#jones firmly believes one would make him worse and it would be a nightmare to get him into treatment but would probably ultimately help

[viric-dreams]

Whoops, more thoughts triggered.

Jones is fairly self-aware that there's something up with him. He knows about the compulsions. He knows why he responds in certain ways to different triggers. But he doesn't like to think about it, because that only makes them stronger in his mind. Instead, he tries to manage himself as best he can, to redirect into relatively harmless rituals, to extract himself from situations where some sort of an episode, and interpersonal consequences, seem inevitable.

Roberts isn't naïve, he's always known he was wired differently from most, and he was never particularly good at being able to hide nor compensate for it. Internally, there's very little denial happening in regards to either his mental or physical health. But what he can admit out loud is another matter. In the New Sequence, any sort of infirmity could've be seen as a weakness, or grounds to push him out of his position, so he was exceptionally careful to keep as much as he could out of public knowledge. Since leaving the navy, a lot of those anxieties are no longer as relevant, and Roberts feels more able to be open about it with trusted people. Roberts has recently found a therapist, and is also independently working through some things.

Ockham fully believes that there is absolutely nothing wrong with himherthem. Anyone who tries to bring up any of hishertheir behaviours as unusual or concerning is going to be shut down by virtue of being too English or too human or too overly-sensitive to know what they're talking about. Because Ockham does not see anything unusual or concerning about anything heshethey thinks or does, Ockham does not believe that heshethey needs to talk about it, and any sort of "help" would be seen as intrusive and unwelcome.

[shardminds]

Night Terrors (oneshot)

Pairing: Emma Swan/Killian Jones Rating: M  Warnings: Angst, Sleep Paralysis, Nightmares, Vampirism, General Horror-ish themes at the start... just really bad dreams and a big vampire friend. Words: 1329

Emma can't sleep at night and Killian wants to help. Difficult choices aren't made.

Also available on AO3!

It starts before she can stop it.

Hands, claws, everywhere. Her legs, her chest, her waist, her neck. They’re insistent, seeing purchase on her flesh. They’re not real, they’re not, but she can feel them, tearing at her skin as they seek what lies beneath. Emma can’t move, can’t speak, can’t scream, can’t even open her eyes. She wouldn’t want to, even if she could. The sight of talons raking over her strikes fear into her like nothing else could. She loses all agency like this, left prone to their whims until they fade with the rise of the sun. Each day, the sun appears, spears of light rousing her from her paralysis and eradicating the intrusive demons within seconds.

The sun or Him. On the nights when He comes, they scatter like scared mice, fleeing from a greater threat.

It’s a dream.

A nightmare.

They rip open her chest, cracking open her ribs in pairs, curling sharp digits around her heart until her breath comes in short, painful pants. She can’t see it, eyes screwed shut to avoid the vision of shrivelled fingers pulling her to pieces. She’d managed to look once, a grave mistake, before the darkness had swallowed her whole, dragging her further into the hallucination. She’d awoken hours later shaking and truly terrified, clinging to her comforter as if that alone could keep the monsters at bay. It had taken her weeks to fall back to sleep after that.

Fear is a powerful thing.

It’s nothing but an annoyance now.

They’ll be gone in the morning, She thinks, frantically trying to turn her mind to something other than the phantom grip tightening around her throat. They’ll be gone and I’ll be fine and I’ll have a shower and eat pancakes and get coffee and go to work and— and nothing.

Emma opens her eyes.

Instead of being met with the gruesome visions that had plagued her mind’s eye, He’s stood at the end of her bed; tall, dark and brooding, a concerned frown across his brow as his dark dishevelled hair flutters in the breeze from her open window.

“Killian, we’ve talked about this.” She groans, exasperated, trying to hide the relief that floods her system at finally being in control again. All evidence of the nightmare is gone; there’s a distinct lack of marks littering her arms where she swore she’d felt tiny incisions not minutes earlier, her heart, ribs and chest are still intact, her breath still comes with difficulty but thankfully the pressure on her windpipe is gone.

“Aye,” He nods, frown still firmly in place but there’s a softness to it that she hates, something not too far between pity and worry. “but it’s not my fault I can hear the damned things plaguing you from all the way across town.”

With a familiarity she wishes wasn’t there, he sits back on the edge of her mattress, careful not to displace her. The moonlight washes him in an ethereal glow, catching the edge of a smile, the darkness in his eyes, the glint of fangs and the red in his stubble. She tries not to think about how that red got there. “Maybe you should reevaluate my offer.”

She’d do a lot of things to be rid of the night terrors. His offer is not one of them. “Hard pass.”

“Emma–” He reaches to take her hand, probably to stroke soothing circles into it like he always does but she shoves it away. Now is not the time for that.

“End of conversation.” She snaps, unable to tether her emotions any longer. Frustration bubbles to the surface beneath her skin and she knows he can feel it without even touching her. She knows because he’s there, the furrow in his brow growing deeper. He doesn’t argue.

He sits and waits as Emma pulls herself up, sat cross legged on the opposite side of the bed. The distance is a must. She can tell from the dark bags under his eyes and the twitch in his jaw that he’s fighting off hunger and, as curious as she is about what that would entail, she’s had enough supernatural beings piercing her for one night, corporeal or otherwise. He also wouldn’t take advantage of her like that. Killian is a lot of things, dishonourable is not one of them.

As annoying as he is, she can’t deny that she’s thankful for his presence. It’s not like she can tell Mary Margaret that every night she’s torn to shreds by unknown hands that belong to something from her nightmares. That’s not the kind of conversation you can have over coffee and breakfast. Especially with anyone like Mary Margaret Blanchard who tends to let little things like ‘my housemate is totally crazy’ slip in casual conversation. Not in, like, a rude way. In an ‘I’m trying my best to be a good friend but I don’t know how to help’ way.

Therapy doesn’t work, medication only makes it harder to wake up, and all the holistic bullcrap she’d managed to get her hands on just made her room smell like lavender and old people. Nothing works as well as Killian’s presence, lying by her side flicking through whatever the literary flavour of the week is. Last week it was Tennyson. The best thing about having Killian around is that he doesn’t ask questions, not when he already has the answers.

Apparently, being a mind reader has its perks.

The hardwood floor must be incredibly interesting from the way he’s staring holes into it.

“They’re getting worse.” He says, softly, still staring into space. It’s not a question or an observation. It’s a fact. He can sense them too, after all.

“I know.” Emma nods, solemnly.

He ducks his head, rubbing the brace of his prosthesis with his other hand. She’d always wondered about it but never had the courage to ask. “I know you don’t want to risk the change but–”

“Killian–”

“No, Emma. Let me speak.” He looks at her then, and he looks tired. Tired and hurt. She hadn’t really considered that the assault of her own demons might be affecting him too. He’s a vampire, for fuck’s sake, Emma. Of course, they’re not affecting him.

“I can hear them, you know, even now. They’re getting stronger and I fear how long it will be before–” His voice cracks and he’s pale, paler than she’s ever seen him, the moon causing him to almost glow. Her stomach drops. She knew that he could hear them while she slept, while they attacked, but now?

What the hell is going on?

“It’s not my intention to scare you, love, but we’re running out of options, lest we share a bed for the rest of our lives. I don’t know about you but normally, I prefer to do other more enjoyable activities with a woman on her back.” The last part comes with a smirk, not all the way to the eyes but enough to coax a slow smile out of her. He can be quite charming, which is why seeing him worry like this is so out of place. So she appreciates the humour while it lasts, the jokes that soften the blow of the choice she has to make.

Emma doesn’t want to die.

The tears come before she can stop them, just as the dream had.

His arms are around her, strong and all encompassing, before the first sob escapes. Leather and iron and salt. She leans into it, selfishly, knowing how her proximity must be affecting him and choosing to ignore it. She can’t bring herself to say the words she wants to say out loud. Luckily, with Killian, she doesn’t have to.

“Nothing’s going to hurt you, my Swan.” His voice is deep, barely a whisper, a solid threat to whatever entity may be listening, and when he presses a kiss to her crown she relaxes into it.

She believes him.

A/N: the inspo for this came from that exact dream. it sucks. i do not have a big vampire friend to help me out. 

[thisdiscontentedwinter]

Baby Daddy - Chapter 7

You can find it on AO3 here, or check out the Tumblr Chapter Index here. 

“Firstly,” Peter says when Laura turns up at his front door with a shopping bag full of baby supplies, “congratulations. Secondly, I am not and will never be called anyone’s great-uncle, understood? I’m far too young and pretty.”

“If you say so.” Laura sweeps inside, dumps her bag on the floor, and finds herself wrapped in his embrace.

“Congratulations,” he says again, more quietly this time, his voice cracking. He releases her again, composing himself. “You can use my apartment to store your shopping for two weeks, Laura, no more.”

“Peter…”

“No,” he says firmly. “You need to tell him. And you need to do it before he figures out that your scent is changing. He’ll notice eventually. This was your idea, remember? This is right for the pack. If you believe that, then what’s stopping you from telling him?”

“I just need to wait until the time is right and—”

“When with that be?” Peter cuts in. “When you’re starting to show? When you’re in labor? When the baby’s enrolled in kindergarten?”

“Don’t get all…” She waves her hand at him. “Snippy. I’ll tell him!” She sighs. “I’d hoped he’d feel more settled once we came back here, but if anything it’s made him worse.”

Peter narrows his eyes. “Why?”

“Because…” She groans.

“Why?” Peter asks again, folding his arms over his chest. He fixes his gaze on her, and leaves her nowhere to hide.

“Because there are things that you don’t know about the fire, Peter!”

Peter’s expression shutters. “Explain.”

Fuck.

Laura could really use a drink right now, but she guesses she’ll have to settle for whatever herbal teas Peter has stashed away in his kitchen. She drags a finger through her hair, and fights the urge to growl at her uncle.

“Because he thinks the fire is his fault,” she says at last. “Because he thinks I don’t know it was Argent!”

“Of course it was Argent,” Peter says, his brow furrowing. “Who else could it be? Your mother tried to broker a peace, and Gerard killed Deucalion’s pack. And then he killed ours.”

“No,” Laura says, her throat aching. “It wasn’t Gerard. Well, the order probably came from him. But it was Kate who did it. Kate Argent.”

***

In those fraught, panicked days after the fire, they were both unanchored, grieving, verging from hysteria to near-catatonia and back again. The alpha spark had felt more like poison than a source of strength to Laura. It had burned in her blood like acid. She’d fought against it because she didn’t want it. It represented everything, everyone, she had lost.

And Derek…

They’d clung together and cried and howled and then—it must have been four days after the fire—Laura had been trudging back to their hotel room, gas station sandwiches swinging from a plastic bag on her wrist—when she’d heard Derek saying a name from inside the room:

“K-Kate?”

By the time Laura made it inside he had locked himself in the bathroom. He didn’t come out for a long time. And when he did, he was quiet.

Laura feels like he’s been quiet ever since.

She found his phone later, smashed, with the SIM card torn out and crushed.

Kate.

She’d known there was a girlfriend, or at least someone he was crushing on. He was her little brother, and while she didn’t really care to know the details, there was no hiding the way his face pinked up when he heard his text message alert, or how he’d started to come home later from school in the afternoons, and sometimes even sneak out at night.

She’d known, but she hadn’t got around to teasing him about it yet.

And then the fire happened.

And then that phone call happened.

And then his nightmares did. If he was silent during the day, he wasn’t at night. And Laura heard the name Kate more in the weeks and months that followed. It wasn’t hard to draw a picture. His dreams, uncomfortably hot and heavy for his sister sharing the same room, never failed to turn into nightmares.

No, Kate! No, please, don’t!

And Laura didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know how to ask him, when he would barely look her in the eye every day. She didn’t know how to ask him without making it worse.

And the nightmares stopped, after a while, and Laura doesn’t know what she thought. That he was getting better? That if he didn’t want to talk about it, then that was the right thing to do? It was probably more selfishness than ignorance, in the end. She should have talked to him, but Derek was all she had left, and she didn’t want to drive him away. She was so afraid of being left alone.

It was the wrong choice, she knows that now, because it hasn’t gone anywhere. It’s festered between them, and it hurts, but if she tells him now that she’s known for years… God. She’s terrified of how he’ll react. Terrified that he’ll run from her, that he’ll turn into an omega, that some hunter will find him feral and take him down, and that she’ll lose him now in a more tangible way than she already has.

She’d told herself for so long that she wasn’t sure, that it was all supposition, and the worst thing she could do was to accuse him of something he hadn’t done. It had been a convenient excuse for the most part.

But then, four years after the fire, she’d logged back into her long-abandoned Facebook account. It was New Year’s Eve, and she’d been a little tipsy, and a lot maudlin. And that’s when she saw it: a group she’d been added to without her permission. A high school reunion group. Five years, coming up! Who’s coming back to BH to celebrate next year? Go, Cyclones!  Lots of bullshit about husbands and babies and careers. Lots of photographs too.

And then, as she was scrolling down, she’d seen one of Derek, in his basketball uniform, smiling bashfully at a woman with a BHHS lanyard around her neck.

Someone had written: Hands up who else had a crush on Ms. Jones! And below that: Shit, yeah! Kate was hot. I hope she’s not on here, lol!

She wasn’t, because there was no such person as Kate Jones.

But Laura already knew that, because she knew that face. She remembered her from when she’d rolled into town at her father’s side, to talk peace with Deucalion—except it hadn’t been peace talks after all, it’d had been an ambush.

The woman was Kate Argent.

And just like that, all the pieces had fallen into place, and Laura knew without a shadow of a doubt what had happened to Derek.

***

Peter’s eyes flash blue, and his lip curls, his fangs appearing. He stalks toward Laura. “You know this for sure? You know that Kate Argent was screwing your brother?”

Laura refuses to take a step back, even though her heart is pounding. For a moment she feels like she did in the Preserve, months ago, when she faced down the feral omega who wanted to tear her throat out. When, horrified, she realised it was the uncle she’d left behind.

“I think so!” Is it a lie? She can’t even tell. Worse than that, she doesn’t know if it’s Peter she’s lying to, or herself. “It fits—someone had to have told them about the tunnels! But I haven’t asked him!”

“Why the fuck not?” Peter asks, his voice wavering on a low, angry growl.

Her eyes sting with tears. “Because I left it too late, and if I tell him now that I’ve known all along, he’ll think I was punishing him!”

Peter tilts his head, his eyes gleaming brighter for a moment before his half-shift recedes. “And were you?” he asks mildly. “Were you punishing him?”

“I… I don’t know!” She scrubs at her tears. “I don’t know!”

“Laura,” he says, and then exhales heavily and starts again. “Lulu, he needs to know. You’re not protecting his feelings by not asking him about this. You’re protecting your own. And that’s not what an alpha does.”

“I’m scared it will drive him away.” She swallows. “For years I thought he was all I had left!”

Peter mouth turns up in a short, bitter smile, and Laura is remind of her other great failure as an alpha. Then he draws a deep breath, and shrugs his shoulders. “But isn’t that what’s already happened? Hasn’t this already driven him away?” His stare is intense. “You’re his alpha, Lulu. It’s your job to bring him home.”

***

The drive back to the loft is made in silence. Peter, sitting in the passenger seat, taps his fingers on his knee over and over again, as though he’s beating out a faint rhythm only he can hear. Laura recognises the action from back when Peter sat beside her mother at pack meetings: he’s deep in thought, although the expression on his face is bland.

“Never play poker with your uncle!” her dad used to tell her, winking.

Peter is impossible to read.

It’s early evening when they pull up in the street outside the loft, and climb the steps to the door.

Laura pulls the door open and steps inside. There’s no sign of movement. There aren’t even any dirty dishes in the sink, and Laura wonders if Derek has even left his room all day.

God. How did she ever think this was okay? How did this ever become their new normal? It happened so gradually and Laura hadn’t noticed how drastic the shift was until Peter, who only came back into their lives a few months ago, began to poke and prod at the pair of them.

How could she let her little brother slip so far away?

“Derek!” Peter calls. “Pack meeting, now!”

It takes a few moments before Derek appears, moving silently down the steps. He looks as expressionless as Peter did in the car, but his shoulders are a little hunched, his posture defensive, and Laura wonders why she’s never before noticed that he always looks like he’s waiting to be attacked.

“Sit,” Peter says, pointing the couch. Then he turns to face Laura. “Both of you.”

Laura sits. So does Derek, keeping as much space between them as he can.

Peter stands in front of them and looks from one to the other. “We need to clear the air, children.”

Derek’s throat clicks as he swallows.

“Firstly,” Peter says. “The fire. Kate Argent.”

He’s barely got the words out before Derek’s moving, limbs flailing as he tries to push himself off the couch. But Peter is faster, a hand wrapped around Derek’s throat, pushing him back down.

“Sit,” he says, his voice firm. “Stay.”

There are no claws out yet, but Laura can feel Derek’s distress, and she wants to tell Peter to stop, to leave him alone, to make it all go away. She feels a whine building in the back of her throat.

“Stay,” Peter repeats, and slowly releases Derek. He crouches down in front of him. “I’m here as your uncle, not as your alpha’s left hand. You can tell me what happened, pup. It’s okay.”

Derek opens his mouth, his breath hitching. He blinks and tears slide down his cheeks.

“It was Kate, yes?” Peter asks. “You told her about the tunnels?”

Derek jerks his head in a nod, and closes his eyes. Braces himself as though he’s waiting for the left hand’s killing blow.

Peter puts a hand on his knee. “It’s okay, pup. It’s not your fault.”

And Derek crumples forward into his uncle’s embrace.

Laura sobs, pressing her hands over her mouth to muffle the sound.

“H-how did you find out?” Derek whispers, his voice breaking with his tears.

Peter rubs his back gently, and doesn’t answer. He looks at Laura.

“I knew,” Laura says, her voice small. “I heard you on the phone that time, when we were in the hotel.”

Derek turns his face to her. He’s pale, broken, betrayal written all over his expression. “You knew?”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, and the small word seems so inadequate for the years of heartbreak and distance that have passed between them.  

“You were children,” Peter says. “Both of you. It’s not your fault.”

And Laura wonders if he really believes that, of if he’s only saying it because this is what they need to move forward, as a pack. She wonders if, maybe, he says if often enough that she and Derek will believe it one day too.

“Mistakes were made,” Peter says, easing Derek back. “Not just by you, pup. I’m the one who swore to protect the pack, hmm?” His smile falters. “But this is our fresh start. We’re Hales, and Beacon Hills is our territory. It’s our home. Mine, and yours, and the next generation’s too.”

Derek’s brow creases.

“Yeah,” Laura whispers, her voice rough with tears. She reaches out for Derek’s hand, and tugs it over. Presses it against her abdomen.

His eyes widen in shock.

“Beacon Hills is our home,” Peter says. “We don’t run. We rebuild, and we stand our fucking ground. Together.”

From uncle to left hand, in the space of a heartbeat.

His eyes flash brilliant blue.

***

It’s no magic fix. Derek is still quiet, still awkward around her, still half-afraid she’s going to throw him out of the pack or order Peter to kill him. But in the days and weeks that follow, they’re slowly getting better.

“You smell good,” Derek tells her one night, and then flushes. “Like Mom did when she was pregnant. You smell like pack again.”

Laura pauses for a moment in the middle of chopping vegetables. “Did I not smell like pack before?”

Derek looks away and shrugs. “It’s different. New.”

“Well, that’s good, right?” Laura figures they could use a little different, and a little new.

Derek glances at her, and looks away again, but not before she sees the quick quirk of his mouth that’s almost a smile. “Yeah,” he says softly. “That’s good.”

[auburnfamilynews]

Photo by Ben Solomon/NCAA Photos via Getty Images

Do any of us dare to pick against the Tigers? Read on...

In case the offseason wasn’t quite exciting enough for you, there’s good news.

It’s over.

Real, live college football has been played, and the biggest game of the weekend happens to match up our boys as they head to the wild west for a rematch nearly a decade in the making.

Do you know what will happen? Do you want to know? Do you want to BARN HARD?

