#my ff

As soon as you were alone, around the back of the bar, your eyes caught on a single car parked nearby. 

You glanced around quickly, scanning the shadows, but there was nothing else. At least, nothing you could see.

It was just you, him, and the silence that stretched tightly between you, and the world, that seemed to narrow, shrinking itself until it held only the two of you. 

The air around you was thick and heavy with the rustic scent of metal and dust, settling deep in your lungs with every breath. 

As your gaze finally settled on him, you studied his eyes, they felt tired, almost exhausted, and your gaze did not leave him, not even when it was just the two of you, standing alone in the silence. You had a million questions crowding your mind to ask him, pressing against your thoughts, but not nearly enough words to give them voice.

At least not until, his hand caught your wrist and pressed your back against the nearest wall. The impact itself stole your breath.

He followed instantly, not giving you a moment to pull yourself together. Quickly, closing the distance between you and him. His presence felt overwhelming and too familiar. The warmth of his clothes seeped into you, his scent laced with something rougher and musk, curling into your senses until it was all you could breathe.

Then he removed his mask and threw it aside. He leaned down as his lips hovered just inches from yours, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin, like he was holding back something he wasn’t sure he could control.

“MC…”

A pause.

“I’m sorry.”

Then he swiftly kissed you, closing the distance between you and him in a single breath, like the space between you had become unbearable. There was nothing careful in it, nothing restrained; it was all urgency, full of heat, the kind that comes from being kept apart too long. 

His grip tightened around you, as he pulled you closer as if three days of silence had carved something restless into him, something that could only be answered like this, through touch, through closeness, through a kiss that felt less like a question and more like something he couldn’t hold back anymore.

The force of it made your knees weaken, your back pressing harder into the wall as his hand slowly slid to your waist to steady you. His breath broke against your lips, the words slipping through again and again—

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry…”

You were angry.

God, you were furious.

But this wasn’t something you had prepared for, and your resistance faltered instantly, as you felt him pressed closely against you.

You kissed him back just as desperately, your hands tightening around him as if the distance of the past few days still clung to your skin. His hand slipped beneath your top, caressing it slow at first, as if almost testing, before settling more firmly, beneath your bra. As his fingers brushed against your breasts. You could feel the heat building inside your stomach with each passing second, your body reacting before your mind could catch up, and you feel a cold sharp shiver running through you. A quiet moan escaped your lips.

He didn’t rush, after. It almost felt like he was savoring you. His touch lingered, tracing over your skin with a deliberate, almost reverent intensity, like he was committing you to memory, like he needed to remind himself you were real, that you were still here, still within his reach.

You were meant to push him away. You really did, or at least wanted to. But your hands betrayed you, so you fisted your fingers into his hair, pulling him closer instead, closing whatever space he hadn’t already taken.

Because right now, everything was tangled together.

The anger.

The fear.

The relief.

And it spilled over all at once. Your teeth caught his lower lip, not gentle, but just enough to make it hurt.

Yet, he didn't pull back. A low sound left him instead, swallowed between your lips, and it sent a sharp heat through you, and your thighs pressed together instinctively.

It was too much.

“Jake… stop.” The words came out uneven, barely steady.

And he listened, immediately. As he pulled back just enough to put space between you.

Suddenly his warmth was gone, his hands were gone, and swear to God—It frustrated you more than anything else.

Your breath was still unsteady from the kiss you had just shared, your lips tingling, and your pulse refusing to slow down. But you held yourself together, gathering what little restraint you had left and forcing it into place before it slipped completely out of your grasp.

As you catch your breath you notice that dim light barely caught his face, but you didn’t need to see it clearly to know, he was already retreating, slipping back behind that distance, that control he always hid behind. It snapped something in you. “You know how worried I was, I thought that you were caught.. Or that..something happened to you!”

The words broke out of you before you could stop them. For a moment, he said nothing, and that hurt more than anything. “Three days, Jake,” your voice shook now, anger and fear tangling itself into each other until you couldn’t separate them anymore. “Three days of nothing. No message. No sign. Do you have any idea what that does to someone?”

His jaw tightened. “I didn’t have a choice.”

You let out a hollow laugh. “There’s always a choice.”

“No,” he said, sharper this time. “Not in this.”

You stepped closer to him, refusing to let him retreat again. “Then explain it to me,” you demanded. “Because from where I was standing, it just looked like you didn't give a fuck.”

His gaze flickered to your eyes, and something uneasy, something almost guilty passed between it, but it vanished just as quickly. “It was dangerous.”

“That’s not an explanation.” you said, running a hand through your hairs.

“It’s the only one I can give.” His words landed like a slap.

You stared at him, something inside your chest tightening painfully. “You don’t get to do that,” you said, your voice was almost quieter now, but loud enough to be heard by him.

“You don’t get to vanish, come back like nothing happened, and then expect me to just accept that.”

His expression hardened as he sighs loudly. “I was just trying to keep you safe.”

“By shutting me out?” your voice rose again. “By leaving me to imagine the worst possible outcome? Do you know what I thought happened to you?”

He didn’t answer.

“Do you?” you pressed.

A beat.

“Yes.”, he said, stepping closer to you, you took a step back instinctively until the wall was the only thing keeping you steady.

The certainty in his voice made your breath catch. “Then how could you do that to me?” you whispered.

Something shifted in his expression. “Because the alternative was worse.”

Your brows furrowed. “What does that even mean?”

He ran a hand through his hair, frustration breaking through his usual composure. “It means if I had reached out, if I had stayed in contact, it could have led them straight to you.”

The words settled heavily between you. “They were closer than I expected,” he continued. “Closer than I was prepared for, and I had to cut everything off.”

