Late Night Storm
Wrote this for tiktok, decided to drop it here too. <3
Pairing: Jefferson x Reader
Word Count: 1,762
Rating: M (spice)
Chapter: 1/1
Summary: Trapped in the dark with Jefferson and the sound of thunder, you realize the storm isn’t what you should be worried about — it’s the way he looks at you when no one else can see.
Author's Note: Please check the tags for any possible triggers. Thank you!
Tag List: @solemnlywickedwolf @mrscarlislecullen @buckys-girl-blog @quantumbarnes @sheriff-bodecker @thewintermuse @19blackbutterfly97-blog @ealachopairgorm @aerinsartcorner @mickimoo1409 @goobers-mcgee
Divider made by me. <3
The first rumble of thunder is distant enough that you don’t really think about it.
Just a low growl somewhere over the ocean, blending with the hum of the fridge and the rain pattering against the windows. Storybrooke feels smaller when it rains — like the rest of the world pulls back, leaving you and Jefferson in your own little pocket of existence.
You’re halfway through your cup of tea when the lights flicker.
You freeze, mug halfway to your lips.
“Don’t you dare,” you mutter at the ceiling.
Jefferson, sprawled on the opposite end of the couch with a book balanced on his chest, looks up with lazy amusement dancing in his eyes.
“Talking to the power now?” he asks. “Should I be jealous?”
You open your mouth to answer — and the house goes black.
The hum of electricity dies. For a second, the only sound is the rain and the low, rolling thunder over the bay.
“Shit,” you hiss under your breath, already fumbling for your phone. “Where did I put—?”
You bump your knee on the coffee table and curse louder.
Before the panic really settles, a warm hand finds yours in the dark, fingers sliding between your own with easy certainty.
“Relax,” Jefferson says quietly, right at your ear.
You jump slightly. You hadn’t heard him move.
His breath kisses the side of your neck, warm and steady.
“It’s just the storm,” he murmurs. “She likes to throw tantrums. She’ll get over it.”
“Yeah, well, I like being able to see,” you grumble, but your fingers tighten around his anyway.
Another roll of thunder booms, closer this time, making the windows rattle in their frames. The house creaks around you — old wood shifting, pipes ticking, the distant drip-drip of rain sneaking in somewhere it shouldn’t.
You feel, more than see, the way his attention sharpens.
“This,” he says, and his voice is suddenly different — lighter and darker at the same time, threaded with something wild. “This just means no one can bother us.”
Lightning flashes outside, bright and sudden, washing the room in white for half a heartbeat.
You see him clearly in that strobe of light.
Hair mussed. Shirt sleeves rolled up. Bare feet on the rug. A smile spread across his face — wide, delighted, and just a little bit unhinged, like the storm has flipped a switch inside him.
“Think of all the terrible, beautiful things we can do,” he says softly, “when the whole world is forced to look away.”
The darkness swallows his expression again, but it’s burned into your mind now.
“Terrible, huh?” you murmur, pulse skipping. “That’s a strong word.”
“Is it?” He tugs your joined hands, guiding you up from the couch. “Depends who you ask.”
You stumble a little and end up chest-to-chest with him, your free hand splayed against the front of his shirt. You can’t see a thing, but you can feel him — warm, solid, amused.
You feel his chest rise and fall under your palm. His heartbeat is faster than he’s pretending.
“Where are we going?” you ask, as he gently steers you through the darkened living room.
“Somewhere with fewer coffee tables out for your blood,” he says mildly. “And a better view of the lightning.”
His thumb strokes over the back of your hand as he leads you, slow and sure. He knows this house by memory and madness; he could walk it blindfolded.
You, however, bump into a doorframe.
“I don’t mean to be a poor guide,” he murmurs, stepping closer, his other hand finding your waist to guide you through. “But you’re quite distracting.”
“You can’t see me,” you point out, breath catching as his fingers splay warm and possessive against your side.
He hums.
“I don’t need to see you to know exactly what you’re doing to me.”
His words hang in the dark, heavy and intimate.
He stops abruptly.
There’s a faint creak as he nudges a door open with his foot, and then he’s guiding you into a room that smells faintly of old books and his cologne. Another flash of lightning outside outlines the tall windows, the shadow of the bed, the curve of his jaw as he turns his head toward the storm.
You realize where you are.
“Wow,” you say lightly, trying to ignore the way your skin prickles with awareness. “I see. Power outage protocol. Straight to the bedroom, is it?”
He turns back to you, and even in the dark you feel his smile.
“Technically,” he says, stepping closer, “this is where the candles are.”
His hand leaves yours. For a moment you feel strangely untethered — until his fingers find your hip instead, steady and firm. He lets go only long enough to grope for a box of matches on the nightstand.
Scritch.
