sailtoafarawayland

[sailtoafarawayland]

Reaching for Tomorrow

CS Neverland New Year 2022 

Summary:  One of the many things Killian Jones had hoped he'd left behind him - his hair far more silver than it once was, and lines etched a bit more deeply around his eyes - was Neverland. Yet fate had other plans, and here he was in the deep of it's green, suffocating jungle, wondering at how his worst nightmare had become the sight of his wife standing in front of him.

Rating: T

Author’s Note:  Hello All! My apologies that I do not have more of this completed for you guys. Life has been nothing if not uncooperative lately, and despite my best efforts, this was the best I could do. Rather than fuss over the state of it, I'm simply going to drop it here as a prologue and hope I can do the rest some justice. Please excuse what I'm sure will be numerous errors.

@neverlandnewyear 

Prologue

Killian's boots grated against stone as he landed, a natural balance honed over hundreds of years at sea finding him as the air shimmered and closed in his wake. The fading glow of the portal cast his surroundings in a sickly hue, and then disappeared altogether, leaving him in a darkness that was broken only by a diffuse light reaching down from the craggy, stone ceiling that closed above. He blinked against the shadows, his fingers tightening around the small palm clasped in his own.

“Papa, are we...”

“Aye, love,” he murmured, folding his daughter easily into his side where she still fit so perfectly. Here presence was enough to slow the rapid flutter of his heart as it caught in his throat. “Stay close. Pan may be long gone, but we've no idea what reigns in his place.”

“Where are we?” she whispered, her own sneakers dragging through grit as she turned in his arm, taking in the dark stone and shadows that surrounded them – it was not the Neverland she knew from the Storybook, or from her father's tales.

Killian's gaze followed her own, taking in the rough inclines of stone that stretched upward, heavy planes of rock traced with veins of nitre and the glistening hint of water. A hazy, ephemeral light filtered down from small cracks in the earth far above their heads. At first, he'd been concerned that something had gone awry with the portal and they'd traveled somewhere unforeseen, but the taste of the air was familiar to him. Beneath the damp and sharp tang of minerals, there was the undercurrent of Neverland's magic.

He'd never forgotten the crawl of it across his skin.

Why the portal had chosen to leave them in such an unfamiliar place on the island, however, was not a quandry he knew the answer to.

“Some sort of cavern, it appears.”

He stroked his daughter's curls absentmindedly, for the moment assured that there was no immediate danger. Though their exact location eluded him for the time being, once they found their way to fresh air, he would find known landmarks and be able to ascertain their exact location. Then he would need to find a safe place to set up camp for the night.

“Come, little love,” he murmured, smiling bitterly at the small snort that was so much like her mother's at the sound of the endearment he so rarely used anymore – I'm not little, Papa. “Let's find out way out of this cavern and see the lay of the land.”

“I'm scared,” she admitted, pulling back against him when he tried to guide them forward. He couldn't see well enough, but he knew her lips would be set in a familiar grim line. “What if Mom can't...what if...”

“Hope,” Killian soothed, dropping to a knee beside her and leaning close enough that she could just make out the certainty in his expression. “I've yet to see your mother fail at anything she's set her mind to, and I have no doubt she'll find a way. We just have to – ”

“ – wait for her,” Hope finished, her fingers dropping from behind her ear and back to her side. “We just have to wait for her, and she'll find us.”

“Aye, now then, let's make haste. I don't envy whatever lurks in these dark places, and it appears the cavern narrows into a corridor ahead.”

Hope's agreement was silent, her hand tightening in his as they both moved forward toward the passageway that split the stone on the opposite end of the room in which the portal had deposited them. They hadn't gone far, barely moving within its narrow length when the walls around them shook, stone grating and groaning to life somewhere nearby, but beyond their sight.

“Papa!” Hope hissed, her panic as sharp as the glint of his hook as he pushed her behind him and adopted a ready stance – the corridor too narrow for him to safely draw his sword. Her fingers clutched his arm and her breath evened as the violent trembling of stone slowed and then ceased completely. “What was that?”

“I don't know, but I'd rather not wait around to find out. Let's move quickly, but quietly, love.”

Sensing the edge in his voice, Hope merely nodded and stuck to his side as he hurried down the passageway as quickly as silence would allow, their breath the only sound in the narrow space, but they hadn't moved more than a dozen steps when Killian's hand found her chest, stilling her movement and stopping her in her tracks.

Every instinct within him was suddenly taut and sharp, screaming.

Something was wrong.

They'd known this would be dangerous, he and Emma; they'd known there was chance everything could go wrong, but they'd been left with no other choice. And now here they were, no more than a candlemark into Neverland, and already something was not as it should be.

His sense on alert, from somewhere ahead the tickle of a breeze teased his skin, carrying with it the damp, rich scent of soil and jungle.

The whisper of something – a voice – tugged him forward.

Wrong, this was all wrong.

“Papa, where are you...”

“Quiet,” he bit out, more sharply than he intended, his heart hammering in his chest loudly enough to eclipse the sound of his own breath. “Stay here, Hope.”  

“Papa, I can...”

He cut short her argument with a stern look he did not often point in her direction, and though there was the slightest hint of an eye roll – good gods, he missed his wife – she stayed put. Certain his daughter would listen, at least for a short while, he moved forward as if through a dream, following the scent of lush jungle and the occasional pull of something that should not be deep in the caverns of Neverland – a voice. The corridor veered slightly starboard, stealing Hope from his vision, but the scent of fresh air grew stronger, as did his certainty that they were not alone in these shadowed, stony halls.

A dark thought passed through his mind that the voice was nothing more than a trap to lure him away from his daughter, but then the source of the fresh air came into view – a crack no wider than the palm of his hand wound its way down a crease in the cavern wall. From it drifted the scent of cleaner air, and the whisper of people beyond the security of the hidden passage. He pressed himself against it, closing one eye so that the other might adjust to the space beyond. He looked out into a cavernous space, its stone ceiling so far above that a myriad of openings and cracks to the surface cast everything beneath in a diaphanous light.

As his eyes drifted down, another groaning rumble of stone thundered to life, and Killian was torn between watching and fleeing to make sure Hope was safe. His fatherly instinct won out, but before he could turn away, his eyes glanced down at a scene that was sickeningly familiar.

There was no moving from the spot he stood – fear and disbelief warring with panic in his gut.

This was all wrong.

Far across a bottomless pit stood a group of people, each of their faces as familiar as his own. Among them, golden curls and the glint of a silver hook caught the light. His face – younger, with no gray drawn in streaks through black hair, eyes cast pleadingly at the woman who stood across from him, uncertain and disbelieving and carrying the weight of loss on her shoulders.

His eyes fell back to the dark pit that stretched across the space, and sure enough, perched no more than the length of the Jolly's quarter deck away, there rose a plinth of stone, and on it a cage constructed of vines and bamboo, its bars held tight with twine and magic. Now, Killian could see what the tremors and rumbling had been caused by – a great pathway of stone had erupted from the darkness, bridging the distance between the cage and the people waiting in the distance.

Between the man trapped within the bounds of the cage and the woman who was now rushing toward him – Emma, his Emma.

But she wasn't yours here, not yet.

Unease rolled through his stomach as he watched the familiar scene unfold, but this time from the other side, Emma's face clear enough to him in the bright cavern, though she would have no idea that he stood on the other side of the stone wall. How had this happened? His heart hammered in his chest. The portal was supposed to bring them to Neverland only, not through the past – not to this time, when one wrong move could destroy everything they had.

A deep, burning sense of foreboding roared to life in his chest.

Hope – one wrong move and he could lose her, could lose both of them.

He fought the urge to run back to his daughter and sweep her into his arms. He needed to be certain that everything went as it should before him, that their arrival in the portal hadn't somehow changed the course of what was to happen here. He watched as Emma knelt in front of the cage, her voice pulling a longing so deep and primal from his chest that his eyes burned with the heat of it.

Through some trick of the cavernous space, he could hear Emma's voice as easily as if she was standing beside him.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, but Henry,” Neal muttered, the gritty, rumbling tone of a man Killian had known only briefly on equal footing making him shift uncomfortably.  

“I...It's okay. We're gonna take care of him. Just need to get you out of there first.”

It was almost surreal seeing her like this, a memory not his own playing before him as he watched through the cavern wall. The words spoken between Emma and Neal were not new to him. There was very little his wife hadn't shared with him over their journey together, but seeing it himself – her sword clanging uselessly against the bars...

“What-- Emma. Emma, Emma. Emma! You know that's not how this works. It's okay. You can tell me anything.”

Heat rose in Killian's eyes as he watched the sword fall limply to her side, knowing it had failed her. She knelt, her fingers wrapped around the cage and her voice lowered. Still, he heard every word.

“When I heard you might be here, and that you might still be alive. I knew I should be happy, but I wasn't. I was terrified. I didn't understand why until now. From the moment I saw you in New York, in the instant you stepped back into my life. I knew. I knew I'd never stopped loving you. And before I even had a chance to take a breath...I...I lost you once more, and all that pain that I had pushed down for all those years, it just came...rushing back, and I...I didn't know if I could go through it again. I love you. I probably always will, but my secret...is that I was hoping that this was a trick. I was hoping you were dead...because it would be easier for me to put you behind me than to face all the pain that we went through all over again.”

Killian's heart broke hearing the words again. He'd heard them before, shared in the quiet of their home, his arms wrapped safely round her, but by then she'd been a different person – open to love and the support that came with it. But in the dark of the cave, she was the Emma he'd known long ago.

Alone, hurt, an orphan.

The strength it must have taken her to say those words to the man kneeling before her, knowing that in admitting a part of her would always love him, she was exposing to the very man that had broken her that he would always hold the ability to do so. He ached to be at her side, to sweep her into his embrace and promise that everything would be okay, more than that – that they'd find their son and bring him home – build a home together – that her heart would heal, that they would heal each other, that she was the best mother he'd ever seen. That he and Henry and Hope were lucky to have her, and she was the light of his world.

But he couldn't. He could only watch as the barrier between Emma and Neal disappeared at her admission, the other man crawling forward and wrapping her in a hug.

Emma's hands wrapped loosely around him, eyes peering through what was left of the cage over his shoulder. There was a moment, her brow knitting together, when her eyes met the dark fissure in the stone behind the cage, and her gaze found his – at least it seemed that way to Killian. He dared not move, all to aware that nothing could change. Nothing could risk their future, but then Neal was rising to his feet and the moment was gone. Emma returned to herself and stood, hurrying back over the bridge toward where her family stood.

Toward him.

Toward the future.

Toward...

“Hope...” he murmured, brushing aside the heaviness of the moment and hurrying back toward where he'd left his daughter.

He'd gone only a few steps when she was suddenly before him, clearly tired of being told to wait and uncertain of what he'd been confronting on his own. She was just like her mother in that way, intent on helping no matter the danger to herself.

“I told you to wait, love,” he sighed, pulling her into his chest and hugging her more forcefully then he'd intended, relenting a bit as she squirmed in his arms and looked up at him.

“What's wrong?” she asked, eyes narrowing. “What was that?”

Killian sighed, resting his chin on top of her head and closing his eyes despite the darkness. He hated lying to her, but neither did he want her to know the truth. She was insatiably curious, his daughter, and she'd insist of seeing for herself.

“It seems there's a cavern on the other side of this wall, and quite a large pit.” There, not a complete lie. “Perhaps some formation of rock fell. There's nothing to harm us, though we should get out of here as quickly as we can.”

“Okay, let's go then. I'm starving, and I want to see the actual jungle,” she sighed, tugging him back down the corridor. “Mom said it was terrible, but at this point I'm just glad there won't be any snow.”

“Aye,” Killian echoed, though his thoughts were far from Storybrooke and the cold winter that meant cups of hot cocoa heaped with marshmallows and whipped cream, and snowball fights in the yard that left them all red-cheeked and breathless.

As Hope tugged him along and the corridor wound its way back toward the main cavern of Echo Caves, Killian's thoughts were far from anything that had to do with Storybrooke and his family at all – instead they were on Neverland, and the bloody demon who would soon find them for reckoning.

----

@donteattheappleshook @justanother-unluckysoul @kmomof4 @the-darkdragonfly @teamhook @zaharadessert @xarandomdreamx @jrob64 @wefoundloveunderthelight @tiganasummertree @pirateprincessofpizza @lfh1226-linda @alexa-fangirl-forever @alifeofdreams @superchocovian @hollyethecurious @caught-in-the-filter @snowbellewells @itsfabianadocarmo @stahlop @karlyfr13s @elizabeethan @rkrbirdgirl @batana54 @ilovemesomekillianjones

#csnlny22 #Captain Swan #cs fanfic #CS fic #emma and hook #captain hook #sailtoafarawayland #hope swan jones #neverland #reaching for tomorrow

[sailtoafarawayland]

To start:

For notreturnvoid

We’ll need an Irishman:

NO!

Dear god no. No, try again.

Better. Oh yes… much better.

But he looks too sweet. Maybe someone with Black Irish coloring?

There we go! But he’s so young! And in need of a comb. Age him a bit?

Hmm… A bit more.

Why hello….

(Ahem.)

Yes, good. Very good. But he’s looking like our previous good Irish boy.

THAT WASN’T AN INVITE BACK DORNAN! (Iloveyou)

So, make the dark haired one more bad boy?

Yes…

YES…

Jesus take the wheel…

Yes. Oh god yes. He will do.

