The day passed quietly. The island stretched beside the ship like a jaguar sunning as the crew restored the Jolly Roger to sailing condition after her trip through the portal. Emma and Pidgin checked the rigging for any weaknesses, sails were inspected, and emptied barrels were broken down to be stowed away. The deck was swabbed and the galley returned to its normal state, although the inventory of unadulterated rum had been heavily diminished. The men had worked themselves as sober as any clergyman and all were in good humor, despite being bone weary after the days labor.
Emma didn't mind the monotonous routine that unfolded, her mind still absorbed by the revelations Hook had shared with her that morning. He had offered a part of himself to her that she was sure he had never bared so openly to another, and it weighed heavily on her shoulders that there were still secrets between them—that she had yet to share with him the one truth she had never shared with another, not even Columbine, that she was not born here, that she had fallen into this world courtesy of the very magic he had spent three hundred years searching for.
There was the guilt, eating away at her, and then beneath it there were more questions.
The Dark One.
When she had jumped into the portal all those years ago, it was into—as she would grow to learn—a broken kingdom ravaged by a curse and left to fade away beneath a plague of ogres. Entire villages, cities, and castles had been emptied of people, the vast northern expanse of the forest suddenly nothing more than a ghostly echo. Among the stories people told of the time before, there were more than a few doomed tales surrounding the Dark One—words whispered alongside nervous glances, as if the teller worried the devil himself may suddenly appear. Rumor had it that when the people of the northern kingdom vanished, so did the blight on the land that was known as the Dark One.
How did Hook know where to find him, as his words implied?
What was the plan once they did?
And then there were the words he'd uttered before Cowry's interruption that morning.
There's more, her son…
What about Milah's son?
"So, where do we sail, Maddock?" Emma asked, glancing at the young man beside her as the crew tucked into dinner. She needed to think of something else. "No one's said anything."
"Oh, we never really know, you see," Maddock blustered, his cheeks turning red at the attention as he stumbled over his words, looking helplessly at the other men. "Bit different every time…"
"Is it really that much of a mystery?"
The sound of scraped plates and chewing was the only answer she received as the rest of the crew suddenly became quite interested in their food.
"Honestly, will no one tell me what the plans are aboard this ship? I'm always the last to know."
"Swan," Cowry snapped from the other end of the galley, beckoning her over before moving through the corridor to the privacy of the bunks. "You've got to stop questioning the men like that. Can't you see it puts them ill at ease?"
"What are you talking about?"
"The Captain has his way he likes with you, that's clear enough, lass. You won't find a man aboard this ship that doesn't approve, but you also won't find one that's willing to overstep his position—you shouldn't be asking questions of the crew, you should be asking the Captain. Savvy?"
"No, Cowry, I'm not savvy," Emmy snapped back, her temper flaring. What did he mean she shouldn't ask the crew? How was she supposed to find anything out?
"There's an order to things here, Swan—and the Captain, he's the one at command. How do you think the men would feel if he walked down into the galley and asked the swabbie where we set sail for?"
"Well, I'm not the Captain," she retorted, failing to see why Cowry was making such a scene of a simple question.
"Nay, you're not, but you're a step above most of us here because of the Captain, and it makes the men uncomfortable to be treatin' you like you're not. It's just not the way of things."
"Because of the Captain," she echoed, the meaning behind Cowry's words hitting home. "Because what we have estranges me from the rest of the crew, sets me apart. Is that it?"
"Aye, lass. There's a familiarity there, it's clear to see, and trust me—I'm happier than a pig in shit for the Captain, but it means you can't go about asking questions of the crew that make you look…less than you are, less his equal. Things like that, they upset the balance and it looks poorly on the Captain. Savvy?"
"Aye, Cowry. Savvy," Emma sighed, turning to head back to the galley before changing her mind abruptly. Something about sitting down with everyone else now felt tainted.
Cowry didn't miss the falter in her step.
"It's not a bad thing, Swan," he added, looking rather uncomfortable that the conversation was continuing, let alone that he'd had to have it in the first place. "We're still a family aboard this ship, you just need to understand that the men see you differently now."
"Yes, I see what you mean."
