A/n: Written for Grace (who demanded it of me – JEEZ GRACE – when I joked about writing a vampire/True Bloodish sort of AU… alright, it was more of a mutual agreement but there was some demanding involved, ok?)
"Mmm, yes, fuck me, Darling," he growled, thrusting his hips upwards and groaning loudly at the pleasure and pain when she pressed him harder into the back of the bar toilet as she rode him. "Just like that, Emma."
"Shut. Up," she grit out, clawing nails into his scalp with one hand and in his shoulder with the other, riding him harder, almost cruelly fast (she was practically moving in a blur, the friction nearly burning him), making him cry out and frantically grasp at her hips for leverage.
"Fuck, Sweetheart, you know I can never last... when you move like that," he moaned feebly (knowing full well she hated when he used pet names), biting his bottom lip until he tasted blood and lolling his head back against the white tiles of the wall, stained with streaks of brown of long-dried blood.
This vampire would be the bloody death of him. Literally, if he was lucky.
It seemed like yesterday that he, Killian Jones, had wandered into The Blood Bar (oh so cleverly named, that), half-dead from drink and half-crazed with depression and a self-hating need to be used and abused (and quite possibly done away with - again, if he were lucky, which so far, he hadn't been).
He just didn't care anymore.
And what better place than this?
It had taken less than two minutes there before he laid eyes on her, less than five before he knew she was the one that he'd come there for, and two weeks before she'd give him so much as the time of day.
Emma Swan was a vision of both a woman and a vampire, around 18 in body, 10 or 11 years older in mind, blonde hair cascading down her shoulders in wavy, lazy curls, wearing a tight, long-sleeved, black top with a deliciously low v accentuating her breasts and a pair of jeans that would make even the most prejudiced fucker out there stop and stare at her ass. But what caught Killian's attention the most wasn't her beauty or her power (and she had plenty of both, he could feel her practically oozing with it, so controlled but so damned dangerous, like a lioness eying her prey but never attacking as she scanned the bar filled with both vampire and humans, intermingling in an establishment that was no better than a modern day brothel) – it was her loneliness. The broken and guarded look of someone who had been hurt, abandoned, the type of pain that was ingrained so deeply into your soul that you didn't even realize what you looked like.
Killian knew that pain (by a couple of different names, actually).
It was that shared, recognized suffering that brought them together and for his particular reasons for seeking out the bar, he could have found another, someone just as appealing who would do the job worlds faster, but he didn't.
It scared the hell out of him that he didn't.
Some unintended months, countless conversations, and the most rigorous round of sex that he'd ever had later, he'd come to find that she had been turned and then left alone in the dirt by her ex-boyfriend when she was 17 years old and 6 weeks pregnant, turning aside, that'd be enough to scar anyone as it was. Needless to say, the relationship had ended when her life (and her pregnancy) had, and despite coming back a couple of years later to make amends (pathetic git), the damage had been done and that sort of thing wasn't exactly the type that you forgot, not if you were a woman like Emma.
Shortly after (feeling that he owed her a memory of his own) he'd held out his left hand and displayed the nasty looking scar around the wrist. The accident (if it could even be called that) had nearly ripped the hand clean off. He'd been told that he was lucky to have it at all, and much more so, the stiff, frustratingly limited use of his fingers on it.
He'd never felt lucky.
That accident had cost him his love, the driver of the vehicle who hit them all too aware of what he was doing. Milah had survived the car spinning, flipping, and crashing down the shallow ravine on the opposite side of the road. What she hadn't survived was a bullet to the heart, courtesy of her jealous husband – the same man who made sure his wife died made sure that Killian lived.
That was the one and only moment they had, their only connection, their singular moment of weakness and then it was over, back to ignoring and avoiding, coaxing and tempting and taunting and finally fucking, if only to be near her again, if only to be one step closer to dying (but sometimes, with Emma, it felt more like living).
