Black Leather, for missrivets. Rated NC-17 and is definitely not safe for children. Or any of us, really.

Prompt: Can I have a valentine fic? Pretty please with Killian on top? Or on bottom? How about on his ship? Do want to see that scene! *grabby hands*

(subsequent requests for leather were… honored :D)

"Look," Emma said, for something like the fiftieth time. "It's not what you think it is. Of course I need to talk to him, he's the only one that knows the Which Witch's evil secrets. And with the way the wind is blowing… I feel like we could use a little of that."

Her parents exchanged identical dubious looks, the kind that would make you think they had never been cursed and oblivious for twenty-eight years, and had just gone right on being an old married couple throughout. Finally, her mother took the bull by the horns. "We appreciate you volunteering, Emma, but honestly, we've spent a lot of time over the last few days questioning Hook. Don't you think that if he was going to tell us anything, he would have?"

"No," Emma said honestly, eyeing her father. "Not with you glaring at him the whole time. You two are just too alpha-male for your own good. If you're there, he's just going to be throwing out dirty comments about Mary Margaret and snarking at you and otherwise distracting us all. He just can't help himself, and honestly, you haven't given him any reason to want to trust you or help you. He's a mercenary. He's not going to help us unless there's something in it for him."

"Me not give him – " David Nolan, to judge from the look on his face, was utterly incensed that suggestion was even felt to be necessary. He was prevented from whatever further impolitic remarks he was about to make by his wife, who laid a hand on his arm. His face remained the approximate tenor of a stormcloud, but he finally grumbled, "So what does this entail, exactly?"

"I… don't know." Emma hadn't really known much since her return from Manhattan. She still felt torn up, inside and out, flung out a window, and certainly with no desire to play by the rules anymore. Her ex-boyfriend and the father of her child was Rumplestiltskin's son, like that wasn't a coincidence. Rumple – Gold – had set her up to be the trick clause in the curse, he'd tried to control her entire life, and now there was some kind of conspiracy going on that probably involved Henry, descendant of the Dark One that he was; indeed, by blood or adoption, the kid was related to just about every power-hungry villain imaginable. Emma was furious, betrayed, and out for a little vengeance of her own, and for that, it couldn't hurt (much) if she had a quick chat with the acknowledged maestro of it. She wasn't quite going to let him kill Gold… but she understood him the whole fuck of a lot better than she had before she left.

"So you're just going to, what? Ask him politely?"

"No," Emma said bluntly. "That's not going to work, and it's not what he's going to respond to."

David's mouth sagged open. "Tell me you're not."

"I'm… not, all right?" She didn't know if that was a lie, though in her gut it leaned uncomfortably toward being one. "All I have to do is flirt with him. He's on his ship, we know that. And you told me you were on it, remember? So what are we going to do – wait for Cora and Regina to put some plan together against us, or let me go ask him?"

David continued to look deeply unhappy.

"I'm a grown woman, you know," Emma added tartly. "I did date guys – totally unsuccessfully, but whatever – long before you knew to worry about it. I can take care of myself."

"She's right, you know," Mary Margaret said softly to her husband. "We have to let her."

David sighed. "All right, but… be back by midnight?"

"A curfew? Seriously? What am I, sixteen?"

"No, I just…" Her father sighed again, deeper. "I'm agreeing to send you off, alone, to talk to a pirate who we all agree is no friend to anyone here. I just want to know that you're all right."

Emma's heart softened, and she reached out to briefly clasp his hand. "All right," she said. "Midnight. That should probably be enough time."

"For questioning?" David looked at her oddly. "I certainly hope so."

—

The moon was rising over the harbor, painting the dark streets of Storybrooke in hues of bone and porcelain, as Emma pulled into the marina parking lot, set the brake, and spent several seconds taking slow, steadying breaths. From here, the small New England town looked postcard-perfect, almost like you wouldn't guess that a pair of crazy sorceresses, one crazy sorcerer, and one crazy pirate were conspiring among themselves to keep it in permanent turmoil. Emma had already heard that Anton the giant, her semi-friend from the beanstalk, had gotten loose and caused chaos, but he'd settled down peaceably enough with the dwarves. She'd have to pay him a visit sometime… sometime later.