She dropped onto the berth behind her, her fingers pressing deeply against the headache she could feel building. The pressure relieved some of her tension and she waited for the sound of Cowry's footsteps to recede, but nothing came. She drew her hands down her neck and opened her eyes, somehow knowing what she would see.
Cowry stood there with what could only be described as an impish smile, something she was not accustomed to seeing on Hook's serious quartermaster, and there was an expectant look in his eyes, like he was waiting for her to say something.
"You can go, Cowry," she muttered crossly.
"Aye aye, Swan," he chuckled, heading back into the galley.
She was glad she'd already eaten her fill, because the galley felt off-limits for the remainder of the evening. She hadn't anticipated how her changing relationship with the Captain would affect her place with the crew, that it may put her in a position where she gained their respect, but lost their camaraderie.
That realization should have stirred the memories of loneliness within her, especially after she had worked so hard to get them to accept her as just another crew member, but curiously, she felt only a sense of acceptance.
The belly of the ship suddenly felt stifling and hot, the air stale and dry in her throat. She needed a deep breath of the sea air to clear her mind. Making her way up through the hatch and onto the main deck, she knew that she would find the sun fading into the blackening deepness of the sea, and that with its passing, the serenity of the day would disappear—but he was there, waiting.
Home.
She wasn't alone.
She closed the distance between them swiftly, joining him at the rail as the last glowing arm of the sun disappeared. Above them the stars were just beginning to flicker into wakefulness, dotting the deep black sky like a million distant lanterns.
"Swan," Hook smiled, and then paused, his brows furrowed with concern as he looked at her. "You seem unsettled…is everything alright?"
"Is it that obvious?"
"You're something of an open book."
The words she had shared with Cowry passed quickly through her thoughts, but it was not, she realized, the thing that was itching beneath her skin.
"It's so beautiful beneath these stars," she mused, "that it makes me forget that behind this…silence…we have together, they're still crying, aren't they—the lost boys?"
"I imagine so, Swan. After so long, it's almost strange not to hear them."
"You know about Columbine, Hook, how she left me…but I was abandoned long before that." She swallowed down the fear that rose from her stomach. "I was a baby, and they left me at the side of a road with nothing but a blanket. What kind of parents do that?"
"The same type of parent that sells his boys into servitude to escape being arrested as a fugitive, then rows into the night without ever looking back," Hook whispered. "It's not the ones we meet later in life that make us orphans, Emma—it's the parents that didn't want us."
There was sadness in his gaze, but it was distant and muted. He had collected so many sorrows over the course of his life that the sharpness of this one had long since been worn down. She wanted to reach out, to erase those feelings of being unwanted that they'd both harbored, but her secret was still waiting, and she needed to share it with him.
"My parents abandoned me, Hook, but not in this world—I wasn't born in the Enchanted Forest. I came here using a…a magic bean."
There was a second where her words hung between them, chased only by a shaking breath, and she watched closely as his eyebrows jumped and his lips parted in surprise.
"Emma," he murmured, taking a step toward her, the ornate edges of his jacket brushing against her chest, "while I'll admit you've surprised me, and I'm certainly curious to know more of this tale—did you believe I would be upset?"
"I don't know. I just…after this morning, it almost felt like a betrayal that I have this history—an unwanted, hated history, Hook—and I used the very magic you've looked for, for so long, to get here."
"Well, I doubt it was the very same bean, and even if it was, I could hardly be angered by the fact that you're here—now," he reasoned, his voice mirroring the sudden, hungry look in his eyes. "Could I?"
"No?"
"No, Swan, but since you've shared another page of your story with me…" he reached for her with his hand, cupping her cheek and lifting her eyes to meet his, encircling her waist and pulling her body flush to his own. "Since Milah's death, any woman I've bedded, it's her I've seen beneath me. Last we found ourselves in this position, I feared I would open my eyes and you would be gone, replaced with the ghost of her."
"Are you still afraid?"
"I never thought I'd be capable of letting go of her—my first love, but then I met you. You snuck aboard my ship and changed everything, so no, Emma, I'm not."
"That's good," she whispered against his lips as he leaned down, "because you're all I see when I close mine."
