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junedenim · 5 months ago

Text

baby, it's been nice

so many words in one glance

warnings: smut, blowie, piv, angstish, some affairing...

word count: 4k

You got on the bus and the skies grew dark. When the bus had stalled between the Dockhead and Boss stops, the storm broke and showered down against the bus’s windows, adding a jolt to the ride. Passengers pressed in from the rain, forcing you into the middle of the bus. You felt for a handle before the bus took off again and that’s when you first spotted him.

He stood out amongst the flurry of people because he was the only one who wasn’t wet. He must have hopped on before the rain fully broke. You feel down at your wet shirt, the nice white shirt not made for the early summer rain.

His eyes found yours and engaged in a duel. He broke it to look down at your hands turning to pat away the wetness on your shirt. He couldn’t escape the way you touched yourself against the slight sheerness unveiling what lies underneath.

Outside, the veritable downpour clashed on. As you approached the Tower stop, you pushed yourself closer to the door, hoping the crowd wouldn’t swallow you up. You exited out and stood under the overpass to wait out the rain.

He too had gotten off and was standing there. You looked. And he was looking too.

The air was cold and you pulled on your jacket. You saw him smiling and you smiled back at him. Then, you noticed you pulled on your jacket over your bag and he was smiling at that, not you. You felt stupid and straightened yourself out to wait some more.

And then the rain halted, but before you could move, you looked over at him again, and he was looking back.

He responded by setting off in the same direction as you. He kept in step and joined you in smiling at the ground. “Shall we get a coffee?” He asked.

“Yes,” you told him. There was no other possibility.

He questioned how people would look at the two of you. How young you were compared to him. How old were you anyway?

You took your coffee black because it felt childish to ask for heaping amounts of sugar, even if he had milk in his coffee. You felt heavy under his eyes. You wanted to impress him and be deemed worthy by him.

He thought to himself, it’ll be a simple chat and go situation, there’s no need to go deeper.

But nothing can ever be simple like that. The sun shines through the window onto your face and you lean forward, cupping your face in your hands, staring at him so delicately he’s almost afraid to move, to breathe. Your gaze is light and pure and he’s terrified to be the one to rupture it by pulling away. You’re the rainbow after the storm. Now, he’s just getting cheesy.

He leans closer, his elbows on the table, the only thing other than your cups of coffee separating you two. “Were you heading home from work?”

“School,” you correct. “I’m getting my MA in cultural history, specifically contemporary history.” Your voice is smooth. Will you be smooth all over? “You?”

“A writer.” Even he feels pretentious when he says it.

“Anything I would know?”

He shakes his head.

You’re convinced he thinks you’re dumb.

He’s been sitting too tall on his horse. He didn’t even go to university and yet he’s been looking down upon you for appearing to be younger. “How old are you?”

You giggle. “You aren’t supposed to ask a lady her age.”

You walk out onto the street together. He tells himself to leave it there and to be left with the taste of a nice cup of coffee and the memory of that beaming smile. “It was nice talking with you,” he tells you.

He nods and you walk off one way and he walks off the other. You walk to the streetlight before stopping. You feel the pain in the tips of your fingers and you can’t help but feel like you said something wrong. Cars splash in puddles, the hiss of wet tires on asphalt, and street lights change for pedestrians to cross but you hesitate. You don’t want to go anywhere without him. He nodded his head and had said that it was nice talking to you but clearly it wasn’t that nice or else you would’ve stayed.

Then, behind you, you heard him, “Or do you, maybe, want to spend the night together?”

You walk toward his place. It’s funny, he doesn’t live far from you and you’ve probably rode the same bus together before, but before today you had never noticed one another. You cross under a weeping beech and he comments, “Funny hairdo on that one.” And you’re grinning violently, grinning constantly with no change.

You hike up the stairs to his place and stand back while he unlocks the door. His keyring is organized with only a few keys on it and one keychain. You’ve never seen anyone else’s like that. It’s so stark and plain. You almost say something, but then he opens the door.

“I’ve been living here for a while,” he says. He’s just up the road from you and yet you’ve never seen him before. That can’t be right.

