Set after the end of S2. (Very) rough sex, (very) Dark!Hook, and what we'll call dub-con to be safe. Not a happy fluffy fic. You've been warned.

This is the first part of what I expect to be a two-part story. The second part is mostly written and will deal with the afternoon after, as it were.

Emma is asleep in his cabin when something wakes her. Blearily, she looks around, trying to find out what had pulled her out of her sleep. Nothing jumps out at her, and the deck above remains quiet. She glances at the window, noticing that it's probably an hour after sunrise and she needs to be getting up anyways, she slides out of bed and stretches.

She's been spending more and more time there, much to her father's eternal chagrin. But he was more than capable of sucking it up, and really, Emma needed Hook. As the days spent in Neverland had begun to pile up, sleep had become harder and harder to find. She wasn't sure exactly how it had started; one minute they had been fighting(she accused him of not trying, he accused her of being sleep deprived, around and around, the usual), and the next he had been fucking her into his mattress, her arms hooked around his neck as his name spilled from her lips, over and over.

That had been a week ago, and by now, Emma had practically moved into Hook's cabin. It wasn't intentional, but now that she was spending every night in his bed, she didn't want to wake in the mornings. She was sleeping, actually sleeping, nine hours of blissful unawareness that made putting up with his eternally smug face and her parent's constant looks of caution almost worth it.

Getting laid on a nightly basis did wonders for your patience, Emma had noted. Henry was still first on her mind, but she was dealing with the fact that it wasn't going to be easy. The Jolly Roger was fast, but the sea was massive and the island elusive. Gold and Regina spent hours every day working at Hook's maps, trying to figure out where they were and where they needed to be. Hook's only comment was that things had changed in the years he had been gone.

She's alone in the spacious room; Hook had been up with the sun, as he always was. It didn't bother her; their arrangement had always been strictly no strings attached. No cuddling, no pillow talk, no early-morning-soul-scouring revelations. Mutually beneficial. She got the sleep she desperately needed to function, and he had a warm body to share his nights with.

Which wasn't to say that she just laid there. Oh no. Because he was just as good as you would imagine. She wasn't sure how long he'd been alive, or where all he'd put in to port, but he could do things, things no man she'd ever met could do. And he did them well.

But that didn't mean there was a relationship, an attachment forming, like she knew her mother suspected. She was perfectly capable of walking away from Captain Sex and his leather-clad ass. But as long as the sex was good and he didn't try to make it into something it wasn't, there wasn't any reason to walk away. She was perfectly content to carry on the way they were until they found Henry and got back home.

Satisfied with the way her neck popped when she rolled her head, she began meandering through the room, reaching for her underwear and pants, reveling in the ache between her legs. She may be used to the idea of mind-blowing sex every night, but her body wasn't quite onboard, not yet accustomed to having gone from zero to sixty so fast. And sixty it was. Had she mentioned how good the sex was? Hook was nothing if not a gentleman in bed, she had been forced to admit. If he hadn't been, their arrangement probably wouldn't have gotten very far.

She had just buttoned her pants and was starting the search for her bra when she heard the commotion on deck. Charming was yelling and she could hear the dull clunk of Gold's cane as he moved about outside. Quickly, she scours the cabin before coming up empty, not a bra in sight. In fact, she can't find the shirt she'd been wearing earlier either. Ugh. They would need to have a talk about that tonight. She did not appreciate her clothes going missing.

For now, she reached for the nearest thing she could find; the shirt Hook had thrown off last night. It still smelt like the sea and rum and that indefinable smell of him. Dimly, she registered the urge to flip the collar and take a deep breath, but she ignored it. That would be silly and highly irrational considering the commotion outside that she now recognized as a screaming match, probably between the whole lot of them. Emma gritted her teeth. Right now, the last thing they needed was discord among the ranks. Throwing the shirt over her head, she frowned at how low the buttons went, exposing a fair amount of skin between her breasts. Briefly she contemplated searching for her own shirt again, but a heavy thud from outside pushed her out of the cabin and into the sunlight.

Only to run head-on into Hook himself. She caught a glimpse of her father and mother caught in a heated debate with Gold and Regina on deck above them, and her heart sped up when beyond them, she saw what they'd been searching for for so long. Land. Completely ignoring Hook, she made to brush past him, but his hand clamped down on her forearm and he pulled her back into the room with him, slamming the door shut.

"What the fuck, Jones!?" Emma rounded on him, jerking her arm in a futile attempt to break his vice-like grip. His eyes were dark, menacing, and a small part of Emma recoiled. She hadn't seen him like this before. Not ever. The way he'd looked at her in Rumplestiltskin's cell was just a shadow of the darkness clashing before her. She'd especially never seen him like this since they'd been sleeping together.

