Rated: M for language, and quite a lot of fluffy smut
Summary: Set in a post Happily Ever After world. The dark curse is broken, and everyone is living in the Enchanted Forest once more. Emma finds herself feeling bored, listless. Killian tries to help. Smut ensues. (AKA the one where they try sex pollen. On purpose.)
Notes: This is a gift for acrobat-elle (on tumblr). Oh my beautiful brain twin. I hope this story does this trope justice! Also, thanks to high-seas-swan (also on tumblr) for reading this through, and for holding my hand while I complained about it.
It starts with the water.
The forest, Emma's used to. In fact, it's not unlike the stretch of wilderness that had been tucked around Storybrooke. Here, the trees are a bit taller, the air a bit clearer, the sun angling a bit higher in the sky. But it's all familiar enough. She's been here before. Granted, that was years ago, now. Her parents' castle – her castle too, she supposes – has been put to rights, she isn't trying desperately to get back to her son, and she's since married the idiot that tried to pretend he was a fucking blacksmith with nothing but a fluffy cloak and the fakest story she's ever heard in her life.
Even so, it's still felt like home, for the most part. The dark curse, reversed at long last, had left Storybrooke crumpling beneath the weight of its own, particular brand of insidious magic. It had taken quite a lot of magic to bring them here, to open a portal large enough for every last citizen of the town to rush through.
(She, of course, along with at least three dozen other men, women, and children, had sailed through yet another portal on the Jolly Roger, packed like sardines and enduring some of the most vile cursing –
"Another bloody fucking portal in a bloody godsdamned storm."
"Killian, there are kids on this thing."
– she'd ever heard come out of his mouth.)
But that's neither here nor there. It's been months since. At first, it had felt like the camping trip that wouldn't end. Now, though, it doesn't feel quite as strange to have a bath drawn for you, or to have to light candles and lanterns, or to have to actually go talk to someone's face if you want something from them. She'd felt like she was settling. But, as she does, it becomes abundantly clear that she has no idea what she's supposed to do while she's here. Up until now, it's been an errant thought, bothering her only when everyone's shuffled off to bed, and Killian's dozing off beneath her, or on top of her, or flush beside her, or however he happens to be sprawled on any given night.
It's the water, though, that cements it all at the forefront of her mind. After a long morning of meetings – or counsels or whatever they call it here – about harbor construction and agricultural economics and border exploration, and a brief lunch of a stew made of God only knows what, she'd finally managed to escape down to the docks.
Now, she sits along a little sea wall, feet dangling over the edge. Looking into the water, she can see down to the bottom. It's the clearest she's ever seen, like there's nothing but a paper thin sheet of glass between her and the rocky ocean floor, undulating along the curl of the breeze. There's a swarm of fish underneath, a riot of color, looking more like gemstones than animals.
There's just something about it – so different, so foreign – that shocks her system even more than the lack of modern conveniences, and weird foods, and how utterly swallowed in darkness everything is come nightfall. And she finds herself wondering, here in the light of day –
"What the hell am I doing?"
"Contemplating the sea, looks like."
She looks over her shoulder, finding Killian standing a ways behind her. He's leaning against a post, looking comfortable, like he's been perched there for a while. He's smiling, though it falters when he catches sight of the expression on her face. He pushes off, coming to stand just behind her, until she has to rest her head against his legs to look up at him.
"You seem vexed, Emma."
She sighs. He echoes, tilting his head to one side, then the other.
"May I?" he says, motioning at her. She nods, and he settles in behind her, tucking her carefully between his legs. For several, long minutes, he just breathes at her back.
Then, quietly, mouth by her ear, "What is it?"
"It's stupid," she says.
"It's not, I assure you, whatever it is."
She chews at her lip, shifting in his arms.
"I guess I'm just…" She trails off, tapping her fingers against his. "…bored. And it gets me thinking. About how I'm going to…"
"Fit in?" he offers.
She shrugs, affectedly noncommittal as she shifts in place, leaning back until they're flush from head to foot. She can feel him frowning, his breath ruffling the hair at her neck.
"Emma," he says. He pauses, breath stilling for a moment as he takes her fingers gently in his, the callouses on his palm rasping over her knuckles.
"Love," he sighs. "You'll find your place. There's no need to rush."
"Easy for you to say," she grumbles. "You can just drop right into the Navy or whatever."
He hums, thoughtfully. "Aye, and you sheriff. But I think I'd rather leave the past as it is. Start new."
He pauses, curls forward a bit, until his chin is on her shoulder, his scruff catching in her hair. He swings his legs. Once. Twice. Hers following, the toes of his boots just barely skimming the water beneath.
"Servant. Cabin boy. Naval officer. Pirate…" He falters, voice dropping, the timber rattling in her chest. "…hero. You, bail bondsperson, sheriff, savior. What next?"
If it's possible, she sinks even further against his chest, until, if she points her toes, they're just about level with his.
"Fisherman?" she says.
He laughs, jostling her. She lets her head fall back onto his shoulder so she can watch the grin she knows will follow. He doesn't disappoint, lips stretching over his teeth, muscles twitching along the expanse of his throat.
"Perhaps," he says.
"Wait, really?"
Killian shakes his head. "This isn't about me, Emma." He pauses, jaw jumping as he grinds his teeth, back and forth. "Your parents would have sounder advice than I, I'm sure, but they're otherwise occupied."
He pauses, once more, leaning to his side so he can look her in the eye. He considers her, gaze dragging over her face.
"I may not be able find your place for you," he says. "But I can help relieve your boredom."
He stands, and helps pull her to her feet.
"Trust me?" he says, holding out his hand.
She takes it, without hesitation. "Always."
Not minutes later, they're back on the castle grounds. Fingers curled in his, she allows him to lead, content to watch from behind as he practically skips along, a free lock of hair curling up and over his head in the breeze. It makes him seem young, younger than she's ever seen him. His vest – a deep, royal blue that very nearly shimmers in the afternoon light – is barely done up, the black shirt underneath rippling and wrinkling as it catches the wind. The silver chain that carries the ring that she gave him is high on the back of his neck, tangling in the little hairs that twist wildly this way and that. It's really something else to watch a man so terribly storied settle into contentedness. She wants to see his face, wants to see his smile, but his stride is nearly double her own, and she's barely keeping up as it is.
"Alright," she says, tugging on his hand until he turns to face her, speaking the first question that comes to mind. "Where are we going?"
He quirks a brow, smile pressing dimples into the corners of his mouth, tongue rolling out to lick at his bottom lip. She blushes. He had, after all, declared their destination (with great flair and circumstance) as they'd climbed up over the knoll just behind the harbor.
"If you want to look at me, you just have to ask."
Emma sighs. "I hate you."
He lifts her hand, curling his fingers and turning his wrist until he's breathing over her knuckles.
"Love you too, Emma."
She smiles, she can't help it. "So, shooting range, then?"
He laughs, and turns to walk once more. The wind picks up, even harder, the rustle of the trees overhead nearly drowning out the sound of his voice.
"It's an archery range, love."
She grumbles good-naturedly while they cross the courtyard, holding tighter to his hand as they settle into silence along the way. They pass the gardens along the northern wall of the castle, where several men and women in sunhats pluck away at the overgrown hedges and vines. They pass the ponds just down the hill, where some raucous kids are splashing away the high heat of summer. It takes a good ten minutes for them to reach the range, where one of the merry men –
"Are you a merry man if you're a woman?" she asks. "Merry people?"
