#this took me longer than it should have for a gifset this ugly

[dinah-lance]

Eric - A Quiet Place: Day One

[darkwinterchild]

Malcolm, Moira, Thea and anger

Note: This post came about because I stumbled upon a cool gifset whose conclusion was that Thea’s rage was the one thing she took from her father (as opposed to her mother). Someone added tags about how Moira’s rage was actually so much more powerful, and Malcolm’s was small and insignificant just like himself. That’s so drastically opposite to my own interpretation that I just had to write something about it. I didn’t want to hijack someone else’s meta though (particularly tag meta), so I figured I’d just make a new post. Particularly since I have a lot of thoughts on the matter. Malcolm and Moira were my first favs in Arrow and I loved all of their interactions together.

So, long, in-depth analysis of Malcolm, Moira and Thea and their relationship with anger under the cut, one by one. I just don’t do short.

Malcolm

First off, I truly think there is nothing small about Malcolm’s rage. Not its origin, not its intensity, not its duration, not its results, not anything.

The cruelty of the men who shot and killed Rebecca Merlyn for nothing (“I told them to take everything”), the indifference of the people who walked by and ignored her cries for help, who let her bleed out and die on the street as if she didn’t matter (as if she wasn’t there for them in the first place, as if she hadn’t made it her life’s mission to help them and save them with her free clinic) - these are more than legitimate causes of anger. You know what else isn’t small? His anger at himself and his own failure to protect or help her, his regrets for that stupid momentary feeling of exasperation that made him shut his phone off that night (such dreadful consequences for such a small act of negligence that married couples do to each other all the time - that people in general do to loved ones all the time). His shame and rage for his motherless son. The whole thing is just a huge tragedy.

(And I just don’t think this rage should be called selfish.)

Malcolm harbored these feelings for 20 long years. They compelled him to give himself up to Ra’s Al Ghul to be tortured and brainwashed into something else, because he felt it could give him a measure of control and power back over his life. He let them fester inside of him for 12 years after his return from the League before he decided to act on them by starting the Undertaking. 12 years of desperate search for some form of redemption, for peace. 12 years during which he strived to honor Rebecca’s legacy the way she would have wanted, to save the city with charity and when it was no longer enough, by blackmailing the rich and corrupt. 12 years of frustration because you can’t win a war against crime. 12 years is the time it took him to convince himself that some people can’t be saved, are better off dead (because he is that kind of person: arrogant and unforgiving, justice without empathy or understanding).

Two decades after Rebecca’s death, his rage was still as intense as ever, if not more. It consumed his being to the point her death became the only thing that mattered - more than her life, even. An obsession that eclipsed everything else. He let it destroy his relationship with his son, let it destroy their family. He listened to that recording of her dying over and over until it drove him mad (until her tears and suffering were engraved at the forefront in his mind like words on stone - “No one would come”). He murdered Robert, his best friend in life, along with Robert’s son (Tommy’s best friend), because at this point he was no longer capable of truly caring. He murdered countless others. He blackmailed Moira into doing his bidding with the life of her daughter, a woman he used to have feelings for (whether they were purely platonic or more). He destroyed every relationship he had, spent countless hours planning his Undertaking, gave away huge amounts of money, all of this for years, and for what? Nothing. He risked everything, in the end lost everything, and he had absolutely nothing to gain from all of this, only a pointless, false satisfaction, the illusion of revenge. (The murder of a thousand innocents to pay for the murder of one? It’s a senseless spiral of violence and he was too far gone, down into the abyss, to see the irony.)

Malcolm Merlyn’s rage basically killed him, made him kill his city, and there is absolutely nothing “small” about that. Robert’s death wasn’t small, Moira and Thea’s sufferings weren’t small, Oliver’s 5 years in hell weren’t small, Walter’s kidnapping wasn’t small, the Unidac massacre wasn’t small, 503 people isn’t small.

(“insignificant” just isn’t a good word here.)

You can’t even say that his wrath was an illusion with the intent of making himself seem bigger, because he actually kept it carefully hidden and controlled. To the world, he showed the face of an affable businessman, and whenever his anger would show behind the mask, he’d use his own sorrow to disguise or dismiss it:

Malcolm [smiling]: My wife would have liked you, Laurel. Laurel: I’m only sorry I never got to meet her. She passed away before Tommy and I became friend. Malcolm [bitterly]: She was killed, Laurel. There is no need to be ‘polite’ about it. Tommy: You’re just a ray of sunshine today, aren’t you, Dad? Malcolm [smiling again]: Please forgive me, talking about my wife has a tendency to make me a bit maudlin.

“A bit maudlin”. He didn’t want people to know how truly enraged he still was about what happened. It’s actually an interesting dynamic: inside, he was using his anger to drown out his grief; outside, he was using his grief to conceal his anger. We only really saw glimpses of it (like the way his voice almost broke during his speech in Dead to Rights), up until it burst out during his conversation with Tommy in Sacrifice (“They deserve to die! All of them! The way she died!”). I don’t think he even wanted to admit it to himself. Instead, he presented his Undertaking as the only logical solution to an underlying societal problem. “I like to think that if the man who murdered her knew her, knew the work that she did, he would have helped her to her car, made sure she was safe, instead of taking her purse, and shouting her.” -- this is the man Malcolm wanted the world to see him as. Forgiving, hopeful. Someone who still believes in humanity, someone who sees the best in people just like Rebecca did. Because deep down he knew this is who he should be or strive to be. Mr Humanitarian of the Year. And it was all a lie.

I think people have a tendency to glamorize anger, because anger can be good and it can be beautiful. After all, anger is what motivates us to fight against injustice. So when we don’t like it in someone we want to make it less. But I think that’s hiding the fact that it has an ugly, dangerous, self-destructive side, that even righteous anger can become wrong when taken to the extreme, left unchecked. The whole problem of Malcolm’s rage isn’t that it was illegitimate. He had every right to be angry. It’s that it was wildly, terribly disproportionate. Monstrous.

Moira

All of this is in sharp contrast with Moira Queen. If Malcolm’s flaw was that he was too angry (let his anger turn him into a monster), Moira’s was that she wasn’t angry enough.

Moira is earth where Malcolm is fire (and together they are lava, a freaking volcano - a natural disaster about to erupt). Less aggressive and powerful, but more stable and enduring. Fully controlled instead of just focused. Like the earthbenders from Avatar, her stance is neutral jing: listening and waiting for the right opportunity. Fighting for preservation instead of fighting for change. Prudent in everything she does.

She stood by her husband through all the lying and the cheating. Robert cheated on her right after his best friend lost his wife (who was probably also their friend - that’s just highly distasteful). Years later, he cheated on her with a woman barely older than their son and called her his “soulmate” (that’s even more distasteful). Moira dealt with all of it and never let it affect their family - so much so their children never had any idea their father was unfaithful. She remained steady as his partner, still loved him despite everything, still supported him whenever he was worried or anxious - even if she didn’t trust him (“Robert, if this is what I think it is, I don't want to know her name--”). She endured.

Unlike Malcolm, losing her husband and son didn’t cause her to run or gun for revenge, instead she retreated into herself (“When you and Dad disappeared, she spent more and more time at home. Eventually stopped going out altogether.”). She had the exact same reaction after losing Walter. Both times, she put herself back together and pushed through life, solid for her family.

She searched for the Queen’s Gambit for two years after it sank, looking for proof, for surety, before blaming Malcolm. She salvaged the remains and kept them secure to potentially use as leverage at a later date, and never once brought up the fact she knew he murdered her husband and son to Malcolm before the start of the show. For years, she played the good soldier. She let him believe they could still be friends, that she believed in his cause (“And I think I speak for everyone here when I say we're all with you, Malcolm.” and “Moira, you may be surprised to know that I sometimes waver in my convictions. But your friendship, your endless support, always gives me the strength to carry on.”). Moira was never rash, she was always cautious and calculated. There may have been a terrible rage lurking under the surface, but we can only guess based on context - she never truly showed it, certainly never let it dictate her actions. Horror, guilt and sorrow - yes; but not anger. Hell, Malcolm tried to murder Oliver at his party in her own home, the son she’d just got back after five years of believing he was dead (that Malcolm had murdered him along with his father), and her only reaction was to make sure he understood she wouldn’t stand for yet another attempt on her family. Pretty cool under the circumstances. Later, she even made the choice to let Malcolm kidnap her second husband (actually even asked him to do it), rather than opt to fight him together.

Malcolm Merlyn was very much a “high risks, high reward” kind of person. Not Moira. She didn’t like taking risks, playing the game of thrones. She prepared some cards (the Gambit, Grizzled Man), but never attempted anything against him until she was backed into a corner (after the Hood attacked her and she realized she was now caught between two psychopaths). After her carefully planned assassination attempt didn’t pan out, her next move was to cut her losses and retreat, make sure her family was still safe no matter what (and if it meant throwing her good friend Frank and his family under the bus… well she wasn’t their mother, was she?). Moira could be so pretty damn ruthless: having her son kidnapped and tortured as soon as he got back home from 5 years of hell (imagine the trauma if Oliver wasn’t what he was - and Moira sure knew how much pain he already had to deal with: “20% of his body is covered in scar tissue”); having her husband kidnapped right after telling him he was her salvation; planning the murder of one of her oldest friend, him and his guards and the servants and whoever else was on the way, waiting for it to happen right after agreeing to a dinner-date with him; sacrificing another one of her old friends for something she made him do against his own better judgement (after he went out on a limb for her!); being ready to kill thousands of people for her and her family’s safety; etc. But unlike Malcolm her ruthlessness was never rooted in rage, it was always about fear and survival - she did whatever she needed to do for her family.

And I think that’s important in terms of Moira and anger - she should have been angrier. She should have lashed out, fought back, taken risks. Anything but accepted, even for a second, that leveling 24 square blocks and getting away with it was an tolerable end. Anything but surrendered before having tried her damn hardest to get out. Before Oliver pushed her to turn on Malcolm at the last minute, she wasn’t just going to let him murder thousands of people, she actively helped him do it. She bullied people (her friends) into serving his vision, threatened some of them, and it was her company that built the earthquake device at the end of the day. I think sometimes the fandom forgets that - she was a mass-murderer too. Not the architect of the Undertaking, but the second most important conspirator. Her confession at the end of the first season does redeem her a little, but 503 people still paid the price of her selfishness with their lives - not counting the suffering of the numerous survivors: the physical and mental scars, the permanently disabled, the pain of those who lost their loved ones, the struggle of rebuilding a broken community in the poorest part of town. Her belief that her and her family were more important than all of them Glades inhabitants put together, that they weren’t worth protecting, that she could afford to sacrifice them - it caused that. Moira had a right to be afraid; Malcolm had a right to be angry - neither of them had a right to kill.

(And nope I’m not equating what they did, Malcolm is still a hundred times worse.)

Sebastian Blood once asked Moira: “During your trial your portrayed yourself as a fragile creature living under Malcolm Merlyn’s thumb. So which is it? The woman strong enough to lead the city? Or the one too weak-willed to save it?”. The answer is both. Moira had the strength of a mountain, but I meant what I said about anger having a positive side. At the very least, it means that you have an incentive to fight for the wronged. There is something terrible about Moira’s dismissal of the lives that would be lost (that were lost) - “I’m not their mother”, she said.

So, yeah, at the end of the day, Moira was better than Malcolm. She never let her sadness and grief turn into cruelty. Her priority was always to protect the loved ones she had instead of lashing out for the ones she lost. She never let her pain skew her perspective, never forgot how to love. For her children, that was enough. For so many others, it wasn’t.

Thea

So, we have these two terrible disasters - and they made a baby together (volcanic islands are very fertile, they say). Thea, who at four year old brought home a stray cat who horrified her mother (“it was filthy, and it was mean”) and decided it was going to be family; Thea, who fell in love with the delinquent boy who stole her purse; Thea who’d never think of the poor and homeless as any less important than she is, who has a greater capacity for empathy than both her parents put together (heck, maybe even her whole family put together).

(“Thea was always so kind. The kindest person I’ve ever known.”)

Thea has her father’s anger. Sometimes it can be self-destructive, like when she jumped into a car high on Vertigo because she thought her mother was having an affair with Mr. Merlyn (off by a few years), or when she was ready to go to prison just to punish her. It can make her disagreeable, like all the times she lashed out at Oliver after his return from the island for being distant and a liar, or at her mother for being negligent. It can make her hard, like when she categorically refused to visit her mother in prison for months. It can compel her to make some very bad decisions, like letting their family lose their fortune or leaving with Malcolm Merlyn at the end of season 2.

But her anger means that she cares. A lot of people didn’t like Thea in season 1, and maybe she was wrong to be so hard on Oliver or Moira or Roy, but it was because she loved them and more often than not wanted to help them (and it wasn’t such a bad thing to ask them to care about her too from time to time):

Moira: Please, don't presume to think that you know what I'm going through. Thea: I do know. I lost Dad too. I'm worried about Walter too. But I don't get to worry about him, because I'm busy worrying about you. Moira: I never asked you to do that. Thea: Right. Because you don't ask me to do anything anymore. You don't ask me to do my homework or to be home at a decent hour. I mean, you basically stopped being my parent. Moira: Well, how's this? Don't talk to your mother like that. Thea: Maybe you should start acting like my mother. So I don't have to act like yours.

