Summary: In which Emma pays attention.
Notes: This is just random PWP. No plot, just snuggles and silliness and smuttiness on a summer morning.
"Here's one."
Emma prods gently just above his hipbone, fingertips brushing gently over his hip. He squirms beneath her, chews his bottom lip at the smile that threatens. He turns his face into the breeze that blows in through the open window. It had rained overnight, but the morning air is crisp and fragrant. It smells of the sweet, summer flowers they'd squabbled just a week ago –
"It's all pokey."
"It appears to be a miniature rose, Swan. With miniature thorns."
"I'm bleeding all over it."
"Well now it's surely ours."
– and the slightly charred aroma of what Emma refers to as blacktop. It's late on a lazy, Sunday morning, the sound of the distant, ocean waves punctuated by little more than the occasional passerby. It would be the perfect day to sail, but then again –
"And there's one," Emma says, when she drags her nails lightly over his breastbone. He laughs – or giggles, according to his Swan – and curls in on himself. Or, at least, he attempts to do so, but his efforts are thwarted. She only teases him a moment longer before she leans back. She pushes her hair over her ears, shakes it out of her face. It catches on the sunshine that billows in through the sheer curtains as she climbs back up to sit just beneath his belly. Another whiff of roses and blacktop and the indistinct smells of summer ruffle in through the windows. He sighs, content, watches as she rises and falls along with his stomach.
To his never-ending delight, they're completely bare, soaking in the slightly overwarm air. A light flush creeps down between her breasts. He's made love to her twice since their early breakfast, and with her thighs spread over him, he's sure her sex is glistening with the promise of more.
But it's her eyes –
"You look happy, Swan," he says.
She smiles down at him, and something clenches tight in his chest before it unwinds beneath her touch, as she searches halfheartedly for more places to tease him.
"I am," she answers simply.
"You look happy," he repeats. Because he can. Because she is.
"So do you." She pauses, and licks at her lips. Then, "I'm still gonna find all the spots."
He laughs. "Is there nothing I can do to persuade you otherwise?"
At that, she wriggles her way down his body. He's caught somewhere between arousal and amusement as she slides down towards his pelvis, over his legs. Her fingers dig into his thighs, but she finds nothing, and frowns.
"You brought this upon yourself," she says, as she goes along. "When you said, and I quote, 'I'm not ticklish, Swan.'"
Killian grins, and she grins back. Another breeze flutters in, and the sunshine flickers in her eyes, catches at the specks of gold. She leans down, and he thinks she means to kiss him, but she stops just out of reach. She only stares, pushes her hips back into his, and the tension builds. He looks at one eye, then the other, down at her lips, then over the sweep of her hair over her forehead. She leans further, and he licks at his lips, over his teeth. Then –
"I'm not gonna do your feet," she says. "I don't want to get kicked in the face again."
He flops back with a groan, tension settling down low, where she's still pressed flush against his hips.
"You sure do know how to throw ashes on the embers, darling."
She scoffs. "Like you don't do it all the time.
He has no rebuttal –
"I haven't a rebuttal, Swan."
"Yeah. I know."
– and so he simply watches her. Watches while she considers him. She shuffles back down. For a moment, it seems as if she'll resume her teasing. But she pushes down even further, until her eyes are level with his cock. He'd been half hard since she sat astride him after a late breakfast, claiming the air too warm, and the house too empty, to be wearing clothes. But now, as she licks her lips, he can feel himself straining. His breath falls shallow, and he squirms yet again.
"I'm not even touching you," Emma says.
"That seems an oversight, love."
She smiles, eyes him for a moment before she takes him in hand. He groans, and arches up into her grip.
"Emma," he begs, entreating her to hold him harder, to move her hand, anything. But she simply regards him. He can feel her breath just beneath the tip, and his toes curl.
"Not sure if this counts as one," she says, absent mindedly. "You're not really laughing."
At this, he does laugh, breathless, the sound garbled and rough in the back of his throat. She seems to reward him, her fingers curling and sliding down towards the base, and he can't quite name the sound he makes. She leans forward, and follows her hand with her tongue. He sighs, heavily, catching on a bereft moan when she pulls back, her fingers going slack.