Read on...

AUBURN (-3.5) vs OREGON (O/U 55.5) - 6:30 PM CST - AT&T STADIUM - ARLINGTON, TX

Auburn and Oregon will both have their fair share of nerves on the big stage Saturday night. The defense will be the stars, though. Derrick Brown will earn SEC POTW honors with 2 sacks, 1 forced fumble. Noah Igbinoghene will seal the win with an interception. Barn wins, and take the Under. Auburn 25, Oregon 17. - Josh Dub

Auburn should have the talent edge and the crowd edge. I think this one is low scoring like the previous meeting. Both offenses won’t be in sync yet, and they’ll be playing defenses with a ton of talent. I think Auburn takes the lead early and keeps the Ducks at arm’s length most of the game. The Tigers move with ball well, but have to settle for too many field goals to really stretch the lead. Oregon makes it close late, but Auburn wins and covers. Bang the under. Auburn 19, Oregon 14. - James Jones

This could be the defining game of the Gus Malzahn tenure (that’s how we do this ’HIS LEGACY IS ___’ take sportswriting these days). Just kidding. This is one game. It’s a “big game” in that it is the first game of the year and can set the tone for the season. But it could also show us nothing we don’t already know. Auburn would have to win by 80 points for some Auburn fans to be happy, and even then they’d just say Oregon was overrated. I am going to have fun with friends and family, watch this game, and know I am not a better person if Auburn wins nor am I a worse person if Auburn loses. I think Auburn is going to beat Oregon. I have a feeling, you guys. I think Gus is gonna go full Red-Eye C3P0 and nuke some teams this season. Gimme Auburn and the points. AU 38 O 17 - Son of Crow

There are few outcomes that should surprise me in this game. Auburn could win or lose a close one, or they could win or lose by 10+ points. When you have a true freshman starting at Quarterback, it’s impossible to truly know how they will respond once the lights come on.

So let’s talk about what we do know. The strength on strength matchup of this game is Auburn’s defensive line versus Oregon’s offensive line. While athletic and sizable, I can’t help but believe this is an Auburn advantage based on the athleticism we possess up front. Oregon is going to have to prove me wrong because after watching the “Nightmare of seeing 5 and 3…not being able to sleep on the plane” against Washington, the jury is, and should be out, on if a Pac-12 team can handle of defensive front from the Deep South.

I expect this to be a lower scoring game for that reason. It’s going to be a challenge for Oregon to consistently move the football, with a receiving group that is unproven. I expect Oregon to get yardage on the ground, but over 4 quarters consistently? I wouldn’t bet on it. Meanwhile, I expect Auburn’s offense to stall in the red zone with similar issues to last season, struggling to firmly establish themselves on the ground, and seeing a lot of double coverage on Seth Williams and a continuing trend from fall camp, which was drops from our other receivers. The difference in this Auburn offense versus last year is I think they will get better over the course of September, but you won’t see it here.

Keys to Victory:

Seal the edge on the outside in the ground game a spring some of that speed into some open gaps

Make Herbert beat you with his arm

NO FUMBLES FROM OUR BACKS FOR THE LOVE OF GOD

Put Carlson in position to kick makable balls.

Punt and trust your defense, making Oregon work for it.

Use motion to open up lanes on the inside to hide any potential weaknesses along the inside of the offensive line.

Live with Bo Nix’s mistakes because the successes are worth it.

Auburn gets just enough on the ground, stalls too often in the red zone, but the kicking game will be the difference. Auburn 26 Oregon 21 - Josh Black

I‘ll be the first to admit that I haven’t studied the matchup as our other writers but I feel better about this game than I did last year’s opener against Washington for some reason. Offensively, I think you’ll end up seeing both QBs play (Joey Gatewood WILL win Auburn a game or two this year). The matchup I’m most excited for is Auburn’s defense vs. Justin Herbert. I think this defense can keep Auburn in every game this year and it will have to with a true freshmen at QB. I’ll put Derrick Brown down for 2 sacks, Javaris Davis gets an INT, Owen Pappoe has a big first game at LB and Auburn’s offense does enough to get Auburn off to a good start. Auburn 24 Oregon 17 - Will McLaughlin

Auburn has the single best unit in the matchup with the defensive line, though the Oregon OL might be the second best unit. I think this game comes down to if Oregon is able to run the ball in the redzone, because I think they’ll have *some* success throwing to get to the red zone. If the Auburn defense stands tall like they did last year, I think this is an easy Auburn win regardless of the Auburn offense’s success. I have faith in the front 7’s ability to stop the run. Auburn 34-23. Auburn covers, and we hit the over by 1 point. - Ryan Sterritt

Auburn Covers. Under. 23-13. When this game was first announced, I picked Oregon, because, well, I’m an older Auburn fan and that’s what we do. However, the more I looked at both teams and where they stand going in, Auburn should take this game. The only time Oregon faced a defense as talented as Auburn’s last season they scored 7 points. Also, Kevin Sumlin and Arizona took them to the shed last season. I know I know, that’s last year but it’s the only thing we have to work with. Plus, Oregon has lost most of their top receivers for this one and that is a huge plus for Auburn. I expect some growing pains from Auburn’s offense but they do just enough to get it done and then get 2 weeks of practice before the next true big game. - Drew Mac

The experts are way off on this. Auburn’s defense should have no problem with the ducks, and I am expecting the offense to be a little more in sync than one might expect. Tigers 35 - 10 - AU Chief

I think points will be hard to come by tomorrow. Yes, Oregon has an elite QB and a very experienced OL but I don’t see the offensive weapons to consistently make plays against Auburn’s defense. On the flip side, I need to see this Auburn offensive line in action before I can get too excited about this offense even if I believe in Bo. My guess is this goes in a similar direction as Louisville in 2015 (without the picks hopefully) & Washington last year. Auburn jumps out early and then just kinda hangs on down the stretch. The sneaky part of this game is Oregon was pretty terrible on special teams last year. With a possible defensive struggle, field position and the ability to convert drives into points will be hugely important. Auburn has a massive edge there.

I say Tigers win 23-14 thanks to a monster performance by Seth Williams and a strong day from the defensive line. Anders Carlson comes through big for the Tigers too. - AU Nerd

My head says that depth in certain spots may be an issue, and that a freshman quarterback doesn’t have enough in him to put a team on his shoulders and lead the offense the way that a seasoned vet would. My heart says that this is going to be the kind of year we remember for a while. It starts in Arlington, and I think the unsung offense is going to be a refreshing surprise.

Bo Nix won’t be perfect, but I think he hits a couple big plays and goes for close to 300 yards through the air. We get big performances from our returning receivers, including one lid-lifter from Will Hastings. Our offensive line will have a few kinks to work through, but I think they get stronger as the game goes on, and Auburn’s running game finishes better than it starts. We’ve also got Swaggy G Malzahn running the show now, and I think he’s started to get back to coaching the way he was always successful. He’s doing things for himself, his players, and his family, and that’s how he wins ballgames.

The defense does its job. We’re expecting big things, and I think after this game we’re talking about the play of guys like K.J. Britt and Owen Pappoe, and how they replaced their predecessors without missing much. In the end, the defense is going to get to Justin Herbert 5-6 times, he’ll get rattled, and the couple of big plays they hit won’t be enough to keep track of too much talent across the board for Auburn. Tigers win in convincing fashion, 31-13. - Jack Condon

from College and Magnolia - All Posts https://www.collegeandmagnolia.com/2019/8/30/20839968/staff-picks-auburn-vs-oregon

[distant-rose-archive-blog]

Of Children and Understandings

Notes: Once again, gotta thank @welllpthisishappening​ for listening, reading and encouraging my sorry ass to write this and others for my Little Pirates verse (By the Hook, Breakfast for Boys and Pirate Halloween). Without her encouragement and commentary, I am nothing. We were both a little mad with how the show brought up the Hook v Rumple rivalry and just did nothing with it, and even worse, put them at the same dinner table for a family meal and act like nothing is wrong. So, yeah, this is my way of dealing with that while also murdering people with Dad!Killian feels because that’s my jam. This will most definitely by jossed by the canon, but as they say on Mythbusters, “I reject your reality and substitute my own.” Not the friendliest take on Rumple. You can read it here on AO3: [LINK] Summary: Killian Jones and the Dark One have an understanding when it comes to cohabiting Storybrooke post-The Final Battle: do not enter each other’s space, do not speak, do not look and certainly do not touch. Things waver when kids enter the mix and things need to be clarified, especially when Killian’s daughter Beth has a disturbing nightmare. Rating: T Word Count: 7,600+ (I should have broken this into two parts, but I couldn’t bring my self to do it.)

There was a small fragile alliance between Killian Jones and the Dark One. No, alliance wasn’t the correct term. It assumed far too much civility than either men were willing to put into this…truce? No. Not truce. That was also too strong of a word. It was more of an…understanding between predators. They would ceasefire in the name of family, but they would remain on their own separate turfs. Killian would stick to one side of the room. Rumpelstiltskin would stay on the other. No words would be spoken. No looks would be shared. Only Belle and Henry could across between their territories and both were intelligent enough to not mention one in front of the other. It worked…for the most part at least.

And then, Killian and Emma brought three little ones into the world. His firstborn and spitting image Harrison Liam Jones came into the world almost exactly nine months after the Final Battle. (Neither are quite sure if their son was conceived in wedlock or out of it but Killian personally hoped it happened sometime during the honeymoon week they had locked themselves away in there home, completely enamored with each other and finally at peace.) They brought him to Granny’s nearly a week after he was born, ready to introduce the little lad to the world, and that was when everything in the past few months started to falter in this understanding between them.

Belle had immediately come over to their table to see the child, cooing and smiling over the babe while the Dark One lingered at the door, respecting the boundaries that had been unspoken but well established. Belle had brushed her hand against Harrison’s downy head and commented on his striking resemblance to his father. It was in that moment that Killian had peered up from his son to see the Dark One staring at the babe rather intensely with cold and glittering eyes. He made no movement nor did he offer any comment; he just stared at Killian’s son with an expression that could only be read as unnerving. Killian felt every hair on his body stand at attention and held the boy more fiercely to his chest, eliciting a cry of protest from his son. For the entire time the Golds were in the diner, Killian’s entire body was poised and ready for action - to defend his son from any possible attack. None came. The Dark One did not break the rules of their understanding, but something had wavered.

The staring continued on when the next boy, Westley Graham Jones, was born, and if anything the looks became uglier. Westley had been blessed with both Emma’s smile and pale blonde hair, but he had inherited his father’s eyes and nearly everyone commented on it, calling them Killian Blue. It seemed this inheritance were more bothersome than his eldest’s uncannily similar visage to the Dark One, and Wes and Gideon’s budding friendship only seemed to exacerbate the Dark One’s silent ire. (Killian could not help but wonder if his younger son enjoyed causing controversy and chaos. He always seemed to find ways to make them all anxious.) However, still he made no move and said not a word, but continued to stare. Harrison and Westley crawled, squirmed and threw crayons across the table while emitting cute little toddler giggles unaware that they were being watched under a crocodile’s gaze. However, Killian knew and he kept himself alert at all times, rarely allowing the boys to leave his sight while he alternated his wary attention between them and the Dark One. While the boys played and prattled unaware of the predator on the other side of the room, Killian stood as a silent sentry, waiting.

Their last child Elizabeth Alice Jones was not planned. (Surprise, surprise, they were one in three in the planning department; one in four if one counted Henry and Killian always did.) They had firmly decided that two small kids and a near-college student was enough for them, but fate had other designs when Emma fell pregnant with their little girl who came into the world with his raven hair, Emma’s eyes and cupid's bow lips. Killian was gone for her the moment that she opened her eyes when they placed her in his arms. They called her their Princess Elizabeth (and then Hurricane Elizabeth when she turned out to be colicky) until they decided it was a mouthful and that they needed to give this little one a nickname as they did with Wes. (For some reason, they never felt inclined to do this with Harrison, but Harrison so adeptly fit his eldest. It felt wrong to call him anything else, especially something like Harry.) It was Belle who gave their girl her true name after Killian vehemently protested against Lizzie - Beth after Belle’s favorite character from the novel Little Women.

“Because she's so sweet,”  Belle had said before giving their daughter a delicate kiss upon the little mop of chocolate brown curls. The Dark One continued to stare  with an odd gleam in his eyes as his wife doted upon Killian’s daughter and Emma proclaimed Beth was the winning nickname for the child. It made Killian more uneasy and the protectiveness that he felt towards his children increased tenfold.

Killian initially liked the nickname because Beth was perfect in the same way Harrison had been perfect for his firstborn and Wes had been perfect for their younger son. However, his enthusiasm was severely dimmed by the fact that Belle’s favorite character died in the novel and that all that excitement turned to ash. He struggled with that; naming his daughter after a character known for her poignant death. In the end, they ultimately decided to keep “Beth” for their daughter because it fit her better than anything else. However, Killian privately came to the decision to ensure that Beth Jones was nothing like Beth March. His daughter never left his side at Granny’s in the presence of the Dark One. He followed her even into the restroom, the instinct to protect even stronger with her than with his boys. There was something about the little girl that made him want to shield her in the same fashion that dragons guarded their most prized treasure. Emma called him a “bubble wrap dad” for it.

It was Beth who took notice of the Dark One and his stare where her brothers didn’t. His precious girl had been running after David and Snow’s latest addition Ruthie, both of them painfully adorable with matching dark hair and matching pink cupcakes; the two girls looking more like twins than aunt and niece. Where Ruthie had kept along her path to her parents, Beth had stopped in all motions, frozen in the same way a small deer stiffened at the sound of a snapping twig. Her head tilted, green eyes crossing over the invisible territory line. Every single part of Killian arose in alarm as he watched his little girl make eye contact with the Dark One. No one around them seemed to notice. The staredown between them was lasting uncomfortably long and it resembled too much of the held gaze between predator and prey before a final kill for Killian to stand around idly waiting for the Dark One any longer. He crossed the diner, scooping his little one into his arms and thus breaking the exchange. Beth’s tiny arms became an immediate vice grip around him and he felt a slight pain in his neck as his daughter’s fingers curled into a fist around his pirate’s luck and gave the chain a yank. He cradled his daughter’s head into his shoulder, placing a fevered kiss on Beth’s brow while turning his attention to the Dark One; blue eyes blazing with near uncontainable rage.

They may have stolen glances at each other over the near decade since the Final Battle, but they have never made eye contact; both painstakingly doing their best to avoid the other and upholding the understanding that they’ve had now for years. The Dark One may have never crossed into his territory or spoken to him and his immediate family, but this was a clear and unmistakable violation that Killian could no longer tolerate. Every fiber in Killian’s being wanted to rip out Rumpelstiltskin's spine with his bare hands, but the “peace” needed to be held for the family. He just hoped that the Dark One understood the message he was trying to convey: his children were off limits.

The Dark One seemed to get the message and scoffed lightly in response as if he couldn’t believe the silent threat he was receiving. However, he did almost immediately turn his attention to Belle and made some comment to her that Killian cared very little about. The only thing he cared about it at the moment was that the Dark One would stop staring at his children and frightening his precious little ones.

“Hello my sweetling. Granny’s made you some macaroni and cheese. Want to go get some of that, love?” Killian murmured softly to Beth, rubbing soothing circles into her back as he tried to banish the encounter between her and the Dark One away with her favorite food and comforting motions.

His normally loquacious child merely nodded her head in response and Killian felt his anger bubble under his skin in tenfold. He held her tighter against him as if he could fuse her to his person through sheer physical and mental will. He showered her forehead with kisses as he spun on his heel away from the invisible borderline and brought her back to their table, sitting her between himself and Emma. A smile returned to Beth’s face when a huge bowl of cheesy noodles was placed in front of her. Killian felt everything wash away under the force of his relief at that smile. It appeared his daughter had walked away from her first encounter with the Dark One unscathed.

Or so he thought.

Killian awoke to the unmistakable sound of crying a few days after the incident. His wife, completely exhausted from the day prior, didn’t even stir but Killian, whose hearing had always been acute, was out of their bed in seconds. He nearly sprinted down the hall, pausing only to put on a pair of sleep pants and his hook, in search of the disturbance. Once he was out of the room, the sound was no longer as muffled and he recognized the sound as belonging to his daughter.

He found Beth curled into a ball on her toddler bed, big eyes scrunched as fat tears rolled her baby cheeks when he entered her room. (She was five and should have been put in a regular bed by now like her brothers, but she was so tiny that they were pretty sure that they could squeeze another one or two years out of the toddler bed. The way she was curled up only seemed to emphasize this point.) Her entire face was bright red and it was more than apparent to him that she had been crying far longer than he had been awake.

“Daddy…” She whimpered. She sounded terrified and it broke him.

Killian was far too big to be laying in a toddler bed, but that didn’t stop him from climbing aboard and pulling his daughter on top of him so that her ear landed in the middle of his chest. His left shoulder was hanging off, and his feet as well as the majority of his legs below his knees were dangling in the air, but none of this mattered. When Beth was an infant, she (and her brothers before her) almost never slept unless she was laid across his chest while in the tub, lulled by the sound of water and his heartbeat. He wasn’t sure if a bath would help now that she was a big preschooler, but hopefully the sound of his heart was still a comfort to her. He made a motion to unclick his hook, but Beth reached out and grabbed it as it was her habit and curled her fingers around it like it was her lifeline until the skin of her knuckles grew white and taunt. A deep unnamable emotion lodged itself in his throat at the desperate action.

“I’m here, my little minnow, I’m here,” he murmured against her hair. His eyes squeezed shut as a little hiccup racked her small body. “Daddy’s got you.”

“He took my heart, Daddy,” she half-cried, half-whispered and everything inside Killian nearly shut down at her words. His blood went ice cold in his veins and a maelstrom of anger, hysteria and sheer terror wreaked havoc inside of him. He knew exactly who “he” that Beth had been referring to. Against his will, the violent memory of the Dark One taking Milah’s heart and crushing it before his eyes flashed in his mind. It was painfully followed by a similar scene, except now it was his daughter, his precious little one, and he was watching the light dim in those green eyes that were the exact same shape and color as Emma’s. His own predator, the one that lived deep inside of him since he had decided to set aside his revenge against Rumpelstiltskin, howled in outrage. This could not be. Almost immediately he placed his hand down on her chest and he thanked every star in the sky that her heart was still there, beating frantically against his palm. “It’s there, minnow,” he whispered back to her, his voice nearly hitching with emotion. He moved to bring the hand that was wrapped around his hook to her chest so she could feel her own heartbeat, but she steadily refused to let go. However, she was more amenable to letting go of the fist she had made around his pirate’s luck and he was able to place that hand in the middle of her chest instead. He placed his own hand on top of hers and gave it a squeeze. “See? It’s there. He didn’t take it. He can’t take it, my sweet thing. It’s safe.”

Beth’s crying slowed as she felt her own heartbeat and Killian’s hand moved to card itself into her hair as he kissed her forehead, just resting his lips on the patch of skin under her hairline. He sighed as her breathing became less labored, breathing in her scent to soothe his own emotional state.

“I’m scared…” Her voice wavered as the two words hung in the air.

“You shouldn’t be, little love,” he murmured against her forehead. “You have me, and you have Mommy…Grandpa David, Grandma Snow, Henry, Harrison, Wes...Neal, Ruthie...even Regina, Zelena and Bobbi...We’re all here to protect you…”

Beth was silent for a moment. The only sounds that could be heard in the room was the sounds of their breathing. Hers was still a bit more labored than his with the occasional hiccup passing her lips. She moved her body so she was lying on her side instead of the awkward contortion that she had going on before when she was too upset to be uncomfortable. She did however keep her head over his heart and had yet to let go of his hook, which of course led to her elbow being jabbed into his ribs as she moved. He had flinched a bit, but refused to let her know his discomfort.

“Mr. Gold wants to hurt me…” she said finally and Killian couldn’t breath when she did. His five-year old shouldn’t ever in a million years think that someone wanted to hurt her, let alone when they were supposed to be at peace. His intense anger returned in tenfold, a fire set ablaze in his stomach.