Thea cares about her family so much, blood family and found family, and that makes it so much more difficult every time they betray her, or die, again and again. And as she grows up, we see her lose a lot of her immaturity: Thea inherited Malcolm’s rage, but also her mother’s grace. Despite all the pain she went through, she hasn’t let that anger destroy her like it destroyed her father. When it was amplified by magical factors, she fought against her bloodlust until it was killing her. When she realized it was getting out of hand (when she almost killed a little girl to stop her father - that’s the most like Malcolm she’s ever been), she made the choice to step away from her vigilante life no matter how much she loved it. And she has a huge capacity for empathy and forgiveness: she forgave Oliver once she understood why he was being distant, she forgave Roy for pushing her away every time he did, she forgave her mother for neglecting her after Robert’s death, she forgave her for committing mass-murder once she realized how scared she must have been, she was even ready to forgive Malcolm (“You protected me, risked your life for me. Just like my mother did.”).

She has enough anger in her to be passionate about things, to care that a wrong is being committed - to stand up for the innocents. It means she will never just passively accept an atrocity (mass murder), let alone participate in said atrocity like her mother did. Thea will always choose to fight. How many times has she risked her life for strangers since she became Speedy? At the same time, she has enough love and restrain not to let that anger devour her.

Ultimately, the woman she’s growing into can be the best of both world. Despite all her fears that she is doomed to become her parents, Thea will never be Malcolm, and she will never be Moira. She is, has always been, and will always be better than the both of them.

[ripplestitchskein]

Light of All Lights - A Fairy Tale in Five Parts (3/5)

Notes: Liz  ( @caprelloidea ) does all the heavy lifting around here and this wouldn’t be nearly what it is without her. You are my favorite. 

This part is 100% for @artielu who is the reason I can breathe this week and who’s love for this fic absolutely gives me life. 

I’m still overcome by how much people seem to like this. I hope this chapter does it justice. 

Thanks to @thesschesthair​ for her amazing banner. And all my love to @odonoghues​ for this incredible gifset that made me cry. 

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 five parts.

Rating: Explicit for very obvious reasons. Violence. Angst.

Word Count: 19K+

Part One Here     Part Two Here

ON AO3

______

Emma could smell the ship before she could see it. The musky scent of unwashed men, recently cooked food, and salt sea air permeated the inky black, the sounds of raucous laughter following after.

She blinked and stepped forward.

The cramped dim galley of the very ship wrecked on her beach slid sharply into focus, whole and upright, swaying almost imperceptibly on open water. It was supper time, or thereabouts, dirty hunched over men poked at the last dregs of a pitiful meal by the sparse light of a guttering lantern. She recognized a few of them from her cells below, less weather lined and scarred, but looking more or less the same, less terrified for sure.

She scanned the bench of the table, until she found him, half hidden by the bulk of the man at his side, swallowed up by the crew around him in the cramped little room. He was younger of course, leaner, his hair a tad longer and brushing the collar of his shirt, unkempt and rustled by a long day on deck in the wind.

She stepped forward, her hand lifting, wanting to stroke down his face, his scruff a bit lighter there, the scar on his cheek now just smooth blushing flesh. He looked so much like the Killian in her bed but also completely different. His expression was all too familiar, an embarrassed smile down at the brown flask clutched in his hands, peeking up shyly, but it was so much more, the force of his grin crinkling at the corners of his eyes.

She had seen him happy, had seen those easy smiles, but it was always with that faint edge of sorrow, the undercurrent of anxiety, his posture not nearly as straight backed and confident as the Killian before her. He was still timid, his laugh nervous, his face hesitant and bashful, but he smiled with all of it instead of just his lips and most surprisingly of all, he didn’t flinch when a man slammed down his mug on the table beside him, didn’t cower when someone gestured exuberantly, throwing his arm up to make a point.

Emma stepped into the space across from him, wanting to drink him in, to imprint this version on her memory, remember this happy smile unmarred by wary flickering eyes and nervous tongue pressed to his teeth. She couldn’t touch him of course, only watch, a silent, helpless observer. But she wanted to, and resolved to coax a smile just the same from his face one day so she could trace it with her fingers.

“Yeh did fine,” the large man clapped Killian on the back, sending him forward towards the table with the force. “You’ll get better at it, new ship, new crew. It takes time.” It was the man she had thrown against the wall, still just as ugly as he was now.

Killian nodded, his smile growing, as he took a sip from his flask.

“Now ship business is one thing,” another man said slyly. She recognized him too, the one with the knife, also a large man, his eyes shifty and suspicious, there were two of them now, he hadn’t yet lost the other, but it made him no more appealing. “But as I sees it, if you really wanna go on account, prove you got what it takes, you need something bigger.” The man’s shifting eyes twinkled with the promise of danger.

“Right of passage like,” the first man nodded. “We all had to when we joined up, even the ones who got crimped.”

“‘’Xactly, you’se prey, a merchant dandy, you gotta show Blackbeard you can be a hunter,” the man with the knife replied, slapping his hand on the table. Killian swallowed uneasily.

“How’s that?” He asked, only the faintest hint of a tremor in the question.

“By showin’ ‘im yer a pirate o’course,” the larger man said as if it should be obvious.

“And what better way to show him, than to do what pirates do best?” the man with the knife smiled, a golden tooth glinting in the dim light.

Killian nodded to himself, looking down, considering their suggestion, and she wanted to scream at him, tell him not to trust them, even before the pair exchanged sly smiles above his bowed head. She knew how this tale ended, where this was going.

“What would I need to do?”

Emma closed her eyes to steady herself as the three of them plotted and whispered. Killian eagerly took in their plan, so naive and trusting, smiling broadly whenever they would clap him proudly on the back, praising his bravery, crowing about what a feat this would be. He didn’t stand a chance against such open affection, such brotherly camaraderie. All he wanted was acceptance and they were giving him the cruel lesson of betrayal in return.

“Talk about it for years,” the one man said.

“Stuff of legends,” echoed the first.

She wanted to rip their eyes from their skulls, make them bleed, as they manipulated and preyed upon his trust, his desperation to be wanted. He was obviously new to the ship, thrown into an unfamiliar environment with strange dangerous men at the whim of Lady Luck and a well placed bluff. His only desire was to do well, to be accepted. It pained her to think that even years after this moment, over a decade it seemed, he would still be craving the exact same thing.

____

The scene shifted and morphed before her, the next one in the memory, the important salient details all he had retained. She was in a dark hallway now, pitch black save for a thread of moonlight through an uneven slat of the deck above, and she could just make out his eyes in the dim, the shine of his hair. He moved with silent quickness, that same quality that helped him go unnoticed working to his advantage now.

He went to work on the lock with a tiny set of borrowed picks, fumbling slightly as he worked. The task was obviously unfamiliar to him, his hands unsteady as he lost his grip and it slid against the lock with a faint ping of metal on metal. He froze, held his breath, and tried again.

She reached out, her hand passing through him like a ghost, the memory rippling around him like water. Tears pricked her eyes as he grinned in the moonlight when the lock caught, triumphant and so very proud of himself. He should be in bed, swaying in a hammock halfway across the ship, anxiously trying to sleep as he worried about a new day with a new crew. How different would the man she knew be if this night had never happened? Or was this always meant to be the way? No matter what he chose all paths would lead to this. He was simply too bright for them, too good, would have always outshone them, cast their sins in stark relief, if not this day then another, they would have done anything it took to snuff him out. She could only be glad it didn’t appear they had completely succeeded.

She followed Killian into the room, all morbid curiosity and dread. The Captain’s cabin was brighter than the hall, the windows along the stern were larger, the moon outside was full, ominous, and she could see his every movement in the glow. He slipped along the furniture, his feet making no noise on the wood, and opened a cabinet along the wall.

“Put it back,” she whispered to herself even though she knew it was useless. “Please put it back.”

Killian drew the crystal decanter from the cabinet still smiling, like he couldn’t believe he had done it, and Emma couldn’t help thinking the port swirling inside it looked like blood, the glass winking in the light.

“Captain Silver didn’t mention you were a thief as well as useless,” came an amused voice from the doorway.

Blackbeard stepped inside, a lantern filling the room in eerie orange light. Emma’s stomach plummeted in perfect time with the decanter falling from Killian’s fingers as he fumbled in startled surprise. It struck the floor with a tinkling crash, fine crystalline shards and blood red wine covering the polished wood.

“I’m sorry!” he dropped to his knees, hands shaking as he went to pick up the pieces. His beautiful hands.

“For stealing from me or breaking it?” Blackbeard frowned. “That was a gift from my mother.”

“I wasn’t-” Killian shook his head. “It was just the test,” he said. “I didn’t mean to break it, truly, but I wasn’t stealing, I was going to give it to you, they said-”

“You were going to give me my own port?” Blackbeard raised an eyebrow. “How very generous.”

“No, no,” Killian shook his head, and she could only watch helplessly as he struggled to get out the words, his tongue refusing to cooperate.

“Wake Starkey!” Blackbeard barked over his shoulder. Killian sank in relief.

“Yes! Starkey! He’ll explain everything,” he said gratefully.

It seemed like hours before the man appeared at the door, his eyes glinting, a wry smile on his face. It was the large man from the galley, a name given to his ugly twisted face.

“What ‘ave we ‘ere?” Starkey asked innocently looking down at Killian, still kneeling on the floor, port soaking through the leg of his trousers.

“Seems Jones here thought he could help himself to my wine,” Blackbeard raised an eyebrow.

“No! I wasn’t going to drink it, I couldn’t even if I wanted to,” Killian shook his head looked pleadingly over at the man he mistakenly thought would be his savior. “Starkey can tell you.”

“Tell him wha’?” Starkey asked. Emma clenched her fists as Killian looked at him confused.

“About the plan,” Killian said, his weak smile up at the man made her heart turn to coal in her chest. He trusted him, and it sent a lance of pain through her chest to watch that faith falter.

“Plan?” Blackbeard smiled dangerously. “So this was a group heist?”

“I’ve no idea what ‘e’s on about,” Starkey said. He leaned back, hands on his belt.

“But the…rite of passage,” Killian’s face dropped, realization slowly dawning, his brows drawing together. “To prove myself.”

“The only thing I see ‘ou’ve proven is you’re a mugger,” Starkey said.

“Evans! Evans can tell you, he was there too,” Killian turned to the Captain. Emma almost couldn’t handle the desperation on his face as he pleaded.

“Alright, if you insist,” Blackbeard said reasonably, a smile curling his lips. “Somebody find me Evans!” He shouted out the door.

The man with the knife appeared almost instantly, as if he had been waiting in the shadows, his face twisted in wicked wide eyed innocence.

“Tell them,” Killian leapt forward from the floor, going towards him. Evans held up his hands as Killian approached, practically grabbed onto his shirt in desperation. “Tell them what I was doing!”

Evans peered over Killian’s shoulder at the glass and wine.

“Looks to me like you were making a mess of the Captain’s private stores,” Evans said drily.

“No!” Killian shook his head. “I wasn’t-” he turned to Blackbeard and swallowed. “It was just a test, I promise, I swear, it was just a test, so I could show you that I could be a pirate and not a…dandy merchant.” Blackbeard laughed at the description, and Emma felt her throat close at the flash of hope on Killian’s face at the sound. Hopeful till the bitter end.

“You know, I think Jones here might have a bit of a problem with the ole’ drink,” Evans said conversationally, crossing his arms across his chest to regard him. “Always tippling away at his flask.”

“G-goats milk,” Killian stammered. “I have to drink it quick so it doesn’t spoil.”  The trio looked at him incredulous, and darkly amused.

Emma watched in dismay as he fumbled in his pockets, the brown glass flask encased in leather tumbling out of his clutching fingers before he could catch it. Starkey laughed and kicked it away, somewhere into the shadows of the room.

“Starkey, you’re the quartermaster, what say you?” Blackbeard asked conversationally. “Put it to a vote?”

“Nah, I think it’s plain to see what ‘appened ‘ere,” Starkey pulled his lips into a sneering grin.

Killian relaxed for a second, relieved.

“Thank you, I was only trying-”

Starkey cut him off.

“Theft aboard the ship, and from tha Cap’n no less,” Starkey shook his head in mock derision. Emma wanted to snap his neck, feel his bones break under her fingers as Killian froze, his mouth dropping open in surprise.

“Well we can’t kill him,” Blackbeard said reasonably, crossing over to the table. He propped his booted feet on the surface, leaning back in his chair. “There’s still the matter of his debt. I can’t collect from a dead man.” Emma was only sorry she couldn’t kill him again, that she hadn’t made him suffer worse during their brief time together.

“Aye Cap’n,” Starkey nodded. “Useless as ‘e is there’s still money owed. Floggin’s not enough tho’,” he frowned.

“And we can’t let the men think they have free reign,” Evans pointed out. She would skin him, piece by piece, rip the flesh from his traitorous bones. Killian’s face turned gray and ashen, his entire body shaking in disbelief as they casually discussed his fate.

Emma cried out as he suddenly moved, with desperate swiftness, and yanked the knife from Evans’s belt. It trembled in his hand as he brandished it before him and her heart thudded against her ribs.

“Tell him the truth,” he said, his voice shaking as well, each word hard and measured. Blackbeard watched on with cold, amused, detachment. “Tell him!” Killian’s voice broke.

