#again i think an admin should just sit in the hub and if anyone says ''does anyone have a-'' you just strike them down instantly FKJHG | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

justletmeplayminecraft · 4 years

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so, after seeing the wonderful frozen xisuma art by @ambered-glazed-sheep i had an urge to write some comfort. so i did.

featuring: hermits looking after their admin, a very out of it x, lots of warmth, both physically and in friendships, the comfort after the hurt.

warnings: general being frozen. he's fine though! warmed by the love of his friends. even if he won't step into a snowy biome for a while after this.

"'Suma!" Xisuma can't gather the energy to open his eyes. The voice sounds far away, and he struggles to tell if it really is or not. A burning touch against his cheek breaks through the numbness that has long taken over his body. He twitches from it, muscles moving without his command. A rough noise leaves his throat. "He's freezing."

"I think that's a bit obvious!" That voice is high and distressed. Xisuma can't place why. He knows he recognises them but- His thoughts are distracted as he's moved. Powdered snow slips off his body, limp in the hands that hold him. "Come on, I've got a leather chest plate. Help me get him into it."

He barely manages a noise to protest being manhandled. There's gentle hushing in response as a force tugs at his arms. He can hardly tell which way is up anymore. Something is being pulled onto him and with some effort, he blinks his eyes open. He can't make sense of what he sees. It's just colours - blues as cold as the iciness inside him. None of the shapes come together in his head, no matter how hard he tries to focus. Exhausted, they fall shut again. His head rolls forward with them, quickly caught and laid back on something solid. He's sitting upright. Ah.

"C'mon, Xisuma." He's pretty sure that voice is talking to him. He's Xisuma, right? "Stay with us a bit longer." With a firm click, warmth blossoms in his chest. He sighs at the sensation. He didn't think his muscles could slack any further, but he slumps against the wall behind him all the same.

"I've got his helmet." Mm, his helmet. Something tugs through his hair, and he feels snow drop onto his nose. When did he take his helmet off? "Let's get him back to Hermitcraft." He makes a surprised noise when the wall behind him moves. There's something hooking under his arms, and then he's hauled upwards. Despite his best efforts, his feet only slide on the ground. He can't feel the surface underneath them. He's not sure if he should be fighting the grip or embracing it.

"Up you come, big guy." He attempts to open his eyes but gravity swings around him. Although he can't be sure, he thinks that squeaking noise came from his mouth. He squeezes his eyes shut to fight off the dizziness in his already clouded thoughts.

"Have we got everything?" The pressure on his body shuffles him, moving malleable limbs into position. Xisuma flexes his fingers into soft fabric. They ache with the movement, but he grips on tightly all the same.

"One derp of an admin successfully collected. We can come back for anything else." The sturdy chest he's leaning against rumbles with the words. Xisuma hums softly.

"Impulse, can you go ahead and make sure we have potions?" Xisuma allows his head to rest against the support holding him. Warmth is seeping back into his limbs at a snail's pace. He couldn't tell anyone where his feet are right now for the life of him.

"On it! I'll see you guys at spawn." His ears finally pick up on the crunch of snow. That must've been there before. He was recording something with it, wasn't he? Warmth presses on his head, ruffling his hair. He sinks down with a pleased sigh, mind feeling heavy.

"I'd say this is a mission success."

"Yes, and somebody is going to get a stern talking to." The warmth on his head leaves for a second when his nose is poked. Xisuma scrunches up his face. He has a vague notion that somebody might be him.

"Let's get him warm first-." The rest of the sentence trails off from Xisuma's hearing. His thoughts have only grown heavier, and he's too tired to fight that encouraging pull into sleep. He lets out a final sigh, curling into the warmth surrounding him. He's safe here. He can rest.

It takes some time for him to climb back to consciousness. He's cozy. There's a comfortable pressure shielding him from the world. When he listens, he can make out familiar voices talking without distinguishable words. Occasionally, there's someone holding him, and he can feel the words more than he can hear them. Xisuma is happy existing in this in-between. There's no pressure. No ever-present responsibility. And, his tired mind helpfully supplies, no cold. He'd begun to think he'd never feel warmth again out there.