The wind caught the Bug door as she opened it, shivering for a reason not entirely due to the cold. She told herself to act like this was any other business engagement, but she already knew it wasn't. The sheriff generally didn't take time to wash and style her hair, then put on a low-cut blouse, jewelry, and lipstick before going to interrogate a perp. David's face on beholding her efforts had been most amusing, but Mary Margaret only shook her head and admitted that it would do. At least she hadn't tried to press condoms into Emma's hand and tell her to be safe, just to make mortification-by-parents complete. Besides, what would I need condoms for?

Her imagination was all too eager to supply answers. Shaking it out of her head, Emma advanced down the pier, glanced up, and noticed the seabirds roosting on what looked like thin air. A rueful smile cracked her lips; that seemed like a shoddy bit of spellwork to her, not that she knew a great deal about it. But it confirmed that she was in the right place, and raising her foot gingerly, she put it out over the dark water, thinking that if she'd somehow misjudged this, she was shortly about to be very cold and wet and all that grooming would be a crapshoot anyway.

She hadn't. Her foot met something invisible and solid, and she started up, passing through something that felt thick and treacly. A moment later, she was stepping out onto the deck of a quiet, dark, but very real and very present pirate ship.

Emma glanced around with wide eyes, wondering if Hook had strung up some kind of booby trap, or if he (understandably) considered invisibility to be enough of a defense against meddlers. She edged forward step by step, froze dead when the deck creaked incriminatingly under her feet, and waited for the cabin door to crash open and him to come swirling out in full leather and pathos. But while there was a faint glow in the stern windows, it remained undisturbed.

Right. She was doing this. Emma took another breath, forced down the rioting butterflies in her stomach, then strode across the deck. Reaching the cabin door, she raised her fist and banged briskly on it, just barely resisting the urge to yell, "It's the police, and we know you're in there!"

For a moment more, still silence. Then she heard footsteps coming closer, and clenched her fists so hard that her fingernails left half-moons in her palm, steeling herself to look into his eyes again. Just as she thought she was ready, the door opened, and she realized that she wasn't.

They stared at each other for the most excruciatingly awkward thirty seconds of Emma Swan's life, and considering some of the seconds she'd previously endured (Manhattan topping the list) that was saying a lot. Then he grinned at her, no, smiled, actually smiled, warm and open and flirtatiously, as if he was happy, truly happy, for the first time since he'd last seen her. "My darling. To what do I owe this bounteous and most unexpected pleasure?"

She debated whether to tell him straight out that she'd come for information, and decided against it. That, after all, was the strategy she'd trashed to David. "No reason," she said flippantly. "Just needed to check up on you. I seem to recall I left you chained to a bed in the hospital, and I didn't want to underestimate your talent for mischief. That was all." She turned as if to leave.

"Are you?" He caught her wrist. "You haven't even given me my hook back."

"It may or may not be in my bag." Emma smiled sweetly at him. "Interested?"

"Ravening warthogs couldn't keep me away." He was, as always, far closer than personal space tended to call for, and he lightly lifted her hand to his lips. "You're just in time for supper."

Emma, reminding herself that this was all part of the plan, followed him inside and allowed him to shut the door behind her. Indeed, he did appear to have been eating something, only by virtue of the fact that a plate of food was balanced precariously on the chaos of charts, quills, sextants, candle stubs, weapons, something that looked suspiciously like a pot of eyeliner, and other such pirate miscellanea cluttering the ornate claw-footed mahogany table. A flask of something that had to be rum accompanied it, and she raised an eyebrow. "You're a real gourmet."

"Ah, love, I'm a simple man at heart. All I want are the good things in life. A square meal, a strong drink, a warm bed, and a beautiful woman to share it with."

She smirked at him. "You know, I get the feeling you have a great imagination."

"You have no idea." He gave her a look that could only be described as sex incarnate, and she had to prevent her knees from giving out on the spot. "Abundant, long-lasting, sure not to disappoint, large and ready. Which, incidentally, could be said for other aspects of me as well."

"Well then." Emma sat down in his chair, casually spreading her legs. She didn't even need to check where his eyes darted; she could feel it like a physical presence on her skin. "What if I told you it was your lucky day?"

"Oh?" he murmured. "That's a very intriguing offer, darling. Especially coming from you. Does it involve handcuffs and stabbing me in the back to boot?"

"The handcuffs if you're interested." Emma was sure he had a pair around here. "Silk scarves in a pinch. But it comes with a price."