What she had even been doing there at the bar that first night, Killian was never quite sure. She didn't seem the type, sitting alone, drinking a lousy blood substitute (or at least she had mentioned it being lousy once, just after the first time they had been together, both of them breathing heavy as she licked a final, slow trickle of blood from his neck and told him how fucking amazing he tasted – she always had been more uninhibited after feeding from him).
Maybe she'd been the type all along.
Emma's eyes widened at the sight of the plump droplet of blood that was slowly budding on his lower lip where he had bitten down until finally it slipped off and rolled towards the scruff of his chin and she swooped in, sucking it into her mouth and moaning at the taste of iron and him, her hips faltering at her first taste she'd had in weeks.
"You like that, don't you, Swan?" he murmured huskily when she finally released him to bury her face into the crook of his neck, his own breath ragged and broken as he rocked his hips up to meet hers and struggled to hold onto his last shred of control. Gods be damned, sleeping with a vampire, this vampire (admittedly, his only vampire), always made him feel so damned inexperienced, desperate and aching and on the edge and so entirely hers. It didn't help that she had the strength and stamina of a bloody goddess. "Do I taste good to you, love?"
"I said, shut up," she snarled, bucking her hips hard and biting down mercilessly at the sensitive spot where his shoulder and neck met, a tease, tough and bruising rather than piercing (she was always so controlled, fangs sheathed as long as physically possible, waiting until the last minute as if she didn't want to taste him, feed from him, lapping at his blood like it were candy as she came around cock and milked him for all he had). "Fuck."
She actually whimpered, rolling her hips with a new resolve, fluttering and tightening erratically around him and god, it was wrong and dangerous and twisted, what they had, but she felt so good he couldn't find it in himself to care. This could be his last breath and he could die, well, perhaps not happy, but unquestionably satisfied.
"Bloody hell, Emma," he kissed at her neck (paying it special care), her jaw, her chin, licking and nipping and marking her himself (his a sad joke in comparison to the lingering ones that she left on him), a hand sliding up to her clothed breast and squeezing while he mouthed at her. She responded, hells, did she respond, moaning and whining and whispering his name, always like this, but never anywhere else, never in any situation but this one did she let a shred of vulnerability slip. "God, Emma… for a lass who talks of being dead, you're always so bloody fucking wet fo-"
She silenced him another muttered shutup, a soft click of her fangs and a yank of his hair that was anything but gentle, forcing his head back far enough hurt, baring him to her and then she was there, sinking into the scruffy tenderness of his neck, biting savagely where his pulse jumped just beneath his skin. He whimpered sharply, words dissolving in his throat and hips stilling again, always surprised by the stabbing and then dragging, pulling sort of pain that followed, fangs ripping into him and then retreating, her tongue and lips replacing them as she sucked and lapped and moaned around his skin like he was the greatest thing that she'd ever experienced.
This was what he was here for, the pain, the exhilaration, the looming possibility of death – except she never gave it to him.
Killian writhed beneath her, his thrusts short and sloppy and half-hearted now as he struggled to clear the blurry haze of his mind while she continued to drive down onto his cock, the feeling of her draining him slowly, agonizing and terrifying and thrilling all at once. He always lost focus at this point, too much pleasure and too much pain, the distraction just enough to make him lazy, his mind slowed and somewhat incoherent (even during rough, mindblowing sex).
But she never needed him for this part anyway.
She was already too close, the taste of him on her tongue and the pleasant, burning stretch of him inside of her, her bucks causing the perfect amount of friction against her clit – no, he could just sit back and relax, in fact, she always seemed to prefer it if he did.
Her movements sped up as she chased the sparks of pleasure that drove her to move even faster, her teeth biting around the fang marks and sucking again, getting lost in the taste and smell and the feel of him. He could feel her getting lost, losing all sense and thought and gently, languidly he could feel himself slipping as well, dizzy, the haze growing thicker, his impending orgasm feeling less and less important but present all at once. Lapping, sucking, biting, tonguing, and then lapping again, her pattern in time with her bounces in his lap, moans buried in her throat and fuck - she didn't normally take this much, but it was okay.
He wasn't going to fight her.
As soon as the thought entered his mind, all at once, his skin was cold, her fervent pattern stopping entirely.