His thoughts are more coherent now, at least. He can feel all the way down to his toes. His skin is covered in soft fabric, a comfortable cocoon. A fire crackles in the distance, the scent of food reaching his nose. Mushroom stew, he thinks. Rich and well-flavoured.

"Xisuma," a voice encourages, next to him, "I can see you twitching." Xisuma thinks his sigh is disappointed as he makes that final grab towards consciousness. He squints his eyes open into a warm glow. "There you are!" Xisuma hums in reply, trying to make out the person's silhouette.

"Cub?" The name sounds unsure to his own ears. Like his voice still isn't part of him. It didn't hurt as much as he expected. How many potions have they fed him?

"Yep. Welcome back, X." Xisuma lifts one of his arms, weaving it out of the blankets to rub his eyes. It still feels heavy, moving with an ache. Ugh, he hates the cold.

"Gettin' there." He frowns at his failed pronunciation. Nothing he can do about it now. Cub chuckles, ruffling through X's hair. Xisuma makes an annoyed noise, trying and very much failing to whack him away.

"Think you can manage some food?" Cub asks. Xisuma takes a deep sniff of the stew, his stomach twisting in previously forgotten hunger at the thought.

"Please." Cub smiles, leaving his side with a barely felt squeeze of the shoulder. These blankets are thick.

Xisuma uses the time to take stock of where he is, eyes adjusted to the light. It's the spawn hub he built. Across the central room, Cub has joined Joe and Impulse, working in front of a campfire he's pretty sure he didn't include. Underneath him is the soft surface of a bed. Something is warm inside the blanket, and he's fairly sure he wasn't wearing such fluffy clothes earlier. His armour is stacked against a chest next to the bed, helmet on the lid and within reach. He smiles.

"X!" He turns back as Impulse approaches, smile brighter than any of the lights in the room. "It's good to see you awake, man. Or coherent at least." Xisuma laughs a little self-deprecatingly.

"Ah, I didn't do anything too embarrassing whilst I was out, did I?" His memories of all that are a bit fuzzy. He remembers recording, and it was going well! He'd taken good notes and he was working through them efficiently. Then he remembers lying there in the snow, wondering if he'd ever move again (he won't linger on that memory.) Next thing he knows, he's being picked up.

"Well, unless you count clinging to Cub like a child?" Hm. The blush he can feel at the thought answers that one. Impulse takes in his expression and laughs, "Nah, you were fine! We won't tell anyone. Lips sealed."

Xisuma doesn't get the chance to reply as Cub and Joe join them, bowls of stew and a plate of sliced bread in hand. They set up a few chairs with a table between them. Xisuma has to shuffle his sore limbs forward to reach. He jumps in surprise when something rolls out of his blanket pile, hitting the floor with a thud. Impulse reaches down and scoops it into his hand. He unwraps the bundle, revealing the stone within.

"Magma rocks, wrapped up so they're not too hot," he explains at Xisuma's confused look. "Zed's idea, actually. Keeps him warm in that massive cave of his." Oh. That explains the extra heat source, then. Xisuma reaches out for a slice of bread, dipping it into the stew. He smiles as he watches it soak in, taking his time to enjoy this. It smells glorious, and it tastes just as good.

Once he's half way through his stew, he finally asks, "What happened? I'm still a little confused." The three share a look. Cub is the one who shrugs.

"You went to record a snapshot overview, right?"

Xisuma nods, "I did indeed. And the next thing I remember is being on the ground. And cold." Can't forget the cold. He kind of wishes he could.

"Well, Xisuma," Joe sits up straight as he speaks. His bowl is already empty. How did he manage that without Xisuma realising? "We noticed after a few days that our dear admin hadn't come back. So after a few messages with no response, we went to look for you. And what do we find but our admin curled up in the snow, looking like an icicle."

"Seriously, X," Impulse says it with a gentle sigh, "Why would you set your spawn in the snow?" Xisuma's mouth opens, but he ends up simply rubbing his neck. It does nothing to hide the blush creeping onto his face.

"Ah, goodness." He chuckles once his words return. "Not my smartest move, then."

"Well, you've had your moments." Cub's smile is as fond as it is teasing. Xisuma returns to dipping his last slice of bread in the stew, hopefully not embarrassing himself further.