The place is clustered with paintings and photographs, although none seem personal. He leads you through to the kitchen. In the sink, there’s a saucepan. The breakfast fixtures are still lying out on the counters. Eggshells, the dirtied plates, and a glass. There’s a window behind the sink that shows the backyard. “There’s no trees out there but I swear every day a bird comes by and sings away. I don’t know what possesses her.” He believes wholeheartedly that this bird sings just for him.

He points down the hallway. “Bedroom is back there.” He has no reason to tell you this or guide you to where everything is. Maybe it’s the polite thing to do, but it also feels explicit like he’s suggesting something by pointing his finger there.

Through a wide archway, he walks you into the living room. There’s a grey rug on the floor to match the dark couch that sits on top of it. You’re standing in the archway, leaning up against it. He will remember exactly how you look there.

There’s a stack of books on the floor beside his bookshelf. They’re the ones that don’t fit, forcing him to either get rid of some books or get a new shelf. You walk over and bend down to examine them. He wonders if this is research for a school project. “Do you want some wine?”

You look back at him, your hair tossing behind your shoulder. “Sure.” You say it in such a cutesy way. You lift a shoulder like you're doing a dance for him. One shift of your shoulder and you’re sending him back into the stratosphere.

While he’s in the kitchen, you look at the spines on the bookshelf. You trace your finger over his collection. He’s got postcards leaning against the books and photographs pinned to the shelving. Some he is in, but most he isn’t. They’re of what you assume are friends. There’s one of George Harrison winking, tapped to the side of the shelf. There’s one of a woman smiling. It seems likely that Alex took this photo and this woman was smiling at him but now, through the immortal ability of a photograph, the smile is now toward you.

Behind you, there’s the clashing of two glasses against one another, two in one of his hands, a bottle in the other. “Some music?” He asks while crossing the living room.

“Yes,” you say, following him.

The sound of the needle in the grooves of the disc sounds through the room. He turns the knob on the player to make sure the sound is perfect. All this time gives you a chance to take him in. His shoulders are narrow, almost curving in. His moves are gangly, and from behind, he could almost give the appearance of a teenager if not for the way he dressed. His slacks and fabric of his shirt are too proper and fancy for any teenage boy. His hair is too fluffy and trimmed for any careless young boy.

When he turns and walks toward you, he is grown once more. The lines that have been traced on him by age. The modest amount of stubble that barely appears. The gleam from the chain around his neck catches your eyes and he sits on the armchair beside the couch.

He waits for the music to start before touching his glass. He nods toward you and lifts his glass as if to cheers you, although you’ve already taken a sip from yours. He smiles slowly as you avert your eyes, too prone to blushing.

He’s been to this restaurant before. The waiter knows him and set you two up at a table in the back. You’re face to face with Alex now and a great happiness—the feeling of the unknown and whatever is on the horizon—overcomes you.

He thinks you look lovely even with your mouth full.

Without consulting you, he directs you back to his home. Perhaps the only reason he went out with you was to come home. To have the illusion that what is familiar to him is unexceptional for you too. You make your way almost automatically to the living room while he fetches another bottle of wine from the kitchen. When he walks in, you're standing by the window. The sill is so low that it would be easy to tip out. "Look, someone else is still awake," you say, pointing across the street.

"Oh, that's Chuck. He's a painter. Up at all these crazy hours of the night. Just painting away." You turn to face him. He is holding a record in one hand, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips.

“That’s not very appropriate for now.” You’re referring to the music playing. It’s some classic rock record but it has a children’s choir singing.

He takes the cigarette out of his mouth. “Good music is always appropriate,” he argues.

“What about a funeral march?” You retort.

He chuckles. “Alright,” he caves. He walks over and takes the needle off the record.

When he walks back over, he for the first time enfolds you in his arms. You take his face in both hands and kiss him very gently like it’s second nature. There is nothing daring him to perform any differently in response.

He brushes the strap of your top and dares to move further by pulling the bra strap down too. The way your bare shoulder feels in his cupping hand is something he won't forget as long as he lives. He moves down and traces his lips on the soft skin. You're looking up at him and smiling before sinking your teeth into his flesh, biting a piece out of him. You pull him even closer to you, turning two bodies into one, where one may not run away only toward one another.

