Note: This is for enchanteddiana on Tumblr for the CS Secret Shipmate. Among her list of suggestions was some Hook + Snow bonding and CS smut. Somehow I managed to combine these two wildly different things into one fic. It's nothing but silly fluff and some picnic-table!sex. Hope you like it!

Hook shifted slightly in his bed, smiling up at the ceiling as his fingers twined in Emma's hair. She was tucked to his side, a wonderful necessity given the size of the bed, and she played with the hair on his chest and slid a slim, strong leg between his.

Under other circumstances, it might have been arousing, but since they'd nearly worn each other out, it was more comforting than erotic. Emma was at his side, and she showed no signs of going anywhere any time soon. He was hard-pressed to think of anything he liked better.

"What're you thinking about?" she asked, voice sleepy.

"Your mother," he said absently.

"My … ew!" Emma pushed herself up on one elbow and stared at him with wide eyes. "You're thinking about my mom?"

"Not like that," he said, laughing. Then, fixing a leer on his face, he continued, "But then again ..."

"Killian Jones, you better think very carefully about what you say next," she warned, tugging sharply on his chest hair.

"Ow," he complained. "Relax, love, it was only a joke. I was simply thinking that I owe your mother for finally opening my eyes."

She gave him another suspicious look, then pressed a kiss over his chest where she'd been about to pull the hair out by the roots. "You can send her a card," she said, snuggling closer to him again. "A 'Thanks for Getting Me Laid' card or something."

"Aye, and then I'll be pulling arrows out of sensitive places. Or I'll have your father trying to unman me with a sword."

She laughed, and he pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

Sending a card was obviously out, but there must be some way to thank her. If not for the princess, it might have been weeks before he finally caught on to his Swan's game.


Six months he'd been living in Storybrooke, and he'd adapted to the Land Without Magic fairly well. He knew which foods he liked, he enjoyed watching movies and reading their books, and he'd taken to helping Emma and David out at the sheriff's station.

And then there was the clothing. He'd grown more used to jeans and T-shirts, though he still wore his leathers from time-to-time. The look on Emma's face the first time she'd seen him wearing jeans was something he held onto through the hardest times, the greatest doubts. She'd stopped in mid-sentence, he remembered, and completely forgotten what she'd been saying. Her flushed face and wide eyes reinforced what he knew — she wanted him just as he wanted her.

But he'd promised her when he'd found her in New York that he'd give her time to sort out her feelings, and he intended to keep that promise.

Truth be told, he could refuse his Swan nothing. And she knew it.

He sighed deeply, strongly regretting his weakness for one blonde sheriff. It's what got him into this mess in the first place. Going to the wedding of the damned Crocodile — as if he deserved a happy-ever-after — and wearing this blasted "suit."

He thought of complaining that the weather was too warm to wear such a thing, but considering his fondness of leather in all temperatures, he knew he had no leg to stand on with that argument.

"Bloody hell," he muttered.

"I think you look great, Hook," Henry, similarly outfitted in a suit and tie, told him. "Doesn't he, grandma?"

Mary Margaret tilted her head to the side, studying him in the dark gray suit (the closest she would allow to black, his preference), before swatting his hand away from the tie that was strangling him at the moment.

"You'll do," she said finally.

"Really, darling, don't let Dave hear you gushing over my good looks," he said. "He'll be jealous."

She laughed, which he considered a win. Mary Margaret had been much harder to charm than Henry or David. It wasn't that he was desperate to win her over or anything of the kind, but since he privately hoped to marry her daughter one day, it would be nice if she didn't hate him quite so much.

His hand drifted to the tie again. "Is it really necessary to wear this torture device? I feel like I can't breathe …"

He slowly trailed off, losing his breath for an entirely different reason as he watched Emma walking up the path.

He watched Henry run to his mom and dimly heard the lad telling her how great she looked. "Great" was an understatement, in his opinion. The woman was a goddess. She wore a pink and orange floral print dress with straps that fastened behind her neck and a filmy skirt that skimmed right above her knees. Her legs — seven hells, those legs — were bare and gorgeous, highlighted by the high heels she wore. Her hair was down, flowing in loose curls over her shoulders and dancing in the sea breeze. And best of all, she was smiling — the wide, gorgeous smile that was almost enough to stop his heart. It had been making more of an appearance lately, and it was nearly impossible not to smile in return.

He swallowed hard as she came up to them, exchanging compliments with Mary Margaret before turning to him.

"Swan, you look stunning." He was proud of himself for getting the words out without sounding breathless.

