A/N: Quick angsty/feelsy drabble...

Borderline M-rating.


"Emma."

His voice is gruff and broken as he hovers over her, the sound warming her body, the tiny hairs at the back of her neck standing to attention as her name washes over her, whispered from his lips in a reverent tone, settling and coming to a rest on her own as he shifts and moves inside of her.

Taking his time with her, he worships her slowly.

Eyes closed, skin tingling and flushing and near sparking with anticipation and want and need, she revels in the warm and solid feel of him, the lingering taste of him on her tongue, the spicy scent of him clinging to the air. And she thinks, as his good hand traces its way up her outer thigh, his chest flushed hotly against hers, that perhaps, if she allowed herself, if fate so decided…she could die happily here, just like this.

With him.

Embraced by him.

Consumed by him.

Surrounded by him.

It's a morbid thought, and one she refuses to apologize for.

(Sometimes she's selfish.)

(Sometimes she's tired.)

(Sometimes she just wants to disappear.)

He pulls her back though.

Grounds her.

There are times however, when she considers (fears) that maybe they're not meant to be. That maybe all this time the signs have been telling them something different, stacking up against them, glaringly obvious with their repetitive and trite, painfully unwanted message.

After all…

She's supposed to be a savior, he a villain.

She's a princess, he a pirate.

She's the sheriff, he a thief.

There's never enough time, always a crisis.

Pushing.

Pulling.

Act.

React.

Pain and suffering and different realms threatening to come between them, maybe it should all be very clear by now, maybe they're just choosing to remain blissfully ignorant.

Maybe she'll lose him too.

She can't help but think about it, weighing it heavily in the deepest corners of her sometimes too dark mind, where fear and doubt and insecurity are all very real things and definitely still exist.

Still, it's at times like this, when they're alone, foreheads pressed together, bodies molded into each other, seemingly the only two people in existence, the only two people that matter, that that spark of worry and anxiety is finally, finally drowned out—shadowed only by the quick building inferno of acceptance, and certainty, and faith that warms her veins, threatening to burn and consume her entirely, as her eyes lock with his and their lips meet and she concedes that yes, she is finally home.

And later, later when the calming blaze burns out, and the world comes back into focus and she feels the cold and sharp claws of fear and panic begin to scratch and tear and attempt to pull her apart once again; she stands on that brink, that seductive tip of uncertainty, looking down into the madness and chaos, the crisis and despair…

And waits for him to pull her back from the edge.

Reminding her again, what it's like to really live.

(After all, sometimes saviors need saving too.)