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Neal knew she was doing it on purpose. There was really no other explanation for it. Every time she practiced her magic, the pirate would wind up affected by it. He would lose buttons on his shirt, enough so that he had to go back to his ship on more than one occasion over the next few days to get a new one, the fasteners on his vests the only thing covering that thick shock of dark black hair on his chest. His hair would get messed up, sticking up in every direction — and damn if Neal doesn’t fail to notice just how much this resembles the state of his hair after he watched them on the Jolly. Or he would blush, the tips of his pointed ears and the apples of his cheeks reddening, which never failed to make Emma respond in kind.
She did that for all of these things, actually.
But it’s right now in particular that makes Neal grind his teeth together, the scraping sound of them the only thing keeping him from screaming, swearing, attacking one of them.
No, he tells himself, shaking his head, it would be Hook, that bastard.
He feels like he is going to explode, standing here, everyone standing in a half-circle around Emma, watching her as she tries to control her magic. Everyone but him , who was standing a few feet to her right, more affection in those damned blue eyes of his than he should be able to offer, watching her as she practiced.
As her emotion gets the best of her — again — the light that was floating from the palm of her hands spreads out in all directions, forcing her to take a step back and to her right, where he was waiting to catch her with open arms, the top buttons on his vest undone once more, hair wild and unmanageable. But it isn’t until he stares down at her, his only hand running gently down her arm as she smiles softly up at him, that Hook’s cheeks begins to redden.
Neal feels as if the world stops turning around him when everyone stops moving for what feels like eternity as he stares at them, watching them have eyes only for each other right in the middle of the damn campsite.
Thankfully, Regina speaks after the eternity passes. “Alright, try again.”
Emma opens her mouth to speak, but it’s Hook that says the words: “I think that’s more than enough for the time being.”
“You just want to stop losing the buttons to your shirts,” Regina reponds, rolling her eyes at him as they finally take a step away from each other.
“I mean, I just — I don’t understand. I’m the only one who ever seems to be affected by any of this, no one else’s clothing is continually getting ruined and their hair messed up or —”
“Literally, Hook, we have much bigger problems than your hair getting messed up right now.” Regina sounds like she is just as annoyed by this whole situation as Neal is.
“We are waiting to hear back from Pan, there’s nothing we can do right now anyway.”
Regina huffs at him, sharply turning on her heel before walking away from the group. Snow White and David share a look, the prince shrugging, before they walk away, as well. Neal joins them, walking to the edge of the clearing, but he stays close enough to the edge of it, leaning up against a tree that hides most of his body from the two that remain.
Emma turns back to Hook, who is trying to tame his unruly hair, a smirk painted across her face, her voice low and tainted with something that turns Neal’s blood to ice. “Stop trying to fix your hair, it’s fine.”
“It most certainly is not.”
“It’s always fine,” Emma says, and though Neal narrows his eyes at her, she only seems to realize what exactly has left her mouth when the blue-eyed monster standing next to her chuckles lightly under his breath, her eyes snapping up to his.
Neal watches in awe as the pirate’s tongue flicks out to slowly wet his bottom lip, followed closely by the pad of his thumb, just as unable to take his eyes off his foul mouth as Emma seems to be. “Is that so?” he mumbles, leaning close enough to Emma’s ear that his lips must be touching it. The only reasonable explanation Neal can find as to why he just heard the pirate’s low grumble is the adrenaline rushing through his veins as he, once again , watches Hook touch the woman he is supposed to be with.
“I — I didn’t —” She stumbles over the words, but the redness quickly spreading across her face is a dead giveaway of the effect the man’s words have on her, and Neal is amazed to watch the beginnings of a smile that spread across her face, pulling her mask away for a fraction of a moment. “Just shut up,” she says, turning to face him head-on as she weaves one of her hands into the hair in question, the other wrapping around the lapel of his leather jacket and pulling his lips to hers.
Neal turns away, angrily pushing the branches in his path out of his way, and though the words he grumbles under his breath as leaves and twigs crunch under his feet are incoherent, the anger that seethes through his veins is very, very real.
“Jones,” she whispers, softly sliding across the few feet between them until she can touch him.
Neal struggles to hide the groan that rises to his lips when he hears it. How could he possibly have heard her whisper his name, when she is right next to him , and Neal is on the other side of the clearing?
