The original prompt from tumblr;
Desperate, lovesick, this-is-wrong-and-I-hate-myself-but-I-can't-care-e nough-to-stop smut should then follow. Also tears, and broken!Emma, and Hook trying to comfort her but also hide his part in the whole thing, trying to turn her into a pirate with him in the EF and maybe she'll eventually lose enough hope to just go with it but she just isn't the same woman at all anymore and it's awful.
She cries a lot, so much, heaving gasping sobs that wrack her whole body and take hours to fade away. He hates himself (more than he already did, does) for taking advantage of her like this, but he can't help but comfort her, hold her close when she lets him. And she does let him, because he's all she has. The worst part is, he doesn't care, can't care, because he's selfish and he's committed the ultimate sin against her. He stole her away from her family, from everyone she was just knowing what it was like to love, and left them all to Pan's mercy.
And he did it with hardly a second thought.
She curls into his lap, tears staining his shirt as her fingers dig into his shoulder, her body shaking in time with every breath she takes. They're sitting on his bed, which has become more hers than his; he tries to give her space when she asks for it, but more often than not she is broken down and desperate for contact. Like right now, she clings to him like he is the port in her own personal storm.
He should feel guilty and he should regret it.
He should.
Her nose brushes at his neck as she buries her face against his chest and he just can't.
It's been weeks and they have settled into life aboard his ship; he as though there was never anything else, her, slightly less smoothly. The past few days have been worse, as though it's finally hitting her that she will never see her son again, that she'll never see her family again.
She thinks they're dead. He thinks it's better if she thinks like that, better than the truth.
The truth being that he traded them all away for the chance to have her, to be the only one holding her together like this.
Her tears seem to be draining away, small snuffles and shaking shoulders the only evidence of her breakdown. That, and the red in her eyes, her puffy cheeks and the tracks of salt on her face.
"Emma, Emma, Emma," he whispers into her hair, his fingers rubbing against her bare arm gently. She still wears the ratty shirt she'd worn in Neverland; though she has accepted his offer of more clothes after they'd first made port, right now all she's wearing is that shirt and he can't exactly mind it.
She'd been asleep earlier, the covers pulled over her arms while he sat at the desk and tried to figure out what he was supposed to do now. A nightmare had woken her; she'd lied and said it was nothing, but he knew better. It's been a very long time since he had to render comfort to a woman, but it comes back as easy as steering his ship.
"You've got to come back," he says after a long while, and she stops shaking, instead curling her hand around his neck, fingers brushing the hair at the nape of his neck.
"I don't want to," she says, and he voice cracks on the second word.
"The people who loved you, they would want you to live, Emma."
She hiccups quietly but doesn't move, content in his arms, bare legs splayed across his knees.
"What is there to live for?" The words are muffled into his shirt and he wants to hold her so tight, make her see that she has so much, she has him.
"Well, there's always me," he says, forcing a stilted self-depreciating laugh to accompany his words. She would see right through it any other day. In fact, she would see right through him if she wasn't so broken.
Her fingers tighten against his skin, catching hair as she grips at the back of his neck and raises her head, finally meeting his gaze.
She looks so sad, it breaks his heart. But she's looking at him, her gaze raking across his face as she blinks and rubs absently at her cheeks. Her thumb slides forward to brush across his cheek and then the corner of his mouth before sweeping back away.
"Emma," he says, unsure if it's a warning or a plea, because her eyes have fallen to his lips and slowly she is leaning forward, as though falling out of orbit around him.
"What? You said to live…" she trails off when their lips are so close, a simple gap to bridge For a moment she almost sounds like Swan, like her regular self. Her eyes flicker up to meet his and the pain there is astounding. Maybe she recognizes the reflection in his eyes, because she slams hers shut and closes the gap, bringing them together at last.
It doesn't take him long to kiss her back, drawing his hand up to cradle her face. He keeps his eyes open, refuses to miss a second of her, and so he sees when her forehead scrunches up in concentration and she reels him further in, her hand around his neck growing insistent as her fingers curl around his shirt and drag him down to her.
