Summary: Instigated by this post. Emma and Killian enjoy an evening together in their home.

Notes: As requested by captain-kitten on tumblr, here is some smutty, spoiler-based sexy times.

Warnings: Smut, language

Leaning idly against the white, wooden archway that leads into Granny's, Emma picks away at the young, tender vines that curl up the slats. Here in the humidity – the sort that clings to the heels of summer, and on into fall – her jacket lies abandoned over the railing, the sleeves of her sweater pushed up to her elbows. She's sure she looks the picture of innocence out here on the patio, turning her head now and again to listen to the chatter of the katydids. Really though, fingers pulling harshly at the greenery, she's remembering – and quite vividly – the way it felt to be carried by Killian Jones just earlier the very same day. The way his hook had caught at the stitching at her hem, the way he'd apologized afterwards, a red tinge to his cheeks. The way he'd opened his mouth against hers, the way she'd just about kicked the archway she now fiddles with straight over, how his tongue –

"What are you thinking about, eh, Swan?"

Emma tries not to startle, she really does, but the railing is rickety enough as it is – swaying under her weight when she leans even harder against it – and so she very nearly tumbles into his arms, much to his delight.

"Nothing too scandalous, I hope," he says, leaning over her to get her jacket.

"If it was scandalous, then that's your fault."

He doesn't deny, only smiles and holds her jacket up in invitation. She would turn him down, given the fact that her hair curls at her temples at the mercy of the moisture in the air, but the look on his face is so genuine, she slips into it anyway.

"So what were you doing in there anyway?" she says.

Killian shrugs, and offers her his hook. She takes it, and tugs. This brings a smile to his face as well, and Emma's certain she's not seen him smile this often and this brightly since his past self had tried to charm her out of her dress.

"Sometimes one has to be the architect of their own quiet moments," he answers, at length, ambling alongside her, his arm flush against hers.

"Okay but what the hell does that mean?"

"It means we're going home. It means we're going to enjoy some time alone. It means we're going to shutter the blinds and lie on the floor for no other reason than to do it."

Emma imagines it, perhaps more vividly than she'd just imagined his tongue dragging over her teeth. Her fingers tighten around his hook. There's a part of her that wants to tell him no, as much as she wants it. That she doesn't have time for this. But when she looks at him, and thinks about time, she remembers the way that it felt to hold his favorite, filigreed flask in her hand, and to lay it on his grave.

"Okay," she says.

They walk in silence for several minutes, her hand and his hook swinging between them. The streetlights above flicker to life, attracting all sort of things that make Killian wrinkle his nose when they fly by his face. She laughs, and again, he smiles, but they don't speak, content to listen to the rustle of his leather against hers, of the smack of their shoes against the concrete. Of the way it feels to look up at the stars with no agenda.

It doesn't occur to her Emma until they arrive that Killian had called this place home.

They stand, together, on the tilted, broken sidewalk just outside the house she'd once taken for her own. Already, in the span of a few days, the warm, late summer sun and cool, evening rain showers have the grass growing in tufts out of the cracks. Killian eyes them with irritation, though he does make a wry comment about the enviable tenacity of weeds, all while he looks pointedly down at her.

"Are you calling me a weed?" she says.

Killian laughs, though he doesn't reply. He moves around behind her, until she can feel his hook against her thigh, chest pushing gently into her back with breath that he takes. Warm, slight air stirs the hair curling down her back and over her shoulder. He turns his head from one side to the other, and she mirrors, leaning back until his cheek presses against her head.

"It really is a beautiful house," she says, quietly.

Emma reaches down, until she can feel the cool, metal curve of his hook against the tips of her fingers. It warms in the palm of her hand, grounds her while she gazes up at the arches and gables. The paint on the steps is worn, she knows, the northeastern corner sinks down into the sandy soil. There's a terrible draft in the attic, and the glass is warbled, thicker at the bottom than at the top. Even so, it feels –

"Like it's haunted, or something."

Emma can very nearly hear him frown.

"We don't have to stay here, darling," he says. "I can take you home – "

"Hey."

Emma doesn't turn, though she does lean hard against his chest, turning until her nose is just about flush with his.

"Pretty sure I am home. We just need to like…exorcise the ghosts."

