.
“That I have successfully pillaged and plundered the Crown- are you looking for this, darling?” he asks, voice dripping with innocence.
She is forced to look at him now and he lifts his gaze to meet the vibrant green of her eyes, eager to see the flash of annoyance he knows will cross her face. She doesn’t disappoint, sighing heavily as she frowns at him. His mouth curves in a wicked smirk, brow arched in amusement while he dangles the ruined material from his index finger. She hates when he destroys her silk — it’s a rare import, after all — but really, she has only herself to blame, her and her uncanny ability to reduce him to an incoherent mess of primal instincts with nothing more than the press of her mouth to his.
“No,” she retorts, not bothering to dignify his wide grin with anything more than that singular sharp word.
She spots her breeches draped haphazardly on the table on the far end of the room the same moment he does, and he can’t quite remember how the bloody hell those got all the way over there, but he imagines he is entirely to blame and he hasn’t an ounce of shame.
She makes her way towards it, her shoulders squared, chin held high, every bit as graceful and regal as her moniker would suggest — The Swan Princess. (She is Queen now though, but that changes nothing.)
“You can just add it to your collection,” she mutters under her breath.
He chuckles quietly. She’d lasted three seconds longer than he’d anticipated before she’d uttered the disdainful words and he has to say he admires her impeccable restraint.
“Perhaps I will,” he replies, because he always has to get the last word in.
His breath catches in his throat then, watching the way she slips into her pants and how they inch up over bare skin. It’s shameful how little it takes, really, for him to want her again.
“Emma.” Her name slips from his mouth before he can stop it and her head jerks up at him. It is second nature for her eyes to flash defiantly, she is Queen, after all.
He is bold, he knows, to call her by her given name, but titles and propriety be damned. He doesn’t bloody care, never did, and he especially doesn’t care for the reminders of who they are and what separates them.
She lingers in place, her eyes dark and stormy in the dim lighting of the cabin. The only sounds are that of his ship, creaking and groaning as it sways gently in the harbor. She sighs after a moment, seems resigned to the fact that she is as tethered to him as he is to her. His eyes never leave hers as she closes the distance between them, sitting near his hip and taking his hook between her hands.
It is second nature for him to flinch as she grasps it and he purposely ignores the frown that wrinkles her brow when he does so. He would prefer that that darkness not touch her, but she is stubborn, his Queen, and not one to be ordered about, let alone ordered how to think or feel. She’d, to their peril, made up her mind about him long ago.
She smoothes a gentle palm over the curve of it until she can pinch the tip between index and middle finger. He feels the caress all the way down his arm and into his heart. The air feels heavy around them, as it always does at the end of these moments they steal for themselves.
He doesn’t ask her to leave with him in a few hours, despite how terribly he wants to; he already knows what her answer will be. Besides, he doesn’t think he can stand to hear the refusal from her lips.
“You never ask me to stay,” he says instead (again).
Her smile is soft, melancholy around the edges. “I will not sacrifice your freedom for mine.”
He swallows thickly, and reaches for her hand, wanting the contact. “Perhaps that’s not a decision for you to make.”
“You know I can’t protect you from the laws that govern our kingdom.” Her fingers lace through his and her thumb traces idly against the thick silver band of the ring that sits on his own thumb.
“You are Queen,” sighs, frustrated by this old dispute. “Change them.”
“Not everyone is like you.” She holds his eyes, quietly imploring for him to understand. (He hates that he does.) “Not everyone is as kind or walks the same moral line as you.” She reaches up, strokes a finger tenderly across the mark she’d left on his collarbone, moves higher still to caress the scar on his cheek. “And…not everyone is as handsome as you.”
She forgets how fast he moves, squealing as he advances on her and manages to roll her under him, hitching her leg around his hip and settling his weight between her thighs in the span of two heartbeats. “Don’t think I can’t see right through you. Your sweet words are but a diversion and they mean nothing.”
She grins, all teeth and high cheekbones — gentle affection and something just a bit more, something that he would stay for, if she only asked — then sighs once more as she cups both of his cheeks in her palm. The tip of her index finger slides under his earlobe so she can play with the back of the stud he wears and the gesture is both soothing and strangely familiar.
“Don’t they?” she wonders, and there’s a challenging gleam in her eyes he can’t resist.
He exhales exasperatedly, dropping his forehead to hers in defeat. “Emma.” What he actually means is I love you.
“Killian,” she replies, and what she means is I love you, too.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t attempt to change her mind or entice her to stay, just remains in this moment for as long as she will allow. He knows her, like reading a favorite book or the star charts he uses to navigate the seas, knows her heart and feels the sadness in it echo in his own.