Starkey and Evans looked at each other for a moment. And laughed.

In one quick movement Evans knocked the knife from Killian’s hand, sending it spinning, his fist bearing down almost simultaneously. Killian cried out, swinging wildly, barely connecting before the man hit him again, and again. He fell to his knees with a grunt of pain, trying to rise. Trying so hard to fight. He swung upwards with a clumsy stroke, barely grazing the man, just in time to meet Starkey’s fist from the other side.

“Striking a fellow crew member on board,” Blackbeard tsked. “We are in fine form this evening, Jones.”

Killian moaned from the floor as Starkey delivered a swift kick to his ribs. Evans went in again with his fists. Emma clenched her own at her side, unshed tears of rage burning as he curled into a fetal position on the floor at her feet, his hands over his head to stop their blows. It seemed to go on forever, strike after strike, flesh hitting flesh, striking bone. She marked each one, committed it to memory.

“Take him to the brig, we’ll address the crew in the morning.” Blackbeard said finally, and waved a bored hand at the men. The two hauled Killian up, and he hung limp and bleeding between them. His eye was already swelling closed, blood trickling down his face from a wound under his hair. Emma reached out, ghosted over the mark, as they carried him bodily from the room, his skin rippling as the world went black.

____

Brilliant morning sun lit the deck, the sky a clear cloudless blue as they dragged Killian forward in front of a gathered crowd. The men glared and spit as he passed, cursing him, a motley crew of ugly scowling faces. Thievery was not well tolerated on a pirate ship and they didn’t know him, he was new here, unwanted. They pushed him with rough hands, kicked out at his legs so he tripped and stumbled in the grip of his captors, threw rotten food and bloody chum they had brought for the occasion as he went by. He jerked away from them, his unmarked eye wild with hurt and terror. He had nowhere to go, a caged animal, the ocean stretching out in endless navy water all around them.

Emma marked their faces, memorized each one, seared them into her memory. If they were in her hold they too would pay, and even if they weren’t, she would find out their names from the rest, hunt them down, and make them scream.

Killian’s face was a swollen, mottled, purple, the blood dried black and crimson in patches on his beard, so weak and tired he could only sway when they released him, sinking to one knee before the Captain and the Quartermaster, his hand leaning heavily on the deck struggling to support him.

“As you all know-” Blackbeard addressed the murmuring crew, pacing the deck before them. “The punishment for stealing from The Company is death, or if I’m in a particularly good mood, exile.”  

He pressed a booted foot to Killian’s shoulder, shoving him further to the ground.

“Jones here, however, owes me a debt, one he has not even begun to fulfill, and as such, he has far more utility if he remains alive to pay it. Mister Starkey! What have you decided on instead?”

He turned to the Quartermaster who grinned, his eyes shining in the sun as he looked down at Killian’s prone figure at their feet.

“Seems to me,” Starkey said. “Jones here needs a little reminder, sos he don’t slip up again. I say we take a thieven’ hand!”

The crew cheered at the pronouncement, a raucous yell of unsympathetic cheers echoing across the water. Killian shook his head fiercely.

“Please,” he rasped out, looking up at Starkey with one swollen eye. “Tell them. Please.” His voice broke.

“Get ‘im up,” Starkey said. Evans and another crew member, a small monkey faced man, lifted Killian up to his knees again, a third man darting forward with something thick and leather in his hand.

“Jones!” Blackbeard said jovially. “Catch.” He threw something, the object glittering in the air. Killian reached automatically forward, weakly catching it against the wood. He closed his fist around it, flipping it around to see. It was the crystal top of the decanter.

“Take that one,” Blackbeard said nonchalantly. “We’ll get him a doctor when we make land. Tally the expense, add it to his debt sheet.” He waved a dismissive hand.

“No! Please! Tell them! You have to tell them!” Killian bucked against them, the two men holding him firmly as the third pulled up his sleeve, wrapping the thick leather strap just above the jutting bone of his wrist, cinching it tightly. He had such delicate wrists for such large beautiful hands Emma thought wildly.

“It was a test!” Killian cried out. “Please! Don’t-Please! Tell them!”

The man jerked his hair back, shoving something thick and round between his teeth, muffling his cries. Killian bucked and writhed, pulling away, digging his heels into the deck as he shrieked against the gag.

Emma had seen many a man tortured, had seen them beg and plead, their blood on her hands and a smile on her face. She could not watch this. Could not watch him. She turned away. Her stomach twisted as he yelled begging protests against the gag, blood thudding in her ears, heart pounding in her chest so hard she could see it through her skin. She closed her eyes, squeezing them tighter and tighter as he pleaded out unintelligible words, clenched her teeth at the scrape of his boots across the deck as they dragged him bodily to the barrel setup special on the deck, a clear view for the enraptured audience. She could hear his resistance every step of the way.

The sun was warm on her neck, a calm breeze blowing across the water. It was truly a lovely day on a calm sea. There was a hush as the crew fell silent, watching in grim fascination, Killian’s muffled cries the only noise in the entire world, until the scrape of a blade against a leather sheath, unnaturally loud.

And then Killian screamed as the gag fell out.

_____

It was black again when the memory shifted, the world smelling of rot and waste. No light shown in the new room, there were no cracks in the wood or windows for the moon, and it took her a moment to realize they were in the brig.

It was so dark.

Emma pulled out her blue orb, casting the foul place in a turquoise glow, finding him immediately in the tiny cramped room, curled up on a sodden pad that was nothing more than rags and unclean straw. She wished desperately that he could see the glow, take comfort in the light, if she could offer him nothing else. How long had he been left down here in the pitch black, in this foul place?

His wrist was a blunted end of blood soaked rags, dried black and brown with age, and his skin was slick with the heavy sheen of sweat, his hair soaked through with it, sticking fast to his forehead and his neck. His head lolled with fever against grime covered wood, his teeth clenched as he cried out in pain.

She should leave, she should go, back to her Killian, she needed to touch him, put her lips to his, remind herself he was okay, he had survived this, but she couldn’t. He didn’t know she was there, he couldn’t feel her, he was just an echo, an impression in time, he wasn’t real, but she couldn’t bring herself to leave him all alone.

Emma settled onto the muck covered floor, whispered comforting words he couldn’t hear, promises of retribution, of payment soon to be exacted. She would have every moan, every pleading cry that had fallen from his lips, every scream, repaid tenfold. For every tear that streaked unchecked from his beautiful blue eyes, that clung to too long lashes, she would take twenty, for every drop of blood spilled from his veins she would take a goblet full from theirs.

Killian cried out next to her as he shifted on the filthy mattress, at first she thought it moaning nonsense, unintelligible pained cries, but it was a melodic keening warble, coming forth in a quiet shaky voice.

“I thought I heard the old man say-” he gasped again as another wrack of pain went through him. “Leave her, Johnny leave her.”

He closed his eyes, leaned his head back against the wood, looked at the ceiling in a silent prayer, breathed in quick rapid breaths.

“You can go ashore and take your pay,” even laced with suffering and fatigue, his eyes fever bright, his voice was lovely, shaking and trembling with strain and agony but pure and sweet in tone. Emma felt a tear drip down her nose as he let out a harsh gasping cry, singing faster against the lancing pain.

“For the voyage is done and the winds do blow. It’s time for us to leave her.”

She wanted to take his head in her lap, stroke his hair, whisper her lips against his skin, but she could only sit, watch him writhe against the agony, doing his best to block it out with an old familiar tune.

“Oh, leave her. Johnny, leave her with a grin. For there’s many a worser we’ve sailed in.”

_____

Killian awoke to a warm mouth pressed to his, a tongue tracing the seam of his lips. He startled, clutching the blankets, his hook digging into the sheets. He relaxed a fraction automatically, without consciously realizing why, and sank into warm bliss, arching up to meet her, sucking in air and her scent through his nose, his heart still thudding somewhere in his throat.

“Sorry.” Emma said into his mouth, she pulled away not looking remotely apologetic, her eyes bright and shining in the candlelight. They looked odd though, black instead of green, and he was too shaken by the jolt from sleep to consciousness to put his finger on why.

“It’s fine,” it came out like a squeak, panic drifting away as she climbed into the vast bed.

He watched in bleary eyed amazement, his mind still catching up to the sudden wakefulness, pushing down the fear he was being suffocated in his sleep. She slid under the thick blanket onto his lap and it was only then he realized she was completely and utterly naked.

“Good morning,” she smiled down at him, her words were cheerful rasping smoke, but her smile was tight and strained.

Killian could only stare at her in open mouthed awe, her hair, like glorious strands of moonlight, hung loose and free in curls down her back and chest, partially covering her breasts. He had never seen it down, and he needed a moment to take it in, to take her in. She looked softer, younger, a fairy queen staring down at him from above, her lips pink instead of crimson, her expression turning wickedly devious as she watched him.

“Wha-good morning?” he stuttered out. He looked around the room, wondering if perhaps he was still asleep. He pressed his hook against his leg to check for the presence of pain, make sure this wasn’t some incredible dream. It bloomed sharp and quick against his thigh just as Emma shifted against his morning hardness, sending a bright burst of pleasure up his spine. He still wasn’t sure.

“I thought we should get an early start on today’s lesson,” she murmured.

He wished he had something devastatingly clever and witty to reply with, but all he could manage was a nervous nod and a stuttered, “O-okay.”

She leaned down to kiss him again, but he shifted back.

“What about the sunrise?” He glanced to the windows over his shoulder, the pre-dawn light turning the sky a dull muted gray, not quite time but mere moments from now. He may not know much of her, but he knew she was a creature of habit, her things arranged just so, her routines varied only by the presence of strangers in her home, knew that she had seen over a hundred thousand by her own admission, and it unnerved him that she was here now, looking so enticing, kissing him with desperation and sad dark eyes, rather than staring out over the ocean and horizon as she had most days of her long life.

“I like this more,” she whispered, and leaned down again. There was something off in her kisses, something urgent and too much. It took him another moment to register it fully, her lush mouth searing into him, turning him to liquid, stealing the breath from his lungs. He pulled away again.

“Is something wrong?” he asked and he felt like a bloody fool. A beautiful woman, looking like Aphrodite in the flesh was throwing herself at him, had climbed into his bed, was presently on top of him, and all he could do was worry.

Emma leaned back, regarding him with a wary frown.

“Why?”

“You just-” he motioned at her uselessly, trying not to get distracted by the tempting sway of her beasts, the shining fullness of her hair, the pink of her mouth. “You seem like something’s wrong.”

“No,” she said slowly, that wicked grin crept across her face and she slid her hands up his chest, shifting again deliberately against him. “Nothing’s wrong. I just missed you.” Sincerity rang clear as crystal, but her face tightened a fraction once more.

He wasn’t in anyway convinced, wanted to press further, but she settled herself more firmly on his length, pressed her breasts against his chest, scraping deliciously against the hair there, and kissed him again. He kissed her back, rising up against her, some selfish part of him insisting he was helping, if this is what she needed, if this is what would soothe her odd mood and the lines of worry etched in her brow, then he would give her all he had. It was a weak justification, a selfish one truly, but he was not a strong man. She had missed him.

She ground down on him again, smiling against his mouth as he hissed. He was overly tender and raw in the mornings on the most normal of days, but her heat against him, his skin already burning, was more than he could bear. She rocked down again.

“E-Emma,” he pulled away once more. She huffed.

“Killian,” she replied with hard impatience. “Nothing is wrong.”

“No, no, I know,” he flushed. “I just, I don’t want…” he frowned trying to think of the best way to say it. She mirrored his expression, already misunderstanding him, moving to slide off, hurt and something like worry flashed in her eyes. It made them green emeralds again, the black receding. He clutched at her, keeping her in place.

“I don’t want to do…well that again,” he said quickly, motioning down his body to his lap where they were joined, separated only by a thin layer of cloth.

He had been out of his mind with lust in the sitting room, too overcome with his own mindless indulgence, with the feel of her against him, to reciprocate in kind. His awkward fumbling later in the bath, those glorious heady moments where he felt like he was possibly able to please her, was cold comfort for what she truly deserved. And today it was worse, more important than ever, something was off in her kisses, different in her expression, had changed in the night with no rhyme or reason as he’d slept.

He didn’t have a wealth of experience in the area, but he could tell the difference between sweet and ravenous. Now she was ravenous. She seemed to require something he wasn’t sure he could give, might not be able to give. She had thanked him after in the tub, her eyes had been sincere, her words honest and true, but her kisses this morning spoke of a woman unfulfilled, grasping for more. Her eyes were bright, but rimmed in red and sorrow.

Understanding dawned across her face, and that made him feel worse if possible. She shouldn’t understand. She should demand more, she deserved more, she was an immortal being who possessed the power to move the world, even without her magic, and she may deny with words that she was a goddess, resent the notion even, but he had seen the truth in action, and he had learned long ago that was the only truth there was.

The lonely years she had spent here had perhaps sullied her expectations, had made even the mediocre seem good enough, and if he didn’t understand what she found so appealing about him, she shouldn’t either. He knew who he was, what he was capable of.  And he also knew, as surely as he could map the stars in the sky, her desperation, her need would only grow as he continued and continued to fail her. He released his hand from her waist, letting it fall to the blanket.

Emma watched it drop with another frown, and looked at him for a long moment.

“How many women have you been with?” Emma asked suddenly, that regal satin voice breaking him out of his thoughts.