"Oh?" Killian looks wary still, though his eyes twinkle, even more brilliant beneath the warm light of the streetlamp, and in the faint shades of blue that hover yet on the horizon. "And how do you suggest we do that?"

She scoffs. "I know you want me to say that we have to have sex all over it, but I'm not going to."

Killian bites his lip, and standing so close to him, Emma can hear his tongue licking against the back of his teeth. She rolls her eyes, even while heat gathers in the pit of her stomach.

"Come on," she says. To her delight, he seems surprised when her hand clamps down on his wrist, and she pulls him up down the sidewalk and up the stairs. She can hear his feet fumbling for purchase, though she doesn't comment, too busy barreling through the door before she can second guess herself, before she can think about her own deception, her desperation –

"Emma," Killian says. He pauses, and she turns to look at him. Here in the house – the fading light all shut out but for that which spills into the transoms – he looks softer than ever before. Or maybe it's the expression on his face, or the gentle way he beckons her out of the foyer. "Why don't we go to the living room, eh, love?"

"You mean where we – "

"Where we are now," he says. Perhaps harsher than he intended, for he looks sheepish when he draws her to the center of the room, between the table of the couch. He looks down at their feet, and digs into the skin behind his ear.

"Please, Emma." For a moment, he shuffles, from one foot to the other, before he looks back into her eyes, and repeats, softly, "Where we are right now."

Emma nods, and reaches up to scratch at the nape of his neck. His eyelids droop, eyelashes casting long, silvery shadows over his cheeks. She studies him, and he seems content to stand still, to hum when she presses into the subtle arch of his spine. Her hands wander, first over his jacket, then underneath, where even through his vest and his shirt, she can feel the heat of his body radiating outward. When she can bare it no longer, she stands on the tips of her toes, and means to kiss the contemplative tilt to his lips. But then –

"Goddammit," she says, resting her chin on his shoulder so she can gaze over at the painting above the hearth. "I fucking hate that painting."

Killian laughs, softly. "You've a mouth on you tonight, darling."

"I'll set it on fire," Emma says, matter-of-fact. She leans back on her heels, and looks up at him. There's mirth in his eyes, and it fuels the gentle tirade. "We're gonna have a housewarming party and it's gonna be a bonfire. And then we'll take stupid family photos and put them in cheap frames and hang them everywhere. And there's not going to be fruit in bowls for no Goddamn reason. New house rule. If there's a bowl out of the cabinet, there better either be popcorn or cereal in it."

Killian hums. "Or soup."

"Uh, yeah…and soup."

"Must all ice cream be consumed in cones?"

Emma pauses. She can feel the heat in her face, throwing a mini-tantrum in front of him about something as stupid as a painting, God.

"I'm sorry – "

"I suppose we can make milkshakes, if you'd prefer."

For several moments, they're quiet. Emma wonders if he's laughing at her. But the expression on his face is gentle and understanding. Patient. All things she knows he'd claim he's incapable of.

"Don't apologize, Emma," he says, so soft she can hardly hear it over the buzz of a car passing down the street. "Fate took your dream and twisted it into something ugly. If we're banned the use of decorative fruit bowls, of all things, I'd say it's a small price to pay. I'd rather your heart wasn't uneasy in your own home."

"In our home," she answers.

Killian smiles. "Aye."

For a minute, or longer perhaps – she can hardly tell, time such a muted concept in the wake of travelling realms and staging coups in the Underworld – Emma only looks at him. All over him, until her eyes rest on his lips, which tug into a smile when her hands settle back on her neck. And then, as she's wanted to since he set her down on the ground many hours ago, she kisses him. And here, where there's no chance of an audience, she can kiss him as long and as loud as she wants, hands roaming over every part of his body that she can reach. His back first, where chords of muscle tense and relax as he goes on an exploration of his own, though more or less restricted to her waist and her hair. His waist next, where she can wriggle her fingers under his belt. Then around to his front, where –

"Gods." He pulls away from her lips with a wet, reluctant sort of sound, grunting when the back of her hand brushes over his zipper. "Tell me, Swan. May I make love to you?"

Emma frowns. "That seems like bad luck. Remember that time you died?" She frowns harder still. "The first time, that is. Henry cockblocked the hell out of us. And before that, in the woods – "

"Aye, and at Granny's."

