Summary: "Just listen, darling," he says, against her mouth. "All you have to do is listen." (Praise kink)
It's just on the cusp of nightfall on a Thursday night, and Emma stands in their bedroom, feet bare against the waxed, wooden floors. Killian stands before her, half in a hazy moonlight, half in the light from the old, crystal lamp that sits atop their dresser. It's leaning to one side, along with the dresser itself. The house, as old houses do, is sinking on one side, a slight dip in the flooring where she stands, making him seem even taller than usual. The curtains are half open against the waning light. The breeze is hardly a breeze at all, throwing limp, heavy, humid air against the sheers that are still –
"Backwards, ugh, I am never going to remember to fix that."
Killian laughs –
"No reason to be looking at the curtains, Swan."
– even as he works at removing his belt. His hook and brace alike are hanging from the rack in the main hall. His shirt has long since been abandoned, somewhere on the landing, likely right at the top, where Henry will step on it on his way back from Regina's place tomorrow afternoon.
She, on the other hand, is nearly fully clothed, mind still half at work. It had been a late night, answering call after call about the temporary closing of one street, half a street really, as if she were some kind of…engineer or something. As if the tragedy of having to take a different road to Granny's were on par with their journey to the Underworld. Killian, at least, had kept her entertained long after everyone else had gone home, making faces at the phone when she'd turned it on speaker, folding unfairly perfect paper airplanes out of scrap paper and flying them into the recycling bin, and finally tearing the phone jack out of the wall when nine o'clock rolled around, claiming – and she's certain this is something he learned from Henry – the station was going through a tunnel.
And now…well now he seems intent to make love to her, saying something along those lines when they'd walked through the front door to a dark, empty, overheated house. He toes off his socks once he throws his belt into the corner of the room. Henry will probably manage to step on that too, when he comes in to steal their books.
"Stop thinking about my clothes," he says. "We'll pick them up once we're through."
She peels off her jacket, at least, and throws it over his belt. "Through with what?"
"Darling." He sighs, and he takes another step, until she has to crane her neck to look up at him. "You've had quite the week – "
"No one died, at least."
He frowns. "Swan, you're allowed to feel stressed, you're allowed to feel overwhelmed, even if no one is dying."
She nods, looks down at his chest. "Sorry."
He brushes her hair over her shoulders, draws his fingers under her ear. "Don't be sorry, you can't be sorry, that's quite the opposite of this exercise."
"What exercise?" She smiles up at him, wry, tilting her head and licking her teeth. "I feel like I'm a page behind you."
He smiles back, plucks at the button on his pants, and pulls down the zipper. "I told you, love. I'm going to make love to you. I'm going to tell you how I love you, why I love you." He pauses, voice catching on its own gravel, low and guttural, reaching down to rattle something loose in her own chest.
"While I'm below you," he says. "And above you. While I'm inside of you."
"Oh." She blinks. "Okay."
"Okay?" he echoes, and waits for her to nod, to say yes, hand hanging loosely at his side.
"Yeah," she answers. She pauses for a moment, and tilts her head the other way, squinting against the dim light of the lamp. She considers him before she says, "I like your…hair."
He laughs. "Swan, honestly. This is for you."
She looks him over from head to toe. He, of course, isn't wearing anything underneath, so when he steps out of his jeans, he's bare as the day he was born –
"Three whole hundreds of years ago."
"Bad form to comment on a man's age at a time like this, my love."
– as he closes the distance between them, mirth still shimmering beautifully in his eyes, crystalline against the late summer haze. The humidity was nigh unbearable in the afternoon, sinking down into her clothes and making a mess of her hair. And though it still hovers, warm and sticky – making the shaggy rug beneath her feet feel sodden, setting a fine sheet of sweat over her face – it brings out the smell of the daisies in the old, weathered boxes just out the windowsill. He's sweaty too, she notices, shaking his leg, likely chasing away the chafe as he walks her backwards. But his eyebrows are tangled and poofed –
"'S not a word, Swan."
"Hush, I'm thinking very nice things about you right now."
– so she figures it's worth it.
"So how does this work, then?" she says, bunching up the hem of her shirt. He steps forward, stills her hand, draws her fingers up to his mouth.
