ᴡᴇ ᴘɪʟʟᴀɢᴇ, ᴡᴇ (plunder) wrote in valarlogs, @ 2017-07-25 09:09:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, killian jones (captain hook), regina mills (evil queen) |
Who: Hooked Queen (with Meara at the end)
What: Regina dreams of the latest Storybrooke mess, and needs to start drinking wine early
When: Crack of dawn
Where: Haus of Villainy
Rating/Warnings: Just them being pervy but nothing awful
Status: Complete
Meara was at the age where she slept through the night well enough - just past ten months old, her patterns of rest were a lot less erratic now, something her papa was quite grateful for. Sometimes she even napped during the day, and then slept fine when it was bedtime too. He got so much more rest when he didn’t have to get up every couple of hours to tend to a crying, wet, or hungry baby - even so, Killian was up with the sun regardless. Sometimes even a bit before, since that was the best time to fish. And he happened to be forever on a sailor’s schedule - on a Royal Navy officer’s schedule, with breakfast at O’Dark Thirty and then heading off to, say, drills or watch duty on whichever vessel he was stationed at. That was why he wasn’t entirely surprised to be awake at the ‘asscrack of dawn’ as some might affectionately call this time of day, rolling over and somewhat alert as he cracked one bleary, cobalt eye open - listening for any potential fussing from the nursery, but no, Meara was sound asleep. Dreaming of sugar plums, he hoped. Or shiny treasures, and sea creatures. He did notice that things were a bit off in this gigantic bed, however (the secret to a happy marriage, or would-be marriage in this case, was having a big enough bed like a king-sized because sleeping right on top of a literal hot body in the summertime could make for a fussy adult). Regina was awake. Wasn’t she? “What time is it?” he garbled. Before 6:00 am, it all just fell under ‘too bloody early’ anyway. Regina was awake, actually. Still in bed, but not lying down and also taking advantage of their daughter’s streak of actually resting, no - she had sat up, back pressed against the sleek headboard of their bed, and in her hand was a glass of a deep, rich red wine. Yes, she knew what the time was. No, she didn’t care. It was, indeed, one of those mornings. One of those fuck Storybrooke mornings. Her dreams had lagged behind a bit - and she was alright with that, it was nice not having to dream about a trainwreck - but they caught up like always, showing her a whirlwind of nonsensical events that had her wake with a migraine or the need to imbibe. Today was the latter. “Early,” came her dry answer, dressed in an old college t-shirt (why wear anything sexy when every night was a gamble of whether or not the baby would wake up and shit in your direction). “I woke up from our infamous string of enchanted clusterfucks and had to conjure myself up a fitting drink. Bittersweet like the ending.” Was it over? That was the question, wasn’t it. It seemed like a good way to close the book of tales, lay it to rest, but her gut twisted and coiled otherwise. “Bittersweet, hm?” Killian yawned and stretched a bit - then, since he was awake as well, decided to go take care of early-morning toilet business. And put his prosthetic back on, that too. When he returned from the adjoined bathroom, he hadn’t changed clothes (still in his pyjamas, comfortable baggy sweats that slung low on his hips) but he was a bit more fresh-faced and with brushed teeth. This might make wine taste odd but he didn’t plan to steal much from Regina - just when he scooted next to her and stole a kiss instead, able to taste it on her lips. Aye, bittersweet, but a little fruity and sweet around the edges. Day-drinking was grand, when you dreamed of Storybrooke. This may still count as late-night drinking, however. “You weren’t happy to end up with your dopey archer?” He was mostly not jealous. Perhaps just irritated that he turned out to be such a sap when it came to Swan - it was bloody boring, and he needed someone who didn’t expect him to squelch his pirate side entirely. That was clearly not happening. “I didn’t end up with a dopey archer,” was her response after the minty kiss, and she draped a leg over his to keep them entangled - Killian usually woke early, but even this was early for him. Regina couldn’t really sleep after she awoke from that entire mess. “Technically speaking, my...other...half did. With that evil doppelganger Robin Hood, whatever that was about.” Gods, that almost physically hurt to say with how terrible and awkward it sounded. It was like watching a shitty movie with moments so embarrassing that it was best to look away, but she hadn’t the option. “And what about you, hm? Disappointed with your rooftop wedding and outrageously sappy vows of undying true love with our lady savior?” That was another reason to drink, and also a reason to throw up a little later. Ah, yes. The Evil Queen and Robin - together, back for their fresh start in the tavern as a result of fairy matchmaking. Someone please give Killian something to dislodge his eyeballs, because he was about to roll them so hard they got stuck in his skull. Though he supposed that his whole ‘arrangement’ with Swan wasn’t any less annoying. What the hell was wrong with both he and the Queen, they’d give up fantastic sex and chemistry for...something else? “Your other half did, even though she’s technically you - you’re one and the same, sort of, which is somewhat bizarre but not as bizarre as marrying