We understand each other.

Emma can’t quite remember how it started or why it happened, just that it did and she wants to win. Desperately. To prove something. Probably.

Or just to beat Killian. Either or. It doesn’t matter.

She’s picked her teams and her upsets and she’s got a string of trash talk ready for any potential on-court situation. They’re not playing the game, but they’re playing a game and this one might change everything.

Or: The March Madness AU about questionably competitive friends and very strong college basketball opinions.

Rating: Teen’ish. There is kissing.  Word Count: 8K. Adjectives. Adverbs. AN: As promised there are more basketball-type words here for @laurnorder​ because I adore her and really care about basketball a lot and have a lot of opinions about Coach K. Apologies in advance to literally anyone who roots for Duke, Syracuse or Villanova. As always @distant-rose​ & @katie-dub​ are the best and very good at saying write more words and I also adore them. 

Living it up on Ao3 if that’s how you roll. 

The Second Round, Saturday, Day One

 Emma shows up late to Mary Margaret and David’s apartment with half-wet hair and Killian smiles as soon as his eyes land on hers.

David opens his mouth to say something.

Mary Margaret kicks his ankles.

He doesn’t say anything.

Emma sits next to Killian all day.

I’m just incredibly bitter about basically any team that is not the Rangers at all times. Because, like, I love the Rangers, but I might hate other teams more. Well, no, that’s not true because look at those lil’ babes, but I do really dislike a lot of other teams and I’ve cursed Sidney Crosby rather loudly in public places more than once. 

It is my one, true purpose on this site to make people care about hockey and the New York Rangers. And just like…sports fic in general. Because I make no promises, but @laurnorder texted me the other day and was like “It’s March, you should write basketball fic” and now I keep thinking about basketball fic and, you know, maybe next week. I’ve got ideas. 

A/N: So, Colin is rather dusty and dirty in the What Still Remains trailer…and that spawned this fic. Something of a sequel to washed clean. Dedicated to the Enablers: @optomisticgirl​ @xpumpkindumplingx​ @kat2609​ @fergus80​ @thesschesthair​, your goats (and squid) are being well-tended ;P

rating: M | ~2k | AO3

Killian was dirty. Downright filthy, even.

Not in that way. Well, sometimes, but right now, it was the actual, dusty, covered-in-dirt way. A fine film of grit and sweat covered his entire upper body, making his normally tanned skin look even darker and getting caught in his chest hair. His fringe hung down over his forehead and his bright blue eyes sparkled even more against the dust on his skin. Even his pale legs were coated in dirt beneath the borrowed shorts that hung low on his hips.

Who knew that helping her dad build a shed involved so much dirt and so little clothing?

It should have been gross. She should have found it absolutely disgusting and not agreed to touch him until he’d taken a good, long shower. But instead, she wanted nothing more than to follow him in.

“Come on; let’s get you cleaned up,” she murmured, voice low, as she took him by the hand and led him upstairs. He quirked an eyebrow as he followed, a smirk forming on his lips, but the sag in his shoulders and stiff way he moved told her he was too worn out to protest.

In the bathroom, she dropped his hand to start the shower and let the water heat up as he undid the buckle and straps of his brace. She had to stifle a giggle at the lighter patches of skin where the dirt hadn’t been able to get under the leather—which made her wonder if the same applied to the waistband of the shorts.

He’d started to fiddle with the button but she grabbed his hand to stop him. “Let me.” She could feel the heat coming off his warm chest as she undid the fly—or was that just her own arousal? Did it matter? With his shorts hanging open, she tucked her thumbs under the waistband of his boxer briefs and slid both down, revealing the clean, pale skin of his hips and the last untouched bit of hair that trailed into thick thatch around his manhood.

Steam was starting to fill the room, and she wasn’t entirely convinced that it was the shower alone making it and not the constant fire between them; the hooded gaze staring at her under those thick lashes made her seriously wonder if it was the latter. She had to turn away or they wouldn’t even make it into the water.

As quick as she could, she stripped her clothes, too, and pulled back the curtain, releasing even more tendrils of steam. Then she grabbed a couple washcloths and his hand and pulled him in.

The instant the hot water hit Killian’s shoulders, he practically melted, releasing an almost indecent sigh as he slumped forward and the rivulets began to run through his sweat-matted hair and down his face. Where the water ran, dirt started to slide off his skin, streaking down the muscles of his arms and chest—but that alone wasn’t enough to clean him.