Right. Because ever since searching for the pirate two days ago and finding him ravaging the girl Neal’s supposed to be with, he hasn’t been able to sleep. Worse, he hasn’t been able to close his eyes without seeing them , pressed up against the railing as he touches her, or, worse, as she rides him on the deck of his ship.
He’s exhausted. Super fucking exhausted , and wants nothing more than to be able to sleep, even for just a few minutes. But the nightmare he sees just by closing his eyes, the nightmare he watched happen before him, is enough to keep him from seeking sleep. If this is the nightmare that happens in real life, he’s terrified of what could be hiding in his dreams, waiting to rear its head.
But hearing Emma call out for him in the middle of the night, watching as she reaches her hand out to find his arm? That might be worse.
“Jones, wake up, please.”
Neal watches as the pirate starts awake, his hand finding the hilt of his sword beside him, and somehow, Neal can see the man’s damn blue eyes soften, practically glowing in the odd light of the Neverland moon, can see the fear drain out of them when it’s Emma’s face he sees, and not whatever was haunting his dreams.
“Swan,” he breathes, but then takes a moment to remember where he is, worry overtaking his face once more. “What’s the matter?”
“I just —” she tries, the words not coming, and she pulls her lip up between her teeth. “I need —”
Neal doesn’t fail to see the slight smile that grows across the pirate’s face as he watches Emma struggle with her words. What an asshole.
“Aye, love, I know,” he replies, his voice much softer than it has a right to be, and when he reaches out to touch her arm, she does not shy away from him. If anything, he can swear that she actually seems to calm at his touch. “Whatever it is, though, I think it’s safe to assume that right here is not the best place for it, eh?”
She sighs, her head falling and landing with a thump against his leather-clad arm. When she raises her eyes, her hand comes with it, and Neal can swear that she points directly at him. “I’m going to go that way. Make sure no one sees you follow.”
Before he can respond, she pushes herself up off the ground, the muscles of her arms that her tank top reveals quivering, and walks out of the clearing. Hook begins to look around at each of them, and Neal squeezes his eyes shut, hoping that he will pass over him without a second look. When Hook does not immediately stand and follow Emma out of the clearing, Neal thinks he may have been caught; the man may be a lot of terrible things in Neal’s mind, but even he has to admit that he makes a damn good ship captain.
But then he pushes himself to stand, his leather duster billowing behind him as he walks out of the clearing, and Neal releases the breath he was holding.
It takes every drop of his self-control not to pound the ground with his fists, to let out the scream of anguish he feels rising through his chest. If he wasn’t sure that Hook was a better fighter than he is in every possible form — except, perhaps, with a gun, though he seems to be without one here — then he would go after him, wrestle him to the ground, and knock the life out of him. But he can do none of that, so he simply tries to calm the pounding of his heart as he listens to the pirate follow Emma through the woods.
Judging by the sound of his footsteps, they do not go very far, the sound of them stopping before it fades off into the thick forest. Taking a chance, Neal rolls over, shuffling as silently as he can to a hole between the trees. He’s not even sure what he expects from it, knowing that it’s far from possible for it to actually give him a vantage point for what is going on between Emma and the pirate — but through some trickery of Pan’s or the forest or simply the hell he has found himself in since coming to Storybrooke , that’s exactly what he gets. He might still be on the ground, but the hole between the trees reveals them to him. He has boxed her against a tree, the forearm of his hook-handed arm leaning on the trunk above her head and his hand ghosting against the skin of her hip, which is peeking out between the bottom of her tank top and the top of her jeans. With her hands are behind her back, pressed against the bark of the tree, their only point of contact his thumb against her hip, disappearing under the hem of her shirt for a moment.
Neal does not fail to notice the way the pirate boxes her in, like she is a possession unable to get away from him. It should be Neal's arm that she is under, Neal's finger against her soft skin, Neal's mouth mumbling into her ear, Neal's lips pressed against the hollow of her throat, running up to her ear before trailing back down to her collarbone, and not the sinful, traitorous lips of that pirate.
A sneer spreads across his lips as Neal realizes that Emma has not reacted at all to the touch of his lips against her, her hands still pressed against the tree behind her, but then he realizes that she is still talking , that her lips are still moving.
But when Hook noses the strap of her tank top away, nipping at the skin he's revealed, her mouth hangs open and her eyes flutter shut as she lets out a dragging moan that reaches Neal's ears, igniting a desire within him that has nothing to do with the pirate and everything to do with his need to hear those noises again.
