Summary: Killian is a toxicologist working out of a university. Emma is a lawyer. It's late on a Friday night when they find themselves getting up to no good.
Notes: This is set in the universe of a little ficlet I posted on tumblr, although you don't need to have read it before you read this. This is basically just established relationship fluffy smut, set in a modern universe where Killian is a toxicologist and Emma is a lawyer. Enjoy!
Fourteen hours.
Emma gazes at the clock as she slouches in Killian's office chair. It's high backed, leather, with the smooth sort of spin that she's been just about making herself sick with for the past hour. She spins, slowly, and takes a good look around his office. Not that she hasn't been in here before. But in the later hours, when everything's quiet, no students scuffling up and down the halls, no staff or faculty demanding his attention…there's just something different about it. Warmer, more comforting.
She spins again, in the other direction, foot tapping lightly on the floor beneath her as she goes. There are photographs scattered across his desk, some of the two of them, some of just completely random bodies of water –
"Not random, Swan. Just particularly beautiful."
"I'd argue, but I know you're just gonna turn that line around on me and make me forget what we were talking about."
– others of he and Henry fishing off the docks on the river behind his house. There are years of beauty and heartache stretched out between each one. Even in the books stacked haphazardly between them, with frayed pages and crinkled bindings, the sort of wear and tear that makes things beautiful. She turns, and stares at the row of windows just over his desk, hidden behind blue, roman blinds, faded and yellowed with time, thinking how he's been meaning to replace them for the past two years, at least.
She turns, lolls her head towards the floor. The carpet beneath her is blue and a bit shaggy, there's a defunct radiator in the corner, two plaid chairs resting at a quirky angle on a rug decorated with some of the scariest fucking fish she's ever seen. There are famous tallships in chipped glass bottles and a painting of a golden anchor resting against his bookshelves. Despite the sheer number of hours she's spent in this room – watching him, waiting for him, fucking him – it never ceases to amaze her, how alive he is in here. If she closes her eyes and burrows down into his chair, she can even smell him, a heady mixture of coffee and rum, aftershave and nitrile.
But, despite the comfort she finds in his office – her feet covered in Killian's woolen socks, a knitted throw tucked around her shoulders – as she glances at the clock yet again, she realizes it's been,
"Ugh. Fourteen fucking hours."
That is, since he left for work in the morning. It's the summer season, and his students are scattered across the globe, flooding him quite literally with samples of gross water, and less so with thinly veiled demands for Skype calls. She understands. She'd worked a case just a month ago that had him ferrying her home from her own office – admittedly much less eclectic and lively than his – half conscious, at something like one in the morning.
Then again, not unlike him, she wants what she wants when she wants it. To go home. To climb beneath the covers on the bed he insists on making every morning, to hog the blankets so he'll curl around her and tuck his feet between hers, to fall asleep with her lips pressed against his collarbone. She wants all of it, and as the clock drags its little lightsaber minute hand on towards midnight, she tosses the throw to the floor, and stomps mutedly –
"Damn socks."
– out of his office and on down the hall.
There's something eerie about Killian's building at night. His office, sure, is warm and comfy. But the hallways are like something out of a horror movie. The fluorescent lights are set on a motion sensor, and so as Emma scuffs down the hall in her socks, they flicker to life, clicking and buzzing as they spit unnatural, yellow light down over refrigerators marked with stiff warnings.
No Food, Animal Tissue
Warning: Noxious Chemicals
Don't Dead, Open Inside
She laughs. "Nerds."
She turns the corner, and finds the same, nausea-inducing light spilling out of the window in the door to his lab. She stands on the tips of her toes, and peers in. He, predictably, is very nearly bent in half, eagerly leaning over God only knows what, bracing the old, water-warbled notebook beneath him with his hook while he scribbles furiously. She means to push inside, to berate him, and drag him by the straps over his shoulders out to the car. But his hair is falling over his forehead, and he's chewing rhythmically on his bottom lip, flesh red and glistening. She could interrupt him, or she could stare at him, unabashedly, without him knowing –
"Emma," he calls, without looking up, grin pinching at the skin of his cheeks.
