you are not at war
This isn't what I expected.
NC-17. Post-Neverland feels and blowjobs and choices, not in that order.
"This isn't what I expected," he says, words a husky murmur punctuated by a sharp inhale as she strips his belt out of its loops and tosses it aside.
"What were you expecting?" Emma asks, looping an arm around his neck to draw him back to her, pulling him bodily the rest of the way into the room. She latches her lips against the underside of his jaw, kissing and sucking at the skin until his scruff burns at her lips and she just doesn't care. Her hands are busy at work on his pants, and he groans when she finally gets them open and shoves them down his hips, the sound vibrating under her lips.
"Not this, for sure," he says and tries to grasp at her arm, to take back control, but she smoothly backs him up until he pushes the door shut and the latch clicks quietly. Giving him no chance to protest, she drops to her knees and mouths at his cock before slipping it past her lips.
He chokes on air and slams his head back, the action spiking pain across the back of his skull but he can't hardly feel it when he looks down and sees Emma Swan bobbing her head up and down on his cock, sucking and flicking her tongue against the underside of him.
If he said he's never imagined this, he'd be lying, because it's hard to not imagine, even from the start(especially at the start, after the beanstalk, seeing her on her knees, apologizing in the best way). But this is far from anything he could have imagined. Her lips, red and kiss-bitten bright, wrapped around him so deliciously, the way she works him over like she knows exactly how to play him.
Her lips curl around him and she pulls back a little bit, licking at his tip like it's some delicious treat and that's entirely unfair. He gasps and tries to still his hips to keep from chasing that delicious mouth down, from being anything but a gentleman. Instead he moves to cup the back of her head, twirling her hair between his fingers. She flickers her eyes up to his and he feels just the barest edge of teeth as she pushes herself down on him again, jaw opening sinfully wide. He groans, tipping his head back, unsure if he'll be able to last long at all watching her move. It's bad enough that he can feel her, warm and wet and moving over him again and again, soft wet sounds slipping into the room.
"Emma," he moans, clutching at her head, and she growls, the sound rumbling around his cock and gods. He doesn't mean to draw her further down on him, but he sinks even further into her mouth, easy and slick. She swallows and he nearly topples over, supported only by the door as the pure pleasure washes over him. Before he's even aware of it he's close, so close, and he tries to tug her off of him.
"Love, Emma, fuck, Emma," he stutters, whines out, trying to get her attention, to pull her off of him. Either she doesn't understand or she doesn't care because her teeth brush him again as she pulls away and then presses down on him again, swallowing again and working her tongue over him.
He tries to say her name one last time, to warn her was he starts to come. She…doesn't stop. She doesn't even move to pull back, instead bobbing and sucking him even as he comes in her mouth, leaking out of the corners of her mouth as she looks up at him, eyes fluttering.
Her eyes close and her lips tip up as she slowly pulls off of him, swallowing hard before licking lightly at the head of his cock one last time. Bracing her hands back on his hips, she slowly stands back up.
"Thank you," she murmurs, kissing his collarbone and then neck, pressing their bodies together.
"I think that's my line," he replies shakily and feels her smile on his skin before she pulls away, eyes sincere and dark.
"For everything. I mean it."
"I didn't do it for your thanks, love. Though if this is how you see fit to thank me, you'll notice I'm not objecting. But," he says, drawing up his hand to wipe away the wet line down her chin, his come and her saliva from where it had spilled out, "I think I'd like a little more, as wonderful as your lips and mouth are." He leans forward and kisses her, softly, a brush of lips as he wraps his left arm around her waist and pulls her close.
She smirks at him. "I think you might need a little while before any of that, buddy."
"I don't mean sex, Emma, and you know it."
He doesn't miss the way she stiffens slightly, her gaze shifting to his shoulder.
"Hook…" she trails off, and he feels his heart sink.
"Emma," he whispers, drawing her chin back up, forcing her eyes to his. "You know what I'm after, what I want. All of you. And I'll have it, but when you're ready."
"Geez, don't sugarcoat it," she mutters, barely meeting his gaze.
He says her name again, leans in to kiss her again, this one significantly less chaste than the last. She makes a small sound and wraps her fingers around the back of his neck, holding him close. Her lips part under his as she tightens one fist in his shirt. She tries to make it fast, messy, passionate, he knows, recognizes the urgency to turn it into just this, bodies crushed together. Instead of letting her, he slows down, exploring her now that he finally has a chance. She tastes like him, different from before, but no less intoxicating. He curves his hand across her cheek and neck, thumb brushing softly against her skin.
