A/N: Final chapter here, my loves! The smutty conclusion I'm sure you've all been waiting for. ;) Enjoy and have a very Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays!

Sometime before dawn, when his back aches from the unnatural angle of sleeping on the couch and his arm tingles with pins and needles from Emma's weight, he wakes her so that they can both move to the comfort of the bed. He unplugs the Christmas tree, she throws more wood on the fire, and he vaguely remembers ditching both his Henley and sweater at her insistence before joining her again in slumber.

Upon waking, her reasoning for his clothing choice (or lack thereof) is abundantly clear.

She's on her side next to him, her head propped up in her left hand while her right traces patterns through his chest hair. "It's not Christmas anymore," she states, her expectations as clear as the excitement on her face, and oh hell, if he'd thought he'd seen her 'kid on Christmas morning' face the other day, he was clearly mistaken, because it was nothing compared to the grin she sports now.

He shakes his head and laughs, wondering just what he's gotten himself into. "Aye, love. I suppose Christmas is over now, isn't it?" He moves to kiss her good morning and she meets him half way, eager in her affections, and frustrated when he pulls away.

"Slow down a moment, love. We've a few things we need to discuss."

Her fingers inch mischievously lower until he wraps them in his own, putting a stop her exploration. "Condoms," he says. She's hardly beating around the bush here; no reason for him to not come right out and say it. "Do you have condoms somewhere up here?"

She shakes her head and his stomach sinks, but she quickly reaches over to the bedside table and opens the drawer to show him a half empty sleeve of birth control pills. "I've got that taken care of. I'm clean, and I assume if it's been…"

"Five years," he finishes for her. "Aye, you've nothing to worry about on my end."

She wriggles her fingers in his grasp and taps his chest. "Was there anything else you wanted to discuss?"

"In the interest of full disclosure?" he quips with more bravado than he feels.

She nods, clearly restless, ready to get on with it, but he takes a second to consider his approach. "It's been five years, Emma," he stresses as she manages to free her hand from his grasp. He grabs it again and squeezes it until she meets his eyes. "Allow me to take care of you first, because once I'm inside you, love, I'm afraid I'm not going to last all that long."

"Okay," she agrees, humming, not even remotely fazed. She mostly just seems intent on finding a way to touch him again.

Her free hand sneaks beneath the blankets to the waistband of his long johns and he growls out a warning, low and deep in his throat. "Bloody hell, darling. That means you're to lie back and keep your hands to yourself."

She flops obediently to her back and glares up at him. "That doesn't sound like very much fun," she pouts. "I want to touch you."

He sits up and reaches for the bottom button of her flannel. "You can touch me later, love," he promises, "and if, when I'm done with you, you've failed to have any fun, you've my permission to toss my arse back out into the snow."

Laughing, she sits up quickly, derailing his progress on her buttons. "Speaking of snow," she says, sliding out of the bed, "I'm just gonna stick Eira outside so we don't have any interruptions."

She's back almost before he processes her absence, throwing a few more logs on the fire before ignoring her buttons altogether and simply pulling the flannel right over her head. She's only wearing a thin white tank top beneath it, clearly not having bothered with a bra, and he holds out his hand to her as she climbs back onto the mattress.

"You're an impatient one, aren't you, lass?"

Emma huffs as he slowly works one strap off her shoulder between kisses. "I'm not used to men resisting me," she admits, nipping at his bottom lip when he takes too long pushing the matching strap from her other shoulder.

"I'm not resisting you, love; I'm appreciating you."

There's a group of freckles on her left shoulder that he finds particularly enthralling and he drops his lips to her skin to taste her there, moving up her neck to a spot behind her ear that has her rolling towards him and gritting her teeth as she clutches at his bicep.

"Any chance you could appreciate a little faster? Can we just save this whole slow exploration for another time? I mean, it's not like there's much else to do up here and you-"

He pulls down the fabric of her shirt, taking a second to memorize flush and freckles before capturing a dusky pink nipple between his lips and swirling his tongue to effectively silence her.

