Emma Swan, he has had the absolute privilege to find out, is a sea, an ocean, a whole bloody universe of surprises and twists and turns and treasures – gems upon gems of little quirks and habits and sounds and looks and everything and she awakens and excites every single one of his senses.

The taste of her is enough to keep him sated for weeks even if he were to be deprived of all other manner of food or drink. It changes – more often than not it's sweet and enticing, cocoa and cinnamon and he can feel the warmth of the drink spill into him too as if she has been keeping it safe on her lips, just waiting for him to take it; sometimes it's fresh and amusing, a trace of toothpaste still clinging to the corner of her mouth and it awakens something young and childish and carefree inside him and he feels like he can fly because she has bloody teeth-cleaning substance sticking to her lower lip; sometimes it's comforting and warm, grilled cheese and gratitude and her words mumbled against his lips – she can get her own damn lunch and he should at least where a freaking hat because it's freezing outside and Captain Hook is only to be bested by her and not the stupid flu, and he just tells her she's welcome because her grumbling is interspersed with kisses; often it's salty and hot and him and he can barely reign in his growls and keep any semblance of control at all because she tastes like him and she is his and he needs to be inside her already and she is still teasing him and asking if he wants a bloody repeat performance. And through all of that she still tastes like Emma (even when she tastes like him she tastes like Emma). And when he decides that it's his turn for a performance, she tastes like Emma most of all and he isn't simply drunk on her, he is lost in her and the taste of her and he never wants to know how anything that doesn't have a dose of Emma tastes.

The sound of her is the fastest way to reduce him to a trembling mess because something happens inside him (and no, it's not bloody butterflies, thank you very much) whenever he hears her voice and he is done for, his whole being alert and alive in ways that only the promise of her nearness can inspire. That changes too – he knows the voice of the Savior, strong and determined and so bloody brilliant, a leader he would follow into battle without a second thought, not just because he wants to (and heavens, does he want to – he never wants to not be by her side) but because she demands it of him (of everyone around her really) with every brisk order, with every sentence that leaves no room for arguing; he knows the voice of the princess, muffled into her pillow, just on the verge of a whine as she tries to entice him (just 5 more minutes, Killian) and it never fails to make him grin, to make him succumb to her every wish; he knows the voice of the lover, low and hungry and tempting and so heavy, seeping into his bones and making him ache with need, with the awareness of how much he desires her, how close (and still so far) he is to having her; he knows the voice of the lost girl, trembling and desperate and uncertain and so angry, angry at him for being reckless but more so at the world for having taught her that nothing lasts and for not letting him teach her otherwise as it constantly tries to snatch him away from her (he tells her it would never succeed and he thinks she's starting to believe him); he knows Emma's voice too, soft and teasing and gentle and wild and everything at once, whispering promises and reassurances and tattooing vows into his skin. And he hears her even when she doesn't speak and he hears her even when she's not around until he realizes that when his heart speaks to him it's her voice he hears.

The sight of her is what he thought only the sun capable of accomplishing. It brings him light, the sort of light that caresses his skin and seeps in, into his very soul, into his very heart, and chases away all the cobwebs of darkness, illuminates every dusty forgotten peaceful corner, finds every spilled drop of happiness and goodness and reflects it back a thousand times. It changes constantly – in the morning her rays are all in disarray, just like her golden strands and her rumpled faded t-shirt (that is actually his), she hasn't taken control of them yet, hand rubbing against her nose until its red and begging him to kiss it, make it up for the ordeal she is putting it through, eyes squinting and hiding from the world and shooting him evil looks that still make his wasted being sing, she shoots light whichever way and he always needs to blink a few times before he can truly take her in and tell her how beautiful she is and prepare himself for the blinding shot that is the toss of her hair (accompanied with a practiced roll of her eyes and a scoff that sometimes breaks in the middle when she catches his gaze and is too busy hiding her blush to finish dismissing the compliment); during the day she is a steady beam, a blanket of light goes with her everywhere, follows her pink cheeks through the chilly streets of Storybrooke and sneaks in after her at Granny's, bunching around her shoulders as her movements become quick and sure as she demolishes her fries (and about half of his), spreading over the grayness that is the sheriff station and making it shine with the presence of her leather jacket on the hook and her keys thrown on the desk and her, scribbling away on a sheet of paper, hair cascading over her shoulders and forcing her to blow it out of the way, once, twice, three times until he cannot stand still a moment longer and his fingers reach out to tuck the sunshine itself behind her ear; in the evening she is radiant, whether she is in a shimmering silver dress and heels that make her legs go on and on and on, twirling around and asking him what he thinks (as if he could think at all when she is melting his every thought with the vision that is her, dressed up for a date with him and smiling because of him, looking at him) or when she is in her flannel pajamas, sprawled out on the couch and teasing Henry about his first date while he stuffs his face with popcorn so he doesn't have to answer and she is gleaming with contentment and he can barely feel her nudging him and asking him to help her out with the extraction of information from the lad because he is too busy basking in the glow that encompasses them; at night she is a flame, vibrant and alive and engulfing him, turning him into a living fenix, burning him and resurrecting him again to the glory that is her – head thrown back and breasts heaving and skin glistening and lips red and nipples hard and eyes flashing, urgent and demanding and yes, Killian, don't you dare stop – the glory that is her – enveloped in the moon's reverent gleam, head pillowed on his chest and hair spilling over his shoulder and arm wound around his waist and toes pressing to his calves and night, baby. And he simmers everywhere she touches (even her frigid toes make him burn and if he is to be turned to ash because of the brush of her feet then he would go willingly). And her light takes on a new form every hour of every day and yet it always remains his one and only beacon of joy.