It's torture to be the one pulling away, but he will have this again. One day he'll be able to kiss her without needing to worry if she'll run away again. He slowly disentangles them, pressing his forehead against hers like that day not so long ago. Her eyes flutter, just as they did then, and he brushes their noses together, feeling the way she trembles under his fingers.
"You don't have to thank me for anything. You never did. Everything I am, it's already yours."
She makes a small whining sound and opens her mouth, probably to say his name, and he knows he's probably pushing her too hard, too far too fast. But now that he's started, he can't stop.
"I won't make you decide," he murmurs, "but you will, and I'll be there. I'll always be there." He tilts her head up, trying to make her understand. "I don't need your thank yous. I don't want them."
She doesn't say anything for a very long time, but she doesn't move to pull away from him.
"Trusting someone with your life is a lot easier than trusting them with your heart, you know," she finally whispers, the words thin and almost impossible to hear, even in the absolute quiet between them.
"Well, you trust me with one of those, so there's an improvement already," he replies, brushing his thumb across her cheek when she laughs. "Give it time, love. I can wait; it's not exactly something I'm unfamiliar with."
"What if I don't want to wait?"
Her simple softly-spoken words surprise him, and he blinks, trying to decipher her gaze, the meaning hidden there.
"Emma," he begins, but she shushes him.
"What if I don't trust anyone with myself…but what if I could? Why do we have to wait for one day?"
He's not sure if she's saying what he thinks she's saying, or if this is just what he wants to hear, all he wants to hear from her. She smiles, small and maybe a little broken, but all he can see is the way it crinkles her face, spreads to her eyes, makes her eyelids flutter.
"I'm not choosing you," she says, and it draw his attention back because he's at a loss, he's lost around her. He wants what she wants, whatever that is. "It was never about choosing either of you." He isn't sure if this is going to be followed by another firm reminder that her son is and always will be her only choice, but he keeps his mouth shut and waits for her to finish.
"I'm choosing me. I'm choosing what I want, what's best for me. And it has nothing to do with you or Neal." She tightens her grip around the back of his neck, pulling him down for a quick kiss. "And what I want? Right now? I want some stupidly selfless pirate to carry me over to my bed and show me exactly what he means by fun. And then maybe he can stay, and be there when I wake up in the morning, and the morning after that, and the one after that."
She tips her head forward, noses brushing, and meets his gaze. "What do you think about that?"
He wants to kiss her, tell her he loves her(because he does, oh, gods,he does), tell her he knew it would come to this, to take a moment because this is happening. He knew when she drug him up the stairs to her bedroom, pushed the door open, that it would end in her bed, but he never imagined any of this, never expected it in the slightest.
"Well?" she questions him, a sliver of doubt creeping into her words, and no, that just won't do.
Taking advantage of the way she is clinging to him, he presses forward and kisses her hard, pouring all the things he's tried to tell her into it. All the passion, all the love he can't tell her about right now, can't spook her with, three hundred years of hatred and anger for this moment and he can't tell her that. Not yet. But he can show her.
He leans forward just enough for her to take a step back, and then he sweeps down, hooking one arm under her legs and the other around her back so he can pick her up. She squeals, actually squeals, and it sounds so foreign coming from her he can't help but laugh. A glare crosses her face, but he's starting to recognize the affectionate tint under it.
"I didn't mean literally, buddy," she says, tightening her arms around his neck.
Shrugging, he closes the distance to her bed and gently lays her down.
"Well, I do," he whispers, and she smiles again, eyes sad but growing brighter.
They're both smiling when he kisses her again, clutching and rolling into the bed, stripping off clothes until she's bare under him, so beautiful and amazing and he already feels the stirring in his bones, telling him he will never have enough of this, of her.
Really, it's just a reminder, because he's known since she abandoned him that having Emma Swan will never be just enough, will always be too much, more and more and the very best way to drown.
When he finally sinks into her, her long legs pressing tight against his sides, he doesn't know what to think, except maybe that she is like a dream. His dream.
She doesn't say his name, not yet, but that's okay. She still calls out for him when she comes, turning his curse into something beautiful, something only she can do.
And finally, finally, after she is boneless and satisfied and he can't feel his toes anymore for the happiness running through him, she pulls him bodily under the covers and presses her head over his chest.
The sun rises and for the first time in many years, he doesn't rise with it, doesn't escape out the door, because there's nothing to escape from.
He counts it as a victory when she doesn't seem surprised to see him still there.