"Why do you think they call it a blowjob," she says. "It's not like I'm clocking in down here."
"Emma, love, you've had too much coffee, you're talking nonsense."
"The real nonsense is the phrase too much coffee."
He opens his mouth to retort, but finds himself swallowing back a moan when she closes her mouth over his cock. She hums, and he rocks as gently as he can manage. She applies a bit of pressure at the base, sucks lightly, and he fears he may very well find his release in her mouth in a matter of moments.
"Emma," he says. "Emma, Emma."
"Definitely not a job," she says, when she lets him go and crawls back up his chest. He's caught somewhere between laughter and throaty groans when she settles atop him, her pelvis resting on his as she kisses him gently, sweeps into his mouth and draws long, wet paths over his tongue. Though he strains against her, thighs quivering as he rests heavy between her legs and his stomach, he's no desire to hurry her along. So he lies back, rests in the familiar haze she brings when she kisses the thought straight out of his mind.
"I know it's here somewhere," she says, to herself, when she pulls away. He feels lightheaded with contentment when her hands begin to wander. At least, until they rest just beneath his ribs, and pinch until he's squirming under her once more.
"Swan," he half-whinges. Truthfully, there's nothing quite so delightful as the pleased grin she wears when she finds one of the many sensitive spots on his skin. So he can't quite keep the smile from his face when she pinches again and again, and he nearly bucks her off his chest.
"Whoa," she says, when she relents. "You're violent when you're tickled."
He smiles. "It's quite involuntary."
And he means to say more, but she rocks back, and his cock slides through the wetness between her thighs. She shuffles on her knees, and once more, he feels as though a well-placed thrust of her hips could draw him over the edge in nary an instant.
"Ready?" she says.
It takes him a moment to answer, if only because her fingers, warmed by her persistent exploration of his tender flesh, take hold of him again.
"Aye," he says.
Killian watches as she breathes – in then out, in and then out – before she sinks down on him. He holds his breath in turn, until her pelvis is flush with his. He's hardly drawn in a lungful of air before she starts moving.
He reaches down with hand and wrist, stilling her above him.
"Mercy, Swan," he says. "Just a moment."
"Not ready, then," she grumbles good-naturedly.
He only laughs, strained. He plants his feet on the bed, and coaxes her down for a kiss. One, two, three…several more – to her lips, to her nose, to her jaw – before he's lost count and he can no longer hold back, arching up and into her. It's rather atypical of her to stay quiet during sex, but she only hums in approval or grunts in frustration as they chase their mutual release. Nothing but nonsense words slip from her tongue as she presses flush against him, growing louder when he snakes his finger between them, rubbing wide circles, just as she likes, over her clit.
When Emma comes, she shudders again and again, breathing wet against his jaw.
When he comes, it seems to jolt from the base of his skull, down to the tips of his toes. He's unsure how long they remain as they are, only certain that the sun climbs higher and higher in the sky.
"Ugh," she says, when he finally slips out of her. "There's no way I'm getting out of bed."
Killian laughs, softly, and pushes at her shoulder until she leans far enough back that he can get a good look at her.
"I fail to see the problem," he says.
She wriggles, and he can feel their combined release already beginning to dry against his stomach.
"Ah," he amends. "I see the problem."
He means to shift her over, to trip lightly over to the bathroom and grab a washcloth or two. But she holds tight to him, fingers digging into his biceps, then around behind until he's gasping.
"Another one," she says, and then adds, as if it were an afterthought. "And you're not getting out of bed either. Now the sheets are gonna be gross."
"There's a simple solution to this problem, love."
"Nope," she says. And that's that, as far as he's concerned. They rest for several quiet minutes before her hands start to wander once more. Likely she's searching for more spots, but seems distracted when he begins to harden against her thigh once more. She finds another on the inside of his elbow, but he distracts her with his lips on hers, several times over.
"Next time, Swan," he says, into her mouth, when her hands still. "We make love on the beach."
She laughs, and he can feel the push of her breasts against his chest, the rasp of the hair on his chest over her nipples.
"That's called public indecency," she says.