She smiled again and tilted her head as she looked him over, a near-exact replica of her mother. Unlike her mother, she stepped closer, running her hands down his arms until she was holding his hands — both real and prosthetic.

"Right back at you," she told him. She let go of him but leaned up to whisper in his ear. "But I miss the hook."

He froze as she pulled back and winked at him, looping her arm through Henry's and turning to go. It wasn't until they started to walk away that he realized with a jolt that the dress she wore had no bloody back. His eyes drank in the sight of all that bare skin, vividly imagining what it would be like to kiss every inch of it. Only when he saw her look over her shoulder and smirk did he finally jerk his gaze away, only to meet Mary Margaret's thoughtful look.

"You know she's doing it on purpose, right?"

"She's … huh?" He frantically tried to remember if he'd missed part of a conversation.

Mary Margaret sighed. "Emma. You know she's doing that on purpose." At his blank look, she sighed again. "She's flirting with you."

"She … I promised to allow her time to decide what she wants," he said.

"And I'm telling you, she's decided. She just … Frankly, I can't believe I even have to tell you this. You're with her constantly; you must have noticed. She touches you all the time, and Emma is not a touchy-feely person. She was practically sitting in your lap last night at dinner!"

"It was crowded," he said slowly, considering. He certainly hadn't overlooked how Emma had been pressed to his side all night long. It had been torture, but he hadn't moved an inch, had almost been afraid to breathe for fear that she would move away. Instead, she'd leaned forward and around him to talk to Robin. The way she'd put her hand on his thigh — for balance, he'd told himself, just for balance — and how his heart sped at the brush of her breast against his arm was seared into his memory.

And Mary Margaret was saying she'd done it on purpose?

And he, who had spent more time than was healthy studying her, who claimed to be able to read her like an open book, was oblivious. He was so close he couldn't even see what was right in front of him.

She was doing it on purpose, the vixen.

"Why didn't she say anything?"

"Emma's more about actions than words," Mary Margaret said, her voice sad. "And you know, she's afraid to get close to people. That's partly my fault. I left her to be raised by wolves, practically."

"You did what you had to do, milady," he said. "It's a choice no one should ever have to make."

She shrugged. "It's too late to second-guess the past, I know. But what I want now is to make sure my daughter is happy. So I guess what I'm saying is, don't screw it up."

"Your confidence in me is overwhelming," he said sourly.

She smiled and looked him over again, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You'll do," she said again, nodding.

Strangely, this time it felt like a compliment.

The ceremony was tougher than he thought it would be.

Belle made a lovely bride, and the Crocodile cleaned up well. The choice to have the ceremony in Storybrooke's seaside park, with the sun going down and the water as a backdrop, couldn't have been better.

But the injustice of seeing Rumpelstiltskin get a second chance at love was almost more than he could bear. The man had stolen Milah's life, literally ripped it from her, and felt no remorse for what he'd done.

Perhaps he'd given up his revenge — for Emma's sake and for the state of his own soul — but he couldn't stop the anger and outrage building in him as the ceremony continued.

He hadn't realized his hand was clenched tight until he felt Emma's hands on him, gently loosening the fist and threading her fingers through his. He met her eyes, which were wide and apologetic; just like that, he felt the anger easing.

He kept his eyes on hers through the rest of the blessedly short ceremony, breaking the stare only when it was time to stand as the newlyweds headed back down the aisle. The moment people started leaving their seats, Emma turned to him.

"I'm so sorry, Hook," she whispered. "I wasn't even thinking when I invited you to this. I didn't think … I just wanted ... anyway, it was stupid of me."

"It's all right, love," he said lightly, squeezing the hand he still held. "I know you were just looking for an excuse to see me in this costume."

She smiled. "You got me. And you … you look great. But I would understand completely if you want to skip out on the reception. I'm just … God, I feel like an idiot."

"You couldn't be an idiot if you tried, Swan. And after sitting though that, I'll be damned if I miss the reception. I heard something about free drinks? And dances with beautiful blondes?"

She tilted her head and studied his face. "If you're lucky," she teased.

"Oh, darling, lucky is my middle name."

"This is how we slow-dance where I come from," Emma murmured, drawing his arms around her back and twisting hers around his neck, leaving not a breath between their bodies.

He'd actually always enjoyed the more formal dances he'd learned as a young naval officer, but he couldn't deny that this form of dancing had its advantages.

He flattened his hand on her lower back and brushed his thumb over her soft, smooth skin, smiling as her breath caught. He mentally thanked Mary Margaret, imagining how much this closeness would have tortured him if he hadn't known the truth.