Mortification slid up his neck, turning him bright red, his cheeks flaming. He looked away. He had thought it was perfectly obvious, his lack of knowledge about intimate things, his poor performance last night as she’d brought him to the peak in mere moments, the entire point of their lessons. He’d thought she knew.

“Well I, um,” he swallowed, trying to move away, shift her off him. She stopped him cold, her thighs squeezing to hold him in place.

“How many?”

“Well…none,” he didn’t want to look at her as he admitted it so plainly. Thirty three or thirty four years on this earth and not once had he lain with a single soul. He had come close, a few persistent lasses had tried their best, had worked hard for the coin he thrust at them with clammy nervous hand, left his rooms confused and livid when he couldn’t go through with it in the end. Lecherous saltdogs, alighting on his pretty face, his youth, and seeing opportunity, propositioning him in dark corners of the ship.

There were no starry eyed notions of love behind his reluctance, no moral grounds for his hesitance, no strict adherence to religious principles, just cowardice pure and simple. He was a coward and Emma, goddess that she was, deserved better than a coward.

He tried to pull away again, but she was too strong, too determined. He risked a glance up, expecting cold anger, or pity, anything other than the expression on her face.

She looked, in truth, exasperated.

“Did you really think I didn’t know that?” her voice was that same chilling coldness threaded with incredulity.

“I-well,” he shrugged. “I suspected, what with the…uh, the lessons.” His voice hitched on the word. “But-” he cut himself off.

“But?”

“You just,” he swallowed again, frustration evident in every syllable. “You presume I can do this, like my inexperience-” he paused. “Like it doesn’t matter.”

“Because it doesn’t matter,” she tilted her head. “I said I would show you, teach you.”

“But you shouldn’t-” he closed his eyes. “-you shouldn’t have to.”

She laughed. But it was not the musical trill he was used to, the laugh that had changed the course of his fate, the one pressed against his chest during delightful games of play and touch. This was the sound of prisoners in the dungeons, and games designed to hurt. He froze.

“I don’t do anything because I should,” she whispered dangerously. “This is what I want.”

She was a slow seductress, leaning lower, her hair brushing his chest, eyes hot.

“You are what I want,” she scraped her nails down his chest. “Like beautiful moldable clay.”

She kissed his neck, scraped her teeth along the cords, a shiver going down his spine, his hardness throbbing against her.

“What better lover could there be than the one you craft and guide to your own desires?”

What do the Gods do with their discarded playthings?

The words rang through his head as cold anxiety settled heavy on his chest, doubled by the weight of her, pressing her lips to his ear, tracing the shell with her tongue, completely unaware as she tugged his earlobe with rasping teeth, that his chest was caving in, his heart crushed beneath the wreckage.

This was what he wanted wasn’t it? To be the tool with which she obtained her pleasure, useful, purposeful, wanted, like the hook on his hand, she could use him as she saw fit. She was honing him, sharpening him, molding him, to be exactly what she needed. Was that not what he wanted to do? Be what she needed?

He took in air that couldn’t fill his lungs, there wasn’t enough air in the room, possibly not enough in the world, and he fisted at the blanket, willing himself to calm, to focus on her mouth as it trailed soft kisses down his neck, her scent drifting over him. That only made it worse, a stark reminder in warm lips and hot flesh of where this was leading, what she wanted from him that he would be unable to provide, images of her looking down at him, angry and confused, wondering why, how could he possibly be so broken? She would tell him to leave, to go back to the ship, the crew. He couldn’t breathe. He was drowning in panic, his entire body cold despite her heat.

“Killian?” Emma leaned back then, frowning down at him in concern, the smoke of her voice softening some, becoming worried honeyed cream.

“S’fine,” he tried to smile, and failed, tried to make his face appear normal, but his eyes were too wide, his lips stretching across gritted teeth. He turned his head away, screaming at himself to calm down. There was nothing wrong. She wanted him. She was here. She’d missed him. She was as close as someone could bloody be without crawling inside for fuck’s sake, calm down.

“Killian, what’s wrong?” She slid off him, the pressure easing slightly, but there still wasn’t enough air, his skin pulling tight, every stitch of clothing, the heavy weight of the blankets, he could feel them all acutely, tearing at his skin, holding him down. He wished she’d call him Hook, he could handle this all so much better, this temporary role in her life, the natural and eventual end to his utility, if she called him by the name he was familiar with.

“I just need-” he wheezed. “-a moment.”

He wasn’t quite sure what was happening, his brain was screaming, every word of every thought in his head was spoken in a yell inside his mind. It was too much, too fast. Warm sleep, dreams of her, and then startling awake, her mouth demanding, her expression troubled, dark laughter and kisses that led to places he wasn’t sure he was able to go.

She ran her hands over him, checking for injury, concern and fear filling her beautiful porcelain face. He didn’t want that, it would only continue to stack the deck against him, dull him in her eyes quicker, and most importantly it hurt her, but he didn’t know how to stop doing whatever it was that was making her have that face. He couldn’t seem to get himself under control.

“It’s okay,” she said softly. She pressed her cheek to his head. “It’s okay. It’s my fault, I didn’t mean it that way.”

“I’m sorry,” he gasped out through heaving panting breaths, rising to sit.

“It’s okay,” she repeated and her voice was breaking him apart, she was being so patient, so soothing. For how long? He had learned the hard way that people possessed a finite amount of patience, of understanding, when it came to him, and in his experience she was well beyond the usual threshold.

“It is not bloody well okay,” it was the closest he had come to harsh, the closest he had come to angry, and he regretted it instantly, shrinking away from her as if preparing for a blow. None came, of course none came, he didn’t believe for a second she would, but old habits died slow deaths. She slid across his legs again, and sat back, regarding him for a long dreadful moment until she spoke.

“The thing about us is, you always struggle to find the words to say the right thing and I manage to find all the wrong words and then have to struggle to make them right.”

“You didn’t-” he looked up at her, went to deny her accusation in a shaky trembling voice, not quite a lie but not quite the truth, but she stopped him speaking again, leaned over to press her palm along his mouth, warm and reassuring, her body keeping him contained. It was easier to breathe with her holding him down, looking at him like that. His skin was not enough alone to hold him, he needed firm pressure, hard hands and clenching thighs.

“I said something stupid and you got upset,” she reminded him wryly. “It doesn’t take a grand leap in logic to figure out it was my fault. Or what’s wrong.”

Dread coiled in his stomach again, creeping up his ribs to join the slowly ebbing panic. He didn’t want to explain, didn’t want her to know how ridiculous he was, how much he fretted and worried over something she had already given reassurance for. But most of all he didn’t want her to confirm the inevitable truth of it, to give voice to some dark day in the future when she wouldn’t want him anymore. He was stuck in the middle, between wanting to learn and allow himself be molded to her whims, built with her own hands to please her, but knowing that her interest, her curiosity, lie in who he was now, the challenge he presented her, the new games she could play.

Emma’s voice broke through, drawing him back to her, expecting harsh reality, cold truth.

“I realized last night how…unfair I’ve been,” she confessed, surprising him instead. Always surprising him. “I’ve pushed you so hard.”

He went to speak his voice muffled by her hand. She gave him a sharp look.

“I’m talking,” her voice was hard, but not unkind. He nodded against her palm for her to continue.

“I’m not-” she shifted uncomfortably on top of him, and against his will soft pleasure tugged across his belly. “-good at this. The talking thing, I never have been. And sometimes it’s because of me, and sometimes it’s something…else.” Her eyes flickered briefly to the side. “But I’m going to try, okay?”

She looked down at him, waiting for his answer, her palm was still across his mouth, so he did what he could to tell her, how her simple statement, that one word, try, filled him with something indescribable, a tiny warmth in his ribs, pushing back against the fear. He pressed his lips against her palm, and nodded.

_____

This is it dearie, the darkness whispered giddily. Here it comes. The beginning of the end.

You don’t know that, she wanted to yell at it, scream her denials, but she didn’t have to, it could hear her anyway. It just laughed.

Oh but I do, it smiled against her heart, bearing its teeth with every thud, how quickly we forget the past in favor of the future.

It’s different, she argued, he’s different.

The darkness gave no reply, and that was somehow worse.

Beneath her, Killian looked up with wide grateful eyes, the curl of his smile rising under her palm, her skin tingling where it pressed against his face.

She had come out of his memory in a raging daze, tears drying on her cheeks, her skin cracking and pulling under their weight. She wanted to spit fire, level mountains, his whimpering cries, his sweet trembling song, still echoing in her ears. She had debts to collect, tears and blood and tormented screams to take in payment.

But she also needed to see him. Sleeping and peaceful, whole and unmarred, instead of gasps of agony just the slow rise and fall of sleep. The dawn was close, the familiar itch under her skin of rapidly approaching day, but she’d changed course, heading to his room instead.

And now, as she looked down at him, his eyes still shining with the threat of panicked tears, the aftermath of her careless words, cheeks edging over the ridge of her fingers as he smiled beneath her hand, relaxing under her, she knew it was the better choice. She shifted meaningfully against him.

“But before I…try-”, she could feel the rising swell of lust, blacking out the fear of revealing herself, the uncertainty of his reactions, the dark promise and oncoming tide of vowed vengeance, “-I believe we have a lesson to get to. I don’t want to ruin the mood.”

It was tiny joke, a teasing thing to let him know his reaction was alright, understandable, and the tips of his cheeks above her hand reddened, his eyes crinkling at the corners. She gave a little shimmy, her eyes full of intent.

His widened with something completely different now, his throat working as he swallowed nervously. Emma promised herself she wasn’t deflecting, she had always been better at the physical, replacing feelings with touch, avoiding revealing herself in favor of revealing her body. But she had promised she would try, and she would, he deserved no less, had shown her more than anyone ever had, laid himself bare for her over and over again. And she had taken from him, selfishly grabbed hold of what he hadn’t wanted to part with, seen the depth of his pain. The least she could do was show him a bit of hers. But the darkness kept creeping into her thoughts, anger still licking up her spine, and she needed the comforting warmth of his touch before she could expose herself further, even in the tiniest measure. She pulled her hand back, and slowly smiled.

Killian looked up at her, mouth working as he waited for the words to come. She moved against him somewhat impatiently, her nerves on edge.

“I can do it,” he said finally. “Whatever you need me to do, if you need more, you don’t have to make-” he struggled. “-accommodations for me. I can be better.”

Before she could reply, deny his words outright, he shot up, bracing her back against his arm. She sank lower into the cradle of his lap, surprised by the sudden movement, and to find they were of a similar height now, and he ducked his head, intending to kiss her.

“Killian,” she pressed a hand against his chest, stilling him. His face fell.

“Apologies, I shouldn’t have-” she pressed a quick kiss to his mouth, a reassurance.

“No, that was fine,” she said. “More than fine. But you’re wrong, I’m not “making accommodations”, I told you before, this is what I want.” She dared a look in his eyes, seeing the hesitation there, the undercurrent of disbelief.

“What we’ve been doing, the pace we’ve set, it’s not for you-” she licked her lips, forcing herself to say it, even if everything in her rebelled against the very idea of it, she looked away, “-well not just for you. It’s for me too.”

She swallowed, even that small confession searing her nerves further, the darkness snarling. But the expression on his face, that beautiful shining gratitude, was worth a thousand vulnerable confessions. “I want this to be different.”

“That’s what I want too,” he said softly, his eyes darting away. “More than you know.”

Emma couldn’t help but grin at the shy earnestness, her chest warming, before she shook her head and let out a shaky breath.

“Now, enough talking,” she said firmly, pushing away her discomfort the only way she knew how, by pressing him back against the rise of the pillows.

“I’m no good at it anyway. Maybe I can find a better use for this mouth,” he said with a raised brow. The effect was somewhat ruined as he blinked in surprise at himself, at his almost flirtatious response. The warm feeling grew, turning to stark heat as she shifted, feeling him under her.

“Oh, I have no doubt you will,” she said slyly, and leaned down to kiss him. He opened under her immediately, drawing her in, a little more confident today, a little less hesitant. His tongue against her own sent a cool shiver down her back, her hair brushing around his face, blocking out the world for a brief moment, just lips and tongue and shining silver. She luxuriated in him, spread herself along his body, the rise of his chest, the firmness of his thighs, the fresh clean scent of his skin. He was warm sunshine in her mouth, a dawn cresting over the horizon filling her with morning light as he hummed into her, shifting and unconsciously pressing himself against her thigh.

She smoothed her hand along his shirt, the faint trickle of magic turning it into bare, warm, skin. He gasped against her lips as she moved her chest against him, and she moaned in reply at the rasp and slide of his hair against her breasts. He was fever hot under her, muscled flesh and decadence, and she brought her hand lower, repeated the motion, until there was no barrier at all between them.

He bucked against her leg at the sudden sensation of soft thigh against him, hot and thick against her delicate skin. She shifted to the side a bit to feel him fully, brushing against the space between her thighs, the beautiful contrast of hard and smooth.

“E-Emma,” he stuttered out a warning as she moved again, slid upwards, his length pressing teasingly against her, not enough, just a whisper.

“Shh,” she murmured. “I’m getting to know you.” Listen, watch, pay attention, she echoed the words in her head, remembered his face in the bath as she’d instructed him, and she smiled. Killian nodded, squeezing his eyes closed and threw his head back against the pillow in sweet torment as she rocked against him again.