"What's the matter, Emma," he growled darkly, crowding up against her, forcing her back against the door and still coming, pressing their bodies together and bringing his face close her hers, mere inches away from her lips. His eyes flicked down the length of her, slowing when he reached her chest and the rather flimsy material of his shirt. His tongue flicked against his lips and she felt the puff of breath against her own lips. "I thought you liked my company," he whispered, lips brushing hers as he spoke.

"Seriously, what the fuck is going on?" She tried to shove against him, but he quickly spun her around, pressing her front against the door, her arms trapped against his left arm, his body adding enough pressure that she could feel the ridges of the door underneath her arms, the curved edge of his hook digging into her ribs.

His breath was hot against her neck and she shuddered, not liking anything about this situation. His hand came up and he twirled a strand of hair between his fingers, sliding it away from her shoulder, caressing the side of her neck gently before laying down a line of hot kisses up her shoulder and neck, finishing against her jaw, sucking hard enough to bruise. He chuckled when she went rigid against him, the sound vibrating against her neck and back, through her chest. It wasn't light, like how he had been lately. It was dark, terrifying, like the skittering in the dark that warned of things hiding in the shadows.

"Jones, what-" she got out before he growled against her skin, biting at the place where he'd just had his mouth, and she bucked against him, furious, but it had no effect on him, except that he let out a hum against her skin before pressing her back against the door. And then his hand was there, against her stomach, working circles under her shirt, dipping beneath the edge of he jeans. Oh fuck no, he was not going there. But he had already popped the button and yanked the zipper down, his palm grinding against her panties, sending sudden sparks shooting down her legs.

"Jesus," she moaned, her previous anger forgotten, and she felt his smirk against her shoulder. All too quickly, his hand was gone, shoving her jeans and underwear down, ripping them off her legs before she had a chance to protest. And then he was against her again, and she could feel the bulge in his pants, grinding against her ass.

Fuck, this was happening. Actually fucking happening.

A part of her was telling her to just go with it, it was a turn on, he was there, very obviously intent on having her right there, against the door, her parents not twenty feet away on the other side. Nothing she would have ever considered, but she wasn't exactly diametrically opposed to it. Another part, the pissed off stubborn part, was in control, though, bucking back against him.

She opened her mouth to say something, but he took the moment to pull them away from the door, his arm firmly holding her own against her body. He yanked on the hem of his shirt, ripping it open down the front, pulling a hefty piece off and stuffing it into her mouth. She tried to spit it out, push it out with her tongue, but it her mouth was dry and it was too much, crammed against her jaw, locking it in place.

She yelled and kicked at the air, throwing all her weight against him, but to no avail; he stood his ground, and all that came out was a muffled sound. He grinned, sharp as a knife's blade.

"I notice how you waited to scream until you knew no one could hear you." She could feel the edge in his voice, cutting against her skin. She shuddered, not caring that it gave him exactly what he wanted. His hand drifted between her legs again, roughly rubbing at her clit, enough to make her arch against him, bowing forward, but not enough to actually make her come. He pulled his hand away, and she couldn't control the whimper that escaped her at the loss. He manhandled her around, his hand coming up under the ripped shirt she was wearing to roughly squeeze her breast before pulling at the nipple. She thrashed in his arms; it was too much, not right, just the wrong side of painful.

"Emma," his voice growled in her ear, a warning. Pay attention. He turned the back towards the room, still holding her against him, slowly thrusting against her ass. "I'm going to lay you across that desk, Emma, and I'm going to take you. Hard." Her eyes widened at the growled words, and he continued offhand. "You're probably not going to enjoy it very much." He nipped again at the spot against her jaw. It was already sore, too sore, and she shied away, turning her head the other direction, away from him.

But he brought his hand up, turning her chin back towards him. His breath was hot, heavy against her hear. "Careful, love," he murmured, the ever-present undercurrent of steel a warning vibration, nipping at her ear before pressing a kiss against the bruise below her ear.

Like strings had been cut, all the fight went out of her. She stomped on the stubborn, angry side of her until it yielded, backed down. He was doing this. Probably enjoying her squirming against him, fighting his touch. In reality, she wasn't so sure she wanted to be fighting him. She'd never seen him like this, a pirate through and through, Captain Hook, a man who'd assuredly killed and fucked and pillaged his way into history books somewhere. She was morbidly curious to see what happened next. What had made Killian Jones spiral back into Captain Hook. What would make him burn his bridges so recklessly, so violently? And this bridge in particular. The little turned on part of her was growing, lighting a fire in her that she really wished she could ignore.

She's out of her thoughts when her hips bump into the edge of his desk roughly. He presses against her, his face buried in the side of her neck, inhaling against her skin. Without preamble, he presses her harder against the desk, his knee going between her legs to knock them apart. Emma totters, unsteady from the loss of support. His hand disappears from her skin and his hook tightens against her side, the sharp edge pressing against the skin between her ribs and hips.