"Nothing has to work, love. Just let me talk to you, let me tell you how beautiful you are, how kind and selfless, how you're the first thing I think of in the morning, and the last at night."
She looks down, or tries to, but he catches her chin, turns her face up to his. He leans in, kisses gently, lightly at her upper lip, all while he holds her gaze with his, unblinking and adoring.
"Just listen, darling," he says, against her mouth. "All you have to do is listen."
"So is it breaking the rules if I tell you that I love it when the little hairs in your sideburns are going the wrong way?"
He leans back on his heels and laughs, and reaches up to press her fingers to the skin of his cheek. He holds her there, and she can feel his jaw working, feel the stretch of muscle when he licks at his lips, the scratch of his scruff below her nails.
"There are no rules," he says. "Just try, Emma. Try to believe me."
He pauses, and takes hold of the hem of her shirt, helps her lift it gently over her head, careful not to catch her nose or pull at her ear. He smiles down at her when she comes out the other side, flyaways tangling in her face, sticking to her forehead.
"I've felt you," he says, and he inches forward, until his toes are nudging against hers. He reaches up, oh so carefully pushes her hair out of her eyes, tucks it over her shoulder.
"When I tell you you're good," he says. He maneuvers her gently, urges her to sit on the edge of the bed. She can feel the words bubbling up in her throat, the almost unbearable desire to sidetrack him, to kiss the praise off his tongue, to reach down and take hold of him in her hands, render him to little more than grunts and gibberish. He seems to sense to her train of thought, because he stops, halfway through the process of sliding off her shoes, peeling off her socks.
"When I tell you you're good," he repeats, and pushes up on his knees. He slides his hand up her back, wrestles with the clasp on her bra for a moment before he pulls it down her arms. She expects him to lose focus, to thumb at her nipples and kiss his way around her breasts. But – as is the pattern tonight, it seems – he surprises her, watches her for a moment before he reaches up to clutch at her jaw.
"I can feel it," he says. "The shudder in your knees."
He kisses her belly, and she can't help but to thread her fingers through his hair.
"I can see it," he says, and he kisses her again, just over her sternum, and his eyelashes tickle against her breasts when he turns his head. "When I look into your eyes, I can see your desire."
"I can hear it as well," he says, kissing her chin, reaching up around behind her to press down between her shoulder blades so he can reach her face, so he can lick ever so gently along the swell of her cheek.
"When I'm inside you," he says, as he slides her pants down her legs, breathing wet and hot, long and heavy over her legs. He looks back up at her when he's managed them over her feet, smiling wanly, curious expression on his face, as if caught between pleasure and sorrow. "And I tell you how you feel, how you taste, how you outshine the stars, how you out-love the best of us."
He stops, and slides off her underwear as well, sparing her only a brief glance as he grasps at the back of knee to situate her on the edge of the bed.
"In your voice," he says, and she can feel it in her thighs – and between them, for that matter – his cheek pressed against her leg, looking up at her from beneath his lashes, from between two, sweat-dried curls in his hair. "The hitch in your breath. The words go straight to your core. I know it does, love. But you resist it."
Killian sighs, and leans forward. He presses down on her stomach, gently imploring her to lean back in turn, so he can watch her while he kisses between her thighs. His mouth closes over her clit, an oh so gentle pressure the warms her down to her feet. He presses the flat of his tongue against her, before he draws back.
"Do you like it when I tell you that you're good, Emma? That you're the smartest person I know? The strongest?"
He waits. Waits and he waits. Always patient, always forthcoming, always the push to her pull, and vice versa.
"I…" she starts, but she can't finish, the words catching in her throat.
"Swan," he says. But he stops too, and chooses instead to lean back in, to lick an erotic language over her clit, to dip his fingers inside of her and hum deep in his throat. And he draws and he draws, hums and hums, until she's panting above him, squirming in place. She figures he'll pull back, like he usually does, bring her to the edge and plead for her to answer him. But he doesn't, works at her gentle, until the warmth settles deep in her bones, and she comes on a heavy, breathy sigh.
"Emma," he says, when he gets to his feet. He lifts her up alongside him, taps gently at her thighs until she wraps them around his waist. "Emma, Emma."