“Why do you think that, minnow?” He asked, closing his eyes and pulling her body closer to his.

“He stares at me...and it’s not nice. He scares me.”

It was when she said this that he knew that the understanding had to end as it was. This could not stand and he would be damned if he stood idly by while the Dark One scared his children. He knew what he had to do.

“That’s not going to happen anymore, Little Beth,” he declared, looking down at her with a tight smile. He was already mentally preparing himself for tomorrow. He was going to finally confront the Dark One and lay down the law; something he should have done the first go around when Emma and him had brought Harrison to Granny’s when he was only a week old.

“You promise?” She asked and again, Killian’s heart broke.

“I promise,” he replied firmly, before taking his hand out of his daughter’s hair to grab at the pirate’s luck that hung around his neck. Beth watched in fascination as he removed the chain and pulled it over his head. “You know how Mommy has Uncle Liam’s ring and that’s supposed to protect her right?”

Beth nodded mutely, her eyes completely focused on the clinking charms. Killian couldn’t help but chuckle. Along with her fascination with his hook, Beth had always loved playing with the charms of his pirate’s luck. She had constantly yanked on them when she was a babe and though it had been painful at times, he had always found it to be endearing.

“Do you know what this is?” he asked with a gentle smile.

“It’s your necklace,” she answered.

“You’re not wrong, but it’s more than that. It’s my pirate’s luck and it wards off angry sea monsters that want to hurt your Daddy. And that includes crocodiles,” he said with a chuckle and a wink before he slipped it over his head. “And tonight, it’s going to protect you. Is that okay?”

She nodded enthusiastically; this time she let go of his hook so that she could play with the charms with both hands. Killian couldn’t help but be amused as he watched her, a happy hum trilling in his chest. He gave her another kiss.

“You still scared?” he asked with a small smile.

Beth didn’t even look up at him, so completely focused on the dangling skull and sword. She just shook her head, slightly reminding him of Henry and Harrison's half-hearted responses whenever they were focused on their video games. He was already dreading the moment when Wes got his own games to play with and then Killian would have three zombie boys ignoring him instead of just two.

Killian gave her hair one last run through before he decided it was time to get up and return to his own bed. He hadn’t noticed until that moment how uncomfortably he was hanging off the toddler bed. His knees were starting to complain as both of his lower halves of his legs had been awkwardly dangling off the end of the bed for at least a good twenty minutes now. He tried to move Beth off his chest so he could lay her back in her bed, but she squeaked in protest. She dropped his pirate’s luck and immediately wrapped her arms around his neck. “Don’t leave…” She cried in an almost frantic voice. “I gotta go back to my own bed, minnow,” he replied with a patient sigh, giving her cheek an affectionate pat. “Stay, Daddy,” she pleaded, tears started to brim in the corners of her eyes and she gave him the world’s saddest looking pout. Gods above help him, he could not disappoint her when she gave him that look. He was grateful he only had one daughter. He wasn’t sure he or his heart could handle another one of Beth. “Alright, love, alright,” he sighed, laying back down and resigning himself to the fact that he was going to wake up sore as hell. Emma would not be pleased with him. He couldn’t bring himself to entirely regret the decision however when Beth snugged into his chest and looked up at him like he was the biggest hero in all of the realms. “I love you, Daddy,” she whispered sleepily. “I love you too, my Little Beth,” he replied, giving her forehead one last kiss. "Now go to sleep."

Killian waited for her breath to even out before quietly unholstering his hook and allowing it to fall to the floor before bringing Beth’s sleeping body closer to his and pressing his nose into her wild hair. He allowed his eyes to droop and he fell asleep, lulled by the smell of citrus L’Oreal Kids shampoo and detangler, Emma’s sugar cookies (no doubt stolen and consumed after Beth’s tub) and Beth’s own earthy scent.

The next morning, Killian helped his wife prep their children for the day the same as he always did. However, instead of joining her in the Bug to go to the station, he told her that he had errands to run before work and would join her later. She naturally went through a line of inquiry into what was the nature of these errands and when Killian would only tell that it had something to do with easing Beth’s nightmares, she huffed but relented; kissing his cheek and sternly telling him to get to the station as soon as he could manage. Killian didn’t hesitate, not even for a moment, before entering the territory of his mortal enemy. He strode into Gold’s Pawnshop fueled by the image of his daughter’s frightened face and his own righteous fury. The door slammed loudly behind him, rattling in its frame and Killian tried not to think about how it was a perfect metaphor for his mood. “Show yourself, Dark One,” Killian growled. He was in no state to wait for him to come as he pleased. This needed to be resolved now. Rumpelstiltskin appeared from one of the backrooms of his shop, his eyes cold as any reptile’s as he regarded Killian with a mixture of annoyance and blatant hatred. He was carrying a small leather black book in his hands, which Killian assumed was some sort of ledger. “The last time you said that coming into this shop, it didn’t bode well for you,” he replied. Though his tone was calm and measured, the sentence was punctuated with a loud snap as Rumpelstiltskin shut the book sharply as if he needed some way to express his ill temper without giving too much away. Killian knew the act well, mainly because he had performed it himself many times over his centuries of life. “Last time I was here, you aligned yourself with the bloody Black Fairy,” Killian responded tersely. Rumpelstiltskin stiffened at the mention of his mother. He turned away from Killian, opening the book in his arms again with a licked finger and proceeded to look for whatever page he had been on. Killian’s jaw clenched at the action. It was as good as a dismissal. “What do you want, pirate? I’m busy,” he asked in a bored tone, as if this exchange meant nothing to him. It was a good act, but Killian could very well see the tension in his shoulders. “Oh yes, you certainly look tied up at the moment,” Killian replied sarcastically, barely managing to keep from rolling his eyes. “I’m here because it seems we need some clarification on our understanding.” Rumpelstiltskin snapped the book shut again and placed it down on the counter with a solid thud. He leaned against it, his palms stretched out across the glass as he glowered at Killian; jaw working in irritation. “Obviously so,” he replied tightly, “because I thought the understanding was that we won’t eviscerate each other so long as we don’t talk, speak or look at each other...so please enlighten me on what needs to be clarified...”

Killian matched the Dark One’s pose, stretching his hand and hook across the countertop and looking him straight in the eye. Killian leaned forward until he was nearly on the verge of entering Rumpelstiltskin’s personal space, a habit he had picked up aboard the Jolly Roger when he was dealing with insolent crew members who had forgotten whose employ they were in. “Children.” “Children?” Rumpelstiltskin echoed with the raise of his eyebrows as if he had absolutely no clue as to what Killian could be referring to. “You know what I woke up to last night?” Killian asked, his fingers tapping against the glass tempestuously. Beth’s sobbing image still playing in his mind’s eye. It took everything inside of him to not punch the Dark One straight in the jaw. “My daughter crying.” There was a flicker of something in the Dark One’s eyes. It had happened in a fraction of a second, but it was something and though Killian wasn’t exactly sure what it was, he knew he didn’t like it. His hand moved to grip the corner of the glass, knuckles nearly turning white under the force. A part of him wanted to scratch the counter with his hook, to make some form of aggression to prove his point, but he had a mission and he had to stick to it. “I fail to see how this concerns me,” Rumpelstiltskin replied in a tone of indifference.

“She had a nightmare about you. You ripping her heart out!” Killian couldn’t help the snarl that emitted itself from his throat and he was sure if he hadn’t been gripping the countertop so hard, he would have smashed his fist against it. His brain kept altering between the images of Milah dying in his arms and his daughter fading as her heart was crushed; his first love and his last love, both black haired beauties, taken by the Dark One. No. Killian couldn’t stop Milah’s death, but as long as he breathed he would not allow any harm to come to Beth. He would not fail her too.

Rumpelstiltskin’s eyes went wide a fraction and he shifted in his stance, putting some distance between them as if he could sense that Killian was on the verge of snapping and he was preparing himself for the attack. The Dark One regarded Killian with an unreadable expression as he brought up his hand to worry his jaw.

“Whatever horror stories you tell your daughter about me are your issues, not mine,” he responded in an almost dangerously soft voice that made the hairs on the back of Killian’s neck stand on edge. He nearly brought his hook at attention in preparation of striking the Dark One if necessary.

However at the same time, the Dark One had brought up an excellent point. Emma and himself had decided long ago not to tell their children about certain aspects of their lives until they were old enough to handle it. They had even sat Henry down and made him promise to do the same. Neither David, Snow, Emma and himself were in the habit of talking about their nasty past with the Dark One and Regina, so focused on keeping the peace. How had Beth found out about the heart ripping? Who had been insane enough to tell stories of that nature to his daughter?

“I have never breathed a word about you to my daughter,” Killian responded in a nearly offended growled, before leaning forward again and hissing, “if it were up to me, she wouldn’t know you exist and we would be as far away from you as we possibly could be.”

“Well someone obviously said something to her and it wasn’t me. So perhaps you and the Savior should run along and go find that person and leave me in peace,” Rumpelstiltskin snapped back at him and he now looked ready to throw his little black ledger at Killian’s head.

While Killian privately agreed that he needed to find whoever had told Beth about the Dark One’s habit for heart ripping (and to scare them within an inch of their lives because who the bloody fuck thought it was alright to tell a preschooler, much less Killian’s daughter, about such horrors needed someone to knock a little sense into them), there was still the main matter at hand: the Dark One, his habit for staring and how it was affecting his daughter.

“She’s afraid of you because you stare at her like the bloody crocodile you are,” Killian spat in displeasure, looking at Rumpelstiltskin in absolute fury. “And don’t deny it. I caught you looking at her the other night. I’ve seen you watch all of them with those eyes and whatever you’re thinking in that disgusting head of yours when you do, I’m sure I could kill you for.”

The two men, both predators in their own right, regarded each other silently for a moment. No sound could be heard in the shop except for the milling of pedestrians outside. Killian severely hoped that a curious onlooker didn’t happen to look through and see them talking then gossip to the entire town that the Dark One and Captain Hook were at it again. Emma would kill him. Hell, Belle would kill him too. The sad fact of life was that both women would probably hold him more accountable for this than the Dark One himself. He tried not to think of the unfairness of that situation.

“That’s a lot of assuming there,” Rumpelstiltskin replied after a moment, and the casual and indifferent way he said it nearly had Killian’s rage boiling over.

“There’s no assuming! I’ve seen with my own damn eyes that you do it!” Killian retorted as he felt his anger course through his veins like molten lava. He had never hated a man more than he had hated the Dark One. He wanted nothing more than to strangle him, but that would get him nowhere. He let out a heavy breath and Rumpelstiltskin looked at him with a shadow of amusement.

“I don’t trust you,” Killian began, taking his hand away from the glass to form a tight fist. “I never will. The only reason I even tolerate your presence is because you’re Henry’s grandfather, Belle loves you and for some reason unknown to all David and Snow have forgiven you for all of your past transgressions. But I won’t. What you have done is unforgivable, but I have things in my life that mean more to me than my vengeance against you. So, this is what I want...you are going to leave my children alone. Do not look at them. Do not touch them. Do not even say their names.”

The Dark One scoffed at his speech, a sound that was mixed with disbelief and a tinge of amusement that Killian did not appreciate.

“That’s quite a list of demands. And Elizabeth is a very common name,” Rumpelstiltskin replied, making sure to slowly over-enunciate each syllable of his daughter’s name. Killian nearly saw red when he did it.

“Do not test me!” Killian shouted, slamming his fist against the glass counter and he felt the sheet vibrate precariously under the force. His eyes blazed, and Killian made sure he kept eye contact with the Dark One for his next words. “If you so much as touch a hair on my daughter’s head, I swear on every single thing that matters to me, and to you, that I will end you. I do not care if I have to destroy myself and become the Dark One once again to do it. I will do anything and everything in my power to ensure my children’s safety…Think of what you would do for your own son...then triple it.”

As Killian said the words, he realized in that moment that he actually meant them. If it meant keeping his precious little ones safe, he would surrender to the darkness again regardless of the consequences. They were worth it. They were worth everything. Rumpelstiltskin’s eyes widened at the declaration and he looked nearly as startled as Killian felt.

“Does the Savior know this about you? That you’re willing to become the Dark One again?” Rumpelstiltskin asked, eyes glittering and a strange sort of cruel smile contorted itself across his face. It only served to enrage Killian more.

“Don’t twist my words! For my children, I would do anything,” Killian snapped, eyes flashing again. “I don’t want to be the Dark One. Only you seem to covet that title like it's a treasure, but if it means keeping my little ones from harm...there’s nothing I would not do.”

“So what do I get out of this new understanding? Do you intend to keep to the same rules with my son?” Rumpelstiltskin asked, crossing his arms in front of his chest and leaning back against an old dingy cabinet. His face was once again impassive.

“I have no ill will towards your son,” Killian replied with a swallow.

“Really?” the Dark One asked, raising his eyebrows at him in challenge. “Never once looked upon him and remembered how he nearly destroyed your precious Savior?”

Killian gave him a hard look, tightening his fist again. That was a ridiculous question and Rumpelstiltskin knew it. Of course there were times where Killian looked upon Gideon and remembered Emma’s near death at his hands and sometimes it had been hard to reconcile that man with the sweet and quiet boy that followed around Wes like a shadow, tugging on Wes’s sleeve like it was a security blanket.

“What happened in the past was not his fault and from what I understand he’s quite a sweet lad, not unlike his mother…” Killian replied, giving him a significant look. “If it means you’ll leave my children alone, I will promise the same for Gideon, but with that said, I refuse to end the friendship between Wes and Gideon. My boy is your son’s only friend.”

Killian watched as the corners of Rumpelstiltskin’s mouth tightened at the mention of Gideon and Wes’s friendship. No doubt the Dark One was not happy with the fact his son was so attached to Wes. He wondered for a moment if he would deny his son that friendship out of spite.

“Very well,” the Dark One said finally. “The Savior can handle my son when he is in your residence, but you may not unless his life is on the line, and I will not approach, look or speak to your little brats. I trust you are alright with Belle handling your son?”

“Aye,” Killian responded with a firm nod.

“Then we are in agreement and we’re done here,” Rumpelstiltskin replied with a stiff nod and a dramatic flourishing movement of his hand. He then picked up the black ledger on the counter and turned on his heel to return back into the depths of the building. “Now, get out of my shop.”

Killian nearly snorted in response. He didn’t want to be in the Dark One’s shop longer than was absolutely necessary. He turned, walked out the door and for the first time since he settled in Storybrooke, he left Gold’s Pawnshop with a good feeling in his chest.

Later that day after returning to the station and dealing with ridiculous complaints brought in by the dwarves, Killian joined his wife in helping pick up their children from school. They both waited outside, leaning against the Bug with coffee and hot chocolate in hand respectively.

“So, are you finally going to tell me exactly what this business you had going on was this morning?” His wife asked him with a gentle tilt of her head.

“Perhaps later,” Killian replied, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her closer. “All you need to know for the moment is that it was resolved and things are going to be better for now on.”

Emma frowned in response. Her eyebrows bunched together as she tried to understand what his vague response might mean and what exactly it was referring to.

“And they weren’t before…?”

“Things were absolutely fine, but this...this needed to be done as something more pre-emptive than proactive,” Killian struggled to explain, rubbing the pad of his thumb into her shoulder. He really didn’t want to tell Emma about his visit with the Dark One, at least not now while they were in public and about to see their children. Killian would rather Emma not be mad at him for the rest of the evening, stewing and thinking on ways to punish him.

“Daddy!” Beth came thundering out of the crowd of children, racing towards them at breakneck speed. Emma made a noise of amusement beside him as they watched her.

“How come I don't get that enthusiasm?” She asked wryly.

Killian only had time to give her a small shrug before Beth collided with his leg, tugging on his jeans in impatience. The corners of her big green eyes crinkled at him and the smile on her face made his heart grow a few sizes larger. It was the type of expression that made him not regret confronting the Dark One earlier that day. He picked her up and planted a kiss on the side of her head.

“I had a talk with Mr. Gold today, love. No more mean stares,” he whispered lowly into her ear as she nuzzled her face into his leather jacket.

“No more?” She looked up at him with wide, hopeful eyes.

“No more,” he replied, kissing her hair again to hide his expression from his wife, who was no doubt wondering what the hell was going on between the two of them. Not now. He would tell her later. It was better to explain it without their children milling about.

“What am I chopped liver?” Emma asked their daughter in mock outrage, placing her hands on her hips.

Beth giggled and Killian moved to put her down, giving her dark curls a quick parting ruffle as he did so. As Beth approached Emma, their boys came out of the fray of school kids. Harrison had his hand on Wes’s shoulder, an obvious sign he had been trying to weave them through the masses without Wes running off as he was custom to do. Wes smirked as he caught sight of his sister and a gleam of childish wickedness entered his blue eyes. It was in this moment Killian knew his son was up to no good.

“Hey Beth!” Wes called. His arm stretched out and made a grabbing motion. “Kali ma!!!”

Beth's reaction was immediate. Her eyes went wide with fear, all color leaving her rosy pink cheeks. She shrieked and frantically tried to climb up Emma’s body like a haggard squirrel from a hunting dog. Emma picked her up immediately and rubbed a hand down Beth's back in an attempt to soothe her while giving their son a reproachful frown. Killian watched the scene in confusion, not quite understanding what Wes was referring to and why it scared Beth so much.

“Kali ma, Beth, kali ma!” Wes cackled and Harrison gave his younger brother an almost reproachful whack on the head.

“Shut up!” His eldest hissed. “It's like you're trying to get in trouble. Do you even think?”

“What is going on?” Emma hissed, glaring daggers at their sons. Killian placed a hand of solidarity on Emma's shoulder and glared at them as well, waiting for an answer. He hated it whenever his children antagonized each other. They had no idea how lucky they were to have one another. What he would give to have Liam back alive again...

“They're trying to take my heart like Indy!!!” Beth cried, hiding her face in Emma’s neck. Killian froze at her words and he could see his wife stiffen out of the corner of his eye. They shared a look over their daughter’s head, both wide eyed and alarmed.

Emma looked positively murderous when she returned her attention to their sons, still rubbing little circles into Beth’s back. Killian shared the same sentiment. Both boys took a step backward at the intensity of the combined power of their parents’ anger.

“What's this about heart taking?” Killian hissed, his eyes narrowed to slits. The last people he suspected of this “heart taking” nonsense regarding Beth were his boys, mainly because he hadn't suspected them to have any knowledge on his past history with the Dark One. However, it seemed they had discovered a different story to terrorize their sister with. He was going to make them swab the Jolly stem to stern.

“It's just Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, Dad. It's a joke. No big deal,” Wes replied with a wave of his hand, as if he hadn't just scared the living day lights out of his sister.

“That movie is PG-13, Westley Graham Jones, you have no business watching it,” Emma scolded. “That movie is far too graphic for you.”

“Henry and Harrison were watching it last weekend and I didn't want to be left out!” Wes half-replied, half-pouted. Harrison, who was also nowhere near thirteen-years old, widened his eyes in alarm as his younger brother ratted him out and he gave the boy another whack, but Wes kept talking. “It was cool! And the weird priest who took out the hearts looked like Mr. Gold!”

Killian, who had never seen the movie being referred to in this conversation, stared at Wes, the muscle in his cheek twitching at the mention of the Dark One and he glanced at Emma out of the corner of his eye to see her reaction to the proclamation. She looked less than pleased.

“He did not look like Mr. Gold,” Harrison replied with a roll of his eyes.

“Yes he did!” Wes argued. “He was old and weird and creepy. But mainly old.”

Both Killian and Emma couldn’t help but snort at the Wes’s description, and sensing that he had amused his parents, their youngest son offered them a cheeky grin that was a little too similar to Killian’s own for his liking. He caught Emma’s expression and he could tell that she was thinking the same thing by the way she was shaking her head.

“I hope you didn’t tell Gideon you think that about his dad,” Harrison responded, sounding more like an exasperated parent than a nine-year old boy. Killian’s eldest son had the air of an old soul.