"It's only indecent if the lady doesn't finish, and you can be sure – "
Emma clamps her hands over his mouth. She bites into her lower lip, and eyes him askance. He thinks, for a moment, that she's about to reprimand him – playfully, mind – for his overt self-aggrandizement. This close, he can see the jump in her throat, the way that her lips, yet wet and swollen, peel apart. But she only breathes, warm and damp over his face. Her fingers crawl back towards his ears, releasing his mouth. To be sure, he could whinge at her, ask that she allow him to coax her to orgasm again, grab at her wrists with his hand and lean up to kiss the curious expression off her face.
But he only smiles, so hard it tugs at the minor chap in his lips. She smiles back, and his cheeks start to ache.
"My love," he says.
"What?" Her fingers trace over his ears, combing gently through wayward strands of his hair. One of her hands sifts back behind his neck, and he sighs.
"Nothing," he says. He reaches up to push her hair over her shoulder in turn, watching as it stubbornly glides back over her bare skin, pooling in tangles on his chest. Then, he repeats, to the affectionate turn in her smile, "My love."
She hums, and he can feel it in his belly. Her fingers wander back down his neck, towards his shoulder blades, until –
"There it is," she says, with some triumph, when he jolts beneath her, turning his head and muffling the sound of his laughter into the pillow. She pinches harder at the delicate skin and he throws his arms around her, rolls her onto her back. She doesn't so much shriek as shout a faux-indignant Hey into his shoulder. His hips align with hers, and he brushes lightly over her folds, still wet and bearing his earlier release. She sighs, buries her fingers back in his hair.
"I do believe it's your turn, darling," he says.
She laughs. "Please. I think we've proven like eighty-seven times over that you're the ticklish one here."
He leans down and answers, at the corner of her mouth, tongue brushing gently where her bottom lip arcs gracefully into the top, "Ah, but I believe we agreed that this…"
With this, he rocks with more purpose against her. A few languid thrusts, and the guidance of her restless hand, bring him inside of her again.
"…that this is in fact, your favorite ticklish spot."
She shifts beneath him, bringing her legs up over his hips, locking her ankles over his lower back. She tilts up as he bears down. Her nails draw delicate patterns over his spine, and they breathe pleasured nonsense into each other's mouths.
"You don't see me laughing," she protests.
He pauses, falling out of the rhythm they'd only just begun. Her nails dig harder into his shoulders, but otherwise she doesn't seem to be in a hurry, blinking curiously up at him when he leans even further down on his elbows, until he's very nearly cross-eyed. He gazes with intensity and purpose into her eyes. She swallows, and he says, with gravity –
"Did I ever tell you about the oh so very unfortunate evening upon which I lost half of my mustache in a gamble?"
Her forehead nearly knocks into his when she laughs. He watches with some mixture of amusement and adoration as the skin by her eyes crinkles, as her dimples dance on her cheeks, as the pleasure gradually takes over when he picks another slow rhythm, sliding in and out with measured intent.
"You made that up," she accuses. It's breathy, and without malice. She urges him faster, just as she turns his face up to look at her.
"Aye," he answers.
"That's cheating."
"Aye."
"As long as we're both on the same page."
He only hums. He looks down at her, and she up at him, for as long as they can stand, until the pleasure begins to burn, and he presses his cheek against hers. Their hips meet again and again. It's slow, yet without an end goal in mind.
And so it's with gentle tone, and easy affection that he whispers, directly into her ear –
"I love you."
He can feel her smile again his neck. It's a few moments before she answers, the sound muffled against his sweat-slicked skin –
"I love you too."
Killian sighs, loud and long and unlabored, as he makes love to Emma, as she makes love to him. They find their quiet release just as the summer sun tilts out of sight of the window, and afterwards lie in a messy heap –
"You're doing the laundry tonight."
"As you wish, Swan."
– listening to nothing but the gentle rustle of the breeze, and the easy sound of a quiet town, unburdened by villains, or by absurdly magical dangers. He's found his way to his back once more, she curled atop him. Quiet moments, he remembers saying, what seems like ages ago, and it's the last thought he recalls before she falls asleep. And he, as always, quick to follow.