Perhaps in another life, another time, things would have been different.
He turns his head, kisses at the tattoo on her wrist. It’s the same flower depicted on the royal crest — a Forget-me-not.
“Do you require anything from Arendelle?” he wonders. “Perhaps you’d like a rock troll for a pet? Or I can bring a reindeer back for your court?”
She giggles and he tucks the sound away into his memory.
“No. Just you,” she tells him. “Just you.”
“As you wish.” He seals the promise with a kiss.
Yet, always, you forgive me. As if you understand what’s going on, and you’re making up for all the lifetimes in which one of us doesn’t exist…
He loves them, Milah and her boy, loves the life they’ve built together in this little house by the sea. It’s everything he’s wanted, really, everything he’d never thought he’d have, and the domesticity is strangely easy. They’d fallen into it like a warm bed, had it wrap around them like an even warmer blanket — morning routines, homework, house chores. He’s never had so much laughter in his life, so much love.
They walk along the water every evening, a dark-haired trio, just before the sun dips below the horizon. She tucks her hand into the crook of his elbow, tips her head against his shoulder while the young lad holds his other hand and excitedly points at the seaweed that washes onto shore. It’s perfect, this life, it really is.
But it’s wrong.
He can feel it in the deepest part of his heart, an emptiness that aches, a restlessness that lingers, and he doesn’t know why. He gets into moods about it sometimes, an excess amount of agitation that he channels into other things — his work, building a wooden castle for Bae to play in, helping Milah plant a bed of bright blue Forget-me-nots, cooking, exercise, sex.
Sometimes it helps, more often than not it doesn’t.
He’s happy though, he swears it.
———
(It’s a deep-seated sadness that grips at her heart — something far more than grief — as she squats beside a large gravestone despite the ache in her old bones, and sets down a small bouquet. The splash of vibrant blue is harsh against the dreary stone, and she tells herself that’s what makes her eyes sting and not the neat line of block letters that she can’t help but trace over with a shaking finger.
KILLIAN JONES
The epitaph below it makes her chest seize up suddenly, makes her gasp for breath as her fingers dig into the cold stone (desperately looking for an anchor, for him), and she fights not to break down.
Love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.
She doesn’t bother with the tears on her withered cheeks, they can’t be helped, but she does close her eyes in an effort to get them to stop — they don’t.
She tries not to resent him, it’s not his fault, it’s just the hand they were dealt this unfortunate time around. It doesn’t stop her from feeling the depth of the loss though, the empty decades and the life they never had. It’s in these lifetimes she wishes she didn’t remember, and it’s in these exact lifetimes, where she does recall with perfect clarity all their lifetimes together before, that she wishes she could have been more for him.
Her free hand reaches out towards the Forgot-me-nots she’s placed down and she fingers delicately at the petal of one of the flowers. It’s another promise, a vow for the next time — to remember him sooner, to let him in completely, to waste no time, to love him more.
She knows it doesn’t always work out that way, but she can always hope.
The tears well up again, and she’s certain that he would loathe to see her cry (she wishes he were here to wipe them away, his thumb brushing gently over the curve of her cheek in that familiar, comforting way), so she presses her lips together, draws strength from his timeless love, and pushes herself to her feet. When she is steady once more, she turns to leave, clutching at the charm dangling on the end of her necklace — a small gold ring with a little red ruby set into it.
She won’t say goodbye, but she sends up a prayer to whatever forces of the universe are listening and she very firmly — mimicking his lilting accent in the way that used to make his too blue eyes roll — says, see you soon, love.)
…and the ones where we just, barely, never meet. I hate those.
Sometimes he remembers.
Sometimes it’s hazy like a dream, where all the details are muddled and he simply gets flashes of things. Like how he craves cinnamon in his hot chocolate or onion rings with his grilled cheese sandwiches (when he actually prefers tomato soup). How the swans that occasionally find their way into the harbor make him pause, hands in his pockets, chest uncomfortably tight and…heavy, eyebrows pinched together in silent consideration. How he feels most troubled when the sea shines a particular shade of green — brilliant, vibrant, and warm — and the tiny floating specks of gold catch and refract light so the water sparkles under the blaze of the sun.
But sometimes it’s as clear as the morning after a storm (where everything is crisp and the colors of the world are all bright-hued and enticing). Sometimes it’s clear enough for him to see — blonde hair, large green eyes, a dimpled smile. That tiny dent in a softly curved chin. If he closes his eyes and concentrates, sometimes it’s clear enough for him to hear (her laugh, her voice, his name) and to feel (her hands in his hair, her chin against his shoulder, her lips over his heart).
