#captainswans

Elsa’s sigh is soft, but her breath fans oh so warm and inviting across Emma’s face, and Emma leans in again. She closes her eyes when she places another kiss on Elsa’s chin, not because she doesn’t want to see the rest of the way Elsa’s blush deepens at the touch, her pale skin donning colors that Emma thinks she actually prefers to the blue - the reds so full of life and laughter.

Elsa laughs as Emma kisses her.

She closes her eyes for this: for the moment when she pulls back and can open them again to the reality of Elsa’s lips inches from hers - a span of inches, centimeters, and then Elsa’s nose is nuding hers, her lips searching, asking permission in that polite way of hers that Emma is so fond of easing her out of when they’re in better circumstances than this.

She isn’t going to steal Elsa away from her sister’s wedding for that; for this, however? For simple kisses?

Emma’s never been happier with simplicity; and she doesn’t feel anything like a thief here, the touch of Elsa’s lips so freely offered.

She isn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth and, maybe even months ago, Emma would’ve said that you need to take the good when you get it because it isn’t going to last, it never does, but she doesn’t want to just take this; Emma wants to give.

So she does so, gives her permission by pressing forward, sliding her hand around Elsa’s waist and drawing their thighs together. Layers of delicately embroidered fabric separate their skin, but not their lips, and once Emma starts moving her mouth against Elsa’s, there’s a snowball’s chance in hell of anything doing so, fabric or otherwise (the voices carrying from the ballroom, the sounds of doors creaking open and slamming closed, laughter just a few feet away, behind the pillar separating them from the world).

Elsa tastes like peaches until her lipstick - there don’t seem to be enchantments here for everlasting lipstick - smears away with Emma’s eager attentions, and

She weaves her hand up Elsa’s side, desperate to touch and then her hand reaches Elsa’s shoulder, curves up her back to tangle in her hair. She wore it down at Anna’s request, and Emma blesses Anna from the high heavens for this, for the chance to run her fingers through it and over Elsa’s scalp and draw a soft moan from Elsa, starting in her throat and ending against Emma’s lips.

“Oh,” Elsa says, sharp and surprised.

Emma blinks and there’s the blush again, even deeper than before, and the sun has set behind them so it’s the moonlight turning Elsa’s eyes to wide blue stars.

“I have to -” Emma starts and finishes with her mouth on Elsa’s again, has to kiss her because she’s so beautiful and it’s the simplest way Emma knows to tell her, to push her up against the pillar and give her a place to rest that isn’t just in Emma’s arms - although Emma’s heart beats fast with the knowledge that there would be no better place to rest than in that cradle.

She snorts against Elsa’s mouth at the thought, tells herself that it’s silly to think ‘I work out’ when she’s admitting to herself that she kind of would love to hold Elsa like this for as long as possible.

“Emma,” Elsa says at that, sounding offended - but more so, sounding curious. “Why did you laugh?”

“Because I work out,” Emma says.

Elsa’s confusion deepens. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“This makes sense,” Emma says, drawing back just a little further.

Elsa nods at this, her eyes crinkling and her lips upturning in a gentle smile.

“It does,” she agrees.

They hover there for a moment, a breeze rolling by in the space between them, sound rolling with it - a wave of laughter goes up, cries of joy -

Elsa leans back in, mouth near inches from Emma’s when she says, “It does.”

Emma trudges to the room at the northwest corner of the building, furthest down the hall on the first floor, thanks very much lady in the main office. She knocks on the door covered in colorful finger paintings with spindly children’s signatures on the corner and shoves her hands deep into her pockets, blowing out a deep breath. 

The muffled talking from inside stops and the door swings open to reveal a gorgeous, smiling brunette with doe eyes. Emma’s gaze immediately snaps down to the scarf wrapped delicately around her neck and swallows. 

This is where the rest of the steps go to shit.

“Emma!” Belle exclaims, a pretty red flush coloring her cheeks. Without missing a beat, she turns on her heel and addresses the staring class of kindergarteners. “Why don’t you all keep working on your macaroni projects while I talk to Miss Swan here?”

“Yes, Ms. French,” comes the chant from the kids as they all busy themselves with glue and uncooked pasta.

“Over here,” Belle says to Emma, nodding to the corner of the room. “He wouldn’t go to the nurse’s office. He said he just wanted to sleep in the pillow area.”

Emma tries very, very hard to focus on what Belle is saying, but it’s hard when she can pinpoint exactly how far down her chest that flush goes, and how Belle’s walk calls to mind the way the hem of her dress pulled up her leg last night at the bar and--

“Hey,” Emma says, plopping down next to the woman. “Would you mind if I bought you a drink?”

The brunette eyes her for a moment, gaze dragging up and down the shirt-and-skirt combination chosen for the evening. “Normally I wouldn’t mind, but I’m actually not drinking tonight. I’m working with kids in the morning.”

“Teacher?”

“Yeah, and the kids can always tell when something’s off. They all have a weird superhuman senses about that kind of thing.”

“Well, if you’re not drinking, I shouldn’t be either.” Emma finishes her whiskey and sets the empty glass onto the bar with an air of formality.

“And why is that?”

“Well, I wouldn’t want you to think that you’re taking advantage of me later when I’m hopefully going to be kissing you.”

Emma shakes her head as they reach Henry, curled up in a little ball on top of a heap of pillows, eyes closed even as he reaches out at the sound of footsteps.

“Hey kid,” Emma breathes, bending down and taking his hand in one of hers, using the other to feel his forehead. “How are you feeling?”

“No good,” Henry moans. He definitely has a fever.

“Thank you for taking care of him,” Emma turns to Belle from where she’s crouching. Her eyes are drawn to the scarf again, where she knows for certain there are several colorful hickeys blossoming. She can feel a blush rising to her own face.

“Mom? Can I go home?”

“Yeah, kiddo, we can go home.” They stand, Henry’s hand never leaving hers. Belle smiles softly, ruffling Henry’s hair with delicate fingers.

“You make sure you get lots of rest. I want to see you back here as soon as you’re feeling better!”

“Yes Ms. French,” Henry says automatically, blinking up at her. 

“And you,” Belle grins at Emma, “why don’t you bring me your number along with Henry, when he comes back?”