"Goddamit," she says, repeating it when she shoves open the door. "Jones. Let's get the hell out of here."
He looks up at her, and while she's certain she looks a mess – swimming in one of his sweaters, hair flowing in tangles over her shoulders, she's quite certain one of her socks is on upside down – he's frustratingly put together. He's clearly tired, but that only serves to set a sheen over his eyes, one that magnifies the dark rims around his irises and good Lord –
"And while you're at it, for the sake of everyone else working at this ungodly hour, can you please not look this hot right now?"
He grins. "Sorry, love, it's just my natural state."
Typically, she might quip back, roll her eyes, give him her seriously look and sashay out of the room while she peels off his sweater, but she's not sure she's ever been this tired in her life. So she just pouts, rather pathetically.
"Emma," he says, expression softening, getting up from his seat and coming towards her, his fingers brushing her hair over her shoulder. "I'm sorry. You could go home without me, but – "
"You car's in the shop, it's not your – "
" – not my fault, I know, you've said. But why don't you park yourself on a stool, and watch me science away for a bit." He pauses, tilts his head, bites at his lip once more. "I promise I'll make it worth your while when I'm finished."
Emma smiles, lets herself be led to the stool at the table opposite his, steadying herself on his arm as she hops up. She cringes at the unbearable squeak the stupid old thing rends throughout the room. She watches him as he moves to sit back down, even manages to scoot a little closer, laughing as he side-eyes her while she practically hops over to his side of the room.
"You're quite precious when you're tired, you know that, Swan?"
She hums, but her attention is caught by several new canisters of gas that are chained up in the corner of the lab, just by the door. She's not sure how she missed them on the way in. They're nearly as tall as her, the brushed metal seals flaking and chipped, what she assumes was once a bright, red paint having dulled to something approaching maroon.
"What are those?" she asks.
He clicks his tongue, absent minded as he grabs at something on the shelf above him. "Hydrogen."
"Doesn't hydrogen explode?"
He pauses, quirks a brow at her. "Ah, so you were paying attention the other night."
She laughs. "You know, I was joking when I told you to talk science to me."
He smiles, setting back to his task, pulling a mess of vials and scales out of a drawer marked Scales, I Guess. "Did you expect me to say no? I could prepare for my lecture and coax you to orgasm at the same time."
She rolls her eyes, feeling a little less tired. Still, though,
"Killian. The explosive gas is making me nervous."
He – now bent over his scale, dipping into a vial of fine, white powder – doesn't look at her, but grins in profile, a lock of hair falling over his nose. She reaches, reflexively, to tuck it behind his ear.
"Just don't light it on fire, Swan," he says, accusingly.
She huffs. "I set a box of your samples on fire once, and suddenly I'm hypothetically lighting everything on fire."
Now he does look at her, an arch expression on his face.
"Twice," he says.
"Fine, twice, whatever…"
She trails off while he exchanges one vial for another, this one shimmering silver beneath the florescent lights. He holds it steady with the blunt curve of his prosthetic hook, gently, carefully dipping out barely a pinch of the stuff. He bites his lower lip as he sprinkles it carefully on the balance, that errant fucking piece of hair falling back down against his nose while he does. He's so meticulous, so precise, the pull of his muscles beneath his shirt smooth and steady and –
"Breathe, love."
She takes a deep breath.
"I don't see how you do that," she says. "I'd have flung that stuff everywhere."
"Takes a deft hand, even if just the one."
Emma reaches out, grasps the lock of hair – now teasing at his cheek – and returns it behind his ear, pulling at it until he smiles.
"I couldn't do that with ten hands."
He pauses, tilts his head, tongue smoothing over his lips.
She laughs. "Now you're thinking of me with ten hands."
He returns to his task, hunching over his work bench, feet tucking behind the slat of his stool. His ears twitch when he grins, exchanging vials once again, and his hair –
"This piece of hair," she says. "I swear to God."
– falls to catch on his brow.
