A/N: I ended up re-watching Good Form and the finale and was just marvelling in their beautiful kisses and thinking about all my lil kiss headcanons and then suddenly this had happened. Words about kissin', folks.

There's heat.

God how there's heat – burning through her as he takes another sauntering step forward, words rolling off his tongue as he declares it –

"Perhaps you're the one who couldn't handle it."

There's a moment – air humming, lips parted, eyes locked – and then it becomes too much, boils over, surging through her veins like …morethan chemistry – electricity – and she's yanking him forward by the lapels of his coat, lips crashing into his.

For a moment they sway – her fists clenched around his coat – and then his hand slides up to tangle in her hair and hers does the same, tugging softly on his hair as his lips move against hers.

They pull apart for a fraction of a second and then his lips are there again, sending waves of everything coursing through her and she wants to think this is wrong – knows she should think this is wrong because it's him – and then his teeth graze her bottom lip, tugging on her top lip –

They break apart and she stumbles back, hands still curled tightly around his lapels and she needs to let go – needs to stop – but for a second she fails to do just that.

It's his voice – coming out breathy and panted and fuck – that pulls her sharply into realisation. "That was…"

She takes another panted breath, leaning in for a second and she wants – needs, a need that burns – to kiss him again, to feel like she hasn't felt in so long –

But she can't.

"A one-time thing." She whispers onto his lips, slowly releasing her hold on his lapels and backing away with a reluctance that rips its way through her body.

There's a part of her – annoying and infuriating, the part she's always clamping down on – wishing it wasn't the case.

.

He's been through so much. Too much. Too many days without her, too many nights alone and apartments where she's not and then the door is opening and –

Swan.

A grin spreads across his face because it's her – Emma – Emma Swan and she's here and he's found her and god –

The past year – Ariel and Blackbeard and bar wenches and his ship and curses and beans and pain – the relief as it all seems to wash away with her adorable frown is all-encompassing, eradicating any thought that might signal this might not work.

His feet shuffle, words tumbling from his lips that probably make no sense to her and then his hand is sliding to cup the back of her head, his lips pressing against hers and he swears – for a desperate and praying second – she responds.

Then her eyes are wide and her hands are forceful, pushing him back and as he's scrambling back up from the floor, pain shooting from his groin the door is slammed in his face.

He can only groan, rubbing his forehead because she's a bloody challenge indeed.

.

No.

It's a single – and yet crippling powerful – thought as she flings herself to the ground, hands cupping his face and her own voice feels strangely distant as she screams at him, begs him to just come back to her because oh god she needs him.

She hates that she does – hates that when he's not there she wishes she was, hates that she draws comfort from his presence, his annoying innuendo dropping presence – but she does and oh god he can't die.

Not when he was right, not when she does see a future with him and it's one that terrifies her –

"Son of a bitch." She whispers before leaning down, pinching his nose and pressing her lips to his, trying and urging the life back into him.

She feels her magic leave her but when he wakes up – choking out water, eyes blinking open – for a second she really couldn't care less.

.

There are many points on that trip – dancing with him, being comforted by him, being (almost) rescued by him – that Emma thinks she might kiss him.

When he makes a quip about denial of feelings running in the family and for a second she wants to just prove him wrong – the reason she can't being the fact that he's right.

And so when she slumps down in the chair beside him – the family scene still buzzing inside, the one she'd felt was missing someone (him) – she knows that there are many ways in which this conversation could go and yet knows almost exactly how she wants it to end.

And when he reveals how he got to her – tells her all that he gave up, for her (her) – there's no uncontrollable heat like there was in their first kiss – no burning need – just a simple and simmering desire and one that she finally gives in to, leaning forward and pressing her lips to his.

His hand slides back to cup her head, the kiss tender and loving and she can't help but just get lost in it – her hand snaking around the back of his head, his arm coming down to caress her shoulder – lost in his lips moving in tandem with hers, lost in his hand tangled in her hair and the way his touch makes her body buzz.

They break apart briefly, his nose nudging hers before his lips find hers again, all gentle nips and soft presses and promises and home.

She presses her lips firmly against his again before pulling back, his hand coming away from her head, hair still tangled between his fingers. He smiles at her, happiness shining and as she blinks up at him she can't help but smile back.

Their eyes lock – all the unspoken words lingering there – and then he pushes forward again, hand sliding back again as he kisses her, an intoxicating mix of long and slow and deep and he kisses her exactly like she's never been kissed and how she's always needed it.

They stay out there for a little while longer – more kissing and laughter and murmured words of a kindling affection filling the space until she pulls back completely, sliding out of her chair so they can go inside.

(When they're inside, her lips still humming from his long-wanted touch, she thinks back to one time thing.)

(And she thinks – his eyes dancing, his hand on the small of her back – that really, she never stood a chance.)

.

He kisses her again later that evening, pressed against the wall outside of her hotel room, murmured words of goodnight slipped in between each nip and press and when she realises that she doesn't want him to go – when his final goodnights are never really final – she decides they're being ridiculous and with a soft smile and hands around his she tugs him back into the room.

(It's a night filled with lots of kissing – slow and deep and coaxing, along her neck and the slope of her jaw, words murmured into her skin with each burning touch.)

.

And soon – like most things with them – Emma finds herself falling helplessly into the surprsingly and wonderfully easy art of kissing.

There are those soft ones along her neck or shoulder or jaw in the morning, his smile bright, eyes dancing as he presses a kiss to the corner of her mouth.

There are short ones – ones that are hurried because they have places to be and so it's a quick thing, hands cupping cheeks, eyes shut for that blissful second – and then there are long ones. Ones that are deep and seeming to carry all that emotion, wrapped up in sheets and quilts with soft caresses and tangled limbs.

There are ones to her cheek – his arms sliding around her waist or as he slips into the booth at Grannies – or ones to his cheek, just a quick thing because her parents are there and she knows – because it's got to that point – that he might make it not a quick thing just to piss off her father.

There are ones where they're on the couch – when he's lying between her legs, his hand tracing idle patterns on her side from beneath her shirt, her smile content as he kisses the bare skin – or when her feet are in his lap and he'll say something stupid and she'll push his face with her foot, his chuckle rich as he grabs hold of it, pressing a kiss there because he's just stupid (and adorable) like that.

And then – possibly her favourite kind, if she were to give it thought (which she sometimes does) – are those ones that seem so serendipitously and wonderfully natural that neither of them seem to give it much thought; when she'll come from dropping off Henry and he's sitting on the couch she'll place a kiss to the top of his head before sliding in next to him, how he'll kiss her stomach as he shuffles into bed next to her or the back of her neck as he slides past her in the kitchen.

A couple of times he mentions their first kiss, mostly the promise that had come on her part. His grin is always wide, eyes shining with mischief and she can only roll her eyes, proving his point further as she moves to claim his lips in her own.

A/N: Review?