"Shit," she cursed harshly, her lips slick and sticky with the wet, warmness of his own blood, wrenching herself away from him like she'd been burned. "I need to st-"
"Don't," he rasped, his fingers gripping even tighter where his hands rest at her hip and arm. "Don't. Just do it."
She gasped, but damn her, she was still moving, rising up and down, her slick wetness sliding along him, aching, so close. "Killian I-"
"Take it all," he interrupted in a breath, choked out and weak, tipping his head away from her for better access as his eyes fluttered closed, his hips jerking slightly in a stunted, uneven rhythm with her now less frantic movements. "You know you want to… so do it."
He knew he was tempting, offering himself up on a platter after hounding her, taunting her all these months, and maybe it was his words, or maybe it was the way she was moving because whatever she was doing was amazing, but all of a sudden, she clenched around him, back arching, head thrown back as her nails scraped red lines in his scalp and he still couldn't believe the most incredible sounds she made when she came for him. He could live and die for that sound. It was too much. A handful more of erratic, shaky rocks upwards and he was choking out his own series of groans, face pressed into her chest, pain shooting through so many parts of his body, he wasn't sure what hurt and what didn't, but it didn't matter, because for a minute he was in heaven inside of her.
Too soon, she was sliding off of his lap and standing (he wasn't sure how she even could), subconsciously squeezing her thighs together as she reached for her clothes. After an awkward minute, him remaining slumped against the toilet seat and her collecting her jacket and jeans from the stall, she glanced back at him, her eyes following the trail of blood that dripped lazily down to his shirt collar.
"You stayin in here?"
"You'll need to excuse me, Lass," he chuckled hoarsely, his lips curving into a smirk. "Something about blood loss and orgasms render my legs rather useless for a tick," he went on, tipping his head back against the wall again and leaning further into the metal of the piping, fighting against the urge to close his eyes.
She shook her head (to herself or him, he wasn't sure, but sensed it was the former), straightening her top and then bending down to wriggle her panties back up and over her hips and it was amazing to him how something so dangerous and exciting could look so harmless and mundane.
"So we're back to pretending I don't exist, are we?"
"You don't. I was hungry," she shrugged, turning away and wiped a bright smudge of red from the corner of her mouth. "I ate."
"You never feed on humans, love."
"And these few months have been…" she asked pointedly with a raise of her eyebrow.
"You know what I mean, Emma."
"Yeah, well," she shrugged again, slinging a red, leather jacket over her shoulders, and then reaching down to button her jeans. "Maybe you were annoying enough to make an exception."
"Oh, don't be like that, Darling," he cajoled, rolling his head forward weakly to look her in the eye. "I had to practically slit my throat and bleed on you to get you to notice me and I saw the look in your eyes when you tasted me that night."
"And? This going somewhere?"
"I just think a man has a right to know if he's a lass's first," he teased, a light dancing in his blue eyes, his paled skin slowly, slowly renewing its color.
She stiffened, then scoffed. "Not by a long shot, buddy," she sighed and rolling her eyes up to the ceiling as if wondering why she was even talking to him. "But the first in a long time. Since that shitty substitute hit the shelves anyway."
"So there's never anyone else but me?" He didn't wait for her to answer, the dark, regret-filled look on her face as she turned away from him was enough. "Then I suppose that makes me- what? Yours?"
"You're not mine," she snarled, practically ripping her jacket in her hurry to yank her arms into the sleeves. "And I'm not anybody's either. You're just a self-deprecating asshole with a death wish and-"
"Why did you ask me to do that?"
"To do what, love?"
"Kill you," she whispered, her hard gaze lifting to meet with his and faltering, almost looking… confused? Scared?
"Because I've got nothing left to live for."
She paused, lingering with her hand on the stall before glancing over her shoulder. "Don't follow me. Wait a few minutes before coming out. Killian... This isn't happening again."
He laughed to himself, his gaze flitting to the floor, his tongue flicking out over his swollen, bloody lip until he looked back up and met her eyes. "I'll see you next week, love."