"Strange image," he says, thoughtfully. "Ten hands. Not without its perks, I'd imagine."
"It's two in the morning, so I'm going to pretend you didn't just say that."
He hums, smile still lighting up his expression, but he doesn't reply, attention returning ten-fold back to his work, likely determined to finish before the sun rises. Emma settles into silence beside him, and just watches. As handsome as he is like this – focused, determined, subconscious ticks wreaking havoc on his lips, his tongue, the patch of skin behind his ear – it's not even five minutes before she's, once again, bored out of her mind. She considers getting up, touching all of his stuff until he gives up and agrees to go home.
Then again, she thinks, this stool isn't the most uncomfortable thing she's ever slept on. She figures it won't hurt if she dozes off for a bit. So she reaches out, tucking his hair even more firmly behind his ear, not missing the tender tilt of his head as she pillows her head on her arms…
Emma startles back awake not even half an hour later, an awful crick in her neck.
"Sleep well?" Killian asks.
She makes a face, but she doesn't reply, taking gleeful note of the fact that, at the very least, he seems to be putting everything away.
The clock above the door suggests it's dragging on towards one in Goddamn morning, although Emma knows it has to be later than that. The minute hand of the faded, yellow clock has been slow on the upswing for weeks. It's at least an hour behind. But it seems like even the batteries in the clocks can't be replaced without filling out some sort of stack of forms –
"Blame your own profession, Swan. Everything's a dozen legal hoops away."
"Please, I know for a fact that at least half of those hoops are self-imposed."
– and so she resists the urge to yank the damn thing down and toss it vengefully in the trash.
So, in a concerted effort to stay awake, she grabs at a box filled with tape and paperclips and other odds and ends. As he continues to shuffle around the room, she takes to crumbling up discarded pieces of a stretchy, plastic film and throwing them at the offending clock.
"You're just going to have to pick those up later," Killian says. He's packing away the last of one of his boxes of samples, trapping the warped, old cardboard box they spend their evenings in between the brace holding his hook and his stomach as he writes some measure of gibberish on the Hello My Name Is stickers his students have stuck all over the thing.
"It's like 1AM, I'm not doing anything."
"Fine, I'll just be picking those up later, then."
"Good, because I'm so tired, I'm not even tired anymore."
He smiles, gently, and pauses as he passes by her. He reaches out, rubbing soft, measured circles over her upper back. The cool metal of his hook brushes over the curve of her spine, just over the collar of her shirt, and she leans forward until she can settle her head just beneath his chin. He thumbs at the swell of her cheek, dragging his fingers up so he can pull at her ear.
"Just a moment longer, Emma," he says, quietly. "I've a few more things to store, and then we can be on our way."
She yawns, pouting rather uncharacteristically at him as he backs away. He reaches around behind her, bunches up a few markers and tosses them in a drawer labelled Sharpies that work (?). He takes the box full of weird tape –
"Parafilm, love."
"Whatever."
– and sets it back up on the shelf, taking several, excruciatingly long moments to make sure it's in line with the boxes beside it.
"Now it's one fifteen, and you're obsessively straightening everything."
He smiles, unabashed. "Well, even if the clock is broken, it's nice to know that you'll serve as a whinging cuckoo."
"It's not broken, it just needs batteries."
He laughs. "Purchased on what grant? I'm categorizing these samples with stickers I personally bought at the Dollar General up the road."
She opens her mouth to retort, but he gathers up said samples under his arm, and moves to flick off the light, interrupting whatever witty reply she just couldn't seem to think of, not when her internal clock is taking a vacation on the other side of the planet.
"Ready?" he says.
She lets out a sigh of relief. "Oh, thank God."
Emma nearly stumbles through the door, the heavy metal and glass closing behind her with a thud. She's feeling giddy – a delightful combination of having crossed from exhaustion into a mysterious reserve of hyperactivity, and the sheer number of times she's refilled her hot chocolate in the vending machine in the basement since the sun set, fuck –
"Six hours ago," she says.
Killian, a few steps ahead of her, box tucked under his elbow, peers at her over his shoulder.
