#i need to catch up…. an understatement to say my life has been irreversibly changed by this show

[mothbug]

happy birthday friends at the table i love you friends at the table

[buckyskorpion]

11 Hours - part one

Pairing: Biker!Bucky x Reader

Summary: bucky is the mystery you can’t wait to solve. if you can get out of his bed long enough, that is. a biker au.

Warnings: gang-typical violence, sex scenes, alcohol mentions, probably more to come so stay tuned

A/N: um yes so hello another au and another wip..... dont hate the player hate the game. i hope you enjoy this though! this is my take on a biker!bucky au because we definitely dont have enough of those. let me know your thoughts on this, critiques, predictions, anything! my ask is open. also i wont be taking tags for this so please dont ask. 

title taken from 11 hours by wet | playlist

You lie on your stomach, sheets pooled by your ankles, and watch Bucky watch you. One hand propping him up on his side, the other tracing slow, hair-raising circles on your bare back. He’s not really seeing you though, eyes glazed over so they look shiny and huge, big enough to get lost in. You roll away from him, off the edge of the bed and onto your feet.

“Going?” he asks, voice rough. You can’t remember the last time one of you spoke - the time between breathless moans and now seems stretched, like a liminal space you’ve both been sitting in for far too long.  It’s time to get back to the real world. You shrug one shoulder, rooting around his bedroom floor for your clothes to redress.

“It’s late,” you say. He huffs an agreement. The two of you didn’t get back to his apartment until after midnight, so who knows the time now.

“Let me call you a cab,” Bucky says, rolling onto his back to pat around the bedside table for his phone. You toss him a look over your shoulder, chosing to ignore him as you pull your skinny jeans up over your ass. Bucky pauses to watch, tongue flicking over his lips and not bothering to hide his grin when you catch him. You throw your jacket at his head which he catches with ease, laughing himself back into the pillows. Ugh, he’s such a menace.

You walk back over to the bed once you get your last shoe on, closing the distance you’d created that was so obvious in the contrast between his bare skin and you, fully dressed. You lean over him, letting him tug you close with a hand on your hip while you pull him up with a grip on his dog-tags. You kiss him, a hard press of lips and a quick swipe of your tongue that he tries to follow but you pull away. He lets you go, rolling his eyes at the tease.

“See ya later, tough guy,” you say, backing up to the door. He tosses your leather jacket back to you, and you catch it with one hand as you head down the hallway. It’s the closest thing you’ll get to a goodbye from him, so you let the front door click shut without another word.

You shrug into your jacket as you race down the stairs of Bucky’s apartment building, heading for the laundry room. It’s not like you know Bucky - all you do is fuck on any day you both happen to be free, starting at a grungy bar in downtown weeks ago and ending here, in some strange friends with benefits situation (minus the ‘friends’ part). He’s hot, and you’re not looking for a relationship, so it’s perfect. Only, something about the scars on Bucky’s knuckles and the motorbike he drives you home on after the bar makes the hair on the back of your neck raise. Something about Bucky is bad news, and you’re not about to get caught up in it just for some (mindblowingly good) sex.

So, you head to the laundry room and climb out the window rather than using the lobby doors. Nobody sees you, and it’s easy to get to if you stand on the dryer in the far right corner. You don’t know why you think someone might be watching Bucky’s apartment, or following you from your late night visits, but your dad always said you were paranoid and it’s never hurt you this far in your life. You swing a leg through the window and drop down into the patchy grass below.

From here you scale the fence into the gym parking lot next door and enter the street that way, nobody the wiser. You stuff your hands in your pockets as you walk down the street, itching for a cigarette or some gum or a pair of earphones, something to keep you company as walk home in the middle of night in New York. There are still people out and about, because of course there are, it’s New York. You make it home without a hitch and immediately head to the shower to wash off the night.

