WARNING: Smut. Fisting.
This is how Hook likes Cora best - flat on her back with his fist inside her.
She makes a very pretty sight. She always does, truthfully, whether it's wrapped in her heavy gowns or nude and beckoning him between her pale parted legs, but he prefers this version of Cora to any other: a splotchy red blush coloring her chest and neck and face, her hands clawing the bed, her eyes wide, little gasps leaving her as he flexes his hand, and she is quiet. Oh, she is blissfully quiet. Usually Hook can't make her shut up; he's accustomed to a little talk in bed, but she runs her mouth like she's being paid per letter, whispering the filthiest things in his ear all the while and never letting on, in the middle of it, that he's giving her the fuck of her life.
When he has his whole hand inside her, Cora is too overwhelmed, too full, to summon words. She just stares at the ceiling, whines, whimpers, and eventually comes, and it's one of the most satisfying things in the world, Hook thinks, to have your hand up to the wrist in a woman like Cora, watching her buck in the grip of orgasm, writhing on you like she'd take you up to the elbow if she could. It's the only time he feels bigger than her.
She's nearly there. He feels the ripple of the muscles inside her; her heels dig into the mattress, her head tosses back. Curls of her brown hair are clinging to her skin, damp with sweat. She frees one of her hands and reaches for him, closing on air; he has no free hand to give her, nothing for her to hold onto and squeeze. She drops her fist down to the mattress with a thump, her body curling; she is so close.
"Come for me now, Cora," he orders her roughly, and she does, slicking his wrist with her wetness. It happens so quickly that it makes him wonder what other commands he might give her, what control he could take, if he liked.
"Killian," she says in a voice like gravel. It's only when he has her like this, splayed and weak and used, that she calls him by his name.
He eases his hand out of her very gently, letting her little noises of discomfort be his guide - when to pause, when to continue. Finally, freed of the grip of her body, he moves up the bed and kisses her neck. They rarely kiss on the lips.
"Good girl," he tells her, and he smirks.
Her eyes narrow, and she sinks her hand into the hair at the nape of his neck, gripping tightly, pulling him in for a kiss that is mostly teeth. He is hers again, as surely as if her hand held his heart, until next time, he vows. Until next time.
Note: So... Er... How are you all doing? Hehe. As you can see, this is very different from my normal fare – as a rule, I don't write much het at all... But somehow this happened! And I don't even like Hook! However, Cora and Hook are my true het OTP and as squeamish as it made me to get into his head here, I comfort myself by the warmth of their flaming sexual tension. I'm hoping that I haven't somehow minced words in this fic about the kind of person Hook is – I find his attitude towards women very problematic and I saw no reason why he wouldn't perpetuate the same troubling behaviors in a relationship with Cora. I hope you enjoyed – and that I haven't spooked anyone with this foray into het! Swan Queen soon, I promise!