#my ff

Jakes Pov :

I lay on my back, tilting my head slightly as my eyes settled on her. She was draped over me, her head resting on my arm, one leg thrown across me and her fingers were clutching my hoodie as if it were the only thing keeping her grounded. 

But was it peaceful? No… it was pure heaven. 

God… how I loved her.

Still, something in me felt restless, by each passing second, maybe it was the air around me or something else, that I couldn’t sleep tonight, because lately, my thoughts weren’t just thoughts anymore. They were becoming something else, something I was trying to escape from.

Because what was I doing? 

I’m doing it because I’m a selfish piece of–

My thoughts were pulled away as she stirred against me, her breath warm against my neck, and it was the perfect contrast of cold that surrounded us. I shifted onto my side finally facing her, and my gaze intensely fixed on her. Her skin looked soft in the dim light. And before I could stop myself, my fingers moved instinctively, brushing through her hairs. She doesn’t wake, but lies still and safely against me.

I swiftly pulled her closer, breathing in the faint scent of her rose soap that clung to her like stars in the night sky.

I swear to God—I could lose myself in that.

For a moment, we stayed tangled together, quiet, still, like the world had paused just for us.

Until my phone buzzed.

I groaned softly, rolling onto my back again and reaching for it from the side table, as I picked it up. The screen lit up instantly, Nymos.

My program.

The one I created for her, to detect danger, before it finds her or me.

It was going off furiously and repeatedly.

Your system is at risk.

The warning flashed again and again, the sound echoing in the silence. My heart started pounding violently against my chest and for a second I didn’t move. 

Shit.

“We need to move,” I muttered under my breath.

I never dreaded moving, or running, or hiding, back when I was alone. It was a life I never cared enough about to protect. But now?

I have something worth living for.

And what am I doing with it?

The thought curdles into something sharp, something ugly, and for a moment I feel raw hatred for myself.

As my eyes drifted back to her. She looked… peaceful in her sleep, and something in my chest twisted painfully. 

Because I realized this wasn't the life she deserved. She deserved more than running in the dark, more than half-sleep and constant fear.

And I knew she deserves more than me.

And for just a moment, I thought about leaving her behind, letting her hate me. Because at least then, she would be safe. I shook my head quickly, pushing the thought away.

No.

I sat up carefully, sliding my arm out from beneath her head as gently as I could. 

She shifted slightly, and my hand found her cheek, my thumb brushing lightly beneath her eye. “MC,” I murmur softly.

She stirred reluctantly.  “Mm…”

“Wake up.” My voice was quieter than usual.

But it was enough for her to be awake, as her eyes opened slowly, unfocused at first, but she squinted them hard before they settled on me. 

There was no confusion there, no questions, no hesitation. She just said, “Okay,” her voice was still groggy with sleep.

That word again. It was always that word, the part that hurt the most. Because she never questioned it, never fought me on it, never asked why. She simply trusted me. And that…? made it worse.

She pushed herself up immediately from the bed, already reaching for her things.

“Leave it,” I said, turning away, my jaw clenching as I began packing what little we needed.

By the time we stepped outside, the air had shifted, like something was already closing in behind us. She stayed close to me as we moved through the trees without speaking. Branches cracked under our feet. The ground was uneven. Even then she didn't complain.

“You shouldn’t be here.” The words came out of my mouth before I decided to say them.

She didn’t stop walking. “What?”

“This,” I said, glancing around at the forest, the distance, the nowhere we kept ending up in. “You shouldn’t be part of it.”

She let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh. “Jake…”

“Don’t.”

This time, she stopped.

So I did too.

"This isn't a life." I said quietly, not looking at her.

“And?” Her voice shifted, it was no longer soft, no longer patient. It carried something sharper now, something that pushed back. “So tell me, Jake… what is a life? One where you’re not in it with me?”

Her words hit me deeper than anything else could.

“I chose this,” she added, her voice steadier this time.

“You shouldn’t have,” I muttered, my jaw tightening further, the words forced out like they burned on the way up.

Silence.

“And that was your decision to make?” she asked.

“Yes,” I replied, far too quickly.

She stared at me like she didn’t recognize me for a second.  “No,” she said. 

And then she kept walking. I caught up to her in a few quick steps, the silence between us felt heavier than before.

Soon, the outline of an abandoned bunker came into view or at least something that looked like one just as the sky darkened, clouds pressing low, the air thick with something waiting to break.

“Let’s stay here,” she said.

I didn’t argue, because of course we both didn't have a choice, but my thoughts were already somewhere else, far too deep to pull back.

I remained near the entrance, setting the bag down. She moved further inside almost immediately, picking it up again and placing it aside as she began making space, and I kept watching her.

“Jake.”

I didn’t answer.

“We’re okay,” she said in a reassuring tone, but it did nothing to calm me down and she turned to face me, as she finally stepped closer to me. “We made it.”