They were quiet for a few minutes, swaying to the music among dozens of other couples. The wedding organizers had set up an outdoor pavilion with white twinkling lights everywhere, and someone called 'DJ' was playing music for the dancers while others sat at white cloth-covered tables eating, drinking and chatting.

"Have you noticed anything different, lately?" Emma asked.

"Mmm. I've noticed a lot of things," he said. "You'll have to be more specific."

She slid her fingers into the hair at his neck, and he closed his eyes and bit back a groan.

"I mean the fact that it's been quiet for weeks. No wicked witches or demon brats. No memory-stealing curses … that we know about." The fingers of her other hand traced his jaw. "Nothing but time … to think about things."

He opened his eyes, locking with hers, and gave her his cockiest smile. "Time to think about how to seduce me, then?"

She laughed. "Finally. I thought you'd never catch on. My next plan was to strip naked and crawl in bed with you."

That image flooded his brain and he stopped, pulling her even closer. "Perhaps you should have started with that one," he said, brushing his nose against hers.

"I thought about it, but I … was afraid."

"Afraid of me?"

"No! No, I was afraid you might have realized that getting involved with me is more trouble than it's worth. What with the almost-dying multiple times and everything." Her light tone didn't quite manage to cover up the fear in her voice.

"Swan, I would do anything for you. I'd face a thousand threats." He grinned. "I've no regrets … except, perhaps that you didn't come naked to my bed."

He had no idea how long they stood, smiling like fools at each other, before Emma pulled back and took his hand, leading him wordlessly off the dance floor and into the dark.

He followed Emma away from the crowd, until the lights and music of the reception were far behind them, until the only thing he heard was the sound of the night and the nearby water. She led him to a manmade shelter and pushed him roughly against one of the brick pillars upholding the roof, crashing her lips into his.

It was like Neverland, but more intense. He threaded his hand into her hair and tilted his head to deepen the kiss, dragging her flush against him with his other arm. She moaned into his mouth, grinding her hips into his, and he felt her smiling as he echoed the sound.

As she twined her arms around his neck, he flipped them, pressing her against the pillar. As though she could read his mind, she hooked one leg around his waist, and he slid his hand along her thigh, holding it in place.

Dimly, he wondered if this was really happening, if this was really Emma kissing him back and rocking her hips into his, sparking every nerve ending in his body. If it was a dream, he prayed he'd never wake up.

He kissed his way down her neck, nipping at her shoulder. "Gods, lass," he said roughly. "Come home with me."

She pushed him back a bit and cupped his face, peering at him in the light from the half-full moon. He could see her shake her head.

"No," she said, and he groaned.

Not a dream, then. A damned nightmare.

But instead of pushing him away, she took his hand and led him over to the wooden table in the center of the shelter. There was even less light here, but he could see her hop up on the edge of the table. "No," she repeated, tugging on his tie until he stepped between her legs. "Here, now."

"Swan." He cast a glance back at the reception. It was unlikely anyone else would wander this far from the party, but this was hardly going how he'd imagined. "We can't."

Her low laugh stirred something in his gut. "Oh, I think we can," she said, pulling on the tie again until he was close enough for her to brush a kiss. "Come on, pirate, where's your sense of adventure?"

He toyed with one of the straps of her dress, slipping a finger underneath it. "I'm not opposed to adventure, love, but I'd pictured this a bit differently."

"Oh?" She pulled his hips flush with hers, wrapping her legs around him. "Do tell."

"Well, there was a bed," he said, laying feather-light kisses over her face as he spoke. His hand dropped almost against his will to cup her breast, stroking her through the thin fabric of her dress. "And light. And all the time in the world. I want to touch you, Emma, map every inch of your skin with my lips. I've dreamed of watching you come apart for me again and again."

"Wow," she breathed, and he — foolishly thinking he'd won — made to lift her off the table when she tightened her hold on him. He only realized that she'd unfastened a few buttons of his shirt when he felt one of her hands stroking his abdomen, and he swallowed hard. "We should definitely, definitely do that … later."

"Later?" he managed.

"Mmm-hmm," she said. "I thought I remembered you saying that you would do anything for me. … But maybe you just don't understand the extent of my problem here?"

Taking his hand, she slid it under her skirt and pressed it to her center; even through her panties he could feel how wet she was. "I need you, Hook," she said. "I don't want to wait."

The idea that Emma wanted him that much enflamed him. He couldn't stop himself from rubbing her through the thin fabric, then pushing it to the side and slipping his fingers over her heated flesh. The gasping moan he drew from her wiped all his objections away; all he wanted in that moment was to hear her make that sound over and over.