Emma moved down to his side, stretching herself along the length of his body underneath his arm, hooking her calf over his leg as she trailed a fingertip down the center of his chest, careful to avoid the crisscrossing straps of his brace, his hook safety tucked into the small of her back. It made him look dangerous, that black leather against pale hard skin, etched in silver scars, only softened by his gasping mouth and the slack desire on his face.

He opened his eyes, breathing a little easier as she shifted away, watching her intently. She laid her head against his shoulder, the leather hard under her, and slowly trailed one delicate nail around his nipple, tracing the faint line of a scar there, the subtle dip of muscle, and listened as he sucked in air through his teeth with a muted hiss. He was so responsive, so sensitive, and she reveled in it.

Emma kept going, down the lines of his abdomen, the delicious hollow of his hips, and with every inch his breath grew shallower, his body tensing in anticipation. She trailed her finger down his length, the skin velvet and hot, and watched as his hips lifted against his will, a stuttered gasp as she traced the tip. She trailed her finger back down to the base and curled her hand, grasping him firmly within it.

Killian made a noise in the back of his throat that sent a sharp jolt of want straight to her center, and she moved her hand down and back up to hear it again, she needed to hear it again, his muscles shifting as he scrabbled against the sheets. She imagined he took himself in hand from time to time, a captured moment in the dark, fist working, his lip biting down to muffle his cries, lashes fluttering against his cheeks just like now, all kinds of delicious images filling her head of Killian stealing secret moments, making her throb. She wondered if anyone else had ever had the pleasure of touching him like this, feeling him like this.

Emma moved with deliberate purpose, slow measured strokes, watching his breath, his teeth moving against his lips as he gasped. She changed course, an open palm brushing lightly down him instead now, feathery touches from base to tip, and he shuddered, a little “Oh” of a surprise moaned out into the air.

She leaned over, traced her tongue down the cords of his neck, bit down lightly on the tender skin, as she grasped him again, without warning, keeping him guessing, stroking faster and firmer this time. He tossed his head back in surprise at the change, bowing his back against the bed. She listened carefully, his breath panting and fast, but not quite where she wanted it.

Emma leaned forward again, dropping her head to drag her tongue along the scar on his chest, moving upwards to circle the pink tip of his nipple, framed by the lines of the leather brace above and below. His head turned away from her to the side, harsh little pants and straining muscles, and she stopped her strokes, went back to open handed brushes at his cue, lightly grazing over hard silken skin, palming the sensitive tip with each pass until his breathing slowed again.

He turned his head back towards her, his hair a chaotic mess, his eyes meeting her own, understanding the game. She smiled at him slowly, waited until his body relaxed, until his urgent gasps became more measured, his eyes closing in quiet reverent enjoyment.

And then she moved, sliding down slightly, leaning over him to grasp the base of him in her hand as she took him into her mouth.

“Oh Gods,” he cried out as her lips circled around him, his hook digging into the bed behind her. His hand scrubbed involuntarily across his face, keening cries muffled by his palm as she dipped and tasted, bringing him in deeper. Emma moaned against him, swirled her tongue and sucked as he babbled something unintelligible into his hand above her.

Every pleasured noise he made sent a thrill through her, a pang straight to where she was wet and aching and she needed more. She ran her tongue up his length, circled the tip, delighting in her broken name falling from his mouth. She rubbed her thighs together for more friction, throbbing to feel him against her, inside her. She dipped her head again, taking him in fully.

“Bloody-” he bit off a curse, jerking, fisting his hand into the sheets as she slowly drug her mouth back up, one tiny delicate suck on the top, before she moved her hand in again to resume the fine gossamer strokes.

He eased on elbows back against the bed, still breathing hard and she pressed a kiss to his stomach, curling around him to continue her work, more soft open palmed drags against him until his breathing slowed, and he relaxed his grip on the sheets.

She needed more though, the lack of friction had left her hollow and clenching. The noises he made, the his neck straining, his face blown in unrestrained ecstasy, made her want more than she had ever wanted. She could still taste him on her tongue, could feel him in her mouth and she needed him everywhere.

“Killian,” she murmured against his stomach, fine hair tickling her chin. He rose up a bit, looking down the length of his body. “I need you to do something.”

“Anything,” he whispered to the ceiling his head falling back as she ghosted her hand across his length again.

“I need to feel you,” she stroked again. It was earlier than she had necessarily planned, but like every day so far with him she couldn’t seem to keep herself in check, couldn’t seem to control herself around him.

“Okay,” he murmured, his eyes falling closed. He didn’t seem to realize what she meant, jolting in surprise when she rose up, sliding her legs across him.

“Emma,” he pleaded, putting it together, he looked momentarily terrified.

“Killian,” she replied, a gentle command. “Lay back.” He compiled automatically, though still trembling and wary eyed, letting her take control. “Trust me.” It was half question, half plea. He nodded, and swallowed hard. That little nod buzzed along her skin, filled her chest with warmth, made her eyes burn against her will. He trusted her.

Emma swallowed the sudden rush of emotion down, focused on her task, ran her hands lightly across his chest, again and again, giving him a moment to calm, and then moved them back down again. He froze as she took him in hand, inhaling through his clenched teeth, almost pained, a soft stroke, then another, and then she lifted herself to slowly draw him in.

She sank down in tiny measured increments, anticipation clawing at her insides, her body needing her to just let go, but he needed this more, he was a stretched wire ready to snap beneath her, and she wanted to give it to him, wanted to be worthy of his trust. She sank down gently, slick and ready, and let out a tiny gasp as something snapped into place, like a missing puzzle piece, filling her up just so, easing the ache with perfect warmth.

“Oh,” it was barely a word, a broken vowel falling from his lips, a prayer spoken aloud. “I can’t-” he stammered brokenly, his head shaking back and forth on the pillow, and she placed a steadying hand on his chest, felt his heart keeping quicktime under her hand. Her body was screaming for her to move, craving that primal drag against her, but she remained still and calm, allowing him to adjust to her wet and clenched around him, counting the spaces between his breaths, the beats of his heart. His eyes were black in the dim light, burning into her own, biting so hard into his lip she feared he would break the skin. Still, she waited.

When he slowly sank down into the bed, his fingers unfurling, she moved again, a small fractional rise, the delicious pull of heat on heat, and his hand clenched again as she came back down, that wonderful noise caught once more in his throat. It wasn’t nearly enough, she wanted to grind down against him, roll her hips with abandon, feel him buck and rock beneath her, the delicious slap of skin meeting skin, but this was about Killian, and there was time for that later. Emma waited again, rose again, sinking down, delighting in the friction, and he tilted up this time, meeting her halfway, his entire body shaking, fine beads of sweat at his brow.

“What do you need me to do?” he was panting, cheeks tinted pink, looking at her intently with wild feverish eyes.

“Just watch,” she commanded, and he nodded, laying back hesitantly, looking unsure, but also completely wrecked, his hair sticking up wildly, his lip swollen from ravenous kisses and biting teeth. He was half out of his mind with sensation, he needed something to focus on other than fear and raw nerves.

Emma had spent many lonely nights absorbed in her own pleasure in the vast castle over the years, she knew what she liked, but it had been some time she’d had an audience. She had never really enjoyed it much, but Killian’s eyes, so intent and earnest on her own, needing this distraction to keep his own busy mind at bay, made all the difference, a tiny thrill settling between her shoulders as she ran her hand down to circle her breast, gentle tugs and swirls around the pink tips. He seemed to memorize every move, gave her his complete focus, the tip of his tongue pressing against his lip in studious lust filled devotion. It made her feel powerful in a way her magic never could. She squeezed and rolled the peak between her fingers, trickles of pleasure traveling down to where they were joined, little jolts of sensation that she suspected had more to do with his eyes on her, worshipful and awed, than her actions.

He followed her other hand with his gaze as it snaked down her stomach, dipping down to brush the base of him briefly, before coming back up to center. She rose up again, as she touched herself, keeping her eyes fixed on his face. He looked crazed, the cords of his neck straining, trying valiantly to still the little jerks of his hips as he sought to go deeper, take more, pure animal instinct moving his body against his will. Some dark part of her wanted to allow him to let go, to rut against her with animalistic abandon, take her hard and fast and dirty, see just how much he would let go. But afterwards he would feel awful, guilty, his inherent need to please others first would ruin this beautiful moment.

Emma sank slowly back down again, and wonderful sparks of pleasure accompanied every movement as her fingers swirled and teased, as he stretched and filled her. She rose and fell again, achingly slow ebbs and flows that made her clench around him as her fingers worked in rapid strokes along her center.

He was gasping again on the third rise and fall, trembling to hold himself back, so she stilled and waited once more, absorbing herself in her own indulgence while he calmed, building herself up so she could come tumbling down after him, leaning back so he could take it in. Killian watched her with rapt fascination, as her breathing picked up, her chest heaved, legs trembling with every slick stroke and swirl.

“Can I-” his voice was husky and hoarse, and he licked his lips, hesitating. “-assist you? Like before?”

Emma drew her hand away, trying not to grin too hard, pride filling the aching spaces between her ribs. She had hoped he would ask exactly that, and she nodded, reaching for his hand.

“Do you need me to show you?” She asked, suddenly breathless, no judgement in the question. He hesitantly shook his head, straining against her, but determined to please. Emma’s smile widened, and she rewarded him with one more slow rise up, sinking back down with a firm rock of her hips. His eyes fluttered, teeth clenching as he held himself back.

He let her guide him to her where she wanted him, adjusted the angle of his hand on his own, and just as she had shown him the day before he found exactly what she needed. Emma could barely concentrate on the rise and fall of his chest, the rough pants from his mouth, the spaces between his breaths as she intermittently rocked against him, chasing his hand with her hips, wanting him deeper. His fingers would still against her in brief intervals, overcome with his own pleasure, unable to concentrate on both, before he would resume their smooth circular slide, gliding over her, making her clench around him every time he hit the perfect spot.

The bedroom echoed back harsh moans and keens, dirty shadows on the stone wall as she brought herself up, and joined him again in a rapidly increasing pace, his fingers moving in time to the rhythm she set, prompting her to speed and slow as she willed. He didn’t last much longer at that pace, but Emma was no longer cognizant enough to stop, mindless with her own need, and his hand retracted to grasp her hip as he let out a cry, snapping his hips up and arching against her with the force of his release. She sensed he was going to apologize again, feel completely unwarranted shame for coming first, but she just grabbed his hand, moving it back to where he was before, put his mind to work again so he couldn’t fret or worry. She was so close her skin was buzzing with sharp little jolts that tugged at her belly, lit her skin on fire, the endless torment of working him up and bringing him down, watching him moan and writhe, had made her oversensitive and raw. She urged him to focus on what he was doing rather than what he had done, his fingers finding her easily, resuming the same perfect rhythm, synced with her pounding pulse. It was mere moments before she followed him over the edge, could still feel him half hard within her as she ground down, riding the waves against him as she fluttered and clenched and cried out.

He eased her down afterwards with a soft hand at her back, her skin still twitching with little aftershocks, and helped her to stretch out across the rapid rise and fall of his sweat slicked chest.

“That was amazing,” she breathed, and lazily pressed a kiss to his skin, salty and warm, barely able to move her head she was so boneless and weak. He looked down at her surprised.

“Really?” His face was so pleased, so bashfully eager, she couldn’t resist teasing him.

“Oh, you didn’t think so?” she tried to affect her most regal tone, an eyebrow raised, biting back a laugh as he stammered and shook his head.

“No! It was-” he blustered. “I don’t think you-” he tried again, his hook waving wildly behind her in protest. “It was the most-”.

“Killian,” Emma said with a laugh drawing him out of his fumbling. “I’m joking.” He stilled, a small disbelieving smile spreading across his face like morning light, and he drew her closer.

“It was perfect,” she said sincerely. And it had been, every part of her filled with quiet, sated heat, the darkness having retreated into the recesses of her mind, banished back by pride and warm affection.

“No one has ever done this for me before,” he said softly, after another moment, finally finding the words. “I didn’t know I could, still don’t know honestly, but you made it seem like I can. Thank you.”

It broke her heart, all this untapped potential, this beautiful man and the terrible way he had been treated, still so grateful despite it. Against her will, an image of him, just as eager, just as earnest, craving nothing more than warm regard, the possibility of friendship in the galley of a strange new ship, while horrible men tricked and took advantage, flashed in her head, the darkness stirred with the promise of vengeance, quieted by sated desire but always there, whispering.

Emma pulled the blanket up around them, laying against him again, she pressed her lips against his chest once more, and held him tighter.

______

When Killian had thought about this day, admittedly far too often in the years of his life, and ever increasingly as they carried on, while he remained static and stuck, he had never been particular about the details.

In his youth, the future brighter and more promising, he had thought of lovely lasses he could pledge his heart to once he was freed from his debt, imagined magical chance encounters on city streets as they made port, the rose cheeked daughters of simple merchants or fishermen, blushing their hellos. Of giving himself to them in lovely stolen moments, or after vows exchanged in tiny candlelit chapels. He saw them on the streets as he ran errands for the Captain, with their modest dresses and clean shining hair, their eyes catching his as they passed, small smiles and blushing cheeks, and thought that Liam would have like them.