She opens her mouth and kisses him with a fury he never imagined, forcing him against her as her lips move against his. It's not soft and sweet, it's hot and passionate, and it sets him on fire in all the ways it shouldn't. It reminds him of why he took Pan's deal.
A whimper slips out of her, and it spurs him into motion, curling his hand around the back of her skull, tilting her head just so, enough so that he can kiss her properly, like he's always wanted to. She's still clinging to him, but her legs have shifted, falling to either side of him so she is straddling his lap now. It feels precarious, like they are on a ledge and one wrong move could send them over the edge.
He desperately wants to see her fall, to catch her on the way down. That's all he ever wanted. His gut twists at the sharp reminder that she isn't kissing him because she's fell; she's kissing him because he pushed.
She tastes so delicious, sweeter than he imagined, warmer and softer and so much nicer.
He should hate himself, but he's so lost in her, so caught up in the two of them, that he can't find it in himself to care.
He wants to make love to her in this bed, to show her he's there for her, he'll always be there for her. And she will let him because she's broken, because he is all she has, and she may not love him, but he's there and he's comforting and maybe she could.
It's too easy to block out all the orchestration it's taken to find them here. He's just selfish enough to ignore the way this would cross the line, how once he takes advantage of her like this, he will never be able to return.
If she ever finds out, she'll probably kill him herself.
She whimpers again, a soft whining sound in the back of her throat, and he chases the sound down, seals his lips over hers and groans in reply. Rising forward, she grasps his head in both hands and kisses him back. Her lips are demanding and soon they are moving; she kisses at the corner of his mouth and then against his jaw, dragging her lips over his stubble. It's too much and not enough, and he can't handle it anymore.
Shifting his arms around her, he hoists her up and rotates on the bed, laying her down as he moves to lean over her. Her legs fall open as she draws him in, fingers scratching at his jaw and hanging onto his shoulder. He kisses her like he wants to, like he has always wanted to, from the moment he saw her.
Her hand slides under his shirt, across his back, rucking the fabric up and he knows what she is doing, but he's hesitating.
No.
No, he didn't make a deal with Pan for this very thing, he didn't do all this just to hesitate when she wants him, when she is kissing him like he is all that is left in the world (he is).
He breaks away from her just long enough to pull the shirt over his head and to slide his hand under hers, easing her forward so that he can remove it.
She has curled up against him enough times while she sleeps for him to know how little she wears, but seeing her like this, bare-chested and so fragile, gazing up at him with so many emotions swirling in her eyes, it pauses his heart before setting it racing.
"Emma," he says again, this time with as much reverence as he feels. She blushes, the red flush creeping across her chest as prettily as it does her cheeks.
"Don't, just…" she pulls her fingers into his hair and brings him down on top of her, until their bodies are pressed together and their faces are so close. "Just…remind me I'm alive. Show me what else there is left."
And by all the gods of the sea, as if he could deny her anything.
He kisses her slowly this time, as sweetly as he can muster. She has to know that there is nothing other than her. That she is everything. He cups her cheek and kisses across her jaw and down her neck. Under him, she sighs softly and shifts her hands across his back, brushing his shoulders as she draws them lower and grips his sides.
When his head dips and his lips trail across her collarbone, her fingers tighten and she makes a small pleased sound, filtering into the air between them. He did that, made her happy. Gods, he should feel so wrong about this. He hates himself for being unable to push her away, unable to tell her the truth.
She gasps as he licks between her breasts, and he curses himself to hell and just keeps going. He teases his teeth over her breast, light nips and tugs at the skin that have her twisting under him until he finally wraps his lips around her pebbled nipple. That's when she arches into him, one hand fisting in the waistband of his pants while the other digs into his hip so hard he'll have a mark.
Good, let her mark him. Let her see that he was there for her, that he gave her exactly what she wanted.
He rolls his tongue and laps at her nipple as he brings his other hand up to cup her other breast, teasing it the same way with his hand. She feels like putty, warm and soft and pliable. Except every sound she makes, every little fluttering gasp, is enough to drive him insane.