His eyes were still fixed on her cleavage. "Of course it does."

"Are you going to ask?"

"Aren't you going to tell me?"

There was far too much heat in her face, her stomach, her chest. Maybe she should have picked up some condoms after all (no she had not just thought that). "Are you this obnoxious with everyone, or is it just something about me?"

"Of course it's about you, darling." He let his eyes perform a slow, lascivious flick from her face, to her chest, and then to regions nether. "Do you think I waste this much wit and charm and stupendously effective come-hither looks on everyone?"

"Kind of wondered, actually," Emma shot back. "That seems to be your M.O."

"My what now?"

"You know." She got up from the chair and sauntered toward him. "Your mode of operation. The way you like to get all up in everyone's faces…" She let him get a good look, then moved closer. "You know…. like this."

His hand hovered at the small of her back, his fingers ghosting along her sheer silken blouse, close enough for her to feel the heat. "You know, love," he breathed, "if I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to seduce me. But surely I must be mistaken. You'd never do that. Cantankerous, unsociable termagant like you."

"What did you just call – hey!"

He smirked. "Am I mistaken, then?"

Emma's blood was about a hundred degrees too hot for her veins. She hesitated a moment longer, then acted as if she was about to turn away, just to make him sweat it. Then she leaned in, whispered, "No," and kissed him.

He responded instantaneously. It was as if a live wire had fallen and struck both of them, electrifying them in unison; she had never felt anything like it ever, and as the saying went, she had kissed a lot of frogs. Usually either some guy she'd met at a bar trying to blow off steam, or one of her distant colleagues in the Boston criminal justice system; she wasn't about to commit "office incest," and didn't want the rumor going around that she'd slept her way up the chain. She certainly wasn't above honey-trapping a mark on occasion, as she'd been doing on her fateful twenty-eighth birthday right before Henry arrived, but she never let things get this far. She did what she had done with that toolbag: get in, put him off his guard, and deck him.

Right now, however, Emma did not care about any other man she had ever even laid eyes on in her life. She was more interested in making the fuck out with the one she had her arms tangled around. No matter the voice in her head telling her that she should do this more professionally (hah, like seducing the guy to get information out of him was a noble calling) or that between the pirate thing and the three-hundred-years-old thing, he could give Hugh Hefner a run for his money in the number of women he'd bedded. He probably did this to all of them, too.

Yet it still didn't matter. He was here, he was with her, and he very definitely, beyond all dispute, wanted her very badly. He was already making motions as if to relocate them to the bed, as if he was done being smoothly and poisonously glib and just wanted to have her and have her hard, before she could change her mind. But as they were crashing down onto the covers together, she tore herself away from his whiskey mouth long enough to breathe, "Remember what I said earlier? About handcuffs?"

There was nothing visible in his eyes but animal lust. "Oh? So you want to try it that way? Didn't get enough in the giant's lair? You've a bargain, on one condition."

"Oh?"

"Hook." He leaned up and licked the pulse point in her throat. "Please."

"Oh, you mean your hook? It's back in my bag. I'd have to get up and go over there." She pointed. "So in other words, I'd have to – "

"Change of plans, then." He pulled her back down. "It can wait."

She shrugged. He looped his arm back around her, and their kissing at this point began to get rather frenzied and indiscriminate. Deep wet sounds, gasps, grinding and pulling and melting on each other; tongues became involved, as well as biting. Then at last he leaned back, let go of her with a smile that was pure sadism, and rolled off the bed, panting, clothing badly askew. He made a short venture across the room, opened a box, and removed a fistful of silk scarves, which he wagged at her. "Unless you want the handcuffs?"

"Either one. I'm not the one who's going to be tied up. You're the one who's kinky."

"Kinky?" He appeared absolutely delighted by this. "Is that what they call it when the woman likes to go on top?"

"No. They call that cowgirl." Emma crooked a finger at him. "Come here and I'll show you."

Indeed, the ravening warthogs would have stood no chance, the speed at which he got back to the bed. She reached for the scarves and then for him, but he had no intention of submitting meekly – "a woman unwilling to fight for what she wants deserves what she gets" – and she had to wrestle him down in order to knot the scarves around his right wrist, which she finally got tied around the carved headboard. Then there was the ordeal of trying to do the other one; it was even harder because he had, of course, no left hand, so it kept slipping off the stump. The only compromise was to get him on his back, straddle him and pin him down hard with her hips, and start working him over with her mouth, thus to discourage him from continuing to struggle.