He hefts her a bit higher in his arms, until she's looking down at him. She's one arm around his neck, the other hanging over his shoulders, scratching at his shoulder blade the way that he likes. He closes his eyes, content to breathe her in for a moment. The blood rushing in her ears quiets – her release still buzzing in her fingertips – and the whirl of the fan, the rustle of the limp breeze, they come flooding back.
"I do," she says, at length, when he shifts from one foot to the other, and she slides a bit down his chest, until her nose bumps against his.
"Do what?" he says, although she's certain he knows.
"I like it. It feels good, and I…" She trails off, under the intensity of his gaze. "It's probably the greatest thing ever."
He smiles. "Greatest thing ever?"
She smiles back. "Behind the thing that you do with your tongue, the little – " Her hands aren't free to gesture, so she swivels her head in a circle. " – you know, the thing."
He laughs. "Aye, the thing."
She scratches a bit harder at his back, up and down, left and right, and he groans, says –
"And you, my love, are free to scratch whatever pattern you wish into my back."
"I know."
He kisses her, as slow and sensual as they've ever managed, his tongue drawing the aforementioned circles against hers, all the while pulling her arms and legs tighter around him as he climbs up onto the bed. He doesn't so much let go of her, as press her lightly into the mattress. Her limbs slowly loosen, until they're wandering restlessly over his body. The fire builds, and she longs to finish what they started, but he stops her with a kiss to her stomach.
"There's another," he says, dragging his lips down to her hip. "You're almost unbearably perceptive. And you use what you learn to help the people that you love." He kisses back around to her chest, breathing hot air over her breasts before following with the flat of his tongue. "Your heart is something to be cherished, so selfless and pure."
He makes his way back up her neck, until he's speaking against the side of her face. He's held himself up until now, but he settles further against her, his pelvis pressing into hers. She can feel his cock, hot and hard between her thighs. But he doesn't rut, doesn't seem in any hurry at all.
"Your mouth," he says, and he kisses her lips, hardly a brush before he leans back to caress the side of her face with the backs of his fingers, balancing steady on his left arm. "You have a beautiful mouth, love. The words that you say – "
"Are nothing compared to yours," she interrupts.
He huffs, and rolls onto his side, pulls her along with him, until she's lying astride him, her hair pooling a riot onto his chest.
"My love," he says, and he sits up, coaxes her knees on either side of him, sifts his fingers through her hair until he's scratching gently at the base of her skull. He sighs, and kisses her, licking along her bottom teeth, touching his tongue to hers and tilting his head, and hers in turn. He's breathing heavy when he pulls back, a flushing creeping down his neck.
"You speak and we listen," he says. "You don't waste any words."
He smiles when she blushes – she can feel the heat flooding her face – and scooches back on the bed, planting his feet and pushing until he's leaning against the headboard, head resting against the flourishes in the mahogany as he stares up at her.
"It's not about diction," he says, still desperate to convince her, eyes shining beneath the lamplight. He clutches at her hip, until she settles down on his lap. She can feel the hair on his chest, coarse against her skin. She can feel the callouses on his fingertips tracing nonsense along the small of her back. She can feel his cock, hot and hard beneath her, though he makes no effort to move, no effort to relieve the ache he must feel. He breathes in when she rocks against him, and out when she stills.
"Then what is it?" she says.
Please tell me, she thinks.
"It's the air around you," he answers, and he begins a barely-there rhythm, the words said quietly against her neck wandering warmly down to her core. "As if the stars themselves are turning to watch you. And your voice, love…"
He trails off, and here, at last, he loses a bit of his composure, mouth falling open when he plants his feet against the bed, pressing on her stomach and silently pleading with her to lift up on her knees.
He breathes, loud and uneven when she sinks down onto him.
"Bloody tight," he says, and he grits his teeth. "Bloody perfect. I've never felt anyone like you, Emma, never loved anyone like you."
The deep, rich tenor of his voice, vibrating against her chest, the words that he says, unbridled affirmation that she would never have thought to wish for – it all proves to be too much, or just enough, she's not sure which as she begins to move, and he along with her.
