For Emilie, whose nameday is tomorrow(today where she is). I've been muttering about this fic for a few weeks, and it's managed to grow a lot more than I expected. It will have two parts. Sorry for the lack of smut in this part.
Killian Jones has heard many stories about the infamous Queen whose palace he's found himself being led through. Stories that are alternatively frightening and thrilling. Though they have neither effect on him, he can appreciate the reaction.
They say she was born of pure true love, that she wields magic beyond compare, beyond understanding. That she led her father's army to victory over the Evil Queen when she was just nineteen, that her parents just handed her the crown because she was doing such a fantastic job of it anyway. That she's a collector of all things fine and precious, valuable and...well, portable. Specifically, gems.
And for a pirate like him, that's practically a challenge.
But the best part of all is that she has a harem, an actual harem, where, as it's rumored, she collects the very finest men and women, beautiful and skilled.
Despite his burning desire to best her and make away with his fair share of treasure, he has more than a little admiration for this woman. Or, at least, for the woman the stories speak of. He's never actually laid eyes on the legendary queen, though he supposes he will soon.
If all goes according to plan, he'll be laying a whole lot more than his eyes on her.
The thought makes him chuckle; in fact, the whole situation makes him chuckle. The soldiers on either side of him have no idea that they're leading him exactly where he wishes to go, that this is exactly what he wants.
Finally, they reach the end of the hall, and a pair of guards standing outside the massive double doors nodding at the ones flanking him before the ease the doors open and a hand on his shoulder unceremoniously shoves him inside.
The room is bright and airy, lit from above by a large oculus, he notes as the door slams shut behind him. Everywhere he looks there are soft transparent curtains falling in waves from the ceiling. Curious, he steps forward, pushing deeper into the room. Right underneath the light is a bed, a giant four-poster monstrosity covered in the same curtains that decorate the rest of the room. The floor shines, brightly polished marble under his boots.
All in all, he thinks, it gets its message across quite loudly. This room is meant for pleasure, to intimidate anyone who is unaccustomed to it and to soothe those who are.
Oh, she will be so much fun.
Turning on his heel, he continues to survey the room, taking in all that he can, even though it's much more of the same. Curtains, marble pillars, huge bed.
"They told me you were gorgeous, but I'm afraid they didn't do you justice, Captain."
Killian spins, the voice catching him surprisingly off guard. He's even more unsteady when he realizes that it came from the woman standing mere inches away from him. Nobody sneaks up on him.
Except for, apparently, her.
If the small gold circlet(inset with emeralds, he notices, matching her ever-changing eyes perfectly in the light) in her hair didn't give away who she was, her mere presence would have. The golden curls that fell across her shoulders were as radiant as the stories spoke of, her body as lithe and utterly leaking power as he'd been told. The dress she's wearing seems to be made of the same material as the curtains, layers of sheer fabric flowing over her shoulders and breasts before gathering at her waist and spilling over her legs. The cut of the dress accentuates her curves, draws the eye to her breasts and hips, and when she shifts her leg he catches a glimpse of bare skin on her thigh.
In short, she is probably the most beautiful woman he's ever laid eyes on.
If he was anyone else, his prospects might seem daunting by now.
But since he's Killian Jones, he merely smirks at her and bows lightly, bringing her knuckles to his lips in a soft kiss.
"Captain Killian Jones, at your service, my lady," he says, dropping his voice to a pleasant purr. He wants to make a good impression, after all.
The queen nods and then smiles at him, small and knowing, like she is privy to the greatest secret the world has ever known.
"Please, let's not stand on ceremony, Killian." She brushes past him and heads for the center of the room, not even looking over her shoulder to see if he is following. She walks like a woman know knows she will be followed, even if she issues no such command. So of course, he follows.
He knows to play the game, bide his time.
She reaches up and wraps her fingers around one of the posters on the bed, her hand slipping between the gauzy fabric.
"You're rather infamous, even for a pirate. I've heard rather interesting stories about the great Captain Hook," she says nonchalantly, and Killian bites back a curse. So, she knows exactly who he is. That his flimsy disguise as a simple merchant captain who accidentally wandered into the Queen's waters has held up in approximately no way at all. That will make things more difficult, certainly. But nothing is impossible.
He straightens his spine and keeps a careful eye on her, even though her attention is focused on the curtains she drifts through like a ghost, moving in lazy circles throughout the room.
"All good things, I hope?"
Her laughter rings out, light and utterly enchanting. A lesser man would be drawn into that laugh, lost in the depths of her voice, the amused rise and fall. That knowing smile is back on her lips when she finally comes around to stand in front of him.
"You're a pirate. What do you think?"
Well, she said not to stand on ceremony. So he raises an eyebrow and drops his eyes to hers, putting as much tension and suggestion behind the words as he can manage. "Oh, I hope you've heard good things about me, lass. I assure you, they're all true."