Your anger instantly disappeared, you felt guilty for even doubting him. 

But God was it hard?

“And you couldn’t send one message?” you asked, voice trembling. “One word? Anything so I didn’t think you were—”

“Caught?” he finished for you.

You swallowed hard. “Yes.”

But this time, it wasn’t empty. It was heavy with everything left unsaid. “I thought about it,” he finally admitted. “More times than you think.”

Your chest tightened. “But every second I wanted to stay connected was another risk,” he continued. “For you.”

You shook your head, stepping back slightly. “You don’t get to decide that alone.”

“I have to.”

“No, you choose to.” you finally snapped, tears welling up in your eyes.

That hit him, you saw it in the way his expression shifted, in the way his shoulders tensed. “You think I want this?” he asked, voice edged with something raw. “You think I want to disappear every time things get worse? To leave you like that?”

“Then stop doing it!” you snapped, the words breaking out of you before you could hold them back. You knew, even as you said it, that there was nothing you could really do, no way to change it. But this time, the emotions surged louder, and were impossible to contain.

“I can’t!”

The words echoed louder than anything else, and you both froze.

Because, you both knew that was the truth.

Your voice broke when you spoke again. “I can’t keep doing this, Jake.”

Something in him stilled, when you said it.

“Say that again.” The change in his voice was immediate, sharper, edged with something that made your breath catch, and his eyes darkened, the calm distance you were used to gone in an instant.

You hesitated. It was not fear, but something else. Something that curled low in your stomach and refused to be ignored.

“I—” You didn’t get the words out.

Before you could speak, he was on you again. All your anger vanished as he kissed you, hard, almost angry, and you kissed him back with the same eagerness. With just heat, urgency, something almost reckless as his hand came up to steady you against the wall.

You met him with equal force, your fingers tangling into his hoodie, pulling him closer like you couldn't stand the distance anymore.

“Say that again.” His voice dropped, darker and edged with something dangerous as his eyes locked onto yours.

You couldn’t, God, you couldn’t.

A slow grin touched , as he mumbled, “Alright…” As soon as those words left his mouth he groaned slightly as his lips trailed down, slower this time, deliberately trailing a path of kisses along your jaw, your neck, each one sending a sharp shiver through you.

Your breath hitched and your grip tightened on him.

“You can’t do this?” he murmured against your skin.

“Want me to stop, MC?”

You didn’t answer immediately. Your breath trembled. “…No.” The admission slipped out before you could take it back.

He undressed you too quickly, your top was gone in a single motion, as he unclasped the bra in a quick movement, throwing it aside, you pushed your pants down without a pause as adrenaline finally reached itself to you. The fabric of pant slipped from your skin as he shoved it aside, his hands almost impatient to touch you again, as he fumbled briefly with his own restraint, unbuckling his pants just as urgently.

And you knew.

You knew this wasn’t right.

This wasn’t fixing anything.

You needed answers. You needed words.

But right now—

None of it mattered.

Because the way he touched you.

The way he said your name.

The way he felt real again after days of nothing but silence.

“You’re a masterpiece, MC.” He leaned back, his eyes solely on you, he said it in a sultry tone, and that was enough to unravel you.

And before you could stop it, you felt the heat rising to your cheeks, a flush spreads through your body before you could stop it. 

And just as quickly, he held his length against you, teasing it at your entrance as he cussed under his breath. His tip teases at your core, as he stops, just long enough to drag the moment out, letting the tension coil tighter and stretching it until it almost hurts.

Not giving you what you were already aching for.

“Your cunt is dripping for me…MC,” he murmured under his breath. As his free hand moved towards your chest , his fingers pinching your nipples, tightly, just enough to pull a sharp reaction from you, your breath catching as a shiver ran through you.

You moan loudly, “Jake—”

“Yes, Love?” he murmured, voice low, teasing, like he already knew exactly what he was doing to you.

Then he moved closer again, the space between you gone in an instant, your thoughts scattering under the weight of him being here, real and alive. Every movement felt sharper, like he was grounding himself in you as much as you were in him.

“Didn’t I say, MC?” he breathed, finally pushing himself into you.

You groaned loudly, as pleasure overwhelmed your senses.

“That—”

A thrust.

“I—”

A thrust.

“Will—”

Another.

“Always—”

Another.

“Find—”

Another.

“You.”

His voice dropped into a low groan. “Didn’t I?”

And whatever he said there, it shifted something in him. Your fingers tightened around him as everything blurred into sensation, into heat, into something overwhelming.

“No matter where you are…” he breathed, his forehead pressing briefly against yours, “no matter where I am… I will reach you. Even if I have to go through hell to find you.”

He rolled his hips against your core, moving himself deeper into you, and your breath caught instantly. Your chest tightened in a way that felt unfamiliar to you, and the sensation was too overwhelming, as it left you struggling to hold onto anything except him at that moment.

“No matter what they do to me… no matter the torture… heaven or underworld—I will always find you.”

Another thrust.

“I’ll go through hell if I have to.”

Another—

Your eyes start to sting. 

“And no one…” his voice faltered, just slightly, “…not even death itself, gets to take you from me.”

He paused before continuing, his voice breaking slightly between his breaths. "Because if it does…” he whispered, leaning closer to you, your tears slipped free as everything became too much. He notices immediately and moves closer to you, as he licks them slowly, grounding you in a way, like there was no urgency from moments ago. “It has to take me with it.”

You clung to him tighter, your legs instinctively wrapping around him, pulling him closer. His hands found their way to your hips, then lower, gripping them firmly, holding you in place as if letting go wasn’t an option.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured as lowered his head against your shoulder. “I won’t disappear like that again.”