“Jones,” she mumbles, louder than the whispers that she was emitting before, but her breathlessness is still obvious. “You’re not even listening to me.”
He pulls back enough to look at her, a hardness in his expression that Neal can see clearly, even with the space between them. “I’m trying my damnedest, darling, but you make it so bloody difficult.” His voice is a low growl, reminding Neal more of an animal than a man — fitting, he thinks, because that man is an animal.
In the reflection of the moonlight, Neal can see Emma’s face clearly, the porcelain of her skin practically glowing in the pale light, and he recognizes the impatient, annoyed expression on her face.
The pirate must recognize it, as well, his voice softer when he speaks again. “I truly am sorry, love, but can you really blame a man for not being able to curb his desires when the very object of his dreams wakes him in the middle of an exceptionally detailed one?”
Neal hears Emma’s breath hitch at his confession, her eyes widening as she slowly turns her head to meet his piercing gaze. He slowly raises his eyebrows, his tongue doing that damned thing against his lower lip again, and in one swift movement, her hands are out from behind her ass, one sliding under his leather duster to pull him against her while the other flies to his hair, burying itself deep in his locks. Neal can swear things all start happening in slow motion, some things he shouldn’t even notice from the distance he’s at but notices nonetheless: Hook’s tongue darts out of his mouth, running deliberately slowly against Emma’s bottom lip; Emma unsnaps the buttons on his newest vest and the black shirt underneath it, running her fingers through the hair that covers his stomach before wrapping both her arms around him to pull him flush against her; his hand runs up her side, disappearing under her tank top until it reaches her breasts, the fabric tight enough against her there that Neal can see his fingers moving under the material. Emma hisses in a sharp breath, pulling his hips even tighter against hers before moving her hands between them, though her fingers seem to struggle with the laces she finds there.
He pulls away from her, his hook leaving the tree above her head to push her arms away from the very-present bulge of his leather breeches, but his lips don’t leave her as they run down her neck once more, his hand moving back down her stomach to press against the front of her jeans.
“Please, Emma, just let me take care of you.” It’s not a question, not a demand, but a plea — one that Neal absolutely sees through, and he knows Emma does, also .
Neal bites back the laugh that rises through him at the pirate’s words. Lies, of course. Emma should know by now that no man would ever object themselves to that, should know that no matter what he said, he would always expect something in return. That’s just how it works. Hell, he wants to applaud her when she fists a clump of his hair and pulls his lips off her collarbone, demanding he meet her gaze. Her eyes narrow at him, her telltale sign of searching his face for the dishonesty Neal knows she will find there.
When she speaks again, he expects her to accuse him of lying to her, lies that she can see past. But instead, her voice is small, thick with uncertainty and something Neal does not recognize.
“You would do that for me?”
“I would do anything for you,” he whispers, his voice full of an affection that boils Neal’s blood. He has no right to lie to her like—
“No one has ever —”
“I can assure you, darling, I am more of a gentleman than any man that has been graced with permission to touch you has been, and the only thing I desire right now is for you to allow me to watch as I cause you to fall apart.”
Another lie that Emma will see through immediately , Neal thinks, even if it is just trying to make himself feel better .
“Are you —” she tries again, but something on the face on the man before her makes her stop.
“Please, Emma,” he whispers, bringing his hand up to cup her cheek in his palm, running his thumb against it. “Please, just grant me this.”
There is something in his voice that shakes Neal to the bone, a sincerity that even he cannot deny, and he suddenly understands that, perhaps, he is telling the truth.
In place of an answer, Emma simply pulls her tank top and sports bra up over her head, exposing herself to him. Neal smiles, feeling his own cock begin to stir awake at the sight, and he begins to contemplate pulling himself free and pleasuring himself at the sight of her this time, all other companions of their motley group on the far side of the clearing.
“Here, love, that tree must be rough against your skin,” he says, his voice somehow soft as he sheds his leather duster, pulling her away from the tree long enough to place the jacket over her shoulders and give her protection against the hard wood behind her.
She smiles at him, far too sincere to make Neal comfortable, though as soon as she pulls his lips back to hers, her hand finds his own and leads it down to the snap of her jeans, which she helps him loosen before stepping out of them.
“In a bit of a hurry, are we?” Hook asks, the desire in his voice somehow much more obvious than just moments before, deeper and darker than his whispered pleas.