He kissed her hard, all open mouths and tongues and teeth, swallowing her moans as he touched her.

She fumbled at his belt, not breaking the kiss, and had his pants undone in record time. He forgot to breathe for a moment, pulling back slightly as he felt her grasp his length, stroking him up and down. In the dim light he watched as she licked her lips, giving him an instant vision of her on her knees, those lips wrapped around him.

"Swan, you're killing me," he said. He nudged her, and she quickly got the message, letting go of him to tilt her hips so he could pull her underwear off, tossing them aside.

He pushed her skirt up out of the way, wishing again the light was better so he could see all of her, catalogue every reaction. She braced herself on the table with one hand, the other curled around his neck as he slid against her slick core and pushed slowly inside.

"I want this," she whispered, kissing him. "I want you."

It wasn't a declaration of love, but he'd bloody well take it for now.

"Gods, Emma, you feel fantastic."

With a shaky breath, he started to move inside her, drowning in her wet heat. It was incredible; she was incredible, and he told her so in a low voice as they came together. He moved his arm behind her and gripped her hip with his hand, laying open-mouthed kisses over her neck and shoulder as her legs again crossed behind him. She held tight to him, the heels of her shoes digging painfully (wonderfully) into his skin, muttering curses and calls to a deity and his name — his real name — punctuated by those lovely gasping moans. In all the times he'd imagined having her, no fantasy compared to the real feel and sound and taste that was Emma.

He loved her — gods he loved her — had likely been lost to her since she held a knife to his throat.

"Oh god oh god, I'm … I …" she trailed off, panting. He could feel she was close — and thanked the gods, because he knew he'd not last much longer himself — and slipped his hand from her hip to touch her where their bodies met. That was just the push she needed, and the feel of her coming apart around him sent him over the edge a breath later.

He didn't want to pull away, wanted to stay right there with her. They were both breathing hard, foreheads touching; she was trembling, or maybe he was, he couldn't be sure. He tried to steady his breathing, waiting for her to say something — bracing for her to back off, pull away, start building her walls back up.

"That was … wow," she said. She pushed him back a bit, making him realize that if anyone happened along, they'd see him half-naked, pants at his ankles and shirt partway open, jacket and the blasted tie still on. Huffing out a laugh, he worked to pull himself back together as Emma stood and pushed her skirt back down, bending to pick up her discarded panties.

They stared at each other for a moment, and he held himself still waiting to see what she would do.

"Well, now I guess I know what it's like to be ravished by a pirate," she said, stuffing her underwear in his jacket pocket and sliding her arms around his waist.

He blew out a relieved breath and relaxed into the embrace. She wasn't going to push him away after all.

"Oh no, lass, that was only a taste."

She giggled, a sound he wasn't sure he'd ever heard from her before. "Well the taste nearly killed me. I'm not sure what the full-on pirate experience will do to me."

"Oh, I think you can handle it," he said. "You call me a pirate, but you did just have your way with me in a public place. I had no idea you were into such things, though I guess I should just be glad you didn't tie me up first."

"Hey!" she yelped, but her attempt at outrage was ruined by the laughter in her voice. "I believe you promised me a bed. And all the time in the world? Henry is staying with Regina tonight."

"Your place or mine?" He immediately pulled away, tugging her hand and heading in the general direction of the path. Just to be safe, he wasn't going to give her time to change her mind.

"Yours is closer," she said, threading her fingers into his. "And you can get your hook."

"Like that attachment, do you, Swan?"

"I may have had a few … thoughts about the hook," she said.

"Oh darling, tell me all," he said, smirking. "Leave nothing out."

Two days later, Mary Margaret came home to find a vase of lovely yellow roses on the table and one very annoyed husband leaning on the kitchen counter.

"Who the hell is sending my wife roses?" he demanded.

"If they're not from you, I don't know," she said, dropping her purse on the counter and grinning at his obvious wince. She'd have more flowers than she could deal with before the day was through, she knew. Her husband did have a competitive streak. "What does the card say?"

She reached for it and laughed to herself when he got to it first.

"It says 'A Mother's wisdom is a gem without price — KJ." He frowned. "K.J. … Hook? Why the hell is Hook sending you flowers?"

She smiled. She preferred not to consider the details, but she warmed at the idea that her daughter had finally found love. "I gave him some advice, that's all."

He looked at her suspiciously. "What advice?"

"Take my word for it, Charming, you don't want to know."