Disclaimer: I don't own OUAT.

I'm not really sure what this is, only that it was written for my dear friend Anja for her birthday!

Please review!

He was damned.

Of that he was almost certain.

And he wanted to hate her for it…he desperately longed to.

Walking the length of his cabin, Killian Jones swirled the clear liquid in the glass he held tightly in his good hand. His hook rapping absently at his side, he focused his eyes intently on his drink even as his brain defiantly wandered elsewhere.

It was maddening.

His mind was constantly seeking out the one thing that gave him solace while simultaneously causing him turmoil.

Her.

His sodding thoughts were always on her.

And he couldn't help but feel weak for it.

Because good gods she got under his skin.

The blasted woman had wormed her way into his very being.

And he wanted to hate her for it.

"Bloody hell Swan, can you just trust me? For once…open your damned eyes!"

His voice was wavering with barely concealed fury, his fingers clenching into a fist at his side as he watched her stubbornly stare him down, sword in one hand, chin tilted up defiantly—her eyes narrowed in a suspicious and accusing glare. The wind whipped around them angrily as they faced off on the moss-covered rocks of the high-rise cliffs. The sounds of the sea crashing into stone drifted up threateningly as she raised her blade, pointing it at him with the barest hint of uncertainly flashing in her stormy gaze.

After outrunning a group of angry gnomes, they had become separated from the rest of their party. Wandering for days, tired, lost, and on edge, they had finally come across the mermaid lagoon. And reluctantly, with no other options lying before them, they had decided to take their chances with the creatures that lurked in the clear and deceiving waters.

It hadn't been easy…approaching the sirens.

Her hotheadedness and biting words had nearly earned them both watery graves—the mermaids already wary of anything that possessed a trait, mainly beauty, which rivaled their own. Hurriedly, he slickly had smoothed things over with the jealous and narcissistic lot, feeding their vanity while probing them for information.

He had thought they had won.

He had thought they had tricked the manipulative sirens.

Grasping onto false hope fed to them by the scheming creatures, they had set out for Skull Rock—their new information that Henry was heading that way with a small band of boys bringing a spark of light to the fallen princess' cool eyes, and a hint of warmth to her tight features.

Until very suddenly their lead had gone cold, their hope fading.

The sirens had cruelly fooled them, and their readiness to believe them had further proved their idiocy—the awaiting trap laid by the Lost Ones almost costing them their lives as they had unknowingly stumbled upon an ambush. Blindsided by the sudden attack, they had fought off the Shadow's small army of murderous children side by side, realizing in the process that her son was nowhere to be found.

It had all been a sodding trick, handed to them by the spiteful mermaids….one that had lost them precious time…one that had nearly lead them right into the Shadow's unyielding clutches.

And even as they had escaped together, fleeing and dodging flying arrows and thrown daggers, she had the nerve to think he was stringing her along—accused him of playing both sides after they were finally safe.

He knew she was scared.

He knew she was angry.

But the damned woman knew how to wound, her words laced with betrayal cutting him deep.

Taking a step towards her, he watched as she leveled her sword in front of her, gritting her teeth tightly.

"Trust me Swan."

"Why should I?"

"Because I made a promise to you. I told you I'd help you find your son…and that's a promise that I intend to keep." Moving towards her again, he attempted to push away his anger, his unspoken hurt. He tried to chase away the frustration that was threatening to simmer into pure unadulterated rage—a comfortable and familiar feeling he knew well.

This woman—this princess— had the audacity to question his intentions.

After all he had done.

After all he had given up.

His vengeance.

A lifetime of revenge…centuries of plotting and planning…

For a second chance for him.

For a fighting chance for her son.

For her.

Stepping forward once more, he fixed his gaze on her, watching as the ever-raging war of emotions battled behind her eyes. "Look at me Emma…have I lied to you yet? Have I told you anything that I truly didn't believe myself?"

It was like the giant's lair all over again.

Staring at him quietly, the wind working its way through her hair, lifting golden strands around her pale face, he watched as she faltered, her shoulders drooping slightly—the small yielding movement bringing something warm to his body.

"Trust me."

It was a demand, not a request. The words were woven with nearly frantic need, and quickly he pushed away the lingering voices in his head that furiously asked him why he was so desperate for her approval, her acceptance…her trust.

