Dexterity Devotee
There's something weirdly sexy about that hook, she always found it very alluring, even if she's never said it out loud. Maybe it's because it gives him that dark air of danger, despite her knowledge that he's actually the most sensitive man she's ever met. The fact remains that he could kill someone with that thing – and he probably has. On the other hand, he knows how to use it in the most careful, tender, even sensual way – and he's used it very often like that, mostly per her request. So yeah, his hook is not only a natural part of him in Emma's eyes, it's one she's particularly fond of (to be fair, there's not a part of him she's not particularly fond of, not one).
And then there's his hand.
She isn't exactly sure what it is that always seems to draw her attention to it, but whenever it catches her attention, she has a hard time focusing on anything else. It's a well-built, masculine hand, large but not too much; the palm is not too broad and not too slender with distinct balls, the fingers long but not slim enough to look feminine. It conveys the impression of physical strength with a hint of tenderness – which mirrors Killian Jones with absolute accuracy. The huge rings he wears would look ridiculous on everybody else, but on his hand they're perfect and somehow add to its appeal; so does the light dusting of dark hair on the back. Yes, it's a beautiful hand... but there's much more to it than just its looks.
It's the expressive way he uses it to underline his old-fashioned words when he talks, every gesture on point. The ringed index finger can be menacingly pointed at the object of his anger or cockily wiggled when he teases, aiming to get a grumpy rise out of David – or a rise of a different kind out of Emma when he playfully boops her nose. He can paint a colorful story with a precise wave or tell a whole painful tale of loss with a nonchalant flick of his wrist that freezes in mid-air like lost in space and time.
She saw this hand fight; it has punched Killian's past self, fired a gun, wielded a sword – hell, Excalibur even – and held the helm of the Jolly Roger, firmly guiding her through the outrun of curses, portals and the perilous high waters of Neverland.
She saw and felt the soothing touch of this hand; sometimes it's a reassuring grasp at her father's shoulder when they are in dire straits or an encouraging pat on Henry's back, sometimes it's the tender brush of his knuckles caressing away one of the tears she always fought so hard not to let escape (but with him, she finds it becoming more and more easy to let them fall). She even walked in on him once gently placing his palm on the stomach of her colicky baby brother, stopping his whimpering immediately.
She loves to see him clumsy and deft almost at the same time: sometimes she fears for the intactness of his smartphone's touchscreen when he forgets that he doesn't really need to press those buttons... but then he slides his thumb almost tenderly across the glass, and she catches herself biting her lip while she watches.
His touch is tender when he lets one of her locks run through his fingers slowly, thoughtfully, almost lost in the sensation of the cool silkiness. (He has that thing with her hair – it seems like he can never resist touching it. Sometimes, when he catches her off-guard while she's distracted with a book or engrossed in a tv show, he even playfully braids it – with that one hand. Yes, he's that skilled.) His touch is sensual when he traces his thumb over her full bottom lip, resting his fingertips against her jaw; he loves to do that in the silent, intense moments before they kiss, before his palm glides to the back of her neck to cup her head and pull her in softly – a pull she follows all too eagerly all the time. She can never resist his touch when he runs his fingertips lightly, achingly slowly along the nude curve of her body when they lay together, painting lazy patterns on her feverish skin. It doesn't matter if they're basking in the sated afterglow of passion or if they're just about to dive in – his touch sends shivers down her spine.
But that's only one side of the medal. Often, when the hunger and the fire inside carry him away, the touch of his hand switches easily from gentle to rough, and she's not ashamed to admit how much she enjoys that. The firm, possessive pull at her hair when his kiss ventures into the pillaging and plundering territory or when he takes her from behind. It scrapes delightfully at the edge between pleasure and pain when he presses his fingers into the flesh of her hips or thighs, hard enough to leave bruises, the heat of his skin contrasting with the cool metal of his rings. But he never crosses that line where he'd be hurting her, of course not, and he always makes sure that she feels good about it, never forgetting to soothe the bruises with a kiss or caress.
What she loves observing the most is his hand expressing his feelings without accompanying words. There's his adorable trademark ear scratch that's a sure sign of his embarrassment – forsooth the most fearsome cutthroat pirate ever, scourge of the seven seas. Sometimes, when he's lost in thought, contemplating solutions for a problem, he rubs his hand across his mouth, running it over his jaw and chin, the auburn scruff making a scratchy noise against his palm. When they're having a crisis – and there is always a crisis – and are debating how to deal with it, he mostly stands in the background, listening closely and offering his advice only rarely; but from the way his fingers thrum impatiently on the desk or any other surface she can tell exactly when he thinks they're wasting his time with nonsense.
And then there's that time when he's just randomly... fidgeting. Oh, that absentminded fidgeting, it does things to her. When he rubs the tip of his thumb and the other fingertips together in a slow, circular motion or when he just runs his thumb along the side of his index finger, his other fingers wiggling slightly... that really shouldn't affect her like it does, but she can't help herself. It conjures pictures in her head that are most inappropriate; sometimes she even blushes. Maybe it's because he has only one hand that she's always that focused on it. But it's more likely because she knows. She knows what that hand can make her feel when its moves are not random and absentminded.
Suddenly, Killian's voice is shaking her from her reverie, and he waves his hand in front of her face, palm turned to her. "Swan? Do you even listen to me when I talk?" More than annoyed, he sounds amused.
She blinks and focuses on his face, prying away her eyes from his hand. His lips twitch as if he's trying to suppress a smile, and the fine crinkling lines at the corners of his eyes confirms that suspicion. "Uh… of course I listen," she says, and his eyebrows shoot up.
"Do you indeed?" he drawls. "What did I just say then?"
Emma rolls her eyes. "I… might have been distracted," she admits, and his demeanor changes immediately from playfully teasing to worried.
"Something vexes you?" he inquires with a furrowed brow and reaches for her hand, already in protective boyfriend mode, and she asks herself once more how she got so lucky.
She smiles as her fingers curl around his in a reassuring way. "No," she tells him firmly and adds: "I was just daydreaming."
He lets his searching scrutiny sweep over her face like a caress, and when he's convinced she's telling him the truth, his features relax again, and his inner dashing rapscallion is back; she can detect it in the twinkle of his eyes and the twitch of his eyebrow. "Ah," he replies smoothly, "about me, I presume?"
"You always presume that," she scolds and lets go of his hand, refusing to answer his question. "So, what you said…" she reminds him instead and waves her hands at him in an inviting move. "Explain that again."
He tilts his head and gives her a suspicious look. "Are you going to listen?"
"Oh yes," she nods. "Closely."