He wants to take his time cataloguing every little scar and freckle, commit to memory the map of her skin, but she's right; they have an abundance of time up here, so he speeds up enough to keep her content, never lingering anywhere for too long as he watches her lift the shirt from her top half while he works to bare her bottom.

There's a bit of a learning curve for him here; he's never made love to a woman without the use of both hands, and despite her insistence that he hurry up, she's surprisingly patient with him when it takes a near laughable amount of time to pull the tight cotton from her legs. His sprained ankle is a bit of a hindrance too, but when he finally has her spread out naked beside him on the bed, he quickly forgets all about it.

She's all long limbs and pale, freckled skin, blonde-haired perfection against pastel flannel sheets – his angel, his saviour, his Christmas miracle – and there's an ache in his chest that matches the one in his cock as he takes her in. "Gods, love," he bends and kisses the flat expanse of her stomach as he shuffles down the bed, "you're beyond beautiful."

Blush rises from the tops of her breasts to the apples of her cheeks, and she curls long fingers in his hair, seemingly torn between urging him lower and pulling him back up for a kiss. He nuzzles against her stomach again, dipping his tongue into the hollow of her belly button, and she whispers his name as she spreads her legs; a quiet plea.

He heeds it; lowering his head to taste her, wet heat, slick like honey on his tongue as her hips surge upward and her thighs strain on either side of his head. Swirling his tongue over her clit, he holds her steady with his arm over her hips as he drags his thumb through her arousal, pressing in, just teasing, before withdrawing.

"Killian, come on," she whines, her stomach quivering beneath his wrist.

"What do you need, love? This?" He presses his tongue inside her, groaning as he tastes her. "Or this?" He moves to suck on her clit instead, and her hips jump.

"That," she instructs with a gasp, "and your fingers."

He eases his middle finger into her, followed quickly by his ring finger, resting his forehead against her stomach while he struggles not to press his erection to the mattress and simply rut to completion.

Fucking hell, she's hot and tight; slick around his fingers. All he can think about is what she'll feel like on his cock, and he's never been as thankful for the distraction of pain as he is in the moment when she pulls hard on his hair and commands him to "move your fingers."

He does, curling them, experimenting until he finds an angle that has her thighs shaking and her walls tightening. He looks up, over the swell of her breasts and the jut of her rosy nipples to watch her face. Pleasure sets her mouth open, her lips parted as her breathing quickens. Her eyes open and quickly lock with his, the green of them slightly glazed, twinkling with the reflection of the lights from the Christmas tree. He doesn't remember her plugging them back in, but he's glad she did. The soft light plays over her body, caressing her curves in what he wishes were an extension of his touch.

She's like some sort of sinful angel come to earth and he lifts his head to tell her as much. "Gods, love, you're a sight not fit for the likes of me." He kisses her hipbone, drags his beard over the thin skin there. "You're bloody gorgeous."

Her hips lift and she breathes out in exasperation. "Fuck, Killian. Shut up and use your mouth again."

He takes his time moving back to where she wants him, his fingers still stroking her slowly as he kisses his way along the line of her hipbone to the crease of her thigh. He can feel her femoral artery beating there, and he presses the flat of his tongue to the strong thrum of her pulse for several beats before moving onward.

Nuzzling against her dark blonde curls, he breathes in her scent, heady arousal that makes his cock throb almost painfully with his desire for her. It's enough to spur him back into action; his tongue flicking at her clit as he ups the rhythm with his fingers.

It doesn't take long; he's held her on the edge for long enough now, that the slightest push has her hips lifting and her hands tightening in his hair as some sort of breathy half-sob that could be his name passes her lips. She clenches hard around his fingers, her walls fluttering as he simply presses his tongue to her twitching bundle of nerves.