"Semantics, I suppose."
– is showing Henry how to properly string his bow. The range is surrounded on all sides by a tall, split rail fence. Emma climbs up on the railing, steadying herself on Killian's shoulder, fingers slipping down and digging into his bicep as she steadies herself.
"Alright, love?" he says, fingers pressing into the small of her back, urging her arm back over his shoulder so she won't fall.
"I'm good."
They watch Henry – peaceful silence settling between them – as he wrestles with the breeze, arrows falling off target. He persists, shooting again and again until a red-thatched arrow embeds itself in the bullseye.
"Good show, lad!" Killian shouts. Henry startles, looking over his shoulder, grinning when he sees them. He comes bounding over, bow in hand.
"Hey Mom," he says. "Hey Killian. What are you guys doing?"
"Ahoy," Killian says, smiling down at him. "Your mother is frightfully bored. Thought she might enjoy watching you learn to outshoot a merry man."
The woman shuffling arrows on the other side of the range doesn't even look at them as she corrects him, "Merry woman."
Emma laughs. "Told you."
"You can try too," Henry says, color high in his cheeks, rocking back and forth on his heels with excitement and exertion. "If you want."
Emma smiles, fondly, even as she shakes her head. "And mysteriously slice my finger open again with a feather? No thanks, kid. I'll stick with swords."
"Aye," Killian says. "For the daughter of Snow White, she's a wretched shot."
Henry laughs as Emma flicks vindictively at Killian's ear. "Okay, well, if you change your mind, there are more bows and arrows in that shed over there."
They watch for at least another half hour or so, before Henry's tutor says she has –
"'Other matters to attend to', that's vague and mysterious," Emma says.
"Likely difficult to spend so much time under the watchful eye of royalty when you've been an outlaw for so long."
– and bids them a quick farewell, tossing her bow and arrows into the shed before bounding off into the woods. Off to do merry things, apparently (Henry's words, not hers). Henry follows in her wake, gathering up the arrows that had landed in the grass, waving them off when she and Killian offer to help. Once he's tucked them all way, he comes back over.
"Where to now?" Emma asks.
"Oh," Henry says, suddenly looking everywhere but at the two of them. "Violet's taking me riding again."
She can feel her brow climbing, though she tries to seem nonchalant.
"Huh," she says. "Sounds fun."
"Yeah," Henry says, rubbing compulsively at his elbow, now looking resolutely as his feet. Which seems about right, considering the absurd, brow-waggling smile on Killian's face. "She wants to show me how to ride barebacked."
Emma doesn't even have to look at Killian to know that she has to dig her nails in his neck to prevent the all too easy innuendo from slipping out of his mouth.
"That so?" is all he says, voice a bit pained.
"Uh, yeah. Yep." Henry says, backing away, blush creeping all the way up to his ears. He's already nearly out of sight before he throws over his shoulder, "Anyway, I'll see you tomorrow, bye."
"Ow," Killian says, when he's gone, reaching up to rub at his neck with the blunt curve of his hook.
Emma frowns. "Oh hush. More importantly, did he just say, 'See you tomorrow.'?"
"To be fair, love, your parents did say they were travelling overnight to the nearest village. Henry was quite eager to accompany them. You declined because – "
"Oh, that's right, Sneezy – "
" – you despise him."
"I do not."
Killian laughs, rocks back on his heels, offering both hook and hand as she climbs down from the fence, landing on the ground with a soft thud.
"Only a little," she concedes, when he gives her a look
He smiles, laces his fingers with hers as they amble on their way. Silence settles between them, a distinct hush, the wind having softened to little more than a light breeze.
"Feeling better, love?" he asks, at length.
She smiles. She certainly doesn't feel any worse. But the listlessness, the faint bit of apprehension that always follows her to a new place, the uncertainty that comes with it – a brief and twinging echo of all the times she'd moved as a child – still clings to her.
"Maybe a little bit?" she says.
He nudges her with his hook, the chill clinging to the metal seeping through the leather of her vest. She reaches up, fingers of both hands taking hold of it, watching as it fogs over beneath her touch. Killian hums, a soft little sound in the back of his throat, and she looks up at him. He smiles at her, warmly, gently, the way he always does when she fixates on his hook. He reaches for her, drawing his hand up and over her chin, her cheek, curling a generous lock of her hair over his fingers.
"It's alright if you're not," he says. He shuffles forward, reaching around to rub gentle circles along the base of her neck. "Emma, Henry is young. He's had years of stories and adventures to prepare him for this. The rest of us lived our formative years in this realm, or ones like it. If anyone deserves the chance to adjust…" His hand slides down her neck, over her chest, to where her ring rests over her heart. "…to breathe…it's you."
Emma sighs, shifting from one foot to the other, trying not to drown in the understanding expression on his face.
"I don't know…" she says, chewing on her lips as Killian's brow furrows, thoughtful.
"You do know, Emma. Allow yourself some leeway."
She reaches up, fiddling with the row of silver buttons on his vest, tracing the embroidery with the tips of her fingers. He waits, for a good minute or two, he waits for her, like he always does. Breaths even in his chest, heartbeat steady under the press of her fingers. He just…waits.
"You want to go explore the castle a bit?" she says, after a while, hands resting on his shoulders. "Could be something interesting in there."
He smiles, so brightly that his eyes squint to nothing but crinkles and specks of black and blue. She can't help but smile back.
"Aye, love. Anchor's aweigh."
The castle is quiet, save for the occasional rebounding echo that follows them down curving hallways and great, cavernous rooms. It would be eerie, save for the great shafts of colored light pouring in through the stained glass windows. Her fingers are curled around the curve of Killian's hook as he leads her up a spiral staircase. She drags her free hand along the smooth stone walls as they go. There are windows of beveled glass set at eye level, thrown half-open against the breeze. The harbor stretches out before them, shrinking as they climb higher and higher. It's nestled between two hills, a great sweep of green against the blue, blue sky. She admires it as they go, until they emerge along the southern edge of the –
"Alchemist's wing, right?" she asks, looking up and down along the halls.
Killian scratches behind his ear. "Aye, I believe so. Truth be told, I've not wandered these halls much. It's been summer since we arrived, and – "
"Why stalk around a castle when you can be out on the water?"
"Too right, love."
He smiles, and chooses a direction at random. They wander, and wander, but no one seems to be about, each room more and more like the last. Chairs, and dusty shelves, heated and stuffy as the sun climbs higher, the light that pours in the windows illuminating little more interesting than the dust motes that float in the air.
Boredom always weighs quickly and heavily on Killian's gait, and she can see it, hear it even, in the way his boots begin scuffing against the floors.
"Well, this sucks," she says.
He nods. "Aye."
Emma means to suggest that they go back outside –that maybe there's some swimming to be done, considering the sweat that's beginning to gather between her breasts – when she hears footsteps, and the faint tinkling of glass against glass. She has a brief, silent conversation with Killian before they both turn to follow. They turn a corner, and a sweep of red disappears into a room just up the way. He leads, leaning up against the door jamb, his thumb looped into his belt, while Emma peers around him.
"Ah," he says. "Regina. We – "
Regina gives him a look, as if she's not surprised they're there, as if she'd been waiting for them to come in and cause trouble. (Though, Emma thinks, her expression is not without a twinge of fondness.)
"Whatever you're about to say – no," she says.
"We're bored," Emma says, matter of fact. "Thought we'd explore the castle."