Wes was suspiciously silent, looking down at the ground as if it was the most interesting thing he had ever seen in his very few years old life. He scratched the back of his ear and worried the pavement with the toe of his shoe. Both of these were his son’s biggest tells whenever he was feeling guilty about something. Killian had to bite his lip to keep from chuckling at his son’s apparent rudeness. Of course, Wes would tell Gideon what he thought about his father. The boy had absolutely no filter and it was going to put him in a world of trouble someday. Killian was more than prepared to bail the boy out however.

“Oh my god! You’re the worst!” Harrison groaned in response and gave his younger brother a look that was caught between indignation and horrified; what any proper parent should give his son whenever his child was being insolent. However, Killian felt no inclination to yell at Wes for insulting the Dark One to his son’s face. That was a job for Emma.

“You shouldn’t say things like that, Wes, whether you think they’re true or not, you shouldn’t say them because they hurt people’s feelings,” Emma sighed, still rubbing their daughter’s back. It was three o’clock and she already looked like she wanted to call it a day. “You’re going to apologize to Gideon tomorrow. No ifs, ands or buts about it. However, right now, you’re going to apologize to your sister and tell her how very sorry you are and that you are not going to take her heart.”

“Sorry Beth…” Wes half-stated, half-mumbled. “I’m sorry I scared you. And I’m not gonna take your heart.”

“Good. You’re both helping your dad clean up the Jolly this weekend, I hope you realize that,” Emma replied, catching Killian’s eye and offering him a grin. Killian grinned back at her. Sometimes it amazed him how well she could read his thoughts; almost as well as he could read hers. She then pressed a kiss to Beth’s forehead and turned her attention to her.

“No one is going to take your heart, Sweetheart,” she said gently. “No one. Not your brothers. Not the creepy priest from a movie you shouldn’t be watching. Not any bad guys. Not even Mr. Gold. Or Auntie Regina. Or the postman. Or the neighbor with the annoying cat across the street. Mommy and Daddy are gonna protect you from everything and everyone, including the stupid things your brothers do to scare you, got it?”

Beth nodded her head against Emma’s shoulder.

“I know, Mommy. Daddy told me last night. He also gave me his pirate necklace and told Mr. Gold not to look mean anymore.”

Killian closed his eyes at his daughter’s words. Now that was the betrayal that he really never saw coming; his daughter ratting him out to his wife. He opened his eyes and saw his wife staring at him. Her eyebrow was quirked and the corners of her lips were twitching, but more importantly than that, her eyes were trying to drill a hole into his head.

“Really now?” Emma asked their daughter facetiously. “I didn’t know Daddy did that. It looks like Daddy and I are going to be talking about a lot of things later…”

Killian sighed. Well, three centuries of life was a good enough run. He just hoped that Emma would be merciful later when she killed him. They could officially put on his new gravestone “Killian Jones, died officially trying to do right by his kids. Betrayed by said kids.”

[derangedsanity]

To Riverdale And Back Again

Title: To Riverdale And Back Again  Chapter: Two; Memories  To Riverdale And Back Again Masterlist  Pairing(s): Jughead Jones x Reader, Varchie, Betty Cooper x Trev Brown  Warnings: Maybe some slight cursing, and very very lightly implied smut. Like, literally nothing happens but you just know.  Summary: As soon as everyone steps foot in Riverdale after six years, and Jug steps foot out of the South side for the first time in five years, it’s as if their highschool years come rushing back full force.  A/N: Tell me what you’d like to see in future chapters!  As always feedback is greatly appreciated and I hope y’all enjoy! ( And this wasn’t proofread so let me know if you find any mistakes, thanks)!  Tag List; @sunshine51879 @dempsey-mantle @emotional-wrek-hello @day-dreaming-nightmare @nafa1604 @casual-vaporwave @angstylittleteen @thegloomybutt @aezthetically 

It’s as if the town was in slow motion as you let your hand flow freely outside your open window, breathing the Riverdale air. And even though you loved New York, you couldn’t help but think that you were home as soon as you saw the Riverdale sign.  You were home.  You closed your eyes and at that very moment you were thankful you had decided to get an uber instead of renting a car yourself, allowing yourself to enjoy the whole ride without having to worry about driving.  The car came to a stop in front of the nearest and only motel in town. You had never stayed in this motel before for obvious reasons, but it still felt like home. Just like everything else in this town.  You looked to your right, and your breath caught in your throat at the sight of the park.  Veronica was lying her head on Archie’s shoulder as he tried his best to strum his guitar without knocking V in the head as he sang a song. It was late, and the five of you had decided to hit the park with each other.  You were already feeling sleepy and looked over to Betty who had Trev’s hand in her own as she lazily swayed along to the beat of the song.  It only had just now dawned on you, you were the only single person here besides Jughead. Who happened to be your crush.  You laughed a bit and Jug looked over at you with a confused look. “What?”  “Nothing.” You shook your head before turning to look at Arch and V again, enjoying the song as much as everyone else.  After a few more seconds of listening intently to the song, you turned back to Jug. “Would you like to dance?” You quirked a brow.  He seemed shocked by your question but didn’t say no. “Uh, yeah. Sure.”  You took his hand in yours and stood up slowly, waiting for him to join you. As soon as he did you pulled yourself closer to him.  It wasn’t too long before Betty and Trev joined you on the imaginary dance floor.  V stopped Archie and instead pulled her phone out of her pocket, putting a slow song on. “Would you like to dance with me, too?” She asked flirtatiously.  Archie chuckled and nodded, practically picking her up as he stood. She let out a cute little squeal.  As soon as the song was over, Jug dipped you and the two of you stayed like that for a long time. In your own little world. And just as you thought he was going to kiss you, he pulled you up quickly and gave you a smug smirk.  You rolled your eyes and shook your head, one day. Hopefully. Maybe.  Veronica’s plane landed a lot harder than she had expected it to, jolting her awake from the nap she didn’t even know she was taking. She looked to her left and out the window to find herself in the small town of Riverdale.  She sighed, leaning back in her chair. They were all going to be there, every last one of them.  Veronica had just challenged Cheryl to a dance-off and had expected you to be another one of the cheerleaders voting for her. But instead, you clapped when Cheryl’s name came up.  Cherry couldn’t help the smirk that crossed her lips, even if you had been the only one to vote for her.  Later, V had called you aside and you had prepared yourself for the worse.  “Why didn’t you vote for me?” Veronica asked, confused.  You scoffed at her question. “Because, I found the whole thing a little dumb. Honestly, Veronica, why did you do it anyway?”  She looked really hurt by your question, but you didn’t really feel any regret in it. “I’m your friend, Y/N.”  “I know that. But that doesn’t mean I have to support you for hurting someone else.” You shot back. “Yeah, you’re right. Obviously not.” Veronica turned around and grabbed her bag. You watched her go. Archie parked his car right next to Fred’s truck and got out, turning around once to admire the way nothing had changed at all in the years he had been gone.  Before he even had the chance to walk up the steps and knock, the door opened and Fred stood before him. He was trying so hard not to smile with glee, Arch could tell that much.  “I missed you, son.” Was all that Fred said. Sure, they had talked on the phone a little bit but it just wasn’t the same as seeing each other face to face. Especially after what they had gone through together.  “I missed you too, dad.” Archie replied, deciding to leave everything but his guitar in his car for now. He set his guitar back down once he made it to the front porch and wrapped his arms firmly around his father, hugging him tightly.  Everyone had rushed to the hospital once they had gotten the news that Fred had been shot in a robbery at Pop’s. A year before, things like this would never had happened and you wouldn’t have believed a word of it. But this was after the murder of Jason Blossom, where everything and anything was possible now.  Fred was the father of the whole group, really. All of you were always hanging out at his house and he was supportive of all of you. One time you guys had came back drunk and he decided to call all the parents, letting them know that their kids were safe.  By the time Veronica, Jug, Betty, and You had made it all of your cheeks were soaked in tears. It was just one of those rare moments where all of you actually cared about something enough to actually let others see you cry.  When Fred actually survived, it was easily one of the best days of all of your lives.  That was before things got even worse, though.  Betty took her sunglasses off as soon as she entered the register, looking around for her mom but instead her eyes landed on her brother. “Chic? What are you doing here?” She questioned, tucking her sunglasses into her pocketbook.  “I could ask you the same thing.” He replied, quirking a brow. His face was buried into a newspaper.  “I am here for the Highschool reunion.” She vaguely explained, “Where’s mom?”  He shrugged. “I dunno. She went out about five minutes ago.”  She nodded, opening her mouth to say something else but deciding against it. What a help he was. He didn’t say anything else, and neither did she. Instead, she made her exit and went on her way. Maybe her mom was at home.  It was about a few months after the war between the two sides of Riverdale had happened, and since everything had settled back down. Again. She decided now was the best time as ever. She wanted to know who her brother was, where he was.  Jughead took off his leather jacket and sat down next to you at lunch and since V and Arch, including Trev was already there. She decided to begin her meeting. “I need your guys help with something.” She leaned forward when she said it, and her voice lowered. Like it was such a huge secret.  “Sure, anything, B.” Veronica replied, deeply intrigued as everyone could see.  “I want to find my brother.”  It didn’t take long before everyone else was on board. Everyone wanted to know who the mystery brother was. Jughead was making a risky decision by crossing the line over to the other side. He had left this life behind a long time ago for the South Side Serpents. He wondered how many disgusted looks he would get.  Sure, the war between them had been over but it never really cleared the air. People still hated each other more than ever.  Things were different. He was different.  So, with a deep breath, he was no longer in the South Side of town. And somehow that felt really good.  He felt like yelling “Take that, motherfuckers!” But decided that if he wasn’t getting any attention right now, he should keep it that way for as long as he can.  “Juggie?” You whispered from around the corner as you watched him turn to look at you like he was just remembering you were there. The leather jacket slung over his skin perfectly. And while it was undeniably hot something about it felt off.  He pulled it closer to him, like he was afraid you were going to take it away from him.  “I didn’t know you had a lady in there. I guess we could come back later?” The Serpent asked, peaking around the corner and giving you a smirk.  You forced a friendly smile despite feeling exposed even if you were dressed now.  “If you don’t mind.” Jug replied. Once they left, he walked back inside silently. Everything suddenly fell silent.  “I guess that broke the mood, huh?” Jug finally broke the silence and a feeling of relief rushed over you.  “I dunno. I think that jacket looks pretty sexy on you.” You decided that it wasn’t that big of a deal. Because it wasn’t, right? You had just got done talking about how the Serpents weren’t bad people. It was just a drastic change that you would have to get used to. That was all. 

[androidbrain]

[not a poem; this is a short story i wrote as part of a creative writing portfolio to apply for uni over a year ago. i just read it for the first time since the night i wrote it. i wrote it in about two hours and sent it minutes before the deadline. i was so fucking stressed but it turned out okay and i was offered a place on the course, so it can’t have been terrible. bits of it make me cringe but there’s not much point editing it, i’d rather keep it as it was. cw death, internalised homophobia maybe]

Remembering an Ending

Here’s where my story ends: a car crash.

I’ll elaborate.

I lied.

The car crash was a beginning, too. It’s all about perspective, at least that’s what he kept telling me. I didn’t believe him at first. An end is an end, I kept thinking. I’d had enough endings in my life to know that nothing good comes of them. The good things rot and fester away, and new life won’t grow from it no matter how hard you try. You let them go, you move on. That’s what this story is about: letting go.

It ended, or began, on a cold, wet morning in San Francisco, on the fourth of July twenty twenty-two, when a ‘young man of African American descent’ drew his last breath. Killed instantly, intoned the officer, whose non-descript voice drawled apathetically from television sets around the city. A careless accident, continued the officer, whose pallid skin bore an uncanny resemblance to nothing in particular, whose eyes were emptier than the heart of a ghost.

…Great tragedy…

…Drugs and alcohol…

…No investigation…

“Well, shit,” I said, in response to my own lifeless face, which stared, unseeing, at the heavens from where it lay in the dirt. I remember feeling detached, resigned maybe. I was dead, but I was still here somehow, and I could do nothing to alter either of those two facts. I thought it might have been some kind of scheduling error – they’d overbooked the afterlife and I had to wait around a little until there was an appointment free, something like that.

I saw the police sirens but my ears rang with post-death tinnitus. Police and journalists buzzed around me, managing always to avoid me as though life and death were two opposite ends of a magnet that could never meet, pushed apart by some force I might have understood if I’d listened in science class instead of writing poetry. It didn’t matter now anyway, unless science could explain why my presence lingered on while my body decayed on the side of a road.

It turned out that it wasn’t science who could explain it, but the feral tabby cat that visited my house sometimes when I was younger.

“Rough day, huh?” said a voice. “I always found that my corporeal form was so… Restricting.”

I looked down, and somehow it was the talking cat that made me question whether or not this was all a nightmare, rather than the fact that I was looking at my own corpse just moments prior.

“Jellybean?” The word left my mouth of its own accord, and I stared dumbly at the creature, which returned my bemused gaze with similar fervour.

“Excuse me?” It hadn’t been expecting that. Neither had I. “Oh. The form?” It asked, glancing down at its body. “Alright. A cat. That’s not too bad. That is to say, I’ve had worse.” Jellybean flashed me a row of pearly white feline teeth in a conspiratorial sort of way, which I pointedly ignored in favour of looking back at the wreck. But when I turned my head from the white-and-orange tabby cat, we were no longer on the road side. Instead, we were standing on top of a hill, looking down at the sprawling city from above as the fog rolled over the Golden Gate Bridge like grey waves, and the tourists hurried around like ants on the harbour front. The flashing ambulance lights were replaced by stillness. It was silent except for birdsong and the distant blare of a car horn. It felt like I was floating. I remember wondering: is this how gods feel?

“What kind of name is Jellybean anyway?” asked the Jellybean-bodied creature.

“I was seven,” I answered automatically. “Am I dead?”

“You sure are, kid.”

I nodded then. I felt relieved. “Alright. What now?”

“That’s your call. I’m just here to guide you.”

“So you’re a guide?”

“I guess so.”

“You here to take me to heaven?”

“Not really.”

“You here to take me anywhere?”

“Sort of.”

“You’re not a very helpful guide,” I said, frowning.

“I don’t get paid enough for that.”

I looked down at it, but it wasn’t looking at me anymore, so I seated myself on the wet grass, noting that the water still seeped through my clothes, then stretched out onto my back and stared up at the sky. Death was freeing. I realised that I didn’t have anywhere to be, or any bills to pay, or any more mistakes to make. I began to smile, and then I began to laugh, and then I began to cry. But I couldn’t finish any of my emotions, so I dug the heels of my hands into my eyes as hard as I could, feeling as though I were going to implode at any moment. I don’t know how long I stayed like that, screaming silently at nobody and nothing. It could have been centuries, but when I removed them we were somewhere else again, and a light rain hit my face and obscured the tears that might have formed.

“Where are we?” I asked, but I already knew. Some events have a film-like quality to them that are easy to tell apart from the regular, every day events that fill in the gaps between the truly important scenes.

This was one of them.

It was dawn. The morning was silent and still, as mornings often are. Outside, it rained. Inside, it didn’t, but it might as well have. The kitchen light was still on – the last remnant of the night before, casting a fluorescent glow over our flushed, heated skin. We were both bathed in realisations, keeping us silent because there was too much to say. I lay in the bed, lit half by the fluorescent light that poured from the adjacent room, and half from the bruise-coloured sunrise.

A lot of things scared me that morning. I knew then that I was, and would never be again, one person. I knew I would carry a part of him with me at all times, location and mortality set firmly aside. I also knew that love was no longer a distant, intangible object that eluded me, no longer a story that my mother told me. It was bright, and real, and it settled on my chest with disturbing ease. And from it, terror sprouted in three directions.

The first direction was the fear of unrequited love.

The second was the fear that now I had loved, it stood to reason that I would also lose.

The last fear was mingled with shame. Not at the act. Not at him. Just at myself. I was ashamed to be so cowardly, to have tasted something beautiful and to already be closing my heart to it. I loved him, and I hated myself, and I didn’t think I could reconcile those two emotions. I suppose I was also afraid of him loving me back, and what that would mean.

I watched, an outsider looking in, as I untangled myself from him, exited the apartment, and drove away in my car.

“It’s my fault he died,” I said suddenly, although I had realised it a long time ago. I guess I’d hoped that the cat beside me would correct me, but it didn’t. “Why are you showing me this?” I demanded, suddenly irate that I was being made to relive my bad decisions so soon after I’d died. “Aren’t you supposed to be showing me the best parts? Like, my greatest hits, that kind of thing?”

It turned to look at me with curious emerald eyes, a peculiar expression on its face. “I’ve seen your life, kid – start to finish. I don’t know what best parts you’re talking about, but this is the closest you came.” Its words should have deflated me, but I knew what was coming next, so instead my temper only rose.

“Who the hell are you anyway? You don’t know me! You don’t know anything about me!” I was peripherally aware that I was yelling at a cat in the pouring rain, but once you die, those sorts of things don’t bother you as much as they once might have.

“Sure I do,” it said agreeably, turning away from me to peer into the window again. “Anyway, this is the main event. This is what I’m supposed to show you.”

Three men arrived as if on cue, dressed all in black like pallbearers with guns hidden in their jackets. I turned to the window again, drinking in the sight of him asleep and trying to commit it to memory. It didn’t matter. Soon I would be nothing, with no memories, and no regrets, but my presence was hanging by a thread and I wanted him to the be the last thing that I saw.

The men knocked on the door, and he made a noise in his sleep which could have been my name. They knocked again, impatient, and my heart ached with pre-emptive loneliness. After this, nothing felt whole again, not even myself. I threw myself at the world, a self-destructive semi-person that didn’t care what happened to me. He rose this time, looking confused, and then hurt at the absence my warmth left in the bed, but death’s persistent knocking drove him from his bed and to the door, answering it half-dressed and half asleep. That’s when I started to cry, seeing him so vulnerable and unassuming. I drew my palm across my mouth to stifle the sobs, though I knew it didn’t matter. I knew they couldn’t hear me.

“Can I help you?” he asked, looking them up and down, the seriousness of their manifestation dawning on him.

“Is there a Mr. Jones here?” one of them asked.

“Uh. Thomas? No he—he just left, I…” He swallowed thickly, noticing the way their fingers hovered around the lapel of their jackets.

“Did he?” another replied flatly.

“Thomas?” the first one questioned. “That’s not him. Boss said it’s Michael. Michael Jones – you know him?”

He paused. I’d mentioned my father only once to him, but it was clear that he recalled the name. “No,” he said, sounding unsure. “I don’t. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“My father,” I said. “They were looking for my father.” I couldn’t tear my eyes from the scene, but Jellybean made a ‘hmm’ of agreement. “I don’t need to watch the rest of it.” I didn’t move though, and neither did the cat. Instead, I began to cry even harder.

One of the men laughed, drew his gun, and shot the only person I’d ever loved. He died almost instantly. I saw the life drain from his eyes. I saw the blood begin to leave his body, and then I turned away. “Is this the end?” I said, pleading.

“Yes,” it said. And then: “It’s also the beginning.”

I wanted to say “he used to say that” but I knew if I started to speak I would sob instead, and never stop sobbing. I wanted to say “they weren’t looking for me” but the way the creature looked at me suggested that it knew I had come to the realisation that it wasn’t my fault, that it wasn’t the mistakes in my past that had killed him.

“Nice meeting you, kid,” said the creature.

Then everything fell away.

Darkness surrounded me, shrouded my surroundings and myself. I was not even sure that I existed any longer, until a familiar, comforting light appeared before me. I could not describe it even if I tried. It was simply comfort. From the light stepped a familiar figure, his features obscured at first but growing clearer and more focused as the light grew: his hair, messy and wild; his freckles, a constellation on his skin; his eyes, filled with kindness and empathy, and his smile, crooked and perfect.

My heart overflowed.