He knew the answer would be one he wasn't comfortable with…something he hadn't the strength to deny.

After a moment, one that had his spine going rigid while near tangible tension filled the space between them, she released a shaky breath and locked her eyes—the perfect mixture of sea, storm, and sky—with his. Nodding once, he watched the accusation slowly fade away from her features, acceptance gradually replacing it.

And the action caused something unfamiliar, something that hinted of hope and whispered of promise, to course through his veins, settling itself deep in his gut before spreading fast.

"Okay." She said simply, and lowering the sword, she closed her eyes briefly.

And as she did, the softly spoken statement echoed in his brain—the single word sounding like redemption itself.

Throwing back the rest of his drink, Killian winced a little as the liquor slid its way down his throat, its warmth burning him from the inside out. Shaking his head he tried to focus his thoughts on something, anything, else—but no matter how hard he tried his mind continued to drift back to her.

He wanted to forget her.

But she had taken up a near permanent residence in his brain—the simple realization infuriating and somewhat humiliating.

Gods how he yearned to be able to hate her.

Every fiber of his being practically begged him to, reminding him of the constant state of pain-tinged uncertainty that she caused him.

"Oh God Henry!"

He heard her first before he saw her.

The awe-packed voice filtered to his ears as he stumbled ungracefully—the fresh wound in his shoulder opening wider as he supported the exhausted boy's weight. The child could barely stand straight—weeks of attempting to escape Tamara and Greg while dodging the Lost Ones, only to be captured and held by them as a prisoner had finally taken its toll.

A part of him, the part that was still untouched by darkness, hated to think of how frightened the lad had been before he had found him.

Or rather…was willingly led to him.

The Shadow had beckoned to him, calling to him in the dead of night while the rest of the newly reunited group had been sleeping soundly. It had quietly and subtly lured him off of his ship, whispering of deals and offering him a trade.

Himself for the boy.

And it had seemed fitting really…for Pan to want to be reunited with its former body.

And it had been a bargain he had been willing to make…one he had intended to keep.

But her bloody lad was a fighter—and unbeknownst to the Lost Ones and Pan, he had somehow fallen in favor with what was left of the pixies.

The battle—blurred lines of good and evil—that had ensued had been grim, bloody, and final.

The pixies light had saved them, the once powerful creatures forever ceasing to exist in the process.

Henry was safe.

And Neverland was eternally changed.

Staggering through the thick line of trees, his eyes drifted to the beach that lay ahead of them, a sense of relief shooting through him fast as he saw the Jolly Roger, proud and gleaming, rocking in the gentle waves of the Neverland sea.

A beacon, it called to him.

Beckoning him, it promised safety and comfort.

Dimly, as he moved towards the sandy shore, he realized that the presence at his side was very suddenly gone. And focusing his attention, he watched as Henry ran towards his mother with tired and stiff movements—her face usually so calm and impassive betraying every emotion she felt as her son threw himself into her arms.

Relief, shock, thankfulness…

Love.

Such pure unmasked love.

Feeling his throat tightening, he swallowed thickly. And continuing on his path towards his ship, he ignored the Dark One, the Prince and Princess and the Queen as they passed him by, all hurriedly rushing to the boy's side.

And he told himself it didn't bother him…he didn't need their approval or gratitude.

He needed the comfort of his cabin, and a good dose of rum to ease both his aching shoulder and turbulent mind. He was desperate to be alone, the desire to process the night's events running through him strong—his brain was unable to fully grasp and accept the fact that her boy was finally safe.

He had made good on his word.

And he tried to tell himself it mattered because Milah would be proud.

And he ignored the lingering voice in his head that resolutely argued otherwise.

"Are you hurt?"

Never faltering in his broken stride towards his ship, he barely paid her a passing glance as she quite suddenly appeared at his side—his fleeting eyes noticing with some rising interest the deep lines of concern etched on her face as her gaze roamed over him, stopping on his clearly bleeding shoulder for a long and telling moment.

"A scratch." He lied softly, his arm burning and protesting with the words. Felix's sword had been sharp—Pan's cruel and unforgiving grip even more painful than the blade that had sliced through his flesh.