"Talk to me," he says, and he sits up higher, the slight change in angle making her clench her fingers, her toes as well, and lose her rhythm. "Please, I want to hear you."
Killian gathers her up in his arms, sitting even higher. And while she can do little more than rock back and forth, he seems loathe to let her go, to let her move high enough to seek their mutual release.
"Uh," she says. She buries her fingers in his hair, and pulls back, just far enough to look at him. Sweat gathers at his hairline. His neck feels slick, hair feels limp and damp. His skin against hers is part pleasure, part irritation as the heat of the day refuses to be chased away by nightfall. The sheets – typically soft and cool beneath them, around them, sometimes between them – feel scratchy against her knees, and she's sure against his ass too, if the way he wriggles beneath her is any indication.
"I took a walk yesterday," she tells him, soft and unsure. He stills inside of her, but she taps against his shoulder, urging him on. He's slow, and so is she, and the pleasure burns soft between them, though hotter and hotter, by short and simple measures, the more he tells her how he loves her.
"Aye?" he says, and smiles up at her. "What did you see?"
She rests her forehead against his, clutches tighter at his neck.
"I was waiting for you after work," she says. "You were out on your ship. You like to be alone on the water sometimes."
He hums, rocks with a bit more purpose.
"I was sitting on the sea wall," she says, though she pauses for a long minute when he kisses at her jaw, skims his teeth over her neck. Then, quieter, "And I saw this really ugly bird."
The rhythm he'd managed to maintain falters, and he laughs, hugs her tighter to his chest.
"Have I mentioned," he says, and shushes her complaint with a kiss when he pulls out of her, silently asking her to lie on her back. She does, and he follows, tapping at her hips until she wraps her legs around him. He balances on his hand while she fumbles for a couple of the pillows –
"How many pillows does one bed need, eh, Swan?"
"Enough that I land in a pile of them when I'm jumping on the mattress."
– to place underneath his left arm.
"Mentioned what?" she says, when he begins to move, still shallow and slow. He arches to catch her clit when he thrusts, an adorable furrow in his brow. She reaches up, smooths her fingers over his face, over the crinkles by his eyes when he smiles.
"That you make me laugh," he says. "That you're witty." He thrusts a bit harder, his voice dropping lower – "Observant." – before he thrusts harder still. He leans down on his elbows, and his breath fans over her face.
"Come, Emma," he says. "You're so beautiful when you come. When you sigh, and you bite your lip, the noise that you make…"
Hardly a moment more and she does, nails digging into his neck as she fights to keep her eyes open, fights to watch his jaw twitch as he holds back, to watch his chest flex, and his nostrils flare.
"There you are," he says, and kisses the swell of her cheek, then the other, the tip of her nose, all as he still moves inside of her, a gentle back and forth that stretches out her orgasm. "So bloody beautiful."
"Now, Swan," he says, when the last of the waves pulse down to her toes, and her feet fall down to the bed. "Tell me about this ugly bird."
She laughs, even as she pants, and she can tell by the hitch in his breath, the strangled huff, that the jolt travels straight down to his cock.
"It was nothing," she says, and she hitches her legs back over his, ankles locking over his back. "It's head was too big for its body, and it had a gimp leg."
He smiles – though it looks half a grimace as he presses harder, deeper, his pleasure building in the arch of his spine, in the clench of his fingers in the sheet beside her head.
"One more, Swan," he says, begs really, and leans on his left arm, presses down on her belly the way that she likes before he presses down on her clit. She shakes her head, and tilts her hips, takes him just that much deeper, and he groans, hunches his back and drops his head to her shoulder with a groan.
"Stubborn," he says. "Bloody stubborn. And kind, and compassionate. So good, too good, for all that's happened to you."
He leans back, and the expression on his face is almost enough to make her come again, echoing the words that he says, like he can hardly believe she's real, hardly believe that he's pushing into her, again and again, in and out and back and forth, hair swaying over his forehead as he looks at her harder, deeper, more raw and exposed than anyone she's ever seen. She's sure she looks the same.
"Tell you what, Swan," he says, hitches her legs higher over his waist. "Tell me I'm wrong, and I'll come deep inside you, and won't complain if you don't follow."
"Wrong about what?" she says, before she adds, as an afterthought, "Just let go."