Then he held out his hand, and I took it.

[ripplestitchskein]

Light of All Lights - A Fairy Tale in Five Parts (2/5)

Notes: As always i want to first thank @caprelloidea​ for dealing with my tendency to be a needy mess, and offering truly amazing insight and suggestions. I love you a lot. Incredible banner by @thesschesthair

The response to this fic has blown me away and I love and appreciate every one of you for loving it as much as I do. This fandom truly is amazing. 

Summary: When his ship crashes onto a secluded island after a storm Killian “Deckhand Hook” Jones finds himself the unlikely companion to the dark “goddess” who inhabits it. A fairy tale in three parts.

Rating: Explicit for very obvious reasons. Some mild violence. Angst.

Word Count: 17K+

Part One Here

ON AO3

_____

 The hardest part of the day was the dawn. The sun cresting the edge of the water, a small glow growing brighter on the horizon, the colors of a new morning filling the sky. She watched every daybreak, her own private penance, the darkness hissing and clawing the entire time. It loathed this indulgence. It dealt in death and pain, not the hope of a new day dawning. It was a quiet rebellion watching the sun rise, the world coming to life.

 When she was younger, before the darkness, she had missed almost every one. Her family had teased her endlessly over her love of sleep, the difficulty that came from trying to wake her, her sneaking away for afternoon naps when she should be minding her lessons. When Aunt Aurora visited it was even worse, teasing jokes and spindles left by her breakfast plate. Her brother playing Prince Charming, tiny lips pressed to her forehead. Now she rarely slept, she didn't need to, going years without it, the accompanying nightmares making it a distasteful thing, if she had any fear left in her it was reserved for sleep.

 “Oh,” the whispered breath by her side startled her out of the memories. For such a clumsy man he was remarkably good at sneaking up on people. She supposed it was a consequence of trying to go unnoticed, a measure of protection. She had been alone for so long she’d forgotten to expect people, it was so rare to be sought for company alone, and even then she had never had anything to fear, not from anyone else at least. He had succeeded again in surprising her, but she was at least more prepared this time, her awareness of him stilling her arm before her mind caught up that he was there.

 “Don't you sleep?” She was a bit more harsh than she intended, gripping her arms to hug herself, keep herself contained. “I seem to remember people needing sleep.”

 “I did a bit,” he rubbed the back of his head, not at all put out by her tone. She imagined he had heard worse, and the sorry feeling returned, a faint twisting in her chest.

 “Habit I suppose,” he gestured out to the sunrise, looked out of the huge windows of the conservatory, the entire wall and roof nothing but clear glass filled with orange and pink light.

 “Oh! I can...go?” He seemed to realize he might be intruding, his feet already backing away before she could answer, his head bowing in apology, but slowly, measured, as if he hoped she’d call him back.

 “No.” This too came out harsh and forceful, lifetimes of coldness weren’t banished in a day after all, and he froze immediately. Emma sighed, willing herself to relax. “It’s fine. I've seen a hundred thousand.”

 He reeled a bit at that information, blinking away the truth of her long life, mouth gaping, doing the math. It made her uncomfortable, and she itched to know how he felt about the unyielding and cruel facts of her long lived and immortal life.

 “Good thing they’re all different then,” he said after a moment, smiling cheerfully. It dimmed a bit at her face, impassive and neutral, watching the pale pink light play over him. He continued on in a rush. “I mean, the colors are different every day. And sometimes there's birds.”

 “Sometimes there's birds,” Emma repeated slowly.

 He flushed, his eyes squeezing briefly closed in embarrassment. He rubbed at the back of head, the hair there sticking up in sharp little tufts, already matted by his pillow. He was endearingly sleep rumpled. If she wasn't there she was quite sure he would have smacked himself in the face. She gave him a small wry smile to let him know she was teasing. He only flushed deeper and turned to more fully face the glass. The smile grew.

 “May I-may I go down to the beach later? To see the wreckage..of my ship?” He seemed reluctant to ask her, nervous, as if she would refuse him. He didn't look at her as he asked, watching the sunrise. The smile dropped.

 “I said you could go where you wanted. Did you not believe me?” She was angrier than she would have liked, rubbed raw from memory, all these new or rather, old, emotions, her words coming out biting and hard. She didn't expect him to necessarily trust her, their time together had been so brief, a day and a night, though it felt like longer, and she had killed an acquaintance of his, but she also thought she was very clear, he was no prisoner, she couldn't do that to him. He had been a prisoner for too long already. The darkness licked its lips. Her eyes flashed, nails digging into her arms.

 “No I-,” he looked at her wide eyed and just as quickly turned away embarrassed. “I wondered if...you might, if you aren't busy, I don't know what you do during the day, I'm sure it's probably quite important, but if you wanted to-” he was babbling, his eyes widening like he knew that, but couldn't stop himself.

 “Killian,” Emma said firmly, bringing him up short. He nodded gratefully at the interruption, lashes fluttering, and took a deep breath.

 “I thought maybe you could accompany me?” It came out in a rush, and it was only a row of lush green plants, set in their wooden beds behind him that kept him from skittering away from his own question, as if he wanted to be physically as far from it as possible once it was out in the world. He reached back to keep from falling over, his hand sinking into black soil. Emma had to turn her head to keep from laughing, her ire gone in an instant as he shook the dirt away.

 The darkness laid back down, resentful.

 “Sure,” she said amused. “After breakfast we can go down, and I need to see to my... guests.”

 “Guests?” He looked up confused, then seemed to realize she meant the prisoners, his hopefully former ship mates. Killian looked a bit uneasy at their mention, whether because of the thought of the crew themselves or what she had in mind for them, Emma didn't know. She watched him struggle for a minute, “What are-” he cut himself off immediately, reading her face. She finished the question mentally, receiving her own answer in turn to what truly bothered him. Her chest filled with ice.

 “I'm going to feed them,” some of the elation she had felt at his awkward request to join him on the beach dimmed, replaced by sharp annoyance. “I'm not a total monster.” She was, but he didn't know that. Shouldn't know that. Would never know that.

 “No-I didn't-” he shook his head.

 Looking at him, unable to speak, from his own inherent nervousness or something else, she felt the darkness lift its head, smelling opportunity, slithering around her heart, settling into that cold and hollow space. It was too much, her memories, his sudden presence, his unyielding timid fear of her. He’d said he wasn’t scared of her, that he didn't fear her, yet here he was, practically trembling from a look.

 He thinks you’ll kill them, the darkness whispered, cruel but honest. Now, why would he want them alive? They hurt him, made him like this. Who could forgive such a thing?

 Emma closed her eyes, the sun too bright, Killian’s face too open and apologetic.

 What’s he playing at? What does he need them for? They always have a plan, dearie. You know that. You have to be ready for it.

 Her fist clenched at her side, nails digging into flesh, lifetimes of betrayal played across her mind. Hadn't she been weak before, hadn't she trusted before?

 The glass rattled in its panes and she heard Hook breathe in next to her, quick and distressed.

 She had vowed never again, but then this man had washed up on her beach, beautiful and broken, like a gift from the sea.

 The rows and rows of lush green plants behind them tremored and shook, leaves trembling as rage boiled up, the crackle and hiss of magic filling the air.

 The darkness laughed.

 He was supposed to be different, he seemed so new, but he could be exactly the same. Wasn't that the purest truth of all humanity? They were all, every one of them, exactly the same.

 A ceramic pot vibrated off a shelf, shattered and broke on the floor, the tinkling melody of destruction, the same as the song in her soul, and it snapped her eyes open.

 Hook looked as if he had been struck, wide eyed and fearful, still glowing orange and pink in the sunlight. The fright in his face, those wide blue eyes, only made the anger grow. Maybe he should know she was a monster. He swallowed, reaching out his hand.

 “Emma, I’m-”

 She didn't feel like waiting for his mouth to catch up, didn't know what she would do if she did, hated that he knew her name, so she just turned from the view of the sunrise, the sun now a golden orb over the water, and walked from the room.

 _____

 Less than a day and already he had offended her. It wasn't near a record though, he could sometimes manage the feat in a single sentence, but this one was worse. He truly hadn't meant to hurt her, or anger her, whichever he had done, they were inextricably linked, one and the same. He felt like he was walking in a room filled with precious breakable glass, unsure of where it was safe to step, crashing into entire shelves and toppling them whole.

 He trailed after her, not because it was necessarily the safest thing to do, her steps pounding and angry on the stone, but because he was at a loss as to what he should do. She didn't look at him as they entered the dining room, waving an arm to fill the table with the day’s fare with a short jerk. It amazed him, all this bounty with barely a thought, that she could move the very foundations of the earth while remaining perfectly still, that she had seen more sunrises than some lands had people. It was thrilling and terrifying, the scale and enormity of her, so much contained in one slight woman.

 Killian barely hesitated, his movements automatic, grabbing the tray and the plate before she could move towards them.

 “You don't have to serve me,” she snapped, moving to grab them.

 “Please,” he clutched the metal tray closer to him, awkward in his arms, as if he could possibly stop her if she truly wished to have them. His heart stuttered, he didn't mean it as defiance, quite the opposite, but this was still new, fragile and breakable, and she might not recognize the difference. His life would be so much easier if he could express himself in pure intent and desire rather than words and gestures.

 Thankfully, she did stop, her cool gaze running over his face. Killian had never met a member of royalty, but he imagined they looked a lot like this, straight backed and imposing, physically overwhelming despite her smaller stature.

 “You aren't my servant, I can take care of myself,” he couldn't help but flinch a little at her tone, imperious and regal, cold as ice, freezing in his veins, his grip automatically loosening to obey her.

 “I know, but this is-” he sighed, agitated, trying to find the right word. “This is familiar.”

 He didn't realize how true it was until he spoke it aloud. He wasn't used to any of this. He had awoken this morning alone, in a strange bed, sinking into luxury, with no purpose for the day, no Captain to serve, no duties assigned. He had spent every moment of every day of his bloody life it felt like accomplishing the tasks of others. He didn't have any of his own. Even their brief journeys ashore, what should be his leave, had him fetching drinks and finding the crew willing whores, dragging drunken men home on his back. Other than the rare moment he stole to read a pilfered book, buy a lonely bath instead of company, or look at the stars just because no one could stop him, he’d never had something of his own to do. Going down to the beach to comb the wreckage was the first thought he’d had, an attempt to see what of his old life was salvageable, a physical reminder that this was real, that things had changed.

 He wasn't sorry exactly, he didn't miss it certainly, the novelty of freedom was still burning brightly in his chest, potentially hanging somewhere in a nebulous future, but his fingers were itching, his brain a jumble. He was untethered and anchorless here. He needed something of a purpose, a course to chart as it were. Even if it was something as silly as serving a meal.

 Emma’s face softened fractionally, a blink and you missed it relaxation near her eyes. They still burned bright and cold into his, and he imagined she could probably see into his very soul. Was that a power she possessed? He feared what she would find there, possibly unworthy to the very core, worthless and dispensable to the basest parts of his being.

 She didn't speak, just nodded once, and went to her place at the table.

 Her nods this morning were more curt, her body rigid, as he moved over the fare. He wanted to apologize, to correct her misinterpretation. He didn't think her a monster, on the contrary she was the kind of woman who could keep the monsters at bay. She was strong and powerful, self assured and confident, an avenging angel, punishing the unworthy, freeing the downtrodden, giving a worthless wretch a chance.

 Hook could tell her none of this though, the words would come out wrong, he knew this. He had destroyed enough this morning, the sun barely in the sky before he laid waste to what they had built with his useless mouth. So he crafted his apology with the fruits he knew she liked, arranging them as prettily as he was able with poor balance and one hand, a flower plucked from a vase on the table laid next to the silver metal plate, an apology in pink petals.

 If Emma noticed the extra flair she didn't comment, just nodded her thanks and gave a pointed look at his own plate, making sure he knew he could eat as well. It still felt strange, not only dining with another instead of ducking the snatching hands of his crew, shoving food into his mouth in shadowy corners where it couldn't be stolen, but with a beautiful woman, an overwhelming variety and abundance within his reach. He took the plate and walked the length of the table, back and forth, eyeing her in his periphery, hoping she would hear his silent plea.

 “Eggs, some of the bacon, kippers, and…” Emma seemed to think a moment, looking down at her own plate. “Strawberries.”

 She wasn't smiling but he could almost hear it in her throaty voice if he listened hard enough. He had spent a fair bit of time arranging the strawberries. He bit down on his lip to keep the delighted grin from splitting his face, looking down so she wouldn't see. He wasn't some besotted schoolboy, he could at least attempt some manly dignity. Still, there was a boyish spring in his step as he piled her selections on his plate, heart a bit lighter. She had noticed.

 They ate in silence, slightly uncomfortable, the weight of his careless words hanging over every bite, every stolen glance, almost all of them his. Emma was staring at nothing, her face an unreadable mask. Some of his delight ebbed, the memory of shattered ceramic, soil spilling over the floor, it still wasn't right, he had still made a mess of things.

 ���I could-,” his voice rang out in the dining room, much too loud,  and he winced, lowering it. “I could feed them.” It seemed like something he should do, a task he should fulfill. Slinging slop to a band of dirty pirates seemed beneath her, even if it would just be a blink or a wave of her hand.

 Emma did look at him then, guarded and suspicious. He wanted to crawl away, as he had suspected, he was only making this worse.

 “Why?”

 “It just seems like something I should do. As your...Companion?” He hated the hopeful lilt on the last word, hated how desperate he probably seemed to her.

 “Afraid I'll skin them alive? Rip the flesh from their bones? Eat their still beating hearts for dessert?” This was all delivered with a deadly false cheer, but even in that silken smoke he could hear the faint edge of hurt.

 “No!” His knee banged the table, his movements ungainly, unsure of what he was even trying to do. Get up, go to her, make her read the words on his face again. He didn't know. He settled back in the chair embarrassed and frustrated.

 “No.” He repeated, not nearly as firmly as he intended, more a whispered plea than anything. It was hard to be forceful when she was looking at him with those eyes.

 The silence stretched between them, and it made his heart thud against his ribs, his mouth opening and closing uselessly.

 “Fine.” She picked up her fork again. “You can handle them.”

 “Thank you,” it came out automatically, the one thing always uninhibited by his useless tongue. Her fork paused halfway to her mouth, and she relaxed a bit at the edge of his vision.

 When he cleared her plate later, the flower was gone.

 _____

 In theory feeding a dozen men seemed easy. He had done it many times, but that was in the small ship’s galley, the food readily at hand. Emma had provided him a cauldron of stew, hearty and hot, and more than they probably deserved. They had called her a whore after all, and worse.

 She had looked at him though, hesitating before she created it out of thin air, that back and forth battle in her eyes before she waved her hand. A cauldron of stew and dry stale bread, a King’s feast in comparison to some of the rancid slop he had gagged down in the brig. Definitely more than they deserved.

 He lugged the cauldron down the twisting flight of stairs, his muscles straining, then went back for the stack of wooden bowls and spoons, one for each. He could hear them spitting and grumbling even on the landing, a few sharp rings of metal as the determined continued to beat the bars.

 His heart didn't start up until the labor was done, standing at the threshold of the sand colored stone. These men hated him, would kill him if they had half a chance. He had abandoned them, left them with barely a glance backwards, had slept between silken sheets, been entertained by a beautiful woman, had washed her naked skin, the memory of her scent still filling his head. They would slit his throat for just the first.

 He knew these men though, had endured their taunts and abuse for years. They had taken more from him than any men rightfully should, and it was with this thought, emboldened by his change of fortune, that helped him step into the corridor. He felt their eyes on him as he dragged the cauldron, could feel their sneers as he went back for the bowls, hatred hot on his back.

 “If it isn't the traitorous swine,” snarled Evans. He came up to the bars, at least half a head taller than Hook, and twice as thick. He’d lost an eye in a bar fight years back, and unlike some, felt the twisted scar and curling empty socket was much more intimidating than the patch. Hook tended to agree.

 His hand was trembling as he arranged the bowls, ladling a healthy portion of stew into each one, ripping off equal hanks of bread. Slowly behind him, one by one, the men all came to the openings of their cells like wolves scenting blood, circling fresh prey. He heard the dull ping of wood on metal, someone's billy club, and the hissing rasp of swords drawn from leather sheaths. He had forgotten that they could do more than beat the bars with the weapons they still possessed. He gulped.

 “Is her quim all silvery too?” Jasper asked, practically licking the hinge of the door. He made a jerking motion with his hips, tiny monkey like face twisted in a sneer.

 “Bah, like ‘e got anywhere nears ‘er quim,” Starkey grunted a laugh.

 Hook clenched the ladle, steadying his breath, deep gulps of air, in and out. His hand was trembling, with terror, revulsion, the thin and weak thread of anger that came whenever they spoke, winding through it all making his chest tight.

 “You know what we do to traitors, Hook,” came an eerie voice, snake slick and grating, punctuated by the metal of a knife on iron bars. “What we’re going to do to you.”

 “Let us out,” came another, punctuated by a loud bang. Hook jumped at the noise, slopping liquid into the floor, dark against the cream colored stone. It looked like blood.

 “If ‘e knows what's good for ‘im,” Starkey stared him down with cold brown eyes, his teeth yellow and snarling under an unkempt beard. “Then let me at the bitch. I’ll slit ‘er throat from ear to ear.”

 “Don’t,” it was not nearly as threatening as Hook intended it, a shaking, trembling plea.

 “Don’t wha’?” Starkey challenged, pressing against the bars, shifting on his feet.

 “Don’t-” Hook took a breath. “-don’t talk about her.”

 That predictably set them off, a chorus of whoops and high pitched hollers echoing off the walls. Hook closed his eyes, jaw clenched, his chest heaving.

 “You ‘heard ‘im,” Starkey’s voice rose in pitch, “Don’t talk about ‘er!”

 “I think he’s in love,” Evans crowed. “Is all of her that cold Hook? Like ice on your cock I bet.”

 “Like he would even know what to do with his cock if she gave him the chance.”

 It didn't matter. None of this mattered. It was the same things they always said. It was no different. A bare chested woman shoved in his lap, apologies tumbling out against his will, men circling, taunting, grabbing his head to forcefully shove it between hot flesh until he couldn't breathe. Women sneering down at him asking him what was wrong with his cock, what was wrong with him, the scents of sweat and sex and foul unclean breath mixing into a fetid haze with the stench of alcohol and the unwashed.  

 It was different though, she wasn’t some disinterested prostitute in a run down whore house, she was practically a goddess, even if she denied it. She had given him his freedom, her skin was scented with roses and sweet smoke, she looked at him like she wanted him. Emma had given him more in one night than anyone had given him in his entire life: deliverance from heartlessly cruel men who took and took and took.

 He kicked a bowl of stew towards the bars of Evans’ cell, the tiny bit of bread tumbling into the dust. He almost didn't feel his leg move, happening so quick he couldn't pull it back. The twisted smile fell from the man’s face and Hook’s heart froze in his chest.

 “I will kill you,” Evans said, his voice deadly serious. Hook swallowed.

 “You can’t hide behind her skirts forever,” Jasper added with a giggle, jittering in place.

 “Please,” Hook said finally. He couldn't have calmed the tremor in his voice if he tried. His whole body was shaking, anger and frustration, fear and dread, a slavering cowardly mess of emotion, trembling before them. He hated himself for pleading.  “I'm just trying to feed you.”

 “So feed us,” Starkey said, all good humor now.

 “Your weapons,” Hook motioned with his hook, the light bouncing off it as it wavered. “Put them at the back of the cell.”

 Starkey tossed his club behind him, hands going up in supplication, his grin wide.

 “There see?” the man said. Hook nodded, murmured a quick thank you, and picked up a bowl, tentatively walking towards him.

 “No weapons gents,” Starkey said cheerfully to the crew. He was in charge now. There was the clatter and bang of several men following suit. Evans however continued to glare at him, knife glinting in the torch light, and Hook edged away.

 He reached out, offering the bowl, the bread balanced precariously on the top. Starkey smiled that yellow and black toothed grin.