She meets his innuendo head on, her own delicate eyebrow rising at the suggestion. "So you've come to see if you can bed yourself a queen, then, have you, Killian?"
He chuckles at that. She's...not what he expected. It's exciting.
"Oh, no, Emma," he says, emphasising her given name as he shuffles closer to her. "I've come to see if a queen would like to bed herself a pirate."
For a long moment, she meets his gaze head-on, unflinching at the challenge that lies there. And then she throws her head back and laughs. Her shoulders shake and cave in towards her chest, amusement bubbling up out of her in waves.
It's a sight to behold, and it's confusing as hell for Killian. He hasn't been laughed at in a very long time, much less when it comes to things such as this. No woman has ever laughed in his face at such a suggestion.
Then again, he's never quite met a woman like Emma Swan before.
When she finally stops laughing, a wide grin is still plastered across her face, eyes twinkling up at him.
She moves so fast he isn't prepared for it. One minute she's smiling at him, her face inches from his own, his breathing controlled just so it puffs across the skin of her neck and shoulder, his plan thrown out the window in favor of on-the-spot adaptations. He think's he's doing pretty well.
And then her fingers are around his throat and he's on his knees and he can't move and for the first time he feels the slight nagging sensation that maybe he has found himself in a situation he can't quite charm his way out of.
Her grip on his neck tightens, and he feels his oxygen begin to give out.
"Know this, pirate. The only reason you're not dead right now for your multitude of crimes is because I see fit to spare you." Her voice has taken on a sharp edge, and if words could slice a man to pieces, she'd be the one to wield them. "Your charms will not work on me. Better men have tried and failed. So know this, and know it well. If you ever find yourself in my bed, it will not be because I seek to bed a pirate, it will be because I seek to own a pirate. Do you understand?" She releases him with a shove, and he lands hard on the floor, pain shooting through his shoulder as he suddenly finds himself able to move again.
The nagging sensation has risen to full-on warning bells ringing in his ears. Or that could be blood rushing. It's hard to tell right now.
Slowly, he crawls to his feet again, refusing to show any weakness. Emma is looking at him expectantly, her hands perched on her hips as though he is some wayward child in need of discipline. The mere thought sets his teeth on edge.
Instead of lashing out, which he knows would probably result in the loss of his other hand, he does his best to school his features, though he makes no move to hide the ice he throws into his gaze. She thinks she can handle Captain Hook? Fine, let her see Captain Hook.
"I understand, your majesty." He narrows his eyes and takes a small step forward, invading her personal space. She doesn't back away, doesn't even flinch, doesn't even blink. She's a tough lass, more than willing to go toe to toe with him. "But you understand this. I am no better man," he hisses, "I play dirty."
His implication hangs in the air between them, floating like the fabric surrounding them. She's mulling something over, he can tell, the way her eyebrows come together and she blinks, hands shifting from her hips.
Surprisingly, her fingers touch his arm, drifting up to his shoulder lightly. He can feel the warmth radiating from her hand, from her body and it's proximity. She leans forward, advancing on him as her eyes drop to his lips.
This is a dangerous game she's playing, and he has the feeling that it will be more dangerous for him than for her.
"You should know, Killian," she murmurs, lips mere inches from his own, her voice light and breathy as her eyes flicker up to his, "I play dirty too."
And then she surges forward, closing the gap between them as her lips crash into his and her hands worm their way around his neck. She gasps against him and presses her body closer, running her tongue across his lips before he opens to her.
His mind is swirling; what is she planning, what is she doing, and gods above, how does she know to kiss like this? He knows he needs to stay alert, that she is planning something, that he is not in control, but the way she moans against his tongue and wraps her arm around his waist makes him lose his thoughts, scatting them to the wind like so much dust.
She slides her hand down and slips it under his shirt, pressing against the skin there, before slowly starting to inch it upwards. She kisses him like she is trying to crawl inside of him, and he returns it with fervor. Her grip on his sides tighten even as she shoves his shirt farther up, fingers dancing across his stomach, brushing against the top of his pants before riding even higher than before.
For his part, he tangles his hand in her hair and wraps his arm around her waist, holding him against her, though he isn't entirely sure she isn't just letting him think he's holding her. Either way, he is enjoying the delicious feel of her mouth against his, her fingers on his skin, the way her curls slip through his fingers even as he tugs on them lightly, angling for a better position.
But her touch has grown demanding and she shoves the shirt up, urging his arms up so she can pull it off of him. Something is tinkling at the back of his mind, but he can't place it, not when she is devouring him like a final meal.
Finally, she breaks away and yanks his shirt up and over his head, throwing it across the room indiscriminately. He leans back in to continue the kiss, but she avoids him, taking a step back even as she presses her palm flat against his chest.
