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.