Rating: Very M.
A/N: Long story short, I am a poetry major about to get my MFA. Fic has been my sanity over the last month. This was started before I even finished the first chapter of this story, and I am way too excited to share it. The poems used are "The Mist of Pornography" by Leonard Cohen (not all of the poem is used in this) and "Night on the Island" by Pablo Neruda. Yes, another Neruda. This is the end (ish) I'm probably lying about that. After the semester, I can probably be persuaded to return to them. If you have suggestions, feel free to share and I will take everything you suggest into consideration. Again, thank you to all of you readers out there who, you know, read. Every comment, follow, favorite has made my life so bright and I'm just happy to know there are people out there enjoying it. Thank you. I would bake you all cookies if I could. Without further ado, enjoy the shameless poetry smut!
EPILOGUE: Routine Poetics
Emma's in the kitchen cleaning up after dinner when Killian comes in. He stands directly behind her with his hands on her hips and his lips in her hair.
"You could just leave those until later," he says, full of implication. He would argue about her doing the dishes at all, but she's claimed since the beginning that if he makes food, she cleans up. He's learned not to try to talk her out of it. But it doesn't stop him from trying to distract her in the best ways possible.
She's wearing his favorite skirt, the soft gray jersey fabric clinging to her hips before flaring and draping down. It hides much of her legs, but her ass looks fantastic in it. On top, she has a light yellow sweater that's tickling at his memories, the lines of a poem he once memorized during his university years making their way back to mind.
Steady movements continue as she washes and rinses each dish, stacking them in the drying rack before starting to scrub out the sink. He's struggling to remember lines, yellow sweater, and with a smirk he glides his hands down, over her ass, to palm the backs of her thighs.
"These are anything but boyish haunches," he wonders aloud. Emma gasps at the shift from innocent to dirty in no time at all.
"What?"
He hums into her hair, nosing some of it aside to find her neck with his lips. "From a poem. Your yellow sweater brought it back to me. 'The Mist of Pornography'," he responds, once again moving his hands to the fronts of her thighs and sliding them up to rest on the spot below her hipbones.
"Why am I not surprised that you know something with 'pornography' in the title?"
"Ah, but Swan, it's about much more than that. Close your eyes. Listen," he says, and moves a hand only long enough to brush the hair off her neck and lean closer to her ear. He returns his hand to her hip as he starts reciting.
When you rose out of the mist / of pornography—He runs a single finger along her spine until it rests between her shoulders—with your talk of marriage / and orgies / I was a mere boy / of fifty-seven / trying to make a fast buck / in the slow lane / It was ten years too late / but I finally got / the most beautiful girl / on the religious left / to go with her lips / to the sunless place—and here he made sure to push his hips against her backside to emphasize. As he continues reciting, he crowds her against the counter, making sure the edge is pressing her right where he wants it to.
This was my life / in Los Angeles / when you slowly / removed your yellow sweater—as he speaks, he slowly draws her sweater over her head and she lifts her arms—and I slobbered over / your boyish haunches—he runs his hand over the path that started this all and pushes the skirt off her hips to rub over the backs of her now bare thighs—and I tried to be / a husband / to your dark and motherly / intentions.
I thank you / for the ponderous songs / I brought to completion / instead of fucking you / more often—he punctuates by rolling his hips against her. She gasps and grips the edge of the sink for stability and he grins as he keeps going.
I'm free at last / to trick you into posing / for my Polaroid / while you inflame / my hearing aid / with your vigorous obscenities—she almost snorts at that, knowing he's more likely to speak 'vigorous obscenities' and this moment is only proving her point.
Your panic cannot hurry me here / and my panic and falling / shoulders / our shameless lives / are the grains / scattered for an offering / before the staggering heights / of our love—His hands glide over her stomach and up to cup her breasts through her bra. She can feel where he's pressing against her ass, hard and wanting. Her hips are pinned against the sink and with each line, he thrusts against her, slowly lighting the fuse of what promises to be a spectacular orgasm if he keeps going.
And the other side of your anxiety / is a hammock of sweat / and moaning—It's getting harder for her to pay attention to the poem, especially when he pulls the cups of her bra down, palms meeting her already hardened nipples as he massages and squeezes with the exact pressure he knows she loves—and time comes down / like the smallest pet of God / to lick our fingers—he licks her shoulder instead—as we sleep / in the tangle / of straps and bracelets.
She tries to concentrate on the words coming out of his mouth, the way his accent curls each word as he speaks it against her skin—and Oh the sweetness of first nights / and twenty-third nights / and nights / after death and bitterness—she reaches one arm back to wrap around his neck and firmly grasp his hair—and the impeccable order / of the objects on the table—He's rocking her into the counter at just the right speed and she can feel herself getting closer to the edge—the weightless irrelevance / of all our old intentions / as we undo / as we undo / every difference.
