Prompt One:

Anonymous asked you:

Sexy times prompt for CS. Killian sees emma sweating after preforming some kind of physical activity. His thought process and whatever else you might want to include. Take it from there dearie.

Disclaimer: I don't own OUAT

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She runs everyday.

Always in the morning, just as dawn is breaking.

It's an odd little routine he notices shortly after they return from their long and harrowing journey to Neverland.

There are several trails that wind through the small town of Storybrooke, through the scenic parks, and bending into the lush forest.

But every morning she chooses a route that takes her to the water.

The first time he notices it, he's standing at the helm of his ship, the early morning hour settling his mind as he tries to block out the unwanted memories from their recent Neverland adventure—the vivid images a constant since their return. He's just about to turn away and retire back to his cabin when she comes barreling down the docks, her feet pounding on the pavement hard, her breathing labored and uneven.

He watches her for a moment, taking in the sight of her long golden hair swaying behind her, both the cool morning breeze and the physical exertion flushing her cheeks. Briefly he feels fear lurch in his heart, his good hand immediately moving to the hilt of his sword as he scans the area behind her for a threat

If she's running who's chasing her?

But the docks are empty.

She's alone.

She passes his ship without pause, continuing to her unknown destination, and he watches as she goes—his mind baffled, his eyes unblinking, his pulse picking up in pace.

On a whim he goes above deck early the next morning, a small voice in his head silently chastising his actions, while a larger more curious one blocks out the scolding tone.

And sure enough, as the sun begins to rise, highlighting the pale gray sky, he sees her. It's quite a sight to behold—her long hair bouncing wildly, her expression far away, her movements free.

Not long after she begins the odd routine, he mentions it to the leggy barmaid at the town's diner. The attractive brunette merely shrugs, gives him a knowing smile and assures him it's completely normal for women of this land to engage in that particular activity—informing him it's a good stress relief for the still clearly strained sheriff.

Turning the information over in his mind, he feels compelled to quip about other more pleasurable activities that are capable of relieving stress. And to her credit, the brunette, who's company he quite enjoys, chuckles at him and shoots him a saucy wink, before promptly clearing his half eaten breakfast and kicking him out of the establishment.

As much as running becomes a routine for her, watching the activity becomes one for him.

Every morning he rises with the sun, goes above deck and stands at the helm, pretending to be busy—secretly watching as she rounds the corner slightly out of breath and focusing on her unchanging destination to nowhere.

She never hesitates, never stalls, never stops, but he knows she's aware of his presence all the same.

One night as he's pestering her at the sheriff's station, in between his casually phrased innuendos and not so subtle suggestions, he asks her about it, curious about the particular path she takes…why it is that she always chooses to run by the docks.

She sighs and rolls her gaze to the ceiling, apparently trying her hardest to look slightly put out by the inquiry. But then she catches his eyes, and in that instant something soft flashes in her blue-green stare and slowly, with a shake of her head and a lift of her shoulders, she turns from him.

"The water calms me." she tells him softly, before turning out the lights in the station and wishing him a half-hearted goodnight.

And as she leaves him alone, he silently wonders how much longer they'll do this funny and tricky little dance—she sidestepping him and avoiding his eyes and he hiding what he really wants with cleverly said words and off-putting grins.

Slowly, surely, spring turns into early summer and with the change in season he notices that as the temperature increases; her clothing for her morning jogs quite suddenly decreases.

It takes him by surprise the first time he sees her so undressed and exposed—her long legs and slim arms completely uncovered—a short and odd garment tightly hugging her bottom half and stopping mid thigh while the top of her is covered only by a sleeveless slip of fabric.

Silently he thanks whatever gods are listening for offering him such a delectable sight…even if it's only for a brief and stolen moment.

One particularly humid morning he spies her; right on time, running towards the Jolly Roger fast. She seems to be overexerting herself—her face flushed a bright pink, her arms pumping quickly, her feet slamming hard against the already warm concrete. Straightening to attention, he watches with slight fascination as she comes to a sudden halt right in front of his ship. Gasping, she rests her hands on her knees and with her gaze focused on the ground she breathes in deeply.

It's the first time she's ever stopped in her routine and slightly baffled he takes in the sight of her heaving figure—watching, waiting.

And as he studies her, his mind begins to drift.

She's still bent over and breathing heavily. Loose golden tendrils of hair that have escaped its confines are curling softly around her face. Her sun kissed skin is pink and glistening with sweat—the glossy sheen causing him to clench his fist and curse inwardly. Watching as she straightens fully, her gaze somewhere far past his ship, he lets out a shuddering breath as she raises a hand to the back of her neck and rubs it softly, her eyes closing with the effort.

And it's because he's a bloody pirate, because he's a rotten scoundrel, because he's a man, that he can't help the flood of intensely heated thoughts that bombard his weak and traitorous brain.

He thinks about that long and lithe body, glistening and glowing, her skin damp and flushed. He pictures those strong legs wrapped around his waist—trapping him, welcoming him, pulling him closer. He imagines working her into a frenzy—so that she's hot and panting and sweating around him, with him, for him…

Because of him.

And as the image of her rising over him, her skin gleaming and hot, tiny beads of sweat gathering in the valley between her breasts, stamps itself into his brain, he lets out a low involuntary curse.

It's too much.

Forcing the too vivid thoughts from his mind, he lets his gaze focus on her again and it's with some surprise that he notices she now seems to be watching him from her place on the docks. As their eyes meet through the distance between them, he swears he feels a spark of heat, a shock of recognition, a jolt of realization.

By the way she continues to stare in his direction he thinks for a moment, that maybe she feels it too.

And he wonders if she remembers Neverland the way he does—the many times they had saved each others lives, the countless do or die moments they had shared…

The looks, touches and unexplored feelings.

The almosts.

The time she had almost let him hold her when the search for Henry had become too much. The time he had almost let her see him break when the memories of Neverland as a boy had come at him fast. The time their lips had almost brushed when they had realized they were finished, they had won—Henry was safe and Storybrooke awaited their return.

Holding her stare he watches as she shakes her head slightly from side to side and wiping the trickling sweat from her brow she nods, seemingly more to herself than to him, before taking off in the opposite direction of his ship.

Her pace is fast and punishing.

And she doesn't look back.

Still unwilling to see him, still unwilling to embrace him, still unwilling to accept him…

Still running.

End.

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