Regina hums, archly, as she fiddles with a crate full of vials and beakers and carafes, mysterious liquids and powders of all colors and sizes clanking together. "New, magical realm, full of possibilities, a pirate for a husband and a perfect, sunny day. I can see why you're bored."
Killian laughs, and swaggers into the room, reaching out to help her place one of the many concoctions on a particularly high shelf. Emma filters in as well, picking up a little glass bottle full of a dull, yellow dust. She turns it over in her hands, the granules beginning to emit a faint glow as they roll around inside. She's pulling it closer to her face when it's quickly, and firmly, plucked from her grasp.
"I don't remember volunteering to babysit the Joneses," Regina says. Then, to herself: "Of course, unerringly finding the most troublesome vial in the bunch."
Killian quirks a brow, a gleam in his eyes. "Oh? How so?"
"It's a medicinal aphrodisiac," Regina answers, placing it carefully back into the crate. "And it's a concentrate, so don't get any ideas."
He smiles, looks down at Emma. "What sort of ideas do you think she's talking about, love?"
Emma bites back a smile. "Not a clue."
"You're both idiots," Regina says. "This is a storeroom, not a playground. You spill that, and you'll not last the evening before you're embarrassing yourself in front of the entire kingdom."
Killian hums. "The evening, you say?"
"If that," she says, giving him another one of her looks, brow rising neatly beneath a sleek tuft of her hair. "Now, if you think you supposed adults can behave yourselves, I have actual children to attend to."
She sweeps back out of the room, as quickly as she came. Emma reaches out, fingers hovering over a little vial of ghostly black liquid. She startles, nearly knocks them all over, when Regina's voice drifts back through the door.
"And don't touching anything, Emma, I mean it."
Emma throws her hands up in the air. "I'm sorry, why do I get singled out?"
"To be fair, love, you did just about break everything on that table."
Emma huffs, though she watches, interest piqued, when Killian reaches gingerly down into the crate, withdrawing the so-called medicinal aphrodisiac carefully from among the rest. He regards it, turning it over and over, much like she had. He frowns at it, adorably, a stray bit of hair falling over his eye. The frown disappears after a moment, replaced by a leer that reminds her of their beanstalk days, possibility simmering in his enigmatic smile.
"You thinking what I'm thinking, Emma?"
His eyebrows dance obscenely over his forehead, teeth peeking from between his lips. His eyes darken, ethereal blue swallowed in pitch. He holds the vial aloft, hook clinking rhythmically against the glass. Next to the other potions and powders, it seems dull, harmless, powerless even.
But then Killian scrapes the tip of his hook along the side, metal screeching against glass. Up and down, then back again. Suddenly that tiny little bottle seems like the only thing in the room.
Emma swallows, hard. "I don't know…what are you thinking?"
(She knows exactly what he's thinking.)
He smiles. "Fancy a wager, perhaps?"
Yep, there it is.
"Against what? Each other?"
He grins, mischief in the curl of his lips. "Aye. First one to cave owes a favor of the winner's choice, no questions, no protestations."
She rolls her eyes. "By which you mean you want to steal my dessert after dinner."
He laughs. "Well, darling, sugar is a commodity in these parts. Now, what say you?"
What say you? Emma knows that he's aware of exactly what she'll say. It's a challenge, dangled in front of her, twisting in the way that he looks at her, like she'll say no, like she'll back down. She'd be irritated if she didn't know him the same way, know that, underneath it all, he just wants to see her happy, wants to help settle her heart. It's an infuriating mixture of adorable and impossible to resist. Still, she makes a show a thinking, looking back and forth between his face, and the bottle he holds in his hands. When, at last –
"Alright," she says. "Hand it over."
Sea salt. That's what it smells like. And a warm, damp, summer breeze, the kind that used to blow in off Apalachee Bay back when she was in Florida. A hint of liquor, too, dark and spicy.
"The ocean spray," he says, once they've carefully corked the bottle and set it back into place. "And cinnamon, of all things."
She nods, but she doesn't reply, watching him intently. He gazes back. A minute goes by. Then another, and another.
"Anything?" she says.
He shakes his head. "Not in the least."
"Give it a while?"
He nods, and takes her hand in his. They resume their exploration of the castle, though they're little interested in the things they find, watching each other with careful consideration. There's a soft heat settling in her belly as they go along, sure, but it's mild. She can ignore it, so she figures it must just be in her head. Besides that, it's not that unusual to find herself wanting to lick his jaw.
They're in the library when the buzzing starts. In the tips of her toes, in the base of her palms. Just a persistent nudging. She peers at him through a gap in the shelves while he complains about the dust on the books, and that someone has seen fit to misorder accounts of the naval battles of something called the Great Rebellion –
"I was there, love, I would know."
"Pre or post Navy?"
"Post, thank the gods, or I likely would have gone down with the rest of them."
She loses track of him, though, and after too long, she feels she's losing control of her breathing. A bit too fast. Her vision just this side of hazy. It's too much to ignore now, so she winds through the stacks, searching for any sign of him.
"Killian?" she calls. Her voice sounds a bit wrong to her own ears, a bit high pitched, a bit breathy.
"Here," he calls back.
She follows the sound to the back of the library, by an open window, where he's clutching at the stone that forms the apron, knuckles white, breath coming just as quickly as her own. He turns to look at her. His eyes are bright, brighter than she's ever seen. His pupils are pinpricks in the sea, as if he's cast in brilliant light. But the sun has since turned away from this side of the castle, so they're nearly swallowed in the shadows, barely a haze leaking in through the tiny windows. He looks frazzled, his hair wild atop his head, as though she's already buried her fingers in it.
Oh fuck, she wants to touch his hair. More than she's ever wanted anything in her life.
"I'd like to point out," she says, pausing to catch her breath as she leans against the cool stone beside him. "That this is probably the stupidest thing we've ever done."
He laughs. It's strained, high-pitched, slipping from between his teeth before she's hardly finished her sentence. "May I remind you that we once attempted to fly the Jolly to the swimming pond behind the stables?"
She huffs. "This is probably the second stupidest thing we've ever done."
He grips the windowsill tighter, red pooling in the tips of his fingers. "We may be in over our heads, darling."
She grins up at him, tugging at the collar of his shirt. "You forfeit?"
Killian looks down at her, determination briefly replacing the lust that's clouding his eyes, rims of blue dulling to slate.
"Never," he says, affectedly, and it makes her laugh, distracts her enough that she can take his hook and hand and not imagine it divesting her of her layers of clothing.
"Okay, okay," she says. "Why don't we go back outside. You know, get some fresh air?"
"Brilliant," he says, though he's speaking directly at her breasts, nearly going cross eyed as he leans forward, so close that she can feel his breath fanning over her face, and down the front of her shirt. He adds, almost as an afterthought: "Lead on."
It takes a good minute for her brain to whirl into gear, for her to remember what he's talking about, where they're going. It feels like she's breaking a physical connection between them when she looks away from him, and pulls him along.
It occurs to her, as he follows, that it can't have been more than thirty fucking minutes since they first touched the stuff.
Maybe they are in over their heads, after all.
They walk along the edge of the castle grounds. Emma was certain that the fresh air would help. And maybe there's been a change in the weather since they were last outside, or maybe it's the powder stuff wreaking havoc on her brain but –
"It is hot as hell," she says. "Oh my God."
He blows out a heavy, shaky breath. She can see the sun glinting off his hook out of the corner of her eye. But she doesn't dare look at him, not when it feels like her blood is pooling in the side of her body that's – despite any effort otherwise – leaning towards him, like it will start leaking out of her fucking ear just to be closer to him.