After he’d been traded to Blackbeard the fantasies shifted, to powdered women in dimly lit bars, ample breasts spilling out of corsets, elaborate wigs and the scent of flowery oils and perfumes on their skin, burning his nose, covering up the odors of sex and sweat. Women who swore and tossed back hard liquor without batting an eyelash, who dealt in games of dice and cards and sex with skill and cunning. Who didn’t so much smile as sneer. Liam would have hated them.

He assumed at some point there would be a brief emotionless encounter in some bawdy house, money exchanged, the sex detatched and utilitarian, another emotionless trade of money for flesh. He didn’t mind it much, that’s how it was done in these new dark circles he dwelt in. Pirates had no want for love or romance and neither should he, not if he wanted to belong, to survive.

But then he’d lost his hand, and every time he tried it was always just too much. Too much tongue, too much teeth, too much perfume, too many questions: How had he lost it? Was it a tale full of adventure and bravery? A daring pirate battle? Would he want to use it on them? Could he take it off before? Could he leave it on? What was wrong with him?

Every time his chest had tightened, remembering those horrible weeks, leaving him cold and anxious, his hook shoved underneath tables or inside large dirty coats, hidden by sleeves and in pockets. He’d stutter and blush, feel the eyes of the crew who had taken so much watching his every move, mocking him, circling like sharks, blood in the water. He’d go soft and shy, stammering and weak, offering apologies instead of propositions. They would try to coax him back, with seductive looks and exploring hands, but all he could think of was the dark.

It was a rare time in Killian’s life when stark reality was better than anything he could have imagined. When the real world outshone the fantasy. When life made him question if he was awake or still dreaming.

He was Paris of Troy, understanding with sudden absolute clarity why one would go to war for this, would set cities ablaze and cut men down to keep it, why someone would sacrifice everything to hold onto it for just a little longer, experience it again and again. Blood for lust, pleasure for pain, skin for strife, they all made a perfect amount of sense lying in the afterglow, feeling Emma warm against him, his mind blissfully clear and calm but grasping to hold on to these moments, possessive and yearning and waiting for it to crumble. For if he was Paris than she was Helen, born of swan and woman, her birth celebrated in the stars, wistful and sorrowful as she grew to regret the rash choice she had made, pining for her old life.

Killian pushed the thoughts away, focused on Emma’s lips on his skin, the feel of her hair draped across his arm, the curve of her back pressing against it, grounded himself to earth with the rise and fall of her breath. He looked over his shoulder at the window, pinkish red light having replaced the grays and blacks.

“We missed the sunrise,” he said finally, breaking the silence, antsy with the quiet, needing to hear her speak after his declaration. She had been still and silent since, dancing lightly across his skin with fingertips, pressing her lips to him but not speaking a word in acknowledgement.

“This was better,” he could feel her cheeks pull into a smile against his chest, and his heart fluttered. Perfect she had said. Had anyone ever said the like?

“We could make one up,” he offered, flushing instantly. It was an old game, a childish one, but one he’d played many times. Imagining blue skies instead of low black ceiling, billowing clouds and salty air instead of sewage and rotting fish.

He’d had no use for fairy stories, they were too farfetched and out of reach to bring him comfort, but he had seen many a beautiful day with his own eyes, watched the sun rise over the water in brilliant painted colors, seen twinkling stars make pictures of gods and goddesses on clear nights. Those things he knew existed, they could only be taken away from him by death itself, and those were the imaginings he turned to for comfort.

Emma tilted her head up to look at him, familiar curiosity in her eyes despite the neutral set of her face. He blushed further, his neck hot.

“Make one up?” She shifted, sensing his discomfort, looking up at him with avid interest, her eyes dark in the morning light.

“Oh aye,” he settled back, emboldened by the lack of dismissal. “It’s going to storm tonight, and we’re closer to the north, so I reckon the sky was a lot of reds and pinks. All kind of, swirling together,” he raised his hand, twisting it to illustrate what he meant. It wasn’t a very eloquent description, he was no poet, and he had never shared his inner musings in such a way before. He stopped, biting his lip to hold the words in before she thought him mad or simple minded.

“No. Keep going,” Emma said firmly. “What else did it have?”

“Uh, well,” he flashed a nervous smile at her. “There’s a certain kind of cloud on storm mornings, beautiful, a sort of rippling blanket of them, across the entire sky, light on the top, darker on the bottom, on account they’re filled with rain and the like, see?” he dared a look down at her.

“I do. Go on,” her expression was impossible to decipher, that marble mask she wore, but her eyes were a glittering brilliant green.

“Storm mornings are the loveliest sunrises,” he couldn’t look at her as he went on, it was too intense, embarrassing, but he kept going, weaving memory into the imagining, recalling some of his favorites, wanting to do them justice.

“The aftermath isn’t pretty, of course, but you always get the sunrise first. The clouds kind of diffuse the colors, all those different tones and shades blending together, until the whole sky looks like it’s been set alight. Like being inside an inferno.”

“Are there birds?” Emma asked. The question was so out of nowhere it made him smile.

“Pardon?”

“You said ‘sometimes there’s birds’. Were there birds in this sunrise?”

“Aye, if you like,” he was grinning now, her eyes were practically twinkling.

“How do you know there’s going to be a storm?” she asked curiously, lifting up. She stretched a bit, a truly distracting sight, all those curves, the swell of her breasts, her hair tumbling in silver ringlets down her back. He wanted to dig his hook into his leg again, confirm he truly wasn’t dreaming. She couldn’t possibly be real, and here with him.

He blinked.

“Sorry, what?”

“You said there will be a storm this evening, how do you know?” She smiled at him coyly. “You were a bit distracted during the actual sunrise.”

“Oh I-” he frowned a bit. “I dunno. I’ve spent a life at sea, you just kind of sense these things.”

“Well, I sense that I’m starving,” Emma put a hand to her stomach, and he followed the motion, tracing down her form. He reddened when he looked up, caught staring. Emma smiled. “So, now that we’ve seen the sunrise, food?”

“Aye, it’s just-” he looked down at his bare chest. “My clothing seems to keep disappearing.” It was part cheek, part embarrassment, and he gave her a small smile under his lashes.

“Oh, you don’t need clothes,” she had that wicked look again. Heat traveled up his neck. Emma waved her hand, and a small tray appeared on the bed before them, fruits and pastries, and other decadent treats.

“That’s amazing,” he breathed out. Emma laughed.

“You’ve seen me cover an entire table in food,” she reached out, picking up something delicate and flaky.

“I know, I just… it’s incredible, what you can do. Your magic.”

Killian drew the blanket in tighter around him, feeling oddly exposed. He hadn’t ever eaten naked before, had rarely ever been naked this long, save for bathing.

Emma, however, was bold as brass, stretched out distractingly next to him, her breasts rosy in the morning light, her skin glowing and pink from their activities. He shook his head. If this was a dream, if he woke up to digging hammock rope instead of soft linen, the scent of sweaty unwashed men instead of rose tinted skin and the sweet lingering hint of their coupling in the air, he wanted it to last as long as possible, the thought of going back to that, to his old life, after all of this, after Emma, was almost unbearable.

Killian’s heart quickened in his chest at the thought, anxiety creeping in again, and he grabbed a matching pastry, shoving it into his mouth to distract himself, agitated that he was allowing his worries to marr such a perfect moment. But when he looked up, to solidify her presence in his mind, comfort himself with her seemingly sated and happy and with him, Emma was smiling tightly at her lap across the bed, her expression troubled once again.

The flakey honeyed crust turned to ash in his mouth, his teeth chewing against tasteless sand. He had said something wrong, done something wrong. He swallowed, smiled at her weakly, took in her silver hair, her beautiful face, here with him despite everything she had at her fingertips, the entire world open to her. In his head echoed a quote from his well worn book, one of many that circled in his mind from so many repeated readings.

Everything is more beautiful because we are doomed. You will never be more lovelier than you are now. We will never be here again.

_____

“Is it a curse?”

Innocent words echoed in Emma’s ears as he praised her magic in that same earnest voice, so awed, so appreciative, even the tiniest things amazing him, a tray of simple food conjured from air, wanting to know her.

Don’t the darkness warned.

But she had promised, may not have sworn the oath aloud but she had promised, to try, to reciprocate in kind as much as she was able. The image of the golden glow of a black dreamcatcher, three perfectly imperfect shells rattling against each other, his stolen memory trapped within it, spurned her on.

“I’ve always had it,” Emma blurted, shoving the darkness and its warnings forcefully away. Killian blinked over at her confused. He had been staring at nothing, chewing silently, lost in his own thoughts.

A brief rush of anxious concern, searching his face had her wondering if perhaps they had gone too fast, if she had pushed him too far, if he regretted the series of blissfully perfect moments that had taken the place of the dawn.

“The pastry?” he glanced down at the fruit tart clutched in her hand. Emma flushed, smiling despite herself.

“No,” she put it awkwardly back on the tray, her appetite failing her. Killian too didn’t look particularly hungry anymore, the weight of some burden she couldn’t see making his shoulders sag, his half eaten breakfast sitting limply in his hand.

“My magic,” she said hesitantly. He sat to attention then, raising up so the blanket fell away. Emma waved her hand, part practicality, part demonstration, whisking away the tray, and the half eaten tart in his grip.

“Oh,” he said finally, fingers flexing at its absence. “So you were born a… Dark One?” His question was hesitant and unsure, tripping over the title. Emma shook her head.

“No,” she didn’t want to talk about that, not yet. She slid across the bed again, needing to feel him, slipped under the covers he had tucked protectively around himself, his legs warm as she moved onto his lap.

He was startled, and confused, hand and hook going automatically around her, hovering in the air above her body but not quite touching her. It was ridiculous considering he had been inside her not moments before, but he was still learning, still unsure, she had to remember that, had to keep reminding herself, rein herself in, maintain control.

Emma shifted closer, tugging his arms down to rest on her waist, the jut of her hip, guiding him around her until he was settled. He looked down at their laps and back up again, totally bewildered.

“I thought you were-” he started to speak, misunderstanding her intent, the physical gesture throwing him off.

“No, I am,” Emma said. She sounded a bit breathless, nerves making her heart race, the darkness clawing at her chest in protest. “I just wanted to feel you…it helps.” Killian nodded, hesitantly.

“Alright,” he settled his arms further, caging her against his chest as they sat face to face, practically breathing each other’s air. It was a long moment before she spoke, just breathing, watching his eyes flit across her with restless energy, unsure of what was happening.

“My parents found out when I was three,” she said, and ducked her head down, his eyes were too intense, locking on her own as she spoke again, giving her his full attention. She laid on the slope of his shoulder, her lips ghosting across the place where his neck and shoulder joined with every word. “There had been other…incidents. Things falling over, candles snuffing out on their own around the castle, that kind of thing.”

“Castle?” He looked around, she could feel his head twist, she pressed her lips against his neck as it moved. “This castle?”

“No, different castle,” he breathed a moment taking that in. She let out a breathy laugh as he echoed back.

“A different castle.”

“Yes, shh,” she pressed another kiss to his neck to silence him, lingering for a moment, breathing in warm flesh.

“Okay,” he whispered, he clutched her imperceptibly tighter. It helped a bit. “What happened when you were three?” He urged, and she took another moment, just feeling him against her. It wasn’t that the memories were particularly bad, her life until a point had been very good, especially when compared to his own, but it didn’t lessen the hurt of speaking them aloud, the fear of sharing them with another. The years of living with the losses of everyone she had ever held dear. It made it easier not to think of them, pretend this was all she ever was.

“I was throwing a fit, a huge tantrum, my mother didn’t remember over what, but when I looked at it, it was because my father was away.”

Emma nuzzled into him, threading her arms under his, until she could feel the shifting muscles of his back, until she could feel every rise and fall of his chest.

“All the candles in the entire hall flared up, like these great big billowing flames, and then went out, and the mirror above the mantle shattered into a million pieces as I basically screamed my head off. That’s when she put it together.”

“Were you scared?” Killian asked, his voice deep, rumbling through her.

“No I was too angry I think,” Emma said. “My mother was though, she was terrified.”

“Well you couldn’t have controlled it,” he said reasonably. “You were a child.” Emma ran her hands along his back, the muscles bunching and moving under her palms, so warm, his skin a delightful contrast of rough scars and smooth satin.

“She knew that, I know she did, she just-” Emma sighed into him, his fingers moving gently against her back as she shifted closer. “-she’d had bad experiences with magic, it frightened her.”

Killian froze, his fingers clutching.

“What did she do?” His voice made her want to weep. He sounded so concerned, so troubled, of course he would jump to the worst possible conclusion, think of her life in the terms of his own, where terrible things happened to children at the hands of their parents, where adults took advantage and left them behind. Her reality was much different.

“She sent for my father immediately,” Emma said. “And they tried everything they could to keep me happy so it didn’t happen again, spoiled me rotten.” He relaxed.

“Ah, I somehow doubt that,” Killian said softly. It prickled at her skin, rubbed her raw, he had no idea how rotten she could be, rotten to her very core. She wanted to pull away, to run, but his fingers moved along her spine, less hesitant now that she was wrapped around him, that he couldn’t see her face. She took a breath.

“They were always afraid though, I would lose my temper and they would flinch, I would get upset and they would scramble to fix it,” she sighed against him, rubbed her cheek on his shoulder. “I didn’t realize that’s what they were doing, they were just my parents, I just thought that’s how they were. Always giving, always trying to please.”