The kiss was delicate at first, his lips ghosting along her own as his fingers slid into her wayward locks, angling her head so he had access to her jaw, the curve of her neck, his mouth and stubble searing a burning trail as he whispered along her skin. Emma surged against him and his grip tightened as she arched, both of them desperate to extinguish any breath of air where one began and one finished.
"Emma…" he growled, cold air rushing between them as he maneuvered her roughly against the rail before bringing them back together—their lips finding each other without restraint, eddying need washing over them. The pull between them stormed their skin in hot waves, triumphant as it wrapped them in a cloak of warmth. They breathed each other in, foreheads resting together. Her hands were white-knuckled in the lapels of his jacket, like she was drowning—like he was the only thing that could save her.
Maybe he was.
Maybe she didn't want him to.
Need coursed through her—memories of every touch, every moment, every word that dripped from his tongue with promise flashed through her mind.
"How about that nightcap you promised me, Captain?" she purred, the lean strength of him on top of her—the very obvious hardness against her hip—making her ache to feel him completely.
"There's only one thing I want to taste tonight, Emma," he whispered, brushing a curl over her shoulder with his hook as his eyes locked on hers, "and it's not rum."
The dance to his cabin was chaotic, their hands and bodies moving between desperate and tender as they stumbled towards the hatch, crashing together like the sea at her most furious before falling once more, the world around them suspended in time.
The sound of the wood hatch creaking and the absence of Hook's body against hers pulled everything back into sharp focus. Emma fumbled with the laces of her shirt, struggling to relieve herself of the material that was keeping his hand and mouth from branding every inch of her.
"Need a hand, love?" Hook's voice reverberated below, and before she could register how quickly he'd descended the ladder, he'd pulled her down to him, catching her easily as she stumbled and sweeping her into his arms—and then there was the clatter of his belongings as they were swept across the floor, the solid stretch of his desk meeting her back.
Her body was something feral—electric—every nerve in her skin alight as he stood before her. His eyes were drinking her in—as if he was a man starved, wrecked, and perhaps looking at his salvation. The silence of the cabin swallowed the thud of his leather jacket as it hit the floor, and divested of its burden, he leaned forward, taking care not to touch her. For a moment, Emma heard only her heart pounding in her ears, the shared melody of their breath, and then a shocked gasp fell from her lips as he brought the tip of his hook to her cheek and dragged it down, tenderly tracing the graceful curve of her jaw, her neck—a shiver as it followed the line of her collarbone. He stopped in the hollow of her neck, and she could see his control slipping—his neck bobbing as he swallowed dryly. With no warning, he swept the hook downward, the laces along with the rest of her shirt torn in two.
A low growl rumbled from his throat at the sight of her laid out before him, cheeks flushed and chest heaving. The ship could have been sinking around them and the only thing he could see was Emma strewn across his desk, her curls draped behind her like a torrent of gold—a feast.
"Hook," she pleaded, twisting and tugging at her trews impatiently. "I need you."
He could see the longing in her eyes—it was the same ravenous desire that raged beneath his skin, urging him. He knew however, that there would be time for impatience. They had nothing but time—forever if they wanted it, but tonight he wanted to memorize every curve and line of her body. He wanted to log every sinful noise that fell from her lips. He wanted to taste the way sweat rose from her skin and the flush of her most intimate places.
He wanted all of her.
Mine.
He knelt down, his hand and hook tugging at the remainder of her clothing as she lifted her firm backside to help him ease them to the floor, arching as the cool air of the cabin rushed against her core, already wet with anticipation.
"Good gods, Emma," Hook whispered, and she felt the heat and scratch of his stubble as he leaned his head against her thigh, his breath warm and tantalizing against her sensitive skin. Then her world toppled as he moved against her, his nose and scruff barely teasing her as he reveled in having her spread before him, his tongue tasting the flesh of her legs before gliding closer to where she needed him most. His teeth nipped gently, his hook and hand moving to her thighs as she bucked toward him, desperate for more.
"Be patient, Emma," he whispered, and his words sent shivers down her body, her toes curling as she felt the echo of each syllable against her slick folds.
She was sure she was begging, pleading, his name falling from her lips over and over as she strove toward him, her hands gripping the edge of his desk as she writhed beneath his mouth and tongue, but his arms kept her frustratingly contained. He drew back with a smile she couldn't see, but could feel, whenever she managed to get close enough.