"Agreed," he says, apparently ignorant of her plight, although the waver in the pitch of his voice says more than he probably will. "And we would know."
"Seriously? Pretty sure we decided that we weren't going to make hell jokes anymore."
"Sorry, love." He doesn't sound sorry at all. "Mind's a bit addled, you see."
The gentle sway of soft, manicured grass gives way to twigs and sticker bushes the further they walk. The trees grow denser, the air a bit sharper as they head west. The breeze picks back up, the air smelling of sand and salt and seaweed. And she realizes, quite by accident, she's led them down towards the –
"Bay, Emma?" he says, incredulous. "Silver Bay? You'd put a sailor by his favorite stretch of sea, and ask him not to make love to his wife? And in this state, no less."
"Will you just relax? Maybe if we cool off, we can pretend like we have any dignity left."
He nearly trips as they descend a sandy slope down towards the water, the rustle of leaves overtaken by the wash of the tide. She toes off her boots, and peels off her socks, tossing them over her shoulder with abandon. She rolls up the hems of her pant legs and creeps to the edge of the water, wet sand and sea a delightful shock of cold against her heated skin. Killian follows, gathering up her socks and giving them a shake before he folds them up and tucks them into her boots, perching them neatly behind a sand bar.
"Emma," he says. "My love. My beautiful swan. If you're about to bathe in these crystal waters, then I do forfeit. Please help me undress."
"Ugh, yes."
No, is what she meant to say. Ugh, no. But she turns to look at him, just as a puffy cloud falls away from the sun, like a great, white curtain. The light pours over his body, deepening the blacks and blues of his clothing, the sun-dappled water sparkling in his eyes, pupils narrowing to specks as they drag from her head down to her toes. There's heat in his gaze, but there's devotion there, too. Love, understanding – everything that makes her heart stutter in her chest, fluttering over a half-beat when he smiles at her, and she smiles back. He steps forward, a long stride that eliminates nearly half of the distance between them. She holds up her hand, and he stops, brow climbing, jaw jumping.
"No?" she says, uncertain. Then, firmer, "No. Here, let me…"
She beckons him forward. Two more steps, and he's in her arms, erection pressing painfully, she's sure, against the seam of his pants, and against her belly. She can sympathize, blood pooling in the flesh between her legs, an uncomfortable twinge following every shift of her hips. He leans down, hand clutching at the small of her back, pulling, and bending, until their hips align. He kisses her, or she kisses him, she's not sure which. It doesn't seem to matter as his tongue slides languidly along the seam of her lips, nor when she sucks at his upper lip, or when she's breaking to breathe, just to yank him back down a second or two later so she can kiss the corners of his mouth, his cheeks, his chin, back up to his mouth.
"Bloody – " He falters when she reaches up under his vest, at his back, pulling at his shirt until she can wiggle her fingers between fabric and skin. She scratches at the base of his spine, and he kisses her harder, deeper.
"Maybe," she says, when he releases her lips so he can worship the side of her face. "Maybe if we just get a little relief."
"Whatever you want," he says, into the patch of skin just beneath her ear. She shivers, but pulls away, grabbing onto his hook so she can lead him back up into the forest. He, predictably, looks adorably affronted.
"Besides that," he says. "Love, I may die."
"No one's going to die." She tightens her grip around his hook, pulling him up the hill. "Just hold on a second."
She stops them by a pair of beech trees, bark smooth and cool to the touch. Their leaves flutter in the wind, catching the silver light that blinks in off the Bay. She wonders, briefly, if what they're about to do will sully the beauty of this little glen, tucked away as it is from the eyes of most who wander here.
Then again, he's fucked her in the hidden cove around the bend more times than she can count, salt on his lips and water dripping sensuously off tangled tufts of his hair…
The trees will survive, she decides. She sits down, leans up against the one closest to her, motions for him to do the same by the other tree. When he does, they're facing one another, her bare feet brushing up against his calves.
"Watch," she says.
And he does, eyes fixated on hers, his heavy breaths riding on a steadily increasing tempo as she unlaces her pants. He follows her lead, burying his hook in the silty earth beside him when he pulls his cock free, and slides his palm over the tip before taking himself in hand. She brushes her fingers through her folds, sliding further down the tree, legs tangling with his as she begins to run wide, wet, slow circles over her clit, in pace with him. He moans, and she looks down, watching as he leverages his left arm so he can rock up into his hand. Their rhythm rises, and her eyes slide aimlessly to the ground beside him when she dips a finger into herself, her other hand taking the place of the first.
"Emma," he says, gently, smiling when she looks at him. "Eyes on mine, love."
She smiles back, though it quivers, teeth sinking into her lip as she presses harder, riding her hand as he fucks into his. It takes everything within her to keep her eyes open, latched onto his, feeling a bit overwhelmed by the erotic blend of fondness and desire she finds gazing intently back at her. She presses her feet harder against the backs of his knees when she feels warmth flush throughout her body.
"Close?" he says, voice strained, pitched low.
She nods.
"Breathe, Emma."
She exhales, raggedly, dragging in one breath after the other as she rocks furiously against her hands. She can't help but to close her eyes when she comes, if only for a moment, blinking back open to watch his head fall back as he comes, skin of his neck stretching taught over the muscles of his throat, mouth falling open, a soft, choked cry serving to draw out her own orgasm, electric jolts scraping at her nerves until she's teetering on the edge between pleasure and pain, and she pulls her hands away.
"Bloody hell," he says, catching his release in his hand before it can make a mess of his pants.
They lay there for several, long minutes, legs still tangled together, the laces of their pants still undone, and eyes still holding fast. She registers the breeze on her face once more, and while heat still tingles just beneath her skin, she doesn't feel quite so desperate. Whether it's the garble of the water nearby, the peaceful sound of the wind in the trees, or the tender expression on his face, she's not sure. Nor, really, does she care.
Another few minutes goes by before he speaks, voice quiet as he sits up, lacing his pants while she follows suit.
"You're bloody brilliant, you know that, love?"
She laughs, takes his hook when he offers it, bits of soil still clinging to it as they help each other up, and over towards the brook just up the way – one of several that trickle down into the Bay. He seems sated, somewhat. Although, even as he washes his hand off in the water, she can see him growing half-hard again. Can see it in the taut press of his thighs against his calves as he crouches down, in the way he leans forward, groaning softly as he adjusts himself with a shimmy of his hips.
"Why don't you just – " Her breath hitches, caught in her lungs when the simple act of leaning over presses her thighs together just so, sensitive flesh between her legs rubbing together. " – I don't know, not wear pants."
He laughs as he reaches out, pulling her down to crouch beside him, wetting his sleeve in the cool, clear water, cleaning her fingers, dragging the fabric all the way down to her wrists. It's more than a little unnecessary, but he's got that look on his face, determination pinching his brow. The same expression he wears when he thinks she might refuse him, might insist that she can take care of herself –
"I know you can, Emma love, but you don't have to. Let me help you."
"God, fine. Just tone done the puppy eyes for a second."
– and pull away from him.
"There you are, love," he says, pulling her to her feet – once he's satisfied with the state of her hands – and alongside him as he leads her back to her boots, still standing lonely on the sand.
"Alright," she says, once she's hopped back into her shoes, one hand still grasping at his forearm. "Scale of one to ten, how turned on are you still?"