His hands discover your bottom fits neatly into them, a peach to each. You are still both standing there, on the grey living room rug, on your island, barefoot, with interlocking arms and legs, only at rare intervals, opening your eyes and emerging from your blindness to look at one another. He wonders where you get your certainty from. Then he shuts his eyes again, and it is better to see with his hands and mouth.

"We better not make each other miserable," he says.

"Isn't it too late already?" You smile briefly before insisting, “Sleep with me.” He’s unsure if you mean the whole word. Not just fuck you, but sleep side-by-side with interlocking bodies sharing such unwilling vulnerability with one another.

Alex takes you by the hand and leads you out of the room, through the kitchen, down the hallways, into the room, the one he pointed at earlier, suggesting to you that you'd spend your night in there. "I might have some trouble," he tells you, "I've had too much to drink. Too much excitement."

"I don't mind," you say, lying back on the bed, stretched out on the sheets with a halo by your head, your hair shining bright from the bedside lamp. That grin reaches out to him, taking him completely, pulling the light from the whole room, and reflecting it back to him.

You unbuckle him and take his softness into your hand. He stands still and watches the alchemy as you move him. You pucker your lips out, sitting the tip of him on the edge of your lip. It’s a teasing prospect and he waits eagerly, so close to pushing himself straight in, not being able to resist temptation.

But he says a prayer and waits, swears to the heavens as you wrap your lips around him, and take bits of him. He feels faint, like his knees might buckle, and he’ll fall straight through the floor. He pushes back on you, making you relinquish your grip.

“I’ve got to sit down.” He blinks and relaxes onto the bed. “You’re too clothed.” Only the straps he pushed off earlier are bearing your skin to him.

“Isn’t it more tempting?” You taunt, standing on your knees, towering over his laid-out body. You straddle over him, the core of you hovering over the center of him. “You can imagine whatever you want.”

His hands grab your hips, his thumbs dig into the bone. “The real thing is better than anything my brain could put together.” He pulls at the waistband of your skirt, yanking down, down, down.

When the fabric is wiped clean from your surface, his finger fiddles with your nipple, much like he did with the knobs on his record player. (The same amount of noise comes out too.) He runs his fingers through you just to get a taste of the wetness. He puts fingers on your bottom lip, tapping until he has gained entry. Your mouth sucks on the two fingers and the way your tongue moves on them might get him harder than it did when you did it to his dick.

You sit on him, sinking like he is the bottom of the ocean. You sway like the waves and he tries his best to not have them pull him under, tries surfing them. He places his hand on his head before grabbing your waist, ebbing and flowing with you.

He leans up to capture your mouth. In the midst of the kiss, which is rabid and ruinous, he loses all sense of time, of space, of self. He feels you up and down, relishing in that soft, smooth skin, in your curves, in your perked breasts and the ridges in your spine.

You rake your teeth along his shoulder, kissing with a lightness then a roughness, sucking and scraping, pulling him under. He closes his eyes, head falling to rest against the stack of pillows. He feels high when he’s inside you, and you’re so warm and so wet he could cry.

You ride him with a purpose, eyes on his, your hand fisted in his hair as you carve your hips into his body like you’ve done this a hundred times before. Alex can’t help but match your rhythm and gets you moaning desperately, so he’s not alone in this. “You feel so goddamn good,” he whispers, right into your ear, just to drive you crazy.

You pull his head back as if to get even, quickening your pace as you ravage his neck, but he doesn’t want this to end yet. He wants it to last, wants you in other ways. “Hang on,” he rasps, trying to slow you. “Stop.” You make a frustrated noise, but do. He grins. “Something the matter?”

“Shut up,” you gasp. “What?”

“Get on your stomach,” he says, soft but firm.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” you counter, but do it anyway, and when he pushes in from behind, you cry out, muffled into the pillows that you hold onto in a white-knuckled grip.

“You like that?” He asks, and you don’t want to satisfy him with a nod because you’re stubborn, but when he reaches between your legs to stroke your clit you can’t help but let a whine escape.

“Fuck, you sound so pretty.” He’s relentless and doesn’t allow a break, he doesn’t believe they exist. He’s chasing after like a dog going after a car, not letting up until he reaches the bumper. Skin slapping and panting are the only sounds being made.