Naked again, before you get under the jet you check your phone. Bucky has texted you - probably a joke or something, his pretence for checking you get home safely. Tough guy my ass, you think as you open the picture he’d sent. He’s holding up the black lace panties you’d been wearing, the one’s he’d pulled off with his teeth and tossed aside without a second thought. Under it, he’s sent another message. Think you forgot something.

Did I really forget them? You try to bite back a grin, because it’s sad to be standing in your bathroom smiling at your phone, but you’re unsuccessful. You watch the three dots under Bucky’s name start and stop, then start again, making your heartbeat pick up. You’d made the oh-so-confident Bucky ‘dont know his last name and don’t need to’ falter. It still gives you a thrill.

Don’t think you’ll be getting them back.

Consider it a present, perv.

You like it

No comment.

You jump in the shower, leaving your phone on the vanity. You can’t leave the shower until you rub one out, the rounds of sex you’d had a mere hour ago long forgotten at the thought of Bucky doing the same thing as you to the panties you’d left behind. Maybe you don’t want to get caught up in whatever shit Bucky is in to set off your paranoia radar, but you certainly want to get caught up in him. If you aren’t already; irreversibly tangled.

***

You never find Bucky, he finds you. Or rather, he gives you a call and you know within a few hours you’ll be at whatever bar or diner he asks you to meet him at, building up the tension until you both can’t take it anymore and go back to his apartment. It doesn’t matter what you say to him, or how many times you say no - you both know you’ll be there.

This time he catches you leaving your dad’s place, pushing through the gate as you put the phone up to your ear. You turn to wave goodbye to your dad in the window he always stands at to see you off towards the subway, and say, “So soon?”

“Hello to you too,” Bucky grumbles, but you know there’s no heat in it. You’re grinning as you dodge pedestrians, tugging your puffer jacket tighter around you with your free hand - the New York winter chill has started to set in and it’s biting through even the hoodie you’re wearing under the jacket.

“Hello, Bucky,” you say, hoping he can pick up on the thick condescension you’re handing him, “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“I can hang up,” Bucky warns, and you smirk. You’re winning this round, at least.

“Aw, don’t be like that, baby.” You jog down the subway stairs, hoping your line doesn’t cut out as you move underground. It doesn’t, Bucky’s reluctant laugh filtering clear as day through your phone.

“Baby, huh? Moving onto pet names are we, doll?”

You wrinkle your nose, “Ugh, not if they’re from the nineteen forties, no thank you.”

“I’m sure you hate it,” Bucky says, sarcasm heavy. You can hear his eyeroll from here. “What are you doing?”

“Getting on a train,” you say, as you do indeed slip through the almost-closed doors and try to avoid any and all surfaces around you. “What are you doing?”

“Talking to you,” Bucky says, grin audible. It’s your turn to huff now - Bucky never tells you anything about his life, what he’s doing, who he’s with. It’s another thing that makes you think he’s hiding something, but instead of finding it infuriating and a dealbreaker like you should, instead you’re fascinated. Your mission is to figure Bucky out, piece by piece.

There’s a muffled voice on the other line, someone talking to Bucky and you imagine him covering the receiver with one big palm. A hand that you want on you, running down your skin and pressing down over your throat and dipping between-

“You there?” Bucky asks, jolting you out of your daydream. You’re blushing, suddenly too-hot in the layers that were previously not doing enough to ward off the chill.

You clear your throat and say, “Yeah, yeah, sorry, what?”

“Mmhmm,” Bucky says, clearly amused. “I said, I’ve got a favour to ask you. Something a bit different.”

“Oh?” It had been weeks of going to dive bars and underground diners, meeting Bucky in dark corners to drink rum and cokes and eventually fuck each other senseless until you’re sure Bucky must get noise complaints. Never had he once indicated he might want to change the routine you’d set up. Never had he asked you for a favour. To say you were intrigued was an understatement.

