Title: Sweetest Poison

Rating: Let's just say it's best I not get my hands on Colin O'Donoghue.

Summary: In reaching for Heaven, condemned to Hell.

Disclaimer: Oh God. If only. I would do at least four members of that cast.

Dedication: This was all CJ's idea, dammit.

They're at the diner again, everything closed down for the night, only one lamp shining. She's making things disappear and reappear, each time faster than the last, grinning like a schoolgirl every time it works. She keeps trying to make him laugh, but it's not working. Every time he sees her smile, those pale lips quirking upwards and revealing a flash of white teeth, he's reminded of what he has to do. It's a bargain with the devil, and either way he'll lose.

"All right, grumpy pants."

She plunks down across from him, her eyes lacking their usual sparkle. She must be serious.

"What's gotten into you?" She asks.

"I told you it's a long story."

"I've got time."

He eyes her as she sits there, the Savior, her straw-spun hair illuminated by the lamp behind her head. He'd given up hope of love, hope of redemption, hope of anything, really, and then he'd met her. Turning his world upside down, the minx. Turning everyone's worlds upside down, in fact. How he'd thought he could be immune to her, he doesn't know. As he stares at her the features on her face slowly soften, and she takes one of his hands in both of hers.

"Talk to me," She says, her voice low.

He wants to tell her everything. He wants to tell her that he loves her, and that very love is what's going to get her killed. He wants to tell her he has no choice, and if he could kill himself instead he would. He's certainly considered it. He wants to tell her he wishes that things could have been different. He'd give anything for her, and it's that very quality that has twisted and turned on him, condemned him.

But all he manages to get out is:

"You look quite stunning in this light."

Smooth, Killian. Way to pour your heart out.

Emma smiles at him, her thumb running gently over his knuckles, and of course this is the moment she's breaking. Of course this is the time she decides to take him up on his not-quite-stated offer of something more. His luck just keeps getting better and better.

"You're not too bad yourself," She replies. "But don't think I don't know a subject change when I see it. Whatever it is, whenever you're ready to talk, I'm here."

She leans forward, and he manages to turn his face just in time. Her lips land on his cheek, soft and warm. His skin burns where they touch. He feels branded.

Emma pulls back just enough so that he can see her face, her eyes dark and searching. The corners of her mouth are turned down, and he can see the crease in her forehead. "Say something," She whispers.

He can't. He doesn't have words.

Instead he leans forwards, meeting her halfway, his hands gripping her shoulders as he ghosts his mouth over her jawline. It's not kissing, not really, and he will exploit that fine line as much as possible.

He fully expects her to pull away, but instead he feels her body shudder. The tension bleeds out of her, like a breaking dam with the roaring swell of water let loose, and he feels one of her hands grip at the lapels of his coat as the other braces against the tabletop. He moves downwards, nuzzling at her collarbone, biting gently and then lapping at the red mark. She shudders again, and he feels her tug at him. He pulls back and sees her wide, dark pupils, blown beyond anything he's imagined (and he's imagined quite a lot), her face a pale pink instead of the usual cream.

"What are we doing?" She asks.

He wishes he knew.

"You tell me," He says.

Emma yanks him up and practically drags him out of the booth. She tries to kiss him again and he can already imagine how her mouth would feel, slick heat and a daring tongue, and he wants it more than life itself but he pushes her away instead, making her stumble and her back connect with the wall. He's on her in an instant, his hands running up her body and pushing her jacket to the floor. Shirt is next, and then her bra, and she's keening with his mouth around her nipple before he can even think again. He's still fully dressed, which Emma babbles about in her annoyed tone (she's having a delightfully difficult time stringing words together), but he ignores her in favor of sucking and nibbling. Again, it's not kissing, but it's right in the gray area, and he intends to stay there.

He works a hand downwards, unbuttoning her pants and pushing them down along with her underwear. She's completely bare in front of him now, and his pants are in danger of ripping if he doesn't get them off soon. He trails a finger through her folds, still working at her breasts with his mouth and opposite hand, and he bites down a little too hard when he realizes how wet she is.

That's definitely going to leave a mark.

He wants to work her open, wants to make her grind down on his hand, fucking her slow and easy, but Emma's hands are in his hair and before he knows it he's standing upright again and she's shoving his clothes off like they offended her. They probably are, at this point in the proceedings. Their combined efforts get his shirt unbuttoned and his pants around his ankles before Emma mutters, "Fuck it," and decides to take matters into her own hands.