It doesn’t take long for you to come after all that, and he falls over the edge with you. You end up out of breath, you shaking and him hot-blooded. You grab his hand suddenly, bringing it to your lips to lick dry and then kiss, one on his palm, another on his wrist, his knuckles, his thumb. He nuzzles your ear. You stroke the height of his cheek. You end up burrowed under the blankets, beat to hell. You sprawl out on top of him, playing with his hair. His lip quirks up because it’s impossible for it not to.

He recognizes you right away. You're swinging your handbag as you walk, dressed in all black, and as you come closer, he can see you've put your hair up and tied it with a black velvet ribbon. He thinks of how exposed your face is. He knows he has to be straight with you.

He deliberately chose one of the larger tables, telling the hostess a table for three. You both look up from time to time to see what's keeping your third. He's brought you one of his books so that you can see the things he writes about—his first present to you. You shouldn't read the dedication. Time to look across to the entrance and shake your heads—what's keeping our unpunctual friend? You're in cahoots, you have your first secret to keep from the world, and he knows what you're thinking as you share a look, and that's why it's important to set conditions.

"We will only see each other occasionally," he says, "but each will be like our first time. A celebration." You listen to him attentively and nod. "I can only be a luxury for you because, you know, I have someone else."

“I know.” You’ve always known this. It’s clearly shown on his left hand.

"Perhaps that won't be enough for you and I understand that." You look straight at him, directly in the face. He notices things about you that he didn't before. The way your pupil shines in this light.

"If you had a hundred women, all that matters is the time that we spend together." How can he ever refuse you anything if you don't demand anything? The black velvet ribbon moves him, it makes you look like a schoolgirl. He feels sick.

"You can't expect any sort of public declaration. We both know and that will have to do." "That's fine," you say and then you smile. It terrifies him how comfortable you are. How comfortable this all feels.

He pours you more wine to go with your food. You see his pack of cigarettes on the table and think you don't ever want to sit at a table that doesn't have his cigarettes on it.

He can't forget that one day he will have to hand you on. He can't forget that he knows this better than you do. He has to remember this no matter how long or short your time together is. This jagged thought must shine through all other thoughts of happiness, love, and desire, through all your shared experiences and any memories you may have; he must endure it when the crash happens. If it isn't to destroy him. The funny thought is that he doesn't think he would mind you destroying him.

"We can be as long as you want us to be," Alex says.

You nod. So long as you can see him, as long and as often as possible, you wouldn't mind anything else.

He tells the waiter, "It looks like our friend hasn't made it." He pays and pockets his pack of cigarettes. Your jacket hangs beside his coat in his cloakroom, the two rubbing shoulders with one another. "That couple," he tells the attendant while pointing to them. The attendant hands Alex the items, and he holds your jacket out for you to slip into.

While walking, you stand apart because touching is too much. He takes you to his office. It's dusty with shelves of tapes and records you wouldn't know what to do with. There are piles of papers on the desk and windows with blinds covering the outside world. You imagine a person would go mad in a room like this.

"It isn't much of a view," he says. He lifts the blinds and you peek out to the alleyway with trash cans and let out a giggle.

He offers you a chair and slips a pair of headphones onto your head without saying a word. He leans over you, pressing his body into your shoulders, and hits play on the deck.

You've never heard anything like it before. It makes you sit upright as if it was his personal version of an electric chair. He stands by the window and lets the moonlight shine on him. He watches you as you listen and lights a cigarette. He likes how concentrated you look, as if he might quiz you after the song is done.

He hears the click and you place the headphones on top of the player. “It’s old recordings I recovered. They’re from some guy in the ‘50s. We’re trying to find the originator.” You get the feeling he likes talking about his work, but people aren’t usually interested in waiting for his sentences to find their way out.

Before you head out again, you see a photo of Alex on the desk. "Can I have this?"

Alex asks back, "For your imagination?"

"No," you say, "so that when I'm on the train tomorrow, I won't think all this was just a dream."

"Are you going so soon?" You’re going away on a trip with a friend tomorrow. You told him that on the first night you spent together. When the hour was so late that it felt like the rapture had occurred and you were the only two people left on Earth.

"Yes." While you hold the photo in your hands, he comes up behind you and holds you. He kisses your neck. You keep your eyes shut throughout, only opening them when he lets go of you, and then you stow the photo away in your bag, between the pages of a book. "Oh no! I left your book at the restaurant."