A pause.

“And if I ever have to… I'll take you with me.”

The words hit differently this time.

“I can’t lose you,” he admitted, voice breaking just enough to feel real. “Not when losing you means losing myself completely.”

He pressed himself closer and harder this time, his movements losing whatever restraint he had left. As he thrusts himself finally this time. His hands roamed freely, over your breasts, down to your navel, like he couldn’t decide where to stay, like he needed to feel all of you at once. Your breath becomes uneven, breaking between every movement, and his every touch.

The moment was too much and the world stilled around you, and you felt yourself slipping closer to the edge of ecstasy, your pussy tightened around his dick, clenching with a desperate intensity, and you knew you were close.

And he knew too, “Let go, MC,” he breathed.

And you did. “Jake—” You scream his name, as everything shattered at once, your body breaking around him.

You clung to him as the orgasm crashed through you, your grip tightening on him, as your body trembled violently. He followed right after, spilling himself inside you. But his hold on you was still just as firm, just as desperate.

When the moment finally settled, neither of you moved.

You held onto him even tighter this time, your chest rising and falling with every breath, your body was still shaking as you pressed closer, like if you let go, even for a second he might disappear again.

Then his voice brushed against your ear as he lifted his head a bit. “Phil was watching.” His words sank in slowly. And a shiver ran through you and your entire body went still. Mortification hits you instantly, not anger, just pure, overwhelming embarrassment.

“Jake—”

But before you could say anything, he kissed you again, deeply, like you were already his.

And God knew you were.

“Now he knows,” he murmured against your skin, “what he can never have.”

Десятки маленьких лапок хватают его - руки, ноги, шею, тело - всюду всюду всюду. Обычно слабые и ничтожные муравьи, едва дотягивающие ростом ему до таза, схватили его, пригвоздив к земле так крепко, что он почувствовал себя маленьким. Стерниты [брюшные склериты - части экзоскелета] царапали поверхность под ним, пока он пытался сдвинуться с места - тщетно. Приговор эхом повторялся в его голове. Неужели сейчас? Прямо сейчас?

Лапки коснулись его надкрыльев почти нежно. Он сжал зубы. Они ухватили сильнее, потянули в стороны - он потянул обратно; если они думают, что он сдастся так просто, им следует подумать еще раз.

После того инцидента с не-птицей он остался один. Все разбежались, когда паника охватила стадо - паника не от сломанной противниками же не-птицы, а от огненной катастрофы. Он как придурок смотрел замерев на не-птицу, пока звуки муравьиного ликования давили на уши.

Это зрелище - как необдуманная болтовня Молта, как редкие кошмары ночью, как глупые сплетни стада (все боятся птиц почему это что-то особенное, когда дело доходит до него) - возвращало его в тот день, когда он так чертовски был близок к тому, чтобы умереть.

Несколько пар челюстей смыкаются на его крыльях, слегка касаясь, и он вздрагивает в ожидании боли, все еще прогоняя в голове это бесполезное знание - они собираются лишить его крыльев.

Сделал ли он действительно что-то настолько жестокое, чтобы заслужить это? Нет, он думает.

Сначала это была отчаянная мера - припугнуть муравьев, чтобы присвоить их запасы. Затем - удобная возможность. После - это стало обыденностью. Если пара муравьёв немного пострадали в процессе, это была необходимая жертва.

Подавляющее большинство муравьев не имеет крыльев, но королева и принцессы знают, как много они значат. Он поднимает взгляд от земли, содрогаясь от ощущения зубов зубов зубов на своих крыльях - еще примеряющихся, в ожидании команды. Все муравьиные головы обращены в одну сторону. Принцесса Атта выглядит так, будто пытается заставить себя говорить - неровно дышит и взгляд ее бегает, потом она смотрит ему в глаза, и он видит в ее глазах неуверенность.

Она набирает воздух, чтобы что-то сказать, и он перебивает ее, подгоняемый обещанием зубов в его крыльях.

- Ты ведь не собираешься допустить это. Как ужасно со стороны матери скинуть такое решение на тебя. Это слишком большой груз для маленькой принцессы.

Она удивленно поднимает брови, и он думает, что сейчас она прикажет муравьям остановиться.

Но она говорит:

- Это была моя идея. Другая была - поместить твою оторванную голову у входа в муравейник.

Потом она дает муравьям знак - и он давится всем, чем хотел ей ответить, когда сотни зубов вгрызаются в его крылья. Он кричит, изгибаясь, пытаясь сбросить цепкие лапки, но их слишком много. Те, кому не повезло непосредственно участвовать - удерживать его или рвать его крылья - толпятся рядом, до краев зал полон муравьями. Он утыкается лицом в землю под собой, руки царапают пол.

Они могли бы перегрызть его крылья у основания - быстро и эффективно, но вместо этого выбрали отрывать их мелкими кусочками, начиная с заднего края. Он хочет знать, было ли это частью приказа принцессы и, если нет, почему она это не остановила. Он не собирается просить. Все, что ему остается - рычать от боли сквозь зубы.

Его крылья тянут за косты [коста - передняя жилка от основания до вершины крыла], ослабленная тонкая мембрана одного из крыльев рвется с треском от натяжения, и как будто с этим треском до него доходит непоправимость ситуации.

Гемолимфа растекается по его тергитам [склериты спинки], жидкость задевает сенсиллы [органы осязания в виде волосков], и от мерзкого, неправильного ощущения он дрожит.

Он действительно не хочет просить, но облаченное в звук замечание звучит слишком похоже на мольбу - голос дрожит и срывается, когда он пытается не кричать, и вдохи между словами звучат как всхлипы, и ему хочется провалиться под землю от этого.