Swan,” he shuddered, tucking an arm around Regina and drawing her close to him. Just her in a t-shirt, that was quite suitable. “Not certain how long that marriage will last considering we still keep secrets from each other.” It didn’t exactly spell ‘healthy union,’ did it? At least not to Killian. He and Regina weren’t perfect people but if there was a problem they actually did talk about it. Perish the thought. Technically, yes, technically, no, as the existence of another her was something of a paradox there. Add that to the millions of things that didn’t make sense. Those were the consequences of her actions, though - from splitting the evil part off of her to not getting in that damn portal in that wish world when she had a chance. Instead, she ogled. That alcoholic morning grape juice had a nice, long sip taken from it. “Hell, I’d take the chance to marry Emma over all that, personally,” she groused, a regal scowl to greet daybreak - but Killian was there to curl and lean against, so she did exactly that, head tucked under his chin. “And I heard they shot down your wish to get married on the Jolly Roger, tsk, tsk. I’m surprise you didn’t fight for that more. Snow was literally shoving her nose into coordinating that mess.” With a binder to boot, how charming. But it was her only daughter’s wedding, and she missed all those important milestones thanks to Regina’s infamous curse. She supposed she couldn’t rag on it too much. “I’m surprised I didn’t too,” Killian grumbled - what, like getting married on a Storybrooke rooftop was supposed to be some romantic thing? He’d given up that ship for Emma (then luckily got her back - the ship, not the Savior), it had been his only home for centuries and the last reminder he had of his dead brother - and yet it still wasn’t good enough to get married on? Bollocks. Complete and utter. Still grousing, he took the glass of fermented grape juice from Regina and enjoyed his own nice, long sip. A swallow or two, since it was necessary. “Well, the good thing about it is that we’re going to have a lovely Roger wedding here, and you don’t have to marry Emma.” Neither did he, so that was quite nice. Then Killian gave her the wine glass back, his good hand very likely about to end up beneath that scant t-shirt covering. And yes, there we go, complete with a piratey arrr. “I booked our trip to Spain - soon you’ll be back on the saddle,” he chuckled. He’d promised horseback riding, and he’d deliver. The Roger was perfect for them, no hoity-toity venue necessary (though she was still debating on chair ribbons, hmm). It was unique, personal, and on the open sea - hopefully without the tentacles crawling up the sides on this one. “If I wasn’t so terribly possessive I’d even ask how bland your sex was with her,” Regina quipped with a grin, wickedly playful, and she’d share her drink of course. After what they endured in Storybrooke, the two of them needed it. Wine wouldn’t hurt. And she was careful to not advocate too much drinking in this household - but it’s not like Killian was seeing the bottom of a rum bottle every night, either. Her pirate cut back considerably. But, yes, on better topics. “Won’t be the only thing I’ll be riding there either, but I promise to not make you too jealous of the horse.” Indeed, Killian had cut back on the booze quite a bit. He really only drank in social situations now, with other people (or when Storybrooke became too much of a clusterfuck to tolerate) - certainly there was no more whiskey for breakfast, by itself, straight from the bottle and him foregoing actual food. Regina had been right all that time ago when she said he needed to set an example for his sister - so he tried to do that as best he could. They both used to drink a lot but they both cut back too, which was a positive step to take in life. Or so they say. “Very bland - when she finally felt like fucking,” he chuckled, referring to sex with Emma. Though he wouldn’t go into detail. That would be wrong and weird - not to mention he wasn’t about to ask for the finer points of Regina shagging Robin Hood (in her crypt, even, while - as a bonus - Zelena posing as his dead wife was frozen-cursed right above them). He’d much rather talk about the riding that would be going on while they were enjoying their honeymoon. Or practise for that very day, right now (when did he not want to practise though, really). “Have you got a dress and all that?” he asked, fingertips playing a nonsensical rhythm on his fiancee’s skin. “It’s significantly easier for me. I’ll just get my uniform altered.” Hard to believe that the second of September was coming up so quick - a mere matter of weeks. Enough drinking for now, then, because a flick of the wrist swirled the glass with wisps of purple and whisked it away, gone and poof. Killian was a much better remedy for that fucking trainwreck, anyway, and she’d get some cuddling time before their offspring woke up demanding attention - she was particularly clingy in the mornings for warmth and snuggles under the blanket. It was an enjoyable age to be at. Her knickers (as many Europeans said) were a contrast from the raggedy t-shirt. Soft, satiny. Pricy to replace if he so unceremoniously tore it, mind you - before they had a little one they slept in the nude, and now with a more occupied house and taking care of Meara, that changed sometimes. “I’ve got something in mind, but I hope you won’t be disappointed that I’ll not be wearing something white,” she told him. Because a white virginal