“Come to a party with me tonight?” he asks. You have to replay his voice in your head to make sure you heard right, stunned into silence. He takes your pause for a ‘no’, hurriedly filling it with, “I get if it’s a no, but my friend Nat is a drill sergeant and she’ll give me the third degree if I don’t bring-“

“Don’t hurt yourself,” you say, interrupting his nervous ramble. You’d never heard Bucky sound anything but aggressively confident before. It’s throwing you for more of a loop than his invitation. A large part of your brain tells you to say no. You don’t trust Bucky, really - you barely know him. But thats why you want to say yes. Going to this party might change that. “I’ll go. What time?”

“Eight tonight,” he says, breathing a sigh of relief. “I owe you one.”

“Yeah, you do,” you laugh. You organise to meet at his apartment, not quite ready to give him your address yet, and hang up. Your mind is reeling, sure everyone on the train must feel the impact of that phone call, too.

They’re all going about their business as if something monumental hasn’t just happened. Bucky has invited you into his life, to meet his friends, as his date. What happened to not-friends with benefits? What if this changes the arrangement you’ve carefully cultivated, so perfect for your independent lifestyle and Bucky’s obvious commitment issues?

The temptation is too much. You practically run home when you get off at your stop, anxious to get ready. You’re about to get a few more pieces of the Bucky puzzle and you have to look good for it.

***

Bucky stops you in the front hall of the house, a hand on your arm as he stares down at you. He looks comically large in the tiny Brooklyn town house, even if it is ten times nicer and more beautiful than your place will ever be. The party filters in from further inside the house, loud music and laughter and the obvious clink of beer bottles sounding muffled through the bubble of you and Bucky.

“My friends are… a lot,” he says, drawing his lip between his teeth. You tilt your head at him, amused by what you can only assume is nerves radiating off Bucky. He rolls his eyes at you, kisses you on the forehead quickly, and adds, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I can handle myself, tough guy,” you say as he tugs you by the hand through to the living room where the party is in full swing.

“I hope you’re not calling that punk ‘tough’, lady,” a man calls out from the couch, pointing the neck of his beer at Bucky. His tone sounds aggressive but the wide, gap-toothed smile he gives says otherwise. He gets up and pulls Bucky into one of those manly half-hugs. Bucky doesn’t drop your hand as he pats the guy on the back, and you try in vain not to read too much into that.

“Sam, this is (Y/n),” Bucky says, and to your surprise Sam pulls you into a hug as well. You make wide eyes at Bucky over Sam’s shoulder but he just smirks, clearly amused. He’s still holding your hand.

“Nice to meet you!” Sam exclaims, a bit too loud in your ear but you don’t mind. His happiness is infectious. “Come meet Natasha, she’s going to love you.”

“Why’s that?” you ask, letting yourself be led by Sam with an arm over your shoulders to the couch he’d just vacated. Bucky drops his grip but follows too-close behind you, his body heat almost like a physical touch on your back, reminding you he’s there. You wonder if he’s nervous about what you’re going to say to his friends, or what his friends are going to say to you.

“Because,” Sam says cryptically. You roll your eyes - he’s sounds just like Bucky.

Sam stops in front of the redhead woman he was sitting next to when you entered, dropping the arm from your shoulders. She immediately stops her conversation and stands up, giving you a once over with a smirk tucked tight in the corner of your mouth. You try not to feel intimidated but it’s hard - she’s beautiful, and scary, and did you mention beautiful? She shoots an amused look to Bucky over your shoulder, and in response Bucky rests his fingertips on the small of your back. Barely there, but just enough.

“You’ve brought someone, James,” she says, turning her attention back to you and holding a hand out. “Natasha, lovely to meet you.”

“(Y/n),” you say, taking her hand. It’s soft -  you half expected her to break your hand. “Thank you for having me.”

“Oh, you’re adorable,” she says, and you don’t bother hiding your frown. You don’t like feeling condescended and Natasha seems to be exuding that in palpable waves. Bucky must feel you stiffen because he steps closer, if possible, and slides the hand on your back around to grip your hip.

