A/N: This is a scene that's been floating around my head for awhile, and it's also my first time writing something like this, so yeah.
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The violent creaking of the mattress springs and muffled thud preceding a protracted groan from an overworked Emma Swan signifies the end of quite possibly her longest day at the station in recent memory. Her head is buried in the pillow, arms limp at her sides when she feels the bed sag as Killian joins her. He sighs in relief, and she can hear the unzipping of his pants and the scuffling of his boots, reminded of her own fully clothed state.
Reluctantly, she adjusts, bouncing as she flips herself over, on her back with hands now above her and legs bent at odd angles. Emma imagines she looks the part of a human chalk outline from a cliched crime scene, like on the shows her third—or was it the forth?—foster family loved to marathon on the weekends. She snickers at the memory, and the next thing she knows a pair of knuckles are running up and down the underside of her right arm.
Emma turns towards him, noticing how the skin around his eyes wrinkles with the effort of his smile, the bags under them undoubtedly mirroring her own. She remembers clinging to him on their walk back to the house; how this time she had leaned most of her weight on him, confident he'd keep her steady. As she grabs his wrist gently, she wonders how he'd had the strength to do so with his own tiredness hanging over him.
They stay like that for a beat, no words needed with a connection as profound as theirs. It's nice, she thinks, not for the first time. And as exhausted as she is, she's grateful, too, that this is their life. That they get to have quiet moments like these as they unwind.
She, sleepily but genuinely, asks him how his day went; about how he's handling the new post at the docks that he'd only just taken up three weeks prior. Changing out of her clothes in earnest, she hums and 'uh-huh's' in the appropriate places, today seeming much like yesterday and the day before that. They're tucking themselves in as he makes mention of a brief run-in with Leroy. When she's realized her eyes have drooped shut, she opens them with a start. She wants to give him her full attention, just as he always does when she complains about this case or that call. Her momentary guilt is washed away, however, as Emma's welcomed by an amused grin and adoring look, Killian's expression filled with mirth and understanding.
"Funny, I had the same reaction to the dwarf halfway through his tirade."
"Sorry," she grumbles, settling further into the sheets, watching as he does the same.
"No apology necessary, love. I'll tell you all about it over lunch." And with that, she drifts off, curling around his bare chest, determined to wake feeling refreshed and reinvigorated.
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.
Except, she doesn't.
Three hours later and Emma is roused by a cluster of aches and pains that refuse to let her stay in one position for more than a few minutes. She jabs at her pillow, fluffing it and folding it and patting it down in her frustration. She tries—unsuccessfully—to do so silently, but her tossing and turning wakes him up as well. 'Sea captains are light sleepers,' he had told her once. 'Comes with the territory.'
"Everything alright?" His voice is raspy and sluggish, but she can still make out the concern beneath the surface. She hasn't had a nightmare in months—and neither has he, thankfully—but she can see the worry in the lines of his face the closer he gets to full consciousness.
"I'm fine," she whispers reassuringly, stroking at his stubble. "Go back to sleep."
But she knows he won't; they both do. Neither of them can surrender to the calm unless convinced the other can, too. So Killian waits her out, scanning her face for any signs of distress.
"I'm just a little sore," she says to him finally. She wants to crack every bone in her body; to stretch every muscle. And she tells him as much with slurred words and in-between yawns that feel as though they could unhinge her jaw in the process.
"Where?"
Emma stills at his question, with a mixture of embarrassment and appreciation of his interest. She knows he means to offer her something, and she couldn't possibly accept, not when they both have to get up at the break of dawn and it's the middle of the night.
"It's—it's fine. It'll go away eventually, I just—"
"Swan," he interrupts, her name a declaration that he shall not he deterred. He holds her stare for a long moment, pushing against her stubbornness and hesitation to ever let herself be taken care of. She lets out a weighted breath, letting him past the pulverized walls he himself had lovingly dismantled. "Where?"
"My, uh," she pauses, trying to find the right phrasing. Her feet are a bit tender, as they usually are, and there's a crick in her neck that won't go away. But for all the physical exertions she'd endured that day, it was having to sit at her desk for hours that was the source of her current discomfort, her aged chair in desperate need of a cushion or buffer or something. "My… lower back."