It’s the Olympics. The. Olympics. And Emma’s running out of post-it notes to write schedules and plans on and there are more games and more expectations and not enough time for any of it. She’s fine. Totally. Absolutely. If she could just sleep. Or stop feeling as if her knees are going to give out every time she stands up. Or get Ruby to stop staring at her like that. It’s fine. After all Killian Jones, captain of Team USA, keeps promising it will be.

He’s going to win. Again. At the Olympics. And Killian’s not nervous. Not about that. It’s hockey. He could play hockey in his sleep. Probably. He’s never tried that. But he probably could. And, sure, there are expectations and games and schedules and barely any time for what he wants to actually be doing, but winning a Gold medal isn’t bad. After all, Emma Swan, temporary New York Rangers Olympics team social media manager, keeps promising it will be.

They’re fine. They’re going to win. Together.

Rating: Mature. Swearing, hockey-type violence, lotsa making out. Word Count: 7.8K of straight-up flirting. AN: Heyoooooooo some stuff happens here. Ruby knows everything. David thinks he may know everything. And there’s a very specific Olympic reference in this chapter that I hope you all get. I can’t thank you guys for your continued response to this story and this whole world and this hockey team. I’m going to write some prompts this weekend. So send more ideas if you’ve got ‘em. It warms the cockles of my heart. Forever and ever singing the praises of @laurnorder​ & @distant-rose​ for making sure this existed.  Also on Ao3 and FF.net if that’s how you roll. 

Killian’s fingers laced through Emma’s with ease, slowing down so she didn’t trip over her own feet as he weaved his way through the crowd and towards a bit of inexplicable open space.

It was a medals stand.

He’d led them to the goddamn medals stand and there was, somehow, no security and, God, the Olympics were some kind of organizational joke.

She should make them post-it note schedules.

(There was a second proposal request from an anon, so hope you both enjoy!) 

-x- 

Of all the ways to find out the love of your life is headed to the hospital, the police scanner is Emma’s least favorite, and if Killian Jones is still alive when she gets to him, she’s going to kill him herself.

She doesn’t remember the drive. She’s positive she broke more laws than she can count, even if she is driving with the lights flashing in a cop car. Let someone try to call her out on this. Maybe it isn’t official police business, but it is an emergency.

David is already at the hospital when Emma comes racing through the doors. “Emma,” he says calmly as she all but runs into the emergency room, his hands settling firmly on her biceps to keep her from going any further. “Emma, it’s all right. He’s going to be fine.”

“Did the doctor say that?” She swallows hard, adrenaline and panic hitting an abrupt wall in the face of David’s assurances. It’s not like her brother to lie to her, but he already thinks of Killian as family. If he’s not upset, it’s probably fine. Maybe.

David nods, his grip on her arms loosening when it becomes clear she’s not going to bolt into the depths of the hospital searching for Killian. “A couple of broken bones, but he’ll make a full recovery.”

“What the hell happened?” Emma demands, her worry morphing into anger. “You were supposed to be there!”

Ugh, there is SO MUCH SNOW here too. But I still love snowed in. Hello, my tropey friend. 

I combined this with an anon request: “Prompt: My favorite trope! ‘Enemies’ who secretly love each other forced to come to terms with their feelings. Smooching fluff ensues. Bonus if their friends had a bet on when they’d finally get together”

It also got pretty long, so mostly under a cut. Sorrynotsorry. 

-x- 

“No.”

“Listen, darling, I’m not tickled by the idea either, but you’ve promised, and I’ve promised, so let’s just make the best of it, aye?”

“Just… you deal with upstairs. I’ll deal with down here. Then we get the hell out of here.” Emma gestures toward the staircase, her hands forming sharp shooing motions. “Let’s get this over with.”

“No need to get your knickers in a twist.” Killian frowns at her, scrubbing the back of his neck with his palm, brows knit in irritation. A muscle in his jaw twitches, and he looks like he wants to say something else, but instead he sighs, resigned. “Just shout if you need anything.”

Emma nods, turning her back on the world’s most irritating man and making her way into the kitchen, debating if she should plot her best friend’s murder first or Killian’s.

It’s a hard choice. She despises Killian, he of the stupid leather coats that slide over his shoulder like melting butter, and the stupidly messy hair that perpetually screams he’s been freshly fucked, and the jeans that cling to his ass… and the irritating arrogance and certainty he’s always right.

Yeah, he dies first.