He's had a very long time to perfect the art of waiting, but all he wants to do right now is have her, desperate and wanton and crying out for him as he pushes into her slick heat over and over again.
She drives him insane, makes him a man he wouldn't recognize. But that's okay, because all he needs is her. He doesn't need to know who he is when he knows who she is.
Slipping further down her body, he presses soft kisses against her stomach, and her breathing hitches as he brushes across the waistband of her panties. Gently, he slips his fingers under them and starts to tug them down her legs. She obligingly lifts her hips and kicks them off her ankles before he returns to her, elbows settled under her thighs.
She meets his gaze, biting at her lip uncertainly, and he tries to smile reassuringly. He kisses the inside of her thighs, nuzzles against them softly. A soft sigh slips out of her and he moves forward, just brushing his lips up against her.
Her eyes flicker over him, and then she's throwing her head back, looking anywhere but there, and he's sinking into her, all warmth and wetness. He licks at her folds, gently pressing his tongue against her clit in rolling motions. When he moves lower and slides his mouth against her, tongue slipping inside of her, she cries out, his name a stuttered curse.
He doesn't care, because she tastes delicious, so sweet and hot and wonderful, he could drown in her.
He very well may, in fact.
She shudders under him and he returns to her clit, building pressure there until her hips are twitching against his mouth and she's panting heavily. Her hands have fallen away from him, fingers fisted in the sheets of his bed, and her eyes are closed, chin lifted to the ceiling like she is some sacrifice.
Shifting his shoulders, he opens her hips wider, enough to slide his hand between them and press a single finger into her. It slips in with almost no resistance and he could sob, because she's so ready, for him, she wants him, wishes it was more than just his finger inside of her. He curls it and rubs at the spot inside of her as he continues to lave his tongue against her. She whimpers softly and thrashes her head, silver-gold slipping over her shoulders.
"Oh, god," she says, and then he can feel her contracting on him, fluttering against his tongue and clenching down on his finger. She's so quiet, holding back, he knows, and he swears one day she'll open up to him, one day he'll hear every little thing she has to offer. Still, he pushes her through her orgasm, still rubbing against her as she starts to go boneless, her legs falling wider around his shoulders. He growls into her clit, and she gasps, a short abrupt sound that pulls him off of her.
She doesn't move when he kisses her thighs and the creases where they meet her hips, the curve of her skin, but as he follows her body back up, she brings her hands back to him, settling one on his lower back as the other curls around his neck. Her gaze is unsteady when she meets him, and he can tell she has been crying, the new wet spots on her cheeks. He tries to kiss them away, but she stops him, a hand on his chin forcing his head to the side so she can press her lips against his cheek.
"Hook," she murmurs against his skin.
"Killian," he corrects, but she doesn't say anything, just pulls his lips back to hers. He slips his hand around her neck and kisses her back desperately, a sentiment she returns whole-heartedly.
Her hand flattens on his shoulders and pulls him closer, presses their chests together as she drinks him in, kissing him hotly. She slides one hand between them, curling her fingers around the top of his pants, drawing their hips together. He can't help it, he hisses at the contact and tugs on her lip, drawing a heavy moan out of her.
When her fingers brush under his the waistband, he comes back to his senses, gently tugging her hand away as he shifts back. He's supposed to be taking care of her, not the other way around. He fumbles with them, usually so easy to undo, even one handed, it seems impossible now. Emma Swan is laid out in his bed and she's watching him with a mixture of lust and heartache and he can't make it go away(not yet), but he will try, even if it kills him.
Finally he manages to get his pants off, shoving them off of his hips and kicking them away before he sinks down again to kiss her. She wraps both hands over his shoulders and clings to him, tucking her head against his shoulder.
"Don't be gentle."
The words are quiet, soft, the opposite of what she's asking. She doesn't even know what she's asking; what she's demanding, in fact. They twist their way into his mind and make a home there, all the times he's wanted to take his time with her, all the times she infuriated him and he just wished he could have her and not be gentle about it. But now he does, he wants to make love to her like she deserves, remind her that she's got someone left, even if that someone is him, not fuck her like the pirate that he is.