Killian throws back the comforter without another word, exposing them to the marginally cooler air of their bedroom. He lifts up on his left elbow, carding his ringless fingers through her hair, his blunt nails raking smoothly against her scalp. She wants to object, old habits dying hard; she wants to tell him he doesn't have to. But he wants to, and as stubborn as she is, he's even more so.
So she allows him to continue his path, down her neck and along her shoulder blades, considering if this is what it truly means to be treated like a princess.
Emma feels the press of the pads of his fingers as they trace her spine. His movements are fluid and confident as he reaches the small of her back, fingers splaying out, scratching at her a bit as they do. She misses the sharp coldness of his jewelry, which lay on the table next to his brace—of his reminders that he is so very much loved, as he'd told her what feels like a lifetime ago—and the way it distinguishes his touch, but she gladly welcomes his warmth, unobstructed and solid.
He starts to massage the area, squeezing then releasing as he watches for her reaction. Even in the darkness of their room, the intensity of his scrutiny makes her cheeks redden in a pale blush. It feels nice, to be sure. Wonderful, in fact, but it's not quite the right place. And he must sense it, too, as he keeps trying different amounts of pressure and changing his technique, a question of her satisfaction on the tip of his tongue.
Killian stops when he skims the lining of her underwear. She meets his eyes when she glances past her shoulder, licking her lips in nervous anticipation. "Lower," she says with certainty, her inflection low and gravelly, and he immediately gets her meaning. He removes his hand and she misses the contact instantly, observing him as he sits up, removing the rest of their comforter as he goes.
He turns on the lamp on his nightstand, and their room is cast in a tranquil glow. She admires his posture and the way he flexes and bends in order to accommodate himself. There isn't much that surprises her anymore when it comes to her beloved partner, his constancy and stability something she cherishes above all else. But then there are moments such as these where Emma is awed by him, specifically, now, by his utter lack of hesitancy. He accepts what she needs—often times knows what that is before she does herself—and fixates on nothing else until those needs are met, without question or rejection.
Killian Jones shows her what she deserves, then endeavors to make it so, and the thought alone is enough to make her pulse quicken and her magic buzz in delight.
He pumps a generous amount of lotion into his hand, appreciative for the ingenuity in the bottle's design that lets him accomplish his task one-handed, she's sure. He inches nearer to her, the mattress dipping at the sections where his shins land, until he can kneel at her side. Killian coats his stumped forearm with the cream, spreading it on his right hand evenly.
"Alright, love," he says, gesturing with his chin and eyebrows for her to get situated. Emma lies flat on her stomach, aligning her arms and her legs. She stays inert, inhaling then exhaling slowly until she feels a tapping on her hip, proceeded by him clearing his throat. "If you wouldn't mind."
Emma grasps at the edges of her panties on either side, maintaining eye contact as she leisurely slides them down, over her curves, and leaves them at the middle of her thighs. She hears his gulp in the silence that permeates through the whole house, a sly smirk emerging as she gives herself over to the experience, then closes her eyes as she snuggles into her pillow.
His supple palm is icy at first, making her gasp at the sensation, but soon he's gliding along her backside and Emma feels nothing but heat. She moans as he kneads at the tense muscle, taking his time to caress and soothe. It's as though his lone hand is everywhere, attentive and strong. She reminds herself that he's lived longer without his left hand than with it, but marvels at his dexterity nevertheless.
"Right there," she breathes when he finds a particularly tough knot. His thumb and forefinger press against her firmly, alternating between circular motions and long strokes.
"Better?" he asks huskily, sustaining the course he's mapped out, pinching and rubbing nimbly, guided by her sighs and the tilting of her waist when he brushes past a spot that requires his ministrations.
She giggles, biting at her lip. "Much better."
He chuckles in turn, then pauses when he arrives just outside her inner thigh. His touch becomes more tentative, almost feather light, gauging her response. And suddenly the air feels thick, his subtle and deliberate movements making her shiver, from the base of her skull to the tips of her toes.