“Nat,” he says, with warning, and you glance up at Bucky to find him having some kind of silent stare off with Natasha over your head. Eventually he looks back down to you, smiling a bit and squeezing your hip, don’t worry about her. To you, he says, “Let’s go say hi to Steve.”

“See you later, (Y/n),” Nat says, wiggling her fingers in a wave as you follow Bucky to the kitchen. You ignore her, stepping closer to Bucky on instinct as you weave through people packed wall to wall. That was weird, but what did you expect? Bucky did warn you.

Steve turns out to be a giant blonde teddy bear who sweeps Bucky into a hug that lifts him onto his toes. It’s endlessly funny to see huge, muscled, intimidating Bucky being manhandled by a touchy, clearly tipsy behemoth. Bucky doesn’t let it stand for too long, though, bringing Steve into a headlock and sending them both tumbling into the kitchen bench.

“Jerk,” Steve gasps when Bucky lets him go, eyes narrowing. Bucky grins, breathless, and punches him on the shoulder.

“Punk,” he says fondly. You’re mesmerised. You’d wanted to see more of Bucky’s life but you never expected this. It’s like watching him with his family, and it makes something soft and fuzzy swell in your heart which is bad. Very, very bad. Maybe you shouldn’t have come.

Steve finally notices you’re there and you do the normal introductions, watching your hand disappear in his huge one as he shakes it. They’ve all been very welcoming, in their own ways, you notice (bar Natasha, but something tells you she’s always like that). They don’t seem to question your sudden appearance at their party or with their friend, holding Bucky’s hand and being tucked into his side as he passes you a beer and gets to talking about things you have no hope of following. You’re happy just to watch Bucky, smiling and laughing with pointed teeth and crinkles by his eyes. You still don’t really understand why you’re here, but you’re not going to question it. This feels like a stolen moment, something you’re not meant to see and might not see again so you try and commit as much to memory as you can.

The night goes on, talking with Sam and Steve and Natasha who appear to be Bucky’s closest friends and the only ones he bothers making time for. Bucky doesn’t stop touching you the entire time. At first you think it’s nerves, but the more you observe the party around you when the conversation turns to something you can’t contribute to, the more you think it’s for everyone else rather than Bucky’s nerves. You catch a lot of people eyeing his hand on your hip or his arm around your shoulders, or just looking at Bucky in general. Hardly anyone interrupts your little party of five but not for ignoring you - it’s almost like they revolve around you, in tune to the groups’ every movement, but they wouldn’t dare approach. It’s weird. You try not to look too hard into it but your dad is right. You’re paranoid.

Eventually it’s just you and Bucky sitting on a bench outside, a canopy of fairy lights casting shadows from his unfairly long eyelashes as he looks down at your entwined hands in his lap. You tug against his grip, causing him to look up at you and you almost lose your train of thought. Bucky’s eyes are searing blue, the hottest part of the flame.

“You’re being very possessive tonight,” you say, squeezing his hand for emphasis. He doesn’t look away from your eyes, cocking his head to the side and you have the distinct feeling you’re being tested.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks. You don’t answer straight away. Truth be told, you have no idea what’s going on. You went from fucking Bucky on a semi-regular basis, keeping it at strangers who bone and nothing else, to being glued to his side at a party with his closest friends in what feels like no time at all. Whiplash, is what you feel. You don’t think you hate it, though.

“I never said that,” you tell Bucky, and watch as his face morphs from calculating to that shit-eating, confident smirk you’ve come to know. You’re relieved to see it, the sparkle of his eyes as he leans closer to you in the dark of the garden. This, at least, you know.

“You’ve done well tonight,” he says, and you hate how you glow at the compliment when you should be rolling your eyes. “I know I’ve asked a lot.”