"Ah, ah, not so fast." Her lips are bright and kiss-bitten, her hair mussed from where he ran his fingers through it. The circlet on her head has tilted to the side a little and she is slightly out of breath, but her voice is firm, commanding, even with the hint of amusement running through it.
She is dangerous, a siren on dry land, and he feels her call even as he tries to process what is happening. Images flash through his mind; the way she would look, spread naked across that bed, the sounds she would make under his ministrations, the way they would slip past those beautiful lips. It makes him ache, and he curses his body for its reaction. Her beauty is a trap, meant to lure men to their deaths.
Despite his best efforts, her song is bright and loud, and it circles him in a vice-like grip.
"What game are we playing, Emma?" He raises an eyebrow at her and shifts his hand up to twist a single curl around his finger. She shrugs his touch away and smirks, and he wants to curse her, how confident she is, how assured her control is.
She curls her fingers, then, dragging them through the dark hair across his chest and towards the side as she moves to circle him.
"We aren't playing any game, Killian. I am inspecting my new property." She leans in over his shoulder, fingers tightening over curve of his shoulder. "Would you not do the same?"
He stiffens at her tone, the implication there. "I belong to no one, love," he spits, and her nails dig painfully into the skin of his shoulder. A hiss rises up in his throat but he pushes it down even when he feels his skin break where she's pressing down.
"I think you'll find you do belong to me." She taps her finger against his skin, ignoring the bright red lines where her fingers had been.
"Says what law?"
She chuckles and comes to face him again, eyebrow raising in amusement, and Killian seethes at her. This is not how it should be. He had a plan. A good one.
"I thought pirates had a particular distaste for laws?"
Maybe he underestimated her, because he's starting to think she too had a plan, and there's an uncomfortable feeling settling into the pit of his stomach that tells him while his schemes may have fallen apart at the seams, hers were going precisely according to plan.
Well. He'll just have to turn on the charm.
She hums when her gaze falls on his left arm, the brace that stretches up his arm and straps around his shoulder, holding his hook in place.
"Missing extremities tend to make items lose their value," she tells him, offhand. He raises an eyebrow. So this is the game she wishes to play?
"They don't just call me Hook for fun. But I've never had any complaints. Most women tend to find my...skillset more than enough to make up for any perceived loss," he says with a leer. If he sounds slightly smug, it's only because he knows it's true.
She smiles lazily at him. "I'm not most women."
"Oh, believe me, love, I've noticed," he replies smoothly, looking her up and down appreciatively, throwing a wink in for extra measure.
The crescent shaped marks on his shoulder burn.
One day he will mark her just as well. It's not a terrible thought to imagine bruises shaped like his fingers on the curve of her hips, or what the gorgeous column of her neck would look like with a string of marks laid on it.
That's the thought that keeps his facade charming even as her smile turns predatory and sharp. She drifts over to the bed, her fingers caressing the canopy as she slips through it.
"Well then, let's see just why they keep you around then, shall we?" She's already easing onto the bed, her shoes clattering to the floor.
It's not what he had expected, honestly. He hasn't met someone so challenging in a long time.
"I thought I wasn't going to find myself in your bed, Emma?" He snarks, advancing on her as her legs slip open, fabric parting to reveal the creamy skin of her legs to him.
She tilts her head up at him, and though she's sitting there, leaning back on her palms even as she shifts her hips and more skin is revealed, strips of her dress falling between her legs as it becomes blindingly apparent that she is nude under the thin fabric, she still carries that air of calm control.
"I never said you were going to be joining me in the bed." She pointedly drops her gaze to the spot between her parted knees before looking back at him, meeting him head-on with a challenging glint in her eyes.
Killian Jones knows when he is being played, and right now, he feels like a goddamn fiddle. But she's given him something, she's played her hand, expecting him to fall in line.
A plan is forming in his head as he slides closer and drags his fingers along the bare skin of her thigh, pulling the opaque fabric up past her hip.
"What, then, are you asking of me?" He smoothly lowers himself down, then, bracing his hook again the bed next to her hip as he kneels. He presses his thumb against the inside of her thigh and starts rubbing circles against the skin there, enough pressure to hold her leg open in that position.
"I didn't take you for a fool, ca-" her words dissolve into a gasp as he plants his lips against the inside of her leg, just above the knee, and drags them wetly up her thigh, the scratch of his barely-there beard leaving a light red mark behind him. He nips at the delicate skin just inches from the apex of her thighs, and lets out a pleased sound when there's a tiny shudder of her hips under his hand.
Turning his head, he moves to repeat the action on her other leg, slower this time, enough to savor it. Her breathing is heavier now, and he takes pride in the fact that he's finally ruffled her feathers some. When he turns his head to nuzzle against her, she shifts and her hand comes up to tangle in his hair. Roughly, she jerks him up to meet her gaze.