"Hook—"

He sighed, the sound coming out more defeated than he would have liked, and straightening his spine, he picked up his unsteady pace, "Do a man a favor and save the barrage of questions for later princess…I would very much like to retire to my quarters, find a good bottle of rum, a warm bed…" Grinning almost halfheartedly as the sentence trailed, he shot her a sideways glance. "I suppose I wouldn't object to a welcoming body to join me if one was so inclined…"

It was only slightly disturbing how the suggestion fell flat even in his own ears.

Moving to walk ahead of her, he paused when her fingers, both gentle and firm, gripped his arm lightly, stopping him before he could go any further. And unable to resist the urge, he found himself looking down at her. Her eyes, shining with tears she had stubbornly refused to let fall, searched his own intently—emotions he couldn't quite place flashing within her pale stare.

And for a moment he allowed her to look past his wavering facade, too tired to keep up with any carefully placed pretenses.

Slowly her expression gentled, gradually her eyes softened.

"Thank you."

The words, quietly said, jarred him slightly. And looking away from her, he nodded, the tightness in his throat thickening as the gratitude in her tone and the appreciation in her eyes firmly implanted itself in his tired and traitorous brain.

Setting the glass down on his desk with more force than was necessary, Killian closed his eyes for a moment, scowling when images of a turbulent gaze with shades of gray, blue and green flashed behind his close eyelids—the clean and fresh smell of soft hair, the color of the rising sun wafting to his nose.

Countless times he had debated leaving…setting sail to nowhere and leaving Storybrooke, its people, and her behind.

But each time he considered escaping the town, something almost shockingly painful pulled at him and he found himself struggling against her binding and unrelenting clutches.

And it almost physically hurt, how badly he wanted to hate her for her invisible anchor.

Storybrooke looked the same.

After weeks at sea trying to find the odd little town—the cloaking enchantment Gold had given Belle working almost too well— the veil had been lifted and Storybrooke had quite suddenly become visible again.

The residents had greeted them with smiles, waves, and a massive amount of weapons.

Apparently since they had departed for Neverland the town had diligently prepared for battle against an unknown threat, wielding bows and arrows, pistols, and swords.

As they had disembarked from the ship, he had noticed among the tears, the laughter, and the gushing praises, a small group standing off to the side—an odd little quartet that had consisted of two vaguely familiar woman, a man, and someone else.

Someone who after a small handful of centuries between them had almost been unrecognizable.

Almost.

Baelfire.

She had noticed him at nearly the exact same time that he had—her eyes widening and her face going unnaturally pale.

Watching as her lad broke away from her to run down the dock to where Baelfire was hesitantly making his way towards them with a labored gait and a bright smile adorning his face, he paid careful attention to how Henry threw himself into his arms. The embrace was immediately returned by his father without a hint of hesitation, the look of relief and hopefulness that crossed the man's features near heartwarming.

If one was inclined to feel such gentle emotions.

And as he saw her tentatively walk towards father and son, the blood inside of his veins simmered and burned. Anger with the barest hint of something that spoke of jealousy and whispered of possessiveness slowly consumed him.

And cruelly a voice in his head laughed at him in an unforgiving tone.

She was never his to begin with.

She belonged to no one.

And yet…

Looking away from the trio as Baelfire wrapped his arms around her fast, pulling her to him with a look of blatant adoration, he pushed past the gathered crowd, narrowing his eyes when the Prince and Princess noticed his early departure.

He owed them no explanation.

Walking back to the prison of his own ship with fast and calculated strides, he glowered at any person who dared to look at him sideways—desperate to seek refuge in the cabin he had already spent too many months in.

And as he boarded the Jolly Roger once again, he disregarded the prickling on his skin that hinted of a cool stormy-eyed gaze burning into him while ignoring the voice in his head that reminded him that her love had come back for her.

And he was unsurprisingly alone.

Again.

Opening his eyes Killian ran a hand down his face, almost as if attempting to erase the images of her from his relentless brain, a deep frown pulling at his lips when he realized the task was near impossible.

He wished she would release him from her hold.

Physically and emotionally he couldn't take it any longer…what she did to him.

And the guilt he felt with each passing day consumed him.

Because he shouldn't bloody think of her that way.

He shouldn't want her that way.

She was his redemption.