 His hand snapped out cobra quick, grabbing the front of Hook’s shirt, and yanked him painfully into the bars. His hook banged against the metal, the bowl clattering to the ground spraying hot liquid as his hand went up to grasp the man’s own. But Starkey’s grip was iron, and Hook could barely dig his nails into the hard calloused flesh.

 “See, I don't need no weapon to kill you, Hook,” the man snarled in his face, spittle spraying across his cheeks, sneering the name. Starkey’s other hand came up, out of the bars towards Hook’s neck.

 Killian couldn't even cry out it happened so fast, pulling back as hard as he could, nothing more than a muted whimper coming out, but the man held fast. Killian raised his hook, intending to strike, to try, but Jasper reached out through the bars of the adjoining cell, grabbing the metal easy as you please, jerking his arm painfully to the side. Starkey yanked, iron pressing painfully into Hook’s chest as the man pulled him tighter against the door.

 “I'm going to kill you, and then when I get out of here I'll see that bitch on ‘er back, and then,” Starkey’s harsh whispered threat ghosted foul breath across Hook’s face, the man’s other hand snaking up to grab his neck. “-then I'll do the same to ‘er.”

 Starkey squeezed.

 “Will you?”

 The gnarled hands released him before he could blink, a golden light pulsing and strong illuminating his captor, edging him in frosted gold, throwing the huge man backwards. Starkey hit the stone wall with a sickening crack, bones no doubt shattering and snapping, and he fell to an unconscious heap on the floor of the cell. Jasper flung the hook away like it burned, and scrambled back into the shadows of his own cell in terror. Evans lowered his knife.

 Hook gasped, sucking in air, bracing himself on the bars. His legs were shaking, knees buckling, his hook vibrating against the iron as he collected himself. He snatched it away at the noise, hugging it his chest.

 “I'm sorry,” he panted out finally. “I thought I could.” Thought he could what exactly? He wasn't sure what he’d thought he could do. Face them? Confront them? Make himself of use to her? Regardless, he had failed utterly. He rubbed at his throat.

 He turned to look at her. Emma tilted her head at him curiously, her face that smooth placid calm, but her eyes were brilliant shining emerald. A storm of rage swirled in their depths, thin dark brows narrowed with deadly intent. With a wave of her hand the spilled stew, the bowls and wooden spoons disappeared. In their place was a single flagon made of dark gray metal.

 “These cells-” Emma addressed the men, all of them now uneasy and fearful, watching her carefully, no longer wolves but frightened dogs. It sent a tiny dark thrill through him to see them cower for once.

 She ran her nails down the door of Starkey’s cell, slowly circling the metal plate of the catch, “-have no locks. I'm sure an industrious crew of pirates like yourselves noticed they had nothing to pick, and thus, no way out.” Her smile was all teeth as she addressed them all.

 “But I have let you keep your weapons.” She frowned in mock, pouting, confusion.

 “I wonder why that would be?” she tapped one nail tipped in black against the crimson of her mouth. Hook licked his lips, following the movement, anticipation settling between his shoulders.

 Her hand rose up and she snapped her fingers, the crack impossibly loud in the still silence of the dungeon, all of them holding their breath. In one wisp of gray white smoke the walls dividing the cells disappeared, one huge communal chamber taking their place. Hook watched the men regard each other suspiciously, hands on swords, fingers gripping wooden clubs and small deadly daggers, unsure of the game unfolding.

 “I have water here for you,” Emma said with a cheerful singing coldness. She motioned to the small flagon dead center of the chamber on the corridor floor, within reach if one were clever.

 “Enough for one man for a day or so, maybe two... if you share.” She was practically purring now, her teeth unnaturally sharp in the flickering torchlight. “Promise me you’ll share?”

 And then she walked away, a brief look over her shoulder at Hook letting him know he should follow. He did, hurrying after her, and he did not look back.

_____

 The darkness was unsatisfied. It swirled and scratched against her mind, wrapping itself around her shoulders, settling heavy on her chest. Games were fun, but they were never enough, not nearly enough. It wanted marrow and blood, flesh and muscle. Retribution.

 In time, she told it. Soon, she soothed.

 She had no intention of letting them get away with this. Killian’s face pained and frightened, fingers around his neck, held down and helpless, flashed across her mind.

 Soon.

 “Pardon?” Hook asked from her side, his voice breaking through the churning shadowy fog. She had spoken aloud.

 “Are you alright?” she replied instead. She stopped walking. He looked okay, his neck reddened and scratched, his chest flushed. She wondered what he was thinking. The words on his face were all rapidly fading fear and stark relief, which helped a bit.

 “Oh,” he looked down at himself as if he wasn't sure. “Aye, I’m-,” Killian whispered the next, “-more embarrassed than anything truly.”

 Emma raised an eyebrow. He had nothing to be embarrassed about. It was her oversight. She had left those men with their weapons, she didn't have cause to fear them after all, they couldn't hurt her with them, it made them feel powerful and strong until they realized how useless they really were. But Killian was made of fragile flesh, soft and so very mortal. She had made a mistake, allowed her suspicions that he could be colluding with them to get the better of her, and as consequence he had glimpsed a small part of what she could do, what she was capable of. Emma stepped closer.

 Killian’s eyes went wide, his brows lifting in surprise as he backed into the wall, his hand and hook moving nervously at his side. She reached out, running the tips of her fingers along the cords of his neck, tracing the red marks with a whispered caress. His eyes slid closed and she felt him swallow against her. She kept moving, gliding them down like trickling water, smoothing across the pronounced bone of his collar, dipping briefly into the fascinating hollow there, to the bright crimson streaks on his chest, bare and exposed by his shirt. He was so warm, so alive, every breath rising against her hand, she imagined she could feel the pounding of his heart through her fingertips.

 “Does it hurt?” she whispered, tracing the angry lines where his skin had pressed against iron. It could bruise, and they would pay for every shade of purple, every tone of blue. She wondered if the tautness of his muscles, the fluttering in his jaw was fear, of her, of what she was, what she had shown him in the dungeon below, or just of her, a woman touching a man.

 “Not anymore,” his breath was ragged, his eyes tightly closed, the lashes pressed against his cheeks, so long, thick black against golden tan. Emma arched up, onto the toes of her boots, and feather light ghosted her lips across the firm flesh of his neck. He jerked beneath her, surprised, his eyes flying open, brilliant blue. She saw the answer in them, no fear there just plain and honest lust.

 Emma stepped back with a small secret smile.

 “Do you want to go down to the beach?” she asked breezily. He could only nod, mouth open in reverent awe, his hands brushing where her lips had touched.

 The darkness snarled and retreated.

_____

 She had changed into a long black dress, smooth silk, the sleeves open and short, her pale arms bare and white in the late morning sun. It fluttered in the breeze off the water, teasing glimpses of curves as it pulled against her skin, flaring out as the wind receded. He liked it very much.

 But all he could manage, all that unspoken poetry filling his head, and all that came out was a simple and ineffectual. “You look-.”

 She just smiled that small secret smile, reminding him of lips on skin, her feet bare in the sand, perfect little toes painted crimson to match her mouth. That mouth fascinated him. He wondered how the delicate arch of her feet would fit into the curve of his hand. He shook his head.

 The castle rose high and sprawling on rocky cliffs above them, the smooth white sand of the beach dotted by intruding bits of debris. Wood and sail, rope and half dried piles of clothing, empty crates and broken casks brought in by the tide. The refuse of their broken vessel littered the picturesque landscape like a pox, and he was suddenly very sorry. They were intruders here.

 There was a small tan shell in the sand next to the remains of a broken chair, whole and perfect, and he picked it up, tossing it lightly in his hand before slipping it into a pocket.

 As they came around the bend, he saw the ship, half of her gone, the rest laying dead and discarded in pieces all along the beach. He felt his heart clench. He had no love for her occupants, his time aboard her had been the worst of his life, but the ship had always been a thing of beauty, now open and bleeding wreckage onto the sand. When he had first seen her, trailing awkwardly after Blackbeard to his new home, she had seemed to hold a world of possibilities. Surely a ship so bright, sunshine yellow and royal blue, held nothing but good in her depths? How very wrong he had been.

 There was another shell in the sand just before the battered prow, a scotch bonnet, white tipped in swirling blue, pink and pearl perfect on the inside. He scooped it up to join the other.

 “Do you want to search the ship?” Emma asked. She was watching his face, white tendrils of hair brushing her cheeks in the breeze.

 It didn't look safe to do so, the wood creaking as the waves lapped, the vessel rocking precariously on the sand bar, but reading his mind she held her hand out. The ship moved with loud scrapes against the sand further up the bank, groaning with every inch, water receding in a rush, a huge open wound in her side revealing the contents within.

 They approached the ship together.

 The Jolly’s insides were pitch black, haunting even in the daylight, a ghost ship now, all skeletal remains. Next to him Emma made a soft blue orb in her palm, gentle light filling the rooms. He smiled at her gratefully.

 “This is where you slept?” Emma toed a bit of coiled rope on the tilted floor of the crew quarters. It had fallen from its peg.

 He pointed to the corner.

 “That one, I shared with Carlsdale, I don't think he made it,” he couldn't remember seeing the tiny angry man among the crew in the dungeon. He would have been on deck when the ship struck, he was on the night watch. Carlsdale had once dumped a bucket of rotting fish guts onto the deck under Hook’s face as he’d scrubbed away the grime, kicking the stiff bristle brush in his hand, sending it spinning, so it landed in the slop.

 “You missed a spot,” were the last words Hook could remember him saying. He wouldn't miss him much.

 “Is there anything left-” Emma wrinkled her nose in distaste at a pile of mouldy clothes. It was so at odds with her normally cold expression it made him grin. “- of yours? What?” She stopped her question.

 “Nothing,” he ducked his head, still smiling, and went out into the hall, bracing himself against the wall to keep himself upright. She followed after, taking it all in.

 “It’s very small,” she commented.

 “It's worse when everyone’s on board,” he agreed, testing the hatch that led to the brig below.

 “What are you doing?” She peered at him curiously, holding her glowing orb higher so he could see.

 “I think it's still here,” he let himself drop down the hatch into the hold, his boots hitting with a dull thud. It smelled of rot and sewer, familiar smells, thick green slime covering most of the surfaces. He looked up at her sharply, peering at him over the lip of the hatch.

 “Don’t-,” he blew out a breath. “Don’t come down here.” She narrowed her eyes, face cast blue by the light.

 “Why?”

 Because I don't want you to be tainted by this filth. He wanted to say. Because I don't want you to picture me here. Because this place is so far beneath you I can't imagine you in it. Because I cried on that rotting mattress and threw up spoilt food in that corner, pissed and shit in that bloody bucket for weeks on end, for dropping a plate, or burning the meat, or some other inconsequential crime. He swallowed the thoughts down.

 “It’s dirty,” he said finally. Emma huffed annoyed, but she just leaned in further to give him more light, and stayed above.

 “What are you doing down there?” she asked. Hook felt along the boards, till he found the one he needed, and with a sharp pound of his fist the wood sprang free.

 “I hid my things here,” he answered. The small metal foot locker was thankfully still there. He slid it out of its hiding space carefully, tucking it under his arm.

 “In the brig?” She peered over the hatch again, leaning in a bit further.

 “Aye,” he grunted as he grabbed the wooden rungs, hauling himself up, the pitch of the ship making it more difficult. It was a bit easier to breathe with each one, the room fading away as he climbed. Emma backed away, reaching down to help him with her free hand. She pulled him back up to the slanted hall as if he weighed nothing, looking at the box curiously.

 “Is that it?” she asked. He rattled it cheerfully.

 “All I want,” he motioned towards the light pouring in from the hole in the side. “We can go, if you like.”

 Emma scanned his face for a moment, brows furrowed, and nodded, leading the way out, back into the day.

 “I could fix her,” Emma said, almost reluctantly, the orb disappearing, her hand bunching the fabric at the front of her dress. “If you wanted. She’d be yours if you want to…” she didn't say “go” but he knew what came next.

 He looked at the sad remains of the beautiful vessel, outwardly lovely, one of the prettiest ships in all the realms, but inside she was ugly with memory. He shook his head.

 “No, leave it to rot,” by his foot he spied a tiny cockle, the edges chipped and sharp, and holding his box, all he had in the world, under his arm, he reached down to pick it up, shoving it into his pocket.

 “What are you doing?” Emma asked. She was studying him again. “Why do you keep picking those up?”

 He blushed.

 “For you, for your,” he waved his hook. “Circle things.”  He didn't know what they were for, but he’d seen the piles of shells and feathers on the table in her workroom, bits of them adorning the ones hanging from the rafters.

 Emma froze, the wind whipping her hair around her face, pale porcelain skin shining in the sun, statue still. She looked every bit the ethereal goddess he believed her to be. She just stared at him, until his skin prickled uncomfortably, the silence stretching. And then she moved, her feet sinking into the beach.

 The metal box fell forgotten into the sand as her hands cupped his face, warm despite the cold appearance of her skin, and she pressed her lips to his. His eyes widened in surprise, his arms waved a moment unsure of what to do before settling by his side. He was afraid to touch her. Emma moved perfect lips against his own, hot and soft, and his eyes slid closed.

 He had been kissed before, the young daughter of a dockworker, a cool dry mouth pressed against him behind a stack of shipping crates, startlingly fast before her father yanked her away, cuffing him about his dazed head. Bolder prostitutes believing they could kiss his shyness away, tongues too wet, lips chapped and cold, reminding him of fish and musky city air.

 This kiss was more of a first kiss than any of those, true and sweet and firm. She slanted her lips across his own, electric warmth curling down his spine, her tongue tracing the seams. He gasped in unchecked pleasure, and she took the opening, deepening the kiss, her fingers digging pleasantly into his cheeks. His knees were watery, threatening to buckle beneath him as a surge of pure unadulterated sensation filled him to the brim. He wasn't even sure if he was kissing her back, his mind blank with sudden lust and warmth, every stroke of her tongue sending frissons of unrecognizable energy into his limbs. A soft moan vibrated against him, rocked him back on his heels, his hand clutching suddenly at her thin waist to ground him.

 The world could burn around him, set ablaze by the Gods, and he would have absolutely no idea. Emma’s mouth hot and moving across his own, the press of her breasts against his chest, her skin warm through her thin dress on his hand, that was the only reality he knew. The world tasted of strawberries.

 Her teeth tugged briefly on his bottom lip as she pulled away, hands sliding down his neck, another jolt of sensation going straight to where he was hard and straining. Cold sea air washed over him as she hummed in low satisfaction, her eyes opening slowly with lazy desire.

 He wanted to grab for her, pull her back, the loss of her lips a truly terrible thing, as if some part of him had been stripped away, exposed and bare, revealed to the open air and sea. His arms lifted weakly, his body swaying towards her, but cowardice rocked him back.

 “That was-” he shook his head to clear it, brilliant buzzing white noise where thoughts should be.

 Emma smiled that small secret smile in the sunlight, motioning at his feet.

 “Don't forget your box,” and then she was making her way along the beach, back towards the looming castle above.

 Hook scrambled, his nerves on fire. It took him two tries to scoop the box back under his arm, his boots slipping along the sand, threatening to topple him, as he followed her awkwardly up.

 _____

 She had meant to wait to kiss him. He was still too skittish, too fearful, overwhelmed by the changes in his life so far, dazed and wide eyed, taking it all in. He clutched his box of treasures like a lifeline, trailing after her in fogged confusion. He looked as if she had ravished him on the beach instead of just putting her mouth to his own.

 She should have waited, but he looked so hopeful in the sunlight, those shells clinking in his pockets, the desire to please her on his face. Her skin buzzed with heat thinking of his breath gasping into her mouth, the slick warmth of his tongue. She licked her lips, pretending she could still taste him.

 He kissed like a flustered youth, like a stolen moment in an orchard under bright summer sun, unsure yet of how they fit together, where his hands should go. He was ungainly and awkward to be sure, but she knew that future ruin lay in those lips, destruction in that tongue. He could one day lay waste to her. He had no idea of his potential, the word heavy with new meaning, and that thrilled her more than any skilled mouth ever had or ever could.

 Just take him the darkness whispered impatiently.

 Killian flushed as he caught her dark gaze, darting a glance to her lips before forcing himself to look forward. She pushed the voice away, its metered hiss replaced by warm lips and a hand on her waist holding on for dear life.

 She could feel every part of her keenly. Her thighs squeezing tight, rubbing together as she led him through the castle, her nipples rasping against silk. She ran her tongue along her lips and tried to breathe. So much sensation from such a simple act, awkward and new, desire heating her from within. She could only imagine what he could do with time.

 She needed to get away, find some measure of release, or she would lose hold of her fragile patience, all her grand plans of a slow and methodical seduction. She would frighten him with her intensity, send him scurrying from the flames.

 “I'll find you later, find something to occupy yourself,” he stopped walking immediately, her tone rushed and snappish. She risked a glance at him again. That same lost look, drowning in possibility, and her stomach clenched in sympathy.

 Impatient, the darkness growled.

 “Go read a book, or tend the garden, I don't care which,” the voice that came out was barely her own, too lyrical, too fast and full of barely restrained giddy glee. Hook relaxed a bit in relief, but he titled his head to the side peering at her.

 “Are you-” he paused, unconsciously licking his lips. “-alright?”

 Her skin felt too small, her scalp prickling, she needed something to siphon off the excess of energy, dull the edge. One type of lust was much the same as any other, blood or body it made no difference. She was decidedly not alright. She nodded.

 “Fine, fine, off you go!” More lilting sing song nonsense, the voice her own but not the words, the cadence, the tone. Hook furrowed a brow, concerned, worry replacing heady lust, but he nodded.

 “If you need me,” he said softly, uncertainly. “I'll be here.”

 Emma couldn't look at him any longer, she would change her mind, her skin crawling, the darkness grinding its teeth in anticipation. She spun and made off for the dungeon without looking back, the urge to turn around, to go to him, rubbing her raw.

 _____

 Hook carefully picked shattered shards of ceramic out of dark soil, careful not to disturb the twisting bed of roots. He had briefly considered finding a book, losing himself in the words, but his mind was too busy, his limbs needing action, his nerves needing an open view of the sea.

 He wasn't entirely sure what had happened.

 He cradled the tiny plant in his hand, scooping it up with the back of his hook into his palm. He could probably still save it he reasoned, the green leaves were still bright and healthy, the roots intact. He didn't know much about plants, their care and keeping, but he liked them. He carried it to an empty space in one of the raised rows, his hook acting as a spade as he made it a new home amongst the rest.

 It was an easy solution: pick it up, dig a hole, set it to rights. Simple. Understandable. The rest of it he couldn't make sense of.

 Emma had not reacted as she should. Instead of angry confusion, that all too familiar look of disappointment, of betrayal, as if his mouth had made a promise he hadn't fulfilled, she had looked almost pleased. She looked as if she still wanted him, inexperience and all, unlike the rest. Her eyes were bright and shining with what he’d thought was lust, but she’d also left, just as fast as the others, the taste of her barely gone before she was. He wasn't surprised, but he was very confused.

 He patted the soil around the tiny thing down, and frowned going over what he could remember. Her lips, soft and warm, fingers on his face, her body flush against his own. He licked his lips, reddened at the memory, but he was at a loss.

 He couldn't make her dinner, the kitchen was empty of food, unnecessary here with her magic and pointless anyway since he could barely cook. His room was as clean as when he’d entered, the bed made, pillows rearranged, no trace of either of them there. The little plant was the only thing out of sorts here, besides himself.

 He gave it some water from a tiny flask on the shelves and wondered what to do.

 _____

 She found him in the sitting room, in the same chair as that first night, the high back imposing, making him seem smaller. He’d lit every candle and then some, the room as bright as day, yellow and flickering, a worn book in his hand, the spine cracked, the leather cover ripped. He was startlingly handsome, it had only been a few hours but the candle light playing over the cut of his jaw, the slope of his ears made her feel like she’d forgotten, like she’d never known at all.