But now we need to add pirate to the mix.

Kinky. But no.

More like, a dash of this:

A pinch of this:

And a touch of scoundrel:

Me likey…

Ok, show me.

Dear God. What I have I done? Shit. I take it back. It’s too much.

I didn’t mean it. WHERE IS THE UNDO BUTTON?????

Crap. He’s learning. HE KNOWS.

fuckfuckFUCKFUCK

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Forgive me. I knew not what I did…

[sailtoafarawayland]

I have been waiting and waiting for this moment, and the entire chapter was just brilliant…this sudden dismantling of a life built, the promise of it having hung over them for so long.

I’ve never loved original characters in fanfic in the way I’ve come to love Fee and Alec. That is a testament to @the-darkdragonfly and her beautiful, heartfelt words.

Chapter Twenty Three: Between Worlds

NEW CHAPTER! The Ripple Effect - A Captain Swan Tale

Only a few more chapters left of this Tale, I can't believe it! The Ripple Effect will continue with Part Two, A Trick of the Light in Spring 2022. Make sure you subscribe to my Tumblr and/or on my author page at A03 - you wont want to miss it! If you would like to be added to my Tag List - drop me an ask here ❤ A03 - TheDarkDragonfly

❤❤❤

“Alec knows, right? You’re sure?”

“Aye, love. As does Fee,” he slid his thumb across the apple of her cheek, wet with tears from having to say goodbye to a life she loved. She nodded- okay, I’m ready- fingers toying with the linen hem of his sleeve.

He had made Alec promise, just as Emma had instructed, that the hens were not to be harmed, by them or anyone else, and were certainly not considered food of any description. Alec had laughed, the heel of his boot kicking at the dirt of the barn- aye, lad, I know- before shaking on the deal to keep Emma’s birds safe after they were gone.

“You don't have to come, love,” he whispered, voice unsteady in the face of her pain.

“I want to. I should.”

He nodded.

“Besides, I need to make Alec double pinky promise he won’t eat them.”

❤❤❤

Tagging:

@elizabeethan @donteattheappleshook @sailtoafarawayland @teamhook @wefoundloveunderthelight @caught-in-the-filter @batana54 @ultraluckycatnd @veryverynotgood @veryverynotgoodwrites @snowbellewells @hollyethecurious @jrob64 @kmomof4 @artistic-writer @gingerpolyglot @xarandomdreamx @xhookswenchx @justanother-unluckysoul @itsfabianadocarmo @zaharadessert @jadehowlettthewolf @xsjax @karlyfr13s @tiganasummertree @asluve @winterbaby89 @wyntereyez @klynn-stormz @onceratheart18 @rkrbirdgirl @ouatdaily @blowmiakisscolin @courtorderedcake @winterbaby89 @pirateprincessofpizza @superchocovian @deckerstarblanche @jlsadphoenix @alexa-fangirl-forever @stahlop @ohmakemeahercules @undercaffinatednightmare @lostintheskyfaraway

#the ripple effect #the darkdragonfly #captain swan

[sailtoafarawayland]

Captain Swan + The Princess Bride

[sailtoafarawayland]

“Rum”

(”…and a bloody waste of it…”)

Quick sketch with colored pencils. Just trying to loosen up a little today. :-)

[sailtoafarawayland]

[sailtoafarawayland]

A WIP Wednesday Bunny that’s run away with me...

(Or, my Silver Hook NLNY hopeful) 

I already had a NLNY piece that I was working on, but the muse latched onto this and is refusing to relent, so I’m going to share the first bit with you in hopes your interest keeps her interested. 

//

Killian landed gracefully as the portal closed behind them, the green tint of its swirling edge casting the stone in front of them in a sickly hue before disappearing and leaving him cloaked in darkness. He found his feet, eyes adjusting to the shadows as the small hand in his tightened it's grip.

“Papa, are we...”

“Aye, love,” he murmured, folding her easily into his side, the heat of her cheek against him enough to slow the rapid beating of his heart. “Stay close. Pan may be gone, but we've no idea what reigns in his place.”

“Where are we?” his daughter whispered, her boots shuffling against stone as she crowded against him in the dark.

“Some sort of cavern, it appears.” He stroked her curls absentmindedly, for the moment assured that they were in no immediate danger. He simply needed to ascertain where they'd landed, and then find a suitable place to set up camp. “Come, we'll find our way to someplace more comfortable.”

“I'm scared,” she admitted, tugging him back when he tried to guide them forward, her lips set in a familiar line as her free hand rose to tug at the neckline of her shirt. “What if Mom can't...what if...”

“Hope, darling” Killian smiled, kneeling on the hard stone in front of her so he could see her eyes in the dim light, “I've yet to see your mother fail at anything she's set her mind to, and I have no doubts she'll find a way. We just have to – ”

“ – wait for her,” Hope sighed, gaze dropping to her feet. “We just have to wait for her.”

//

That’s all I’m going to share for now, but I hope you’re all intrigued and looking forward to it. Let me know if you want to be added to my tag list. XO

Tagging:  @donteattheappleshook @justanother-unluckysoul @kmomof4 @the-darkdragonfly @teamhook @zaharadessert @xarandomdreamx @jrob64 @wefoundloveunderthelight @tiganasummertree @pirateprincessofpizza @lfh1226-linda @alexa-fangirl-forever @alifeofdreams @superchocovian @hollyethecurious @caught-in-the-filter @snowbellewells @itsfabianadocarmo @stahlop @karlyfr13s @elizabeethan @rkrbirdgirl @batana54 @ilovemesomekillianjones 

#Captain Swan #cs fanfic #CS fic #WIP Wednesday #nlny wip #sailtoafarawayland

[sailtoafarawayland]

I’m convinced that if Emma were sent to Hell — American Horror Story Style — this would be the moment she had to relive over and over.

Whumptober 2021

Day 30: Digging Your Grave

major character death | left for dead | ghosts

Once Upon A Time 5x11

Emma is forced to kill Killian to get rid of the dark one forever.

#heavy whump #captain swan #Emma and hook #whumptober2021 #once upon a time

[sailtoafarawayland]

Happy Halloween

@kmomof4 @snowbellewells @lifeinahole27 @cocohook38 @ilovemesomekillianjones @teamhook @resident-of-storybrooke @alexa-fangirl-forever

[sailtoafarawayland]

I’ve gotten a lot of requests for this to be continued. I’m not…right now…but it’s probably only because I have so many WIPs on my plate. I can see taking another look at it if the muse is so inclined down the road. Thrilled you enjoyed it, and thank your for all your lovely words and reblogs @ilovemesomekillianjones 😍

Look, don’t touch...

SUMMARY:  There’s a place where she can go to play, a place where ecstasy follows the sweep of her fingers and all the men watching have to play by her rules…look, don’t touch. She can’t help that rules are made to be broken, as long as she’s the one doing the breaking.

RATING: E (Tags: voyeurism, mutual masturbation, sex club, gloryhole)

I truly hope you all enjoy this piece. It has been sitting for some time as I deliberated on how to end it, and it is - ended. :)

/ - denote a perspective shift. // - denotes a leap forward in time.

AO3 - FF

Look, don’t touch…

She likes to be watched.

There’s something about knowing that they’re staring at that screen with their hands wrapped around their cocks, aching for her – that she’s wanted.

But it’s enough.

And if she’s being completely honest, she’s better at getting herself off than most of the one night stands she’s had, so her ‘no touching’ rule isn’t the detriment it might be if she had a capable partner.

She shoulders her way through the line of people waiting to get into the bar – it’s a popular place, but she doesn’t come here for the drinks.

The bouncer, his name is Anton –  not that she makes a habit of getting names, but he’s pulled enough creeps off of her that she feels he’s earned at least that courtesy – nods at her as she passes, his wide girth shifting just enough to let her pass as a whine from the lengthy line behind her rises.

The bar may be trendy enough to earn both its cover and the line of hipsters waiting out front, but Emma’s far more interested in what’s waiting below the sleek bartop and milling drunks.

She passes through the crowd inside unnoticed. The bartenders here are paid well enough to keep their eyes on their patrons and not on the ‘regulars’, and the rather modest outfit beneath her red leather jacket dissuades any other interested parties.

She doesn’t look like she’s here to play.

If only they knew.

/

He likes to watch.  

It’s as far as he’ll let himself go these days – a history of breaking everything he touches has seen to that.

But it’s enough.

And if he’s being honest with himself, he’s not sure how much satisfaction he’d garner from fucking someone anyways. He’d probably just see her face – Milah – one more reminder of the truth he’d been running from his whole life.

He strides past the long queue waiting to get into the bar – it’s narrow and cramped and raved about amongst the younger crowd who believe they’re the first to discover the wonders of Absynthe, but he’s not here for the overpriced ambiance and Instagram worthy cocktails.

While he does drop quite a bit on this particular hobby, it’s spent below deck, and it affords him a respectful – if surprised – nod from the bouncer at the door as he approaches.

“Good evening, Mr. Jones,” the giant of a man murmurs, keeping his name hushed as he steps to the side to allow him entrance, “not your usual evening.”

“Aye, my schedule’s changed recently,” he cedes, acknowledging the man’s observance. “You have a lovely evening, Anton.”

Anton chuckles behind him and Killian allows a small smile. It’s an odd thing to say to the man who’s left outside checking identification while he descends to a place where lovely evenings are promised if you’ve deep enough pockets.  

He grabs the attention of more than a few lasses when he enters the bar, everything from the clothing he wears to the disinterested gleam in his eye screaming money, but he has no interest in the leggy brunette swirling to face him on her bar stool, her lips already twisted into an obsequious smile. The redhead who casually cold-shoulders the man chatting her up as he passes does nothing to stir his inspiration either.

Once upon a time, perhaps, he would have taken one or both of them back to some bed in some hotel room, but that isn’t why Killian Jones comes to the Jolly Roger – and it most certainly isn’t what he’s looking for when he brandishes a key card and descends to the club hidden beneath.

Neverland.  

He follows the familiar path to his chosen room, glad to see things just as he’d left them the week prior. Hes not surprised to see different girls – and some men – on the touchscreen. He assumes most people who frequent the club keep to a schedule, and his has changed, after all. His eyes slip lazily over the selection, almost bored until he spots a sensuous figure moving away from the camera and toward a wide, black leather lounge. His tongue sweeps across his lip as he drinks her in, all long hard lines that fade flawlessly into where she’s soft and pliant.

Desire stabs like lightning from the base of his spine and rolls down his arms on a shiver.  

Keep reading

[sailtoafarawayland]

It’s Halloween Eve!

(And just had to show off the pumpkin 🎃 I carved this year. If anyone is gonna appreciate it, it’s probably my shipmates on here….

[sailtoafarawayland]

The American Ballet Theatre is debuting its first same-sex pas de deux tonight, performed by Calvin Royal III and João Menegussi. A snippet of the performance has been circulating on TikTok (above), and it’s so beautiful, I was moved to tears. I tried to capture the tenderness of these thirty seconds in charcoal and pencil as best as I could. (Below.)

[sailtoafarawayland]

To start:

For notreturnvoid

We’ll need an Irishman:

NO!

Dear god no. No, try again.

Better. Oh yes… much better.

But he looks too sweet. Maybe someone with Black Irish coloring?

There we go! But he’s so young! And in need of a comb. Age him a bit?

Hmm… A bit more.

Why hello….

(Ahem.)

Yes, good. Very good. But he’s looking like our previous good Irish boy.

THAT WASN’T AN INVITE BACK DORNAN! (Iloveyou)

So, make the dark haired one more bad boy?

Yes…

YES…

Jesus take the wheel…

Yes. Oh god yes. He will do.

But now we need to add pirate to the mix.

Kinky. But no.

More like, a dash of this:

A pinch of this:

And a touch of scoundrel:

Me likey…

Ok, show me.

Dear God. What I have I done? Shit. I take it back. It’s too much.

I didn’t mean it. WHERE IS THE UNDO BUTTON?????

Crap. He’s learning. HE KNOWS.

fuckfuckFUCKFUCK

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Forgive me. I knew not what I did…

[sailtoafarawayland]

Best Left Buried

(A CS Halloweek AU)

SUMMARY:  It's a strange place, Storybrooke – empty streets and picturesque Victorians that loom a little differently than the shadows they cast. Like most things in this town, you can't be sure they're being entirely honest about who they are. Curtains flicker in the windows as you pass, and gates swing on rusty hinges even after the wind is long gone. There's one too many black cats to be entirely natural, and there's something unsettling about the dolls that sit in the pawn broker's window. Like most old, New England towns, Storybrooke has a bit of a checkered history – except the truth is that Storybrooke isn't actually very old at all, and its history is a bit more black than checkered.

RATING: T 

Happy @cshalloweek, everyone! The prompt that struck me was: Monsters / red - under a spell | mystery | "I'm not going anywhere" | bloodcurdling

This takes place in an AU Storybrooke with Halloween and supernatural vibes. I hope you all enjoy my take!

AO3 - FF

Best Left Buried

I'm new to storytelling, so you'll have to forgive me if I don't follow the rules. I don't want to start at the beginning, or the end. One would think that leaves the middle, but...how about we begin at 'on the way to the end'?

And every story needs a little mystery, don't you think? The stranger on a lonely night, the bloodcurdling scream that no one hears? Like most Halloween tales, we'll need to start with some dark and gloomy, and a woman all by herself on the side of the road.