"Will you walk me home?"

So now he walks you back the way he saw you come earlier, swinging your bag the exact same, rounding a corner, and then another one, and another one until you've reached your apartment building. It’s down the road from the Moose Cafe. "My room is on the third floor, two windows from the left." He stands next to you and looks up."

Every time he went to the cafe, he came this way, never knowing you were in that building. "What's that in the window?"

"A Basquiat postcard." You put it there after seeing the way he placed postcards around his house.

"Nice," he says, trying to imagine your room.

"It's only a week," you say, even if it feels so pathetically long to you.

And to him. "Think of me," Alex says. At certain times, he thinks, Why should she? He's in no way certain it wouldn't be better to forget you in a hurry. There's no kiss on the public street, just an exchange of glances.

a/n: i don't mean for everything i write to be somewhat related to cheating. it just turns out that way. this is inspired by a book i'm reading and i'm only 30 pages into said book so they're will probably be some form of a part two or some other fic inspired by this book. (i read 1 book i want per year and it inspires everything i write for the next 12 months.) praying there are no errors in this.

#alex turner #alex turner fic #alex turner x fem!reader #alex turner x oc #alex turner x reader #alex turner x you #alex turner x y/n #alex turner smut #junedenim

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thomasstalsworth · 5 years ago

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Too Old ... Moray II

[ Prior Chapter ]

“... What the fuck?”

Moray set down his spyglass, letting it rest a moment at his hip. The telescoping device gave off a very distinct ‘schhwp!’ sound as it collapsed. With the crisp, Spring late-night air of Stormwind all around, he took a moment to rationally determine if what he had just seen was accurate. He was not a man who was beyond questioning his senses when it was logical. There was a significant amount of stress going around, and he certainly had the Red Fleet on his mind. But that did not mean anyone with a red corsair’s vest and burn scars was …

‘Schhwp!’

Spyglass back upon his eyeball, he looked again to the harbour below -- particularly one of the southern moorings where a minor coalition of buccaneers were carousing. Well, perhaps not carousing. He generally thought of carousing as dice, cards, gambling, an abundance of ethanol compounds of varying flavors and fermentations, and oftentimes individuals of favorable amorality.

The men he currently had within the scope of his spyglass looked more like they were devising. Perhaps it could be said that they were planning -- scheming even. The sentiment was unlawful.

And the one amidst the center of the scheming, face cast only with half-light from the meager oil lanterns of the southern harbour moorings -- he had a scar. Not any scar, as it was not anything to be surprised for to see a sailing man with a scar. Mangled flesh was a point of pride and boast for any humanoid of Azeroth’s various ocean-faring organizations. Moray was not above it himself. He took a well of pride for his calloused hands, split knuckles, and rope-torn limbs.

But this man, scheming amidst a crew of carob and claret clad buccaneers, had a scar on his face. Now he tried to hide it, to credit. A burlap mask that looked as if it reeked of male sweat and spittle was tugged up over his nostrils. But it did not hide from Moray’s spyglass the distinctive upper-reaches of a burn-scar. A handprint upon the man’s face, fingers curled over the eye and brow.

Men of the Reverend.

He collapsed the spyglass and stole it away inside the pocket of his trousers.

There were clear rules at play. He was under the bidden order of his Captain to ‘assess and report’. Such notions and exactitude of word were not done without intention. He was no man to breach order even under dire circumstances. Logic, order and the reason of the hierarchy of command were present to his soul even when the call to arms was estranged. Such as when the foe was Abbidas Bonnet, Eighth of the Brethren Pirate Lords and there was no crew complement nor vessel to command against such a demonic creature. Only himself and his Captain -- and she was not exactly nearby.

Of course the notion came quite immediately to his mind to simply ‘phone in’. He had given her a single-channel gnomecorder, and carried one himself to match, for a reason. But unfortunately Moray was still a man, and despite being a rather stoic and rigid man of rules and ordinance, he was still a man. And men had the most frustrating ability to rationalize otherwise worrisome actions.

Given the time of late evening, and the fact that his Captain had said quite specifically she was going back to Westfall only perhaps a half of an hour earlier, Moray felt quite sure in assuming that she was currently on horseback. It would be silly to try to contact her through gnomecorder. She must be riding. It was doubtful she would even be able to hear the buzzing device in a saddlebag. Yes, yes that made sense.

