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Harry’s always found Uma irresistible. Following her around like a lost puppy came naturally from the start—his father would always scoff, compare him to Smee, but Harry could never bring himself to care, not when Uma looked at him like he was her north star.
Years upon years, each week on the Isle passing like a month or more, and even still they sit together in Ursula’s restaurant: Uma perched upon her throne, Harry by her side, silently—or not so silently—threatening anyone who so much as looks at her the wrong way. She’ll sharpen her sword on his hook and he’ll watch the grin that steals across her face as the metal sings, vicious, gorgeous. “Hook me,” she’ll murmur, and he’ll cackle with a wild abandon she’s always admired: it’s become their code, for meet me later, for I want you on your knees, for everything they’ll never voice, not properly, but gave up denying long ago.
In spite of it all, they’re far from exclusive. Once upon a time, they’d been her playthings—violet hair and green eyes still haunt their dreams, their nightmares—and though Mal may be gone, they’re both too temperamental, too hungry to limit themselves. It’s not just women Harry looks at, either; he thinks, sometimes, of Jay’s hair wrapped in his fist, those dark eyes upon his own, ignores the irony of letting the thief steal his heart and kisses Gil, hoping it’ll feel like enough. (It never does.)
Uma loved Mal, Harry knows—loved her in a way she might never love him, but jealousy isn’t something either of them can abide, and Mal, well. Mal isn’t here, and he is, and that’s got to count for something.
He may not be her: may not know to soothe away his teeth on Uma’s skin with kisses, may not see the appeal in taking things slow, and Uma’s never been patient but these lessons, she finds, she doesn’t mind. She’ll catch hold of Harry’s wrists, pin them above his head and instruct him ever so sweetly, words like a poison apple, delicious and dangerous at once. (Harry obliges, of course. He always does. Uma discovered long ago: he doesn’t just like being told what to do. He loves it. She’s never seen him so relaxed, so loose and so lovely, as when he’s taking orders, letting Uma call the shots, his eyes never leaving hers because he doesn’t want to disappoint her, doesn’t want to miss a thing.)
She’ll tug at the ragged blood red belt tied around his waist, pulling his hips against hers; kiss that perpetual grin from his mouth until all he can do is groan and submit. His fingers on her neck will make her shiver, and he’ll breathe in her ear how he plans to take her apart, leaving her flushed, frustrated and thrilled, dragging him into the darkest corner they can find when she can no longer stand it.
They’re not forever for each other, or at least, not yet, but they never claimed to be, never even anticipated that forever was in the cards. And still…
“The world will be ours,” she’ll tell him, fingers in his hair as he sinks to his knees, and he believes it, believes in her more than anything else on this godforsaken island. He’ll whisper her name, shout it to the heavens if it’ll keep her right here, her hand on his jaw, his on her hips, the tension between them as thick as the sea air, as tempestuous as the storm brewing behind her eyes.
“Uma,” he’ll murmur, a prayer, a hymn, a promise, worshipping her in every way she deserves and even those she does not—it’s the Isle, after all, and here, those have always been one and the same.