gown wasn’t her style. It hadn’t been when she got married the first time but, well, tradition, and now one could safely assume Regina Mills (almost Jones) gave little to no fucks about tradition. Likely, it’d be something tight, elegant, with a touch of that queenly flare. No feathers, however. “Not disappointed at all,” Killian assured, and truly, he wasn’t. He knew Regina had impeccable fashion sense, and he was certain she’d show up to their wedding looking nothing less than beautiful. “Something cleavage-baring though, I hope,” he grinned (lecherously), finding the silkiness of knickers with that wandering hand of his. At least she wasn’t wearing a bra to bed - that meant he could give a bit of a grope freely, without a prison being in his way. His uniform was black - touches of gold, shiny buttons, some red, a sash and medals depending on rank. It had been ages since Killian wore the thing, but no better time than his wedding to pull it out from where it was gathering dust. “Never understood how that white thing came about anyway. White’s awful, and it doesn’t look good on many people.” “I’m sure it’s to associate with virginity, saving yourself for marriage, that crap -” Which, of course, were all ideals neither of them cared for and they were far, far from having intact flowers. If one could also use that to refer to male virginity, anyway. But Regina’s arm hooked around his neck, and she pulled him down and down until her back was against the bed and he was semi-draped over her. An effective trap for the notorious captain. Her kisses had traces of blackberry from the wine, and she cocooned the blanket around them. “And what do you think? There’ll be cleavage, darling, so much of it you’ll have to refrain yourself from burying your face in it during our vows,” she chuckled. Now to find the accessories and footwear to go with it, but she’d drag Gamora out for that excursion. Maybe Kenzi too. “I’m curious to see whether or our pictures will have an erection knowing you.” “It’s highly possible, knowing me,” the dirty, dirty pirate smirked - he gladly went where Regina wanted, him, very pliable when it came to morning snuggle sessions. Which he enjoyed, thank you, though he wasn’t about to announce that to just anyone. “My straining cock can always be photoshopped out, if need be, but then again - I’d be rather proud of the masterpiece your cleavage inspired.” He balanced his weight evenly, propped up on one arm - however his hand found one of her knees, hitched up so she could curl a leg around him. A comfortable position, all wrapped up in each other. It was what he was going for. “If you want to take Sharkbait out for some wedding things - bonding or what have you - she might like that,” he added. “I’ve been worried for her lately.” She just seemed down, and it saddened him - especially because she was usually quite content with her lot and happy. Killian was there for his sister, of course, and did things with her to get her mind off of her dreams and the troubles that came with them. But he didn’t want to crowd her and besides, there was only so much he could do - some things, you just needed to work through on your own. Ah, yes, Regina had noticed that too. Sometimes she’d make small talk to pry, but sometimes the mini-pirate was a tightly closed lid wrapped in fake smiles and humor - no point in trying to make her talk if she wasn’t ready. “I know,” she said, pressing a kiss against his lips. “And I know she’s just like you; a stubborn survivor. Trust that she’ll get through it. I’m sure she knows if anything happens she can come to us, or at least you especially. Don’t forget, you two share a heart.” A bond of love and blood. They were undoubtedly cute together, the siblings. “Best we can do is remind her of all the good things she has here, and I’ve been keeping her occupied with retrieving some things for the wedding.” Sometimes staying busy was the best kind of therapy. Better than killing the liver or sleeping all day out of depression. Of course Killian trusted that Kenzi would work through it - he knew she was indeed a survivor, a good person at her core, with her half of the shared heart unequivocally large. He hated to see that her heart was hurting; it just made him wish he could fix it immediately. But the logical side of him knew he couldn’t. “Plus we’ve got a lot of cases to work on too. And the more bedazzled nipple tassels she can make, the better,” he chuckled, returning Regina’s kiss and adding another. Plus perhaps nuzzling with his nose too, like the delighted big cat he was. Staying busy was good medicine - a method he would much prefer over drowning one’s self in booze, especially when it came to his sister. But there were...issues. With her supposed best friend or some such - and from what Killian knew, he would understand if Kenzi wanted to be selfish and choose herself for once. Maybe just focus on herself as well. “Thank you though, for helping out and being there for her.” Her fingers crossed over his chest, circles and lines and infinite swirls drawn with her round-tipped nails. “Please, it’s not a job,” she scoffed, squeezing him closer with that draped leg. “Family takes care of each other - that’s something I can say we’re happy to share with who were are elsewhere.” After her father’s death, she didn’t think much of the concept but now she had family, the loves of her life and the friends that became part of it. On the nightstand they could hear a whine, whimper, coming straight from a handheld mirror - it was their ‘baby monitor,’ enchanted to keep an eye on Meara when she slept in her crib (finally). Like her father she was an early riser, never taking in consideration whether or not anyone in the household wanted to actually sleep in for once. “And speaking of family,” Regina smirked. “Time to bring the littlest one in.” “Ah, there’s my little starfish,” Killian spoke fondly of his daughter - likely he’d still be referring to her as ‘little starfish’ even when she was well past forty. And he was old and grey (but distinguished-looking!). “I bet she wants breakfast and to be showered with affection.” Or so he assumed, though he was pretty good at deciphering her ‘language.’ Meara could understand a few words though she was too little to talk besides cooing in her babble-speak (and eventually, Killian would teach her Irish Gaelic as well - a dead language, but part of family history). In a couple of months, her lexicon would grow. Planting another kiss on Regina, he shifted to gracefully - in his pantheresque sort of way - roll out of bed. “I’ll go get her.” Regina would too, don’t worry - and she’d try not to clean her face with motherly spit at that age, too. “Make it quick,” she commanded, arm curled around one of their feather-pillows as Killian pulled away. “There’s no better therapy than her anyway, and she gets fussy when she doesn’t get her morning dose of cuddling.” Really, all she wanted to do was babble and play with something to work up an appetite for breakfast, and then she’d brighten their mornings with a full diaper. They weren’t as frequent as when she was merely a newborn, and now she was at that enjoyable age of smiles and bright eyes filled with fascinating and wonder. If only they’d say this little. Because she already had a stack of aspirin ready for when she was old enough to say ‘no.’ The wee sea princess, when Killian walked into the nursery, was doing what else - standing in her crib. She was crawling by now, and had figured out how to pull herself up using furniture. It was a bit nerve-wracking, to say the least, but you wouldn’t think so when Meara was all innocent smiles and gummy-drop sugar upon seeing her papa. “Arrrrr,” he told the baby (pirate-speak, which she would automatically understand. Of course), and she babbled back at him as he lifted her up all clad in her footie pyjamas. “I’ll bet you’re going to want a fresh nappy - won’t you, starfish?” Well. He supposed he’d take care of that, because Meara recently had this habit of waking up dry and then pissing her diaper within mere minutes of opening her eyes - Killian was used to it by now so he changed her quickly, patting her cushy bum as he carried her (now clean and sweet-smelling) into the master bedroom. Meara was placed onto the bed where she crawled over to her mum, happy and grinning with little pearly teeth interspersed here and there. Gods, she was adorable - may she not inherit her biological mum’s ginger colouring. Fingers crossed that Meara inherited other looks, maybe hers (it wasn’t uncommon for some children to resemble their aunts and uncles sometimes) but in the end it didn’t matter - she was theirs, no matter who she resembled. And oh so happy to see her mama with sleepy, bleary eyes. Regina was quick to scoop her into her arms and rain down kisses and raspberry blows to her cheeks for that precious squeal. “Can you believe she’s going to be a year soon?” she pouted (yes, she did do that sometimes), holding her close, and soon a year where they could celebrate her official adoption day - the day they brought her home for the first time after a dreadful plane ride from Bumfuck, Kentucky. “I picked out a little dress for her, too. She’ll be the belle of the ball.” “Of course you did,” Killian laughed a bit - he would have been surprised if Regina didn’t pick out a dress. Meara’s birthday was indeed soon, the second of September, then she’d been brought home about five weeks after that. “It’ll be a busy September and October.” Especially with their wedding on the ninth of September (9-9, it would be easy to remember that anniversary). He leaned in and smooched Meara too, prickly scruff (that he likely needed to trim) making her squeal loudly too. “We’ll have a party for her, hm? With friends and family. A cake she can get her hands all into, if that’s what you do,” he said. Meara, ever so ladylike, had a rascally pirate side to her too no doubt - she’d revel in smashing a cake then stuffing it into her mouth by the chubby fistful. That’d be a mess Regina was more than willing to tolerate. “Was there ever a doubt,” she chuckled, elbow propped onto the bed with her head in her hand. Meara was sitting up and clapping, her bedhead impressive - unruly chestnut curls, not too much of an orange tint. Mornings like were so pleasant, weren’t they? As if they were in their natural habitat of home, pajamas and all. “I’m looking forward to it - nice to see our life unfold in a more preferable way, hm?” That Killian could agree with. Seemed like things just unfolded in the way they were meant to be in this go-round - after some strife, of course. Like curses and death and escaping the Underworld. Good thing was, he didn’t see how it could get any worse after that. “Aye,” he concurred, tickling Meara’s belly - it was far too irresistible, he couldn’t help it. “I suppose sometimes villains earn their happy endings.” Ones they didn’t have to take, per se - an amazing concept, but he’d learned his lesson the first time. Mostly. |