He moaned, eyes hooded with desire, as she set to work on the lacings of his trousers – Catwoman wished she looked this good in skintight black leather – and slipped her hand inside. It was even more tantalizing when she couldn't entirely see what she was doing, stroking his cock gently with her fingers, refusing to allow him the satisfaction of complete freedom from what was indisputably an even more agonizingly tight fit. Keeping her eyes on his, she finally drew him out and peeled his trousers down off his lean, muscled thighs. The expression on his face made her smirk. "Take it easy."

"Whatever… you say, darling. I wasn't going – ohgods –" he wheezed, as she wrapped her hand back around him. She made a slow and careful job of it, until he was trembling so hard that he would have actually levitated off the bed if he hadn't been tied to it, and then let go, stood above him to give him the best view, and shucked her own damp panties. She dropped back to her straddle, knees braced on either side of his hips, then spread herself with her fingers. She used her other hand to situate him, and then took him inside her at one thrust, all the way to the hilt.

Hook made a noise somewhere between a grunt and a scream, sounding not unlike a ravening warthog himself, and almost tore the bed in half trying to get his hand loose to touch her and grasp her hip for a better angle. But while he might be the pirate here, she was no mean hand with knots either, and the scarves held. Veins stood out in his forehead as he gasped. "Changed… my mind. Don't like… this cowgirl of yours… after – OHGODS."

"You… are a… big liar." Emma rolled her hips over his, feeling her body open up for him, experimenting with just how deep she could get him to go. "A very big liar."

His eyes were rolled back into his head, but his lips still managed to twist into a leer. "Well… at least I didn't lie about… that part."

"Uh-uh," she moaned back, experimenting with tightening him around him and releasing, long slow strokes. She reached over and loosened the scarves around his right wrist, then guided his hand down between them to touch her, to press his thumb against her sensitive nub, keeping time with their languid strokes. The bed creaked underneath them in deep, steady time.

As close to the edge as she'd already taken him, it wasn't long until he was going over. He shuddered madly, fingers digging hard into her clit, as he wrenched and gasped and completely lost it, something which she found quite satisfying to witness and not just for the obvious reasons. But she had only a moment in which to do so before he was dragging her into the abyss with him, and they were both reduced to a quivering, sweaty heap, desperately entangled, motionless except for their gasping. Then she braced her heels and slid him out of her.

It was only then that she remembered what she'd come to do in the first place. Somehow it had completely gone. Yet if she asked now…

There's still time, she reminded herself. Even though she wasn't sure just how long it had been since she'd arrived; time vanished with him, stood still, and simultaneously slipped by too fast. Maybe in a post-coital snuggle, he wouldn't be quite as on his guard. That was assuming they'd snuggle at all. At the moment, she was almost feeling – after giving him due time to recover, of course – like she might not mind another go. It had been so long since she'd had sex with a guy even twice; twenty-four hours was at the outer limit of the time she could stand to be intimate with someone. But now, with him… it felt oddly, terrifyingly, like she was just getting started. Like there were so many more nights to have. So many more mornings to wake.

After a moment, instead of tormenting him further (she seemed to recall that little fact of broken ribs, although they clearly hadn't been paining him much; she would be astounded if he could feel anything besides euphoria, delirium, and endorphins right now) she slid off and crawled up next to him, pulling the sweaty quilt out from where it had been twisted underneath them and tossing it lightly over their naked legs. She slid a finger through the dark hair on his chest, circling his navel, drawing it back up over the muscles, the scars. Then she cupped his cheek, pulled his face in, and kissed him again.

"Love," he groaned. "Bloody hell. Stay with me tonight."

Emma hesitated, once more remembering her midnight deadline. He didn't have a clock in his cabin, which she considered a serious oversight for Captain Hook, but it couldn't be that late, right? Besides, she felt fulfilled (in more ways than one) she felt whole, and no matter the fact of who it was with, she wasn't ready to give that up just yet. Not after Manhattan and what it had done to her. Not after all the lies. She needed this. She needed truth.