Well, maybe she isn't so alone after all...

/

“Everything alright here, Sheriff?” a slow, cautious voice called, cutting through the hazy beam of light that glared from the SUV parked twenty feet or so behind her.

Gravel crunched beneath heavy boots, moving closer.  

Arms stretched and gripping the raised trunk of her cruiser, Emma stared down at the person tied up and bent within, knees tucked against the bumper and eyes glaring up at her, narrowed and angry above the length of black cloth cutting into the corners of his mouth.

Well, fuck – old fashioned worked just fine up until the moment a state trooper wanted to intrude on her evening plans.

Before the man could make a sound, Emma twisted her wrist.

His eyes went wide, panic winning out over anger as he discovered his voice no longer worked the way it should, and that no matter how hard he tried to scream, there was nothing to hear.

No matter how desperately he tried to kick the bumper to alert the person approaching them, his body just wouldn't obey.

Arching a brow as if to say, 'did you think I was just gonna let you call for help?', Emma smiled and simply tossed the shovel resting against the bumper over top of him, the thunk of it hitting the back of the trunk resounding in the quiet night.

“Yup,” she called back, letting the 'p' pop from her lips as she slammed home the latch of the trunk, leaving her cargo in complete darkness. “Just clearing up some roadkill. Must be an easy night if you're up this way – Portland run out of Halloween mischief?”

The trooper shook his head, stepping into her space as she turned away from the trunk and leaned casually against it, brushing her gloved hands together as if to rid them of dirt.

“I wish,” the man muttered, adjusting the volume on his radio as it roared with static. “Man, these things never work in this town of yours – must be a lousy signal. Don't know how you guys manage.”

“Small town,” Emma shrugged, “not much trouble to manage. What brings you up so late?”

“We actually got a call in for a missing person, thought I'd head up your way and see if you'd laid eyes on him.”

Emma leaned forward to study the trooper's phone as he held it between them, the screen illuminating her furrowed brow and lips pressed into a concerned line.

“Doesn't look familiar, but I can ask around if anyone's seen him. He dangerous?”

“Nah, don't think so – might be off his meds though – anxiety, apparently. His fiance called in and said he ran out of their hotel room a few days ago during a fight over which direction they should head, inland or up the coast. She mentioned he'd wanted to head this way.”

“I swear, the foliage brings out nothing but crazies,” Emma groaned, rolling her eyes. “Well, I'll keep my eyes open, let you know if we see anything. It's been nothing but TP'ed houses and ding dong ditch the past week.”

“Technology may change, but the classics never get old,” the trooper laughed. “Speaking of, the wife was asking after the recipe for that lasagna you dropped off at the station a few weeks ago. Any chance you could – ”

“I wish I could help you out,” Emma cut in, raising her hands in supplication, “really, I do, but Granny would have my head if I even asked, or worse – she'd stop serving me.”

“Ah, well, I suppose some secrets are best left buried,” the trooper chuckled, flashing her an understanding smile. “Besides, I'd hate to run across you without your caffeine on board.”

“Right on both counts, Dietz,” Emma grinned. “Tell Charlene that Killian and I said hello, and keep safe.”

The trooper waved a gloved hand in farewell before climbing back into his SUV and pulling a u-turn. Emma slid into the driver seat of her own car, watching in the mirror as his lights were swallowed up by the darkness that would lead him safely out of Storybrooke.

//

Have I captured your attention? It's so good to finally have someone listening. How about we jump back to the beginning now, and I'll tell you a story about a quaint New England town called Storybrooke?

It's a strange place, Storybrooke – empty streets and picturesque Victorians that loom a little differently than the shadows they cast. Like most things in this town, you can't be sure they're being entirely honest about who they are. Curtains flicker in the windows as you pass, and gates swing on rusty hinges even after the wind is long gone.

There's one too many black cats to be entirely natural, and there's something unsettling about the dolls that sit in the pawn broker's window. Like most old, New England towns, Storybrooke has a bit of a checkered history – except the truth is that Storybrooke isn't actually very old at all, and its history is a bit more black than checkered.

Or perhaps I should say red.  

If you're just another tourist passing through in October, blinded by the leaves and farm stands filled to brimming with pumpkins and hot cider, then you might not notice that something about this town isn't as it seems. That's what everyone here hopes for, that you'll spend a few bucks on some food and plastic souvenirs and move on up the coast to the next small town with a good story.

But the locals lose their easy smiles when someone looks too closely beyond Main Street, asking questions about things that are best left buried.

They don't want you to ask questions about the occurrences and complaints, the accusations and stories that have found their way to the darker corners of the internet. They frown when curious couch detectives hold up printed photos of people long gone – or should I say 'missing' – directing them instead to a rack of shirts emblazoned with the words 'I survived Dead Man's Peak'. Have you heard the legend of the centuries old ship's Captain whose spirit roams the cliffs? People go up there all the time to take photos...can't be too careful around those steep drops, they say, nothing but cold sea below...

It has an odd reputation, Storybrooke, for missing people and gruesome deaths, most of them ruled accidental – falls from great heights, victims of drowning – but the town makes its living on the backs of all those old legends, witches and vampires and ghosts, so they sell their shirts and coffee mugs, and look the other way when morbid curiosity seekers and ghost hunters make the long drive from their dark apartments and flickering screens all the way to their small town in Maine.

Most of the time.

As long as you don't look too closely and become someone they don't care for.

Because those people...I can promise it's not long before their social media goes quiet. Their camper van disappears unseen from Main Street one night – and just like that, it's as if they had never driven to that quiet town at all. The friendly old lady who runs the diner never saw them, never served them coffee and tucked a mint under their pillow. The sweet librarian never made suggestions on what they might like to check out for their stay. The harbormaster never leased them a boat to take a tour around the bay, and the kindly shrink who walks his dog three times daily  never once saw them sipping coffee on the park bench.

It's not until too late that you can see them for who they really are.

How the friendly old woman who owns the diner pulls raw meat from the fridge after closing, arthritic fingers digging deep into the mass of red flesh and drawing it closer to her mouth, her eyes flickering shut with pleasure as she tears hunks of it free and swallows them down. How the sweet librarian locks up at the end of the day and returns to the back room of the Pawn Shop, the knowledge she's gleaned during her studies made useful as she seeks to return her lost love to the world of the living. How the harbormaster grins wickedly in the dark of a warehouse, teeth sharper than humanly possible as his eyes hone in on the soft, pulsing flesh of a young woman's neck. How the shrink sits beside an unsuspecting stranger on the park bench, drawing their sadness and woes from them and feasting, leaving those he speaks to holding darker and more open wounds than only moments before.

You won't see it until it no longer matters, until they have no intention of allowing you to flee to the next town with a story to tell.

But I promise you, none of them have a story quite like Storybrooke. I should know, I was there when it began.  

And now...well, I'm not going anywhere.

//

“So, this is the evidence I needed to see?” Emma grimaced, toeing the bit of faded, rotten canvas poking from the dirt, the orange tarpaulin long separated from the bit of metal that was once a frame.

“This is where it all started,” the man insisted, walking frantically between the trees and gesturing widely to the overgrown clearing. “This was where we'd set up camp, and here, right here – ” He knelt and swiped his hand through a layer of wet leaves, exposing what looked to be an old circle of stones. “This was where we roasted marshmallows.”

“It look's like an old campsite,” Emma agreed, eyes darting to the sun that was only just setting low over the forest, “but there must be hundreds of these abandoned all along the Maine coast. I don't see how it's – ”

“I found this,” the man rushed, desperate to make her see reason. He yanked a mildewed piece of fabric from the ground nearby, waving it between them. “It was my dad's. His name is on the tag. This is the spot, right here, where it all started.”

“Alright, look, Mr. Mendell – ”

“Greg. My name's Greg.”

“Greg, can you just slow down and explain this to me again – one more time, from the beginning, please?”

“Thirty years ago, my father and I were camping in the wilderness. Then out of nowhere, there was a rush of something in the air, and an entire town appeared right beside us.”

“Out of nowhere?” Emma deadpanned, whipping out her flashlight and shining it over the rapidly darkening forest. “Towns don't just fall from the sky, Mr. Mendell.”

“It was like magic, and when we tried to leave the town, she kept my father here – the Mayor. When I tried to get help and get back to him, it was gone – the entire town. Like it was under some sort of magic spell.”

“You're saying magic a lot.”

“I know I sound crazy,” he stammered, running his hands over his close cropped hair as he paced back and forth.

“Yeah, just a little,” Emma snorted, passing the beam of light over his face and watching as his eyes squeezed shut.

“But I'm not. I tried to move on, start a new life, but I couldn't, not until I figured it out – and now I have. It's this town, it has secrets,” he hissed, his hands tightening into fists at his side.

“Okay, sir. I think it's best we get you back to town and maybe give someone a call – do you have any family I can reach out to?”

“I don't need you to call anyone,” he blurted out, eyes wide and panicked as he took a step away from her toward the shadowed trees. “I need you to help me find out what happened to my father – everyone in this town, they're in on it. The Mayor, she looks exactly the same as she did back then. The woman who runs the diner and her granddaughter...they're all the same!”

“Sir, I'm gonna need you to just calm down,” Emma sighed.

“Do you have any idea how many people have gone missing in this town? My father may have been the first, but he wasn't the last. As soon as anyone starts asking too many questions – poof, gone!”

Reaching up, Emma rubbed at her brow with an exhausted huff as she approached the man while he continued to rant.

“There were those two women – the DeVille woman and her friend. They took vacations from work to visit and never came back. That blogger – the one who posted a photo of some strange, purple cloud that went viral. His partner came to meet up with him after he got a concerning text and never found him, then – strangely enough – his partner disappeared as well.”

“So you're telling me that this town somehow magically appeared here out of thin air,” Emma scoffed, “and that we're murdering people to keep it secret.”

“I looked into you – you only moved here recently, so you're safe. You have to do something about it, Sheriff.”

“Here's the thing,” Emma sighed, shrugging lopsidedly. “You're right.”

“What?” the man rasped, some instinct that rises in humans when danger is sensed making his face grow paler with each second that passed between them.

“You're right about the town, about magic, and this – ” she toed the rotted tent again, grimacing. “This was an oversight of Regina's. Why am I always cleaning up her messes...”

“You're in on it,” he mumbled, staggering backwards and as far from Emma as possible, nearly falling beneath the canopy of the trees.  

“Quite perceptive, this one,” hummed a disembodied voice from behind him.

Greg spun wildly on his feet, trying to pin down exactly where the voice had come from, his movements eliciting a chuckle from the shadows. With his back turned to Emma, he never saw the blow coming, his eyes slipping shut before the dark, leaf-covered soil rose to meet him.

Emma leaned her weight on one hip, a large branch spinning idly in her hand.

���The troublesome ones always are.”

“Excellent form, love,” Killian praised, and Emma smirked as her husband stepped forward, black leather and dark hair separating from the shadows, his sea blue eyes glimmering mischievously. “I was wondering when you'd just get to the point.”

“Needed to know exactly what he knew.”

“The same as everyone else, it seems – except for this,” Killian pointed out, kicking the remains of some rotted out camping gear. “Why am I not surprised another of the Queen's disastrous decisions has come back to haunt us.”  

Emma waved her hand and the forest floor was magically pristine, completely devoid of anything resembling a long-disused campground.

“Problem solved.”

“Well, almost,” Hook smirked, waving his hook at the unconscious man lying between them. “There's still this one to deal with.”

“Yeah,” Emma sighed, toeing at the man's chest with her boot. “Look's like dinner is gonna be late unless one of us heads back now. Rock-paper-hook?”

“Quite humorous,” Hook drawled, rolling his eyes as Emma waved a single hooked finger in the air, “but I think I'll tackle dinner. Otherwise, the lad will be eating pop tarts and deli meat from the packaging.”

“Hey, that's protein, and the pop-tarts are pumpkin spice, so that has to count for something.”

“I highly doubt there's any squash in those monstrosities – a balanced meal they are not.”

“Should I point out how hypocritical you're being,” Emma retorted, stepping into his space and matching his grin with her own. “I'll try to be quick, unless you wanted to...” She nudged the body between them with her foot, her eyebrow angled in silent question.

Killian glanced down at the unconscious Greg Mendell, his tongue lingering over sharp fangs as he studied the tremulous pulse in the man's neck. Then his eyes darted back up to Emma, catching the way her pulse quickened and arousal widened her pupils.

“I think I'll take my repast once you return, love.”

“Just what I was hoping to hear,” she purred, knowing the wait would only make him more voracious. “I'll see you home in a bit.”

“I'll count the minutes,” Hook whispered darkly, leaning down and capturing her lips in a kiss, her tongue swirling around the curved fangs that replaced his canines. His fingers found their place in her curls, and he angled her head with a gentle tug, leaving the imprint of his teeth on her neck. “Now, allow me give you a hand back to the cruiser.”

“Such a gentleman,” she breathed, still battling her racing heart and the desire pooling low in her gut as Hook squatted and lifted Greg's body as easily as if the man weighed nothing, tossing him over a shoulder.

“Shall we?”

They hiked the short distance back to the pull off, the squad car already covered in a thin layer of fallen leaves that drifted down from above.  

“You know, I could have gotten him myself,” Emma said, knowing he would have been back with Henry already if not for her. “You'll be that much longer getting home now.”

“Nonsense, Swan. Henry can wait a few minutes on good form. Go on then, pop the boot.”