He stowed his spyglass onto his hip. ‘Assess and report’ was his ordered task. He was going to assess the fel out of those pirates -- and he could report on whatever was left of them.

From Lion’s Rest to the tawny, spume-soaked reaches of the southern harbour was a reasonable expanse of distance. Stormwind City only grew larger every day. But he had the boon of long legs and an internal vigor. Yes it had been damaged somewhat from his scarring and the long process of healing -- of which, by doctoral direction was technically still on-going -- from his torture at the hands of the Reverend, but all the same. It would not take him long.

There was nothing remarkable about him. At least, not externally. He found his pride and measure to be personal; an internal liberty and polished independence of spirit. There was nothing remarkable about him in appearance, and he found that quite useful. Certainly in the cosmopolitan cityscape of Stormwind -- almost doubly so in the evenings, he had found -- he did not ‘stick out’.

This was helpful for him, as he wanted to move as quickly and efficiently as possible without drawing attention. En route to the harbour, passing the Cathedral District of the city, he was harried briefly as the City Watch seemed to be making an arrest. For what reason he could not assume, but perhaps it had something to do with the man in purple and black robes and the various demonic constructs that accompanied him.

The city certainly had changed since the reconstruction. To him it was still New Stormwind.

But onward he went, and down the barrier sea walls of the harbour. Thankfully the lamplighters of the city had yet to reignite many of the oil lamps on the pathway down. He found himself appreciating the laziness of the union in that moment, ‘tap-tap-tap!’ing his way down the many, many steps it took to reach the harbourway proper.

Now if there was one thing that Emett Moray found he could claim some mastery of, it was a sense of direction. This was not a surprising fact for him to explain to any person, as it usually came after mentioning his decades of sailing experience. Oddly enough, knowing what direction you are going was a strong skill to put on one’s resume in a naval employ.

Thus -- owing to his propensity for mastery of sensing direction -- it was no trouble for him to find the coalition of conniving corsairs. In truth such a title of profession was being generous. No doubt the men were rapacious murderers. Those who followed the creed and call of the Red Lord had a tendency to such behavior. That only gave Moray more confidence in his actions.

The pirates had formed a tight semi-circle near one of the southern moorings. To any frequent traveler or employee of the Stormwind harbourways, it was quite well known not only how massive the docks were and how many dockheads were constructed, but how the general sense of lawfulness tended to degrade the closer you got to the southern shorehead.

Indeed, ever since the burning of Teldrassil, the southernmost dock had fallen into a state of constant cloak-and-dagger. With no vessels regularly ferrying travelers to and from the northern end of Kalimdor with subsidy from the Crown well …

Smugglers, deviants, freebooters and otherwise less-than-lawful elements were, by nature, opportunistic.

The sensation of half-lit oil lamps and a cloudy, half-moon sky were not lost on Moray. As he crept down to the southern harbourway and toward where the men of the Reverend were speaking in hushed tone, Moray kept a keen awareness of his surroundings. Good that he did, too, as he almost stumbled onto an alchemical deal occurring between a Kaldorei man and a pair of gnomes. He studiously avoided them, circling around a few pallets of unmarked cargo.

Once he was within earshot of the pirates, he ducked his girthy frame low. There were benefits to possessing a ‘lower center of gravity’, even at his otherwise impressive height. He had the ‘drustblood’, as some people called it. There was no helping his enormity. But behind a stack of rain-bubbled lumber he settled himself in, eavesdropping.

“... afterward you’ll regroup in the woods north of the city outskirts, past the farmsteads. With the catacombs taken care of, we can lay down and wait until she is in the city again.”

The burned man, his face cast in a scar, spoke to the rest. Catacombs? Moray knew of no crypts within the city of Stormwind beyond those which consumed a spiderweb beneath the Cathedral. What were they --

“Did the Reverend say when she would return?”

A dissenting voice, questioning the burlap and burned man.

“You question him? -- She will return. The sight is fickle and only the Lord can command it reliably. She will return and when she does we will track her back to her rat’s nest.”