He wants to look up at her, watch her face as her orgasm rolls in waves through her body, but her grip on his hair is so tight that he fears any sudden movement on his part might leave him bald in places, so instead he focuses on prolonging her pleasure, slowing his movements to help her ride it out until her fingers loosen in his locks and she pants, "enough, enough, too much," trying to urge him upward and away from her oversensitive flesh.

Settling his chin next to her belly button, he withdraws his fingers from her heat, reaching up to circle one nipple, and then the other, with the evidence of her pleasure. He shuffles further up, intending to lick his fingers clean while she watches, but she grabs his hand, apparently reading his intention, and turns his whole world upside-down by bringing his digits to her lips instead. Her mouth is hot and inviting as she sucks and swirls her tongue to taste herself on his fingers with a wicked gleam in her eyes. It's an action suggestive of something else he'd very much like to experience with her in the future, and it takes every ounce of self-control he possesses (plus a hastily conjured image of Liam in bloomers) to stop himself from coming right then and there.

"Bloody hell, love," he whispers in awe as she releases his fingers with a wet pop.

They shift to lie facing each other, and after sucking both of her nipples clean; he lowers his head to the pillow to catch his breath, feeling a little ridiculously like he's just run a marathon.

"Gonna toss me out in the snow?" he asks once he's managed to gather his wits just a little bit.

She shakes her head and grins at him, her fingers trailing over his shoulder to his chest. "Nah, I think I'll keep you."

It's an interesting choice of words, but he takes no issue with their connotations. "I'm all yours, love," he says as she pushes him to his back.

She sits up to kneel next to him, her breasts swaying enticingly, and he wants to reach for them, touch her again, but she bends to kiss him. Sweet and sultry, it shakes him to his core.

"To do with what I please?" she asks against his lips, one hand soothing through his hair, massaging his abused scalp, while the other maps his torso, working its way toward the elastic of his long johns.

He nods, anticipation burning through his veins. "Whatever you desire, Emma… though if I might make a request?"

She kisses and sucks her way down his neck, nips at his collarbone, and rubs her nose back and forth in his chest hair before meeting his eyes again. "You may."

He sits up slightly against the pillows. "Help rid me of this offending garment," he nods toward his long johns, "and then if you would, take a seat on my lap."

She squints at him suspiciously as her fingers dip below the waistband. "You're not going to make some sort of awful Santa joke, are you?"

He laughs and it's a little bit strangled because she's kissing his stomach now and working the fabric lower. "Wouldn't dream of it," he bites out.

Lifting the fabric, she draws it carefully over his erection, and he thinks she might continue working the long johns down his legs, but she pauses and he watches as a smiles spreads across her face.

"You're bigger than I expected," she tells him, biting her lip as her eyes flicker back and forth between his face and his cock. For a moment he wonders if she isn't just saying it to stroke his ego, but then he remembers the state he was in when she found him and bites back a wry chuckle.

"Aye, well, flaccid and half frozen while unconscious is hardly a fit state for comparison, love."

"Apparently not," she laughs, quickly removing his pants and tossing them aside.

He offers his hand to balance her as she moves to straddle his thighs, and then, tugging her closer, he wraps his left arm around her back, drawing her forward until his cock is pressed tight between their stomachs as he kisses her.

Wiggling her fingers between them, she shifts back enough to grasp his length firmly. She draws her thumb over the head, circling, spreading moisture, and he grunts into her mouth, breaking the kiss as his balls draw up tight. "Fuck, Emma, explore later, right now I just need to be inside you."

They both shift simultaneously, surprisingly in sync considering that they've never done this before and that he's more than a little rusty. She releases his hand to position herself over him, sliding slowly back and forth to coat his length in the slickness of her arousal before stilling. She takes his hand again, linking their fingers together, and he fights the nearly blinding urge to drive up into her when she meets his eyes.