He smiles, wide and happy, even as he shakes his head.
"You healed that bird, Emma," and grins wider, triumphant, when she narrows her eyes. "You healed it and it flew away. Tell me I'm wrong, and I'll come."
She bites at her lip –
"How did you know?"
"Empathetic. Generous." Each word with a kiss, and a deliberate thrust. "Loving. Passionate."
– and clenches her walls. He laughs, breathless, and leans down, until he's catching her clit with every pass, the coarse hair on his pelvis, his fingers still drawing over her enough to pull her over once more. Softer, this time, a lukewarm pleasure that tingles down to her fingertips. He smiles nonetheless, before he comes too, pressed as deep as he can go, pulsing and panting and biting a smile into her shoulder. It's hardly a moment before he rolls off of her, half to her displeasure and half to her relief.
"It's too hot but I want to snuggle you."
"Oi, the dilemma," he says, laughs when she pinches at the scar tissue on his wrist. He breathes for a moment longer before he gathers the wherewithal to get up, to stumble to the bathroom for a cloth with which to clean them both up –
"That's a hand towel, Killian, that's definitely not the orgasm rag."
"Kind, caring, excellent at killing the mood."
"Oh, hush."
– before he collapses beside her. He lays on his stomach for a good while, until she's sure he must have fallen asleep, before he rolls over with a groan, onto his side. He stares at her, and she back at him, watching the last light of day ebb, stealing the flecks of silver from his eyes and setting them aglow. She gestures weakly with her wrist, and the fan clicks on high, stirring a chill into the room – fucking finally – and playing with the little hairs the flip up and out by his temples.
"Would you like it too?" she says, after several minutes.
He quirks a brow. "Like what?"
"If I did, you know…" She waves her hand around, very nearly smacking him in the face, for which she receives a long suffering sigh. "…you know, this."
He hums, reaches up, takes hold of her fingers and bring them up to his lips. She can feel his answer just as she can hear it –
"Don't you, though?" He kisses around to her palm, and makes sure she's looking at him when he says, "You don't have to speak, Emma, for me to hear you."
She doesn't know what to say –
"I honestly don't know what to say."
– and so she pulls him onto his stomach and turns onto her side. She can feel his breath, warm and comforting and smelling of the caramel candies he keeps stuffed in at least three of his pockets. She can feel the warmth of his body, too, and she drags her nails lightly over his shoulder blades, tracing over his tattoos before drawing long, snaking paths all the way down to the dimples down by the base of his spine.
"You say more than enough when you touch me," he slurs, eyes half-lidded and bright. "Open book."
She smiles – "Yeah, yeah." – and lays her head on his back, drawing sloppy circles until they both fall asleep.
"I really do like your hair," she tells him, later that night, when they've woken back up with another swell of heat, buffing in through the wide open windows.
Killian laughs, and he laughs, free and beautiful. Even in the very early hours of morning – or the late hours of night – it's too hot to touch, her pinky curled over his, the only contact between them.
"Aye?" he says, and he turns on his side, smile wide and bright.
"Are you kidding?" she says. "I touch your hair more than any other part of your body, and it's all the way up there."
He wrinkles his nose, and bites at his lip. "Perhaps even more if you weren't so small, then?"
She wrinkles right back. "Now who can't take a compliment."
He hums, watches as she drifts. She can feel the pull of a good, long sleep. But she has work early in the morning, and Killian will rise with her, as he always does. Even so, her eyes cross when she tries to focus on him, too tired to take a good look. The smell of sweat and sex and sweet Primrose Lilacs wafts up into her nose. The sound of his voice as he yet hums – a song she thinks she might recognize, soft and low, vibrating from his side to hers – settles deep in her chest. The air is still heavy and the sheets feel scratchy and wet. The breeze has stilled, and the ceiling fan ticks to an uneven, irritating beat.
But despite the heat, despite the noise, Killian is warm and comforting beside her, the sound of his voice a dulcet lullaby.
"You're brilliant," he says. "Bloody wonderful."
And it's the last thing she hears, answering with barely a grunt before she holds tighter to his hand, and turns into his side, the damp summer night melting away in the wake of soft, cool, and pleasant dreams.