Emma laughs, her face pressed against his shoulder as he slowly moves his lips back down her neck. “Are you complaining? Because, rest assured, I can always put it back—”
“On the contrary, love, I want nothing less than to worship your breasts at every occasion you grant me, since they are one of the most glorious sights I have ever beheld.” He ducks his head down, flicking his tongue out against one of her pebbled nipples before covering it with his mouth. “And, might I add, that is saying a lot for a man who has beheld as many glorious sights as I.”
When his lips reach her skin again, her laughter turns to a deep moan, one that travels directly through Neal’s body and causes his half-hard erection to shift in his jeans. Until two days ago, he would have sworn that the last thing that could pull those noises from Emma Swan would be any use of her nipples, though it should have been his tongue that pulled the sound from her, should still be his tongue that gets to do it now. But even though he’s not the one that’s making her make that noise, there’s no reason he shouldn’t be able to use it for his own advantage, right?
She says nothing in response to his statement. Instead, she pulls one of her hands out of his hair and begins to palm her other breast, switching when Hook’s mouth does the same. His hand is anchored against her hip, though it is now fully uncovered. Neal can see the deep indentations on her skin from his fingers against it, and a new wave of possessiveness washes through him. If anyone should be allowed to leave marks on her skin, it should be him.
Straightening his back again, his mouth returns to hers, tongue already searching for passage before their lips lock together. He finally lowers his other arm from where it has been resting against the tree, using his hook and his hand to shed her underwear, pooling them around her ankles before he steps forward, placing himself between her legs and pushing the bulge within his leather pants against her bare core. Even with just his current movements, she ruts her hips against him, searching in much the same way Neal finds himself doing for some sort of relief.
“Gods above,” he moans, wrapping his hand further around her back, now hidden with the dark leather duster, but Neal can still tell that he pulls her closer to him. “How perfect you are, pressed against me, using my body to take your pleasure.”
The moans that leave her body as she uses him go straight to Neal's core, hardening him to the point where it becomes painful. He turns his head and sweeps his eyes over the rest of the campsite, and even if someone over there was awake, they are too far away to care about anything Neal is doing, or the fact that Emma and the pirate are nowhere to be seen, except by Neal.
Hook's hand comes back around her body to pull her leg up against his hip, and Emma's groaned “ Fuck ” is all Neal can take, rolling onto his side so he can loosen his jeans and free himself from his boxers. Just the feel of his hand wrapping around his own erection alleviates some of the pressure that has grown in him, and he has to bite back a moan, especially when Hook lowers her leg and presses his fingers between her thighs, pulling another groan and whispered curse from her perfect lips.
“So wet for me, Emma,” the pirate growls, and Neal can swear that he can feel it, can feel her wetness around him as he pleasures himself at the sight of her. “Wet and wanting and absolutely fucking perfect and all for me.”
Not if I have anything to do about it , Neal thinks, too focused on what he is doing to himself to contemplate the humor of his statement: Emma did not wake him up in the middle of the night, did not choose him to talk to — to fuck — two days ago on the deck of his ship. There is nothing he can do about it, he fails to understand, because she has already chosen the pirate.
Neal may not be able to tell what that man is doing with his fingers, his lips trailing all over her body as he does so, but as long as Emma continues to make those sounds, it really doesn't matter to him — he's already so close to release himself.
But then, it changes. Instead of her groans, the breathless moans falling from her lips, she begins to… speak?
“I haven't been able to stop thinking about you, Jones,” she mumbles, then takes a sharp breath in response to one of the ways he is touching her. “Since we kissed, your confession in the cave, since what we did on the deck of your ship the other day, you, your lips and your body and those things you've done to me have been the only thing on my mind.”
Neal stops, his once-rock-hard erection almost softening in his hand. She can't be serious. They're here to save their son, to keep Pan from taking him from them forever, and she's been so focused on the damn pirate instead?
“Good,” Hook groans, his mouth against her ear and the curve of his hook teasing the pebbled flesh of her nipple, and Neal almost loses it completely. No, not “good.” Very bad, actually. Has everyone forgotten about Henry? “When we rescue your lad and get off this godforsaken island, that's when the fun will begin.” She ruts her hips against him again, a response to whatever he is doing between her legs, and she leans her head back against the tree, opening her throat to his lips.
Suddenly, her hand leaves his hair and grabs his hook in one swift movement, and he pulls his lips from her skin to look at her in the pale moonlight. But she does nothing, simply stands there, eyes wide and staring back at him like a deer in the headlights.