The smell of her is an addiction, his ultimate weakness. He knows this and he has embraced it and he knows he will carry it with him into every realm and every life after this one and when there's nothing left of him there would still be this craving for her scent. It's the one thing that never changes – no matter what shampoo she is currently fancying (he thought the coconut was his favourite until she bought something magical called Ocean Breeze and he still thinks she conjured it up with some sort of spell, bottled up the ocean but made it sweeter and hers and then when he was so sure this one would always be his favourite she started using his own shampoo and the very thought of it makes his head spin because she likes it best when it's his hand bestowing it on her hair and he has never been more willing to share washing supplies); no matter what she washes her clothes with (sometimes they smell like a whole garden has been hidden in her loud and obnoxious machine for washing and once they smelled like pine needles and made him sneeze the whole bloody afternoon and she has never carried that smell again and more often than not they just smell clean and fresh and remind him of a simple white dress and a woman humming beneath her breath as she squeezes the water out of a boy's shirt); no matter what perfume she has chosen for herself (he found out it's one of her weaknesses, how she can never pick just one and always has at least three lined up on her nightstand because the scent she likes best changes with her mood and he has learnt that when she picks the citrus one he can whistle under his breath and she would pick up the tune and return it back to him at the end of the day with an annoyed look on her lovely face and when she picks the heavily sweet one in the black bottle he better not need to get up early the next morning and ready himself for some rather enjoyable activities). And no matter all that because her scent never really changes. Not the one underneath it all. Not the one he is helplessly addicted to.

It is her touch that always gives him pause. Because though he could have never dreamt of any of this, her touch is still (always will be, always) the one that shakes him to his very core with its mere presence. And present it is because she deems him worthy of it every day and in every way imaginable. He swears he will never be able to choose – not when her fingers sink into his flesh, coaxing his tense muscles to relax and yield to her and let her bring him peace and make him feel like in that moment he is the centre of her universe, her whole focus on him and him alone and the desire to make him let go; not when her legs tangle with his own and he can feel the heat of her through two layers of those jeans she fancies so much (and fancies him in them even more) and he can feel the fire build up inside him with every stroke of her calf – up and down and up and down and closer, closer, till he thinks the bloody jeans might melt away from the sheer force of his will; not when she presses her thigh to his while they sit next to each other in their booth and her hand is playing with his thumb and she leans closer to lick the syrup off the corner of his lip and he is on absolute sensory overload and all he can feel is Emma, Emma, Emma; not when she has had a bit too much to drink and her hands are on his face pulling at his cheeks and booping his nose and pushing at his dimples and how can you be so pretty, stupid pirate; not when her fingers are digging mercilessly into his sides, chasing his most sensitive spots as he wiggles beneath her and greedily soaking his every gasp and laugh and no, he does not giggle; not when she is squeezing him from the inside, thighs on either side of him, hands warm on his chest and hair tickling his neck and her teeth piercing into the soft flesh of his ear; not when she is digging her heels into his lower back and sinking her nails into his skin and pulling ravenously at his lip and marking him as hers in every way possible; certainly not when he wakes up to her fingertips exploring his face, sliding over his brows and following the line of his nose and brushing the scar on his cheek and teasing the place where his dimples soon emerge and skirting over his lips and sinking into his chin for a second before gliding along the line of his jaw. And he knows he is a selfish bastard and will never be able to choose and will always greedily hoard every brush of her skin against his.

And he will never satisfy even one of his senses when it comes to her. And even when he has explored and memorized all of her in every way possible, he will just dive back in, to swim in the ocean and live through the adventure that is Emma Swan all over again.