But then there’s also Emma’s supposed best friend who got her into this mess.

Come to the lake house for a long weekend. It’ll be fun. Relaxing. We might even get some snow. David’s invited a friend so you can’t even say you’ll just be a third wheel.

Mary Margaret left out that the friend was none other than Killian Jones, perpetual pain in the ass. Not only that, but before even twenty four hours had gone by, all of a sudden David had some emergency back in Storybrooke that required them to leave immediately.

Immediately, as in he had his coat on before the burner on the stove was even off with one foot halfway out the door. Her friends are bad liars to start, but then Mary Margaret had smiled as she pulled on her own coat. “I’m so sorry, Emma, but I’m sure Killian won’t mind giving you a ride home. You guys are welcome to stay up here tonight.”

“I’ll come with you,” Emma replied instantly.

“I’ll give the lass a ride home after we clean up,” Killian said at the same time, and damn him, but in that moment, his usual obnoxious good humor made Emma feel like a terrible human being for wanting to leave him alone with the responsibility of cleaning up their afternoon’s mess and waiting alone for the fire David had insisted on building up to die out.

Her friends didn’t wait for her to agree before they left, and now here she is, stuck with Jones, alone, in the middle of nowhere, Maine. It’s not fair. The lake house is beautiful, the iced over water shimmering in the muted winter light, the cheerful scent of woodsmoke on the air. It should be relaxing.

Trying to get back into the swing of writing, so voila: 3500 words of mostly porn. It’s the post-4x02 canon divergent smut I’ve always wanted to write. I fiddled a little with canon to get Henry and Elsa out of the loft. Rated E.

Emma stirred into wakefulness and cracked an eye open. The heavy weight of several blankets pressed down on her, but she still felt a bone-deep chill that all the heat and blankets and cuddling from Killian hadn’t been able to touch.

“What’s this?” she heard Killian ask, and she turned her head and focused on him. He was frowning with confusion at a pile of clothes that Mary Margaret was holding out to him.

“Pajamas,” Mary Margaret said like it was perfectly self-explanatory that Emma’s mother would be handing him clothes to sleep in. When he continued to look confused, she huffed. “I’d rather there be someone to keep a close eye on Emma tonight, and I assume you wouldn’t be opposed? You can sleep in Henry’s bed.”

“Where is Henry going to sleep?” Emma asked, her voice coming out in a croak. “He can’t go to Regina’s – she won’t let anyone in the house right now, not even Henry.”

“Actually, he finally was able to speak to her on the phone a few minutes ago, and she wants him to stay over tonight. David’s taken him over there now, and then he’s going to get Elsa a room to rent at Granny’s.”

Emma struggled to sit up, one of the quilts falling to the floor. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” A lot of decisions seem to have been made while she was sleeping, and she was a little annoyed by it. Killian rushed over, prepared to bundle her up again, but she waved him away.

A short CS AU three-parter based on a prompt by @shady-swan-jones. A mutual pining, roommates kind of prompt. And who am I to deny?

also on ff.net

“So… Belle seems nice?”

It was Friday night, and the first time she’d been alone in the apartment with him for what felt like months. She’d already faked a migraine when Ruby had tried to drag her out to the clubs, but if she’d known that meant spending the evening as the guinea pig for Killian’s ill-advised culinary adventures, she might’ve acted differently.

Not that she didn’t like Killian, or anything. In fact, that was kind of the problem.

“What?” he asked absently, looking up from the saucepan of simmering bolognese sauce. “Oh, Belle. Aye, she’s a lovely lass.”

Okay, so not exactly the gushing of a man in the throes of the honeymoon stage, but Killian had always played things close to the vest. He seemed immune from her scrutiny, however, as he reached across for more oregano. Emma resisted the urge to bat the container from his hands. He was going to screw up the sauce. Again.

you guys are the best, thanks for being so enthusiastic about this little story. it all wraps up here, and I hope you guys enjoy! @high-seas-swan deserves all the love and praise for actually getting me off my butt to finish this, and finish it well.

for those of you who don’t know:  au where high school lit teacher killian jones ends up on the hotdudesreading instagram page and is very, very confused by it all.

part one | ao3 | ffn

Perhaps he should have anticipated at least some of it but he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to people walking up to him in the middle of the street and saying, “I drove here from Boston because I saw you and this town on Instagram oh my God can I get a photo with you please?” All as if it’s one sentence, too.