He chews on his bottom lip a moment, tongue slipping out to smooth at the swollen skin. The lust simmers back to the surface, and while it certainly isn't unbearable, it's walking the fine line between pleasant and not.
"May I choose a number greater than ten?" he says, and laughs when she frowns, reaching out to smooth at the crinkled skin between her brow, down the slope of her nose, along the swell of her cheek. "Call it a tie, Emma, and I can make love to you, right here, until the stars blink to life up above."
Emma has to grit her teeth against the immediate desire to say yes, to strip him and drag him into the water, to watch the expression on his face flicker between joy and lust as his two great loves surround him.
But –
"Killian," she says.
"Hm?" He's not looking at her, or rather at her shoulder as he tugs lightly at her vest so he can nose at her collarbone. She plants her hands firmly against his chest and pushes until he backs away, and blinks down at her, nonplussed.
"Didn't take you for a quitter, Captain."
He smiles. "A good Captain knows when he's lost, love. But I do intend to go down with my ship."
She ignores the innuendo – or tries to, anyway, hiding her grin when she pretends to scratch at her nose.
"This ship isn't going anywhere," she says. "That doesn't count. We didn't even really touch each other. Just something to take the edge off."
He huffs. "You're impossible."
"Well, I'm not the one that suggested we inhale magical fuck dust for kicks. But I'm sure as hell going to see it through."
He straightens, leans back on his heels, the expression on his face caught somewhere between amusement and incredulity.
"Pardon…" his voice falls, then rises, very nearly squeaking as he finishes. "…fuck dust?"
"You know what I mean."
He opens his mouth to retort, but she cuts him off, takes hold of his hand in hers, "Anyways, either you admit defeat, or we keep going."
Killian sighs, rubbing at the spot beneath his ear, then reaching down to adjust himself through his pants. He regards her, shifting back and forth on his feet, brow furrowing, head turning from one side, then to the other.
"Alright then, Emma," he says, at length. "Where to next?"
She smiles. "Back to the castle? Maybe we can sneak back into the kitchens. We can't do anything if a bunch of chefs are looking right at us."
He nods as he follows along, dolefully.
"Aye," he says, though he sounds a bit doubtful. "Surely some proper company will keep us out of trouble."
"Surely some proper company will keep us out of trouble," Emma mocks, not half an hour later, accent and all.
If asked, she's not entirely sure she could say how they got where they are – all the way from Silver Bay to, well, here. Sure, they had walked, wandered, even snatched a few sweet rolls from the kitchen. But people – her parents have left with Henry already, the dwarves are who knows where, the staff, anyone – are thin on the ground.
Then, rather suddenly, she finds herself in his lap, in some useless sitting room on the second level of the castle. She means to lean back – but somehow she ends up pressing forward, her nose skimming the arch of his neck, his jaw – as she asks,
"Uh, wait. How did this even happen?"
She presses her cheek against his, hands finding their way into his hair, the sweat-slicked strands gliding as easily through her fingers as the slide of his leather pants against hers.
"It's a lovely – " His breath hitches when she locks her arms around his neck, grabbing hold of her own wrists, and rolls her hips against his.
" – day," he finishes, voice high and thin. She rolls again, and again, pressing harder and harder until heat seeps through the layers between them. She can feel his cock, hard and heavy between her legs, dragging over clit with each tilt of their hips. Typically, it wouldn't be enough. Typically, she'd demand that their pants somehow be removed without having to stop rocking together.
Then again, typically, they're not riding on a magical aphrodisiac, her blood positively singing despite the fabric between them. She leans back, hands moving to his shoulders as she grinds down onto him. She watches his mouth fall open, the words she could see jumping in his throat falling out with nothing but a broken, stuttered, "Uh."
"You were saying?" she pants, slowing her movements when he clamps down tight on her waist with his hand, his hook making a mess of the upholstery.
"Lovely day," he says, grits it through his teeth. "Everyone's likely out and – bloody fuck, Emma, that chafes."
She pauses, taking gentle hold of his face between her hands. "Oh God. I'm sorry, I didn't – "
"No," he says. He curls his fingers around her thigh, slips his hook through a loop of her belt. "No, Emma, it's alright."
He rocks up into her, slow circular movements that burn down low in her belly, tingling outwards until her fingers are buzzing, sweat slicking the palms of her hands.
"It's alright," he repeats. "I want to see you come. You're so close. Just…"
He sits up straighter, until he's leaning over her, gathering her up in his arms so he can thrust against her in earnest. She cries out, thrusting back, tucking her face into the crook of his neck. Their leathers creak, the chair beneath them squeaks, the hot breeze rushing in through the open window serves only to amplify the unintelligible sounds that fall out of their mouths. The room becomes nothing but noise and light, and she has to clamp her eyes shut, tight, when she comes on a hoarse sob of a sound. Her legs go slack, she feels she might just tip over, but he holds fast, rocking against her until the last of the tremors taper off.
"Okay, so." She takes a deep breath, sporadic aftershocks still rippling down her arms and legs. "I'm going to go down on you now. Alright?"
"Bloody hell, love," he says, anticipation shivering down his chest, vibrating against her hand as she clutches at the ring around his neck. "Do you really have to ask?"
She huffs. "Yes. Usually you're all – 'Oh Emma, you don't have to." – and then it's another five minutes of polite gyrating before you finally let me suck your cock, like it's gonna give me a mouth disease or something."
He blushes, hard, even as said polite gyrating commences beneath her. "Darling, I just want you to feel good."
The arch expression on her face falls into something more tender, and she blinks heavy on a sigh. She reaches up, scratching at the hairs flipping out behind his ears.
"I know," she says. "I want you to feel good, too. That's kind of the point."
He hums, rocking, ever so subtly, back and forth. "I'm yours, Emma. Touch me as you will."
"So that's a yes?"
"Bloody – " His hips jerk, and his words stilt when she reaches down to palm him through the fabric of his pants. "Yes."
Emma laughs, and moves off his lap, her legs still a bit unsteady. She drops to her knees in front of him, pulling on his calves so that he'll scoot forward. She settles between his legs, squirming at the chill of the stone beneath her.
"Do you – " she starts, resting her head against his leg as she tries to make herself comfortable on top of the world's most unforgiving floor.
"Pillow?" he interrupts, and when she lolls her head back so she can look up at him, he's an intricately patterned cushion, tassels and all, dangling from his hook. She grabs it, places it beneath her knees, sighing in relief as the down warms her shins.
She undoes the laces of his pants, and while it's unfortunate that the precious smile on his face falls away, the loud groan that rends through the room when she finally takes him in hand is worth it. She leans down, blows cool air along the length of him.
"Better?" she says.
"Far," he answers.
So she does it again, and again, until he's panting so hard above her that deep, throaty, nonsense words start falling out of his mouth at the tail end of every breath. When she finally closes her mouth over him, sucking lightly at the tip, he curses through his teeth, thighs quivering beneath her hands. When she wraps her hand around the base, licking along the sensitive underside, a telltale riot of words start pouring out of his mouth.
"Did I ever tell you," he pants, nearly tripping over every third word. "That I dream – " She slides her mouth down, until his cock hits the back of her throat, then backs away, pressing hard with her tongue. " – I dream about your lips? Sometimes not even like – like this. Just – " She repeats the motion, sucking harder the faster she goes. He reaches out, threading his fingers through her hair. " – just talking. Telling me that you love me. That – " She swirls her tongue, back and forth, the way that he likes, and he whines, hips beginning to follow her movements. " – your hair, love. Is certainly magic. Like every part of you. And I – " He falters, and she knows that he's close. So she lightens her touch, draws it out.
