Anonymous tumblr prompt: I need broken Emma. After neal's death the WW grows more powerful and the death toll rises with Emma unable to stop it. I would love to see Emma in a dark place with Killian there to pull her out of it. bonus for smut.
I loved this prompt mostly because for some reason there's a part of me that is just waiting for Emma to give in and have a break down. I love that the writers have written her as a strong individual but I don't think it would be entirely out of character for her to just up and lose it. A person can only take so much.
I tried my best to fulfill this prompt but I feel like because I was telling it from Emma's slightly hysterical POV it is a bit broken up and rambling and all over the place. I hope you enjoy anyway! :) Also after finishing, I realized it's kinda the Emma version of "Broken" (the one where Killian loses it)…*shrugs*
Disclaimer: I don't own OUAT.
Review please! :)
She keeps failing.
And they keep dying.
Delivered to the town line and put on display as if to mock her feeble attempts, her useless actions.
And she can't stop it.
She's not strong enough.
She never was.
She's nothing.
Nothing at all.
Lost.
Broken.
Terrified.
A failure.
And she knows he can see it, can sense it—her inner turmoil. She can tell by the way he stiffens above her, his body going rigid against hers, a soft shuddering breath escaping his lips, her name murmured quietly into her ear—Emma, Emma, Emma—a slight hint of understanding laced with unmistakable anguish woven into his tone.
And she knows she's being selfish, taking her grief out on him…on his body.
But she can't think about that right now.
She can hardly worry about her own emotions.
Can't bear to factor in his.
She just wants to feel.
Needs to feel.
Because the world is dark and unfair and cruel, and her family is falling apart and people are dying and dammit she can't remember why she ever thought it was a good idea to come back to this godforsaken town in the first place. She's tired of pretending to be strong. She's tired of playing the role of something she's not. She just wants to lose herself. Just wants to forget. Everything. So instead of listening to the lingering notes of pain and sympathy in his voice, refusing to let herself over think her actions, forcing away the hushed whispers in her head and the slight ache that throbs in her chest, she reaches up and hooks an arm around his neck, tilting her hips up just so and molding herself to him completely, relishing in his sharp intake of breath before flipping them over and rising above him quickly—a dark part of her taking cruel satisfaction in the way he hisses out a curse, in the feel of his body beneath hers, unwillingly reacting to what she's so crudely offering and unabashedly taking.
"You don't want this."
Oh but she does.
God she does.
Wouldn't have invited him in if she hadn't. Wouldn't have found a way to get him into her bedroom, on her bed, if she wasn't so sure.
"Emma." his tone is still quiet, sympathetic, and it strikes a chord within her—makes her falter slightly and close her eyes.
And this is not what she wants.
"Look at me."
"Shut-up." she snaps the word out harshly, eyes opening but refusing to truly see, heart clenching and pinching almost painfully, because he's going to ruin this, he's going to make her rethink this, and dammit she just wants to let go, give her body over to sensation and rid herself of emotion with a hard and hasty fuck.
She just wants to feel good for a little while.
She's not asking for much.
Not really.
And she can't help but smirk somewhat coldly, her lips tilting upwards slightly, when he doesn't say anything else, his hand and hook placed on either side of her hips, his breathing erratic and eyes heavy-lidded and unfocused.
Of course he doesn't object.
He's a man; and what red-blooded male would ever turn down such a tempting offer as meaningless sex?
And she tries to chase away the voices in her head that laugh at her, that scoff at the very idea that she's even trying to delude herself into thinking that meaningless has anything to do with the reason he's here. Under her. For her.
Meaningless.
No.
Not for him.
"Shut-up." she murmurs it again to no one in particular, trying to silence the harsh whispers and mocking tones that haunt her thoughts as she attempts to focus on the man beneath her.
Leaning forward fast she catches his lips in an unforgiving and nearly brutal kiss, teeth grazing and biting softly, tongue doing little to soothe as she tangles it with his, body grinding against his lightly, knowingly, intent on drawing out the desperate and more primal part of him that she knows lurks deep inside, buried and hidden away. But he doesn't give. Instead his hand moves against her hip, feather light at first, and then warm and steady—soft and soothing strokes. Reassuring. Comforting. His lips fight to slow hers down, his tongue refusing to follow her lead as he tries to change the pace of the kiss, gently, tenderly…
Lovingly.
And she hates him for it.