"Pardon?" he says.
"Nothing, just – "
"Reached the point of exhaustion where half your thoughts come pouring out of your mouth?"
She'd roll her eyes, but he's right. So she clamps her mouth shut, chewing on the inside of her lip. She takes hold of the hem of his shirt, shuffling along behind him, socks practically gliding along over the freshly waxed floors.
Subdued sock sliding, she thinks, rather hysterically.
Killian pauses down the hall, alongside one of the refrigerators, this one marked Jones' Plunder (Seriously, no food).
"Subdued what?" he says, peering over his shoulder, brow furrowed, laughter shimmering in his eyes.
"Subdued sock sliding," she'd said, apparently.
"Nothing," she answers.
He hums, considering her for a moment before he opens the refrigerator door, a cold blast of air ruffling his shirt. He bends over, tilting his head from one side to the other as he searches for an empty enough corner to put his samples, muttering harshly about the bloody budgetas he does. Just by the sheer lateness of the hour, he's adorably disheveled. It's just this side of spring, and so the heaters in the building are running something fierce, despite the fact that they're more than a little unneeded. As such, sweat gathers at his hairline, curling the little hairs at his temple until they tweak up and out. The tuft she's been battling with all evening is swaying as Killian turns this way and that. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, muscles in his hand and his forearm bunching up beneath his skin as he grasps harder at the handle of the door. He grunts, frustrated, eyebrows pinching together. He tugs his bottom lips between his teeth, makes another noise in the back of his throat, and –
"God, I could just…"
She bites her tongue as he gives up all pretense of careful consideration, and shoves the thing on the top shelf and slams the door shut before it can tumble back out. He turns to look at her, eyes bright, crinkles wearing into his temples as he grins at her.
"Just what," he says.
And, because she's apparently lost her sense of decorum, "I could just fuck you right here."
The sleepy turn to the curl of his lips disappears as his tongue darts out from between his teeth. She can see the red in the corners of his eyes, the ever so slight quiver in the tips of his fingers, the sway in his stance – everything that screams he should be too tired to follow through with the way his eyes are darkening. And yet, as he shuffles towards her, hips first, it all just seems to…
"I do believe that 'melt away' is the phrase you're looking for," he says, almost straight into her mouth.
"Oh my God, was I just – "
"Narrating my salacious advances, yes. Although, only in stops and starts. Something about my tongue, and then I'm afraid you lost me, for the most part."
As he speaks, he moves ever forward, the blue in his eyes dimming the further his eyes slide down her body. He reaches out with his hook, nudges at the collar of her shirt, pulling until her collarbone is exposed.
"We're too tired," she says, quietly, even while she presses back against him.
He quirks a brow, "You started it."
"It's not my fault your face looks like that."
Killian answers by pushing her gently against a waist high deep freezer. She can feel the press of the chilly, metal handle along the curve of her spin. She leans back, feet sliding apart so that he can stand between her legs. She expects him to rest against her, to gaze at her until she's clutching at his shoulders, silently begging for him to lean down far enough so she can press her lips against his.
Instead, he watches her, his hook still the only contact between them, catching at a loop in her belt. The hum of the heaters and the freezers and the refrigerators seems to grow louder the longer he looks at her – up her arm, then down along her breasts, her belly, sweeping down along her legs before jumping to her hands, her chin, and finally up to her eyes.
"Tired, eh?" he says.
She nods, and he takes hold of her wrist, fingers slipping delicately between hers. He stares for a moment before he takes another step, and pulls her hand to rest over the zipper of his pants. He presses down, gently, until she can feel the hard ridge of his erection, heat seeping into the palm of her hand – and between her own legs, for that matter – the longer he holds her there.
"Does that feel tired to you, love?"
She considers him for a moment, considering whether either of them really have the energy. He's done, they can go home, they can be in bed at least an hour or two before they have to pick up Henry from Mary Margaret and David's house. But, the longer she looks at him, the more she wants to toss all pretense of responsibility out the un-openable windows. They can convince Henry to beat them both at video games all day tomorrow while they lay sprawled across the couch. There's enough cereal in the cupboard and ice cream in the freeze. Kid shouldn't mind.