With the last word of the poem out of his mouth, she gasps and tugs hard at his hair, coming undone as she leans against his chest.
"Oh god, Killian," she moans. He's still rocking them against the counter as she rides out her orgasm. By far, she thinks, this is the most interesting way he's ever brought her to completion.
"Have I made you a fan of poetry yet, Swan?" He moves his hands back down to her hips, his fingers sliding just under the waist of her panties. She feels loose and light as she turns in his arms and pulls him against her.
"A couple more poems like that and I can definitely be convinced," she says. "But for now I think I'm more interested in spending time with this one. What was that about lips and sunless places?"
His mind reels because she drops to her knees between him and the cabinets. He grips the counter for stability when she drags her teeth over the zipper of his slacks.
"Think you can recite another one?" She unfastens his pants, sliding the material down and taking his boxer briefs with it. She wraps one hand around the base of his cock, lightly gripping his hip with the other.
"Hmm?" He's concentrating really hard on not rocking his hips forward into her skilled hands, incredibly aware of the counter just behind her head. The absolute last thing he wants to do is accidentally give his girlfriend a concussion.
"Another poem, Killian. You have another one up in that head of yours?" She leans in and licks the tip of his erection, grinning up at him.
His mind scrambles for any other poems he memorized.
"You're making it incredibly difficult to concentrate, love," he admits, another moan pulling from him as she wraps her lips around the head and sucks lightly. She pulls back again and looks up at him, her smile shining in her eyes.
"You once promised to read me dirty poetry. You've given me one. Surely you have another up there," she says before leaning forward to kiss the spot below his hipbone. The poem that finally makes its way to his mind is not dirty, but he knows she'll appreciate it. He clears his throat, closing his eyes and trying to concentrate on the words in his head instead of the love at his feet.
All night I have slept with you / next to the sea, on the island. He begins, and she runs her hands along his thighs. Wild and sweet you were between pleasure and sleep, / between fire and water. She grips his cock again and begins stroking it gently, placing kisses along his hip again as he continues.
Perhaps very late / our dreams joined / at the top or at the bottom, / up above like—
"Fuck, Swan," he moans, her mouth going from the innocence of kisses to wrapping her lips around him once more and swirling her tongue around the tip.
"Keep going," she pants out when she breaks away, dipping her head right back in when he starts reciting once more.
Perhaps your dream / drifted from mine / and through the dark sea / was seeking me / as before, / when you did not yet exist, / when without sighting you / I sailed by your side, / and your eyes sought / what now—/ bread, wine, love, and anger—/ I heap upon you / because you are the cup / that was waiting for the gifts of my life.
The hand that isn't gripping the base of his cock trails up his thigh once more, pausing on his hip for a moment before brushing under the shirt that he's still wearing and she runs her nails down his chest.
I have slept with you / all night long while / the dark earth spins / with the living and the dead, / and on waking suddenly / in the midst of the shadow / my arm encircled your waist. / Neither night nor sleep / could separate us.
She begins bobbing her head while her hand strokes the rest of his length, and it's a struggle to remember the last stanza for a moment. He drops his head, opens his eyes again to watch her move and it's too much. His movements against her during the first poem had already aroused him, and her attentions on him now are pushing him closer to the edge.
Emma moans around his length and his knuckles go white where he's still gripping the counter. He can feel his release coming and she feels it too, speeds up and doesn't prolong the torture. When it hits him, he has to brace his feet a little more so he doesn't collapse. He's breathing hard when she gracefully stands back up into the cage of his arms. She's grinning, the cat that got the cream, as she winds her arms around his neck.
"Is that the end?" she asks, fingers threading through his hair. He shakes his head and swallows, wraps his arms around her and pulls her close.
I have slept with you / and on waking, your mouth, / come from your dream, / gave me the taste of earth, / of sea water, of seaweed, / of the depths of your life, / and I received your kiss / moistened by dawn / as if it came to me / from the sea that surrounds us.
He kisses her after saying the last verse, tasting his release still lingering on her tongue, and she hums into the kiss.
"Not bad," she says when she breaks the kiss. "You may have just swayed my opinion. I'm now pro-poetry." She's smiling when she meets his eyes, and he chuckles. He places one more kiss on her forehead before bending to hastily pull his underwear back up, stepping out of the pants and leaving them on the floor.
"I'll try a lofty and pretentious one next time," he promises, remembering their previous discussions about poetry now that she's brought them up.
"Only if you're fucking me into the mattress when you do it," she says off-handedly. He huffs out a laugh and rests his forehead against hers.
"You'll be the death of me, love." He hugs her tight to him as he says it and he can feel the laugh vibrate through her.
"But you love me anyways," she responds, dancing her fingers across his shoulders.
"Aye, until the end of time." He kisses her again, and she whispers her love for him across his lips.
And when they wind up in bed a short time later, he recites whatever he can think of—limericks, haiku, even a poem by Shel Silverstein—as he fulfills her request.