"And I – " he repeats, after another minute or two, but he loses the words, again, when he comes, pulsing hard and hot in her mouth, his release sliding down her throat.
"Gods, Emma," he says, whimpering as she continues to suck at him, lightly, until he falls, boneless, against the back of his chair. "I could write a sonnet about your mouth."
She laughs as she tucks him back into his pants, laces them up as best as she can manage.
"I think you did," she says. "Although there was this weird interlude about hair and magic."
He groans, teasingly pathetic, sinking even further into the chair, his legs splayed out in front of him. "Have mercy on me, love. My tongue tends to loosen when your lips are wrapped around me."
She laughs –
"I know."
– and reaches out, tugging him up by hook and hand. He's a bit unsteady, but then again, so is she. Even so, his eyes are clearer, his pulse is steadier, his breaths slow and even in his chest. The haze that was plucking at the edges of her vision seems to have dissipated, the heaviness that had settled in her limbs having melted away, for the most part.
"You think it's wearing off?" Emma says.
"Perhaps," Killian answers. "Less so with time, I imagine, more so with completion."
She frowns. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, I think we should concede defeat."
"Nope." She shakes her head. "No. Doesn't count. It has to be sex. Sex. Like, you know, with actual…" She motions with her hands, and Killian laughs, heartily. "…actual sex."
"You bloody stubborn woman," he says, still smiling.
"At least we don't have to go change clothes or anything. That would – "
"Take us by the east wing, aye. Where – "
"Regina probably is, yeah. She'd never let us live it down."
He laughs. "Well, lead on, my love. How shall we try to stay out of trouble now?"
She hums, thoughtfully. "Come on, I have an idea."
"Forgive me, love," Killian says. "But your ideas are rubbish."
"Hey."
He quirks a brow. They're both sweaty, flushed, clearly aroused. Especially him, pupils blown wide, a distinct tent in his pants. She has a feeling that this is the tail end of it, like a breaking fever. She feels tired, used even. But she still wants to jump his bones, her thighs a bit slick with her own desire. And – rather suddenly, it seems – there are people everywhere. She'd avoided the east and west wings entirely, opting to lead him along to the – typically fucking empty – great rooms along the north wall, where she could sit him down and just leer at him until he cracked.
In hindsight, not the best idea, considering she's initiated every encounter thus far.
So, Emma agrees.
"Okay, sure, my ideas suck," she says. "But. You started it."
He shrugs. "Point taken. Now, I would not be averse to going back to the Bay."
"I'm sure you – "
She pauses, ears pricking at the sound of nearby voices, of gruff laughter. She reaches for his hook, yanking him into a dark corner by a gaudy stone fireplace –
"Gaudy. Honestly, love, you've a frightening lack of appreciation for the fine arts."
"Seriously? It's a bunch of random goats and babies dancing around a candy cane or something."
– and, coincidentally, straight into her. Her flesh heats everywhere he presses into her, so much so that she can feel sweat breaking out on her arms, on her thighs, the back of her neck. The voices crow closer, louder, but even so, they fade as the blood flowing in her ears ratchets up to a dull roar.
"Pardon," Killian says. He pauses to clear his throat, his voice dipping into pitches that vibrate straight down into her chest, into the pit of her stomach. "But why are we hiding?"
She scoffs, as quietly as she can manage. She can hear their footsteps now, echoing in the hall. The castle is still a bit of a maze to her yet, so she's not much of a clue as to where they could be headed, whether they'll actually be passing by them. She almost hopes so, as her blood lugs almost painfully through her veins, setting needles into the tips of her fingers, into her lips, sharper the longer she resists the urge to just reach out and start yanking his clothes off. She won't last long like this.
"Emma, love," he says, tugging at her wrist as he repeats, "Why are we hiding?"
"Are you kidding? We look like we just had sex. Twice."
He frowns, his eyes gleaming in the dim light filtering in under the door. He looks himself over, tapping hand and hook alike along the length of his vest, then down along his pants.
"We do not," he protests.
"Do too. Probably because we just had sex. Twice."
He sighs, long suffering. "Darling, if that were true, then I'm guessing I wouldn't feel as though small knives weren't trying to push their way out of my fingers."
"Oh God, you too?"
He opens his mouth to reply, but the voices grow rather suddenly in volume. The door down the way swings open, light flooding in. It doesn't nearly reach them – if anything, it casts thicker shadows down at their feet.
Still, Emma turns, reflexively, leaning back against him, shuffling further back against the corner. She waits, counting her breaths, figuring that they're seconds away from being discovered, despite the admittedly huge distance between them and the dwarves. And considering the state of her – cheeks flushed, pupils blown, clothing rumpled – she's certain she'd never live it down.
Neither would Killian, she thinks…
She is suddenly all too aware of the fact that he's flush against her back, knee to shoulder blade. She can feel his chest. Every rise, every fall, pushing her forward, then bringing her back when his hook presses against her belly. Every breath is a warm, wet puff against first her neck, then her ear, then her temple. He's so close, she can hear him licking his teeth. His fingers rub purposefully against the hem of her tunic. Back and forth, then back again, until the soft material wiggles free from her pants, and the callouses on his fingertips scrape against the soft skin just above her hip.
Individually, maybe, these things would be bearable. And if she focuses hard enough on the din of voices, on the indistinct crackle and crinkle of whatever the hell it is the dwarves are doing, she can just about ignore the way his arms tighten around her, the way he stands on the tips of his toes so he can curl up and over her, pressing his chin into the crook of her neck. Her legs quiver, her ankles feel boneless, she feels like she might stumble. But, at the very least, she's not fucking him in semi-public.
That is, until he turns his lips towards her ear and whispers, "Emma…I have you, love."
It's her name, really, that does her in. Curling his tongue around it like it's a privilege just to say it, like he could whisper it over and over again, every day, every lifetime, and never grow tired of it. It's the affection, sweet and light and airy, not buried by lust as she might have expected, but amplified, sharpened to the point that he's holding her gently, preciously, as he breathes in, and then pressing down, handing dragging towards the front of her pants as breathes out.
"Listen," she says. She reaches up behind her, grasping at the back of his neck. She shuffles her fingers, wiggling them against his scalp until long tufts of his hair tickle at the sensitive skin at the base of her palm. She tugs, hard, until he's looking down at her. "Listen. I'm going to fuck you, okay?"
He groans when she tugs again, almost subconsciously. His hook presses harder over her belly, hips thrusting lightly behind her. He rocks against her, once, twice, three times before she pushes back against him, until his back collides with a pillar twisting along the junction of the east and the north wall. He grunts – half out of frustration, she imagines – when she digs her heels into the rough hewn stone floor. It stills the rhythmic motion of his hips, and he looks down at her once more, licking his lips.
"Okay?" she repeats.
His eyes flick to the other side of the room, where the dwarves are still clattering about, a muted haze of laughter and gruff conversation. He looks back down at her.
"Here?" he says. There's a twinkle in his eye, shining bright along the darkened shades of blue. She gets the feeling he's asking more for her sake than for his. One hand still mussing in his hair, she reaches back, grasping at his thigh, stilling him so she can roll her hips back into his. She watches his face, watches his pupils twitch, watches his teeth sink down into his lower lip as air rushes out of his nose.
"Yeah, here," Emma says. Then, once more, wanting to be certain, her voice small, breathy, "Okay?"