“What changed?” He asked cautiously, perhaps sensing that something must have, she wouldn’t have talked about it otherwise.

“They had my brother,” Emma said, and quickly added, not wanting him to misunderstand. “He was perfect, just the sweetest little boy. I loved him,” she took in a shuddering breath, air ghosting across his skin, so close she could feel goosebumps rise on his flesh from the cool. She could remember tiny hands clutched in her own, bright green eyes and dark hair, “-but they were always so..cautious. Protective of him. He’d sneak into my rooms when he got older, wanting to play, he liked to be Prince Charming to my Princess. He liked fairy stories, and knights. They’d find us playing and they’d look so…scared, afraid of me, and then they’d take him away again. They never left us alone together. He tried to see me anyway. He wasn’t ever afraid.”

She frowned, her mouth pulling against his skin. It still hurt, even after all these years. Her own parents looking at her with fear, apprehension, tiptoeing around her like a dragon in a cave. The darkness curled around her throat.

Killian too held her tighter, for a different reason altogether, pressing her close so she could feel his heartbeat through her skin, completely flush against him. It seemed so out of order, getting comfort from a man who had suffered far worse, it made her feel guilty and sad, but she selfishly held onto it and true to form he gave it, unquestioningly, didn’t compare it to his own, didn’t play tit for tat like so many others would, just gave what he could offer. She took in a grateful breath, dug her fingers into his flesh, and continued.

“And one day… I got angry, he had stolen into my room, taken something from me, something stupid, I don’t even remember what, and I kind of-” Emma pressed harder against his back with her palms. “Pushed him out of my room, into the hall.”

Killian tensed again, always expecting the worst.

“I didn’t hurt him,” she said quickly. “He was fine, shaken but fine, but you wouldn’t have known that by their reactions.”

Emma could feel her eyes burning, and she blinked back the tears, pressed her nose into the space by his neck instead, whispering the rest of the words under his jaw. “So they sent me away, so I could learn to control it, be better with it. Safer.”

“How old were you?” He asked.

“Fourteen, fifteen? I don’t remember,” she sighed against him. Reveled in the feel of his skin on her own, a distraction for her screaming brain, the buzzing along her skin. Heartfelt apologies among packed trunks, her mother crying by the road as the carriage took her away, promises to visit, to see her soon, kept for a time but less and less often as the years wore on and their lives changed, scared of the dark fortress, of their daughter wielding the magic that scared them with abandon.

“I mean, it doesn’t compare to-” she swallowed. “-to what your father did but, it was kind of the start of…everything.”

Killian was silent against her, his heart thudding rapidly against her chest. It was ages before he spoke again, her nerves tattered and frayed by the time he opened his mouth.

“Wounds made when we’re young they tend to…tend to linger, and one hurt is much the same as any other,” he murmured finally.

“They said it was to give me my best chance,” Emma said, her voice was suddenly hoarse, rasping against his neck. She moved her hand, the skin of his back so hot against her own she imagined it was searing her fingers. “They couldn’t teach me what I needed to know, how to control it, make me safe, so they sent me to someone who could.”

Glittering reptilian skin, snakes eyes and gnarled teeth flashed in her brain. The darkness laughed in his voice.

“It sounds like they meant well,” Killian offered kindly. “But it was…maybe…not what you needed?”

“They did,” she drew back, sucked in a shaky breath. “And it wasn’t.” The bitter laugh she gave was dark and humorless, cold and hard in the warm air between them. His hand clutched at her back at the sound, his hook chilly against the skin of her side. She was burning up, too hot, she might catch flame. It made her skin itch, her legs burn with the need to move.

“Where did they send you?” Killian’s eyes searched her own, cautious, and careful.

“To the man who owned this castle,” she said softly, a familiar chill rising along her spine, echoing out to her limbs, thrumming in her veins.

“The Dark One.”

______

Killian had pressed no further, probably remembering her reaction in the bath. He had simply accepted her declaration, his eyes full of questions he wouldn’t speak, ones she wasn’t ready to answer, let her kiss his lips, long and lingering as her blood burned in her veins, the darkness tearing into her insides.

She had briefly considered having him again, working him up with her hands and mouth until he was hard and ready, riding him dirty and fast and slick, grinding into him, drinking from him, until her skin cooled and she could breathe again. But it was too much for one morning, so much had taken place in so few hours, and she must always remember he was still new to this, still learning, and still unsteady on this new ground, and if she were honest with herself, she was afraid of what she would do. She didn’t resent him for it, it was one of the things that made him so special, made her want to know him, learn him.

She didn’t want to sully her memories further with new ones, allow her recollections to be threaded with sex and fear. It was better to speak of them with soft touches, warm lips and his comforting words.

He had seemed reluctant to let her go, clutching her hand, asking what she needed, so beautifully earnest, offering up suggestions for how they could spend their day. Reading from his book, telling her the stories of gods and goddesses, a walk on the beach to watch the storm come in, some time in the garden teaching him about the life that grew there, all wonderfully appealing suggestions, beautifully sweet and innocent, but no where near what she required.

She’d stroked his face, traced the line of his scruff, pressed a kiss to his lips, and told him she just needed some time to herself. His swallowing nod, the uncertainty on his face, like a lost little boy, almost broke her, made her turn around, but the darkness was rattling her rib cage, shaking the bars, demanding to be fed. She had defied it too long. She whispered quiet quick orders to work in the garden, take a bath, enjoy his afternoon however he’d like, which he accepted with a reluctant nod, biting his lip. She hated to leave him, knew deep down he was letting dark thoughts move in, but her skin was too hot, her stomach twisting with building energy, her muscles tight.

There was a different sort of lust that would satisfy her just as well, the darkness promised as she lingered, there was vengeance waiting and wanting in the dark of her dungeon, wicked men who needed to pay. She had promised him that too, it reminded her. There were other gifts she could give him. He would be so grateful, so appreciative, it hissed.

She armored herself in thick black leather, crimson lips and black feathers in her hair, washing away the loose curls and pale lips of the morning with a wave of her hand as soon as she stole from their room.

The dungeon was quiet as she entered, the click of her boots the signal of a different sort of coming storm. The men held their breath in a single communal gasp of fearful air as she crossed the threshold and grinned. They watched her with wide frightened eyes, their faces a little more drawn today, eyes sunken from neglect, like melting candle wax, sallow in the light.

She paced before their mass cage, back and forth, smiling softly at each one as they looked away, matching feet to cruel kicks, ring covered hands to striking fists, matched mouths with spit sprayed and cruel words uttered. She marked them all and made them each a little promise. She was full of promises today.

The man called Starkey was a broken heap of bulk, propped to barely sitting against the wall. Fractured bones turned his skin purple and blue, yellowing at the edges, and deep cuts had dried open and shining in the light. She’d had her fun with him, repaid the marks on Killian’s chest with her own, recreated the fear on his face on another’s. She would come back to him.

Her heels stopped just before the man with the knife, his eye stared back glinting and defiant, his face not quite as worn as the others, still strong, resilient, dangerous with the thick roping scar. That made it all the better.

“You,” she pointed with one black tipped finger, slinking close to the bars. “I need a hunter.” She ran it down the metal. “That’s you, right?” If the word registered anything in his tiny little mind he gave no indication, his face stone as he regarded her, no flicker of fear on this one. Excitement crept up her spine. She loved when they weren’t afraid.

How beautifully the brave break the darkness trailed through her mind, whisper slick. She tended to agree.

“I need a man with something to prove,” she licked her lips. “And I think you’re the right man for the job.”

He stood, at least two heads taller than her, twice as wide, and leaned back.

“Is that so?” he murmured, his voice oozed, made her skin crawl in disgust. “Finally decided to trade in for a real man?”

It was amazing, his gall, hungry, dehydrated, stinking of sweat and the musk of the unbathed, and still he felt entitled to her, good enough for her. And she would give him everything she had, just not quite in the way he expected.

“Hmm, something like that,” she snapped her fingers.

Her little room at the back of the dungeon was meant for all sorts of games. Tiny and dim it echoed back the screams in a delightful chorus that made her blood sing along with every cry. Until recently it had sat empty and neglected, but she would fill it with many more echoing moans, begging words, and pleading cries. She had blood to collect and tears.

Evans looked around bewildered, down at his hands bound with thick iron cuffs and chains against the wall. He jerked against them, scowling.

“Not what you had in mind?” Emma asked casually. “I didn’t say who I was trading you for.” She reminded him. “Your Captain really enjoyed his time here I think. As did your Quartermaster. They were very vocal about it.”

The cocky gleam was gone from that shifty eye, no mischief there now. It widened in knowing fright, remembering the screams of his Captain, the moans of his Quartermaster, one dead and gone, the other little more than a lump of useless flesh, a shell, and now she’d come for him.

“What do you want?” To the man’s credit his voice barely shook, a slight tremor, barely noticeable unless you were well versed in terror.

“Oh it’s simple really,” she drew his knife from its sheath at his side, dragging it along his waist, tracing the tip along the leather of his belt. She looked into his eye, made sure he saw her own, black and glimmering, wanted to see the fear in his before she began. She was not disappointed.

“I want you to prove yourself.”

He swallowed, stammered out something she thought was an apology. He seemed so much smaller now, towering above her head but still somehow cowering beneath her feet.

“Shhhh,” she murmured. The blade cut into dirty linen, the sweet hiss of pained indrawn breath as she dragged it across the skin, tiny drops of blood giving chase to cold steel. “I’m going to sing you a song. Do you like music?”

He shook his head, then nodded, then shook it again, a leaf shaking on a branch. Another little thrill went up her spine.

“I think you’ll know this tune,” she murmured. His shirt fell away in ripped tatters, a bleeding red line marking where the fabric had rent. She pressed it against a curve of life carved muscle, sewn from years at sea, and began to sing in a slow measured voice.

“I thought I heard the old man say. Leave her, Johnny leave her…”

_______

Hook allowed himself the lazy indulgence of blankets warmed to body temperature, soft pillows still smelling of Emma and them, and limbs slack with boneless, satisfied, weightlessness, for as long as he was able after she left him. Her face had grown cold in stark contrast to warm gentle touches, her eyes darkening with every passing moment, no longer open and shining with unshed tears.

He lazed until the thoughts crept in again, anxious musings emboldened by the lack of purpose, climbing to the front without mindless activity to hinder them. It was disconcerting how quickly the change overtook her face, how different she was from one moment to the next, two very different women inhabiting one body. How rapidly things changed here, how quickly they could still. He threw the blankets off.

Emma had left him with open ended activities, a set of clothes on the end of bed, only a vague sense of what she wanted him to do, but he would follow them to the letter, for want of anything else. He just needed to move, stop his mind from spinning. He had never been good at being idle, yet another thing he wasn’t particularly skilled at, for that’s when the memories crept in, the anxiety, the dark edged bitter musings. Better to keep moving, smile through it, keep busy and never think, than ruminate on things he couldn’t ever change.

He started in the garden, the conservatory a gray haze, the clouds stretching off as far as the eye could see, from every angle, like a sheet of steel across the sky, the water black beneath them. Even the plants seemed subdued, leaves and petals hanging listless in their tidy rows.

She had a green thumb, or, if she had not brought them up from seed, her magical gift had a way with nature. Something told him they were the work of her own hands though, not the magic in her veins, that didn’t seem to be its purpose, bringing forth life, but Emma, that seemed well suited to her.

They were all healthy and whole, an array of types that were neither sparse and uniform, nor overwhelming with variety. There were lovely flowers and strong broad leaved perennials, exotic looking orchids, and more familiar types as well, kinds he had seen in shops and in city parks. He knew none of their names, but he vowed to learn, to find out the particulars of their care and keeping.

His little green plant was none the worse for its recent bout with chaos, and he gave it a little water, checked jade leaves for signs of distress, ran his fingers over thick filmy silk, not entirely sure what he was looking for, but wanting to know it was doing okay. Hook whispered it a good morning and took in the rest of the glass room.

Emma’s well ordered existence was more a burden than a blessing for a man needing work. There was little for him to do. He wandered the rows, watered the ones whose soil felt dry to the touch, scanned them all for any pests, finding none, and took note of their features for later study. Beyond that, there was nothing more they needed, and it made him antsy.

The bath was better.

Without Emma it required quite a bit to fill the huge yawning tub. And his morning was occupied with, instead of anxious thoughts, mindless tasks like finding water, lighting the stove, filling the large copper kettle in the barren kitchen from the little used pump, dragging the hot cauldron down the corridor to the bath, over and over again, until there was a serviceable amount. It was small wonder this wasn’t a frequent indulgence if one didn’t live with a goddess, it took him the better part of the morning just to cover his thighs in the lukewarm water.

Hook suddenly appreciated the efficiency of the madams of the brothels, the put upon sighs and glares that had him flushing and stammering out apologies, they all made a great deal more sense now. Baths were rare on the ship itself, and he was hardly ever trusted with the galley stove or hot boiling water. He managed now though, only spilling a little, keeping the fire contained in its iron grate.

It was certainly chillier than the tempting soaks with Emma, much less pleasurable to be sure, but it was also a far cry from scrubbing the important bits with a dirty rag in dark corners of the ship surrounded by stinking men, kept him from attempting to reconcile the gentle fairy queen from his bed with the dark beauty who had left his room, and more importantly, quieted the noises of the castle, the faint cries of pain, another ghost howling and pleading at the far end of the keep. He scrubbed harder, splashing a bit more than necessary to cover the sounds, lying in the tub so the water covered his ears and all he could hear was the pounding of his own heart.