Hates that he won't give her this.
Hates that he won't let her forget herself.
Hates that he tries to make more of what she so desperately wants to cheapen.
Hates that there's a part of her, a part that's not so broken and lost, that wants to cling onto him, apologize, and beg for him to make it all go away.
And a little piece of her crumbles at the realization, her hate turning on her suddenly, directing itself inward.
Damn him.
And she feels it at that moment, the pain she's been fighting so hard to keep at bay, the anguish and misery and crushing disappointment as each lifeless face—pale and cold—flashes before her eyes, opening the floodgates and bringing her failures to the forefront of her brain; her breathing coming in short as suffocating hurt and unyielding despair rips through her body—memories of their funerals, their grief-stricken families bombarding her fast and clinging to her cruelly.
"Oh God." she chokes the words out, her voice barely more than a feeble whisper; and blinking rapidly she tries to bite back the sob that bubbles up from her throat, her eyes hot and stinging as a strangled little moan escapes her lips.
"Emma."
Hearing his voice rip through the buzzing roar in her ears, she glances down, squinting at him with watery eyes, her chest tightening and something inside of her breaking just a little bit more as she sees him—hand still gently stroking her hip, hook still heavy on her skin—laying sprawled out beneath her, blue eyes shining with pained understanding, face shadowed and lined with deep concern.
"I'm sorry." she mumbles, shaking her head, swallowing over the sudden tightness in her throat, her breathing labored and shallow. And watching as her vision dims out a little, noting the way her body seems to have gone numb, stiffening at the growing sound of the voices in her head—indecipherable, loud, hissing whispers—a violent shudder wracks her body as she tries to block it all out, faintly wondering if she's finally lost it, if the savior is finally shattering, giving in to the urge to yield to a long overdue mental breakdown.
A part of her welcomes it.
The spiral into dark nothingness.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." she says it over and over again, unsure who she's really apologizing to. Him. Henry. Her parents. Neal. The town. Everyone.
She's let them all down.
"I'm so sorry."
"Don't."
And through the fogged haze that has suddenly clouded her vision, she barely registers his softly spoken word, the way his hand and hook skirt up her hips, to the sides of her body, resting on her back and bringing her to him, pulling her against him in a tight nearly crushing embrace.
Holding her.
Just holding her.
He's warm and familiar and everything is blurry and unfocused and she's losing it, a blubbering mess; empty apologies falling from her lips, hot tears streaking her cheeks as exhaustion and grief weighs heavily on her, shame bubbling up inside of her as she realizes what she had almost done, how she had almost used him— his body— knowing he'd never deny her—indifferent towards his obvious affection for her, uncaring of her own unexplored feelings for him.
She's weak and selfish.
Useless.
"Killian?" her voice sounds foreign, small and vulnerable; a hint of questioning in her tone as she fights to hang onto some semblance of control; the survivor that still lurks inside of her disgusted with her pathetic show of weakness. Words stuck in her throat, she turns her head into his chest—her body collapsing onto him entirely as she closes her eyes, clenches her fists, and gives in and cries like the lost little girl she really and truly is.
She's so tired.
And through her incoherent mutterings about failure and loss and good and evil, regrets and unkept promises, she feels him shift slightly— his arms holding her more firmly against him, pressing her, if possible, even closer, as if he's trying to absorb her fears, intent on taking them away and keeping the pain for himself.
"Emma, Emma, Emma."
He says her name again, holding her, just holding her, ghosting his lips over her hair, and murmuring it over and over in a reverent chant until it's the only thing she hears, until the voices in her head are calmed, until she feels as if the world has stopped spinning uncontrollably and all that she can focus on, all that matters, is him—his arms around her and his voice, soft and lilting and soothing, whispering her name and pulling her back from the edge she so desperately wants to jump over.
It feels good, putting her anguish in someone else's hands.
He doesn't offer her any words of comfort. Doesn't give her any false promises. Their fate is too uncertain, their enemy too powerful. He merely repeats her name—Emma—gently reminding her who she is, that she's not entirely lost, allowing the darkness inside of her to rage on, ripping her apart and shattering her completely, while calmly assuring her with soft touches and quiet understanding that when it's all over and the storm recedes, he'll be there to pick up the broken pieces, ready to help put her back together again.
And so, knowing that for now she's safe and protected and loved…
She cries.
And he holds her.
And she lets him.
Review?