"You know, you're kind of lucky, X," Joe adds, with a smile a little too smug for him, "Cleo wanted to come." X winces at the thought, swallowing his food down on instinct. He got off very lucky indeed. "We're still going to talk about this," Joe warns, "but I'll hold her wrath off for now." Xisuma hums, tugging the blanket tighter around his shoulders.

"We don't want anything to happen to you, Xisuma," Impulse tells him, ever so soft. "We had no idea something did. What if we hadn't checked?" It's not a comfortable thought.

"I'll think of something," X decides. "I see what you're saying."

"Well, technically you don't see it-" Cub rolls his eyes at Joe, taking the empty bowls to wash up. Only Xisuma hasn't finished.

"Joe, I'm trying to be serious, man!" Impulse protests. Xisuma hides his laugh behind a spoonful of stew. He continues eating, listening to the three go back and forth. Later, they'll work out a plan for future snapshots. Frequent check ins, a buddy maybe. But, for now. For now, he gets to spend time with what matters most. His friends.

#hermitcraft #xisuma #xisumavoid #impulsesv #cubfan135 #joe hills #my writing #listened to the animal crossing nl soundtrack whilst editing. v good.#also sorry for tagging u if u didn't wanna be amber #pls do not feel obligated to reblog lmao it's just too give u credit where credit is due

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mcytrabbithole · 4 years

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The Crash (Prologue Pt.1)

The beginning of a multi-chapter fic that I’m writing! This involves members of Hermitcraft and the Dream SMP and the chaos that follows when they end up thrown into a new situation together!

I will put all my notes about each chapter up here along with any warnings that I feel the need to write up here.

Warning: Temporary blindness, our Hermits being in some pain

Word Count: 1802

It started out like any other day on the Hermitcraft server. People were building, playing Decked Out, working on gathering more mycelium for the resistance, just enjoying themselves. Well...most of them were enjoying themselves

Xisuma was currently making his way through the shopping district, walking around, trying to figure out what in the name of the Nether was making everything feel so...off. He had checked the coding of the server about five times, nothing was miscoded or anything like that. Though Xisuma could feel that something was wrong, being an admin made him more connected to the server than anyone else on the server. It was like he could feel the change, but couldn’t figure out where it was.

He hadn’t planned on talking to anyone about it, hoping that he’d be able to resolve it on his own, but he sees a message pop up on the chat through his helmet.

Grian has experienced kinetic energy

rendog: You okay?

Grian: I wasn’t even flying??? I was just standing around. I don’t know what just happened

Xisuma frowned as he looked at the messages. That meant something was wrong with the server. He uses his helmet to look at what had happened to Grian and grumbled a bit, that was definitely not supposed to happen. Grian had just been working on sorting through some chests so he could prepare stuff for The Barge and then boom, dead.

Xisuma: That definitely wasn’t supposed to happen. I’ll see if I can figure out what caused it.

Xisuma finds himself a place to sit down, sitting down on the little porch of the Stat Poker game building as he begins to work his way through the code for what felt like the millionth time. As he looked through it, he swears he sees something out of the corner of his eye, but he chalks it up to just being stressed out from trying to figure out what was causing the problem.

After a while of scrolling through the code and rewatching the video of Grian’s mystery death, he hears some rockets go off and then the sound of someone landing in front of him. Xisuma moves the chat to the side and sees that Keralis is the one in front of him, wearing his construction outfit and seeming like he was looking for something.

Though once Keralis sees Xisuma, he grins,” Shiswam! Just the bee that I wanted to see!” Xisuma wasn’t wearing his bee outfit, but he appreciated the pun none the less. “Hey Keralis, what’s up?” Xisuma figured that Keralis coming to find him could mean any number of things. Though he had a feeling that this was about a glitch or something similar.

“I seem to have ran into a problem at my base and was wondering if maybe you could come help me? I can’t figure out what’s causing it.” Keralis had been trying for over two hours to get this sorter at his base working, he had double checked and yet it still wasn’t working right. “What seems to be the problem?” Xisuma asks this, already pulling up what he could about Keralis’ base. “I’ve been working on a sorter and I know I’ve got the redstone right, but no matter what I do, it won’t sort.” Keralis may or may not have thrown his construction hat a view times while he was trying to work on it.