" – and in that alley."

Killian smiles, despite the residual frustration. "It's wonder we ever find any release at all."

She sighs, though she pulls him down by the collar of his jacket, and says, straight into his mouth, "I feel like every time I try to put my hand down your pants, some villain materializes out of thin air."

He laughs. "You don't have to put your hand down my pants, as you say, in order to come."

"Well then how are you coming, because…"

Because what, she thinks, but the thought, whatever it was, slides quickly and neatly out of her mind. Killian's expression darkens, his hand reaching around to tug at the zipper on his jeans. He doesn't pull it down, merely runs his fingers down the seam, his nail catching on the divots, humming deep in his throat.

Emma swallows. "Oh God."

"Perhaps I won't," he says, voice more gravel than fluid, rumbling pleasantly over her ears. He takes one step forward, and then another, shoes deathly quiet against the wooden floors. Pressing harder against the front of his jeans, he looks down at her, eyes drowning in pitch and cast over with lust. Not just that, but the sort of overwhelming fondness that makes it difficult to look him in the eye. The earnest love that he wears on his sleeves, so bright and beautiful that it makes her lips tremble.

"Although…" Killian trails off, though he doesn't stop his advance, pressing against the small of her back until his hand is pressed against both of them, knuckles brushing between her legs. "…perhaps I will."

Emma hums, reaching up to bury her fingers in his hair, nails catching at the tufts that wave wildly at the back of his skull. She presses and pulls, until her lips drag over his jawline, then up over his cheek. She pulls further still, standing on the tips of her toes until she can kiss his forehead, brushing his hair out of the way so she can breathe out over the skin. And though, moments ago, he was confident – and though his hand still rests between their legs – Emma can feel the shudder in his sigh. His hook draws up her side, over her shoulder until the curve presses ever so gently at the line of her jaw.

"I love you, Emma," he says, her lips now drawing a similar path over the other side of his face, hands now tugging at his ears. "I love you."

"I – "

She means to answer him, but he pulls his hand free, fingers making a riot of her ponytail so that he can pull her mouth to his. It's hardly a moment before he wraps his arms around her, lifting her much as he did in the daylight. Though, with careful maneuvering, he sets her down on the couch, his legs on either side of hers. All at once, she feels enveloped. In the way the he feels, and in the way that he smells. In the press of his hand at her waist, the sharp sound his hook makes when it scratches against her jacket.

"Wait, wait," she says, his lips drawing patterns over her jaw, and down her neck. "There's got to be something we're forgetting."

"It's all taken care of," he says, breath hot and warm and wet against her ear.

"But Henry – "

"Is at Regina's, love."

"Oh, right," she says. Although, when he presses lower and harder, hand molding over her breasts, Emma can't quite remember what she's talking about. Still, she repeats, "That's right."

Killian hums, and lets gravity do his work for him, pulling gently at his knees until his pelvis is flush with hers. She's warm all over. He's warm all over, and she finds herself tugging at the sleeve of his jacket. Not to disrobe him, but to coax him further and further still, until the charms that hang around his neck spill out of his shirt.

"Ow," Emma says, though she smiles, tangling her fingers through the silver chains. The sword and the skull scrape dully against her skin, and she finds herself both aroused and amused by the sheer amount of crap that he keeps around his neck.

"You never did tell me why you wear this," she says, even as he curls his pinky around the swooping neck of her sweater. He pulls, revealing the jut of her collarbone.

"It's enchanted," he says, leaning forward until his lips brush faintly over her skin, teeth nudging at the bone.

"It's enchanted?"

"Aye," he answers, absently, still mouthing at her chest. "It's rather a shrunken sword, can be enlarged, and all that."

At her incredulous look, he elaborates, "One can never be too prepared."

Emma groans, in part because of the way that he licks at the hollow of her throat as he rocks gently against her. "Killian. You're gonna jinx us. What if a villain runs in here and ruins everything right now."

"We quite literally have a dungeon in the basement, Swan, we can simply jail the wretch and force them to listen to the sounds of our lovemaking until we see fit to send them back from whence they came."

"Kinky."