But he wasn't hers.

Pouring himself another healthy dose of rum, he tossed the contents of his glass back with a quick flick of his wrist.

The simple fact that he could never be for her what she was for him taunted him softly, resonating throughout him soundly.

And by gods if only he could hate her.

"What the bloody hell are you doing?"

His voice sounded rough in his own ears, his words dripping with harshly veiled warnings.

He was trying to scare her off—too weak to come right out and tell her to leave.

"Isn't it obvious?"

Clenching his jaw, he stared at her hard, his heart pounding rapidly against his chest, all the blood from his brain leaving it and traveling downwards fast as her softly spoken question hung in the space between them.

She had come to him.

After their return to Storybrooke he had stayed to his ship. Spending most of his days there, he only left it when absolutely necessary. And even then he had stuck to the shadows of the town, unwilling to allow himself to see her, the pure torture of watching her as she slowly reunited with her once lost love a punishment he was unable to undertake.

But she had come to him.

In the still of the night, she had opened his cabin door, walking into his room with a shaky grace and wavering confidence that glimmered with just the tiniest hint of indecision. Locking her eyes with his, she had stripped for him slowly, never saying a word, just offering herself to him silently. And he had stood rooted to place, unable to do anything but watch the broken princess with indescribable need flashing in her turbulent stare, a pleading look he couldn't quite pinpoint crossing her pale and deceivingly delicate features.

Taking in the sight of her, in the dim light of the cabin, standing before him in all of her bare and unashamed glory, he tried to steady his suddenly labored breathing. A small part of him was faintly amused that this infuriating woman was able to reduce him to something that closely resembled a young lad about to take his first lass—quivering with near uncontrollable need at the mere sight of smooth and unclothed skin.

Running his tongue lightly over his lower lip, he allowed his eyes to roam over her as she stood quietly, her chin tilted upwards almost regally as she waited for him to make his move. And raking his eyes back up to hers, he watched as frenetic want and desire shone within the depths of her stare, the desperation that lurked there most likely reflecting his own.

"I won't be gentle."

It was his feeble last attempt to get her to leave.

"I don't want you to be."

Swearing violently under his breath, his legs moved of their own accord, bringing him to her without hesitation. Stopping in front of her, he watched as slight fear briefly glimmered in her eyes as he pulled her to him fast, her body colliding hard with his.

But he was past the point of caring, his clear warning and her resolute acceptance lingering delicately between them.

Brusquely drawing her even closer, he lowered his head and finally, finally claimed her lips, branding her roughly in a way he'd been secretly craving—the urge having been with him for longer than he'd care to admit to. Pushing into her with his tongue, he invaded her mouth in a brutal and nearly punishing kiss that hinted of self-loathing and tasted of desperate need.

And with the contact a jolt shot through him and it was as if somehow heaven and hell had fused together with the joining of their hot and demanding lips.

It threw him, how with his passionate and unrelenting touch she responded near instantly.

Wrapping her arms around his neck she pulled him even closer, her body pressing against his, she silently begged him for more as her hips seemingly involuntarily rocked against his.

"Is this what you want Emma? So help me I'll ask you only once more." He murmured the question against her lips, his breath mingling with hers.

"Yes."

Her fast response had him hardening almost instantly, and gritting his teeth he pushed her roughly towards his desk, his brain so foggy with want and his body so desperate for release, he could barely control his fingers enough to unlace his breeches as he moved towards her with faltering strides.

"Turn around."

Her spine straightened at his demanding words, her brow arching almost defiantly as he stalked her slowly—part of him still intent on scaring her away, even while another much smaller part nearly wept with gratitude that the gods were blessing him with this one chance. And as she opened her mouth, almost as if to shoot out some smart retort, he watched as her eyes caught sight of him pushing down his pants. Moving out of them quickly, he noticed as she swallowed visibly while following his calculated actions—her gaze clouding slightly.

Stepping up to her, he leered down at her, his eyes once again taking in the sight of her pale and soft skin— the heavy feel of his throbbing and impatient arousal nearly driving him mad. And as she raised her chin and met his stare, an unspoken challenge gleaming in the smoky depths of her gaze, something inside of him snapped.

His control was gone.

