once upon a time - emma/sheriff fanfic
title: you learn of love from the love they kept.
author: wickedandcruel
category: romance
rating: pg-13
character/paring: emma/sheriff
summary: She’s quite sure she’s incapable of love.
ff.net or -
His hands find the hem of her shirt and tugs, releasing the material from the inside of her pants, his hands sneaking under it and his fingertips sinking against her sides; she shivers, doesn’t even pretend the goosebumps on her skin are a result of the cold outside.
She catches her breath when he releases her lips, but she doesn’t let a second more pass before she’s kissing him again, his hands splayed against her back, her arms around his neck. There’s something rebellious about this, making out in the front of his police car, the youth she lost too young, an adolescence she didn’t get to enjoy; she had always been far too unhappy for that, too scarred, too angry.
Emma pulls his tie loose and lets her hand hold on to it for a while. There’s something between them, something that has been happening since that first day she watched him come down the stairs, worry in his eyes and relief in his voice; he cared about Henry, even when she couldn’t, even when she hadn’t. And it’s still happening now, in the overheated inside of an old police car, in the coldest night she has yet experienced in Storybrooke, in a deserted street surrounded by trees and sounds and things she doesn’t want to think about; the smell of leather and cologne and air freshener and something inside of her cracks.
Something wonderful and strange crackles and sizzles and she forces herself not to believe it could be love. She’s quite sure she’s incapable of love; of loving, of being loved. Years in the streets and in foster homes that saw her as anything but just a kid taught her enough, hardened her enough.
Her breath comes out in hard puffs, lips swollen. She rests a hand against his chest, above his heart; the beat beneath her flattened palm is frenzied, and his face is crimson laced. She wonders if he’s a mirror image of her, if she looks as dumbstruck as he does.
They stare at each other, still and silent, caught in a half embrace as if every forbidden second is forming a chain around them. Emma wants to laugh, a spiteful, mirthless sound, wants to cry and scream and turn around, turn back time to before Henry showed up, before any spark of hope even existed in her head because that’s what she knows how to deal with, the pain and loneliness is familiar, safe. This… this is new pure and she has no idea what this is exactly, only that it scares the shit out of her.
And then… she just wants to stay here, to revel in these feelings, to let his hands roam and explore, to let his lips touch her skin. Her hand curls in a tight fist around the material of his shirt and she pulls him to her, leaning for another kiss.
He’s hungry, needy, and she easily allow his tongue access, the kiss more urgent than languid and her hands fumble desperately with the buttons of his shirt while his hands grab her hips and pull her to him. This is how it usually is: he pulls, she pushes, and they both stay rooted to the ground. This time though, this time she’s giving in, she’s throwing caution and reason out of the window and letting her heart control the situation.
There has always been a physical attraction to him, the way he struts around town half proud half humble, the way his eyes squints when he smiles at her, the way his jokes are always so off the mark and she has to smile and roll her eyes at the same time because he’s still so charming. The way he touched her at first, gentle and tentative, as if asking for permission, as if asking if it was okay to touch her like this, inappropriate but oh so very appropriate.
She moves on his lap trying to find a better position because she’s finding out that straddling someone’s lap on the front seat of a car isn’t really effective and can be found very challenging. And he groans, a guttural, husky sound, and she fight the urge to laugh, muttering a “sorry, but I just can’t move in here,” and the blast of wailing sirens suddenly start ringing in their ears. Emma watches as his eyes widen in horror and this time the laugh comes forth in merry peals as she fumbles around her to turn the sound off.
She moves back to her seat, buttoning up her shirt and trying to look presentable if any concerned citizen comes to check if everything’s okay. And is surprised by the sound coming from Graham, the ever law abiding, good Samaritan Sheriff Graham: he laughs, joining in her and they laugh together for a while because it’s the only thing they can do in this ridiculous situation.
When nobody shows up they just sit there for a while, a comfortable silence stretching between them as they let sink in what just happened. What would have happened. What they both want to happen.
Then he sighs, turns on the engine and looks at her. There’s a smile tugging at his lips, and a soft hue of pink on his cheeks and she’s sure he’s pretty content with himself right now. She is aware of every shift of his weight, the subtle movement of bone and muscle, the trolled breathing; something tugs at her, flutters inside her chest and for a moment she’s horrified of what it could mean. The lust is vivid and raw and it leaves her nerves pleasure-stung, but there’s something else underneath it all, something tangible, real, something she isn’t ready for yet. She looks away from him, outside the window, where the fog gives an eerie look to the already dead trees and darkened sky.
This town can be ugly and dark sometimes, as if there’s a black hand chasing the townsfolk, grabbing their ankle, chaining them to this place and never letting go. Then there are the glimpses of hope, the light in all the darkness; Henry’s smile when he sees she hasn’t taken off, Mary’s unusual cheerful chipper in the mornings, the rounds with Graham when they drive around town talking about nothing and everything and there are laughs and touches. There’s goodness here, something worth pursuing, and that’s the scariest realization of all.
“Back to Mary’s?”
He takes her out of her reverie, and she turns at him, away from the window and the wolf she’s sure crossed somewhere in between the trees. “Mister,” she starts with that authoritative tone she often uses with, well everyone, and stares at him until he finally looks back, “if you don’t finish what you started there will be consequences.”
He’s startled for a moment, clearly not expecting her to be so straight forward, then regains his thought process and she’s sure she sees his lips tug very gently at the sides. “My place?” he almost whispers, a soft and unsure tone that she only finds adorable, and winces inwardly at it; when did she start having such a ridiculous response to him?
She doesn’t say anything, nods instead.
Whatever it is that is happening between them is real enough that she finds it extraordinary; something worth pursuing.