“It's called a trunk. Who did you even pick that up from? Pretty sure they don't have 'boots' in the Enchanted Forest.”

“You know, I'm not sure,” Killian shrugged, using the motion to slough Greg's still unconscious form into the trunk beside the rest of Emma's things. “Nottingham, perhaps?”  

“Do I want to know what you guys have been up to?”

“Nothing untoward, I assure you. The man can hardly hold his rum – I think Robin simply likes to include him so he can rob him blind during poker.”

Before Emma could blink, Killian had pulled several lengths of rope from his jacket and quickly bound Greg's hands and feet together, finishing the entire presentation with a strip of black cloth that he rolled tightly and wedged into his mouth, tying it round the man's head.

“So old fashioned,” Emma teased, slamming the trunk shut and leaning against it, welcoming her husband down for another kiss, trying to ignore the way it set her body afire.

“I'll see you at home, love,” he promised, and then he was gone, leaving nothing more than the cold press of his lips and the ghost of his thumb against her chin.  

“Look's like it's just you and me then,” Emma sighed, rapping on the trunk twice before fishing for the keys in her pocket. “Let's get this over with.”

//

This is the part of the story that always makes everyone gasp, although I think if you've been paying attention, the reveal will hardly be as shocking for you as what happened next was for me.

I woke, though I don't remember falling asleep. I was too terrified for that, so like everything else that happens in this god forsaken town, I blamed it on magic. Magic had stolen my voice and ability to move, it had disappeared countless people, my father included, and it was about to get rid of me as well.

And tied up in the trunk of a cop car, there was nothing I could do about it.

Everything was black, and it took me a minute to realize that nothing was moving. I could feel my breath hot and wet around the gag in my mouth. After a moment, the trunk clicked open, swinging high to reveal a starry sky surrounded by a halo of trees.

It was kind of a beautiful view, but you don't appreciate those things when you're pretty sure you're about to die.

And she stood there, blonde hair lit from behind and the edges of her jacket glowing red as she crossed her arms in front of her chest.

“I'm gonna be late for dinner because of this shit. Every year, it's someone new.”

I opened my mouth to scream, but nothing came out. As if she sensed my intention and it made no difference at all, she waved her hand and my voice rushed back to me, the gag and the magic that had silenced me both gone.

“Help! Someone help – ”

“There's no one around to hear you,” she snapped, reaching for the shovel that she'd chucked behind me. “Now get out of the car.”

“You're crazy if you think I'm just going to – ”

Her wrist flicked again and suddenly I was standing ten feet from the car in the middle of a field, the ropes that had bound me gone. I stumbled, trying to regain my balance, and I wish I could say I'd been quicker to run, but I wasn't, and even if I had, I'm sure it wouldn't have mattered.

My eyes drifted to the ground beside me – or the lack of it. A large hole roughly the size of a person had been dug into the earth, black, loamy soil piled high beside it.

“Please – ” I took a step back as she took one forward, but another wave of her wrist stole any ability I had to move on my own, my breaths shuddering against my rib cage as I stood there like a deer frozen to the road.

I could only watch in horror as she reached toward me, a look of annoyance on her face. Her hand pressed against my chest, and before I could even understand what was happening, she reached through it –  pain gripped me, tearing a feral sound from my lips as roughly as she jerked her hand free.

She stepped back, something bright red and glowing caged within her fingers, a heart – my heart.  

“Get in the hole,” she sighed, as if she were directing me to fill out paperwork and not ordering me to my death.

I wanted to object, to run and scream, but instead my feet moved, carrying me to the looming pit. I could only stare, utterly terrified, as my shoes dangled over the edge, the soil threaded with roots damp in my palms as I gripped the edge and dropped.

“Please,” I begged, staring up at her where she stood, looming over what was to be my grave. Her face was shadowed by the moon behind her, but her jacket glowed as red as my heart where she held it. “Why are you doing this?”

“I'm the Savior,” she explained with a tone that said she found the job rather inconvenient. “I protect this town, keep it safe.”

“From what?”

“From people like you, who come and poke your noses into our business. We have a life here, and we just want to live it in peace. So I do my part, we all do.”

“So now you're just gonna what, bury me alive?” I screamed, bile thick on the back of my tongue and my limbs shaking with adrenaline.

“Alive?” she laughed. “No, what kind of monster do you think I am?”

I could feel my heart thumping against my bones as she held her arm over my open grave, the red glimmer moving closer, illuminating the glistening curves of worms and beetles that treaded the freshly disturbed earth.

And then she squeezed.

Pain unlike anything I'd ever known consumed me, and as some non-corporeal part of me rose high above, I looked down and saw the grey ash that fell from her hand to litter my corpse below.

She brushed her palms together, as if they were dirtied by nothing more than crumbs, and then with a tired flick of her wrist, the black soil scattered on the ground tipped itself back into the hole, burying me entirely.    

//

There's an old, scenic Victorian home whose windows peer out over the sea.

Inside, a woman comes home for the evening. She hangs her red leather jacket reverently beside its black companion.

At the table, a husband dusts hot cocoa with cinnamon, smiling as she takes it to warm her hands after an evening in the cold.

She sits on the sofa with her son, watching as he's captivated by the soft glow of the TV, a controller gripped between his hands and an empty dinner plate on the table.

It's a scene fitting for an autumnal New England night – Norman Rockwell for the millennials.

There's no outward sign of the monsters that lurk beneath. There's no blood on her hands, but they're red with it all the same, just as her neck is painted red later that evening as her husband takes his own meal.

Her and every other person in this town – it's all painted red.

So, now you've listened to my story – one more 'tourist' who's taken the long drive up the coast to this damned town, searching for mystery and ghosts.

You've found one, one of many – the only question is, will you linger to hear the rest, or will you flee onward to the next small town with its small stories, grateful that the monsters you sought have passed you by?

Choose wisely, Ghost Hunter – some stories are best left buried.

END

Tagging:  @donteattheappleshook @justanother-unluckysoul @kmomof4 @the-darkdragonfly @teamhook @zaharadessert @xarandomdreamx @jrob64 @wefoundloveunderthelight @tiganasummertree @pirateprincessofpizza @lfh1226-linda @alexa-fangirl-forever @alifeofdreams @superchocovian @hollyethecurious @caught-in-the-filter @snowbellewells @itsfabianadocarmo @stahlop @karlyfr13s @elizabeethan @rkrbirdgirl @batana54 @ilovemesomekillianjones 

#Captain Swan #cs halloweek #cs fanfic #CS fic #sailtoafarawayland #best left buried #emma and hook #halloween vibes

[sailtoafarawayland]

Look, don’t touch...

SUMMARY:  There's a place where she can go to play, a place where ecstasy follows the sweep of her fingers and all the men watching have to play by her rules...look, don't touch. She can't help that rules are made to be broken, as long as she's the one doing the breaking.

RATING: E (Tags: voyeurism, mutual masturbation, sex club, gloryhole)

I truly hope you all enjoy this piece. It has been sitting for some time as I deliberated on how to end it, and it is - ended. :)

/ - denote a perspective shift. // - denotes a leap forward in time.

AO3 - FF

Look, don’t touch...

She likes to be watched.

There's something about knowing that they're staring at that screen with their hands wrapped around their cocks, aching for her – that she's wanted.

But it's enough.

And if she's being completely honest, she's better at getting herself off than most of the one night stands she's had, so her 'no touching' rule isn't the detriment it might be if she had a capable partner.

She shoulders her way through the line of people waiting to get into the bar – it's a popular place, but she doesn't come here for the drinks.

The bouncer, his name is Anton –  not that she makes a habit of getting names, but he's pulled enough creeps off of her that she feels he's earned at least that courtesy – nods at her as she passes, his wide girth shifting just enough to let her pass as a whine from the lengthy line behind her rises.

The bar may be trendy enough to earn both its cover and the line of hipsters waiting out front, but Emma's far more interested in what's waiting below the sleek bartop and milling drunks.

She passes through the crowd inside unnoticed. The bartenders here are paid well enough to keep their eyes on their patrons and not on the 'regulars', and the rather modest outfit beneath her red leather jacket dissuades any other interested parties.

She doesn't look like she's here to play.

If only they knew.

/

He likes to watch.  

It's as far as he'll let himself go these days – a history of breaking everything he touches has seen to that.

But it's enough.

And if he's being honest with himself, he's not sure how much satisfaction he'd garner from fucking someone anyways. He'd probably just see her face – Milah – one more reminder of the truth he'd been running from his whole life.

He strides past the long queue waiting to get into the bar – it's narrow and cramped and raved about amongst the younger crowd who believe they're the first to discover the wonders of Absynthe, but he's not here for the overpriced ambiance and Instagram worthy cocktails.

While he does drop quite a bit on this particular hobby, it's spent below deck, and it affords him a respectful – if surprised – nod from the bouncer at the door as he approaches.

“Good evening, Mr. Jones,” the giant of a man murmurs, keeping his name hushed as he steps to the side to allow him entrance, “not your usual evening.”

“Aye, my schedule's changed recently,” he cedes, acknowledging the man's observance. “You have a lovely evening, Anton.”

Anton chuckles behind him and Killian allows a small smile. It's an odd thing to say to the man who's left outside checking identification while he descends to a place where lovely evenings are promised if you've deep enough pockets.  

He grabs the attention of more than a few lasses when he enters the bar, everything from the clothing he wears to the disinterested gleam in his eye screaming money, but he has no interest in the leggy brunette swirling to face him on her bar stool, her lips already twisted into an obsequious smile. The redhead who casually cold-shoulders the man chatting her up as he passes does nothing to stir his inspiration either.

Once upon a time, perhaps, he would have taken one or both of them back to some bed in some hotel room, but that isn't why Killian Jones comes to the Jolly Roger – and it most certainly isn't what he's looking for when he brandishes a key card and descends to the club hidden beneath.

Neverland.  

He follows the familiar path to his chosen room, glad to see things just as he'd left them the week prior. Hes not surprised to see different girls – and some men – on the touchscreen. He assumes most people who frequent the club keep to a schedule, and his has changed, after all. His eyes slip lazily over the selection, almost bored until he spots a sensuous figure moving away from the camera and toward a wide, black leather lounge. His tongue sweeps across his lip as he drinks her in, all long hard lines that fade flawlessly into where she's soft and pliant.

Desire stabs like lightning from the base of his spine and rolls down his arms on a shiver.  

There's something about her, and before he can second-guess his actions, he's selected her camera feed and settled back into his chair, her body filling the screen in front of him. She's stretched across the lounge, the camera angle giving him a perfect view. Her neck and breasts, one arm draped across the back as the other slides down her firm stomach and teases her sex.

She's not waxed completely as most of the women here are, her thatch of dark, golden hair trimmed neatly and reminding him that she's all woman.

He likes it.

He doesn't normally like blondes, but he likes her.

He watches as she slides her hand lower. She's already wet, he can see her arousal glistening on her flushed skin and the finger she draws up to her lips, smiling wickedly for the camera as she licks it clean.

It usually takes him a few moments to get hard when he comes here, needing to willfully push away the thoughts of Milah, but he finds that with this woman, he's been hard from the first moment he saw her. He unzips his slacks lazily and slides his hand over his erection, rubbing it gently as he watches her swivel her hips, both of her hands returning to her thighs and sliding closer to where she's spread open and on display.

He's in no rush to end his pleasure, and it seems neither is she.

A single digit teases her clit while the rest part her folds, allowing him a view of her glistening cunt. His tongue wets his lips as he imagines how she would taste on it, how beautifully those pink folds would stretch around him as he buried himself within her. He palms his cock more firmly and rises, letting his pants drop as he sits back to enjoy the show.

She likes to be watched – he can tell by the way she teases, the way her manicured nails – no polish, just the blush of natural, seashell pink – spread her lips for him, the way she drags her arousal from her depths and smears it over her clit, circling it delicately while letting indulgent moans fall from her perfect mouth. She's enjoying her moment, taking her time with him – but even though it's the first time he's seen this siren on his screen, he feels he knows her.

Like she's an open book.

Somehow he knows that when she finally gives in, she'll be wild and magnificent and utterly free.  

It makes him wish he could rut his cock into that pretty mouth and feel just how deeply she can truly give of herself.

His fingers wrap around his length, sliding gently. The head of his cock is already throbbing with need as he keeps his eyes on the wanton minx gracing his screen. She's slipped lower on the custom lounge – Neverland always did have a flair for both style and function – the full swells of her ass resting on the edge as she pushes two fingers into her entrance. The delicious sheen of her arousal is that much more obvious as she hovers near the camera, a trembling gasp leaving her lips as she begins to move, stroking against some unseen place that has her writhing.

He lets out a grunt and thrusts into his waiting hand, lost in the way her pale skin glows as she pleasures herself. Her back arches, exposing just how firm her backside really is as she momentarily leaves the couch while exploring her depths, a third finger joining the first two. He can hear how sopping wet she is, soft pleas for more falling from her lips. While he wants to close his eyes, to imagine it's his fingers she's riding, and him she's begging, he doesn't want to miss a moment.

Hot, aching pleasure thrums behind his cock, his balls full and heavy as he palms them. A jolt of electricity runs through his legs as he squeezes, imagining how it would feel to empty them in her throat, in her cunt, all over her pretty face.