And so, she flexes her fingers, and smiles.
"Nope," she says, popping the 'p' as she drags him down for a kiss, licking along the seam of his lips until he opens his mouth.
She's not certain how long they stand there, only certain that she's going to have sex with him here, or somewhere, anywhere within a stumbling radius of these macabre refrigerators. Her hands begin to wander the longer she kisses him, until she's trying to urge his shirt over his head. He stops her, though, catching her hand in his hook. He looks down at her, smiling as his eyes rake over her face, down the flush creeping towards her breasts.
"I'm not saying no," he says. "Obviously. Just not in front of the fish."
She scoffs. "They're dead. And behind those doors."
He quirks a brow, mirth twinkling in his eyes. "Are you suggesting I make love to you in a hallway filled with animal carcasses?"
She sighs, affectedly, and leans back so she can grab hold of his hook. "Ugh, fine, we'll go somewhere else."
"You know," Emma says, not minutes later. "I meant a room, not the stairwell."
Killian grunts, likely not taking in a word she says as he backs her against the wall, tilting her head to the side so he can nose at her neck, and sigh hotly, wetly against her skin as he thrusts gently against her.
"It's too fucking cold in here," she whines.
He has her shirt and sweater bunched up by the middle of her back, hook drawing feverish nonsense over the ridge of her spine as he sucks gently at the patch of skin just by her ear. She wants to push him away, because the harder he presses his hips into hers, the more the uninsulated walls of the stairwell tattoo a crisscross pattern of bone deep frigidness straight into her ass.
But then again, she also doesn't want him to pull his hand from where it's wriggled down into her pants. He drags his lips from the side of her face to her lips. He doesn't kiss her, just presses his lips against hers, mouth open, breathing into her, heavy and hot and in time with the feather light brush of his fingers against her clit.
"It's – "
Her words fall off on something between a moan and a sigh, tilting her head so he can press the flat of his tongue against her lips, licking out towards the corners of her mouth like he knows she likes. He leans back with his hips, even as his lips drag towards her ear. He nudges her feet apart, then presses back in, pulling his hand out and grasping her thigh, holding her in place so he can grind against her.
"You just – "
She loses them again when he hunches his shoulder a bit, thrusts up and into her, so she can feel the heat of his cock even through the layers. She gasps, or whines, or something, but she refuses to fuck or to be fucked in this freezer of a stairwell. So she plants a hand on his chest, pushing until he's looking at her like she's refused to have sex with him for the rest of his life.
"Not here," she says.
He nods, lacing his fingers with hers and pulling her down towards the ground floor.
It turns out not here means right outside the door, because Emma can hardly stand the wild sweep of Killian's hair, the flex of his arms as he squeezes her hand, the lust-tinged timber of his voice as he considers each floor aloud. So she yanks him through the first door she sees and pushes him into a shadowy corner.
"I'm gonna put my hand down your pants now," she says.
He huffs, hips stuttering towards her as she draws her hand over his chest. "Despite what you might think, I don't require a play by play."
She smiles, burying one hand in the hair at the nape of his neck, scratching at his scalp until his eyes just about roll straight back into his head.
"You're always complaining about how cold my fingers are, just thought I'd give you a heads up."
He pries his eyes open, even as her fingers weave their way up into the hair behind his ear, massaging until she can hear his breathing both deepen and quicken. He considers her for just a moment before he reaches out, grabbing hold of her wrist, bringing it up to his mouth. His hot breath washes over them, chasing away the chill.
"There you go, love," he says.
She smiles, popping open the button on his jeans so she can wrap her hand around his cock, so she can reach down, down until she manages to find the stretch of skin on the underside, rubbing back and forth until he's groaning into her shoulder, thrusting like he could come like this in minutes, maybe less.
"There you go, you mean," she says, laughingly. He falls back a bit, leaning hard against the wall and taking her with him.