Killian huffs, though he doesn't reply. Emma can tell he'd been holding back, his arms quivering with the effort. But with the sort of noise she often hears when she touches herself and thinks of him, he allows his weight in full to bear down on her, and immediately begins rocking back and forth. His cock presses against her clit, even through more layers than she cares to count. Emma follows his lead, soon enough grabbing a handful of his shirt, pushing until he angles the way that she wants.

"Fuck," she says, absent-minded. She pushes and pulls, and although she can feel the heat in the tips of her fingers, she just knows –

"At this rate, no one will be coming."

Killian grunts, his face twisted beneath the weight of the gentle pleasure that builds between them. She considers letting it go, allowing it to go for as long as they can stand it, before she shucks his clothes, pushes him on the floor, and fucks him in front of that stupid ugly painting.

But then, when the faintest crest of pleasure abates at the lack of proper fiction, Emma reaches down for the waistline of his jeans. She fiddles with the button and the belt, the sound of metal against metal muted in the echo of the way that he breathes in her ear, in her hair, directly in her mouth when his lips nudge against hers.

"Don't tempt fate, darling," he laughs. The tips of her fingers sink down beneath the fabric, wriggling pulling until shirt falls free. Killian looks as though he means to scold her – a telling flare in his nostrils – but the words get caught in a jumble in his throat when she scratches over his belly. He squirms, laughter echoing throughout the austere living room, and presses his hips into hers, head tucked in the crook of her neck, arresting the motion of her hand.

"Relax," she says, writhing until she can yank her hand free. She pushes on his chest, and he leans back, just far enough that she can reach for the zipper of his pants. "I'm just – "

The sound of the zipper sets the shadows back into his eyes, the fury back into his breath, until his hips are thrusting faintly, arrhythmically, against her hand.

"No tickling," he says, breathless, watching with what she's sure is amusement as she wrestles with his clothing, yanking hard at his belt.

"There," she says, hooking her thumb in the loops of his jeans, pulling until they're bunched just beneath his ass.

Now, she reasons, there are only three layers between them, his cock hard and wanting beneath the thin fabric of his underwear. She pushes at his shoulder, and pulls at his brace, until he's positioned to her satisfaction, hips still held apart. Though, before she lets him fall, she looks up at him, the determination she can feel on her face softening into a smile,

"Does this count as tempting fate?" she says.

"You're Emma Swan," he answers, eyes twinkling even as he moves restlessly above her. "If she does something you dislike, I'm sure you'll change her mind."

She laughs, though it's strangled. "Damn straight."

Emma grabs at his shoulders then, yanking until he's flush against her. Killian groans when his hips fall and his cock – two layers of clothing and all – presses against her clit. She's heard the sound before, namely when her lips are wrapped around him, when his fingers are inside her, when he pushes into her. But the tension – rising and rising, higher and higher the longer their reunion goes unconsummated – releases with that first brush of his flesh against hers, and his head falls once more into her shoulder, the fine hairs curling about his ears tickling her cheeks.

"Bloody," he says, taking a moment to breathe, to readjust so that his cock is squarely between her legs. "Fucking hell."

Emma lets him rest – she can feel the heat despite the clothing, the restless turn of the muscles of his back beneath the tips of her fingers – and spreads her legs, one heel hooking over the back of the couch, the other curling over his leg. After several moments, Killian leans back on his elbows. She expects him to start a rhythm then, to have felt the obvious wetness between her thighs, fabric sliding easily between them, and to do something about it. But he only looks down at her. Stares, really, eyes jumping first from one eye, then to the other. Without looking away, he fumbles for her hand. He savors the moment, playing with her fingers before he brings her palm to his lips. He kisses her there, then down to her wrist, tongue reaching out to taste the salt of her sweat, and of the humid, summer, seaside air gathering on her skin.

"I often don't believe it," Killian says. She means to ask him – what doesn't he believe – but this is when he chooses to set the pace. His hips push forward, then circle back, cock sliding first over her entrance, then over her clit. Harder some passes than others, then softer and softer still.

"What," she says, breathing the word out between them. She throws one arm over his back, fingers bunching up in the leather of his jacket. The other remains tangled with her own, pressing it hard into the couch for balance. But also, she suspects, for grounding.