- Если вы хотите убить меня, вы могли бы хотя бы сделать это быстро.

Звучит так жалко, что муравьи прекращают рвать его крылья и затихают, ожидая ответа принцессы.

Когда он смотрит на Атту, она слишком расплывчата и он не видит выражение ее лица, но голос ее полон ярости.

- О нет, ты не умрёшь, не после того, что ты сделал с нами. Мои люди умирали от голода и переутомления, пока вы жили на всем готовом за наш счет!

От толпы доносятся крики одобрения и ярости. Кто-то хватает его за антенны и дергает - ему кажется, что они могут сломать ему шею. Он пытается приподняться на руках, но их прижимают к земле, и он сдается.

Присвоенных запасов было действительно много. Так много, что что-то могло испортиться, когда стадо не успевало есть. Ему не капли за это не стыдно.

Он не знал, что муравьи гибли. Он, конечно, мог предполагать, но трудно быть уверенным, когда дело идет о 300 тысячах муравьёв.

She sat bolt upright at the voice—faster than humanly possible—and zeroed in on the source immediately.

Killian stood in the far corner of the room, opposite the window—hiding in the shadows. She wasn’t sure if it was a trick of the dim light or a flex of his own magic, but his eyes seemed to shine bright blue even in the dark.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, voice scratchy with disuse—though that was also kind of just how she sounded now, as if the Darkness had roughened her vocal cords, too. “I thought you were busy opening the portal to hell.”

“Oh, that’s still on my to-do list,” he quipped back, then pushed away from the wall, hips first. “But I might be able to squeeze in something—or someone—else.”

“I’d think I was the last person you’d want to see.”

“Aye,” he said plainly. “And yet—here I am.”

“Why?” If he was just here to taunt her, she wished he’d leave, regardless of the fact she was still happy to see him.

“How lucky for you that you’ve existed thus far as a Dark One and not felt the tug of a summons.”

Shit. She hadn’t intended that. “I wanted any one but you,” she blurted.

He scoffed. “No you didn’t.”

She didn’t have a response for that—not a truthful one, at least, and she’d been withholding that enough. 

“Cozy room you have here,” he went on, eyes scanning around the space as he sauntered closer, his fingers casually dancing over the hilt of Excalibur. “When I saw the real estate listing, this is more how I pictured the interior; must have missed the part about a cave dungeon in the basement.”

“I told you—”

“Nothing,” he finished, angrily, now standing in front of her. It was definitely magic illuminating his irises, because they still beamed an angry blue even though he was backlit by the window. “You’ve said nothing that can explain yourself, love, so don’t try now.”

“Then why did you even bother coming here? You could have left.”

“And miss a prime opportunity to gloat?” He arched an eyebrow and gave a sideways smirk, the one that made his dimple cut through his scruff, but there was nothing playful about it like there usually was. “You know, I spent so many restless nights since we returned to Storybrooke—tossing and turning and wondering why I couldn’t just fall asleep. I chalked it up to you: the fact I didn’t know how to free you—if you even wanted to be freed; missing the feel of you in my arms. Longing to be with you…in other ways.” His gaze drifted down her body to the way her thighs were squeezed together. “Seems you at least know that feeling.”

“Yeah,” she breathed, sounding much more vulnerable than intended—but there was no hiding her desire; not from him—not ever. 

“And why should I do anything to help you with that?” he asked, almost angrily. 

“You don’t have to,” she answered quietly, looking away; the intensity of his gaze was finally too much to bear. “I can handle it myself.”

“I know you can.” She felt something like voyeuristic pleasure coming off of him; was that how he knew to come in the first place? Was there more to their connection than she realized? “I would take much joy in watching your attempts to satisfy yourself, knowing full well you’d never get there—not really.”

“And let me guess—you’d beat one off while I edged myself for ages?” she snapped back, looking back up at him. 

He leaned closer, invading her space until all she could see was his eyes. “I would. But what fun would that be?”

Not a moment later, his lips were pressing against hers—almost tentatively, as if asking permission, but she wasted no time in kissing him back. Instinctively, her hands found his waist and she pulled him closer; she squeezed, unafraid of hurting him for a change, because she wasn’t used to feeling the warmth of his body through the thin fabric of his shirt. It was kind of odd that his clothing choices finally swayed towards soft now that he was invulnerable, but maybe that was the point—he didn’t need his armor anymore. 

Meanwhile, her armor was on even thicker; his hand also settled at her side, but tensed against the stiff crocodilian leather of her jacket. “Off,” he whispered—a command she was all too eager to follow. 

She didn’t bother breaking the kiss; she just flicked her hand and stripped herself almost bare, down to the black lacy lingerie she’d taken to wearing lately. Wearing it had always made her feel confident—it was her go-to for a honeytrap—but she’d been waiting for an encounter like this in which to show it off (though she’d hoped it would have been before his memories of Camelot were returned).

She stood and pressed herself against him, quickly becoming aware of the fact that he too was aroused. He groaned mid-kiss as she arched her pelvis against the bulge in his jeans, and she smiled against his lips. 

He might hate her, but apparently, he still wanted her. 

“Almost,” he murmured, breaking the kiss but barely moving away. He reached up to her temple, and then she felt his magic wash over her, somehow both cool and warm—like a sea breeze in the summer sun. His long fingers followed the wave of enchantment, freeing her hair from its severe confines. 

Her locks had been bleached white since that day in the meadow, but now her curls hung as they always had around her face, settling on her bare shoulders. Other than that day on the Jolly Roger, she’d used her pulled-back hair as armor as much as her clothes; this made her feel even more vulnerable than being only in her undergarments did. 