“Do you think it might be a weird piston?” Xisuma asks this as he looks over it, searching through until he found the sorter in question. Everything looked like it was right, the code looked right, the sorter in general looked right. He frowns as he looks it over,” This is weird...everything looks right, even the code looks right...and it just won’t sort?” One is an accident, twice is a coincidence. If one more weird thing happens, then he’ll know that this isn’t just a weird server day.

As if the universe was listening to Xisuma’s thoughts, a wave of pain shot through him, like he had been stabbed with a sword that had been enchanted to the nether and back. It was only pain in his head, but he found himself grasping onto his helmet for dear life. He hadn’t been in pain like this in a long time. “Shiswam, is something wrong?” Keralis noticed that pain right away, Xisuma never grabbed onto his helmet like that unless he was getting one of the migraines that he rarely got. Those migraines only ever came around on the days where something had gone really wrong and he had spent nether knows how long messing with the code to get it fixed.

“M-my head.” Xisuma manages to speak, keeping his eyes shut. This was somehow worse than every one of those god awful migraines combined. “Is it one of your migraines? Do you need to get the helmet off?” Keralis takes a careful step forward, not wanting to get too close to his friend incase he needed space. Xisuma shakes his head, he wasn’t taking his helmet off unless he had to. “I just need to let it pass.” Xisuma takes a deep breath, hoping that it would stop.

And it did stop...but when it did, he opened his eyes...and there was nothing there, it was void, endless nothing, a black empty void. For the first time since he was a child, Xisuma felt nothing but pure fear. “Keralis?” He asks this, his voice shaking like a leaf. “I’m right here, Shiswam.” Keralis’ voice was right in front of him, speaking softly. “I-I can’t see.” Xisuma had known Keralis for long enough that he allowed himself to let the fear show a bit more than what he would've normally shown. “It’ll be alright, Shiswam, I’m sure it’s just the server throwing a bit of a fit.” Keralis was trying to keep calm, but the worry he felt for his friend was worry that made his heart hurt.

The blindness didn’t stop, but what happened soon after was further proof that things were going very wrong. Keralis had taken a seat next to Xisuma, trying to help him ground himself and not getting lost to the panic he felt...when Keralis got the hit of pain just like Xisuma had earlier. Little did the two know, that at that moment, all across the server, hermits were getting flashes of pain like none of them had felt before, none of them got it as bad as Xisuma did, but it still hurt like all hell.

Keralis had sucked in a sharp breath, gripping onto the porch for dear life. This wasn’t good. If this was anywhere near the pain that Xisuma had felt, then Xisuma handled it like a champ. “Keralis? What’s wrong?” Xisuma heard that breath, that wasn’t a good sign. He couldn’t see the code, he couldn’t see anything, he hated this so much. “My head.” Keralis says this as he takes his construction helmet off yet again, holding it in his hands and just squeezing it that way he wouldn’t be pulling at his hair.

“It’s happening to you too?” Xisuma hated this. He felt helpless, like he couldn’t do anything to help his friend. “It should pass, give it a few minutes...let’s just hope it doesn’t blind you like it did me.” Xisuma manages to find Keralis’ shoulder and give it a squeeze, hoping that it would stop faster for Keralis than it stopped for him. Keralis closed his eyes, hoping that if he closed them then it might stop a bit faster.

As they waited for Keralis’ pain to vanish, all around the server, people found themselves in similar positions. False had been in the Nether, helping Stress with setting up her path to the Nether Hub, when the pain had hit them both and sent them both crashing to the floor, hitting some minecarts in the process. Wels had been nearby, doing some work on his portal when he had heard the loud crash of the minecarts, so he decided to go check and see what caused it.

Wels had seen the girls on the ground and gone running to them, hoping that he might be able to help, but only for the pain to hit him at that very moment...and sending him crashing into a minecart head first. Not his best moment, but at least he had his helmet to protect him. The sound of him crashing into the minecart didn’t help the pain in their heads, if anything it made everything all the worse, especially for Wels since his helmet hit the cart and the cart practically slammed the helmet back at his head, which hurt a lot more than

In a similar turn of events, Grian, Impulse, and Etho were all in the Mycelium Resistance base, working away on actually getting the base looking like a proper base. The other resistance members were out doing things like getting materials, checking their shops, that sort of a thing.