"You sure about this?" she asks, and part of him wants to laugh at the question because surely they've already passed the point of no return here, and another, large part of him, wonders if maybe that shouldn't be his line, but she's got this lovely little smirk tugging at her lips and it occurs to him that she's obviously waiting for some sort of response.

"Aye, love," he nods, squeezing her hand, "I am, if you are?"

She answers by sinking down on him slowly, taking him in, wet heat, heaven, enveloping his cock, inch by inch until she settles, the rooms spins, and he has to remind himself to breathe.

Bending to reach his lips, she flexes her hips and takes him in deeper with a happy little sigh, golden hair tumbling over her shoulders to curtain their faces and tickle his chest. She doesn't move just yet, giving them both a moment to adjust, and he's thankful for it as he centers himself, focusing as much on the green of her eyes and the slim strength of her hand in his own, as he does on the sensation of being inside her.

After a moment, she sits back up slightly, clenching around him with a wicked little grin as she brings his fingers to her breast, his empty wrist to her waist, and starts moving. And god, she's a hell of a sight with the Christmas tree behind her. He'd love nothing more than to keep his eyes open to watch her, but his heart pounds faster and somehow, with each breathtaking rock of her hips, he loses and finds himself at the same time, her fingers teasing over his stomach, and then his thighs, as she changes the angle just enough to reach behind her.

His eyes close of their own accord and he drops his fingers from where they toy with her nipple, down to her hip to aid her movements, drowning in sensation as he tries to stave off the inevitable for a little while longer.

That works until he hears her gasp, until he feels her tighten around him, the telltale flutter of her walls prompting him to open his eyes to the sight of her touching herself, her fingers busy over her clit as the previously steady rhythm of her hips grows sloppy.

It's almost enough to set him off and he curses, bending his knees to thrust up into her, sprained ankle be damned. "Tell me you're close, love," he nearly pleads, his impending release taut like a bowstring in his belly, a coil about ready to snap.

"Almost," she pants, pressing against his chest to add force to their combined thrusts, the slow pace of just moments earlier quickly turning frantic. "Just-" she says, and he tilts his hips slightly, clearly finding a better angle because she breathes out an almost startled "oh, there," and then she's collapsing to his chest, coming with a drawn-out, muffled, "fuuuuck" of a whine.

It does him in; her orgasm triggering his, and all he can do is hold on to her, his fingers probably bruising her hip as he spills his seed, and what feels like his very soul, into her. And hell, it's clichéd, but he's pretty bloody certain he sees stars. Logically he could write it off as the lights from the Christmas tree, or synapses firing, electrical impulses in his brain, but there isn't much room in his head for logic when he feels on the verge of blacking out from coming so hard.

He feels a little like he's lost control of his own body; his nerves firing blanks, messages with no content, because somewhere, something is telling him to open his eyes and ease his grip at her waist, but he has no idea if he's succeeded or not when it's all he can do to keep breathing.

Slowly his faculties come back to him and he opens his eyes to see Emma still slumped against his chest, her chin resting atop her hand as she watches him.

"That was…" he breathes, unable to locate an appropriate adjective anywhere in his usually expansive vernacular.

She laughs and his softening length slips out of her, his release following, hot and slick, smearing across both their skin as she stretches languidly above him. "It sure was," she agrees before kissing him, an almost tentative thing that says far more than any words he suspects either of them could conjure at the moment.

She rolls off of him after a moment and he misses the weight of her almost instantly, some fanciful part of him wishing she could have stayed there forever. She doesn't move far though, and doesn't seem to be overly concerned with keeping the sheets clean, because she reaches down to pull the blankets up before curling into his side with a yawn. He echoes it, his jaw cracking as he wraps an arm around her and hugs her closer.

Some part of him thinks the lack of pillow talk should be awkward, but somehow it's not, and he finds himself perfectly content to just snuggle naked with her beneath the blankets, sated and a little bit sleepy, fingers brushing, sharing occasional touches and soft kisses as they bask in the warmth of the small cabin.