It doesn’t happen too often, but it happens enough. Because apparently his face is attracting tourists and the town’s business has never been so good. Or so Mayor Mills tells him, in her perpetually unimpressed tone of voice, pursed lips and all.

He’s fallen down some wormhole, or walked through a portal, or is surely dreaming of something Twilight Zone inspired because this is not a life he’d ever thought he’d be even remotely close to having.

A/N: Heyyyy… it’s been awhile. So, here’s a quick recap: In our last chapter, Emma was settling in to life at the Jewel of the Range ranch. She and Killian have developed a rapport and routine, but the simmering attraction to her new boss was getting a little too much to handle. He took her into town for a night out, and as much as she tried to find someone else to help her ‘scratch the itch’ we all knew whose bed, er, couch she’d end up on at the end of the night. But that was just a one-time thing, right?

Spoiler alert: SMUTTY SMUT ahead. I’m not sure when an M rating turns into an E, but this might be pushing it.  Saddle up.

~13K words

Catch up (or refresh your memory) on Tumblr [Ch1] [Ch 2]  or AO3

A short CS AU three-parter based on a prompt by @shady-swan-jones. A mutual pining, roommates kind of prompt. And who am I to deny?

also on ff.net

There was a girl in Emma Swan’s kitchen.

No, scratch that: there was a very polite Australian girl in Emma Swan’s kitchen. Holding out a plate of pancakes and looking eerily at home standing there by the stove, even though she seemed to be wearing nothing more than an oversized T-shirt.

Oversized.

She must have been one of Killian’s.

Emma accepted the plate with a mumbled thanks, and went over and sat at the counter where she could keep the girl in her line of sight. The girl who was now humming under her breath as she stirred up some more pancake batter, not a care in the world.

The story came out in between Games Three and Four – slammed onto Emma’s desk at some indeterminate time in the middle of the afternoon and she barely lifted her head to meet Ruby’s expectant gaze. 

Even when she clicked her tongue impatiently. 

“What?” Emma sighed, drawing the word out until it sounded like twenty and she didn’t have time for headlines. They were winning, after all. They’d taken a 2-1 series lead and the offense was rolling or something like the complete opposite of that because you couldn’t really roll on skates, but the sentiment was the same, and the entire city of Los Angeles could just…fall off the Earth. 

Or whatever. 

She didn’t have time for metaphors and Mr. and Mrs. Vankald were far too busy making emotional declarations in the back corner of the restaurant to be questioned about clichés. 

They were winning. It was going to be fine. The headlines could also…fall off the Earth. God, whatever. 

“Em,” Ruby snapped and it did not sound like the first time she’d tried to get her attention. “Seriously, just look at this.”

Emma rolled her eyes – and her entire head, hair threatening to drape across her face – but Ruby wasn’t deterred, just flashed the kind of smile that got her to agree to New York in the first place and oh…oh well, shit. Emma might have said that out loud. 

Ruby beamed. “Told you,” she said. 

“How did you do this?” Emma asked, shaking her head and dragging the magazine towards her. “And why are you getting SI delivered? Shouldn’t that just be like…a perk?”

“You’re going to question that now? I think we should be concerned with other perks of my association with Sports Illustrated.”

“Is this legal?”

“I mean, obviously. And good. And, also, don’t read it now because you’ll yell about your schedule and falling behind it, but Dor got that guy to talk to like…everyone. Locksley and Scarlet and even a couple of sentences from Cap last night and I don’t think he even realized because he was so busy trying to get out of the restaurant and make out with your face.”

“Make out with my face,” Emma repeated slowly. Ruby shrugged. 

“He did, right?” Emma held her hands up in surrender, shaking her head again and licking her lips and that only made Ruby laughed and several different phones rang. “You don’t actually have to answer that. Just, you know…it’s time we fought back don’t you think? A lil’ fire with fire?”

“That’ll probably melt the ice.”

“Exactly.”

Emma rolled her eyes again, but this was good and she’d probably like…keep that cover forever or something stupidly sentimental. Maybe she should buy Mrs. Vankald a frame. Mrs. Vankald probably already had a frame. 

“Figured you’d want the heads up before you got caught staring at newsstands on the street or something,” Ruby grinned, tapping on the magazine cover again and leaving Emma’s office as quickly as she came. 

And it took all of five seconds for Emma to grab one of her ringing phones, hit ignore and type out a text message as quickly as she possibly could. He’d get it when they finished skating.