He opens his mouth to reply, soft smile on his lips, but whatever he was about to say is lost on a deep, guttural sound. His eyes flutter, like he can hardly keep them open.
He tries again, hook tucking into the seam of her pants, hand sliding up to brush at the underside of her breasts.
"Anywhere," he says, whining against the slope of her jaw when she grinds back against him once more. "Anytime. Always."
The words are hardly out of his mouth before she presses her lips to his, sinking back against his chest so she can pull him down to her. She can feel the Always in the upward swipe of his tongue, in the stutter of his jaw as she drags her fingers along the scruff on his face. She means to move quickly, to press him back and down and just take him before a poor soul comes wondering their way. But then she pulls his lower lips between both of hers, sucking lightly, letting go with a deep breath, and somehow the intention to lean back turns into a compulsion to fall forward. She kisses him. Again, and again, each one deeper than the last, his tongue mapping the ever so slightly crooked tilt of her bottom teeth, then the top, the inside of her upper lip. Hers licking at the ridges on the roof of his mouth. She doesn't think she'll ever tire of it.
It takes a deep swell of tenderness to pull her away, if only so she can press the words against the jut of his cheek.
"I love you," she says.
"Gods, Emma," he answers, hand roving all over her chest, up to brush against the lines of her throat, to pull gently at her ear. "I love you too."
With that, he makes to turn her around, hook pushing, hand pulling. She resists, and she's sure she's never heard quite so pathetic a sound come out of his mouth.
"Please, love. Just – " He pulls at her again, but she presses back on him even harder.
"No, no, no," she says. "You just…" She kicks at his feet, nudging them until he sinks down on the generous lip of the pillar behind them – more a bench than anything else. "Yeah, sit, like that, and I'll just…" She turns then, leaning against him, chest to chest, swaying on her feet as he wraps his arms around her, shuffling his legs until one of hers is between both of his. His fingers curl around the back of her knee, holding her in place as he ruts against her thigh, the hot, heavy length of him sliding again and again between two layers of leather. A great sigh of relief rumbles out of his chest, and he tucks his head beneath her chin, his ear pressed against her heart.
She threads her fingers through his hair, laughing as he garbles something unintelligible against her breast when she presses her leg gently back against him in time with his thrusts. Even as an unbearable heat, and considerable wetness, settles between her thighs, she can't help but smile.
"Didn't we do this already?" she says.
"And again, if I'm not inside you in the next…" Killian reaches up from behind her, presses his hand between her legs. The leather is thick, but pliant beneath his fingers. Her smile falls quickly from her face, and she has to bite down on the tip of her tongue to suppress the groan that bubbles up in the back of her throat.
"The next what?" She gasps when he presses harder.
He huffs, and pulls her down on top of him, the ridge of his erection replacing his fingers. He rocks, and she follows, gently at first, growing in speed and intensity the longer he does. He breathes against her ear, sighs turning to huffs, huffs turning to moans.
It takes every bit of willpower that Emma possesses to stop him, to lean back until she's perched on his legs, to press her hands against his chest so that he doesn't follow. When she stands once more, he opens his mouth, likely to protest.
"Emma, please, I – "
The rest of however he was planning to whine at her falls straight off his tongue when she starts yanking at the laces of his pants, pulling until his pants are loose enough to shimmy down his hips. He hisses when he leans up, only to plop bare-bottomed back down on the smooth, chilled stone beneath him.
"Alright?" she says, reaching out to run her fingers through his hair.
He smiles, and it should be ridiculous, the sappy look on his face, juxtaposed with the way his cock is bobbing against his stomach, red and weeping. But it's not. It's just…him. All of him, looking up at her the way he always does. Like everything begins and ends with her. And her. Looking down at him the same way.
"Alright, love."
She nods, grasping at his shoulder, leaning down to pull off her boots. He catches a loop in her pants with his hook, his hand squeezing at her hip to steady her until she's bare from the waist down. She moves to turn around, but he catches her arms, pulls her down into yet another kiss, angling his head so that he can curl his tongue around hers, inching her forward until she can feel his cock sliding against her heat. He presses forward, brushing over her clit, swallowing the broken sound that rattles up out of her chest. He pulls harder, and she knows what he wants, but she pulls back once more, breaking the kiss with an erotic, wet sucking sound that twinges straight down to the pit of her stomach.
"Emma," he says, petulant. "For the love of all the gods, above and below, I swear I will catch aflame if you don't just touch me already."
"Chill, okay? I'm just turning around. You know, back to front, so I can make sure Grumpy and company don't come wandering too far this way."
He quirks a brow, even as his hips still undulate over the stone – subconsciously, she imagines. "I do have eyes, as well."
She rolls her own eyes, though it loses some of its luster as she turns around and settles on his lap, a happy sigh rushing out of her mouth when she feels his cock press against the base of her spine.
"Please," she says, even while whimpers catch in her throat as she wiggles about, leaning hard against him as she tries to steady her feet on the lip of the pillar. "You're a useless lookout during sex."
He scoffs, a delightful foil to the way he scooches back, pulling her along with him, helping her with gentle hand and hook to position herself above him.
"Once, darling," he says, affectionately, fingers pressing into her belly so that she rests flush against him, arms holding her tight, keeping her in place. The buttons along his vest, the intricate embroidery threaded along the deep blue, velvety material press into her back, teasing where leather and linen turn to flesh. "Once do I fail to notice your father's presence. Is that enough to ruin a man's reputation?"
She hums, throaty, answers offhandedly as she grasps handfuls of the fluttery linen of his shirt. "Yep."
He pulls her back as she lifts herself up, holding tight around her stomach. She reaches down, take him in hand, and any retort he may have had dies in the groan that he presses into the base of her neck. Her legs quiver with the effort of holding herself up, but she wants to hear it. The sound he makes when she rubs at the sensitive stretch of skin just beneath the tip of his cock – something between a sob and a whimper. She's not disappointed, especially when he turns his mouth towards her ear, the sound hot and wet against the side of her face.
"Emma," he breathes, hips rising to meet the downward stroke of her hand. "Emma, Emma, Emma."
"Killian," she answers. And she sinks down, slowly, just an inch or two before she's rising back up, then down, again and again – each upward pull of her hips drawing a warm, heavy, breathy cry from his mouth – until she's seated in his lap.
"Fucking," he breathes in.
"Finally," he breathes out.
She laughs, softly, but she doesn't move, and he doesn't appear to be in a hurry either, despite the fact that the merriment continues on the other side of the room. At this point, she figures they're shrouded in enough darkness and silence that they can easily get away with it. So, she ignores them, and simply breathes, revels in the feeling of being full, of the rise and fall of his chest, of the tickle of the fine hairs of his legs against the backs of her thighs.
Long minutes pass, and then he leans back, head knocking gently into the pillar behind him. He sucks in a breath, and then rocks forward, sliding deep, the change in angle radiating warmth down to the tips of her toes. She leans to the side just a bit, reaching back once more to grab a fistful of his hair. It strains her neck, and limits the range of motion of their hips, but God, she just has to kiss him again.
So she does. Lightly, at first. A press of lips against lips. Simple, beautiful even. Until he reaches down, pressing against her belly as he rolls up, hard, cock dragging against the sensitive stretch of flesh along her inner walls. Her mouth opens against his, stuttering nonsense into his mouth as he entreats her tongue to tangle with his, over and over again, deeper and deeper, mirrored by the push and pull of their lower bodies.