 It made her feel dirty, her hands cleaned of blood, her ears free of pained and tormented screams, but she she could still feel it, bright brilliant red running down her wrist, could still hear the pleading cries and begging moans ringing in the air. She shook her head.

 He didn't hear her for a moment, brows furrowed in concentration as he read, his hook tapping against his leg, quick and rhythmic, his leg jumping beneath it from nervous energy. She watched him for a moment, the jerking turn of the pages, his mouth moving ever so slightly as he sounded out the words. He was upset. Emma frowned and stepped into the room.

 The book fell from his hands with a clatter to the floor, and he leapt up at the sight of her, a half bow before he corrected the action, sheepishly rising. He rubbed his ear, smile small.

 “Hello,” he bent to get the book, his place lost, and awkwardly shoved it back into the metal box on the table next to him.

 “What are you reading?” She couldn't glimpse the cover, the lid of his footlocker obscuring the view. She desperately wanted to know. It wasn't one of her books, all their covers pristine, perfect and unmarred. This one was roughly used, the pages had been worn, water scarred, the binding barely containing them.

 He glanced at it for a moment.

 “A poem, it’s Greek,” he lifted it from the box in one jerking movement, shoving it into her hands.

 Emma stroked the scarred leather, ran her fingers along the spine, the title once embossed in gold faded, the remaining letters unfamiliar.

 “You read Greek?” She looked up in surprise. He shrugged.

 “Not very well, I'm afraid,” he gave that quick smile, barely a pulling of lips, the flash of perfect white teeth. “I'm only marginally better in English.”

 “Why Greek?” she asked softly, carefully putting the book back, curious eyes taking in the rest of the box’s contents: a few smooth stones, a black feather, a red piece of cloth. There was nothing valuable, not in the traditional sense, no gold or jewels, just moments of his life held in seemingly inconsequential objects.

 She collapsed into the chair across from him, her legs over the arm, dress sliding down towards her hips. She watched him, waiting for him to answer as he travelled the length of them with his eyes, teeth on his bottom lip, before he looked away, remembering himself, clearing his throat. Emma smiled.

 “I liked the letters,” he carefully sat in his own chair across from her. Emma raised an eyebrow as he went predictably red.

 “What did you like about them?” There was no teasing in her tone, just overwhelming interest, every detail of him fascinating, every tiny triviality revealing more and more.

 “Ah,” he hesitated, taking a deep breath, thinking. “Well some of them are strong, familiar, bold strokes,” he unconsciously moved his hook by his leg, imitating them. The simple gesture made her warm.

 “And some are-” he paused considering. “Beautiful, with these curves-” his gaze flickered back to her legs, his hand moving now, turning inward to imitate them. “-and uh, circles like a, like a picture.” He fisted his hand in his lap.

 “Did someone teach you?”

 “A little. We had a passenger, man by the name of Nuru on Captain Silver’s ship. A merchant. He taught me a bit,” he shrugged. “He was very...” Killian thought a moment. “Patient.”

 “A good man then?” Emma asked softly.

 “Oh aye, he gave us sweets, lokum he called it, never had the like,” a small smile ghosted over his face at the memory. Emma mirrored it on her own, then rose a bit to attention, hearing his words.

 “Us?”

 “Ah,” he tugged at his ear. “My brother and I. Liam.”

 “Liam,” she tested the name on her tongue, and across from her Hook jerked as though in pain. She frowned, but didn't press. He would reveal it on his own.

 “Show me what's in the box,” she said instead, part command, part request. He relaxed a bit, nodding. He reached over, pulling it on his lap. It was old and dented in places, rust teasing at the corners and the hinges creaked as he lifted the lid higher.

 “It’s not much,” he warned.

 “Your pirate treasure?” she teased, the tips of his ears flaming red, that brief flash of nervous smile, more satisfying than almost anything.

 He lifted a few of the small stones, different colors, some shiny and smooth, others rough and jagged. He weighed them in his hand, letting them fall through his fingers like sand to ping back in the box, one after the other.

 “The places I've been,” he explained. “When I could sneak away to get one.”

 “You’ve been a lot of places,” she murmured, most of the bottom was covered in various stones.

 “I've traveled a long time,” he admitted. “But I haven't seen much truly. Most ports are the same wherever you go. Sometimes, I wasn’t allowed off the ship, or there’d be more.”

 “Did you-” Emma hesitated, her chest clenching with anxiety. “Did you like it? Traveling so much?”

 “Aye,” he nodded, the feeling in her chest twisting like a knife. “Most of the time, I didn't mind it at any rate. Didn't have much say in where we went.” He chuckled to himself, small and self deprecating.

 “What else is in there?”  her voice had that hard edge, and he looked up in surprise, eyebrows knitting together.

 “Not much,” he held up the red cloth. “A scarf, my father's, he left it behind.”

 Anger replaced the sharp piercing anxiousness, it was so much easier to deal with anger. She focused on it. A coward, disappearing into the night, leaving his son, sons, nothing but decades of debt and a single scrap of cloth. Some of her rage on his behalf must have shown on her face because he shoved it away hastily, burying it beneath the stones.

 “The book, Nuru gave me that.”

 “What’s the feather for?” She leaned closer, forcing the anger away, her voice softer. The black feather shone inky blue and purple in the candle light. He picked it up, twirling it between his fingers. He didn't speak for a long moment, just stared at it, shining and changing colors as it spun.

 “A-” he cleared his throat as his voice broke a bit.

 Emma wanted to leap up, press her palm against his mouth, stop him from speaking. Whatever had made his eyes look like that, made his face twist in heart wrenching anguish, she didn't want to know, she didn't want him to even think of it, but he was already continuing.

 “A raven landed on the deck, the day my brother-” he swallowed. “-the day he passed. Landed right in front of me and just...stared. Right into my eyes. The crew thought it was a bad omen, a raven on the day of a death. Swore I was next.  Men of the sea are a superstitious lot,” he chuckled darkly.  “I thought it was him, saying goodbye.” He gave a pained smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners, a hint of teeth. “Childish nonsense.”

 Emma did stand then, smoothing her dress, crossing the distance between them. The feather fell forgotten into the box on his lap.

 She pressed a hand to his cheek, his eyes sliding closed, pressing back against her.

 “How did he die?” Her voice was whisper soft, just pressing against him, afraid to do more, sorry she had even asked. She had intended to peel the layers away, find the man beneath, learn the truth of him, but in doing so, by indulging her selfish curiosity, she’d left him raw and exposed, paying the price for her unwarranted suspicions. She pressed against him harder.

 “He got sick, an ailment of the chest,” he kept his eyes closed, moving into her hand. He said it so matter of factly, as if it had happened to someone he didn't know, but she could feel him trembling against her. She didn't move, holding him up.

 “Captain Silver wouldn't send for a doctor, and I didn't have the coin to send for one myself.” He sighed into her palm, her fingers stroking the soft hair of his cheek. “I found a hedgewitch at the next port, gave her all I had for a brew she said would help him. I was bloody terrified, the stories they told,” he shook his head. “But Liam was so sick, could barely breathe from coughing.”

 “Did it?” Emma stroked his ear, over the elven tip, running her fingers along the hair curling at the bottom. “Help him?” He curled into her, shook his head against her hand, eyes still squeezed tight.

 “One of the crew said I got bilked, 'twas nothing but dried bits of herbs.” His voice was thin. “He said, I should have tossed it into the night's stew for flavoring, it would have done more.”

 Her hand tensed in his hair, icy rage filling her chest.

 A name the darkness whispered. Give us a name.

 Killian looked up, his eyes red rimmed but clear, his cheek fitting perfectly into her palm, the scruff of his jaw scraping gently across her hand. He jerked away.

 “We could add it to your collection,” he said quickly, too loud in the silence of the room. He pulled back, snatching the box.

 “Killian no-” the darkness forgotten, the name forgotten, Emma went to grab him. He set the box aside, placed the feather on his lap, and reached into his pocket to pull out the shells from earlier.

 “No, no, I want you to, it's just sitting in this box, and you can actually make something with it,” he moved desperately, shaking jerks as he gathered it up with the shells, pressing the lot into her open palm, closing her fingers around them, squeezing them tightly. His hand tremored, squeezing so the hard the bony surfaces of the shells dug into her flesh. She didn't mind.

 “Killian. I can't accept this,” she whispered, jagged bits of forgotten sea pressing into her skin.

 “‘Course you can,” he smiled up at her, fake but steady, eyes soft in yellow light, a light sea foam green. She didn't want to, but she would.

 “Okay,” Emma said. She clutched them to her chest. “Okay.”

 ______

 The broken pot was gone when she came for the sun in the morning. The soil had been swept away, the jagged pieces discarded. She saw its occupant in freshly tilled soil, a new place in the row of lush green. She bent over it, whispering terse good mornings, feeling distinctly silly, but she’d read once that talking to them helped them grow, thrive, a human voice threading through the darkness. People were much the same, but plants were much easier than people. The green life in their orderly rows, the only things that had heard her voice for decades, until a storm raged and brought men to her shore. One in particular.

 This plant had obviously meant something to him, this tiny little thing. He had rescued it, taken the time to carefully find it a place of its own, made it warm and given it life. She wanted it to do well, grow big and tall. As stupid as that was, it felt important.

 She had a similar plan in mind for Killian, a new strategy taking shape in the night. Her hand on his cheek, tangible physical comfort accepted when he was distracted, jerking away when he came back to himself, made her realize what she needed to do.

 She waited as the sun crested the horizon, heard his footsteps light in the hall as blue and gold broke the edge of the sea, felt his presence in the room as red purple light filled the sky.

 He smiled at her as she turned, his hair sticking on end, hand rubbing idly under his jaw. He was slightly out of breath, his chest rising and falling beneath the vee of his shirt, as if he had run the distance. She felt out of breath herself.

 She crossed the room, watching as he tensed, posture going rigid, and could only imagine the intent in her eyes, the expression on her face, a tigress stalking its prey. She stopped in front of him.

 He looked down at her, his lips slightly parted, a pink hint of tongue just above the ridge of his teeth. He opened his mouth to speak, but she reached up, tracing a slow path from his brow, down the slope of his cheek, the hard edge of his jaw, the space where his ear joined, and down.

 “What- what are you doing?” He swallowed against her fingertips and she pressed lightly against the skin of his neck, at the hollow of his throat, felt his pulse there quick and fluttering.

 “Touching you,” she murmured. She shifted closer, chaste strokes, down the curve of his neck, the slope of his shoulder, scratching across the fabric of his shirt. He was barely breathing, eyes locked on her own, violet in the dawning light.

 “Why?” He whispered, his breath hitching as she smoothed down crisp dark hair, her palm flat, fingers splayed across his heart. It thumped rapidly against her hand, his breaths quick and short. She could feel them, every gasp of air, every unsteady exhale.

 “Because you need to learn,” she murmured, her hand dipping lower, the opening of his shirt granting her easy access to the shifting muscles of his chest, his ribs, following the trail of hair to a hard torso. He shuffled, drawing closer but pulling his stomach in.

 “Learn what-” his voice was ragged, strained, moving into her while trying to maintain distance. He panted out one long steadying breath. “-exactly?”

 “How to be touched,” she murmured, her hands finding waistband, fingers teasing at the edge. She could make out the ridge of him beneath his pants, and she longed to run her fingers down his length. All in due time.

 “I don't think you know how,” she said reasonably.

 “And you’re going to-” he swallowed thickly, his voice tight. “-teach me?”

 Emma nodded, tracking back up, his narrow waist, the grooves along his back, taut perfect muscle shifting beneath her hand, the raised ridges of scars, each knot of his spine, rising under her fingertips. He shuddered against her, leaning closer.

 “I don't-” he started, but she was pressing two fingers of her other hand against his lips, drifting across soft warm flesh, pressing lightly where the pair came together. She rose up on tiptoes, and feather light, pressed her lips to the spot.

 “Shh,” she whispered against his skin, the purple of the room turning tawny yellow as the sun climbed higher. He closed his eyes, turning his head to the side as if to chase her, but she was already moving, the scruff of his beard deliciously rough against her mouth. She bit his jaw, his gasp quick at the feel of her teeth, hips jerking.

 She stepped back, bringing her hand back across, around the rippling planes of his back, the broad slope of shoulder, down his biceps and the sinews of his forearm, to his hand, linking the fingers, feeling hard rings pressing against her own.

 He opened his eyes slowly, black in the yellow morning sun. She smiled up at him.

 “So, breakfast?”

 _____

 Killian was quite sure that she was trying to kill him. He was positive he would let her. When he'd imagined death before, his insides freezing, hollowed out in fear at the thought, that vast yawning sense of nothing that came from such musings, it was always for the same reasons: hunger, violence, the cold dark waters of the sea, racking coughs filling his lungs with blood, alone and forgotten. Never had he dreamed it would come from warm lips pressed to his skin, soft hands tracing his body, his heart shattering against his ribs, struggling for air.

 She traced the veins of his wrist at breakfast, mapping the lines of him with her fingertips.

 She ran her nails through his hair, scratching against his scalp as she said good bye, gentle orders mouthed against his jaw, sending shockwaves down his spine.

 She would disappear for hours, leaving him to his own devices, to read or tend the plants, and appear from the thin air to press her body against him, wind her arms around his neck, drag her teeth across his ear, her breath echoing in the shallows of his skin.

 He spent the day in gleeful anticipation, a new sort of game for them to play. Empty rooms where he read alone suddenly filled with grasping hands and ghosting lips, a soothing murmur as he tensed and trembled.

 She didn't kiss his mouth, but her lips found the ridge along his collar, the tips of his fingers, the place where his heart tried to break free of the confines of his chest.

 Her footsteps were the prelude to warm breath against his neck, a signal flare of oncoming sensation, weak knees and grunted gasps, raw voiced greetings his only reply to searing caresses and her heated mouth.

 She was an efficient teacher, her lessons lips and tongue and touch. Pressing him into the dark shadows of the hall as he walked to the study, surprising him as he made his way to the dining room, hoping to find her there and getting so much more than he expected.

 He was hard and raw most of the day, barely catching his breath, straining against the confines of his own skin. She was merciless and beautifully cruel in her ministrations, leaving him aching with want, the scent of her skin and his own increasingly desperate need left behind in her wake as she went about the secret business of her day.

 Sweeter still were those small smiles as she watched his face, that intense curiosity as if she wanted to see all of him, huffing breaths of delighted laughter pressed against his chest as he stumbled or stuttered, comforting words whispered against him when he apologized or flinched. Patient tenderness laced with heady desire.

 He could barely remember his own name by the time night fell, waiting with rapt attention for her in the sitting room, looking at the pages of a book but not registering the words. When she appeared before him, in that black silk robe from the first day, her legs long and perfect, eyes narrowed in concentrated lust, he knew that if the goal here was his destruction, that he would not weep for being destroyed.

 _____

 There were two men dead in her dungeon, blood and struggle weaving the tale of their demises on the stone floor, and Emma gave a gleeful laugh at the looks on the remaining faces. She rewarded them with buckets of crystal clear water, ice cold and perfect, and they gulped and slavered wretched thank you's at her feet.

 But that was not the focus of the day, that would be victory, seeing revolting men brought to their knees, terrified and desperate, the joy of vengeance on her tongue. Her victory lay in reverent awed gasps and crumbling restraint. Her victory lay in a clutching hand at the small of her back, pink lips murmuring her name, in storm blue eyes begging her for release.

Her victory sat in yellow candlelight, a book on his lap, his fingers idle on the pages, surprised and happy delight on his face when she came into the room.

 The darkness had spit and raged and moaned all day, and each time she had sought out Killian, silenced it with her lips, her teeth, her hands. Shoved it down and quieted it with fleeting touch and ragged panting breaths in her ear. Her sunrise rebellion was nothing compared to Killian’s lashes fluttering against his cheek, his teeth biting down on firm lips. The darkness was seething, frothing silence and Killian was warm, firm, flesh and pounding heart.

 He traced a path down her legs with his eyes, not able to help himself, sitting straighter in the chair, the book sliding down forgotten on his thigh. She crossed the room with measured determined steps, giving him a moment of warning, some time to collect himself. His lips tugged up in a smile, brief and quick, before opening again, taking in her expression.

 She tossed the book away, pages fluttering before it thumped somewhere in the room. He looked up at her, apprehensive but curious, his teeth tugging at his lip in nervous anticipation. She smiled, slotting one knee, then the other on the outside of his thighs. He leaned back with a gasp as she rose above him, hovering above his lap.

 “What-” he started to speak, but she pressed a cool finger to his lips, feeling lost words moving against her before he quieted.

 She leaned in, keeping her gaze steady on his. She could feel his breath against her face as she came closer, and pressed her lips against his own. Killian melted beneath her, that sweet dip and drop of submission, opening his mouth to hers. She guided him with mouth and tongue, slick and hot, gliding across his lips, licking into his mouth, teaching him how to receive and how to give. He moaned beneath her, the sound catching in her mouth, vibrating against her tongue and Emma sank down with steady deliberation.

 He was hard between her legs, the ridge of him pressing against where she was already wet and hot and bare. She had spent the day tasting him, touching him, and she burned. She ground down, feeling that sharp burst of pleasure against her core as he groaned against her mouth, arching upwards against her. She rose up again, aching, wanting more, but she knew the rules. He shuddered beneath her, his mouth turning desperate, repeating her lessons back verbatim with the stroke of his tongue against her own. She draped her arms around his neck, tilted her head to kiss him deeper, buried her fingers in thick dark hair, and lowered herself again.

 Killian lifted his hips, chasing her heat, a desperate hum against her mouth as he bucked into her. She let him, grinding down, shifting forward to glide against the entire length of him. She bit his lip, tugging it, his breath gasping against her as she rocked back and then forward again and again.

 “I-” he strained against her, fingers digging into her back, the flat of his hook against her thigh. “I can't-” she captured his mouth again, rocked forward and back, sharp spikes of pleasure with each movement, a quiet buzz under her skin. She stroked his tongue with her own and ground down one more time.

 He jerked away with a gasp, his hips rocking up, and he cried out, pressing his face against her shoulder, tensing and straining with his release.

 “I'm sorry, I’m-” his breath sobbed out desperately against her chest, warm through the fabric of her robe, his head shaking back and forth in denial. “I didn't-”

“Shhh,” Emma stroked his hair, feeling him relax beneath her.

 “I'm sorry,” he panted out a quiet, miserable, apology against her skin.

 Emma leaned back. He was flushed a pale pink, the barest sheen of sweat along his brow, regret written all over his face. He closed his eyes in embarrassment. Emma took his face in her hands, pressed her lips to his forehead.

 “Why are you sorry?” she demanded in a whisper.

 “Because I didn't want-” he couldn’t seem to find the words again, shaking his head once more.

 “Killian.” Emma commanded. His eyes snapped open. “What did you do wrong?”

 “I couldn't-” he sucked in a breath, his chest still heaving. “I didn't want to-”.

 “What did you think we were doing?” Emma smiled down at him, a wicked thing. “You did exactly what I wanted.”

 He froze, looking up at her in disbelief, eyes wide.

 “But I-” he shook his head again. Her grip on his face became firmer, holding him in place, forcing his gaze to hers.

 “I told you this morning, you have to learn to be touched.” She pressed a kiss to his lips, his face deliciously dazed.

 “Now come along,” she held out a hand. His fingers were warm in hers, clutching at her, anchoring himself. Emma smiled at him again, echoing words from another day. “We desperately need a bath.”

 _____

 Emma stripped him bare again, and prepared this time, it was easier for him to let her. His limbs were too lax and boneless for him to protest much, the pleasant hum of a recent release made him pliable, the delicious peace and calm that came after such a moment soothed his nerves, his mind quieted by pleasure soaked haze.

 Emma was quick purposeful movement, shifting in front of him from foot to foot, his shirt pulled over his head with scraping swiftness, her fingers flying over laces. She rubbed him down with hot friction, her palms smoothing over his exposed chest, nails scraping his shoulders. She crackled in the steamy air like recently struck lightning, pale cheeks flushed, eyes bright.