‘Assess and report’. He could recall his Captain’s words quite clearly. Indeed, even through the slush of the southern harbour sound and air, above the voice of the damned creatures of the Red Lord’s reverend, he could hear her voice. He chose to ignore that particular auditory acumen.

Rising suddenly from behind the stack of lumber, Moray unhooked his boarding axe from his hip. There was a ‘scccckrt!’ as the rigging rope that was his belt came undone, unlooping his weapon from its holding at his hip. He took the massive, broad-headed axe in both hands. With a two-handed hammer-throw overhead, he hurled the weapon into the spinal column of the nearest pirate.

That got their attention.

The lighting was poor, he knew that. With only a few oil lamps overhead along the harbourway giving even the slightest flicker of orange-hued light, Moray felt confident. With his axe buried four or five inches deep in the spine of one of the pirates, he only had six more to contend with. Unfair odds in truth -- perhaps if they had more reinforcements things would be even.

Immediately he ducked behind the stack of rain-warped lumber. Back to the assembly of boards and spars, he flattened himself, waiting.

True to form as ravenous, murderous creatures of the wide ocean -- they predictably came after him. He counted on that rather foolhardy nature. Although he was only one foe against them, a discerning mind was far more useful than multiplicative limbs.

The first man around the corner of the lumber pile was rammed against a split board.

Moray had quite sizable hands. Paws of such rancor and stature that he could, often, reliably get his entire mitt around the face of a regular man. ‘Drustblood’ they called it. He called it big fucking hands. The first pirate around the lumber pile he took by the jaw, beating him against a split board from the lumber pile until his front palette was gouged and murky. He dropped the man like a bloody pork chop.

The next ‘buccaneer’ tried to spear-tackle Moray. Running in hard around the corner of the pile of discarded wood, he rammed himself against Moray’s hull. Unfortunately for the pirate and his violent intention, Moray did not move. Indeed, he simply glanced down at the tawny, zealous creature currently trying to wrangle his substantial form with a curious brow.

“.. Did you want another try?” Moray spoke to his would-be wrestler.

With a jerk of his arms and flex of muscle, the pirate tried to move the vengeful first mate. It did not work terribly well, resulting in little more than a scuttling of spare earth beneath them as the pirate ended up running in place.

With a sigh, Moray loft both hands, fingers interlaced into one fist, and collapsed his limbs onto the back of the pirate’s neck. Like a sack of grain from the back of a cart -- he went down.

The remaining five -- they used a small portion of their frontal lobe to realize that perhaps ganging up on the immediate foe was the surest course of action.

Moving backwards to avoid the onslaught of five zealous, piratical creatures of malcontent, Moray started to path himself back and around the lumber pile. As he moved, they made earnest intention to assault his person. That came in the form, mostly, of sharp steel. Now while he was, by all accounts, a rather large and thickened man -- he could still move swiftly when occasion called for it.

Attempted murder was one of those times.

Without his boarding axe, the commonplace weapon at his hip, he was defenseless to parry. But large limbs allowed for a certain degree of intimidation. He swung his arms and legs about, statured as a brawler in the ring. Where there were five of them each bearing steel and -- presumably -- pyroclastic capability, he had the forward-foot in the fight. Killing two so quickly was a good call.

Moving around the pile of disparate lumber, spars and planking arms, Moray started to back himself toward the southern dockhead. There were no other souls about, or at least the dim oil lamps on the clouded night suggested so. He kept the give encroaching pirates at bay with a serious of swift movements, powerful body language, and more than a little grunting.

But eventually he ran out of dock.

With his back to the open ocean behind, foaming waters churning under the fresh-heeled wood and steel rivets, he had nowhere to go. The burned man stood at the front of the group of pirates, servants of the Red Lord and his chosen Reverend. The man shunt his mask, peeling it off with two fingers to reveal the burn-scar upon his face. A searing-hot hand to cover one half of his features, the fingers curled around his brow and temple.

“Take his legs -- leave him alive. He knows something, I can tell.”

If nothing else, Moray took offense at the man’s raspy voice. He spoke as if he was uncaring for the manner in which he was heard. Such disregard for the social decorum and order offended the good, first mate. He cared for how he was heard and spoke accordingly. To see language so flagrantly cast aside harmed him.

But he had a more immediate problem than conversational norms.