“Much better,” he hummed in appreciation, and then began to trail kisses down her jaw to her neck; she had to bite back a giggle (seriously, a giggle? It really was a good thing no other Dark One had shown up) at the tickle of his thicker beard against her sensitive skin. Meanwhile, her hands drifted to his chest, like they usually did in these moments. 

He shucked off his coat while sucking at her pulse point, making her spine arch with pleasure. Her hands trailed after the shed garment, relishing the feel of his muscles under his shirt, tracing the dips of his collarbones; she couldn’t normally do that with his waistcoats. 

His hand was still tangled in her hair as she reached back up and began to unbutton his top. She barely even thought about it—it had just become part of their evening routine whenever they stayed together, whether they were being intimate or not. He stilled briefly when she undid the first one; she paused, much like he had earlier, asking permission. But he simply began kissing her shoulder again so she plowed on. 

He was fully capable of undressing himself, but god, did she love to do it. She’d be damned (probably literally) if this was the last time she ever did it, but she was still going to savor this moment of almost domestic bliss in the middle of…everything. 

The way his chest hair, his pecs, and then his abs gradually revealed themselves as her fingers slow-danced down his torso always felt like unwrapping a delicious treat—especially once she got to his belt and the waistband of his pants, and had to undo those, too, to untuck his shirt. 

She also took advantage of the opportunity to trace the curve of his ass as her hands slipped under his jeans to remove the tail of his shirt. And smirked when she realized he had nothing on underneath. She (gently) dug her nails into his cheeks to bring him close again; his subsequent gasp made her belly flip—in a good way. 

It had been a while since she had any positive, normal—human—reaction like that; she welcomed it for that reason, too. 

It felt like old times as she pushed the fabric off his shoulders, sliding it down his biceps and over his brace while he guided the straps of her bra off, then deftly unhooked the back clasp and tossed the garment aside. She relished the opportunity to press close to him again, swallowing at the brush of his chest hair against her nipples, as she tugged his jeans down over his narrow hips. They fell to the floor quickly, pulled down by the weight of Excalibur, which hit the carpet with a heavy thud.

His suddenly free erection pressed against her core, but only for a moment before he gently pushed her back against the bed, forcing her to sit as he stepped out of his shoes and wiggled off his pants. (She’d never known there could be something adorable about a waiting cock wiggling—and she didn’t dare voice it now—but…well, it was.)

Then he was on top of her, pressing her back onto the mattress and kissing her within an inch of her life. It was probably a good thing they were immortal at the moment, because they weren’t stopping to take a breath. 

He gripped her waist and she buried her fingers in his shaggy locks—something she’d been longing to do ever since he stopped cutting it in Camelot. It was silky soft and gave her more to hold on to than she normally had, letting her angle him just where she wanted him. Everywhere they touched felt like sparks against her skin, stoking the fire growing in her center.

She was starting to get desperate for some friction. Actually, it seemed like they both were; there was a sense of urgency to this whole encounter that wasn’t their usual style. But given the way things were, she didn’t really care—she just wanted him. And so she arched her pelvis against his, feeling the brush of his cock against the lace of her panties; it almost touched where she wanted but—not quite.

“Eager, are we?” he purred, and then she felt his fingers flex against her side—but also felt that warm-cool sensation as a result of his magic, and realized the lace was now gone. She then shivered—it felt like his thumb was pressing on her clit, but his hand was still on her waist.

“That’s a n-nice t-trick,” she stammered, as the pressure changed. 

“I’ve been hoping to try this,” he replied, then returned his attentions to her mouth, his hand wandering up to her breast—but still there was the sensation of his fingers dancing outside her entrance.

She gave in to sensations—not that there was much else she could do. Her hands gripped the quilt just to give her an anchor in the wave of bliss that was about to wash over her. Oh god, she was so close; she could feel her walls beginning to tighten, that spool of pleasure fully wound inside her—just a few more (invisible) strokes—

And then it slowly dissipated. She blinked—she hadn’t even realized she was squinting her eyes shut—and saw him hovering over her smugly. “I couldn’t let you come that easily, could I?” he teased. There was a familiar amount of humor in his tone, but edged with the malice that had colored it since he remembered their shared curse.

Well, two could play this game. She drew the fingers of her right hand into a circle and squeezed the air; his ensuing hiss told her that he felt the mimicked sensation on his cock. So she did it again—a few times, actually—until he too was on the brink of release, head thrown back, the cords of his neck on display as he panted, and then let go.

“Oh, you saucy little—” His words were cut off by her grabbing his shoulders and pulling his mouth to hers once more; it was nice to know she was always capable of kissing away his sassy one-liners.

It didn’t take long for them both to get keyed up again—not that they’d really come down at all—and as good as the brush of his length against her folds felt, she wanted more. Given the increasingly erratic pace of his kisses and breaths, he did, too. 

Before she could say anything, though, he spoke up. 

“Emma, I need—”

She stilled, gripping his shoulders. He hadn’t called her Emma since his memories returned. It was always ‘Swan’ or ‘love’, the haze of the Darkness coloring even his pet names.

But when she cupped his face and looked in his eyes this time, there was nothing blocking her view—just the pure blue she’d come to love. This was him, entirely.

“Killian, yes—I need you, too,” she answered, near tears. 

Without further pause, he moved back and slid in perfectly. They stopped for a moment there, feeling the initial relief of being together. 

She looked up and he was squinting his eyes and shaking his head a bit—as if trying to stay in the moment but something wanted to pull him away. She had a good feeling she knew what. So she reached up to brush away the hair that had fallen over his face, then placed her free hand on his other cheek. “Hey,” she murmured. “Stay with me.”

