Author's Note: What's that you say? You'd like some light Naomily fluff & smut to get through your Thursday? Oh, alright then.

Remember when series 4 opened and we were all: Holy shit - naked Emily! But then, we calmed down a bit and realised: Holy shit - that's not the yellow cottage. WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO OUR LOVELY, YELLOW COTTAGE?!

Well, here's what I think about that. Cheers all!

"What do you mean you're selling the house mum? It's our house." She emphasises the last word as if this will somehow resonate with her mother, who's clearly gone mad.

"You're off to uni next year, I'm no longer housing vagrants, and I just don't need so much space. I'm downsizing," she responds lightly, taking a sip of tea.

Naomi, jaw still slightly agape, looks to Emily who shrugs uselessly, then rolls her eyes as she stands from the sofa and stalks out of the room.

"She's very adaptive, that one." Gina winks at Emily, who is still sat on the sofa, like the idea of Naomi storming away from her is so routine at this point she can't even be arsed to follow her.

"I've always thought so," Emily smiles. "So where will you go? Have you started looking?"

"Kieran and I drove around a bit weekend last, but I'm not too worried with that. I've no doubt some place will pop up when we're ready."

"Emily, can you fucking come here please?" Naomi's rather loud request makes its way into the sitting room from where she's stood at the top of the stairs.

Emily sighs, places both hands onto the sofa before pushing herself up and looks to Naomi's mum before saying, "Well, this should be fun."

It's mid-June before Gina's earlier ramblings on selling the house come to fruition. And leave it to her mum to choose the one, sodding week when Bristol is unseasonably humid for the move to take place. So she's miserable, absolutely fucking irate about the prospect of hauling boxes and furniture in a heat wave that's already making the fabric of her top stick against her stomach, and she hasn't done so much as walk from the pavement to the front door of their new home.

"This is fucking bollocks – I'm sweating my tits off already and it's barely gone nine in the fucking morning." She's slumped against the door, waiting for Gina to fumble around for the right key, and Emily is standing across from her, smiling at her – hands propped easily on her waist like she's just endlessly amused by Naomi's state of misery. Emily's shirt is not damp, and her hairline is not beaded in sweat so, in a flash of insecurity, Naomi scowls at her, "Don't you ever fucking perspire?"

"Yeah," Emily says with one eyebrow raised, "under the right conditions."

"Pervert," Naomi hisses in a whisper as her mum finally comes bouncing up the walk, dangling a key triumphantly between her thumb and forefinger.

But Emily just grins, folds her arms along her stomach, and waits for the tint of pink she knows is seconds away from colouring Naomi's cheeks. Which of course, it bloody does.

Gina stands between them, inserting the key into the lock and sighing dramatically. "Here we go girls. I can feel a good energy here, Naomi . I really can."

"Yeah? Well I can feel sweat sliding down my arse so if you don't mind, could we hurry this little Namaste moment along already?"

"Oh Christ, Naomi," is all Gina says as she pushes open the door and walks ahead of them into the dark house.

But it's Emily who catches her eye and mouths the word hot, earning herself a dirty look and a solid push against her shoulder as Naomi shoves past her into the house. To which Emily – who's apparently the happiest, fucking person in scorching heat – just laughs in response and follows behind her.

Naomi's sprawled out against her bare mattress when Emily enters the room holding two glasses of ice water. She groans when Emily holds one out to her and doesn't move to take the glass even a little.

"You're pathetic," Emily says and plops onto the mattress beside her, tucking one leg up under the other. She takes three gulps of water before using the back of her hand to wipe moisture that's gathered on her forehead.

"This is breaking child labour laws – I'm sure of it."

"You're eighteen," Emily answers, smiling down at her.

"My concern is for you, obviously."

Emily closes her eyes and nods once. "Obviously." Then takes stock of the new room, its contents currently askew, stacked boxes and furniture crammed along the walls. "It's nice."

Naomi grunts in response so Emily sets the two glasses of water onto the floor and changes tactics.

"Care to christen it?" There's mischief written all over her face as Naomi eyes her, a cheeky smile just peeking over her shoulder from where she's sat on the bed. And then she's swung one leg over her own, moving to straddle her. Places two hands flat onto the mattress on either side of her.

"No! Christ – it's too fucking hot, Emily." When her smile broadens, this perfectly lovely face just hovering above her and wisps of bright red falling down from where Emily had pulled it back into a loose ponytail, Naomi works hard at keeping a straight face and insists, "I'm serious. Fucking, get off."

It's a feeble attempt at best, the way she's pushed back against Emily's stomach and shoulder. But then Emily's not been left sluggish by all the heat and manual labour, apparently, because she's quick to grab Naomi's wrists and pin her arms back against the mattress.

The protest dies in her throat then, when Emily leans down to kiss her. It's slow and lazy – if not rather filthy – and precisely the kind of kiss she's never been able to protest, actually. And Emily keeps on kissing her, keeps sucking on her bottom lip and moving herself at a terribly slow pace against her legs, right up until Naomi starts resisting the hold she's got on her wrists because if she can't touch her, grab at her, tug at her clothing soon, she's likely to fucking scream. Which is when Emily pulls back – gives her a victorious smirk before kissing the hot, salty skin of her neck and jawline.

"Em," she practically breaths out, in-between hard gulps of air.

"Sorry," Emily answers just hovering above her left ear. "You want me to stop?"

"Can you just –" she exhales, knowing full well she's fucking lost because Emily never plays fairly "—can you at least close the fucking door?"

Emily slides off her in an instant, takes two backwards steps towards the door without breaking eye contact, before kicking it shut with her foot. And it's nearly instinctual then – as if she's lost any control she once had – the way Naomi is up off the bed and crashing them both against the closed door.

"Someone's suddenly eager," Emily manages to say before Naomi essentially says shut the fuck up against her mouth.

And she rarely takes Emily like this anymore – roughly, urgently, like if she slows down she'll have to sort out the whats and whys of it all. It's so often slower now, and she likes what it says about them, that. That they're able to take their time with each other. She loves how fucking Emily can be something slow and calculated – something she can now take her time with to perfect and enjoy. She doesn't have to strip her quick and work fast and hard towards the good bits, because the feelings behind it don't frighten her nearly as much these days.

Still, she thinks as she clutches the damp material of Emily's vest top, pulling it swiftly over her head and dropping it to the floor, if she's going to 'christen' the room, she's bloody well going to do it properly.

Emily picks up the rhythm of things pretty quickly, pushing herself off the door until Naomi steps back, and then she's grabbing at her top to work it up and off. Though without a clear path back to the bed, they're just bumping against rogue boxes and bedside tables until the backs of Naomi's knees meet the corner of her mattress.

She's laughing against Emily's lips as they fall back, resituate arms and legs while fumbling for buttons and zips, their skin still sticky, their hair still damp from humidity and exertion. She works her hand between Emily's legs, rests their foreheads together when her fingers dip into wet folds so that puffs of breath keep crossing between them. Emily grabs for her shoulders, for the flesh of her ribs. Wraps her hands around her neck and pulls her closer so that when Naomi kisses her, Emily can moan into her mouth instead of letting it echo into open air.

She's sweating more after they've finished, can see it glistening in the bend of her elbow and across the flat of her stomach. Emily's laid flat beside her on the mattress, both panting happily and grinning like idiots. Emily lolls her head towards her, waits for Naomi to do the same, then moves a hand to brush a strand of hair – now grown longer in loose curls – from her face.

"Heat's not so bad," she says and Naomi raises her brow sceptically. To which Emily smirks, "When you're naked anyway."