"What are you doing?" Her eyes are dark and wide, and there's something else lurking behind them, something he can't quite identify.
He quirks an eyebrow at her and slowly licks his lips sensually, not missing the way her eyes follow the movement. "I believe it's called foreplay, love."
She freezes, a myriad of things flashing across her face before she settles on something he supposes she must think is indifferent.
But he sees the softness there, the incredulity. As though no man has ever bothered to caress her, to offer something soft. That's unthinkable, though; what man wouldn't be desperate to shower her in everything a queen deserves? For a split second, it makes him hesitate. For that one second, he recognizes something in her, like looking in a mirror. It's impossible to pinpoint but he feels it nonetheless.
He's not sure how long it drags out, the way they're looking at each other, but slowly he returns to himself, and he blinks hard, cursing himself. He can't afford to be distracted, not right now, not when he has her right where he wants her. Besides, she just gave him the last piece he needed.
Slowly, he drags his hand down her leg before circling her ankle with his fingers. He brings it up to his lips without breaking their staring match, and presses a light kiss against the skin there.
Emma's eyes flutter and then close, and that's all he needs.
He gently plants her foot back on the floor and kisses the curve of her knee one last time before he pushes himself up from the floor.
"Wha-?" Her eyes shoot open at the sudden loss, and he smirks at her. If it feels a touch hollow, well, that's his business.
"I'm afraid, your majesty, I must refuse your generous offer," he sneers coldly as he turns away and reaches for his shirt. Hurt flickers in her eyes, and she blinks at him, as though trying to process the sudden change. She deserves it, he reminds himself. Nobody puts him on his knees and doesn't regret it.
"Fine," she snaps back, after a moment. She's sealed herself off again, nothing but her own hardened, cold exterior to be seen.
But he knows he didn't imagine it; she was actually hurt. Not by their little play for power, but by his simple rejection.
Killian doesn't plan on saying anything else, but he still finds himself turning back to her, slinking back to stand in front of her. "I won't be another of your playthings, darling." She narrows her eyes at him, but he continues on, crouching to bring himself down to her level. "You don't want sex, you want connection, and you'll not find it with the people you bring here." He lets his hand drift up, brushing across her knee and then thigh, and he's slightly surprised when she doesn't even flinch. "I won't take advantage of your perfect body until you beg me to." She doesn't move, so he leans in further, so they're sharing the same air with every breath. "And when you do, nothing else will do." He smirks again, allowing his eyes to flutter down across her body, drinking it in.
"You're too self-assured. I've had many who've thought like you." A smile plays across her lips as she leans towards him. If he moved now, their lips would brush. "They discovered how wrong they were too."
He fixes his eyes on hers, allowing himself to get lost in their depths. She reminds him of the sea, a little bit; a harsh mistress, giving no quarter, no favor.
"You may be queen, love, but I see right through you."
Emma closes the gap and when she speaks, it's a whisper against his lips. "And what do you see?"
He allows himself to stay there for a moment, time suspended. She makes no move to pull away. What he has to say next, he knows, will probably bring her wrath down on him. As much as that had been his goal, he finds himself wishing to stay here with her for just a little while longer.
"I see loneliness. You're desperate for someone to love you, but you refuse to allow it."
The words hang in the air between them.
"Get out," Emma hisses, her voice a sharp edge even as her face gives nothing away. He pulls away, but doesn't leave yet.
"Did I hit a nerve, your majesty?"
She rises up out of the bed and latches her hand around his arm, dragging him back to the door he came in.
"Get. Out." Her knuckles rap on the door and it starts to creak open instantly. She releases him with a shove, sending him towards the small opening between the two grand doors.
"Until next time, Emma!" He throws over his shoulder, and the last thing he sees before the guards hands are around his arms is her glare starting to crack, something else seeping up underneath, something she can't control.
He's lead through dozens of halls, but he pays them no heed, knowing he'll be able to memorize it all later. His mind is more concerned with the queen. Emma Swan.
She's a paradox and he finds it tantalizing; no matter what else he tries to think about, he finds himself returning to her, the glimmers of emotion he'd seen. It shouldn't be so intriguing, but it is.
The guards shove him into a room, one small candle burning in the corner. It's small, but no smaller than he's used to, and the bed in the corner looks comfortable enough. His ship is miles better, but this will do.
Sitting on the bed, he eases off his boots and allows himself to relax into the mattress. He walked into this damned castle planning to rob it, and she destroyed that plan. He should be looking for a way out, an escape to get back to his ship and return to the sea.
But he can't. Not when she won't leave his mind. Not when he closes his eyes and all he can see is the way she'd crumpled at his words.
Not when he feels almost the twinges of guilt. Sighing, he closes his eyes and tries to sleep.
It doesn't come as easy as it usually does.