He relaxed at her touch and opened his eyes. “Always,” he said softly, voice rough with emotion. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” she said urgently, and found his lips once more. 

They began to move simultaneously, not wasting any further moments as they chased a shared release. She pressed her heels into his backside, urging him on, but it didn’t take long until she was there, cresting over the edge of bliss and free falling down the other side. The only thing holding her to reality was Killian’s warm skin under her hands; she could tell by the way he stilled shortly after that he’d found his own release, too. 

She held on to him tight. He pulled out, but stayed close, too, as if she was his anchor in the storm—and wasn’t that kind of what they were to each other, especially in this moment?

What lay ahead—for them, for everyone—she didn’t know. But right now, she had this, and she wasn’t letting it go. 

For a while there—she was decidedly not looking at the alarm clock, so she didn’t know (or care) how long exactly—they lay entwined, breathing in sync. She honestly hadn’t paid attention to her own heart beat in weeks, but when she placed her ear against his chest, she heard the reassuring thump-thump of his that gave her hope they’d both get out of this relatively unscathed.

If their hearts still beat for each other, then what on earth could separate them?

Eventually, though, he shifted away from her and rose from the bed. A flick of his wrist cleaned the residue of their encounter from both of them and, facing away from her, he grabbed his jeans from where they’d been left and pulled them back on.

“You don’t have to go,” she told him, bringing her knees to her chest as she perched on the edge of the mattress. (If she was sad to see his ass get covered up in denim, well, that was her business.)

No sooner had he redone the clasp of his sword belt when his shirt and jacket also reappeared on his form. He turned around, and she stilled a bit, almost sadly—the warmth that had been in eyes just before they came was gone; the Darkness was back in its place.

“I don’t have to, no—but I want to,” he said, unfeelingly. “Things to do, people to see—you know how it is. But thank you for the distraction, love. See you ‘round.”

The dark red smoke she’d come to recognize as his color of magic surrounded him, and then he was gone.

Well. Fuck.

Really, she should have expected it to end this way. There was still so much crap for them to get through. But…couldn’t they have had just this one night?

She sighed and ran a hand through her hair, an echo of where she was earlier. Her body was cool to the touch, but she didn’t shiver; still, she got under the covers, if only because it was what she was used to.

Out of habit, she stuck to one side of the bed. She looked over at the empty half. She’d fix this soon enough, and he’d be back at her side.

A glance at the clock told her she had plenty of time left tonight to mull it over. At least she was able to think it over a bit more clearly, without her libido getting in the way. (That’s what she was telling herself, at least.)

And that’s how she spent the rest of the night: watching the moonlight continue to make its way across the wall—trying to make sure she didn’t spend another night restless and alone.

—————————————-

thanks for reading! Tagging some friends (including the fabulous and supportive Word Forge): @ohmightydevviepuu @shireness-says @iverna @thejollyroger-writer @wistfulcynic @phiralovesloki @initiala @idoltina

@xpumpkindumplingx @cocohook38 @kmomof4 @colinoeyebrows @pirateherokillian @annytecture @stubblesandwich @wingedlioness @scientificapricot @snowbellewells @searchingwardrobes @jrob64

You’re eleven when you first meet Ominis Gaunt. He’s the skinniest, most frail looking boy you’ve ever seen, with white-blond hair and dark circles under his eyes. For a moment, you think you’ve come across a corpse; his practically lifeless body slumped on the train seat, his wand limp in his hand, the tip shining red.

You watch him, too scared to say anything, in case he really is dead. But you couldn’t find a seat anywhere else on the train, but he has a whole compartment to himself…

Then the train shakes, rousing him from sleep, and he stares straight at you, glowing ice for eyes, which makes you jump out of your skin.

You wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t. His eyes flicker, as if searching for something, until they drop to the floor and begin to close again.

Perhaps he was choosing to ignore you, or perhaps…

You clear your throat, and he startles, his wand pointing straight at you, ready to attack at any moment, back straightening and eyes widening. You then you apologise, you hadn’t meant to cause fear, and ask if you can sit with him. Something washes over him, and his demeanour changes. His wand lowered, he nods.

Now, seeing him closer, you notice the almost translucent glow of his pale skin, and the dotted beauty marks across his cheeks.

It’s silent, for a while, teetering on awkward, until the sweet cart comes around. The lady is nice, letting you look at the varying choices, until you spy some of your favourites - Fudge Flies. You’ve got a few coins in the little purse tied to your waist, but before you can even look down, that boy is handing over the money, buying two of everything - enough for you both to stuff your faces.

You tell him he can’t, it’s far too much money, he must need it, to which he shakes his head. He’s got plenty.

So the lady puts the sweets into a box, and leaves it on the seat next to the boy, who finally introduces himself. Ominis, an unusual name, you think, for an unusual boy.

He tells you he is blind - that’s why his eyes look like that. A lot of people are scared of him - that’s why he was sitting alone. He doesn’t sleep much at home - that’s why he’d fallen asleep. His family are insanely wealthy, that’s why he doesn’t mind paying for the sweets.

You spend the rest of the ride to Hogwarts telling him which sweets he’s picked up, helping him open the packaging, and describing the view out of the window, in great detail.

*

You’re twelve when you decide Ominis is probably, most definitely, your best friend.

You have other friends, of course, but you always gravitate back to the solemn Slytherin. Even behind his ghostly exterior, you are wholly aware of his warm interior. A heart of gold and a tongue so sharp it could knock you flat - but he’d never let it.