Sometimes he knows what’s happening, understands the cycle of their lives, how they’re locked in time, forever fighting their way to each other. Sometimes he hasn’t the slightest clue what’s happening at all, and sometimes he just feels restless, feels the need to find something.
———
He’s taken to running on the beach on the weekends, slips out of his warm bed in the little house he owns on a cliff above the water and into his worn sweats before the sun comes up. The sound of the surf soothes some hollowness in him, as does the rhythmic pounding of his feet near the waterline, keeping his head clear and far away from…what exactly, he’s not sure. He’s never sure. It’s just some sort of haunting sensation that leaves him in a constant state of agitation, so he runs to relieve it.
He keeps a steady pace for about two miles, concentrating on his breathing and the way the sea breeze steals the moisture from his brow. He tries to empty his mind in these moments, an attempt at escaping the bouts of brooding he gets into that have a habit of consuming his time.
Subconsciously, he slows down when he reaches a little white cottage tucked away in a small cove. It’s right on the sand with a matching white wrap-around porch — quaint, lovely, perfect. (It’s a surprisingly biting thought that leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.)
From what he’s heard around town, it belongs to the Sheriff (‘Graham’ he thinks his name is) and his wife — some pretty blonde with green eyes. He’s seen her building castles in the sand with a sweet-faced, owl-eyed little lass that looks just like her, right down to the same enchanting shade of her irises and the softly rounded chin.
He’s smiled at them politely as he’s passed by, always averting his gaze shortly after and willing himself to keep his focus straight ahead while trying to ignore the clench in his stomach. He’s never looked back at them, but for some reason, he always wants to.
She’s out on the patio today, Graham’s wife, leaning back against the railing with a mug of something warm and steaming in her hand, her golden halo of hair spilling down her back. The sheriff smiles at her, puts his hands on her hips and sways closer into her space, grinning like an absolute pratt when she throws her head back and laughs at something he’s said.
Killian grits his teeth, feels his fingernails dig into his fisted hands as he picks up the pace and practically sprints down the last stretch of their beach. They pay him no mind, as people sickeningly in love who only have eyes for each other are wont to do, and he brushes aside the strange prickle of jealousy that shoots down his spine, the even more bizarre sense of longing deep in his gut that reminds him of the things he doesn’t have.
(Sometimes he remembers, and when he does, sometimes he is glad for the times he doesn’t.)
I prefer the ones in which you kill me.
It’s all teeth and tongue when she kisses him, rough and hungry, just on the edge of possessive. He’s not sure what brought this about, but he really can’t find it in him to care because she’s sucking his bottom lip into her mouth, pulling with her teeth, and the heat and desire that courses through his veins shoots straight to his loins, leaving him dizzy and unable to focus on anything but how he can get her clothes off as fast as humanly possible.
She doesn’t give him a chance to get to work though, shoving him back onto the mattress when his knees hit the edge of it, eyes steady on his and full of wicked intent as she slowly slips her leather jacket from her shoulders herself. Gods, he hadn’t even realized she’d been walking him back towards the bed this whole time.
He swallows thickly as he watches each carefully calculated movement she makes — the way her hands cross in front of her and grip the hem of her shirt, the way she pulls it up and off in a move as graceful as her namesake. He is mesmerized by the way her skin glows in the lamplight of his quarters as she bares herself to him, and he feels need coil tight in his belly at the sight of her shimmying out of her jeans, feels his control near to snapping when she climbs over him, straddling his hips and settling her weight on top of him in naught but her undergarments.
She is utterly captivating, from the freckles dotting her skin that make him wish to map each little constellation on her body with his tongue, to her kiss-swollen lips, to the pretty flush staining the tops of her breasts and her cheeks. The breath he exhales is one of pure anticipation, eyes fixed on that secret smile she wears as she starts working at the buttons of his shirt.
A heavy sigh slips between her lips, her head tilting in quiet consideration while she gently rolls her hips against his. “I’ve been neglecting you.”
He groans at the movement but shakes his head, eyes drifting down to where she’s raking her fingernails up and back down his chest, sending his body into a frenzy. Gods, but he wants her.
“Nonsense, you’ve just been a little busy,” he says, fighting for control as she seems determined to set their pace. “What with a new villain and all.”
She hums in the back of her throat, another smile just for him gracing her lips, and he sees her expression soften. She leans forward then, kisses him with a patience and thoroughness that sends his pulse through the roof and he fears for one brief moment that his heart will simply beat straight out of his chest.
“I’ve missed you,” she tells him, voice smokey and low when she pulls away, touching her forehead to his and nudging at his nose with hers. “Have you missed me?”