"Emma-" he starts, but she cuts him off, her hand pressing over his mouth. She looks fierce, her face drawn together.
"Are you gonna say no?" Her eyes lock with his, and he feels the fight slowly curling away. If she wants him like that, then she'll have him like that. In all his bloody glory, if she asks for it.
He's lost the right to deny her anything anyway.
He draws her hand away from his lips and flips it over, kissing the knuckles like a gentleman. Like he is most decidedly not.
"You deserve so much more," he says, and she scoffs at that, the sound painfully choked.
"I deserve to have a family. I deserve to be happy." She tangles her hand in his hair, fingers curling at his scalp painfully, but he knows it's not directed at him. "I deserve to be with them."
For a split second he panics, wonders if she knows, but then the realization hits him and it only makes his heart clench, that she thinks she deserves to be dead.
"You deserve to be loved," he insists. She blinks sadly up at him, idly playing with the hair at the back of his neck.
"And what, are you gonna love me?"
He wants to say of course, he wants to tell her he already does love her, but he bites his tongue. He's supposed to be comforting her, he reminds himself, not ripping away at her already-damaged walls.
"I'm going to give you what you truly deserve. And that," he adds, dipping his head until their foreheads are brushing and they're so close, "is everything."
Everything, that is, except what he's already taken from her, the only thing that ever mattered.
She studies him, peers into his soul like she can see all his secrets if she looks hard enough. She could, he knows. But apparently she doesn't.
The moment breaks, and she closes the gap, kissing him. It's a simple press of lips that she quickly pushes further, drawing him down again so she can finish the job. He tries to groan into her mouth, to slow her down, but she resists, refuses, even, and then her fingers are wrapped tight around his length, drawing him forward.
She nudges him between her legs, presses her hips up until he's lined up against her, the head of his cock brushing against her entrance.
He can feel the warmth coming off of her in waves, and all he wants to do is to fall into it and never come away. Her hand slips away from him, travelling back to grab his ass, pulling him against her just enough for the head of his cock to slip inside of her.
The small part of him that still insists he's a gentleman, that she should be treated like a princess, burns away at the feel of her, so hot and tight. He shifts his hips just enough and lets himself sink into her, slow but steady.
She exhales slowly, eyes fluttering shut as she slings one arm around his neck, the other staying firmly pressed into his lower back.
"Emma," he groans, because she's…perfect. Better than he ever imagined. Worth it, as much as he knows he should hate himself for even thinking that.
Rocking his hips, he eases out of her and then presses back in, deliciously slow. It's wonderful, but he can feel the desperation itching under his skin, ready to overthrow him and the tiny grasp he has on his control. Latching his fingers around her slender waist, just above her hip, he dips down to kiss the curve of her breast, moving up to her collarbone and neck.
"Hook…" she murmurs, and shifts her hips, rubbing up against him as she draws her legs further up.
He growls and digs his fingers in, thrusting into her just a little harder than he probably should. Gods, he wants to make her say his name, his real name. The things he would to do hear her scream it out, clinging to him. She whimpers and tightens her arm across his shoulders, pulling him down until she can surge up to kiss him. Her elbow locks over his shoulders, holding him there, as if there's anywhere else he'd rather be.
Shifting, he slips his hand and hook under her hips and draws her back further against him, pushing their hips flush, thrusting as deep as he can into her warm body. He splays his fingers across her hip and holds her there, lengthening his thrusts so he hits the deepest spot inside of her with every push. She makes soft sounds, her mouth opening in gasping breaths as she tips her forehead against his. Her eyes are pressed shut, and part of him wishes they weren't, that she would look at him. An even bigger part of him fears what she'll see, so he bites his tongue and kisses her instead.
When he tugs at her lip, nipping at it before sucking it into his mouth, she shudders and her hips jolt against his, unexpectedly pulling him inside of her.
Her eyes flicker open, raw and wide. "Just fuck me. God, just do it. You want to."
He's already so far lost in her; his will to ease this between them snaps and he surges forward, kissing her hard, prying her mouth open so he can take what he pleases. She grunts and then yanks on his hair, jerking at his scalp, but he doesn't relent, and he knows she doesn't want him to anyway.
