#now i only want to write fic where killian is not a morning person #and is all sleepy and grumbly #with crazy bed head #and just trying to snuggle #and grumbling about it YES PLEASE GIMME I HAVE A MIGHTY NEED BK I WILL LOVE YOU FOREVER IF YOU DO IT
It’s early – the sky still grey through the slant of her curtains – the sun and the moon sharing the sky as the stars dim and feeble golden rays break over the horizon. She can only just make out his chaotic sweep of black hair in her dark bedroom, blankets wrapped high over his shoulders, his eyebrows furrowing with a frown as he reaches out between them, sighing with a huff through his nose when his arm curls around her waist.
These are the moments – when her stomach flips and her fingers trace the line of his arm, up to his shoulder and over his back as he shifts and sighs – these are the moments when she thinks she might –
- when she thinks she might love him.
(She knows it – knew it the second he kissed her soft and slow in her pretty pink dress, mending her back together with his fingers in her hair and his heart in her hands.)
She turns on her side and thumbs at his jaw, curling her hand around his neck and scratching there lightly. He frowns and burrows further against her, his nose pressed against her collarbone and his leg tucked between her own.
“S’early.” He mumbles, accent thick and gruff pressed against the hollow of her throat. “Sleep.”
His hand reaches blindly behind her to pull the blankets higher, wrapping them in a cocoon of warmth and darkness, a precious bubble of body heat as he relaxes again. His hand slips beneath her faded t-shirt to rest against her sleep-warm skin and she shivers, ghosting her lips against his and grinning when he lazily chases after her – uncoordinated and sloppy because a morning person he most certainly is not – and it is in these quiet, soft moments that she wonders how this man was ever captain of a ship.
(But when she thinks of his ship, a sharp pang of something presses against her chest, making it hard to breathe because he loves her – he gave up his home for her.)
“No, no, no.” He drags her closer against him, grumbling near incoherently under his breath until his face is buried in a mess of blonde curls and he sighs happily. “Thinking s’not sleeping.”
She softens, the tension releasing from her shoulders, watching as a satisfied smile brushes his lips.
And it’s no longer a thought, no longer a hesitant whisper at the back of her mind. She knows it, can feel it with every drag of his heavy rings against her skin, with every puff of breath against her shoulder.
“I love you.” She whispers.
Both eyes crack open, bleary and unfocused, the startling blue muted beneath the cover of her down comforter. He blinks once – twice – and her heart does its very best to beat right out of her chest, her throat tight as she waits for his response. He stares at her in silent consideration and then lets his eyes slip closed again, a hum caught in the back of his throat.
“Tell me again at a bloody decent hour,” He gathers her close, lips brushing over her own in a slightly (just barely) more coordinated maneuver of seduction and grace. “When I can woo you with my words and flirtatious banter.”
She snorts into his shoulder, shifting until her back is pressed against his chest, his arm curled tight between her breasts, clasped fingers resting over her heart. She’s sure he can feel the stutter when he nudges lightly against the back of her head, his voice a half-asleep whisper.
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