He too has other friends - a brother and a sister - and you often find yourselves together, huddled in the secret room Ominis had introduced you to that you all decide is called the Undercroft. You spend hours studying, playing Gobstones and just laughing until you’re all delirious.

Over your first year, you’d watched Ominis put on weight, get more sleep and just be generally happier than that boy you’d met on the train.

But by the time you return for your second year, he’s back to the way he was; sunken in on himself, a shell of a human, so ghostly and empty that you wonder if it’s really him.

It takes time, to coax him back to himself. To remind him he’s back where he belongs. To get him to eat, to sleep, to even smile. It shatters your heart into a million little pieces, and you wish you could tell him how much he means to you, but your vocabularies just isn’t there and you’re far too shy to explain yourself.

So when he finally smiles for the first time in your second year, all teeth, followed by a loud laugh, you decide that you always want to see him like that. You’d spend forever helping him heal. That that is your best friend.

That is Ominis.

*

You’re fourteen when you realise you have a crush on Ominis Gaunt.

You supposed it had come on, slowly over time. His delicate touches, shy smiles and quick wit did nothing to help with the slowly growing pang in your heart every time you saw him.

He’d spent his previous two summers out in Feldcroft, his friends not allowing him to suffer at the hands of his family. You’d missed them all, terribly, so when they sent an owl, inviting you to stay the last week before heading back to school, you didn’t hesitate.

The four of you spent your time exploring, admittedly journeying to areas your friends’ Uncle had made you all swear you’d not go to. But why listen to him? You wanted to have fun. You’d missed them all.

Especially Ominis.

So when you almost trip and fall over a stack of stones, and Ominis grabs you, almost instinctively, stopping you from hitting the floor, you wonder how he’d managed it.

Then he tells you to be more careful, he can’t have you hurting yourself. And you wonder why it matters.

Then he slips his hand into yours, and you feel a blush creep onto your skin (which you thank the Gods he can’t see). And you wonder why he’s doing that.

Then he holds on tight to you, and doesn’t let your hand go until you return to Feldcroft. And you wonder how it’s taken you this long to realise how you feel about him.

*

You’re fifteen when you decide that yes, you’re in love with Ominis Gaunt.

It didn’t take too long, from realising you were crushing on him, to realising you were in love.

You can’t be blamed, though. Since he first held your hand, he just hadn’t stopped. Excuse after excuse; he’d lost his wand, you seemed a little tired, you had cold hands, he had cold hands…it never ended, and you never got over the feeling of pressing your hands together.

And then there was your quiet moments for just the two of you in the Undercroft, which had turned from laughing and complaining about school and homework, to hushed tones and honesty, with him telling you about his family; his wretched mother, cruel father and probably the worst of all, his demon-incarnate brother.

You wished you could help him, take all his suffering from him, all the tormented dreams he had, keep them locked, and throw away the key. He’d laughed at this, and thanked you. He tells you that everything you do, every moment you are with him is enough.

The way you are sitting, cross-legged, opposite him on the cold stone floor, so dangerously close, you wonder, if you just leant forward, would he close the gap?

Then he reaches out and takes your hand in both of his, squeezing gently. I love you I love you I love you I love you floods your mind. He looks like he’s going to do it, going to kiss you, and your face heats up in anticipation.

But he doesn’t.

Instead he stands, pulling you up with him, and suggests sneaking into the kitchen for a slice of pie.

And you agree, following him out of the room, even though you feel like your heart had been torn out and left on the floor of the Undercroft.

*

You’re seventeen when you first kiss Ominis.

It’s an unusually warm, early Autumn day, another painfully boring History of Magic lessons drags by and you watch Ominis as he falls asleep, head dropping into the palm of his hand and eyes fluttering shut as Professor Binns drones on and on about the founding of St Mungos, which, in itself, might’ve been an interesting subject, if it wasn’t for the teacher teaching it.

You let him sleep, as he looks like he needs it - he always looks like he needs it - up until Binns dismisses the class, floating out of the room, following the other students to leave just you and Ominis, alone.

Now that the room is quiet, you can hear Ominis’ soft breathing shake slightly, and his lips purse a little - he’s dreaming - and although you’d like to leave, to wake him and head for the Great Hall for lunch, the sight of your best friend looking so peaceful for once, means you know that you can’t.

So you get comfortable. You untie your school robe, draping it over the back of your chair, and then wander to the shelves stacked with varying tomes, trying to pick one up to flick through, but it’s far too heavy, so you abandon your quest.

You then move to the glass cabinets, full with artefacts and objects that you’d seen before from where you sat, but up close looked far more interesting.

And then you sit yourself down at Binns’ desk, looking over the fairly sparse tabletop. Most professors had notes and diaries with new information and ideas, but not the old ghost. No, you supposed, he’s been teaching for so long, he knows all he needs to.

There is one book, though - Broom History. You’re an avid flyer, so your interest is, for the first time in this classroom, piqued. You skim through the pages, tracing the outlines of the pictures with your finger, much alike you’d seen Ominis do on multiple occasions.

As you think of him, you look up and see him stirring, eyes opening as he rubs away the sleep, yawning, which, stupidly, makes your heart flutter a little.

You begin to say something, mouth trying to find the right words, but before you even can, he’s patting the seat beside him - your seat - and frowning when he finds no one there.

Again, you begin to speak, to tell him you’re right here, you haven’t left him, but then his hand lands on your robe.

He frowns, and you mirror his expression as you watch him.

Ominis grabs the robe, thumbing it slightly, allowing the soft fabric to glide over his skin, before bringing it into his hand, before lifting it straight to his nose, and inhaling.

You squeak - a strange noise you didn’t even know could possibly come from your mouth - immediately making Ominis flinch and turn to you, eyes piercing straight through you.