She pulls her fingers from her core and returns them to the sensitive bundle of nerves at the apex of her sex, this time her movements rough and needy as she pushes against it and over it, a long, drawn out whimper filling the small room she's occupying. Her knees bend and she arches once more, a fresh wave of creamy arousal dripping from her folds as she shudders and comes, the evidence of her satisfaction smearing against the black leather as she falls back to the chair.

For an instant, he's disappointed. She's peaked far sooner than he'd anticipated, and while he can certainly find his release from the memory of her alone, it isn't what he's craving. He continues stroking himself, waiting to see if she'll continue. There's no limit on the room for those putting on a show, and the limit for those watching is only hindered by how much they're willing to spend. A wave of satisfaction rolls through him as the woman comes back to herself, straightening her body languidly and reaching off camera.

Killian's eyes darken, his hand tightening around his shaft as he watches her pull a dildo from wherever her things have been set aside. He catches another glimpse of her face – high cheekbones and brilliant green eyes – before she spins around, her fingers catching the adjustment on the chair with practiced ease and reclining the cushioned back of the lounge slightly. Her lithe frame stretches across it, blessing him with a perfect view of an even more perfect arse.

Shooting a coy glance over her shoulder at the camera, she pops the pink head of the toy into her mouth, her lips enveloping it as she tongues its length, wetting the thick shaft and letting it sink deep into her throat before pulling it free. His abdomen clenches as he pictures his own cock splitting her lips, sliding into that sinful heat and feeling her tongue caress every inch of him.

He's larger than the toy she's currently dragging over her ass, but somehow he just knows she could take him.

His heart races as he watches her slide the toy closer to her slick core, pushing herself up on her other arm as she angles the head of it against her folds, lush and pink and parting so beautifully around it as she presses it deeply into her channel, a low moan of satisfaction pouring from her pursed lips. His fist moves swiftly up and down, his thumb rolling over the tip and dragging his precum back down as he works himself. His other hand wraps tightly around his balls, massaging and pulling, picturing her fingers holding him, her tongue laving the salty hint of his release as she pleasures him.

Her moans echo from the large screen in front of him, and though he can select one of the other camera feeds in her room – perhaps catch a glimpse of her rosy nipples pressed to cold leather – he cannot bear to drag his eyes away from where she's fucking herself, the toy slipping easily from her drenched sheath before slamming back in.  

He soaks in each noise that she give him, each soft gasp and cry as she climbs toward her second release. His hips buck upward, cock angry and red as he pushes through his fist and imagines he's reaching the deepest parts of her instead, the tip of him caressing the very end of her as he comes with a groan. His balls draw up and his finish tears through him, hot ropes of his seed spurting upward before coating his own hand and stomach, his shaft throbbing mercilessly as he continues to pump the last of his essence free.

His thighs tremble as the last waves of ecstasy roll over him, and he's glad to have finished just before her, that he can now truly appreciate the way her body arches as she thrusts back against the toy with complete abandon, her arousal creamy and painting the shaft of the object she's using for her pleasure. Her moans are a crescendo that he swears he can feel on his skin. He can't take his eyes from her, from the way her lips are bitten red and parted into the most elegant shape, her pale skin flushed a dusky rose that he wants to map with his fingers.

She thrusts a few more times desperately into herself, and then her back arches and she bucks wildly, the strength of her orgasm ripping through her, forcing the toy from her body as she comes. She holds it tremulously against her, rubbing gently, the sweet nectar of her release dripping over it and running down her thighs as she quivers.

Killian's hand is still wrapped loosely around his cock, and despite the fact that he's entirely spent, he feels himself hardening once more as the woman pulls herself from the leather couch and approaches the camera seductively, the dildo still grasped in her hand as she gets closer. His screen fills with the perfect roundness of her breasts and the taut expanse of her stomach, all of her glistening. He swallows heavily, his heart pounding in his ears as she raises the toy with a knowing smirk and brings it to her lips, never breaking eye contact with the camera as she drags her tongue up and down its length, licking every drop of her own essence from it.

A sated hum pours from her throat as she opens those beautiful lips and sucks it clean, just for him.

“That's a good girl,” he hisses, his cock half hard and yearning for someone quite literally beyond his reach.

Then she smiles one last time for the camera, and for the first time in years, he regrets his rule – look, don't touch – because he very much wants to touch her, to see that smile rise once more, but only because his fingers pulled it from her, his lips exploring it.

“Bloody hell,” he rasps, and his screen goes black, the feed cut from the other end.

/

Emma cuts the camera, her skin on fire. The taste of her arousal is still on her lips as she backs toward the lounge and drops, her thighs sticking slightly in the dampness she'd left behind.

Her eyes flicker back toward the camera and the counter set up beside it – the digital number now firmly at zero, though only moments earlier, it had climbed much higher, the digits rapidly changing from six to ten to fifteen. Something about knowing that that many people were watching her, tucked away in their rooms and pleasuring themselves to the way she played was nearly enough to make her flip the feed back on and go again, but lingering wasn't really her thing.

In and out.

She'd be back next week – the scheduled release was something to look forward to.

Taking the provided wipes, she cleans up and dresses, sliding shaky legs into her jeans and pulling back on her white sweater. Her red leather jacket and messenger bag complete the ensemble. She opens the door to the room and steps out into the lonely hallway, a few other cubicles showing the red lights that mean they're still occupied. Others have been left open for the staff to clean.

She does the same.

They're top notch here, and that's why she keeps coming. Discreet, respectful, and clean – and she's not just talking about the furniture. Just like everyone else, she submits to a monthly screening and its a relief to know there aren't just randoms walking in off the street.

Everyone who's a member here has been vetted and approved.

She walks the familiar route back to the main lounge – the camera rooms separate from the rest of the playrooms and cubicles – and slips through the curtained entry back into the rush of Neverland. A long bar lines the far wall, well-dressed bartenders serving drinks to people who chat quietly. Though she can hear the more passionate noises that come from one of the playrooms just beyond – a den for those looking to engage either publicly, or with a group.

There's a balcony overlooking that particular space.

It's never been her thing.

Her disastrous history with Neal, Walsh's betrayal, and her stumbling, lackluster relationship with Graham – not to mention the string of unsatisfying one night stands – were all the precursor to her rule.

Look, don't touch.

She can't say she's ever had an orgasm that made it worth it, worth the risk of putting herself out there and getting hurt once more.

Being watched, it's enough, and it makes her feel beautiful and powerful, wanted – in control.

She can spot the newbies right away in the lounge, their gazes linger too long on the people around them, on the numerous doors and alcoves that sprawl from one corner to another. Most people here are regulars, and they follow the same rules that she does – don't make anyone feel uncomfortable, and keep a respectful distance unless otherwise indicated.

It's another reason why she likes this club. She's never had any of the members corner her or hit on her – even though she knows quite a few get their rocks off watching her.

But as she passes through the curtain into the darkened lounge, something draws her eye toward the bar and she sees someone new. He must be new, because he certainly doesn't have a face she could ever forget.

He's leaning against the wall, a tumbler of something amber in his hand. He searches its depths, his gaze hidden behind strands of black hair that fall across his face, a dusting of stubble shadowing his jaw. She swallows as her eyes travel lower, taking in the tantalizing view of his chest, curls of dark hair visible between the slivers of his open button down. The entire package is wrapped in a suit that looks like it could buy her apartment and every parking space on the block.

He doesn't have the air of someone new, but she's sure she's never seen him before. It's only as his weight shifts slightly from one hip to the other that she realizes she's been staring, and she hastily looks away and continues on toward the exit.

She imagines she feels his eyes burning into her as she crosses the room, but resists the temptation to turn back and discover what color they might be.

It doesn't matter to her who watches.

/

Killian steps into the lounge and catches the bartender's eye before moving to his usual place. His gaze is locked on the black curtain across the room, every sound dulled until the slide of glass across polished wood grabs his attention. He wraps his hand around the warmth of the tumbler, and bringing it to his lips, he reclines against the wall and lets it sooth the tumult he can't dispel.

It's always been so simple to take his pleasure and leave, his thoughts usually already moving on to business before his pants are even done up, but despite the camera feed being cut, images of the blonde goddess he'd just watched are still haunting him, following him down the hall and into the lounge, the echo of her moans still tingling along the length of his skin and making him half hard.  

He stares down into the still liquid in his hand, searching his brain for figures and numbers that won't come, all common sense blown away by the intense green of her eyes and the curve of her cheek as she smiled. It takes him a moment to realize that the fire burning in his chest has nothing to do with the rum, and he lifts his head just in time to see the woman who'd captured his thoughts glancing swiftly away from him, a soft blush suffusing her cheeks as she strides quickly past and through the exit.

His fingers tighten around glass, it's fragility as it shatters reminding him just why he can't follow.

//

His hands are empty, an unusual state to find himself in while enjoying Neverland's atmosphere, but he'd already enjoyed a glass of his favorite drink at home, and he wants to be clearheaded for the golden haired beauty he knows will soon arrive.

Since discovering that she frequents the club on Fridays, he's made certain his evenings are free. As the weeks passed, he's found himself unable to think of much else besides her creamy skin and the pink slice of heaven she hides between them, how she spreads herself with nimble fingers and brings herself to the peak, over and over for him.  

His cock throbs in his slacks as he watches the stairwell, a shiver of something dangerous running through him as he remembers all the others that will be watching her, imagining it's them thrusting into her tight heat and latching onto her full breasts as she writhes beneath them.

It's dangerous water he's treading, thinking that way.

He doesn't have to wait much longer, his eyes snapping to her immediately as she descends into the lounge, dressed in what he's come to learn is customary for her – leather and denim. This night her boots are black and high as she strides into the room, her footfalls silenced by the decadent carpeting.

She finds him immediately, a new development for which he's eternally grateful – he can't have her, but he can have this. Their shared glances are far more discreet and respectful than previously, but this time she drinks him in, a red lip drawn beneath her teeth.

She heads toward the black curtain that leads toward the camera rooms.

He's moving immediately, ready to take his usual booth – but then she stops, her fingers playing with the dark velvet as if she's forgotten where to go.

She steps back and his heart drops – perhaps she's changed her mind now that she's aware of his intense interest in her. She casts one last glance over her shoulder and drops the curtain, turning away and walking swiftly to the far corner of the lounge.

There's a narrow door, it's handle wrapped in her fingers. The door that leads to – no, she wouldn't.

He takes several rushed steps across the lounge before stopping and restraining himself, his fingers curled into fists and jaw ticking. He can't; it's against his rule – a rule he's kept for a very good reason.

“Mark my words, son,” his father spat, voice heavy with drink as he swayed on the kitchen chair, jabbing a finger at his son accusingly. “If it weren't for you, I'd of had more time with her – you're a curse, and you'll break everything you touch in life.”

His mother gone. Liam gone – and Milah as well, the only woman he'd loved, lost to him forever.

His father had been right all those years ago. He ruins any happiness that he could have. Everything he touches winds up dead, broken.

Killian stands beneath the low lights of the lounge, everything seeming to still and slow as he watches the narrow door close behind her. How long will it be before someone else follows her, before it's another man feeling the glory of her mouth instead of him?

She wants it to be him. She's made it clear enough these past few weeks that the interest isn't one-sided. The only question os whether or not he can risk it.

Unable to stomach the thought of another man touching her, sinking into her, he pushes down the warning in his gut – don't risk it – and moves as quickly as he can without running. His heart drums against his chest as he enters the long hallway of rooms and catches a flash of her red leather disappearing into one of the doors.

As soon as the door latches closed behind her, a green light flashes on, and his gaze slips to the booth that adjoins it, an arrow linking the two together.

He feels curiously outside his body as he wraps his hand around the lever and pulls, the door opening easily. He steps into its dark interior, everything slick and so clean it's practically mirrored. The dark walls reflect his uncertainty as he shuts and locks the door behind him. In the distance, he can hear the moans and grunts of someone else taking their pleasure down the line, and though his brain is screaming that he needs to leave – you can't ruin anyone else – another part of him knows that if someone else had followed her in here, he would have dragged them bodily from the room.

He doesn't know her name, but he knows he can't let anyone else have her.  

Everything is silent between them – two lonely rooms and a wall – and then he hears the sound of her leather jacket dropping onto something, perhaps a bench or stool. There's the zip of her jeans and the soft hush of more layers falling. A wave of longing roars in his chest as she finally moves into his limited view, her flushed breasts and pebbled nipples appearing suddenly beyond the hole in the wall.

She raises her hand where he can see it and makes a come hither motion.

He steps closer to the wall, swallowing heavily as his view shifts to showcase her folded legs and a pair of black, lacy panties covering her sex. Her skin is pale and nearly glowing in the strange lights above them, flushed and surely more silky than anything he's ever felt – god, how he wants to touch her.

If he was thinking clearly, he'd turn and walk out. He was toxic, everything that was soft and beautiful doomed by his touch. Killian likes to think he's always been strong, but in this moment he knows he's a weak man.  

He reaches for the buttons on his shirt, popping the few that remain closed and pulling it free of his slacks. The zipper is cool against his heated skin as he drags it down, his pants slipping lower, and quickly followed by the soft, black fabric of his boxer-briefs.

He hears the soft intake of her breath from the other side of the wall that stands between them, sees the way her thighs shift and rub together as she watches from her vantage on the floor, and he wastes no time taking his cock in hand – already heavy and throbbing with anticipation. He slides it through the hole in the wall, his forehead thumping gently against its hard surface as he waits to feel the hot wetness of her mouth.