"I'd like to think…" He pauses, caught in a particularly harsh moan when she twists her hand, just this side of rough.
"…to think it's mutually beneficial," he finishes, the pitch to his voice swinging so low that she can hardly understand him, words garbling in the back of his throat.
For a few long moments, they don't say anything, answering one another only in aborted cries and whines. Although, when she stands up on the tips of her toes to kiss him, really kiss him like she's been meaning to, the freshly waxed floors she'd been mentally extolling just an hour or so earlier very nearly send her sliding to the floor.
"Goddamit," she says.
He hoists her up, helping to wrench her hand free from his pants as he straightens, putting his lips just out of reach. She whines, petulant, feeling slightly embarrassed about the way she's squirming in his arms, but also feeling like it's two in the morning, and she can do whatever the hell she wants.
"No need to curse the floor, darling," he says. He pauses, gnawing on his lip, turning his head from one side to the other before he smiles, and looks over his shoulders like he can see through walls. "We just need a little carpet."
"A little ugly carpet," she says, after he's managed to get her downstairs, surprisingly with very few delays to make out against the nearest vertical surface. He smiles down at her, hook looped through her belt, hand drawing long, soothing circles into her hip as he backs her towards the front of the room.
"Doubt you'll be looking at the floor, Swan."
"Oh, so you're not going to be bending me over this table, then."
He falters, very nearly trips over thin air. "Bloody hell."
He leans down, just as they reach the front of the room, the edge of said table pressing into the backs of her thighs as he kisses her. Really kisses her, the way she's been wanting him to since that damn lock of hair starting falling down into his face. He sucks on her bottom lip, drawing it gently between his teeth until she sighs into his mouth. She pulls one hand from his hair, the other still clutching at his neck, and presses on his cheek, tilting his head so she can trace her tongue over his, over his teeth. Tilt him the other way and feel for the ridges on the roof of his mouth.
Killian's panting by the time she's convinced herself that she'll never stop kissing him if she doesn't pull away. The muscles cording up and down his back are trembling beneath her fingertips, and he's resumed the same motion of his hips that had nearly had her coming in the stairwell. She gazes up at him, then glances down at his lips. She breathes in through her nose, out through her mouth, and she's suddenly never wanted anything more than his tongue drawing erotic pictures over her clit.
"I want to – " he starts.
" – your tongue, if I sit on this – "
" – right, up you go – "
" – this stupid table…"
He helps her up onto the table behind her. It's certainly not lost on her that he's given lectures from this position, some of them public, some of them for which she's sat in the back, gradually drifting into some of the most intense fantasies she's ever had about him, about his mouth as he'd speak, inspired, about his arms as they'd wave, gesturing wildly. And as he helps her out of her pants, kissing along the inside of her knee, it looks like at least one of them is about to come true.
"Do you know, Emma?" he says, carefully wriggling her feet, still covered in her thick socks, mind, as he drags his teeth lightly over the swell of her calf. "How many times I've thought about this?"
She buries one of her hands in his hair, gently trying to implore him to go where she needs him, to give up his teasing. She can feel him smiling against her skin as he obeys, once her pants and underwear are shed and, somehow, folded rather neatly beside her. She means to tease, to laugh at how he can't hardly stand to fuck her unless he has an inventory of their clothes, knows where they are and knows they aren't being wrinkled, of all unholy things. But then he's parting her folds, and without preamble, licking a warm, wet, meandering path all the way up to her clit, circling slowly when he gets there, then dragging heavily back down. She has to be hurting him, nails digging into his scalp, her other hand fisted in his shirt, just at his shoulder, pulling so hard that the collar is rubbing a thin, red line into the skin of his neck.
But he only looks at her, eyes dim and tired and watery as he urges her forward on the table so he can press even harder, so he can dip his tongue inside of her, kiss her like he's kissing her mouth while he thumbs at her clit.
"Do you know?" he says, and kisses her again. She's trembling now, not quite as hard as if either of them were even half awake, but there's a tender warmth building in her belly, reaching around to tickle at the base of her spine.