"That I'm here," Killian answers, moving faster. He shuffles on his knees, just that bit further back, releases her hand so that he can lean up on his elbow and look down at her. "That he brought me back. That I could deserve it, that I could deserve you, that I have you – "

"Killian."

His face falls, and where his rhythm falters, hers picks up, heel pressing down into his back until he's rutting hard against her, and she against him, the desperation in their bodies belying the melancholy that descends in the room.

"Killian," she repeats. "Don't be an idiot. I love you. Mom loves you. Dad totally loves you. Everyone loves you. And if you don't…"

Emma pauses, can feel the pressure rising, the rush of blood down to her belly. Warmth rushes in her fingertips. She feels weightless and weighted all at once, made all the more poignant by the way he studies her, as though she were a trembling work of art, held precious in his arms.

"…if you don't believe that, well then too fucking bad, because we do."

Killian seems torn for a long moment – between the desire that flushes in his face, and the propensity to be self-defeating – but the former wins out. He smiles, brilliantly, dimples digging deep into his cheeks.

"I'd be remiss to fight against you, Swan."

To which she replies, "Good."

From then, they speak only in expressions, in the way his breath quickens against her ear, in the little noises he makes when she bids him to move faster, hands curling through his hair. When the pace grows faster still – and when his sighs turn to garbles, high in pitch and desperation – Emma pushes on his chest until he leans back, so she can look down, and watch the way they meet, over and over and over. Killian follows, gauging her expression before looking down and angling even higher, cock unerringly dragging hard and heavy against her. A few thrusts more, and she can feel her orgasm building deep inside her, in the palms of her hands, and in the base of her spine. She tells him, wordlessly, her nails scratching up under his jacket and down his back.

"I've got you, darling," he says, quiet and strangled. A few more thrusts push her further still, until the blood pooling down in her pelvis rushes outward, waves and waves climbing and receding while she rambles nonsense into his ear. Killian is quick to follow, and though she can't feel him like she suddenly wishes she could, she can see the look on his face, mouth falling slack, eyelashes fluttering. Perhaps ironically, he's startlingly boyish when he comes, the worry that always seems to etch into the crinkles by his eyes falling away, if only for as long as he ruts wildly against her.

"Perhaps I should have reconsidered the clothing," he says, after a minute or two, shifting uncomfortably above her.

"Don't be such a baby," Emma says, reaching down to tug his pants back up, redoing the belt and zipping him up. "I'm sure there's underwear around here somewhere. Or you can just go without."

Killian looks comically aghast, even as he kisses at her flushed cheeks, rising so his weight isn't crushing her. "And bare myself to this bloody metal contraption you call a zipper? I think not."

Emma laughs, tugging on the collar of his jacket until his mouth is once more on hers. She kisses him deep and long, the feeling swelling in her chest – so high and so beautiful – it almost feels as though the room is vibrating…

"Is the room vibrating, Swan?" Killian says, into her mouth.

It takes her a moment to right herself, but when she does, Killian similarly breaks away, turning to look as the decorative goblet on the table quivers in place. A long-suffering look passes between them before they leap to their feet, and rush out the door – legs and clothes still a bit off kilter. When they look up, something that could only be described as an airship passes above, off towards the forest beyond. Emma can hear Killian huff at the sight.

"Shit," she says, glancing over at him.

"Aye."

"Can't fit that in the basement."

Killian laughs, though it's nearly swallowed in the roar of the machine overhead. He reaches out for her hand, and quite without thinking, her fingers tangle easily with her own.

"Come, love, there's villainy afoot."

Emma gives herself five seconds to whine internally, to think of just how many times he could have made her come with an entire evening to themselves, how many bowls of popcorn she could have made, how much she could have strewed over the bedsheets while trying to toss it directly into his mouth.

Then, when those five seconds have passed, she looks to Killian and says –

"Okay, let's go."

Killian nods, though he stops her before she can run off, pressing one last, lingering kiss to her lips.

"Have I told you that I love you today?"

Emma smiles. "Like three times."

His expression softens, his hair a wild mess atop his head, curls falling over his forehead and into his eyes. He looks terribly earnest when he tells her yet again.

"I love you, Emma."

Even more so when she answers.

"Love you too."