Grabbing her by the elbow, he spun her around so that her back was to him and pressing her against the desk, he rocked his hips into her backside; silently pleased by the surprised moan he pulled from her with the teasing thrust of his hips.

"I told you I wouldn't be gentle lass."

"I know." her voice was trembling and broken as she spoke the words.

And he thrilled at the sound.

He wanted to break her…like she had broken him.

Placing his hook at the small of her back, he pressed her forward, smirking darkly as she struggled a bit, stiffening her spine and gripping the edge of the desk, before almost immediately relaxing. The tension fading from her, she allowed him to bend her over onto the smooth wood of the table that lay before them.

He knew that she deserved more.

He wanted to give her more.

But he couldn't.

And lining himself up at her exposed and waiting entrance, he bit back the whispered endearments and tender words that lingered on his tongue and instead leaned forward. Nipping at her neck, he sunk his teeth into her tender flesh, his lips quirking up as she shuddered when almost immediately he soothed the bite with his greedy tongue.

And it was as he pulled back watching as a bright red mark formed on her pale white skin, that he drove his hips forward, pushing himself into her without warning—completely filling her to the hilt in one fast and brutal thrust.

The sound of her muffled cry both tore at his soul and warmed his heart.

The feel of her tight walls pulsing around him better than he had imagined on the nights when only his good hand was able to relieve the tension that had coiled deep in his gut as he had pictured her face, flushed with ecstasy, thrown back and crying out his name as he slammed into her over and over again.

His fantasy paled in comparison to reality.

Her hips, pushing back towards him, silently pleaded with him as they rocked against him slowly, ripping him from his brief lust induced reverie. And glancing down between them, seeing them joined together, his blood began to heat as his whole body tensed in anticipation. Finally she was his…even if only for a night…a mere fast and hasty fuck.

He would take it.

He was that weak.

And swiftly he blocked out the nasty and mocking thoughts of what he, Captain Hook, Killian Jones, had become.

No longer able to keep still inside of her, quickly he began to move—his pace rough, bruising, and possessive.

And as he pulled at her hair, marking her skin with his lips, teeth, and hook, the villain within him stirred, both redemption and revenge a fading urge as he found his refuge in her body.

Wiping at the thin line of sweat that had begun to form on his brow, Killian tensed as he heard the telltale sounds of footsteps swiftly making their way across the upper deck of his ship. Steadying himself, he swore softly, the profanities dull and halfhearted even as he concurrently took note of the fact that his heart had uncomfortably picked up in pace as he had unintentionally let his mind wander once again.

He wanted to let her go.

He wanted to close her out.

But he couldn't.

She had damned him.

Damned him more than he had already been damned…and he nearly chuckled darkly as he thought about how difficult the task should have been. His blackened soul and damaged heart had been destined for the darkest parts of hell long before he had met her.

But even so, she had damned him…ruined and cursed him.

And so badly he wanted to hate her for it…his new reason for eternal damnation.

He longed to hate the savior who had seemingly made a game of abandoning him and betraying him.

But he bloody couldn't.

Because now it was she who kept coming back to him.

As the door to his cabin slowly opened, he watched as Emma stepped into the room, her eyes immediately seeking his as she closed the door softly behind her again. And as she looked up at him, and sky met sea somewhere in a hazy limbo, he felt the resolve in him continue to fade as her tight expression gentled, the stiffness in her shoulders fading.

He wanted to hate her.

As he made his way towards her, no words spoken between them, he felt the last of his fight drain away as she raised a slow hand towards him without hesitation, her fingers tenderly brushing the faded scar on his cheek—the look in her eyes conveying everything to him that words could not.

He wanted to hate her…

But unfortunately he found that whether returned or not love was a much stronger emotion…one that was decidedly stranger and more fickle than the hate he attempted and miserably failed to grasp.

And as she gently brought him to her, her movements slow and lazy…tonight she would take her time with him…he let her continue to pull him under.

No longer strong enough to fight, he willingly allowed her to prolong his inevitable demise.

After all if he couldn't hate her, then he would take whatever it was that she was offering to give him.

And accepting her kiss, he halfheartedly let the silent battle within him rage—a large part of him still protesting his most likely unavoidable damnation while another smaller but ever-growing part whispered of the promise of salvation.

END.

Thoughts?