He breaks away when she grasps at his thighs, leaning forward so she can ride him in earnest, chasing the burn in her belly as it seeps outward, flushing her chest, then her cheeks.
"Gods, Emma," he says, voice strained. She can feel him harden even further, deep inside her, his hand trembling as he reaches up under her shirt to palm at her breast. "You're so bloody beautiful. Do you know that, love? Surely you must. You're like a lone star on a foggy night. I the sailor that follows you home."
"Killian, ugh," she says, words mostly lost in her breaths as they heave in and out of her chest, as she fucks herself on his lap, nigh on into oblivion. "You're so fucking eloquent, I swear to God."
She leans back, head falling onto his shoulder, hands bracing on his legs. She chases the high, her blood flooding every nerve ending, full to bursting.
"I…" she pants. She wants to tell him that if she's a star, then so is he, burning even brighter than her on some nights. Instead, she rolls her neck until her cheek is pressed against his, rolls her hips in turn, forward and back, until she hears a telltale moan escape from between his teeth.
"You…" she whispers. She wants to say that he's her home too. That she could do without the castle, that some days she just wants to grab Henry and grab him and just run away on the Jolly Roger for a week or two.
"We…" she says. We're family, she thinks. I'd never leave you, she thinks. I'll drag your sorry ass out of hell as many times as I have to, she thinks.
But it's all lost on her tongue, especially when his fingers drag through the wetness between her legs – brushing himself as he slides in and out – and starts rubbing wide, breathtaking circles over her clit.
"I hear you, my love," he says. "Even in silence. I hear you, Emma."
"Dammit, Jones," she says. But she has nothing to complain about, only frustration that she can't get any closer to him than she already is, that she can't even begin to say everything that she wants to. So she hones in on the sweat on her palms, the way his Goddamn pants – "Your pants are so slippery, fuck, I should have taken them off."
He laughs, and presses harder with his fingers, encouraging her to quicken her pace, the languid push and pull of their hips turning sharp and desperate. She comes on a hard, downward stroke, pleasure pulsing over and over again, barely managing to bury her cries in the skin under his jaw. He leans forward, wrapping both arms around her yet again, pulling her flush and tight against his chest, inching her upward so he can – in her stead, as her muscles give way – fuck her until the periodic clench of her body around his ebbs, then until he comes just as hard, his moan long, low and so guttural that she's half a mind to just sit there with him still inside, to touch herself until he hardens once more, so that she can hear it again.
But she's also exhausted and –
"Hey, where did everyone go?"
He hums, questioningly, though he doesn't seem to care too much. He leans forward, slipping out of her as he rests his forehead against her neck, breaths slowly returning to normal.
"Everyone's gone," she says. The room is almost gravely silent, save for the sound of the mourning doves, singing softly on the edge of twilight, just outside the window.
"Wouldn't know." He pauses, reaching around to help her get her feet back on the ground, rubbing soothing circles into her thighs to help ease the ensuing ache. "I've been told I'm a useless lookout during sex."
She laughs. "Shut up. Here, let me…"
Emma slides off his lap, and turns in his arms. Killian smiles up at her, tired and sated, the flush gone from his cheeks, sweat drying waves into his hair. He drops lazy kisses all over her face while she laces up his pants for the second time that day – on her cheeks, her chin, a particularly wet one on her nose that nearly has her giggling – urging him to lift his hips so she can pull them up over his behind. He, in turn, offers his arm while she shimmies and hops back into her clothes.
"Shall we retire for the evening, love?" he says, once they're passable.
She threads her fingers through his hair when he pulls her back to him, resting his head against her breast.
"Sun's still out," she says.
"Hardly," he grumbles. "Pity a man, Jones. You've outdone me."
She laughs. "Flattery. You just want to get me in a bathtub – "
"That too."
" – which…" She pauses, shifting from foot to foot, his release a noticeable discomfort between her legs. "…I need. Alright, sailor, bath and then bed."
He stands, and now she's the one looking up at him, her eyes at chin level. He smiles, simply, and pulls her hair back over her shoulder, sets her vest to rights, readjusts the chain around her neck.
"You don't think anyone saw us, do you?" Emma asks.
Killian shakes his head. "Certainly not, my love. There's not much in this room in the way of entertainment. They likely just moved on."
She nods, satisfied with his answer, and they make their way – rather circuitously, if only to avoid being seen, rumpled and smelling of sex – back to their rooms in the east wing. When their bedroom door finally closes behind them, they both let out a breath, relieved, sated, tired, Emma more than a little aghast that –
"We seriously just had sex in public, oh my God."
Killian smiles. "Aye, that we did."
"I won, though."
He laughs, loudly, rocking back on his heels. "You always do."
The very next afternoon, Emma's out on the Jolly Roger, moored as it is on the docks, watching Killian and Henry fiddle with the rigging. She's perched along the gunwale by the bow, the wind rustling in her hair, contented satisfaction beating in her chest.
He's right, she thinks. There's no rush to try and settle in, and she can't remember the last time she just sat back and watched. It's a sight to behold, Henry, having just returned with her parents early that morning, all boundless teenaged excitement – and nearly taller than her, now, God – confidently moving about the ship, a proud smile on Killian's face.
Her mother is a welcome interruption when the sun climbs higher in the sky, right up above them, hot, blinding light pouring over them, glinting off the water until Emma feels like she has a permanent squint.
"Hey Killian," Snow calls. "Could you come here for a second? You too, Emma. I've got food. And water. And hats, good grief, you'll go blind."
Killian smiles as he hops up to the quarterdeck, offering Emma his hook so the he can –
"Unnecessary," she says.
"Gentleman," he replies.
– help her down.
"Someone's in a good mood," Emma says, as they descend the gangplank.
He hums, eyebrows waggling as he whispers, "Can't imagine why."
Emma absolutely refuses to blush, clamping down on the memories that rise, unbidden, from just the day before, as Snow hands them a pale full of curious little fruits and hats the she knows that Killian will graciously accept, but that he will toss in the cabin in favor of the wind in his hair, as he always does.
"Thank you, milady," he says.
Snow smiles, reaching up to pat him on the shoulder. Before she leaves, though, she crooks her finger, so that Emma will shuffle closer.
"Yeah?" Emma says
"Just a thought," Snow says, and she looks down as she does. "But you probably shouldn't, you know…make love…where other people can see."
Killian, who had already taken a bite out of one of the fruits, spits it out, and coughs – hard, wracking spasms that have him rocking forward on his feet.
"I hope you know that Bashful is never going to look at you again," Snow adds, even as she thumps Killian on the back until can breathe again. "Anyway, enjoy the fruit! See you at dinner."
With that, she's off. Emma's never been more grateful for Henry's slightly obsessive nature in her entire life, a look thrown over her shoulder confirming that he's still messing around with some ropes or something.
"Bloody hell," Killian says.
"Yep," Emma says. "I hope you know that I'm never going to be able to look at myself again."
"Nor I at your mother."
"Or at literally any of the dwarves now."
"Your father as well."
Emma laughs, a bit hysterical. "Alright, so, no one's ever looking at anyone else again. This is because I had the gall to say that I won. Goddamit."
Killian's laughter echoes hers. He digs into the skin beneath his ear with his finger, red following in the wake of his blunted nails.
"So…" he says. "Tie?"
She laughs again. Freer this time – figuring it's certainly not the worst thing that anyone's caught them doing – as she follows him back up the gangplank.
"Deal."