Literally.

His vision whites out for a second at the feel of her hot, lithe hand around him, stroking delicately, teasingly, and he has to swallow hard lest things get a lot more messy and it all ends too soon. His hands slide down the small of her back and under her ass. Taking the cue, she gives a little jump and wraps her legs around him, her head thudding against the wall. Her breasts are just about mouth-level and he scrapes his teeth along the sensitive skin again, making her shiver against him.

"For fuck's sake!" She says, her hand snaking down again to squeeze him. Never let it be said that Emma Swan is the patient type.

She guides him in and helps him slide home and then, oh, but she's perfect. They're pressed up against each other, breathing room a thing long forgotten, and she's completely enveloping him and with that all self-control snaps.

He sets a quick, hard pace, one that Emma seems to enjoy, her fingers and heels digging in and urging him onwards. God, she's beautiful, like some kind of ancient warrior goddess, intimidating and glorious and larger than life and scary as fuck but so overwhelmingly gorgeous. She makes the loudest noises, too, taking advantage of the empty diner, her screams and encouragements echoing in the space. His mouth is by her ear and he tugs gently on her earlobe with his teeth, the words spilling out of him as something hot pricks at his heart:

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry...

Emma's close, so fucking close, and she can tell by the way he's pulsing within her that he's close, too. She loves this angle, her body practically spearing itself down on him, and it hits her right where the money is. She can't properly kiss him at this angle so she lets rip with the noises instead, her hands skimming over his tanned, weathered skin as he thrusts into her over and over again.

There's something strange about all of this, and not just the whole fucking-in-a-diner aspect. Her spidey senses are tingling, and things are just confirmed when she feels him tug on her earlobe and start whispering. It seems almost unconscious, as if he doesn't know he's saying these things out loud.

"I'm sorry," He whispers, again and again. "Emma Swan, I am so sorry, if I could—I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, my savior, Emma, I'm sorry—"

She wants to ask what he's talking about, if he thinks this is in some way non-concensual, because she can hear the deep, dark pain in his voice and she wants to drive it away. She's close, though, so close, and the time for questions is gone because two incredibly deep thrusts later and she's writhing on him, hearing his shout of release like a distant roar of thunder as lightning flashes in her body and she loses all coherent thought. She wants to kiss him, wants to pour her screams into his mouth, wants to taste him and duel with his tongue, but his fingers are speared in her hair and holding her head back, keeping their mouths apart, and then everything's white and blinding and so, so good.

But even then, she doesn't fail to feel the warm splash of something salty on her lips.

He comes to first, realizing they've slid to the floor during their post-orgasmic haze. Emma's curled up in his lap, her eyes hooded and glazed over, a smile dancing about the corners of her mouth. He has never wanted to kiss her so badly.

This was so many versions of wrong.

He presses his face to the top of her head, inhaling the scent of her hair. It's sweat and sex and her, and he drinks it in like a drug.

Emma stirs, and he stiffens as he feels her press a light kiss to his chest. He strokes her back absently, knowing he's got to end it and hating every fiber of himself.

"We should get back," He suggests.

She tips her face upwards to look at him, her brow creasing. "Is everything okay?"

He shakes his head, his grip on her tightening instinctively. "Dark times are coming, Emma Swan."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mr. Doom and Gloom," She responds.

"You have to promise me," He says. He feels like he's begging. "Whatever may come after, you will remember this."

Emma sits up properly, her hair falling in a golden waterfall around her head, framing her concerned face. "Why? What are you going to do?" She clearly thinks he's going to do something stupid.

He presses his face to the crook of her neck. "Never you mind," He replies.

It's obviously the wrong answer, and he feels her leave him before he sees her, standing up and retrieving her clothing. Her face is closed off, hard, the way it was when they first met. He feels like he's been stabbed.

"Right." She finishes buttoning her shirt alarmingly quickly. "I'm going to check on Henry. When you're ready to actually explain what the hell's going on with you instead of just," She waves her hand in the general direction of the wall, "You let me know."

The bell above the door tinkles as she slams it behind her. Without the feel of her body against him the cold seeps into his bones, chilling him in seconds. He lifted his fingers to his lips, remembering the strange tingle that had enveloped them at Zelina's curse. His eyes stung.

"I'm sorry," He whispered to the empty air.

Like I said, this is all CJ's fault. Blame her. Oh, and reviews. I like reviews. They help ease the pain.