Strange that she thought she was going to find that in a three-hundred-year-old pirate with vengeance on the brain, but no matter. She reached up and untied his left arm so he could wrap both of them around her, and they snuggled up under the quilts (he had a marvelous featherbed) and began to make themselves most comfortable indeed, necking and fooling around and fumbling each other, as open and carefree as either of these fiercely guarded, solitary people had been in an age. Emma kept reminding herself that sometime before she left, she had to ask him about Cora and Regina's plans… if he even knew anything about them… if she were the Which Witch, she wouldn't have told Hook a damn thing, being well aware of how prone he was to spilling other people's secrets at inconvenient moments (for them, not him). In which case, she might not have even needed to come here at all, but she was doing a useful service and…

Hook, having been tied up, now finally had use of his hand (and stump) and was busily returning the manifold favors she had bestowed on him. He got her gauzy blouse the rest of the way off her (it had been hanging off her shoulders already) and began to kiss her breasts, rolling her over underneath him and pinning her wrists above her head. She gasped and bucked back against him, grinding them in rasping deep friction, skin against skin and he was almost inside her again but not quite, her hands reaching for him and –

"What the hell is going on?"

One second, Emma's brain was still agreeably fried with pheromones and lust. The next, it was shrinking back, screeching like a banshee, and scrambling to clutch the covers over herself as her – oh God Jesus Christ what the fuck no – her father stepped into the cabin, sword holstered at one hip and gun at the other. He stopped short and stared at them; she could almost hear the circuits burning as he was forced to face up to the fact that he was actually seeing his daughter naked in bed with Captain Hook, and there was indeed only one thing that could have been going on. She was surprised there wasn't electrical smoke gusting out his ears.

Hook, for his part, remained calm. "Your Highness," he said, with amiable, knife-edged malice. "There was a door, but that apparently doesn't concern you like the rest of us mortals."

David ignored him. "Emma… it's almost twelve-thirty… we agreed that if you weren't back by then, I'd . ."

Emma clutched the quilts harder, having a horrible memory of the time she had walked in on her parents in flagrante. Karma was a bitch, apparently. "I thought it was earlier," she squeaked.

"Is this a bad time to remark that the family motto is 'I will always find you?' " Hook drawled, causing both father and daughter to glare daggers at him. "But honestly, Your Highness, I'm impressed. I didn't think you were the sort of man who facilitated your daughter's love affairs."

David looked as if he was thisclose to lunging across the room, dragging the pirate out of bed, and introducing Hook's cranium intimately to his own posterior, but that would have required him to pull off the quilts and see both of them in the altogether, and he clearly was not ready to do so. Instead, his eyes skated from floor, to ceiling, to window, to anywhere except the bed. "All right," he informed the lantern. "I… will be waiting. At home. With your mother."

Hook made a rude noise, causing David to give him a look that could have been booked for homicide, then swing around on his heel. Back as straight as a ramrod, he exited, shutting the cabin door with a snick behind him.

"Well, love," the pirate remarked. "That was bloody awkward. Nearly enough to make me suspect that dear old daddy didn't quite know what you were up to tonight, did he?"

Emma shuddered. For obvious reasons, her ardor was somewhat dampened. "He… yeah, he might have been aware that I was here," she said lamely, suddenly desperate not to let him on to why she'd actually come. Whatever had happened between them tonight… it wasn't just about strategy or the next move, and she'd known that from the start.

"And yet he let you come, and didn't come in guns blazing?" Hook's voice had gotten lower, almost a growl, not quite as playful. "Smells, I'm afraid, just that bit… fishy."

"Look… I know that you and David… you just…" Emma faltered at the thunderous look on his face. "I just… I can…"

"Explain again, no doubt." And with that, he rolled over onto her, pinning her flat beneath him. "He said he would be waiting. I intend to keep him waiting for a bloody long time."

Emma squealed in surprise, but Hook was already kissing her again, his mouth devouring hers, hard and hot and insistent, as he pulled her arms back up and slipped her wrists through the silk scarves still dangling from the bedpost; all he had to do was slide the knots tight, which he did with the care of an artisan. "You're not going to be the one tied up, eh, love?" he breathed, kissing her nose and cheeks and eyes and lips, her hair, her jaw, her throat, every inch of her that he could possibly search out and taste and feel. "Well, I'm – afraid – you're – bloody – wrong."

Emma started to protest, started to argue. But then he put his hand on her stomach, put his mouth between her legs, and she forgot entirely.