She rolls her hips as if to solidify her point and he gasps when she presses deliciously over where he needs her most.
“Of course, but-”
She silences him with another grind of her hips, the soft push of her hands against his chest. “Then let me take care of you.”
He doesn’t make it a habit of refusing her, and he sure as hell isn’t about to start now. She lowers with him, lace-covered breasts brushing against his torso, her lips finding that spot below his ear that chokes him up and makes his eyes flutter close. His hand tangles in her hair, combing through the silken strands as he gives himself over to her. She takes her teeth to his collarbone, scraping a sharp line before laving it with her tongue and sucking a bruise into his skin. He’s breathing hard, focused solely on the sensation of her mouth moving lower as she begins to shift, begins trailing a path of open-mouthed kisses across his torso, over his heart, then lower down the line of his sternum.
She nips at his ribs and he jumps with a swear, eliciting a giggle from her while she continues southward, her fingers deftly unbuttoning his jeans before sliding the zipper open. He lifts his hips at her silent request, amazed that he even has enough sense to what with the haze of lust clouding his brain. She takes the denim down just enough so she can dip her hand into the front of his briefs and grasp him in her palm.
He hisses through his teeth, head pressing back against the pillow, eyes rolling back into his head. Fuck. Fucking hell.
She strokes his aching flesh — up and down, over and over — until he’s writhing restlessly beneath her. She is a tease and he’s far gone enough that he’s not above begging if it will make her get on with it already. He doesn’t have to, though, and she must sense his torment because her lips suddenly close around the tip of him, effectively destroying every thought that isn’t focused on the wet heat of her mouth.
“Fuck,” he pants. “Emma.”
She slides down over him, uses her teeth, lightly scraping as she goes so he’s groaning and trembling and unable to control the way he’s lightly thrusting against her. She moves back up, agonizingly slow, with just the slightest bit of suction, up, up, up until her tongue can swirl a wicked circuit around the head.
He lifts up from the pillow, staring down at her, and given the way her eyes sparkle and dance back at him, he thinks he must look rough, wrecked. He certainly feels it. She releases him with a loud pop and continues to stroke him with her hand.
“Yes?” she wonders, voice deceptively innocent. Her smile betrays her with its smugness, as do her eyes — alight with amusement and power — and he swears she will be the very death of him.
He supposes there are worse ways to die.
But when all’s said and done, I’d rather surrender to you in other ways.
He stares at the old markings he’d carved from his spot behind the helm, scratched out from hurt and anger, worn and faded with centuries passed — a P for ‘port’ and S for ‘starboard,’ flanking a frontward facing arrow. He thinks of the boy it had been meant to guide all those lifetimes ago and he thinks of the choices he regrets, the voices and memories of the past echoing in his head.
I could change, Bae, for you.
You say that, but I know you’ll never change, because all you care about is yourself.
He thinks of the woman with the fiery green eyes, thinks of the enigma that is Emma Swan — her darkness and her light, her softness and her strength, her stubbornness and compassion.
So, you can join us and be a part of something, or you can do what you do best, and be alone.
His eyes are unwavering on the magical bean in his palm, brows pinched together as he studies its translucent casing and the iridescent flecks glimmering from within — such a heavy object for something so small, such a tiny object for something so powerful.
He sighs, a heavy expel of breath through his nose, and grits his teeth as he turns the wheel of the ship. Bloody buggering hell.
———
“I thought you didn’t care about anyone but yourself?”
He reaches for the leather pouch tucked into his belt, unfazed by the questioning quirk of her brow. He shoots one last look at the item in his hand before gently placing it back in her possession.
“Maybe I just needed reminding that I could.”
Even though each time, I know I’ll see you again, I always wonder: is this the last time? Is that really you?
He tells her about the constellations, about Ursa Major and Orion and Cygnus, holds her close with her little head against his shoulder. She doesn’t coo back, he’s not quite sure she’s old enough, but her big blue eyes stare at him with rapt attention as she listens to the quiet murmuring of his voice and he thinks that’s just as good. He tells her about the stars that shine the brightest against the inky backdrop of the sky: Polaris, Deneb…her uncle, Liam.
There’s an ache in his chest that he smiles against as he tells her how her uncle would have loved her, how he’s always watching over her like her very own guardian angel. He chuckles affectionately when she yawns in response, her tiny body tensing and shifting against him, her little fists shaking in protest with the force of her stretch. He soothes her with the brush of his lips to her brow, swaying lightly as she quiets down and sleep begins to overcome her.
He tells her another story, one about beanstalks and ogres and handsome pirates with a code, and a lost Princess meant to bring back the Happy Endings.