That word.

We.

“No.”

Her expression shifted, her brows furrowed at me.

“This isn’t okay.” I said.

The rain started by then, pouring softly against the bunker windows, the sound spreading through the space, steady, almost suffocating, filling the silence we had left between us.

“You can’t keep doing this,” I said. “Following me into something that doesn’t end.”

“I’m not following you,” she replied. “I’m choosing you.”

“That’s worse.” My voice came out sharper than I intended.

She stepped closer. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

Silence filled the space between us, thick as the air outside. “Then say it properly,” she said.

I didn’t hesitate and that was the worst part. But, it was already breaking me as the words left my mouth. “Break up with me.”

The rain hit harder against the metal above us, as if it was mocking me.

She didn’t move but something in her expression changed. “No,” she said immediately.

“This isn’t a discussion.”

“It is for me.”

“You deserve better than this,” I said, my voice tightening despite myself. “Someone who can actually give you a life. Someone who doesn’t make you run in the middle of the night, who doesn’t disappear without a word… someone who doesn’t make you look over your shoulder every second you breathe.”

“Sometimes I think… even Phil—” I let out a quiet, humorless breath, my jaw tightening, “even someone like him could give you something close to a normal life, something I clearly can’t, MC.”

Her eyes flashed, something sharp and furious breaking through.

“Why would you say that?” she snapped, her voice rising, cracking at the edges. “You don’t get to decide that for me. You don’t get to stand there and tell me what kind of life I should want!”

“I’m trying to—”

“No!” she cuts me off, stepping closer to me, anger spilling over now. “You’re trying to control it. You’re trying to make the choice for me because it’s easier than actually staying and facing it!” Her chest rose and fell unevenly, her hands trembling at her sides.

“I chose this,” she said again, but this time it wasn’t steady, it was raw. “I chose you. Every part of this. Even the running, even the fear, you.”

Silence pressed in between us after she said it.

“And you think I don’t know what I’m giving up?” she continued, quieter now, but somehow it hurt more. “You think I don’t see it every time we leave somewhere behind? Every time you look at me like you’re already saying goodbye?”

I couldn’t answer.

“Or is that what this is?” she whispered, her voice breaking. “You said it first, so it hurts less when I finally do?”

The words landed like a blow.

“You don’t get to do that, Jake,” she said, tears finally spilling now. “You don’t get to walk away and call it protection.”

I swallowed hard, my jaw tightening as I closed the distance between us, wiping her tears before pulling her into my arms.

“I’m trying to protect you.” I said instead

“And I’m trying to stay.”

I went still, for a moment, as her hand found mine. My grip tightened on her fingers without permission.

“I’m not leaving,” she said, squeezing my hands back.

“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.” My voice breaks.

Then she moved, rising onto her tiptoes until she was close enough that I could feel her breath against my lips, warm and unsteady. For a second, neither of us spoke, just stood there, caught in something fragile, something breaking and then she closed the distance. 

Her lips met mine, soft at first, almost hesitant, like she was giving me a chance to pull away. I didn’t. Instead my hand found her waist before I could stop myself, pulling her closer, holding her there like if I let go, she might disappear. I kissed her back, deeper this time, desperate in a way I couldn’t control, anchoring myself in the only thing that still felt real.

“I’m not letting you push me away,” she murmured against my lips.

“You should.”

“I won’t.”

The rain outside grew louder around us. 

“I don’t know how to keep you safe,” I admitted, my voice quieter than it had ever been, stripped of everything but the truth.

“You don’t have to do it alone.” She said.

I exhaled slowly, finally pulling away from the kiss, and giving in to her, agreeing with her, without saying the words out loud. 

Later, as the storm softened into something steady, the rain was no longer violent but constant. We lay together on the bunker floor, she was curled into my side like it was instinct, like I was the only place she felt safe, and I let her, my arm tightening around her just slightly, as if holding her there could keep everything else away.

Like it had always been this way. My arm wrapped around her, pulling her even closer before I could think about it. Her breathing slowed, and I stared at the ceiling for a long time.

I listened quietly, to the steady rhythm of the rain, to her heartbeat beneath my chest, as I turned toward her. She felt too real beside me, too close, like something I didn’t deserve to keep.

But got lucky to have it anyway.

My grip tightened around her before I tilted my head down, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. 

“I love you,” I whispered against her skin, the words trembling as they fell apart on the way out. “So so much, MC… I love you in a way that feels too big for this world, like even the sky couldn’t hold it. I love you in a way that’s dangerous… for both of us. And I will do everything in my power to keep you safe…” my voice broke slightly,—even if it takes everything I have left… including my life.”

“Thank you… for staying. For choosing me,” I added softly.

And this time, even with fear coiling through me, I didn’t try to let go of her.

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.