“What's the matter, darling?” he whispers, and she does not immediately answer, so he adds, “Tell me what you want.”
She blinks quickly, a few times in a row, before smiling at him, something wicked unlike anything Neal has ever seen. “Use the hook,” she groans, leading said appendage between her legs, and the responding smile from the pirate, paired with a low chuckle, is just as sinister. She can't be serious , he thinks again, disgusting him further, but as soon as the cool metal reaches the warm flesh between her legs, the yelp she emits before Hook can cover her mouth with his is enough to rekindle the fire in Neal's belly.
It's one thing to be attracted to the incomplete man — even Neal has to admit that there is something incredibly appealing about his dark features and piercing blue eyes — but to be attracted to the pieces of him that make him incomplete ? That's something else entirely, something that almost causes Neal to give up his endeavors for the night, until her response to it — no matter how unnatural it may be — brings him back to life in his hand.
“There is one more thing I want from you,” Hook groans, and Neal bites his teeth to hold back the laughter that comes ripping up his throat. He knew it. No man in his right mind would ever just want to —
But Hook's lips start to trail down, past Emma's breasts and onto her stomach as he tells her, “The memory of your sweet nectar on my tongue has been driving me mad, and I fear it may overtake me if I don't —”
“Wait,” she groans, both of her hands in his hair to stop him from moving, pulling his lips back up to hers, and she sucks her bottom lip up between her teeth. Neal knew it, she couldn't actually like it when she allowed him to do it last time. “I — yes, I want you to, fuck ,” she breathes. “But I'm — god, Killian , I'm so close right now, just get me there first.”
There it is again, her whispered Killian , another reminder that Neal certainly does not need that the man before him is a man instead of the monster that Neal has come to think of him as.
A smile lights up the man's face, an odd mixture somewhere between wicked and sincere, and the chaste kiss he touches against her lips turns to something much more passionate when she pulls his face closer to hers.
It's almost instant, with his lips against hers, his fingers teasing her nipple, and his hook between her legs, and she comes with the long moan that has haunted Neal's dreams for almost twelve years. It's that moan that does it for him, and he spills himself onto the ground at the very edge of the clearing, coming with a silent groan of his own.
When he directs his attention back to them after taking a few moments to recompose himself, Hook has done exactly as Emma asked, has brought her to her completion, but Neal is surprised — and perhaps a little angered — that she is still responding to his movements, even with their new position: Hook on his knees before her, one of her perfectly toned legs slung over his shoulder, and his fingers seem to be inside her while his head is buried between her legs. Her hips buck wildly against his face, one hand planted in his hair while the other is wrapped around his hook, pressed into the thigh of the leg over his shoulder.
How is she still making those sounds? And how has the pirate not spilled himself into his own pants, having her responding to him like that?
“Fuck, Killian, please,” she whispers before a breathy laugh escapes her.
“What, darling?” he asks, his lips never leaving her skin.
“Please, don't — don't stop.”
Now it's his turn to laugh, far less breathy and much deeper than hers, and he shakes his head, pulling her thigh higher against his shoulder to open her up more to him.
“I don't intend to stop until every inch of you has been fully satisfied, until your legs start to tremble beneath you and you're not sure you can handle even one more touch of me against you.”
Neal narrows his eyes, angry at both the pirate and the expectations he is doling out. His Emma had never lasted this long, surely he can't be serious?
He doesn't need to watch any more, should just roll away from them and try to get some rest, since his dreams certainly can't be worse than what is literally happening before his eyes. But he's curious, and somehow Emma is still making those damned noises , so he can't tear his eyes from her.
Much to Neal's discontent, Emma's groans do not stop as the pirate continues, his lips against her and his fingers inside her — and, even more to his discontent, she does begin to tremble under his touch, which causes him to wrap the arm with the hook around the back of her, holding her steady against him.
“That's it, my Swan,” he breathes, and Neal notices that his fingers moving inside her have started to slow as he pulls his lips away from her, resting his forehead against her stomach. “Deep breaths, come back to me now.”
The obvious affection in his voice chills Neal to the bone. He has no right to have feelings for her, feelings that he is allowed to show while Neal has to bury his deep inside and hope that one day he does not combust. Suddenly, he doesn't care that Emma is not fully down off the high of her orgasm, that she is still moving against his fingers as they move within her — he's had enough, seen enough, and rolls away from them, hoping that his own release is enough to allow him for a few hours’ rest before the rise of the sun.