The match flares to life, a small, wavering sun that throws the room into gold and shadow. His face comes into view, all sharp angles and soft focus — cheekbones ghosted by light, pupils blown wide.
He lights one candle. Then another. And another.
Soon, the room is bathed in a warm, flickering glow that paints the ceiling in swirls and makes everything feel a little unreal. The storm becomes a distant drumbeat, the rain a curtain between your world and everyone else’s.
Jefferson turns back to you, matchbox tucked away, hands free again.
He looks at you like he’s been waiting his whole life for this exact moment.
His hand lifts, knuckles skimming delicately along your jaw, tracing the line of your throat.
“Just you,” he murmurs. “And me. And the dark.”
Your breath comes a little too fast.
“Sounds a little dangerous,” you say, but your voice betrays you — soft, eager, already leaning in.
His eyes brighten.
“Good,” he says.
He closes the distance slowly, like he’s giving you every chance to change your mind.
You don’t.
His mouth meets yours with a kind of careful hunger — like he’s starving, but terrified of breaking what he’s finally dared to reach for. One hand props on the wall beside your head, the other settles firmly at your hip, thumb pressing into the bone as if to anchor himself.
You fist your hands in the front of his shirt and pull him closer.
That’s all it takes.
The kiss deepens, losing its initial restraint. He tilts his head, lips parting, tongue teasing along yours like he’s trying to memorize the exact taste of you. He makes a sound against your mouth — half-groan, half-laugh — as your fingers slide up into his hair.
“Careful,” he breathes, pulling back just enough that his words brush your lips. “You’ll make me forget there’s a world outside this room.”
“I thought that was the point,” you whisper.
Lightning flashes again, bright enough that for a second you see everything clearly: his flushed cheeks, the way his hair sticks up where you’ve tugged it, the wild, reverent look in his eyes.
“You,” he says, voice low and rough, “have excellent instincts.”
His hands move — one traveling up your spine, dragging you flush against him, the other slipping lower to grip the back of your thigh. He hikes your leg up around his hip with an ease that makes your head spin. The press of his body against yours is hot and unmistakable; you feel the way he shudders at the contact.
“Jefferson,” you breathe, fingers tightening in his hair.
He smiles against your throat, open and almost boyish for a moment — before his teeth scrape lightly along your skin.
“I love when you say my name like that,” he murmurs. “Like a confession.”
The storm cracks loud overhead, making the glass tremble. He doesn’t even flinch. If anything, he seems to draw strength from it, nuzzling into your neck, kissing and nipping his way along the sensitive skin.
Outside, the world is all chaos and noise.
Inside, it condenses into him.
His hand slips under the hem of your shirt, palm flattening against your back, fingers splayed wide as if to cover as much of you as possible.
“Do you have any idea how often I think about this?” He asks, words muffled against your skin, “About you. Trapped in this town with me and my ghosts.”
“Trapped?” you echo, the word dissolving into a soft sound as his mouth finds a spot that makes your knees threaten to give out.
His grip tightens, holding you up.
He leans back just enough to meet your eyes, breathing hard.
“You could have run,” he says. There’s no accusation in it — just raw, almost disbelieving wonder. “When the curse broke. When doors opened. When everyone else was running toward their happy endings.”
You swallow.
“I didn’t want theirs,” you say simply.
Something breaks open in his expression.
He kisses you like that answer unravels him — like you’ve just pulled the thread on a carefully woven mask and he doesn’t have the will to stop it coming apart. The kiss turns messy, hands roaming, bodies shifting until the wall is a support rather than a prison.
“What terrible, beautiful things we could do,” he repeats, murmuring into your mouth. “I want to hear what you sound like when you forget anyone else exists. When it’s just us and the storm and the dark.”
You shiver, heat curling low in your belly.
“And if the lights come back on?” you ask, teasing but breathless.
His smile turns feral.
“Then the world can watch,” he says softly, thumbs stroking slow circles into your hips. “They’ll see exactly how much you belong here. With me.”
Thunder rolls again, distant now, as if even the sky is retreating to give you space.
He presses his forehead to yours, breath mingling with yours, candlelight flickering around you both like a ring.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispers. His hands are gentle even as his body trembles with restraint. “And I will. I swear it. But if you don’t—”
You hook your fingers in his shirt and tug.
“Don’t stop.”
For a beat, everything hangs suspended — the candles, the storm, his heartbeat under your palm.
Then he laughs, soft and disbelieving and so full of relief it almost hurts. He gaze flicks across your face before he leans in.
“Then let the world stay in the dark,” he murmurs, claiming your mouth again, deeper this time. “We’ve got better things to do.”
The storm rages on outside.
Inside, the house is full of quiet, breathless sounds and the rustle of sheets and the low rasp of his voice saying your name like a prayer — terrible, beautiful, and entirely yours.