Time passes, but he's not sure how much or how fast until Emma's stomach growls and she sighs. "I'm hungry, but I don't want to move," she complains, burrowing her face into the crook of his neck.

"I know the feeling, love," he agrees. "I've spent the last I don't know how many minutes trying to summon the energy to do something more than lie here and kiss you."

She grins and kisses him again. "You don't hear me complaining, do you?"

"Just your stomach," he teases, and she seems to be on the verge of some sort of witty retort when there's a scratch and a god-awful howl at the door.

"And that'll be Eira wanting in," she groans, flipping back the blankets as she pulls out of his arms. "Go run us a bath while I let her in and find something for breakfast. Turn the water up as hot as it goes, the tank usually starts to run out about half way through filling the tub, but the temperature will balance out by the time it's full."

"Anything else, my dear?" She's bossy and he can already see himself getting used to it.

She lifts an eyebrow at the endearment and grabs a robe from the dresser, shrugging into it. "Make it a bubble bath?"

It's a request he's only too happy to comply with, hobbling naked with his crutch to the bathroom to turn on the tap. He finds bubble bath in the linen closet; spiced vanilla, and adds it to the water, watching rich suds froth forth for a moment before he turns toward the mirror. The cut above his eye is healing, the bruising fading, but there's something else off about his appearance and it takes him a moment to figure out exactly what it is.

He's smiling.

Bloody hell.

He lifts his hand to scratch at his beard, covering his mouth, but the smile is still there in the lines around his eyes; the blue of his irises brighter, his reflection happier, than he can recall in years.

It doesn't take a rocket scientist to discern the cause.

Especially when the cause presses her naked self to his back, her face appearing in the mirror over his shoulder as she wraps her arms around his waist, fingers dragging through his chest hair. She kisses his neck and then lifts her eyes to meet his in the mirror. The thoughtful little grin on her lips has him turning to face her, needing to kiss her.

She tastes of hot cocoa, and it's only then that he notices the tray balanced carefully on a stool next to the tub. An extra large mug (he assumes they'll be sharing) sits next to a plate of cookies and banana bread.

"That's an awful lot of sugar for breakfast," he points out, even as he tastes the chocolate on her lips again.

"We can work if off later," she offers, her meaning clear. "Now get in the tub."

He removes the wrap from his ankle first, temporarily distracted when she pulls the curtains aside, not by the view outdoors, but by the way too-bright sunlight silhouettes her frame against the frosted glass when she bends to shut off the water.

There's a half-hearted scolding about putting weight on his ankle, followed by several more kisses before they both finally end up in the steaming tub, her back pressed to his front and his arm around her waist as they pass the mug off cocoa back and forth.

She's quiet, seemingly lost in thought, and he allows his mind to wander as well, his sights torn between the sparking snow-covered world outside, and the tops of her breasts peeking through the bubbles. He divides his attention between them, content to just hold her, to breathe in the scent of her hair, and be free for once from the near omnipresent anxiety that he usually experiences at this time of year.

She's a balm for his battered heart and he wants to ask her if they can do it all again next year (minus the falling down the mountain part, of course), but he's not daft enough to go and overwhelm her with plans for the distant and uncertain future, so he keeps his mouth shut and buries his nose in her hair instead, wondering if there's some way he could bring up spending New Year's together.

With a contemplative little sigh, she leans back against him more fully. "It's not Christmas anymore," she says in an echo of her earlier words.

It's not a question this time either, but he answers all the same. "No, it's not."

Finding his wrist below the water, she lifts it to cradle his arm between her breasts. Wiping the bubbles away from the blunt end, she bows her head and presses a kiss to the aborted tendons on the underside.

"Merry not Christmas, Killian," she whispers, almost a question, and he can feel the slight upward curve of her lips on his skin.

An answering smile blooms on his face and he presses it into her hair. "Aye, love," he answers. "Merry not Christmas, Emma."