“It’s alright Bucky,” you say, smiling at his seriousness. You’d think he’s asked you to commit a crime or something. “Although, I don’t know why you needed me here. I’m glad you did, but…”

“But you thought I only wanted you, to fuck you?” he finishes, kicking his eyebrows up in amusement. You hate the way you blush, ducking your head from him to try and hide it.

“I feel like that was a very logical conclusion,” you say defensively. What else had he given you? You didn’t even know his last name.

He takes your chin between his fingers, tilting your head back up to look at him. He’s smiling soft, not condescending at all, and he moves his hand to cup your cheek in his palm and hold you there, looking at him.

“Maybe this was a test,” he says, licking his lips. Biding time. “To see if I can trust you.”

“Do you?” you ask, eyebrows kicking up.

“Jury’s still out,” he says with a grin, light-hearted, playing it off as a joke but you know from the look in his eyes that he’s being somewhat serious. He looks out at the garden then, still holding you close, and says almost thoughtfully, “My friends like you, though. Even Natasha.”

You scoff at that, and he turns back to you with that crinkly, squishy smile he gave to Steve before. It catches you off guard, enough to not see the kiss before it comes but you catch up as fast as you can. You want to slide into his lap and run your fingers under his shirt, but that’s probably a bit inappropriate in front of a bunch of people you just met. You settle for a frustrated groan against his mouth, biting his lip and tugging so he’s forced to chase you against the back of the bench, crowding your space. He drops your hand to slide his up your thigh, fingertips dangerously close to your crotch, kissing you hard enough to bruise. His tongue in your mouth is scalding, stubble against your skin a delicious burn, and you would’ve gotten lost in it if it weren’t for the very pointed cough from behind Bucky’s shoulder.

It’s Natasha, standing with her arms folded and a smile hidden somewhere in the green of her eyes. You try to mentally will away the flush in your cheeks as Bucky pulls back, hand still on your thigh but turning to glare at Natasha. You find yourself somewhat hiding behind the bulk of his shoulder despite yourself, letting him take the reins.

“Steve is puking,” she reports, raising one eyebrow. “Sam requests your assistance.”

“Fucking ‘course he does,” Bucky grumbles roughly, getting to his feet. Right before he storms away he pauses, leans back down to kiss you again, and then he’s back on a warpath through the house. Other guests part for him like the red sea, and you watch with furrowed eyebrows as they also seem to watch him go. He never goes anywhere without an audience. Perhaps you were right to be paranoid about him.

Natasha is still standing there when you blink yourself back to the garden, watching you with an unreadable expression. You straighten your holey, vintage t-shirt under your leather jacket and stand, not enjoying the power difference with her standing above you. You wish Bucky had taken you with him, even though you didn’t particularly want to watch Steve throw up everywhere. It would be preferable to being stuck under Natasha’s x-ray vision, though.

“I like your boots,” she says. It takes you aback - such a typical girl thing to say at a party to someone you don’t know, and Natasha doesn’t give you ‘typical’. You glance down at your Docs, and then back up at her pretty sundress with a sexy v-cut.  Sure you do, you think sarcastically, as you both stand there like night and day.

“Thanks,” you manage to say, “And again, for inviting me. The party’s been great.”

“Has it?” she asks, and why do you feel like she’s asking three questions at once? As if sensing your apprehension, she smiles and adds, “Just, I know we’re a bit full on and being the new girl at a party is always difficult.”

You blink, surprised once again. The sincerity throws you for a loop, as everything seems to with Natasha. You say, “I mean, yeah, but you guys are great. You all seem really close, it’s- nice. Like  a family.”

Something flashes in Natasha’s eyes, that amused little smirk returning to her face that fills your gut with dread. Was it something you said?

“Come on,” she says, and just as you think you can’t be surprised by this woman anymore, she winds her arm with yours and starts leading you back into the house. Throwing you a conspiratorial look you’re not sure you’ve earned, she says, “Let’s go find the boys. I’m sure Steve’s finished throwing up by now.”