/

Every memory from the past few weeks chases her footsteps as she slips through the discreet doorway – the intense looks, the barely restrained hunger in the way he runs his tongue across his lips when he watches her leave. Somehow, she just knows he's imagining how she tastes, and not the liquor in his glass.

Yet she's never crossed the distance of the lounge to approach him, and he's maintained that same distance, merely watching her like a predator from the shadows – waiting.

It should be fine. She has her rule – look, don't touch – but there's something about him that makes her want to throw caution to the wind and haul his lips against hers by that expensive suit he wears so well.

So she makes a change in plans.

Her breath feels like a flight of birds as she steps into an open booth – one of a pair is how they do it here, apparently. She catches a flash of bespoke cashmere and tousled, dark locks rounding the corner as she pulls the door shut behind her. Her heart races, a shudder sparking over her skin.

She shouldn't, but she wants this.

Her eyes drop to the wall at her left, the large, smooth hole in its glossy facade reminding her that there will be very limited touching going on here – indulging this one time won't hurt her.

She won't let it.

On the other side of the wall she hears the quiet hiss of the door opening and clicking shut, hesitant footsteps sounding as he enters and moves into the center of the booth. She still hasn't moved from her place just inside the door, but knowing he's there – the man who's face has been the inspiration behind all of her orgasms these past few weeks – she's already wet.

She needs him, needs this – needs to touch, just this once.

She slides her jacket from her shoulders and drapes it over a stool to her right, her shirt and pants quickly following as she moves into the center of the booth and kneels on the vinyl pillow that's waiting in front of the wall between them. Her view is the elegant drape of his slacks, hands slipped into his pockets and a crisp, black button down tucked neatly into his belted waist.

Her hand has a mind of its own, rising to summon him closer.

She watches as he steps forward, long fingers – silver rings glinting on his knuckles – nimbly undoing the buttons on his shirt before pulling it from his slacks, exposing a trail of dark hair that disappears into his waistband. Her mouth goes dry as those same fingers – fingers she's imagined sliding deep inside of her – tug at his zipper, both his pants and the dark fabric of his briefs sliding down his narrow hips.

She can't stop the way her breath catches in her throat, her eyes widening as she takes in the sight in front of her. His cock is nearly fully hard, but still growing as he wraps his hand around it, giving it a slow pump as he steps closer to the wall.

He's definitely worth her breaking the rule, just this once.

She presses her thighs together, trying to quell the pang of desire that lances through her as he angles the swollen head of his cock through the hole to her side of the wall – thick and red, his slit glimmering with arousal as he pushes himself fully against the booth, the rest of his cock following through, every magnificent inch begging to be tasted.

She moves forward, shaking away the stupor that's fallen over her at the sight of him, massive and throbbing. He's thick, his length traced with veins that she wants to run her tongue along. Beyond the wall she can just see a hint of what else he's hiding in those suit pants, and they look just as full and heavy as the rest of him.

Fuck, she just wants to dive in, but she also doesn't want it to be over so soon.

A one time thing.

She reaches out to touch him, satin over steel, her fingertips dragging from the base up, gently catching on his skin that rolls to kiss the flared edge of his crown before sliding back down, drawing a sharp breath from his lips. She smiles, licks her lips, unsure if he can see her. Her grip tightens and she leans closer, her mouth open, but barely ghosting along his flesh as she takes in the scent of him – musky, yet fresh, that salty tang of hot skin and the undeniable notes of precum.

She's not even being touched, but she's never been so turned on in her life.

Swallowing heavily, she presses her lips along the edge of his shaft, open-mouthed kisses that glide across the ridges and veins of his member, the heat of her mouth moving closer and closer to where she's starving to swallow him down entirely.

She finally lets her tongue explore him in the way she craves, dragging along the underside of his cock and reveling in the way the feel and taste of him are fulfilling something she hadn't known she'd been missing. A fresh surge of pleasure twists in her center as he lets out a guttural moan and pushes hard against the wall.

“Bloody hell, lass,” he groans, voice raspy and broken.

Emma whimpers. She fucking whimpers, because he can't just be gorgeous and hung, he's got an accent as well, and this entire this is just too much – but her mouth is full of him and even though she has warning bells throwing themselves at her skull, she never wants to go back.

She pulls back for the briefest of seconds, letting herself admire just how perfectly he's built before she gets to work. This can't happen again, she can't let it, so she's going to make sure it's the best fucking blowjob he's ever had. She keeps her hands busy with his shaft, because if she doesn't, she'll have her fingers buried inside herself while she sucks him off – she's that fucking desperate. Instead, she grips him gently with one and lets the other slip through the glory hole that's just big enough, cupping his balls. His body shivers as soon as she does it, a dark, pleased sound leaving his mouth and muffled against the wall between them. She rolls them in her palm as she caresses his swollen head with her lips, not fully taking him in, but teasing with how soft and wet she'll be when she does.

She runs her tongue along the underside, flicking gently side to side over where his foreskin is connected and reveling in the broken noise it pulls from him. Her tongue laves upward, teasing his slit. The hint of his essence slides onto her tongue and she can't help but think...

“...fuck, that could be addicting.”

He chuckles and she bites her lip. She hadn't meant to say that out loud, but now it was out there. He knew her voice.

But what did it matter? He's already seen every other part of her intimately. He knows how she pleasures herself, he knows what she looks like, and soon, he'll know just how she sucks cock. What do a few more words between them matter?  

What does matters is that she likes this, wants it. She'd enjoyed knowing he was watching her get off every week, and now she wants a taste of what only he can give her. Doubling down, she sucks hard, grinning inwardly as his laughter turns into a choked groan as the head of his cock rubs thickly against her throat, her tongue pressing and massaging his shaft.

She'll never get all of him down, certainly not at this angle, and not without some coaxing, so she makes sure her hands are busy, pumping his shaft as she swallows teasingly.

“Bloody fuck, woman,” he growls, thrusting forward sharply enough that her hand cupping his balls is pushed roughly against the wall, “so hot and wet...tell me, is your cunt just as wet for me? Are you dripping and desperate to be filled?”

She groans wantonly around him, her jaw aching as it stretches, her head bobbing back and forth as she slowly works his length, her hand stroking every inch of him she can't fit. This man is fucking sin and he knows it.

“Yes,” she gasps, pulling free to choke down a breath and admit that she is, in fact, dripping on the cushion below her knees, her clit throbbing with a need that sparks and bites and curls into her stomach, demanding relief. She'd touch herself if it didn't mean having to let go of some part of the magnificent cock he's packing.

“Love the way you swallow me down, lass,” he rasps, his words affecting her no less for being deadened by the wall between them – and far more than any other man's hands ever have. “Could you take all of me, I wonder, if it weren't for this?” His knuckles rap against the wall, her answer lost in the muffled noises she makes as she surges hungrily down his length, all thoughts of finesse gone as she gives in to the primal need to simply take as much of him as she can.

Thankfully, he doesn't seem to mind the change of pace, whatever he'd planned on saying next lost in a tumble of curses as she squeezes his balls at the same time her throat squeezes the head of his cock that's finally slipping in, her new angle giving her a little more to work with.

Her throat won't thank her tomorrow, but right now she's full of the most delicious thing she's ever set eyes on, and she's going to enjoy it.

Saliva drips thickly from her lips as she shuttles back and forth on him, each noise that falls between them urging her farther. She's a mess, her eyes watering and mascara running as she chokes him down, barely remembering to suck in a breath each time she pulls free.

“God...wanna fucking touch you, love,” he mumbles from the other side of the wall, his eloquence roughened and gritty with need, stirring images of those words pressed sleepily into the back of her neck in the early hours of the morning – and that's what makes her realize she needs to end this sooner rather than later.

Her nails scratch on the rough side of gentle across the puckered skin of his sack, his balls heavy and pulled tight to his body – fuck, she wants to taste him so bad – and she swirls her tongue around the tip of his cock each time it leaves her throat. The room is filled with the wet sounds of her fucking him with her mouth. It doesn't take her long once she sets her mind to it, the combination of her hand and throat, her lips wrapping like velvet around her teeth and pressing just right.

He gives her some warning – such a gentleman – his muttered curse and hips crashing into the wall just before he comes, his cock throbbing mercilessly inside of her mouth.

She let's go of every worry for that instant, basking in the praise he's growling against the wall between them as he unloads in her mouth, his shaft pulsing and shooting rope after rope of his come down her throat. She swallows and draws back, moaning as the rest of his release fills her mouth.

She's not surprised he packs just as much in this department too.

His cock softening between her lips, she draws her hand away from the hot flesh between his thighs and back through the wall, caressing his skin as she releases him, her tongue licking stripes along his length until he's clean in the palm of her hand.

Everything is still and quiet, his slowing breaths answered by her own. That's when the panic hits like a freight train.

She knows he'll need a minute – she feels like she needs five – but instead she's shoving herself back into his discarded clothes, ignoring the ache that's throbbing relentlessly between her own legs.

The last thing she wants – it's a lie, she knows it even as she thinks it – is to see him, to be within reach of those long fingers and the lips she's seen all too often curved into a delicious smirk.

She's never dressed so fast in her life, barely registering the wince he makes as he pulls his cock back through the glory hole.

“Lass,” he murmurs, his accent still heavy with lust as he tucks himself back into his pants and zips them up. “That was...”

“A one time thing,” she cuts in, needing this whole thing to just stop – right here, and then she's snatching her jacket up, jerking open the door, and storming down the hall before she can change her mind.  

/

Killian can only watch as the woman's blonde hair disappears through the door that leads back to the lounge. She clearly doesn't want to linger after giving him the best blowjob he's ever received in his life. It had been good to start, she was certainly skilled, and he knows he isn't necessarily an easy fit, but for a moment he'd worried it would be just that – nothing more than skill and technique.

Then she'd let go, giving and and just enjoying it – and that was rare.

Hearing the way she was very clearly getting off on sucking him down, that had done it more than anything else – her soft whimpers and moans, the way she couldn't get him back down her throat quickly enough when she needed to come up for air.

He runs his fingers down either side of his jaw, shaking his head before finishing the last of his buttons as he stands in the hall, still staring at the door she'd disappeared through. He'll be dreaming of her stretched across his bed tonight, her tight cunt a wet and glistening feast as he drives himself straight into that hungry mouth of hers – but more than that, he wishes she hadn't left.

He wishes he could have spread her out in that damned room and sampled exactly what pleasuring him had done to her, licked and sucked and nibbled her flesh until she was falling apart around him, clutching his head to her pulsing heat and begging for more, for all of him.

“Bloody hell,” he sighs, letting his weight fall heavily against the wall behind him, her parting words a sharp blade slowly working its way deeper, but from the depths of his past other words rise to the surface – a man unwilling to fight for what he wants, deserves what he gets.

He wants to touch her more than he wants to breathe, he's just not sure he'll ever be able to stop once he has her.

END

Tagging:  @donteattheappleshook​ @justanother-unluckysoul​ @kmomof4​ @the-darkdragonfly​ @teamhook​ @zaharadessert @xarandomdreamx @jrob64 @wefoundloveunderthelight​ @tiganasummertree​ @pirateprincessofpizza​ @lfh1226-linda @alexa-fangirl-forever​ @alifeofdreams @superchocovian​ @hollyethecurious​ @caught-in-the-filter​ @snowbellewells​ @itsfabianadocarmo @stahlop​ @karlyfr13s​ @elizabeethan​ @rkrbirdgirl @batana54​ @ilovemesomekillianjones​ 

#Captain Swan #cs fanfic #CS fic #look don't touch #sailtoafarawayland #emma and hook #killian jones #emma swan

[sailtoafarawayland]

Dark of Heart - Ch. 5

SUMMARY:  Emma never envisioned having a family of her own, a home brimming with love, but watching Killian sing their child to sleep, she knew that the life they were building would be one of true happiness – and for a time it was, but the past has a way of finding itself on your doorstep, and the things it wants can darken even the brightest of hearts, tearing families apart while trying to bring them together.  

RATING: Explicit

AO3 - FF

For once, I’m not being lazy with this one, so I’m sharing the chapter here as well. If you’d like to be added or removed from my tag list, let me know. If you’re not caught up, you’ll have to check out AO3 or FF. 

Chapter 5

He watched her in the distance, a glimmer of ivory against the steel grey sky, wind tossing her golden curls like ribbons as she stood beside the wash basin, water slipping from her arms to carve a sheer path down the sides of her shift. She fastened the laundry to the sturdy line he'd hung weeks earlier, wedging each pin stubbornly over the garments that twisted and fluttered like birds caught in a storm.

His own shirt was soaked with sweat, clinging to his chest and falling haphazardly open at the top as he paused in his work, basking in the vision she presented. Letting the arms of the handcart drop, he stood to his full height, stretching to rid himself of the ache that came from hard labor. The stones would hold, but there were other things he had no intention of delaying.

He made his way up the slope, the sea breeze offering some relief from his exhaustion, kissing his damp skin and easing the unseasonable heat that should never have touched such an early spring morning. By the time he neared his Swan, he could just hear the soft tones of her voice as she sung something beneath her breath to their child.

“Why do you always stop, love?” he asked, taking his place behind her and sweeping the cascade of sweat-dampened curls from her shoulder, her skin smelling of ash and lye from where the bat had splashed it from the basin.

“Stop what?” she said, sighing and sinking against the solidity of his chest, her own aches relaxing as his lips skimmed over her warm skin.