And then, with no warning, he's there, his cock hot against her ass, between her legs where he's rutting against her; she can feel the laces of his pants loose against her, but she's more concerned with the fact that he's lining himself up, fingers dipping into her folds and she's not fucking ready. She scrambles to let him know, moaning against the gag, pulling away from him, but he just jerks her back and presses in, agonizingly slow. It burns, the stretch, and she whines into the makeshift gag. He ignores her, pressing further and further in, and she feels the fire low in her belly start to sputter at the discomfort. He's thick; bigger than average, which she had always appreciated before, but now, now it's just the wrong side of painful.

He's seated all the way in her when he starts talking, whispering filth in her ear about how tight she is, how she looks, supported just by his cock inside her and his arms around her, and she wants out, of his arms, out of his cabin, off of his goddamn ship, right fucking now.

But then the pressure is gone, her arms no longer pinned against her, his cock no longer making her feel like she's splitting in two, and for a second, she forgets his words, starts to bring her legs together, to reach for the gag in her mouth, ready to lay into him, and then he's back.

He thrusts in fast this time, buries himself inside her with a grunt, pushing her down against the desk with his body. His hook deftly collects her wrists and traps them above her head, the point digging into the wood, sticking, offering him leverage. He lifts himself off her, slides out again, and kicks her legs even wider. If it wasn't for the hand in the middle of her shoulder blades and the hook holding her hands down, she would be sliding off the desk. She hates the feeling of being so exposed, so helpless. At the same time, though, she can feel the fire in her turning over, starting to burn again, licking at her insides.

He's set a pace; slow, far too slow for satisfaction. She wants to tell him to hurry up, to get on with it, but he's taking his time now, fucking long and deep into her. It sparks in her belly, and she knows it's not intentional; remembers his words from earlier. He's not trying to get her off. He's doing this for his own ends. His own satisfaction. Whatever that may be. It should scare her, but added to everything that's happened already, all it does is throw tinder on the flames.

She's thrown out of her own thoughts again by his tongue on her back, licking a long stripe up her spine. He leans back across her, his hips never skipping a beat, and whispers in her ear, "You taste like the sea, Emma."

Jesus Christ, that's fucking unfair, the way it shoots liquid heat straight between her legs. He chuckles against her. His hand slides between her chest and the table, rubbing a nipple between his fingers, gentler this time, enough to make her hips twitch, internal muscles fluttering around him. She can feel his smile against her skin, he leans further, and nips at her bruise. She stiffens, clamps down on him, and he seems satisfied enough.

He leans back and shifts the angle, starts pumping into her in earnest. Her hips are rocking against the table, and the shredded remains of his shirt are doing little to prevent her already sensitized nipples from rubbing against the wood with every thrust. She's sparking, the new angle setting off nerve endings and making her toes curl against the floor beneath them. His hand is gripping her hip, tight enough to bruise and she knows that it's intentional, can feel it in the splay of his fingertips.

She's getting close, surprising herself. He must notice her hips stuttering back to meet his, the way moans are starting to slip through the gag, because he chuckles. "I guess you are enjoying this, darling," he says, far too fucking brightly, and for a second, she can pretend that this is just another night, just another helpful orgasm. But she doesn't want to pretend. She doesn't know what she wants, what she's thinking; just that she needs to come. Apparently he does too, because his hips speed up and suddenly she is right there, speeding towards the edge with no safety net, screaming a litany of curses against his shirt in her mouth.

She comes, hard, her body going limp against the desk, against him. He groans, his hand coming out to brace himself against the desk as he picks up speed, fucking her hard and fast and uncaring. Adrenaline is the only reason he hasn't come yet, she's sure of it, but at this point, she doesn't really care. Everything's a little hazy, numb. It barely registers when his hips stutter and he comes, sprawling across her.

Time is indeterminate, and though she just woke up less than an hour ago(really, has it only been that long?), she's fading, exhausted and worn to the bone, muscles sore and aching already. She can't move, not with him still pinning her down, but she's not really crazy about moving right now anyways. Moving means thinking which means dealing with what just happened.

Finally, he stirs and lifts himself off of her. He pulls at his hook and it comes dislodged from the wood of the desk with a dull thunk. His arm is around her waist and before she's aware of anything, she's laying in his bed and he's pulling her against him, his knee sliding between her legs, forcing them open against him. His arm snakes out and wraps around her hips, pulling her back against him tightly, still apparently a possessive asshole. The gag is gone, taken out at some point she didn't notice, and she rolls her tongue around in her mouth, against her teeth. He tucks his head against the side of her neck, and she almost wants to say something around her dry throat, but she's slipping, too exhausted to try and figure him out. She doesn't want to.

So she closes her eyes and pushes the problem away.