Part Two

~~~~~ please let me know what you think!

[shardminds]

wild animal (livin’ like a fine young cannibal)

pairing: emma swan/killian jones rating: t (maybe light m) wc: 2200 and some change

An abandoned warehouse wouldn't be Emma's first choice for a date location. Killian finds a way to convince her otherwise.

work has been stressing me out and i have a million and one things to work on (i’m looking at you csss part 3!) but this crawled its way out of my brain, massively enabled by @darkcolinodonorgasm​ and further encouraged by @artistic-writer​ (who made this beautiful cover! isn’t it great? i’ve never had a fic cover before! i’m still emotional about it). thank you, ladies! this is essentially the blood rave scene from blade only with less violence and more kissing. 

tagging: @thisonesatellite​ @teamhook​ @kmomof4​ @superchocovian​@itsfabianadocarmo​ @killianjonesownsmyheart1​ and, if you wanna be added or removed from this list, just gimme a shout!

available on ao3 ♠

He’d told her to dress, as he so bluntly phrased it, good enough to eat. She’d tried her best to adhere to the code, pairing her favourite leather mini skirt and a thin camisole with fuck-me heels and fishnets. She’d foregone a jacket, knowing that Killian would lend her his if the chill became too much. The way his leather hangs off her, arms just slightly too long but still soft and worn, is one of the pros of having a boyfriend impervious to the cold. Regardless, the main appeal of her outfit isn’t practicality, it’s the fact that at least three of the souvenirs Killian has blessed her with are proudly on show—one at the juncture of her neck, another on her inner wrist, and another just peeking from beneath the hem of her skirt. They catch in the streetlights, glowing temporarily in the luminescence as her Uber trails the city streets, en route to the address he’d texted. There are others, countless others, along her ribs, her breasts, her thighs, faint scars she’d asked him for, a curse on his breath every time she did.

Emma never thought she’d be into it, the territorial possession that comes with having a vampire for a lover, that is. In the past, she rebuffed it, not willing to be taken as anyone’s property, human or otherwise. She’d told Killian the same, at first, unafraid of the fangs he flashed with each smirk. He respected her wishes, kept his distance, with the promise of forever in his eyes and one night on his lips. Over time, something about him drew her in, no glamour or coercion, just… something else, a kind of other that intrigued her, in the depth of his eyes and that knowing smile.

Then again, she’s always had a thing for older guys.

Three arduous weeks later, she’d fucked him in the bathroom stall of a club she can’t remember the name of and delighted in the awestruck look on his face as she sank to her knees before him.

It’s a fond memory.

And it was never just one night.

The warehouse is shady at best, murderous at worst, and Killian greets her at the entrance. Everything about him is appealing, from the artful dishevelment of his hair and the dark silk of his shirt, right down to the snug fit of his jeans and that same promise in his eyes. Eternity looks fucking amazing on him, and he knows. At this point, he could wear nothing but a bedsheet and he’d still be the most attractive being she’s ever seen—in fact, she might prefer that. Maybe later, if they make it home.

“I see you took the dress code to heart, love.” He drawls, his eternal smirk present, pulling her in by the waist for a searing kiss. Searing is an understatement, really. Each time he brings her in like this, close enough that she can taste his hunger—iron and ash—masked by the sweetness of rum just before their lips touch, she can feel parts of herself float away. The tensions and stresses from her day dissipate against his mouth, lost in each breath between them. Killian is a fantastic kisser and, as her tongue catches on the point of a fang, she knows that he knows it.

“Hello to you too.” Fighting off breathlessness, Emma pulls away. They won’t make it to whatever it is he has planned if they keep kissing like that. The urge to call another Uber back home already far too prevalent in her mind. It would be so easy, like every other time, just falling into bed with him.

He laughs, keeping his hand at her waist but allowing space between them. “I missed you.”

“You saw me this morning,” She adds, a smile playing at her lips. Instead of pulling away and taking his hand like she usually does, Emma decides against taking him up on the offer of space. “I’ve been wondering about your date night plan all day.”