“Singing. You've a beautiful voice, Swan.”

“Not like yours,” she muttered, a moan catching in her throat as Hook's fingers wandered down the curve of her full breast and dragged across where her shift was stretched taut over her stomach.

“Our little one seems to enjoy it well enough, and I know I do, when I've luck enough to hear it – you're like a siren, puller me always closer...”

“Oh, what a fate,” she laughed, turning into him as much as her belly allowed, the rinse pans and pile of wrung laundry forgotten as she took in the sheen of a hard day's work on his skin. The sweat had run clean streaks through his dirt-rubbed cheeks, the dull white of his work shirt crossed with smudges of pine tar from packing the walls of the outbuildings with oakum, “to be drowned among the wash water by your siren of a woman, though I don't think a bath tonight would be wasted.”

“I'll have you know I bathe quite frequently,” he groused, arching a brow and running his tongue along his bottom lip, “though far more time is spent between your thighs than seeing to my ablutions, I'll admit.”

“I've never seen a filthier pirate.”

“That's Captain to you,” he reprimanded, hand sliding down her back and cupping her bottom, “but seeing as I'm so dirty, perhaps my washer woman will do me the service of getting me clean.”

“Now?” Emma grinned, her eyes flashing back to the valley below where she could see the men still working on the outbuildings and the recommissioned stable – small, dark figures laboring with stone and wood, twice the distance away as their cottage. “Won't the crew wonder where you've disappeared to?”    

“We may be on land these days, Swan, but they know better than to question their captain, unlike someone else.”

“Well, in that case,” she whispered, her fingers wrapping around his hook and tugging him between the laundry she'd already hung, “I know just the place...”

She dragged him back down the open hillside toward where their cottage was nestled among lichen covered ridges of stone and gentle bluffs, the wind teasing her hair as she turned her eyes back toward him, shining with happiness and laughter, lips caught in a wide smile beneath her scrunched nose.  

He loved seeing her this way – carefree and reveling in the small, quiet moments that, stacked one upon the other, were the foundation of the life they were building together. Because of her, he knew what it was to have a full heart again.

She guided him toward the long neglected copse of apple trees, and falling to her knees among the soft, feathered heads of grass, she pulled his body against her, smiling into the rough wool of his breeches and casting her lidded eyes in his direction.

“Did my captain request my services?” she purred, but her words fell on deaf ears, so lost was he in the green of her eyes and the scattering of freckles teased out by the sun across her nose.

“No time for that...” he muttered, and he dropped to the ground beside her, ignoring the knobbly twigs and bits of leaves that prodded his skin, pulling her against him and claiming her lips. His hand wound in her curls as he leaned over the large swell of her stomach, tasting her – honey and the bitter mint of her tea, the salt of sweat that lingered at the edges of her lips.

She was everything, she was his.

It had been some time since they'd had one another in this way, and though he'd learned to temper his need for her just as she had for him, the both of them finding other enjoyable ways to sate their desires when her body was too tired or sensitive for their usual lovemaking, he'd never wanted her more. There was something about seeing her body swollen with his child that sent a burn of fire through him, her breasts heavy and full, nipples dark, and the firm, hard lines of her thighs softened as they encircled his head, no shyness in her movements as she rolled and bucked against him, taking what she needed.

She was a goddess in every sense of the word, and it awed him beyond belief that he'd had any part in the small miracle she was growing.

He growled, the visions of her that danced behind his eyelids intoxicating – gods, he needed her, needed to be one with her.

“Killian, please,” she breathed, pulling away from the kiss, her eyes a mirror of his own intentions, “I need you – it's been too long.”

She spun around in the grass, shucking her thin shift over her hips and leaving herself bare for him, her bottom raised in the air as she leaned onto her forearms, cheek pressed to the cool ground.

“Aye,” he rasped, tearing at his laces even as he bent and ducked his face to her skin, stubble scratching against the swell of her bottom as he nuzzled her exposed slit, her folds pink and swollen and already sopping. “So wet for me already, love. Gods, I need to be inside of you...”

“If you don't hurry, I'm – ”

Her threat was cut off as he lapped hungrily up her core, needing to drink his fill of her before sliding home. His tongue swept from the hidden pearl at her very edge to the soft warmth of her entrance, delving inside to taste her arousal before beginning again, slowly dragging her to a trembling precipice, her words tumbling into moans and whimpers that had her knees digging against the earth as she pushed back into him. His cock bobbed heavily between his legs, freed from his breeches but forgotten for the moment as he held her bucking hips to his face, his nose teasing the cleft of her backside as he sampled every ounce of pleasure he could wring from her.

She gasped his name until it was a chant and nothing else – and then she broke, sobbing as her head dropped and her body swayed, but before the last ripples of her orgasm faded, he was holding her steady once more and his cock was pressing deliciously into where she ached for him, stretching her slowly and gently.

“Gods, Emma...so good...is it too much?” he ground out, nearly shaking with the effort of holding himself back from plunging into her depths and losing himself entirely, clinging to the sensation of how her walls felt grasping the head of his cock. “Tell me, love...”

“No, no, no, no,” she babbled, pressing back, testing her own words as he stretched her further and finding only the hot pleasure of being filled, her body welcoming and hungry for him. “Don't stop...need you now...”

He allowed his weight to blanket her with a sigh, hand knotted among the dirt and grass as his hook rounded her stomach, cradling her gently. The rest of his length sunk into her, his breathing wrecked as she engulfed him, silky and hot, every inch of them together, just as they should be.  

“Killian, please...move,” she begged, thrusting back and sending a lance of pleasure down to the base of his cock, pooling beneath his spine.

He gave over to her demand, dragging his hardness free of her tight sheath before plunging back in, her small, pleased moans reverberating through him and liftng him even higher.

“Gods, you feel bloody amazing, my love,” he grunted, his body rolling against hers, “never want to stop...never want to be apart from you...”

“Never, please,” she echoed, pushing back into the drive of his hips and urging him to go faster.

He straightened, the wind darting between them as he grasped her bottom with his hand and hook and thrust more urgently into her heat, every inch of her searing his skin and drawing his release closer. She wouldn't last long, and neither would he, not like this – not when he was taking her from this angle, her body greedy for the sharp, throbbing spark of pleasure she received every time his cock stroked the end of her passage, rubbing thickly and mercilessly against those spots inside of her that shivered in delight.

His own pleasure left him in throaty grunts and hissed breaths, the world around him shifting, lost amid the tumble of heat and ecstasy that was being wrapped in his Swan, his senses narrowed to the way her body clung to his, scorching and needy and begging to be filled. His palm left her hip, drifting to stroke the firmness of her stomach.

She was his.

He'd never tire of seeing her this way, feeling her like this...

“Please,” she gasped beneath him, pulling a growl from his throat as he returned to her hip and grabbed her crudely, sensing just what she needed to fall and wanting to meet her at that edge. “Killian, I'm so close...need to feel you too...”

“Aye, love,” he rasped, digging his fingers in and hauling her sharply backwards, her answering groan telling him it was just what she needed – that little taste of roughness that they'd kept from indulging in lately.

The sound of their pleasure filled the orchard, and Hook could only just restrain himself from driving her into the ground as he chased his release on the heels of her own – her moans pitching into a keening song as she felt apart, knees wide and trembling, walls shuddering around him. His arm slipped between her body and the ground as she slumped, holding her weight as he breathed heavily into her back, his heart thumping in time with his cock as he let rope after rope of his seed warm her. Her quivering depths drew the last of his release from him, his lips pressing whispers into her skin.

It took Emma another few moments to return to herself, the feel of Killian softening and eventually slipping from within her drawing her entirely back to the world. She rolled onto the ground, cool grass against her heated skin as she stared up at the clouded sky, knotted branches reaching like veins across its grey expanse. Hook placed a sated kiss to where her heart still raced before stretching himself languidly beside her, relishing the few moments of peace and quiet they had left before he would need to return to his work for the day, his fingers finding hers.

They'd been hard pressed to find any such moments since he'd acquired the title deed and conveyances for the old shipyard – the cottage had been in a sad state of disrepair, and the outbuildings sliding into even further decay due to the lack of natural windbreaks around them. At first they'd considered letting them molder or tearing them down entirely, but it turned out they'd been quite an unforeseen boon – once they'd put the effort into repairing the most salvageable among them, they became convenient places for the crew to stay as they labored alongside Hook, their efforts more than rewarded with a generous stipend.

While most of the men drifted in and out of the port city as their whims suited them, spending several weeks at sea as hired sailors and then returning, Maddock had shyly inquired if he might stay more permanently in one of the outbuildings, volunteering to see to any repairs the cottage needed and care for the horses they'd acquired, along with whatever else the Captain and Emma might need help with.

Hook had been surprised by the request, but after speaking with Emma, he'd decided it would do no harm to have the lad around. In fact, he'd grown rather used to him being underfoot when they'd stayed in the city proper, the premises of the tavern as small as any. Emma had teased him mercilessly about going soft when they'd returned to the privacy of their room the night Maddock had broached the topic hesitantly, but the truth was she was just as glad to see him stay. She'd come to learn of Maddock's history during her time with the crew – a young lad orphaned by illness and left with no recourse but to seek whatever work he could find – and it resonated with her as much as it tugged at Hook's own heart. He'd not wanted to see the boy end up on a ship like Silver's, and so he'd taken him on, promised him adventure and gold and a way to forget his sorrows.

But in truth, neither of them would be sorry to see Maddock keep to the land – somehow, despite the bravado he'd adopted, swaggering about the tavern, the harsh life of a pirate didn't suit his mellow temperament and youthful soul.

He'd not suffered enough for it.

With the outbuildings nearly refinished entirely, it wouldn't be long before Maddock and the red-headed lass he'd taken up with were moved down into the valley permanently, and at least he and Emma could find a few private moments to spare in their own cottage once more without the lad and his lass tromping up and down the stairs to the lofted sleeping area.      

“I can't breathe like this,” Emma groaned, breaking him from his reverie. She rolled from her back onto her side, teasing his chest hair with her fingers. “I think our little one is growing bigger every day – I can't get comfortable anymore.”

“You seemed content a few minutes ago. Perhaps we should revisit that position?”

“That was nice,” she sighed, drawing a choked snort from him as she turned her nose into his side. “I needed that.”

“Was it only nice then, love? Do I need to be concerned that I've lost my touch after only a few months on land?” he cheeked, stretching his long legs, one boot coming to rest atop the other. “Was it all the Jolly rolling beneath us?”  

“Definitely not,” Emma insisted, poking him playfully, “but with getting the cottage ready and all the repairs, we haven't had much time for ourselves, have we? It's nice, this...”

“Aye, you know my own thoughts as well as I do, love.”

“Killian?”

“Aye?”

“It was much, much more than nice. In fact, let me know whenever you've recovered, Captain, and maybe we can steal another – bloody hell,” she growled, yanking her hand from his chest and pushing herself up from the ground quickly.

“What is it, Swan?” He was on his feet before she'd fully risen, his hook providing her some support to get to her own and his eyes surveying the surrounding orchard and hills as he tried to suss out what had wrenched the curse from her lips.

“That,” Emma hissed, straightening her shift and jutting her chin toward a nearby tree with no small amount of annoyance coloring her features. “They've sent another one, again.”

“Bloody hell,” Hook sighed, knowing what he would see when he turned – and sure enough, in one of the trees sat yet another bird, startlingly blue against the drab backdrop, a small tin canister resting against its narrow leg. “Why must they always be blue?”

“I think I'm just going to start blasting them out of the sky,” Emma muttered, making her way carefully across the branch littered ground toward where it perched.

“Let's not take their persistence out on the local fauna, Swan,” he chuckled, knowing she was likely to do just that if her parents insisted on continuing this campaign to gain her affections. Thus far, she'd returned each of the missives unanswered, hoping her parents would come to believe she was either dead or missing, but her patience was thinning.  

The bird flew amiably to her outstretched arm as she stopped beside the small tree. It was arguably less tired than the birds that had found them while at sea, though just as unwanted.

“What have they to say this time?” he asked, knowing the last missive had contained pleas for Emma's understanding and news into how the second ogre wars were progressing in the far north.

He watched the set of her shoulders tighten as she read through the letter, all hints of happiness and contentment fleeing from her body. Carefully, she curled it back up and replaced it within the canister just as it had been. She took a steadying breath, her hands moving to support the growing weight of their child as she stared into the distance, her face hidden from him.  

“It says nothing of importance.”

/

Emma's words echoed heavily in Hook's thoughts as he made his way through the familiar terrain of the harbor, his gaze traveling from one berth to the next as he took note of new arrivals. While it was the unspoken rule that there be no trouble in Ismythe – lest it fall on all of their heads – it was second nature for him to keep a watchful eye on the rest of his brethren. Many of the ships docked were merchant vessels, however, and several ran no colors – most assuredly pirates – but no ship or sailor he saw struck him as worrisome. These days, there was very little that warranted his or Emma's concern on the high seas, and here in the safe haven of Ismythe, there was certainly no one who would dare to cross he or his men, and more importantly, no naval presence. Reassured, he turned down a sloped, muddy street toward a huddle of low buildings that crept up to the edge of the bay.

The entrance he was seeking was nothing more than a dark corridor that led between two buildings, the tavern itself a narrow, stone edifice long ago crammed into the small space. The lingering stench of innards from the nearby fishmongers drifted through its doorway, and from within came the raucous outcry of men.