"Know what?" she says, quietly, sighing low and long when he kisses her once more, thumb now rubbing wide, rhythmic circles over her.
He pauses, leans back. She'd protest, but his fingers take the place of his tongue, sliding deep and curling up until she's rocking her hips, eyes never leaving his as he leans his head against her leg.
"How often?" he says, and he shuffles a bit on his knees, likely to relieve the strain on his muscles, the tight stretch of his pants over his cock. "How many time I've looked at you? Sitting in this very room, gazing off into who knows where."
He leans forward, breath ghosting over her before he leans back in, tongue circling tightly. He breathes out through his nose, cool air very nearly making her jump just before he closes his lips over her clit, sucking lightly, pulling a desperate noise out from between her teeth. She's so close –
"I'm so close, ugh."
"I know, love."
– that she can hardly keep up with her lungs' demand for air, drawing in breath after breath, as he pulls back once more, making her groan in frustration.
"Killian – "
"Do you know that you smile?" he interrupts. "When your frightful attention span draws you away?"
"Hey."
"You curl your hair around your fingers – " He presses another finger into her, curling gently, dragging against her walls as he nearly pulls them out, only to push back in. "You shift in your seat – " He shuffles forward, leans down so he can still look at her, presses on her belly with his hook so she'll lean back. "You make a mess of your lips, biting and licking…"
He leans forward, moving his thumb away once more, lips very nearly grazing her flesh.
"…while you think of me," he finishes. "Probably like this."
"I just don't…" she starts, gasping when he closes his lips back over her clit with renewed purpose, pressing his tongue against her, fingers curling harder and harder, bringing her higher and higher.
"…understand…" she sighs, feeling her orgasm begin to build, down to the very tips of her toes, a warm rush of blood that gathers in the pit of her stomach, radiating outward with each thrust of his fingers, each lap of his tongue.
"…how you can talk this much…" she says, and thinks, When you're going down on me. But the words are caught in her throat, escaping only in a long, unintelligible string of moans when she comes with a particularly heavy press of his fingers, a well-timed swirl of his tongue over her clit. He brings her down, gently, until she can open her eyes, and catch the soft smile on his face.
"I could talk you straight to orgasm, love," he says.
"Yeah, sure," she says. "Some other time, maybe."
Killian grins, caught off guard by the lack of protestation, most likely, that she'd like to see him try. He's surely about to say something to that effect, but she shuts him when she pulls him to his feet, fingers making quick work of his pants, sliding them down just enough to pull his cock free. He's red, weeping from the tip, a strangely endearing juxtaposition to the sleepy expression on his face. They're clearly just about ready to roll onto this very floor and fall asleep. She feels the same way, oddly enough, buzzing from her orgasm, eager for another, but equally as ready to pillow onto his chest. So, despite her usual way, she makes no effort to tease him, simply draws him forward until he's pressing into her, sliding in with one long, stuttered, sloppy stroke.
"Emma," he sighs, heavy, in grateful relief, looking down at her, reaching up to draw his fingers over her cheek, gently stroking over her skin as he pulls back out, then sinks back in.
"Killian," she answers. His eyes darken, and he speeds up, pulling her towards the edge of the table, leaning over her so he can grind up against her with each thrust of his hips. Each one is harder than the last, shifting quickly from tender strokes to a fast paced, barely-rhythmic push pull that has her scrambling for purchase. Her hand falls to her pants, folded yet beside her, and she very nearly slips, pushing them off the table with a huff so that she can grip the edge behind her.
"Swan," he whines, glancing over his shoulder at her pants and underwear, even as he gathers her closer. She can hear his impending orgasm in the high pitched ring to his voice, in the grind of his teeth as he brings his face down by her ear so he can drag his lips over her jaw.
"I'm letting you fuck me in your building," she says, as he slows his thrusts, pressing harder against her, reaching between them to rub furious circles against her clit, the way he always does when they're like this, tired and frantic and longing for release. "And you're complaining that my pants are on the floor."