Hooking his fingers beneath the lacy fabric that's since been skewed and tangled between her legs and the bedsheets, Killian pulls it the rest of the way down, ghosting over her calves and ankles as he does. She's now only in her sleeping shirt: a thin, faded, short-sleeved white top that's smooth to the touch and heaven on her skin from its numerous washes over the years. She removes that as well, swiftly raising it over her head, her golden hair fanning across her back.
"Don't stop."
And that's all the permission he needs.
Emma spreads herself for him, humming in pleasure when she feels him make contact again, this time with bolder maneuvers. He teases her—and she expects nothing less—as each passing of his hand over the arch of her thigh gets broader, closer to the place she wants him most. And then he's finally there, his finger dipping along her slit. She's slick and flushed, and he spreads her wetness all the way to her most sensitive flesh.
She can feel him against her, through the thick material of his sweat pants. She extends her palm towards him, but he moves just out of her reach.
"No, love," he murmurs, a small strain in his tone, clearly affected by their activities. "This is all for you."
She whines in her restlessness, more turned on than she thinks she's ever been. It's all so intense, her pain from before dissolving completely, replaced by the sensual and uninhibited thrill of being in the absolute care of the man she loves.
It seems like forever before he finally he slips inside, the heel of his hand pushing against her, moving fractionally with every slow thrust of his finger. She whimpers, mouth parted and eyes closed as she gives in to the sensation. It feels different, somehow. Emma always feels precious when they're together and it's hardly the first time they've done this; that he's done this (and oh how very good at this he is).
Maybe it's a combination of her exhaustion and his insistence that she let him do all the work, but this time everything is heightened. Time seems to slow down and reality fades away, and all she knows is the weight of his hand and the fullness of him as he adds a second finger, sliding in and out with ease and finesse.
She arches her back, but he places his left forearm against the small of her back, steadying her, and the action causes the angle to change.
"Ooh," she cries, eyes blinking open, looking down to regard him, his own gaze fixed to where they are joined. Killian's face is slack, the shadow from the lamp's light accentuating his striking features. He catches her staring but doesn't falter, keeping her right on the edge for as long as they can handle.
She can definitely handle it, memories of tropical jungles and perpetual night, of passionate kisses and the lingering taste of rum that left them both wrecked and forever changed.
Emma's lost in a blissful smog as Killian's pace increases, moving deeper inside, fingers crooking delicately. His touch is still gentle and reverent, but there's a focus now. His lazy movements from before give way to precision, searching for that most treasured spot, and she revels in every minute of it. It's clear the second he finds it, the shortness of her breath and throaty whine that escapes her an obvious tell for anyone, but especially for him, the man who's made it his mission to read her and know her as intimately and thoroughly as he can.
And Killian is nothing if not thorough.
She starts to buck her hips slightly. Not as vigorously as she normally would, but instead she sets an even rhythm as she moves back and forth, pelvis hitting the bed then raising up gradually. She hears his intake of breath as she does so, matching his strokes to her thrusts. With every forward jerk, the bedspread hits against her bundle of nerves with delicious friction.
"Killian, I'm—" Emma mumbles under her breath, a string of muffled, incoherent words tumbling from her as he places a kiss at the center of her back, teeth scraping and tongue soothing.
She feels light-headed and dizzy; calm and frantic all at once, clutching at the sheets. It only takes a few more seconds for her to fall apart, constricting around his fingers as a wave of euphoria washes over.
He helps her come down, outlining her skin and grazing her entrance as he leaves her. She lays there, sated and rapturous, stirred only when their plush covers are draped over her. Killian walks to the adjoining bathroom, giving her a quick peck before he goes. He returns after only a minute, miniature towel in hand and with a different, darker set of pants.
Emma grins as he approaches, her whole body feeling as fluid and free as water. "That was—"
"Helpful, I hope," he quips with an easy if tired smile as he gets into bed, facing her and pulling her towards him, which she happily obliges.
"You could say that," she replies, palm resting on his torso and going south. "What about you?"
As before, Killian stops her, instead interlacing their hands and nudging his nose with hers. "You can thank me later. Now, we sleep."
And this time, they do.
(The next morning, she returns the favor).
.
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