Something else worth staying in Storybrooke for.
reviews are ♥
author: wickedandcruel
category: romance
rating: pg-13
character/paring: emma/sheriff
summary: She’s quite sure she’s incapable of love.
ff.net or -
His hands find the hem of her shirt and tugs, releasing the material from the inside of her pants, his hands sneaking under it and his fingertips sinking against her sides; she shivers, doesn’t even pretend the goosebumps on her skin are a result of the cold outside.
She catches her breath when he releases her lips, but she doesn’t let a second more pass before she’s kissing him again, his hands splayed against her back, her arms around his neck. There’s something rebellious about this, making out in the front of his police car, the youth she lost too young, an adolescence she didn’t get to enjoy; she had always been far too unhappy for that, too scarred, too angry.
Emma pulls his tie loose and lets her hand hold on to it for a while. There’s something between them, something that has been happening since that first day she watched him come down the stairs, worry in his eyes and relief in his voice; he cared about Henry, even when she couldn’t, even when she hadn’t. And it’s still happening now, in the overheated inside of an old police car, in the coldest night she has yet experienced in Storybrooke, in a deserted street surrounded by trees and sounds and things she doesn’t want to think about; the smell of leather and cologne and air freshener and something inside of her cracks.
Something wonderful and strange crackles and sizzles and she forces herself not to believe it could be love. She’s quite sure she’s incapable of love; of loving, of being loved. Years in the streets and in foster homes that saw her as anything but just a kid taught her enough, hardened her enough.
Her breath comes out in hard puffs, lips swollen. She rests a hand against his chest, above his heart; the beat beneath her flattened palm is frenzied, and his face is crimson laced. She wonders if he’s a mirror image of her, if she looks as dumbstruck as he does.
They stare at each other, still and silent, caught in a half embrace as if every forbidden second is forming a chain around them. Emma wants to laugh, a spiteful, mirthless sound, wants to cry and scream and turn around, turn back time to before Henry showed up, before any spark of hope even existed in her head because that’s what she knows how to deal with, the pain and loneliness is familiar, safe. This… this is new pure and she has no idea what this is exactly, only that it scares the shit out of her.
And then… she just wants to stay here, to revel in these feelings, to let his hands roam and explore, to let his lips touch her skin. Her hand curls in a tight fist around the material of his shirt and she pulls him to her, leaning for another kiss.
He’s hungry, needy, and she easily allow his tongue access, the kiss more urgent than languid and her hands fumble desperately with the buttons of his shirt while his hands grab her hips and pull her to him. This is how it usually is: he pulls, she pushes, and they both stay rooted to the ground. This time though, this time she’s giving in, she’s throwing caution and reason out of the window and letting her heart control the situation.
There has always been a physical attraction to him, the way he struts around town half proud half humble, the way his eyes squints when he smiles at her, the way his jokes are always so off the mark and she has to smile and roll her eyes at the same time because he’s still so charming. The way he touched her at first, gentle and tentative, as if asking for permission, as if asking if it was okay to touch her like this, inappropriate but oh so very appropriate.
She moves on his lap trying to find a better position because she’s finding out that straddling someone’s lap on the front seat of a car isn’t really effective and can be found very challenging. And he groans, a guttural, husky sound, and she fight the urge to laugh, muttering a “sorry, but I just can’t move in here,” and the blast of wailing sirens suddenly start ringing in their ears. Emma watches as his eyes widen in horror and this time the laugh comes forth in merry peals as she fumbles around her to turn the sound off.
She moves back to her seat, buttoning up her shirt and trying to look presentable if any concerned citizen comes to check if everything’s okay. And is surprised by the sound coming from Graham, the ever law abiding, good Samaritan Sheriff Graham: he laughs, joining in her and they laugh together for a while because it’s the only thing they can do in this ridiculous situation.
When nobody shows up they just sit there for a while, a comfortable silence stretching between them as they let sink in what just happened. What would have happened. What they both want to happen.
Then he sighs, turns on the engine and looks at her. There’s a smile tugging at his lips, and a soft hue of pink on his cheeks and she’s sure he’s pretty content with himself right now. She is aware of every shift of his weight, the subtle movement of bone and muscle, the trolled breathing; something tugs at her, flutters inside her chest and for a moment she’s horrified of what it could mean. The lust is vivid and raw and it leaves her nerves pleasure-stung, but there’s something else underneath it all, something tangible, real, something she isn’t ready for yet. She looks away from him, outside the window, where the fog gives an eerie look to the already dead trees and darkened sky.
This town can be ugly and dark sometimes, as if there’s a black hand chasing the townsfolk, grabbing their ankle, chaining them to this place and never letting go. Then there are the glimpses of hope, the light in all the darkness; Henry’s smile when he sees she hasn’t taken off, Mary’s unusual cheerful chipper in the mornings, the rounds with Graham when they drive around town talking about nothing and everything and there are laughs and touches. There’s goodness here, something worth pursuing, and that’s the scariest realization of all.
“Back to Mary’s?”
He takes her out of her reverie, and she turns at him, away from the window and the wolf she’s sure crossed somewhere in between the trees. “Mister,” she starts with that authoritative tone she often uses with, well everyone, and stares at him until he finally looks back, “if you don’t finish what you started there will be consequences.”
He’s startled for a moment, clearly not expecting her to be so straight forward, then regains his thought process and she’s sure she sees his lips tug very gently at the sides. “My place?” he almost whispers, a soft and unsure tone that she only finds adorable, and winces inwardly at it; when did she start having such a ridiculous response to him?
She doesn’t say anything, nods instead.
Whatever it is that is happening between them is real enough that she finds it extraordinary; something worth pursuing.
Something else worth staying in Storybrooke for.
reviews are ♥