The rustle in the doorway has him angling towards the noise, smiling shyly when he spots a green-eyed siren with sleep-rumpled blonde hair watching them from the entrance. There’s an incredibly soft look on her face, one that fills his already brimming heart near to bursting as he tilts his head and rests his cheek against their daughter’s head.
“We’re just having a bit of a Waltz,” he tells her. “Exchanging a few tales.”
“So I see,” she replies.
She smiles at him then, a gentle curving of lips full of secrets, and he sees the echo of it in her eyes — a ball in another time, a Waltz in another place. She’d been beautiful in a dress of red.
His eyes flicker down to the red flannel pajama top she wears (the match to his pants) and he thinks that she’s still beautiful.
He gives her an inviting look when he lifts his gaze, just a questioning raise of his eyebrow, and she pushes off the threshold, crossing the room to join them. Her arm slips easily around his waist the same moment he curls his around her shoulders and draws her in. She rests her own cheek against his vacant shoulder, placing a hand on Eva’s back to close the circle and link the three of them.
Killian presses a soft kiss to her forehead and he feels her tense, feels her hold on them tighten just a bit more. She’s in a pensive mood, his love. He can feel it in the set of her body, the way the fingers at his back cling to the material of his cotton shirt and how she turns her face to bury it in his neck. She is hanging on to them — to this moment — with everything she has.
“I love you,” she whispers against his skin.
There’s a fierceness to her voice that has him shifting her closer still. He understands the sentiment without her having to say it, how she wants this moment for always, how she fears for the next lifetime, how tired she is of losing him (and the life they could have) without the guarantee of finding him.
“We’ve time yet,” he says quietly, meaning to reassure her.
“I know,” she replies, but the sigh escapes anyway.
“I love you, Emma.” He means it now — in this lifetime — with every fiber of his being, but he means it in all the others as well.
“I know,” she says again. “I know.”
And what if you’re already perfectly happy without me?
She storms towards him like a bloody hurricane, golden hair a wild mane billowing behind her, the brisk click of her boots against the wood of the docks harsh in the quiet of the dawn. It’s a wonder the path she forges as she moves remains intact; in another time, another realm perhaps, it wouldn’t have surprised him to see her leaving actual destruction in her wake, magic sparking from the tips of her fingers revealing the severity of her temper.
Her eyes are hard, full of barely restrained anger and frustration, and her frown tugs down the corners of her mouth. It pains him to see that look aimed at him, he prefers the softness of her gaze, the even softer curve of her smile, but it seems he will get neither of those things — at least not in this lifetime.
(Resentment rises up from the pit of his stomach, lodging an ache just below his breastbone. He endeavors to ignore it, he fails miserably.)
In truth, he hadn’t expected to see her, had resigned himself to the fact that it simply wasn’t in the cards again, and after having spent the last decade of his life moving from place to place — New York, Boston, Tallahassee — always searching, remaining quietly optimistic despite numbing his endless disappointment in booze, he’d decided it was time to settle down. Choosing to relocate to the little seaside town in Maine was more out of pure nostalgia than anything else, but he should have figured that Fate would have other plans.
Heartbreaking, tormenting, wretchedly unfair plans.
It happened purely by-chance, a glance in the diner on Main Street one morning, a look that simultaneously tilted his world back on its axis then abruptly shattered it. He’d seen the stark recognition light up the depthless pools of her eyes, had felt it mirrored in his stunned heart- and then he’d seen the boys flanking her in the entryway — hazel-eyed, dark-haired, rounded chins — and he’d seen the ring sitting prettily on a finger where there should have been none as she’d held on to the shoulder of the younger lad.
He had to turn away to compose himself, but there was no way to control the racing of his heart or the trembling of his hands at the first sound of her voice ordering three usuals, please — hot chocolate with cinnamon. He’d slipped out the back without so much as a backward glance, his chest tight and stomach rolling, threatening to make him violently ill right there in the back alley. He’d braced against the wall, trying to catch his breath, only just resisting rearing back and slamming his fist into the brick.
Since then, he wondered how long it would take for one of them to break.
(He’d seen the boys at her side — hazel-eyed, dark-haired, rounded chins — and the ring on her finger that tied her to another, and he didn’t have the courage in him to seek her out first.)
He opens his mouth to speak when she’s but a few feet away, not entirely certain what to say. A casual greeting seems too trivial, all things considering, but a proper one — his lips on hers, his hands tangled in her hair, his hard lines pressed against her soft curves — would be inappropriate.
Before he can get a word out though, she’s shoving him roughly back with both of her hands. “No,” she snaps, pushing him again for good measure. “No.”
The sharpness in her tone near breaks him in two because beneath it, he can clearly hear t