Emma and Killian remained Dark Ones. This one is rated M.
Their moans are tearing through the night, completely drowning out the thunder outside. Beads of sweat are trickling down her forehead as she rides him, hard. Neither one of them make any effort to be quiet. No one's going to hear them anyway, they're all alone - they're always alone, it's always just the two of them.
She squeals with delight as she finds herself being forced onto her back as he continues to thrust into her with a deliciously painful force that she swears could tear her body apart had she been an ordinary human being.
But neither of them are ordinary, they haven't been ordinary for quite some time. She can't remember how long it has been; she has difficulty remembering anything at all when they're like this, even her own name.
"Emma!" he cries out as he finds his release inside of her, which sends her over the edge with him for the - no, she can't remember the amount of orgasms he has given her tonight and it doesn't matter, right now she feels so deliciously spent. But she's not tired. She could keep doing this all night and so could he. They don't need sleep. They are incapable of sleeping. Neither one of them has slept for centuries.
He pulls out and rolls off her and rolls over to lie on his side, watching her as she tries to catch her breath.
"Happy anniversary, my love," he whispers and she shakes her head in disbelief, although he tells her this every year. How long is he going to keep track of their anniversaries? To her time doesn't matter anymore.
"How many is it now?" she asks.
"473, love," he says, pulling her against his chest. She sighs as she feels his hot breath on her neck.
"I wish you'd stop counting," she says quietly, holding his good arm tightly against her chest.
"So you tell me every year," he says. "But I am not going to stop counting," he whispers into her ear, which makes her shiver.
"I thought you said you were done punishing me," she murmurs.
"Aye, I forgave you a long time ago. I wouldn't be here with you now if I hadn't," he says between planting kisses on the back of her neck.
"Then why-" a moan escapes her lips as he kisses that sensitive spot on her collarbone.
"Stop talking, Swan," he hisses.
She nods. He's right. It's too painful, she doesn't want to think about it anymore. He knows what she was going to say anyway, he always does. After nearly 500 years he knows everything. This isn't the first time she has brought this up, well aware that he did not wish to discuss it. She doesn't know why she keeps trying. It isn't going to make either of them feel any better anyway, if anything it is just going to make her feel worse.
She knows he still resents her for what she did. She knows that the only reason she is still alive is that his love for her is stronger than his hatred. And she knows she should be grateful for that but a part of her wishes that he had just killed her when he had the chance, when she handed him the sword and sank to her knees in front of him, begging him to end her life.
He hadn't killed her ("If I don't get to die you don't either, Swan").
They are okay now. He has forgiven her, and as for his sins she doesn't think there is anything to forgive, she deserved everything she got. Neither one of them are the same as before and they never will be but they are okay. They are as good as they can be, given the circumstances.
She tries to forget the past and just enjoy the things he's doing to her, his hand caressing her breast, his lips trailing down her neck and shoulder, the feeling of him behind her.
She moans as he rolls on top of her, his piercing blue eyes looking into hers with a silent promise of indescribably pleasure.
She spreads her legs and he enters her again, slower this time and she sighs at the feeling it gives her.
Their rhythm is slow and he never breaks their eye contact. She loves this, when he takes his time, when he looks into her eyes the way he does now, like she is the most precious thing in all the realms, when he is gentle and runs his hands ever so carefully across every available inch of skin, like she is dipped in gold. She prefers these slow lovemakings to the wild fucking they usually engage in at night. This is when everything feels normal, when she can usually forget that they're all alone, that they are both broken beyond repair and that everyone else she has ever loved is long since gone.
She cries soundlessly as she's once again lying in his embrace, thinking of them and all that they've lost. She's wishing more than anything that she could just close her eyes and go to sleep. She wishes more than anything that she could have been strong enough to let him go all those years ago. She wishes that she didn't feel so guilty. This - this existence - is torture and she knows that he feels the same way and she also knows that he is enduring it for her and that the only reason they've lasted this long is because of her weakness and her selfishness. She knows that he blames her for it, for everything.
"I never meant for it to be like this," she says more to herself than to him. "This was not what I had in mind for our future."
"Tell me, Swan," he says, drawing lazy circles on her skin, "What did you have in mind."
"I wanted you," she says, her voice starting to sound thick. "And H-Henry and our house and I wanted more, I wanted-" she starts sobbing. It's been a while since she's spoken of her son. He died over four centuries ago and the last of his descendants died a few decades ago. She has no family left, her brother died before he could marry and she was never able to have any more children. The darkness has made her barren, she supposes it is a good thing, what kind of child would that be, the product of two Dark Ones.
He knows of this, he knows of her wish for a family, he wants it too and he hates that they can't have it but unlike her he had no hope of them ever achieving that kind of happiness after she saved his life ("Villains don't get happy endings, Swan!").
She agrees. Their happy ending had died that day in the field of middlemist flowers. What they have now is nothing compared to what they could have had. What they have now is not much of a life. She has often wondered if she would see them again, her family, if they were to die. But she can't die, they can't die, she won't let him die ever again, he's staying right here with her where she knows he's safe and she won't let him leave ever again.
"I wanted that too," he says softly. "But now I'm just glad I still have you."
"And I you," she whispers.
This is torture but being with him makes it bearable.