A whimper escapes her when he pulls all the way out, but it's quickly replaced with a cry as he shifts her hips and thrusts back in, hard and fast. He pushes against her thighs, pushes them back against her body so he can fuck into her uninhibited. Desperation colors every thrust, every movement, from the sweet drag of her walls around him as he pulls out, to the way her breasts bounce and she pants out hard every time he slides home. Her desperate to forget, him, perhaps as desperate to remember as to forget.
Maybe he's just desperate for her.
She squeezes her eyes shut, he thinks to hide the moisture that seeps out from under them, and he knows he wants to kiss away the tears, but she would never let him. Not like this. Not yet. Instead, he changes the angle and slows his thrusts again, dragging himself over that spot inside of her. She cries out sharply, the sound dissolving into a series of stuttered breaths, and he continues to move, knows from the way she's tensing around him, under him, she's getting closer to her second orgasm. He drags his hand down from her hip to between her legs, rubbing at her clit with his thumb, soft circles that change her breathing again.
His thrusts speed up; she's close and he's following her, chasing after her like he always has. She's more vocal this time, no words, though, just sounds and cries, moans that slip away into the night. He presses his fingers harder into her clit, desperate to have her come again, to give her this. He's fucking her hard enough to shake the bed, her body shuddering under him.
Her fingers dig into his skin harshly as she starts to flutter around him, and he bends down and kisses her, pressing his tongue against her lips until she opens under him easily, a gasp slipping out and then he's swallowing down all her cries, every sound she makes as she comes. He keeps fucking her, doesn't stop his fingers, either, pushing her through and beyond him. A sharp spike of pain travels through his shoulder, and he realizes she's broken skin where her fingernails are digging into him, but it doesn't matter to him, only spurs him on.
He's so close, can practically taste it. Or maybe that's her.
She slowly goes boneless, body loosening as she lets him go. Her eyes are still closed, but she's not crying anymore, and he considers that a win. Knowing she doesn't care now, he ruthlessly chases his own release, slamming into her over and over until he's coming, as deep as he can crawl inside of her and it occurs to him dimly that this might be a bad idea, but it's swept away as fast it was there, and he just feels her, all around him.
He curses into her shoulder and presses his forehead into her skin, still clutching at her hip.
It might actually kill him to leave her, but he can't hold himself up and he eases himself out of her and falls to his side beside her. As soon as he's no longer over her, she rolls to her side, drawing her body into a curve facing away from him. He doesn't know if she's trying to ignore him, to escape from what they'd just done, but in that split second, the possessive, desperate part of him rises up and wraps an arm around her middle, pulling them together.
Her shoulders shift back into his chest and she doesn't say anything, doesn't move except for the gentle rise and fall of her body as she breathes, the pattern slowly evening out until he's sure she's fallen asleep.
He's not sure what he expected, what he expects now, but he feels selfishly satisfied. It makes part of him want to claw at his insides, because when did he become such a despicable person? When did he stop trying to be a good man for her?
Actually, he knows the exact moment. The second the last bit of life slipped out of her father's eyes, fluttering shut. The first price for all this.
She makes a soft sound and shifts against him, her hand coming up to rest on top of his.
She whispers, the words almost drowned out by the distant sound of water against the ship, "Don't leave me," and it breaks his heart. Curling his arm tighter around her, he presses his lips against her skin.
"Never," he swears, and he means it, no matter what.
A month passes, then two and three.
Emma adjusts, takes to his life like she was born for it, makes a hell of pirate just as he'd promised she would.
Sometimes she smiles, and he considers it the rarest jewel in his collection.
But most of the time she stares off into space, like she's looking for something. Someone. She seems like a shell at those times, hardly recognizable as his Swan. Always waiting, always looking. It hurts that he isn't enough, that he can't just make her forget. That she can't be with him, body and soul, at least, not whole, not anymore.
Killian wonders if it's possible to miss something you never even had in the first place.
He's not entirely sure if he's thinking of his honor or her happiness.