He stutters, words not coming easily, possibly in an attempt to explain himself, but the sentences don’t finish or end in one place, and your mind is racing a million miles a second, until you catch up to your thoughts, and stand from your chair.

Ominis stops trying to form a coherent sentence, and stills, waiting as you walk over to him. Your heart is in your mouth. You want to ask a thousand questions. Why did he do that? Had he done that before? Did you smell nice? Did he like you? Was he ever going to tell you?

But you don’t ask him a question. You round the table, standing next to him, eyes searching his face for something - you just didn’t know what.

And maybe you find it, maybe you don’t. Instead, you find the courage, finally, to take his cheeks in your hands, and kiss him.

You expect him to pull away, to tell you he just doesn’t feel that way.

He doesn’t.

He leans into the kiss, melting into you, his hands finding your waist and pulling you closer, tilting his head to meet your lips at just the right angle.

You pull away first, and he follows you, trying so hard to capture your lips again that you laugh, from deep in your belly, which makes him laugh too. You drop down onto your seat, unable to keep the smile off your face.

You say, sorry, I just had to, and he shakes his head. I should be the one apologising, what I did was rather odd.

No, you move your hands from his cheeks to his shoulders, then one had slips further, to twirl his tie around your finger. It was sweet, endearing. Do I smell that good? which makes him laugh again. My absolute favourite. It’s a wonder you haven’t noticed before.

And then he leans in again, moving his hands from your waist to thread through your hair, and you tug him closer by his tie.

For the first time in years, all feels right.

*

You’re eighteen when you tell Ominis you love him.

Your final Christmas in Hogwarts had finally come, and most, if not all of your friends and fellow students had returned home, or headed on holidays. Seeing the world before work takes over, one of your classmates had said.

And they were right. Once you’d completed your N.E.W.Ts, you were to fend for yourself. But seeing the world would come later.

So you stayed behind, because behind was where Ominis was, Christmas lights reflected in his pearlescent eyes, hand intertwined with yours, wandering through Hogsmeade as snow slowly began to fall.

You’d spent hours in the little village, and despite the cold, you felt warm and giddy inside, even as you made the cold trek back to Hogwarts.

He cracked jokes, even sang the occasional song, as you reentered the school grounds. You don’t think you’d seen him like this before, as if he was drunk on life. The two of you hadn’t been together all that long, but he’d easily fallen into a level of comfortable that you’d never imagined he could be.

The perfect Ominis you’d always known, was somehow even more perfect in love.

In love, you could only assume. He’d told you he’d liked you since the moment you’d met on that train, and had definitely had feelings for you by the time he’d first mapped your face in his hands.

But in love was not something you’d even dared to speak about.

So when you’re sat by the fire in the Slytherin common room that evening, tucked into the side of him, cheek on his chest as he hums a tune you’ve heard before, pressing gentle kisses to the top of your head, you think you should probably tell him you love him.

So you do.

You’re almost too quiet, but he hears you. He asks you to repeat yourself, and despite the grin spreading across his face already, you say the words again.

And then he kisses you.

You half want to laugh, half want to cry, as he whispers that he loves you too, between kisses, more than you could ever possibly comprehend, and kisses you again, and again, and again.

Until he pulls you on top of him, and you find the kisses go from delicate and loving to ravenous, to where he’s threading his long fingers through your hair, to him grinding up on you, pulling you down onto him, desperate for friction, moaning when he finds it.

We could be caught, you whisper against his lips, and he nods. Perhaps we should move this into my room, I am the only one staying in there afterall, then gasps a little, fearing he’s overstepped, only if you would like to, of course, which makes you laugh, because of course I would, Ominis.

So he takes you, hand-in-hand, his wand guiding the way, to his dorm room. There, already eager, he pulls his sweater and shirt off, exposing his slim figure. You’d seen him shirtless before - and Gods had you had to desperately attempt to force down the bright red flush that had covered your cheeks for even days after - but this time you can reach for him, to touch the soft, pale skin.

And this time pulls you in closer, kissing you again, pulling your clothes from your body, pressing your frames together, just the feeling of your bare torsos sending lightening bolts through your veins.

The way he gasps your name, the way he touches you so gently yet with such determination and focus, the way he holds you, quickly sends you to the brink.

Ominis pulls you onto his bed, not letting go of you, not once. He lays you on the plush, far comfier than your own, and whispers sweet nothings, syrupy sweet, words that makes your heart pound.

He makes love to you. He pulls your legs around his waist and holds you like you’re the most precious thing he has ever, and will ever hold.

He makes you see stars, giving in to constellations littered across your eyelids, which, coincidentally, take the shape of the beauty marks across his cheeks.

And when you both finish, he curls himself around you, arms and legs intertwined as he caresses your face, uttering promises of love, forever, until your eyes close, and you find him in your dreams.

*

You’re nineteen when you marry Ominis Gaunt.

A vague yet threatening letter had arrived in Feldcroft, where you’d been staying with your friends after school had finished, his family informing him he would be expected to return home, immediately.

He’d told you, tears in his eyes, that he knew what they wanted. He was to be married off for the highest bid, to a pureblood witch and her family that he had likely never met, and he couldn’t, because he hated his family, and most importantly, he loved you. He wanted to marry you, no one else.

So let’s marry, you’d said, taking one of his hands, your other wiping away the stray tears cascading down his cheeks. Let’s run away. They’ll never know if we tell no one.

So you do. You leave Feldcroft in the middle of the night, and travel south to Gretna Green, where you marry as the sun sets three days later.

Ominis vows to you, to love you until the day he dies, to be by you side no matter what - and you vow the same.