For all the relationships that Killian Jones had (and he'd have to use the word relationship loosely here), the most complicated one was the one he had with his hook. Sure, he had stranger encounters, like Louisa, who'd bray like a donkey when he rode her to oblivion, or Annabeth, whose idea of playing it hot and cold was too literal for his tastes.
And still…his hook plagued him the most.
At the start, it was a stark reminder of what he'd lost: his hand, his dignity, his Milah. He was angry then, and the hook was just an extension of that anger, lashing out and causing pain while he ignored his. On the coldest and darkest of nights, it would taunt him, reminding him that he could only watch as Milah died, that he was weak, and he would wrench it from his brace and fling it across his cabin in a fit of fury. But then he'd be forced to deal with his mangled arm, a sight more wretched to him than a hook, so he'd go retrieve the implement. Other nights, his thoughts would be more melancholy, thinking of Liam and how he passed, he'd fiddle with it unconsciously, and it would soothe him. Then there were the nights he was consumed by revenge, and his hook brought him joy as he'd envision plunging it into the Crocodile's chest. Those nights were the most frequent.
There were nights filled with women, both good and bad. They knew by his hook exactly who he was, the power and authority he wielded. His pretty face got him a lot, but even his face couldn't persuade the women who shrunk back from the sight of his hook. Their looks of terror (though he could see them try to hide it and carry on) would instantly remove any lustful thoughts, turning his throat dry and his mind empty. He'd play it off, acting nonchalant, but the sting of rejection would follow him for days. Those were the times he'd retreat to his cabin and drink himself into a stupor. He always remember the women who cowered from his hook than the ones that ignored it. Still, his hook hid his scars (the ones on his hand and the ones on his heart) and even the women he did bed did not get to see anything but the fierce Captain Hook, and the hook that made him what he is.
In the light of the day, his hook commanded respect. All he had to do was reveal it and others would tremble. His hook was him, and he was his hook. He once reveled in his ability to terrify with one appendage (artificial as it may be), to intimidate, to kill. That was a long time ago, though.
Now it was different. Emma would often hold his hook, much like a hand, and sometimes when she did, it really did feel like one. She softened it, somehow, and it no longer felt like an instrument of death and terror. She'd run her fingers along it sometimes to tease him, and while it did turn him on, it also caused his heart to swell with love. No one had ever been so delicate with it, so delicate with him. He used to bed her with it on, digging into her thighs as he gripped her, and she never minded.
Sometimes she'd even request that it use it on her, to run the cool metal down the valley of her breasts or tease her heated clit (He had never been so turned on in his life). Afterwards though, she'd kiss him and his hook, and he felt a fluttering in his chest. Later on, when their fucking was less desperate and they finally had time to be themselves, she told him that he could take it off sometimes, and when he did, she'd kiss the scars that ran down his arm. Kissing the man behind the hook. She loved them both, man and pirate, and his heart was at peace, finally forgiving himself, and the hook that was him.