Just the hint of his breath, of the sinful things he whispered against her, were making her drip, her desire for him approaching an edge she wasn't sure she could return from. She could feel the change in his breathing the wetter she became, and finally, when she was nearly crying from the exhaustion of wanting him, his mouth settled hotly over her, his tongue sweeping in exactly the right places, circling, his lips closing and sucking and pulling and my god he was going to kill her right here on the desk. His hand and hook moved up, wrapping around her hips, and the next thing she knew he was pulling her closer against him, moaning into her as she let go with a cry, her legs trembling as she wrapped them tightly around him and shuddered to completion.
She breathed—barely—ragged, worn, coming down and back to the world—the cabin, the desk beneath her coming into focus again as feeling returned to her fingers and toes. Hook pulled away from her, his mouth leaving gentle kisses on her thighs before sliding up her body, his lips ghosting across the taut stretch of her stomach before lingering at the curve of her breasts.
Emma hummed as he tasted the flushed skin around her nipples, his tongue gently teasing before his eyes drew even with her own. She cupped the sides of his face and pulled him to her, the weight of his body on hers stirring that unfulfilled need to have him inside of her. Their lips met and she savored the taste of her satisfaction on him, the sinful image of his face as he disappeared between her legs still seared in her mind.
She needed more.
All of him.
Always.
She pushed as he pulled, their thoughts matched in a way she'd never known with anyone before. Her legs circled his waist as he stood, holding her like something he'd never let go of. His footsteps echoed in the night as they slowly made their way to the bed, her thighs vice-like around him, the clear evidence of his need throbbing against her. He dropped her softly into its warmth, but she was already reaching for him, rolling their bodies so she could straddle his hips. The ruined shirt fell from her shoulders with a shrug, and she was bared to him completely, no inch of her skin hidden from his intense gaze.
"You…" Hook murmured, his hand rising seemingly without any thought to brush against her arm, to simply feel that she was there, "are a bloody goddess, Emma. I don't think I can ever let you go."
Emma curled her fingers around his, her other hand reaching for his hook. It had mirrored the motion of his hand, rising to hold her, touch her, before he had faltered, pulling it back—but she wasn't going to let that happen. She wrapped her right hand around it's hard edge and met his gaze.
"Good," she whispered, and squeezed his hand, bowing to place a gentle kiss on his scarred knuckles. "Then we have an accord, Captain."
Amusement mingled with the awe on his face, and his eyes crinkled at the memory of when he spoke those same words to her—what seemed like a lifetime ago.
She smiled, the curve of her lips an echo of his own, and gently released his arms, her fingers moving to the ornate buttons of his vest, popping them open one at a time.
"You're a bit overdressed for the occasion, though" she teased, dragging her nails along the skin revealed at his chest, always a tantalizing lure that she'd resisted touching far too many times. "We'll need to do something about that."
She made quick work of the remaining buttons and the shirt beneath, desire rippling along her skin as he twisted free of it and lay stretched beneath her. Something deep inside of her called out for him, hungered. She took in the hard planes of his muscles, the trail of dark hair leading to the low-slung laces of his pants—the material strained over his need for her.
"Bloody hell, Emma," he groaned as her fingers traced patterns on his skin, maps she had drawn every night as she slept alone.
She savored each line, the low moans that hummed in his throat—memorized every scar, every mark that time had left on him, every blade he'd survived…
…so he could be here.
Now.
There was the urge to kiss every inch of his body, to sooth the wounds, old and new, and explore each hollow and hard angle. She wanted to spend an eternity learning his body the way she knew the rigging of the ship, but the desire pooling in her stomach cried for him, and it was almost painful to breath because suddenly she was too far, the space between them too great.
So close.
She tugged loose the laces of his pants, sliding from the bed to remove the offending article, and as she finally relieved him of the burden, he was unable to stifle a moan that seemed half pained as he sprung free. Emma swallowed at the sight of him, a noise leaving her throat that made her sound just like her pirate captain, who couldn't help but smirk as she climbed back up his body. Her fingers teased the strong curve of his thigh, reveling in the perfect balance of his body—long and lean, yet hard with muscles honed by years of swordplay and constant motion. Her eyes finally settled on her treasure, her fingers brushing him lightly, skin hot and velvety. The noise he made nearly broke her, his eyes dark and focused on her face with an intensity that would scare anyone else.