Five men with a rising blood and a potency for divine fire -- not to mention their sharp armings of steel -- were more than a match for his scarred limbs. He ground his teeth, recalling how he had been tasked to ‘assess and report’. Well he had assessed, and found the situation worrying for the safety and health of his Captain.

Now he had to report.

With an eye to the five men encroaching on him as he ran out of dockhead to back upon, boots scuttling to the edge where the frothing waters of the Great Sea met the Stormwind dock in the late-evening darkness, Moray spoke a small settling of .. prayer.

“.. Alright, I know I have not spoken to you in awhile. I have not listened either. I am sorry for that -- but I could really use a hand here, Momma.”

It had been … years? … since he had spoken to her. The great mother who had guided him along his life in so many ways. Who he gave offerings and respect to, even if not by name, everytime he worked atop a vessel who weighed anchor. But need was need, and earnest heart was earnest heart and --

A sudden thrumming sound ate up the air. The five pirates bearing down on him paused some dozen feet away, just out of reach of their sharpened steel and sour-hearted fire. The thrumming, drumming, roaring beat of sound grew and grew until --

A massive wave of dark, frothing water from the night-time sea rushed over the dockhead and hurled the five pirates back, soaking and stealing from them their vigorous air. Each man was hurled so far and with such force as to crack their bodies against the cargo, dockheads and post that made up the wooden walkway. Consciousness was not a strength of which they could hold to any longer. It was quite a boon to the first mate.

Of course he was, obviously, soaking wet.

While the wave of frothing water had part to keep from throwing him dozens of feet across the dock as well as the pirates, it had still managed to drench him from head to toe in freezing, Spring-evening water.

He ran his tongue inside his lip, spitting out a gout of saltwater.

“.. Thanks, Mom.”

He took a short moment to reacquaint himself with a world wherein he was not in immediate, mortal danger before hustling down the dock. The goal was not to escape -- no, that was far from his intent. Those pirates had some sense of intelligence, and no doubt a portion of it would be on their persons. He grasped them each in turn, rummaging through their belongings and persons for anything remotely related to the Red Lord or one particular Abighail Atwater ….

Now it was important to understand the manner in which water reacted to parchment and ink. The pairing were not amiable to one another. Take a well-written accord of some kind made in ink upon a vellum of even moderate capacity and introduce a deluge of frigid harbour water? … Well, legibility became suspect.

And so it was that Moray removed some kind of missive from the belt holdings of the scarred leader of the pirates. It clearly had some import, given his possession of it and the way it which it had been folded into the cycling of his breeches. But -- it was soaking wet. And there was not exactly an abundance of keen lighting with which to try and determine the writing by.

Oh -- and the mild concern of the bells of the city watch.

With the good men and women of the Stormwind Patrol coming in hot on the heels of his bout of -- justified -- combat, Moray grasped what pieces of useful evidence he could. With a final rock of his fist against the jaw of the burned man, no doubt a tool of the Reverend, Moray turned and leapt into the waters of the harbour. There were many ways to avoid the consternation of the Stormwind city watch -- suffusing oneself ten feet underwater tended to work quite well.

It was some time later, finally coming ashore from swimming South of the harbour that he reached dry land. Heaving himself onto the bare, sandy beach -- one he knew was close by, even without the Moon’s light to guide him -- Moray laid back with a huff and paused to take in air. He was tired, that much was obvious. The beach was below the cliffside that bore Lion’s Rest, and he looked up from his rest, back against the fisherman’s sands, to peer up at the marbled railway which he had stood upon with his spyglass not two hours hence.

Positioned as a starfish upon the wet sands, cloudy evening sky above and the waning sound of the city patrol’s bells ringing in the distance, he took stock.

The Reverend had men in Stormwind. They were searching for something, presumably in the catacombs of the Cathedral. Once that was acquired they intended to -- presumably -- lay in wait and track his Captain back to her homestead, whatever it may be, in Westfall.

Not ideal.

Reaching into his trouser pocket, sodden as it was, he retrieved his gnomecorder. It was, as one could imagine, soaking wet -- and inoperable. ‘Assess and report’. Well he had managed one half of that, at least.

With the water-damaged communicator in hand, he fell back against the sand.

“.. Fuck.”

@abighail-atwater (mentioned)

#Canon #Too Old

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