“It’s... unconventional, to say the least.”

She shrugs, lacing their fingers together. “So are we.”

“Right you are, lass.” Killian’s smile takes her by surprise. It’s not his usual, cocky, self-assured grin. It’s pride, admiration and something warmer that settles in her stomach when she catches it. She pushes it aside, saving it for later as Killian meets her for another brief kiss. “Shall we?”

The warehouse itself is empty, a cavernous space with a creaking steel frame and concrete floors. Each step she takes causes an echo; each breath leaves a puff of condensation in the frigid air. Killian doesn’t seem swayed by this and walks them both across the expanse to a giant metal door, taking the rusted lever in hand and twisting it open with minimal exertion. It groans, hinges protesting as it creeps open, to reveal the cacophony of noise behind it. Thudding bass and warped vocals swelling and falling in time to the heavy beat. Upon entry, they’re met with writhing bodies, lost in the rhythm, crammed into what was once probably an industrial standard cold store. Despite everything, they make way for Killian to enter.

Suddenly, Emma feels decidedly overdressed.

“A rave?” She has to shout to make herself heard, although, come to think of it, Killian probably has no trouble hearing her at all, regardless of the party going on around them. “I never expected this to be your kind of thing.”

He winks then, before pulling her against him, his chest to her back. Emma’s breath catches in her throat, a moan prepared to escape at a second’s notice. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Swan.”

Like that, pressed together so close she can feel every breath he takes, she allows herself to get lost, the white noise numbing her senses to their basest needs. Him. Each time she pushes back, he rocks forward, eliciting the most delicious feelings from deep within. It’s intoxicating, being with him. Not the blood, nor the sex. Just being. Waking up to his touch, falling asleep to his breathing, making coffee, getting breakfast, talking, dancing—the small things. It’s always the small things. He treats her with veneration, a kind of reverence that no one else has, and—as much as she wishes she could deny it, that she could walk away from all this and still be the same old Emma—he’s changed her so irreversibly, she’s not sure what her life would be without him in it.

They’re being watched—no, she’s being watched. Eyes follow them—her as she moves, letting the music take her wherever it will. It courses through her like a second heartbeat, and the voyeurism of it all, familiar and unfamiliar faces flitting back to them—her as Killian trail’s his hands all over, his lips fused to her neck—it’s a heady mix. Whatever he’s got planned, whatever happens next, Emma knows that she’ll be sore in the morning. In the best way, of course. Freshly fucked and freshly drained.

The music never seems to change, the pulse of it thrumming beneath her skin until she can feel the drop coming, inching closer until it reaches its peak. Her stomach falls along with it. He whispers in her ear, but she can’t make sense of his words, falling deaf in favour of the music around them. The caress of his lips on her lobe has her arching back, pressing her ass against him in a tease. She can feel how ready he is, solid against her as she grinds back into him.

The guttural snarl, she can feel, reverberating through his chest on a silenced down beat. His hands go to her wrists, grasping them and tracing his fingertips up her thighs and over her stomach, devilishly slow, one catching over her nipple as he passes over her chest, continuing higher and higher until they’re held above her head, high in the air, alongside everyone else’s on the dancefloor. The music builds and builds and builds, heavy and palpable between them, cementing everyone together in one single goal: to dance. Killian presses a kiss to her ear, tongue darting out to tease as the music pauses for a second in the build-up to yet another drop.

“Don’t be afraid.”

Then the world goes red and she screams.