The reek didn't seem to bother any of its patrons, though admittedly, this was not the place one frequented for its food and drink, and Hook had to push his way through the crowd blocking the doorway. He smiled inwardly at the thought that Swan wouldn't have been able to walk within a ship's length of the place, not that he would have ever brought her here. His own business had taken him through this doorway rather infrequently over the years, and it would not be an untruth to say he had no desire to return. He would have much preferred to stay back at the cottage, watching Maddock's lass try to teach Emma how to wield a knitting needle instead of a weapon, but there was something he needed done, and he didn't wish to burden his Swan with the details it necessitated.

The ails of being with child were stretching her into exhaustion this last month, and he would not be the one to place another worry on her shoulders.

He pushed through the last of the throng that had made a ring around the gathering space inside, his eyes confirming what his ears had already known, and his stomach settled upon seeing it. The chairs and tables had been cleared and stacked against the walls, and the hay that covered the hard-packed floor was strewn with blood, both fresh and dried.

If there was to be entertainment while he dealt with business, he was glad it was of this nature.

Two men circled one another in the makeshift arena, shirts discarded and breeches rubbed with sweat and the marks of bloodied knuckles from grappling. They struck and parried, seemingly unconcerned with the roars and jeers from the crowd surrounding them.

“I 'ear there's to be livelier sport this evening,” a familiar voice drawled beside him – just the man he'd come in search of. “Word is a ship hailing from the Algerri Coast was sighted not twelve leagues out this morning – no doubt they're carrying some sweetbread for 'is Lordship, and we'll catch the drippings.”

Slavers.

“I've a task for you, Ephraim – make certain it's not impeded by your enjoyment of all this port has to offer.”

“Aye, that I will. You just leave your orders with me and they'll be seen to, Captain.”

Bored with scrutinizing the fight, Hook turned to the man who'd been a member of his crew from the very beginning. A deep scar ran across his tanned skin, cutting from his cheek to the dimple of his chin, both lips puckered enough to provide a permanent twist to his smile. It was a gift he'd given the man during a good-natured, drunken brawl hundreds of years ago, the only notable mark on his otherwise youthful face. He'd been a handsome man once, back when he still wore the colors of the Royal Navy, but now his countenance matched what lay beneath more honestly.  

Whatever indulgences the Royal Navy had failed to curtail in Ephraim as a young sailor, his descent into piracy had only sharpened their edge. The man may have been more than willing to part a wench's legs with gold, but Hook knew he preferred them far less willing – and no amount of gold in the hands of a bar wench could buy true fear.  

The taste of that held not the metal tang of gold, but of something far more visceral.

He was a beast of a man, but he was Hook's beast – and there wasn't a person alive he wouldn't happily spill across the floor to please his Captain.

“Have you laid your bet?” Hook queried, hand slipping from his buckle to delve into the folds of his coat.

“Aye, two silvers on the scarred one.”

Hook glanced once more at the men grappling.

“Good eye, as always, mate. The large one is favoring his left side just slightly, his arm a shade slower to block, most likely recovering from a dislocated shoulder, I imagine – it will cost him the fight.” Hook pulled three gold coins from a pocket and shifted them into Ephraim's palm one at a time. “For your troubles, and more if you find anything pertinent.”

“And what might I be looking for, Captain?” Ephraim asked, rolling the coins between his fingers and leading Hook toward a more secluded area.

While most of the patrons were occupied by the fight, there were always ears listening in places such as this, and one could never be overly careful about words that may be of interest to other parties.

“I have reason to believe that someone from our unintended foray across realms may be interested in finding myself and Swan. Keep your eyes open for any strangers or messengers from the North. If you hear of anyone nosing about, asking after either of us, detain them.”  

“How exactly do you want them detained?”

“I wish to speak with them further,” Hook murmured, his thumb running the course of his hook, “so make certain they're still capable of at least that.”

“And if I may ask, Captain,” Ephraim whispered lowly, “what do you plan to do with them...after?”

Hook smirked into the darkness between them. A Captain who knew his men less would have been offended at the presumed slight to his authority, but Hook was no such captain. He could practically taste the eagerness behind Ephraim's words, the hunger of what might be.

“What I intend, mate, is to gather what information I need, and then return any such person to his employers in enough pieces that they'll think twice before sending another, do you understand?”

“Aye,” Ephraim growled, teeth pulling at his damaged lip as he pocketed the gold coins and nodded gamely, “a return to good form then.”

“Indeed.”

“And Ephraim?”

“Aye, Captain?”

“Not a word of our conversation to the others. I don't want Swan concerning herself with this in her condition.”

“You've my word, Captain.”

“I'll have more than your word if you lose your head to frivolities and slip up, mate. Remember that while you're enjoying your evening – keep a weather eye.”

With those words Hook made his way back through the crowd amid the sounds of the round coming to an end, the smaller of the two men landing a succession of hits that left the other falling to his knees.

He may not have known what plans the King and Queen of Misthaven had with regards to his Swan, but he would be damned if he weren't vigilant in making certain they drew no closer.

/

Hook placed his boots carefully, the hardened leather soles rolling from heel to toe as he approached the door at the far end of the corridor – hundreds of years spent walking these very floors made certain that each creaking plank was as well known to him as the wind against his face. Bereft of his heavy leather, he moved silently, listening as the murmur of a voice on the other side rose in pitch before dropping once more.

The door was cool beneath his palm, a wistful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he listened to the soft cadence that so often anchored his thoughts.

“Well, you love when your mama does that, don't you?” Emma murmured lowly on the other side of the door, her words followed by a soft hum of laughter. “We'll have to let your Papa know.”

He bit back a chuckle, but his joy was immediately followed by a moment of melancholy as he found himself wondering if his own mother had spoken to he and Liam that way when she'd carried them, if she wore the floors thin chiding for each rough kick they placed against her belly, or whispering hopes and dreams, pressing them to where they were curled inside of her.

Emma's footsteps echoed across the cabin, heavier and more careful than months earlier as she paced from one end to the other. She'd already rearranged and tidied the cottage several times over, and Hook wondered if the Jolly Roger had found herself at his love's mercy as well.

Suddenly eager to be at her side, he pulled the door open, resting against the frame as his beautiful Swan came into view.

“I was wondering how long you'd stand out there,” she cheeked, the broad smile she gifted him lifting his heart as it always did.

“It seems I've lost my edge, even on my own ship,” he sighed, “what are you two getting up to in here?”

“I am a thief,” she reminded him, “sneaking is what I do, though I'm probably out of practice – aren't I, little one? You don't make for very light feet...I certainly couldn't scale the side of the Jolly these days.”

“Ah, but you haven't the need, love. You have her Captain at your command, and dare I say that enchanted as she is, she prefers your direction to mine these days.” He crossed the floor, taking her chin in his hand and gently turning her face to meet his. “You disappeared rather early this morning. Are you alright?”

“I knew you'd find me easily enough,” she reassured him, leaning into the weight of his hand, each callous familiar against her skin.

“Well, what kind of pirate would I be if I lost my most precious treasure?”

“Me or the baby?” she teased, rolling her eyes before sliding from his side and moving to rest on the edge of the berth. “I love both Maddock and Maribel, but the cottage is feeling a little more cramped each day. The quiet of the Jolly was calling, besides, I had some things I wanted to do here anyways.”  

“I see that,” he said, eyes roaming across the freshly cleaned and organized surfaces within the cabin, the wood polished and shining and not a speck of dust to be found in any of the corners. The bed linens had been changed and neatly tucked, and the table cleared of the few maps he'd left sprawled across its surface from their last jaunt along the coast.

“I miss her,” Emma announced wistfully, smoothing her palms along the soft, woolen blanket and patting the space beside her, “but come, there's something I want to show you.”

Hook moved to her side, perching lopsidedly on the edge of the berth as she wriggled back to put some space between them, his lips twisted with a loving, yet mirthful, smile as she struggled to find a comfortable position that put neither a strain on her back or belly. He reached for one of the pillows and handed it over, knowing she would want it behind her for some comfort.  

“We really should make this larger, once the little one arrives,” Emma pointed out, stuffing the pillow behind her lower back and leaning on one hand to support herself. “It hardly holds the two of us now. There won't be room for a baby as well.”

“Aye, I'll let Quill know and perhaps he can see to it once the work on the outbuildings is finished, but before the wee one arrives. We've only a month now, love...”

Emma grinned at the prospect, both of them eager to meet the child they'd grown to love with every fiber of their beings.

“Speaking of the little one, I've discovered something he likes, and I wanted you to see for yourself. Here...” She tugged his hand, placing it firmly over her bump. He felt nothing amiss, their little one sleeping soundly within.

His eyes darted expectantly back to Emma's, curious what it was that had her biting back such a grin, but then he saw her eyes flicker shut, a furrow deepening between her brows as she concentrated. It was a look he'd seen before, and he held his tongue, instead watching as she raised her hand in the air, the delicate arch of her fingers swaying with the ship. Her palm began to glow with a soft light, and as if from her skin itself, wisps swirled into being, formed into a tiny maelstrom of wind that shifted and played within the confines of her hand, as if waiting for direction. He'd seen her pull winds from the sky before on many an occasion, summoning them to fill the Jolly's sails, but never in this way, and as her magic and the winds curled over one another, entwined in her hand, the firm swell of her stomach pitched and heaved beneath his – their child rolling happily and dancing a jig within her.

“He loves it,” she smiled, and then glancing toward where the tiny winds swirled in the palm of her hand. “I've been practicing. Somehow, it's easier here, on the water with the Jolly around me.”

“That's amazing, Swan,” Hook murmured, his thumb circling the hard press of his child's foot. “He must feel you drawing on your magic. Perhaps he'll take after his mother one day.”

“That's not the only thing I wanted to show you.” Her eyes held his gaze, and she raised her palm even with her lips, whispering something he couldn't quite make out against her skin.

Hook watched with bated breath as the tiny storm in the cage of her hand broke free, slipping between her fingers and gusting happily around his face, teasing strands of hair free before surging against the ceiling of the cabin and dancing between the hanging lanterns.

Grinning wildly, Emma slid from the berth and eased open a window, instructing the wind to be free before turning back to him, her cheeks flushed with happiness.

“It's been so elusive lately, my magic. I thought it might be because of this one, but I think I just had to relearn how it felt in a way – because of the storm.” Her fingers brushed where the ghost of the bracelet sat tattooed on her skin, and Hook paled at the memory of that day, at the fear of losing them both that had driven him to seek a safe haven for their child. “It's the same, but different somehow. I didn't pull that wind from anywhere, Killian, I just...I made it.”

“You amaze me every day, Swan, and it seems our little love thinks so as well. If his enthusiasm is anything to go by, he's as proud of you as I am.”

Emma rejoined her love on their bed, the both of them enjoying the soft creak of the ship surrounding them. They stayed on the Jolly that night, slipping away from the warmth and candlelight of the cottage to find peace in the sway and roll of the sea, soft winds teasing at the furled sails and ropes. Emma stretched on her side, the berth just wide enough to hold them both. Hook was pressed perfectly against her back, his hand settled on her stomach. They'd made love slowly, her fingers knotted in the blankets as he thrust leisurely into her, dragging free with soft moans before filling her entirely. Sleep was only beginning to claim her when he spoke.

“Emma, the letter you received the other day, you've not mentioned it again.”

“It didn't say anything important,” she murmured, dragging his his hand to her lips and pressing a kiss to his skin.

“I know you well enough to know when something is bothering you, and you've been unsettled ever since you read it. Will you tell me why?”

“Honestly,” she sighed, “the letter only held three words – I love you.”

“It's hardly a sentiment they haven't expressed before. Why has it given you such a turn this time?”

The drumming of her heart seemed to swallow her words before she could say them, and it wasn't until she returned his hand to her belly, pressing his fingers firmly against the bowed tightness of their child that she was able to find them again.

“I love our child, Killian. You love our child,” she whispered, unable to hide the tremor that danced from her fingers to his. “Tell me, is there anything you wouldn't do for them?”

“Nothing,” he swore, understanding now why her parents' words had disturbed her so, “but you're a force to be feared, Emma, and no matter what their intentions might be, we'll overcome them if that's what you desire.”

“They'll never stop. I'd hoped, but – that's what those words made me realize, and all of the happiness we're building for ourselves, I can't help but fear it's going to come crashing down around us.”

His words couldn't wash away the fears carved into her heart, so he pulled her more tightly against him, making promises with his lips and his body instead. He pressed his intentions into her skin and breathed them against her soul. He would never lose her, he would never lose their child. As their heartbeats slowed together and sleep crept dark and soothing around the edges of his vision, he knew he'd been right to have Ephraim keep an eye open. If Snow and her prince weren't going to abide by his Swan's wishes, then there was sure to be trouble on the horizon.

Beneath his hand their baby stirred, kicking his feet and stretching into the weight of his father's palm.

Hook knew It was his duty to protect his family, to protect Emma and keep her heart safe. If her parents refused to allow her to live the life of her choosing, then he would simply have to make the cost of their actions that which they could not bear.

Tagging: 

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#Captain Swan #cs fanfic #CS fic #dark of heart #sailtoafarawayland #fallen and wanting #emma and hook

[sailtoafarawayland]

Killian Jones is all of us in this moment.

“Tell me something, darling. Why would you want to fight for a man like that?”

#killian jones #man of unbelievable swagger #and good form #knows a baddie when he sees one