 He covered himself as best he could, still too nervous to stand bold while bared, his thighs sticky and cool in the air. Emma scraped her teeth over red lips and stepped back, toying with the silk belt of her robe, those legs and tiny perfect feet shifting beneath it.

 “Your turn,” her eyes were hard, unyielding. Killian blinked in confusion looking down at himself, already naked, his clothes discarded in a pile at his feet. She lifted the belt of the robe meaningfully.

 “Oh,” he blinked. “You meant...together? We need a bath.” The only thing that kept him from scratching the sudden itch behind his neck was the need to keep himself covered.

 “Yes,” she seemed almost unsure, checking his face, making sure it was okay. She stepped towards him. “Killian.”

 The command was in his name alone and he only hesitated a moment before taking the thin rope of silk in his hand. It was loosely knotted, fell apart easily under clever sailor’s fingers, no fumbling here, the robe parting. It covered full breasts, just the barest hint of curves peeked out from the slit of dark fabric, the smooth expanse of her stomach, firm and taut, pure white against the contrasting black, the soft hair in the furrow between her legs yellow cream.

 She shifted closer, urged him with her body to continue, more silent commands. He reached up, sliding the robe off her shoulders with hand and hook to pool on the floor, cupping the rounded curve, stroking momentarily with dancing fingers  on the exposed skin, tracing the freckles that had fascinated him before.

 She reached up, fingering the straps of leather that crisscrossed his shoulder, leading down to the thick cuff that held his hook, covering the blunted end of his arm. Killian froze, cold fear trickling down his back to replace the warmth, and he made to step back.

 “Do you want to take it off?” She asked, her fingers tracing the lines, the skin slightly red where it rubbed him raw, the skin thicker and calloused in parts from years of wear. He shook his head quickly.

 “It can get wet,” he shifted his shoulder slightly, her fingers dancing against air as he moved away.

 His mind screamed at him to get away, to pull his shirt on and run. She hadn't seemed to notice it before, had avoided touching him there, allowing him the illusion that it was joined with him, no different than any other part of the whole. Her focus on it now unnerved him, his skin too small, the hook heavy on his wrist, pulling him down.

 “How did it happen?” She asked, all innocent curiosity, her hand hovering over the metal. He shook his head in snapping jerks. He didn't want to think about that. He didn't want to talk about it. Not now, not ever.

 “Please,” he whispered. He didn't want to ruin this, he didn't want to feel this now, he was still warm and sated, her lips still burned into his memory, her heat on the most intimate part of him, riding him to release, and he clung to it, not wanting to sully it, damage it with pain, override it with things better left in the past. He just wanted to hold onto this bliss for a few more moments, live in this new present.

 She looked up at him, eyes scanning his face, touching each strained and anxious feature. She simply took his hook in her hand, and led him to the tub, hot water and rose scented bubbles awaiting them. He could breathe again, taking in the scent that reminded him of her, of here.

 The tub was plenty big enough for two but he felt like his legs were touching every part of hers as they settled, and he shifted in the water, pressing against warm stone to give her room. She chased him with her limbs, rubbed her feet and calves on the outside of his thighs, their game was not nearly over, his hook forgotten as he felt her body intermingled with his own.

 He went to grab the sponge, to begin his work, distract himself with mindless activity perhaps, but it disappeared under his hand.

 He looked at Emma surprised, and she had that laughing look again, the sponge now in her palm. He watched as she shifted onto her knees, rising from bath, liquid and soap tracing paths down her chest, the slope of her breasts, beading on rosey pink tips. Too beautiful and perfect to be here with him surely, the feeling that this was all a dream inescapable as he watched her. She trapped his legs between her own, settling herself on his thighs, smooth skin sliding across the hair there. He could feel the clefts and joins where she came together.

 “A job well done should be rewarded,” she said echoing their first night again. She ran the sponge down his arm.

 He allowed his eyes to flutter closed, her hand tracing the path of the sponge, a pleasurable game of follow the leader, each scrape and rasp followed by a light caress. He gave himself over to sensation, letting her work, knowing it was pointless to protest, even if he’d truly wanted to, and leaned his head back against the tub.

 The rough caresses, the buzzing liquid warmth of recent surrender made him bolder, the question leaving his mouth before he could think on it overmuch. Perhaps a tiny retribution for exposing him so thoroughly.

 “Is it a curse?” He asked, his eyes still closed. Emma froze on his lap, her thighs squeezing his legs between them, the sponge stopping its progress across his chest.

 “What?” Her voice was cold.

 “What keeps you here,” he continued to press. She knew so much about him, had revealed him utterly, laid him bare, but he knew nothing about her. He could read some of her in her eyes, in the tense set of her face, in the slight changes in her smoky voice, but he had no details to fill in those impressions. “Did someone curse you?”

 He had heard of curses before, dark magic, a lifetime of sailor’s gossip and superstition. He had never given it much attention, his own cursed life making magic seem unnecessary to incite suffering, fairy stories to give whimsical meaning to pain. Still, he had proof of magic now, had seen her weave miracles with her hands, something dark and cold hanging over her like a specter.

 Emma shifted back, sliding off his legs, water filling in the empty spaces, and went to her side of the tub to regard him. She thankfully, didn't look angry, but her face was that stony calm, perfect features etched in white marble.

 “Why did you ask me that?” Her tone was stiff.

 “I just want to-” the stammer was back, the words always just out of reach. “-know you.”

 “Nothing keeps me here but me,” she said finally, shortly. She didn't appear to want him to ask anything else, but curiosity overrode the feeling that he shouldn't, she had issued no command that would prevent him, and he was burning with the need to know about her as she seemed to want to know about him.

 “So why do you stay?” He tried to keep her gaze, her eyes burning into him. He wanted to look away, his stomach twisting with anxiety, but he had fallen apart in this woman's arms, and that made it somehow easier to face her. He gave her a small nod, a tiny shaky smile of encouragement.

 She didn't answer him for several moments, water lapping at the side of the tub.

 “What is a Dark One?” He tried again, a different question, but this one was worse than the first. She tensed completely, going taut, even her eyes were unreadable now. He pulled the smile into his mouth with his teeth and banished it away.

 “I'm sorry,” he said softly, ducking his head.

 “Killian,” Emma shifted again, laying back, relaxing into the water. “I want you to touch me.”

 It was so at odds with the current conversation he could only blink at her a moment in confusion.

 “Pardon?”

 “A new lesson,” she said, raising her arms to welcome him. “Touch me.” The command was unmistakeable, hard voice belying the welcoming softness of her body.

 He promised himself he could try again, would ask again, another time perhaps. He may be a fool, but he would not be so easily deterred. He wanted to know everything she was, the sum of her parts, solve the mysteries that swirled around her like smoke. But he also wanted desperately to touch her, to please her, a different sort of retribution to be had if he could make her fall apart as she had him.

 The problem was he had no idea how to do that.

 “You want to know me, so know me,” she challenged, her voice was cold but her eyes were hot, beckoning him closer. He obeyed.

 He shifted awkwardly, trying not to crush her as he moved towards her in the tub. It felt like it had grown smaller in the few seconds of eternity that had passed. He kneeled between her open legs, and she moved, one leg slipping between his knees. He lifted himself, bracing his hook on the side of the bath, holding his weight on his forearm not wanting to crush her as he looked down, hovering over her.

 He had never been in such a position, a gorgeous woman, open and wanting beneath him. His head spun as she unceremoniously took his hand, tracing it down the curve of her breast without hesitation, his knees digging into hard ceramic.

 “How-?” He let the question hang in the air. “I don't know what to do.”

 “I'll help you,” she guided his hand across her chest, the tiny beaded tip of her nipple dragging across his palm. “But if you really want to know me just listen,” her breath hitching. “Watch my face.” She circled the tip again, her eyes fluttering closed. “Pay attention to my movements.” She let his hand go, leaning back, allowing him to explore and test to his heart’s content. Small touches, light caresses, his brows narrowing in determination.

 He trailed heavy down around the slope, testing the weight in his hand. She was still beneath him, but when he moved higher, repeating her actions, brushing the tip with his palm she tightened almost imperceptibly, he repeated the motion, slightly firmer this time. Emma nodded little encouragements, her eyes closed as he lightly traced blue veins, circled rosey skin, thumbed against the darkened tip. He catalogued her responses, every catch of breath, every subtle shift, her back arching to chase his hand and questing fingers. He studied her face with burning intensity, her lips slightly parted, lashes moving against her cheek as he caressed and soothed. He suddenly wanted very much to taste her.

 “Can I-” he swallowed, forcing the question out through sudden overwhelming shyness. “-use my mouth?” He had seen it done before, the brothels not exactly known for privacy and discretion, and he knew logically he could, but he wanted to check, make sure it was okay, that she wanted him to try.

 “Oh yes,” Emma breathed out, her hand clenching against her leg in anticipation. He licked his lips and ducked his head.

 Her skin was cool in his mouth, the pebbled tip rough against his tongue. Her hand came up, clutched at his hair, held him in place. He could read that reaction well enough. He loomed over her, feeling her skin on his stomach as he leaned in, testing her with lips and gentle brushes of teeth. He listened to her breath, quick and light, the barest hitch as he did something she liked, held captive in her lungs when he did something she loved.

 He went slowly at first, tasting, sucking her between his lips, laving across her with his tongue. She squirmed beneath him, nails hard on his scalp. His eyes cast up to watch her face as he moved, trying different things, switching back and forth, braced against his arm. Her crimson lips were parted, head thrown back, the muscles of her throat swallowing reflexively. His stomach fluttered and twisted with uncertainty, not completely convinced he was handling this well, the entire situation out of his depth and surreal, but she’d told him to get to know her, and the only way was to try. He felt almost like a spectator, disassociated from his own body as he marked the ridges of her flesh with his tongue, filing away her responses.

 He stirred beneath the water, coming to life once more with fresh lust, but he was too preoccupied with committing her gasps to memory, reconciling the movement of her hands against his scalp with the actions of his mouth to worry about his own reactions.

 He was immersed in scholarly pursuit, testing the bounds of this new experience, so dedicated to learning the craft, reading her face, he almost missed when she took his hand in her own, dragging it down her skin to the space between her barely parted legs. He gasped against her breast, air blowing across the wet peak, and she moaned then, a small vibration of noise against him.

 He had heard it was mostly instinct, bawdy talk in darkened rooms that made him blush before sleep, straining to hear  as the men boasted about their conquests in explicit detail, studying illicit images burned into wood or sketched on yellow paper, traded around the crew with wolf whistles and obscene comments, flushing and trying not to stare too long before they were snatched from his hands. But instinct had been beat from him long ago, with fists and hands and careless cruel words and he had no bloody idea what to do. He froze against her, his hand trapped in hot, wet heat.

 “Emma,” he panted out, moving to draw away, back up to kneeling, water sloshing around them. She held his wrist firmly, staring him down, her chest flushed pink in the light. She looked slightly crazed, her eyes shining and wide, black rimmed with only the barest hint of green iris.

 “I could show you myself,” her voice was ragged, her other hand tracing a line between her breasts, down her stomach, the image of her hands on her body, pleasuring herself while he watched and learned, had his pulse jumping, his length twitching.

 “But I'd rather you try,” it wasn't a request necessarily, more a thinly veiled command, pushing his limits, testing his boundaries. His hand twitched against her.

 He sucked in a steadying breath, closing his eyes for a moment.

 “Could you...do what you did before, a-” he tried to grasp the word, his brain even more useless now. “-demonstration?”

 Emma nodded, her eyes glittering with promise, excited anticipation, as she traveled down his wrist to his fingers. She curled them how she wanted, manipulating the digits, took his fist in her hand and drew it back to her flesh.

 He couldn't see through the water, the bubbles had melted away to smooth foam, just the white shimmering shadows of her skin under the surface, and the angle was slightly unnatural, but he could feel her, guiding his fingers through soft folds, pressing him against her. Emma shuddered and let out a broken gasp as he finally touched her, moving him where she needed, with the pressure she wanted, feather light touches swirling against raised flesh.

 Killian concentrated, brows pinching together as he committed the movements to memory, the varying crescendos of hard and light, firm and soft, slow and rapid circles. He didn't notice when she released his hand, letting him take over, moving unconsciously with the rhythm she’d set, no longer guiding him, taken over by sensation as she clutched at the side of the tub. He almost pulled away again, but her head thrown back, harsh breaths panted into the air, arching against him, told him he was doing fine. He watched her breath, her face, her teeth white against red as she bit her lip, and he tested.

 She was writhing in the water, small ripples against the sides, her face open and so intense it took his breath away. Her hand came back down to his wrist after what seemed like hours but had been mere minutes, and he stopped again, sure he had done something wrong.

 “Need to-” she gasped out. “-do something.” Her voice was broken and husky, the tone sending pleasurable shivers down his back. She manipulated his fingers again, twisting his wrist in the other direction so his palm was up, and pulled him down again, deeper into the water until he was spread out against her, his face near her chest.

 He blushed furiously as he realized her intent, as she desperately pressed his fingers into her, her core wrapped deliciously around them, drawing him in deep. She moaned again, moving his hand, drawing him out with a slow drag against her, pressing him back in.

 “Li-like that,” she stuttered out, repeating the motion. He was burning up, lust and embarrassment taking equal weight. She moved his fingers again, so his thumb rasped against the ridge of her with each motion.

 “Gods, exactly right,”  she arched up, a small desperate keen caught in her throat as she established a rhythm, his thumb brushing her on each pass, using her other arm to help her find leverage to bear down against him with each stroke.

 He licked his lips determinedly, applying the same principles as before, listening for the subtle changes in her breath, the gasps and delicious tiny noises she couldn't seem to help, the twist and writhe of her limbs as he moved. She let him go again, let him maintain the rhythm, the pressure, and speed, all his own decisions to make.

 Hook had spent a fair bit of his life in service to others, providing the tools of their pleasure and comfort through the service of hot meals, a clean deck, a willing wench. He had never so directly been the reason however, his actions never affecting another so immediately and powerfully. He was overwhelmed with it, the need to make her feel good, to be the instrument of her pleasure. He pressed in closer, deeper, her face an open window into her needs, clawing and clutching as she rose higher and higher, his hand the catalyst for such remarkable change.

 “Please, please,” quiet whispered pleas barely audible over the churn of the water, the sound of her breath in his ear. He kept going, moving faster, consumed by her reactions, adjusting to her cues. He leaned over her further, slid upwards a bit, careful not to disturb the careful established cadence of his fingers. Small affirmations fell from her lips, encouragements with every stroke. He dipped his head again, pressed his tongue against her peak, sucking her into his mouth once more.

 Emma cried out loud and it echoed in the empty room, filled his head with only the sounds of her. She reached up to thread her fingers through his hair as he synchronized the disparate movements of his mouth and hand. It was an ungainly and awkward position, nervous uncertainty following his every motion, but it was also perfect and raw, Emma letting him know without explicit words that he was doing everything right for once, exactly what he should. He sucked again, hollowing out his cheeks, drew back and tested swirling flicks with his tongue, increasing pressure with his thumb, small experiments, working towards a theory.

 She broke hard against him, shattering around his fingers, her hand snapping down to hold him firmly in place as she arched and jerked with pleasure, a cry rent from her throat. She surged up and back with the force of it, rolled her hips against it, sounding almost pained. It was beautiful release and tormenting uncertainty in equal measure as she gasped and panted, sinking back down into the water.

 Killian slowly and hesitantly withdrew, leaning back on his heels. She was still trembling, little earthquakes under her skin, her eyes still closed. He watched her anxiously, waiting for something, what he didn't know, the feeling sinking into his chest. He shuffled backwards in the water, pressed his back against the tub, rubbed at his wet hair, and waited.

 Emma opened her eyes across from him, her smile slow and lazy. She traveled his face, all anxious anticipation and miserable uncertainty and she blinked at him for a moment, confused. He could barely breathe waiting for her to speak, to cast down a verdict that confirmed what he had always feared, what he had always been told. Not nearly enough.

 Instead she rose up again, the water warm as it moved against him. She pressed her lips to his own, sweet and sure, and looked directly into his eyes, catching him before he could look away. Her words were honest and true, filling in the hollow in his chest.

 “Thank you, Killian.”

_____

 Emma watched him as long as she could, before she felt voyeuristic and strange, her fingers toying with the ends of his hair, brushing it back from his forehead as he slept. He truly was a beautiful man, his face relaxed and slack from sleep, free of constant anxious worry, the lines of barely suppressed fear that dogged his every movement. For someone so bright, his smiles so easy, eyes always wide and open with endless gratitude, the contrast was startling. Only after watching him drift and fall to sleep did she truly realize how tense and taut he was during daylight, how nervous and constantly unsure.

 She had hoped, in truth, to continue her lessons in the soft warmth of a lush bed, coax more than easy smiles from his lips, desperate to hear the unrestrained moans and pleasured whines of his release once more. Visions of him beneath her, clutching and desperate, hips rising up and rolling into her own had her filled her head, made her dizzy with need as they made their way back to his bedroom, her bedroom. But he was weary and emotionally wrought, his face pale and drained as he’d dressed in fresh new clothes, so she let the images drift away and drew a blanket over him instead. He had asked her to stay, his fingers drifting over her own, his expression hopeful, so she had, stretching out beside him on the large bed, cheek propped on her hand as she stroked his hair and lulled him to sleep.

 He slept in the hook as well. She had waited and watched to see if he’d remove it, curiosity overwhelming her, the need to see, to know, twisting in her gut, the question on her tongue, but he’d merely shrugged into a new shirt, the straps black against his skin. It glinted silver in soft moonlight, taunting her with mystery, turned away from him with decades of habit. A learned behavior, one born of many nights with it tucked into his side. She traced the delicate lines of the metal, the gentle curve, pressed her fingertip to the sharp point until blood welled and her skin closed up to heal the tiny wound before another could bead.

 He had spoken easily of his bitter life, of torture and fear, of harsh words and violence. They were unavoidable truths, the nature of the world as he knew it. He had spoken of his father’s abandonment and betrayal with barely a thought, casually washing his hair as he detailed a crime that no father should ever commit against his children, with no knowledge of how terrible it truly was. Speaking of his brother had been harder for him, a source of light in a dark life that was snuffed out far too soon, but he still breathed the tale out against her palm, given her the gift of his memory in a single black feather.

 But his hook was a different story altogether, an untold tale she needed to know. Ignorance prickled at her skin, his terrified reluctance only made the desire to know worse. After such a life how could this be any worse than the thousand other horrors he had endured?

 You can find out you know, the darkness beckoned. He doesn't have to tell you.

 Emma looked down at him, remembered his face, the jerking of his head as he begged with his body not to speak of it. Even if she could coax the story from him there would be a cost, he would be hurt, be in pain from the telling of it, and that pain would not be because of torture or cruelty at the hands of others. It would be because of her, her need to know, to understand, born of selfish curiosity and possession, her obsessive desire to learn him body and soul, find out what made him who he was, all the parts that comprised him.

 She rose from the bed, one final brush of hair from forehead, a finger stroked down his stubbled cheek, the tiny scar that marked it. She had other ways, ones that wouldn't force him to relive the tale, ones where he wouldn't even have to know, wouldn't have to dredge up the memory from the dark. She pressed a kiss to his brow, and he turned towards her, even in sleep seeking her out, drawn in by her warmth.

 She left him without another glance, the darkness pushing her along, away from the warm room, his beautiful sleeping form, out into the torchlit corridors of the castle.

 Her workroom was cold and empty and dim, the dreamcatchers rattling ominously from their places in the rafters as she opened the door, clinking and swaying against each other, a warning. She ignored it. She had a hundred memories locked inside those intricate weaving threads, she only needed one more.

 Emma set down his gifts, three perfect shells collected with a sheepish grin on a sunny beach, and a black feather handed to her in sorrow by flickering candlelight, and she set to work.

Onto Part 3