Cheers erupt from around them as blood pours from the ceiling, sprinkling over the patrons below like a downpour after a drought. The crowd synchronise, palms to the sky, heads tilted back, mouths wide open and jumping along to the discordant thumping as they get their fill of the life source they’re being drowned in. It tastes like iron and chemicals, tacky and cool to the touch, nothing like what Killian had described when he tasted her. He’d compared her to fine wine, to love and sex and everything he missed of being human. Her hands, still held in the air by his grasp, are lined with rivulets of red, each one making its path wherever gravity may take it. The taboo of it has her shivering. Pulling her wrists free and turning to look upon his face, she places her palms on his chest.

It’s chaos.

He’s smiling. A wicked smile, white teeth and dark eyes. He could kill her right now. The recognition of that immediate danger only makes it so much better when he steps closer, eradicating the distance between them.

Fuck.

She wants him, needs him, and when he leans to lick a stripe up her cheek to catch the dripping ichor there, she moans, losing herself to the sensation. He’s a monster and she can’t get enough. In all her life, she’d never anticipated that she’d enjoy such publicly lewd displays of affection but, as Killian laps at the pool of blood gathered above her clavicle, she could not give less of a shit about the hundreds of prying eyes in the room. It’s euphoric, feeling him hard against her as he feeds, taking his fill from the blood trailing over her skin. The familiar lick of her arousal curls low in her belly, demanding to be felt.

She can't stand it—the absence of his lips against hers, tracing over every piece of exposed flesh except the place she wants him most, the chill it brings, the pleasure it ignites within her. There's nothing quite like it. It’s infuriating, maddening, and it reduces her to nothing more than a whimpering mess as his tongue makes its way back up her neck and along her jaw. He comes to a halt there, pausing and pulling back to take her in. He’s fucked, hair soaked through in the initial pandemonium of the bloodbath, eyes glossy and intense but not as dark as they had been earlier, his ocean blue peering through—it only goes to prove the effect he sustenance he’d laved from her flesh is having. He’s covered in blood, completely drenched with it and he’s the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen. Even like this, surrounded by creatures of nightmare and legend, she can’t help but crave him. With lips parted, he leans in to give her what she desires.

“I fucking love you.” It’s a whisper against her lips, punctuated with fangs tugging on the plump skin there and—well, Emma can’t help herself. It’s not the first time he’s said it and it won’t be the last. Killian Jones has walked the earth for three centuries. He kisses with purpose, fucks with passion and loves unconditionally and Emma Swan, with almost three decades under her belt, can’t find the words to say it back. Not yet. Instead, she throws her arms around his neck, finding his lips with a kiss as the blood rain falls around them and the tantalizing beat drives the crowd.

The kiss is wild; deep, needy and feral in its urgency. It’s fangs and moans and tongues and teeth. It’s messy, the cloying copper taste of blood still lingering between them. It’s perfect.

Before Emma can even think to protest, Killian’s hoisting her up, lifting until her legs are securely wrapped around his waist. Tonight was not the night to wear a skirt but Emma can’t bring herself to regret it. She can already feel it riding up, threatening to expose her ass to the crowd. It’s a blessing she’d opted to wear underwear at all, especially knowing that Killian has a habit of tearing them off in his haste to get to her core. The sharp scratch of his fangs against her bottom lip snaps them both out of their lustful haze for just long enough for Emma to know without words what it is he wants. His gaze, hungry as ever, flits to her chest.

Her shirt’s gone in seconds, torn off by her own impatient hands and his dexterous ones. It comes away in two pieces, thrown aside without a care, revealing the black lace of her bra beneath. It had cost her thirty dollars but, sat at his waist, skin tinted red with the sanguine rainfall, Emma can't bring herself to care. The caress of sharp fangs against the swell of her breast, edging her closer and closer to madness yet grounding her at the same time, tethering her to him, is almost too much. She needs the bite just as much as he does. The call of it strikes deep in her bones, screaming for him. She used to be ashamed of it, fearing just how much she enjoys his deadly kiss, but those memories are all but dust now. In their place, only want.

When he takes one look at her, right before his enamelled canines pierce her skin, she's lost to him.