Mine.
Slowly, holding his gaze, she wrapped her hand around his rigid length, her tongue darting out to wet her lips, and like a mantra, her name fell from his mouth over and over as she tasted him—her lips and tongue exploring as his body tensed. She could feel the blankets pull as he wrapped them in his fist, and the moment she enveloped the tip of him with her lips, taking him into her mouth fully, she heard the unmistakable sound of fabric rending as his hook tore through something on the bed.
The night seemed like it could go on forever, and she almost wanted to stay right there, tasting him, eliciting those noises that promised villainous things should she stop, but her patience was dissipating, her thighs sticky with how wet she was for him, and more than anything, she needed him inside of her—moving, claiming her, as deep as he could possibly be.
She pulled her mouth from him gently, her breath heavy and hot against the length of him as she scrambled on top, but before she could straddle him, he was grabbing her and rolling her beneath him, his own patience pushed to the limit by her ministrations. Feathers exploded into the air as she hit the mattress, and then his lips were on hers, kissing, whispering words that were hard and needy as he spread her legs with the curve of his hook, nudging them apart.
Between them she found him, guided him, her other hand resting on the rough warmth of his cheek as they held one another's gaze.
And then he was slipping into her, filling her, the entire world sighing as he seated himself fully within her.
Her head falls back, open mouthed as she stretches around him, her skin tingling as she adjusts to the sensation of being full, complete. The pull between them hums, spreading like a warm glow across their bodies, sated.
This is what it feels like.
Home.
"Emma," he groans, and she can hear it in his voice, knows he understands. "My gods, love. Perfect, so perfect…"
He rests his forehead against hers, their breath mingling as he takes a moment before slowly dragging himself from her warmth. The whimper she makes at the loss of him is echoed by the growl in his throat as he surges forward, rocking her into the bed, their bodies sliding against one another in a dance that feels so much like breathing she can't believe they've gone this long without it—that she could have survived.
She holds onto him like a thing she didn't know she'd lost, her fingers clutching his back—don't leave me—her eyes lost in his as he revels in the way his body imprints itself upon hers—the gasp at her lips, the flutter of her eyes, the quiver of her breath as he feels her walls tightening around him.
He brushes the side of her face with his fingers—reverent—and she can feel their tremble, his pace quickening as he moves within her. She pushes to meet him, finding him in a desperate kiss, his name falling from her like a prayer, mingled with her own as he releases—spiraling, singing, exploding as she loses herself around him, her entire body afire as the pounding of their hearts beats in the background.
She doesn't know how long they lay there, but there are feathers falling like snow against them, caught in the sweaty mop of Hook's dark hair and surely strewn through her own.
She doesn't care.
The whole bloody ship could be sinking and she wouldn't care.
She draws her fingers along his back and he shivers, humming against her neck where he's chosen to tuck his head. He's softened within her, and she's content to simply drift off like this, lulled by the rock of the ship and the cadence of his breathing against her.
Warm.
Wanted.
She can feel the rough interruption of scars scattered across him, some more of a whisper, others still a hard reminder of battles recently fought. She follows the curve of his back, her fingers brushing the supple leather of the brace that carries over his shoulder. She feels his small sigh and wonders if the straps that secure his hook bother him, if it would have been more comfortable to remove it. When he doesn't protest her continued exploration, she lets her fingers drift farther down his side, eliciting a sleepy growl as he nips warningly at her neck.
She smiles softly against his hair, chuckling inwardly at the thought that the fearsome Captain Hook is ticklish, but he notices every little thing she does, and the curve of her lips against him does not go overlooked.
"If there's one thing I'm good at, it's surviving," he mumbles, "but you just may be the death of me, Swan."
She knows his words were meant in jest as they slip into the quiet, dark sea of sleep, their bodies shifting to hold one another as they drift on its swells, but they linger like a threatening shadow spreading beneath its surface—and as she sleeps, she dreams of something black and creeping that not even the Jolly Roger can outrun.
A/N: If you love it, leave it.
-Fara