He doesn't answer her, just grabs her hand so that she can join him in bringing her to climax. It's hardly another minute before she comes, he barely a thrust or two after her, fucking them both through it until she feels like she could fall asleep with him softening inside of her, leaning her head against his shoulder as her blood sings warmly in her veins.
"You're right, love," he says, pulling back to look at her.
"About what?"
"Poor form to whinge about your pants. You were marvelous."
She smiles. "Yeah, yeah."
She grabs gently at the nape of his neck, until her forehead rests against his. His hair is a riot on top of his head, sweat drying it into completely unmanageable tufts. He allows himself a moment before he pulls back, and helps her step down from the table, leaning down on one knee so that he can help her back into her pants. Although, she suspects, he's likely down there more so to serve as a pedestal, one that holds her upright when she trips on her own feet –
He laughs, "You were standing still, Swan, how are you falling down?"
"I'm not falling, the room is just tilting."
– and grabs at his shoulder. It takes several long minutes before they're both situated, before he's found a derelict box of tissues with which he wipes down the table they just –
"Sullied," she says. "That's such a gross word."
"Well, I certainly won't be looking at this table the same way ever again. So it's sullied, as you say, in more ways than one."
She laughs, tiredly, and takes hold of his hook, pulling him along behind her, laughing as he bumps into nearly every desk on the way out.
"Open your eyes, Killian, before you die."
He squints them open, at her command, as they make their way back into the hallway, where the lights flicker on in their wake.
"I see your propensity for dramatics increases exponentially with the lateness of the hour."
"Nerd," she says, fondly, and leads him with obnoxious instructions, all the way back to his office.
Eighteen hours.
When it's all said and done, by the time he's double checked the locks on his lab, gathered up his things, and helped her back into her (his) sweatshirt, it's been eighteen hours since he kissed her goodbye the morning before. She's certain they'll pay for it tomorrow – or today, as it were – but she can hardly bring herself to care as they stumble gracelessly towards the back door.
"You know I just thought," she says, as he digs in his pocket for his keys. "I hope there aren't cameras in that room. Or in the stairwell…"
He pauses in his search to smile down at her, wiggling his brow. "Darling, if there are, then we've given them several dozen shows at this point."
"Ugh, God, I bet we have. I bet that's why that building manager guy – "
"Leroy."
"Right, yeah, Leroy. Bet that's why he hates me."
"In his defense, love, he hates everyone. I doubt he's seen anything."
She hums, skeptically, as he finally manages to find the right key. Though, before he unlocks it, he looks down, and pauses.
"Killian," she whines. "Open the door, or I'm sleeping on this doormat for the rest of my life."
"Emma," he echoes her tone, smiling when she flicks his ear. "Your socks."
"Are yours, yes, I steal everything you own, can we please – "
"No, I mean, where are your shoes?"
She looks down, and sure enough, she's in nothing but her socks, the holes she knows that litter that bottom now twisted up towards the top. She groans, pathetically,
"I'm going to die."
He laughs, and pulls his key out of the lock, only to step to the side and push it into the automatic opener. He swings his satchel more firmly of his shoulder, dropping his keys into his pocket as he lifts her into his arms with a flourish. The old, metal door swings open with a mighty screech, and he steps through, tightening his hold on her as she shivers against the chilly, early morning air. To her utter dismay, there are already birds singing, a faint blue tinge to the sky. She'd demand to be put down – it's barely a quarter mile to her car, after all – but the dew is thick on the ground, and he's looking at her, as he sometimes still does, like he can hardly believe, just hardly comprehend that she's real.
"I've got you, Emma."
She doesn't quite know what to say, never has when he gets like this, so she just smiles, and gazes back at him until a flight of stairs forces his eyes away. She leans her head on his shoulder. They pass a grove of birch trees, and even though the shrill song of the robins, having just returned for the advent of spring, pierces her ears, oversensitive and overtired, she's never felt quite this comfortable in her life. The last thing she remembers is the sway of his step, the rasp of his scruff against her forehead, and the gentle lilt of his voice as he turns to whisper in her ear.
"Sweet dreams," he says.
And they are.