He waited like that until the water grew cold, until the thoughts began to intrude again, and then he dressed to the sounds of screams.

Hook supposed he should feel worse than he did, grasp onto some measure of sympathy for the poor wretched soul. It was much like that first night, hearing the cries of a man he had no love for. The agonized screams were certainly uncomfortable, making the hair on his neck stand on end, little pinpricks against his skin, but they were also very familiar.

He had heard the same echoing in his ears from his own mouth, watched as others were cut down in front of him, the sounds of battle and bloodshed on the deck as he tried to keep clear of the fray, be useful in some capacity even if he couldn’t properly wield a weapon, and could barely think for fear. They were the cries of the public floggings he wasn’t brave enough to watch, of men begging for their lives at the end of other’s blades, and captured ships burning and smoldering on the sea as they left them behind.

What truly unnerved him was warm lips and soft skin, silver curls and red rimmed eyes, clutching him as she told a story of childhood heartbreak, who could then morph, like shifting sands, into the cold mistress of the island from that first day, pulling those screams from men with the same fingers that had gently caressed his face. It had been easier then, he didn’t know her then, barely knew her now, but she was merely the harbinger of fated justice in black leather and pale porcelain skin that first night. Now she was Emma, who liked strawberries, and whose skin tinted to match their reddish hue when she was flushed with desire. Emma who looked at him with pride, with sorrow, who let him weep into her palm for a lost brother in candlelight.

He wasn’t sure how he should feel, if he should even feel anything. The laws of ship life were unerringly cruel, carried out without mercy or regard for suffering, just punishment for crimes committed, and justice for sins against the ship. It was as natural to him as the weather, a system of cause and effect as normal as breathing, the only one he had ever known. Emma’s code was no different, her punishments were more or less the same, but it didn’t make it easier to know those cries were on his behalf, those screams for his benefit, because he had failed in the simple task of feeding them, allowing himself to be victim once again.

It was both thrilling and terrifying in equal measure. He had dreamed of vengeance in his quiet way for years, sleeping next to the same men who had taken and taken, night after night, enduring their taunts and cruelty most waking hours. He had not the skill nor the mettle to take it for himself, but dark pettiness had reveled in small inconveniences, delighted in injury, and hoped for deserved justice one day.

That day had come it seemed, but it left him cold and empty.

The book that had gotten him through his life, a source of comfort in epic sweeping words, the journey of heroes and gods, brought wisdom once again.

A man who has been through bitter experiences and travelled far enjoys even his sufferings after a time.

Hook didn’t consider himself a good man, one required action and strength to be truly good, but he didn’t want to be a vengeful man either. Most of all, he didn’t want Emma, her gentle hands, that patient smile, her green eyes shining into his own, to be the instrument of that vengeance. He wanted more with her than that, more than whatever dark purpose her magic served, whatever she would give he would greedily take, starved for it, craving it now, but he didn’t want this.

He took himself down to the beach to escape the din.

The air smelled of coming rain, the sense of the sky pressing down, heavy and thick with the impending storm. The wind whipped at his hair, flattened his shirt across his chest, salt spray and grit misting over him as he made his way along the sand.

It was beautiful.

The steel of the sky was now deep smokey gray, the waves rough contrasts of black water and white frothing breaks. He had rarely enjoyed a storm on land. On the ship they were fearsome things, matters of life and death, full of miserable damp, blackened lanterns and snuffed out candles bringing the dark, flashing lightning casting faces in monstrous shadows.

But on shore it was a different thing entirely, an infinite feeling of watching the Gods at work, nature at her most powerful, raining down life giving water, sparking with energy and noise.

It was quiet for now, the storm not quite upon them, but he could feel the thrum against his bones, the harsh lash of sand and ocean against his cheeks, filling him with restless energy.

He made his way along the shore, and set to work gathering the wreckage, still dotting the pristine coastline like a plague, the ugly litter of thieving men. Emma could have vanished it with barely a nod, but he wanted to do it for her, gathering wood and cloth and bits of sail, carrying them to small piles along the dunes.

The storm pressed closer.

Hook could feel it inching towards them, but he kept working, picking his way across the beach, broken furniture and discarded dishes, papers and ship’s logs yellowed and faded from the sun. He swept them all up, taking them to the piles, filling a discarded scarf with small shells and pretty rocks he found along the way, a despondent magpie working his way along the coast.

“There you are.”

Killian practically leapt out of his skin, her cool voice cutting through the muggy air, over the wind and rush of the ocean. The boards he had gathered dropped to the sand in fumbled surprise as he turned around.

Emma stood behind him on the beach, the castle rising up behind her on the rocks. She looked like a painting, stone spires and ominous skies casting her in stark relief. She was wearing another dress, or something like one, a gauzy dark gray to match the clouds, ghosting over her curves, sheer and flowing, hair trailing down her back in a loose braid, the wind whipping ringlet wisps about her face. He could glimpse her skin through it as she moved, the dark of her nipples, the shadows of her curves. He swallowed.

“Sorry.” She apologized and tilted her head, that small smile, those pink lips, no trace of pained cries or damaged screams in her expression, just placid calm and light green eyes.

“I-” he motioned to the pile of wood at his feet, his hand shaking, still startled, overcome by the sight of her. “-thought I would clean this up.”

“I thought I told you to enjoy your afternoon?” The rebuke was soft, but present. Guilt pricked along his scalp and he scratched at his ear, tugging the lobe.

“I just needed…” he paused, trying to find the word, opting for plain truth. “Quiet?”

She didn’t move for a moment and it made him even more restless, his feet shuffling in the sand.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized again. “You won’t have to listen to that anymore.”

Relief flooded through him.

“You’re sending them away,” he couldn’t keep the hope out of his voice. He would be happy to see the backs of them. Never to cast eyes on them again.

“No,” Emma shook her head, walking towards him. “I’ll just make sure to be quieter.”

His stomach felt like lead, the cold finality of her voice sending goosebumps across his arms. He swallowed, tried to smile.

“But I’m fine, see?” He looked down at his chest and back up at her. “Not a scratch.”

“This isn’t about the other day,” she tilted her head, considering. “Well not only about the other day.”

She was in his space now, he could feel her warmth in the sea air, her hair catching on the fabric of his shirt.

“Then what it is about?”

She was still for a moment, so close he couldn’t see her face any longer, practically flush against his chest. He raised his arms, meaning to hold her, settle them along the swell of her hips, pull her closer, but he let them drop uselessly against his side, still unsure if he should. It was foolish considering how they had spent their morning, but he was all elbows and angles, unaware of when it was appropriate to touch and when it wasn’t.

“Men like that, men who hurt others, they have to pay,” she tilted her head up then, green black eyes staring into his, a quiet anger simmering under the surface. “Don’t you want them to? For what they did to you?”

A decade of torment, cruel words, blades flashing in the sun, rough hands and booted feet, thick black leather braids striking his back. A thousand crimes burned into his brain, ones he had pushed away, ignored, cast aside, shoved down into the deepest recesses of his mind. That’s just how it was. This was life. Punishment for being weak, for being cowardly. Divine penance for his choices, for not being strong enough, brave enough. For not being enough. That was what he deserved.

When he answered he did so honestly, with all the conviction he could muster. No tremor in his voice, no stutter, just hoarse honesty.

“I don’t know.”

Emma smiled, bright and brilliant in the gray light, it stole the breath from his lungs.

“Well I do,” she grabbed one of his arms, sliding it along the curve of her waist, moving into him, and automatically his other arm came up around her, moving on its own to clutch her against him. He could feel her heat through the nothing of her dress, a thin gossamer veil of fabric.

“Now,” she murmured. “No more about them. It’s just us now,” she pressed her lips against him, soft and warm, a sweet gentle kiss, a soft pull and tug. His eyes fluttered closed, protests fading as she kissed the guilt away. Just us echoing in his ears.

“You were right about the storm,” she moved her mouth across his face, slowly, reverently, teeth scraping against his neck, little shivers of pleasure snaking down his spine.

“Life at sea,” he said weakly, clenching his teeth as she nipped at his ear, her breath whispering across it, blocking out the wind and sea with moist warmth.

He wanted to say more, explain himself, sort out the jumbled mess of thoughts, the tangle of feelings. Everything was just too fast, and lingering on memory, examining those feelings, left him breathless and anxious even without the heady rush of Emma. Her mouth was white noise, the rush of waves, humming into his brain, softening the edges of his thoughts until there was nothing but her. Just us.

Emma was turning them, a slow dance in the sand, until he could see the churning sea, the slate of the sky turning darker with every passing moment, threaded with wispy black, a hazy film of rain further out to sea, drawing closer. Wind pulled back his hair, wrapped her dress around him as she ran her hands along his chest, desirous fire licking after, kissed him again with quiet fierceness, all thoughts of screams and dark justice banished by her mouth.

Her hands slid down, dragged along his waist, slipped between them to cup him through the thin fabric of his trousers. He gasped, and jerked into her, his eyes flying open at her touch.

“What-,” she kissed him again, smiling into his mouth, their bodies swaying gently as she moved her hand again, down his length, cock hard and straining against its confines with just that simple touch.

Across the water lighting lit the sky, the slow rumble of thunder chasing it. Still far away, but drawing rapidly closer.

Her hands ghosted along the laces at the front, gentle tugs, and then she slipped inside before he could blink, warm skin against his own, sharp frissons of pleasure jolting down. He jerked against her again, seeking delicious friction.

“Bloody-Emma,” he stared down at her in shock. “What are we doing?”

She smiled up at him, her eyebrow arched in devious delight.

“You’re watching the storm roll in,” she said and stroked against him. “Don’t worry, it’s just us.” She repeated that delightful phrase, making his heart sing. Just them, no one else around for leagues and leagues. The entire world, this glorious display of natural beauty, all for them.

“I-” he watched in amazement as she slid down his body, freeing him to the sea air. “What are you-”.

He had his answer in a moment, his sharp cry lost on the wind as she took him into her mouth, searing hot and wet, setting him ablaze, her knees sinking into the sand as she moaned against him.

“Bloody-,” he went to grab her head, but dropped his hand at the last moment, digging nails into his leg instead, his knees buckling. “Gods. Emma.” It was a sharp reprimand, a clench teethed prayer, as she sucked him deeper into slippery heat.

Lightning flashed again, the crack of thunder coming on faster now, the sky darkening before his eyes. Killian gasped as she pulled back, cold ocean air against wet, her tongue moving along his length in long luxurious strokes, buzzing electricity tugging at his belly, wrapping around him.

The wind pulled her dress around his legs again, wrapping them in gauzy fabric as she worked her hand against the base of his length, lightning heat coiling down his spine as the sky lit up, reflecting his pleasure back in brilliant purple light.

Emma drew him into her mouth again, slick scathing silk wrapping around every inch. She hummed across him and the soft vibrations of her voice had him jerking forward with sharp intensity, drawing back immediately.

“S-sorry,” Killian could barely speak, his breath gasping heaves as her tongue rasped against his skin. She didn’t respond, just dipped her head again, a long dirty stroke of her tongue her answer, her hand drawing against him, cupping him as she wrapped her lips around him once more.

The sea was roiling black chaos, in deference to the blood in his veins, the harsh rush in his ears, his entire body zeroed in on the feel of her mouth, the drag of her lips, the swirl of her tongue, her hand stroking him. She moaned against him, moving faster, devouring him whole as lightning rent the sky.

The clouds were brilliant black as he threw his head back in glorious agony, overcome with new incredible sensation. The storm was here.

He could barely stand, his legs trembling, back arching, every muscle screaming with sensation, everything in him focused on her mouth, trying not to roll his hips, trying not to rock in time to the rhythm she set as she sucked him in, over and over, drawing him deep, deeper, until he was stuttering incoherent syllables against his hand, gasping out her name to be swallowed by the wind, his hand shooting down to clutch at his thigh as everything in the world went quiet, sharp ecstasy the only thing left within it, an explosive burst of all encompassing heat along his spine.

The rain started just after, a final kiss pressed to him, just as warm water began falling in huge pounding droplets, finally finding the land. The sand growing darker and wet around them as the sky poured down.

Emma stood, smiling, as he tried to keep upright, his entire body weak and sluggish, rain sluicing down his face, past his parted, gasping lips. She tucked him away, helped him lace his pants again when his fingers and hook refused to cooperate, shaking too hard, silver tendrils pressed against her face from the torrenting sheets of water. She was gorgeous, ethereal, like a nymph stolen from the sea, her dress barely there as the rain pressed it against her skin like naked shadows. He couldn’t believe she was real.

“That was-” he started to say, but lighting cracked the sky, the thunder seconds behind swallowing his words. So he laughed instead, a joyful thing into the wet sea air, ducking down to kiss her his thank you, gratitude on his tongue and praise in his hand as he clutched her to him, smiling against wet rain soaked lips, tasting the sea and Emma as she opened under him.

The storm was here, and it was just them.

____

End Notes: I went with a different mechanic for the dreamcatcher, more in line with the old mechanic before this season. Quotes from from The Odyssey and The Iliad on which this fic was based.