First it was Impulse, who was sorting shulkers at the new meeting table, who just grabbed the nearest chair and sat down cause he knees nearly gave out from the pain. Then it was Etho, who had been writing down the amount of mycelium that they had gathered up and doing a tiny bit of math as he tried to figure out how many mycelium they could make in an hour. He had been standing by the mycelium generator, when he felt the pain hit him, causing him to drop his book as he leaned against the wall to try and keep himself steady. Finally, it was Grian, who was working on the walls of the base. He had seen Etho and Impulse sit down and had been a bit confused, then the wave hit him and he almost fainted from the pain as he sat down against the stone wall. All the three could do was look at one another, unable to speak from the pain.

The pain spread through the server like wildfire...and soon enough the pain had gripped onto every member of the server. As people all around the server began to hit the ground, gasping for breath as they tried to figure out what was happening, they felt the change in the air, felt the change in what felt like the very core of their codes. As they all shut their eyes, hoping that the pain would stop, they felt it, things had just changed, yet they couldn’t seem to open their eyes to see what had happened.

Suddenly, the pain stopped, and their eyes shot open. What they saw was that they were all now in an open field in what appeared to be the middle of nowhere...and they weren’t the only ones there.

#hermitcraft #the crash #xisumavoid #keralis #grian #welsknight #ethoslab #impulse #mcytrabbithole #rabbit writes

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sensationalscenarios · 5 years

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Sleeping Dogs: Chapter IV

AU: Based on my SF9 as Mafia au found here

Chapter Four TWs include: N/A.

Word Count: 2.3k

A/N: hello i know its been well over a year since i’ve updated sleeping dogs but things got hectic and well, i graduated from university! now i just work full time so i should have more time to write hopefully.

i never forgot about sleeping dogs though, and i dont think i would ever be able to fully abandon it either. i dont know if anyone still even remembers this story but if you do, thank you for supporting it and thank you for waiting. it truly means more than anything to have others enjoy my sf9 mafia verse.

so without further ado: sleeping dogs ch 4; as always any and all feedback is welcomed!

+ admin L

III | V

iv. liar

Octagon is the hottest club in Seoul, situated in the cultural hub of Gangnam-gu, and the heart of Seven Star’s territory. The three story club offered a dance floor and entertainment hall on the main floor, three bars, an open kitchen, mezzanine private VIP bunkers, a VIP lounge, a second stage lounge, silent room, a swimming pool and women's powder room. While most building spaces in Seoul were small and cramped, Octagon was a spacious club, and despite only being open Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays, provided a hefty profit for Namjoon and his boys.

As Youngbin walked through the club, he felt himself falling into the rhythm of the music and lights. All around him people moved in a hypnotic state, laughter bubbling from their chests as their drinks sloshed around in their cups. Youngbin often forgot how powerful Seven Star were, given he was always occupied by his own business, but he was happy knowing Namjoon was doing well, that he was able to succeed thus far. Weaving through the crowd, Youngbin led Inseong and Dawon up the stairs to one of the VIP bunkers where Namjoon was waiting for them. The bunker of choice was separated from the others, in a corner that overlooked the octagon shaped hole, which provided the perfect view of the main floor of the club. Two guards stood outside, merely nodding as one held the door open for them. Inside a white, wrap around couch lined the walls, with a table in the center. The members of Seven Star were situated on the couch, their glasses all filled with varying alcoholic beverages. Their exterior reflected nothing but the attitudes of calm professionals, yet from the way in which they grasped their drinks, Youngbin knew there was nothing but anger bubbling beneath their skin.

“Where’s the rest of your boys?” Namjoon asked, eyebrow raised as Youngbin, Inseong, and Dawon sat in the chairs across from him.

“They got caught up at Syndrome so unfortunately they won’t be able to join us. They’re working on finding answers to our problem right now.” Youngbin replied, hyper aware of the rest of Seven Star’s eyes on him. It was risky, bringing only Inseong and Dawon here, but Youngbin knew Namjoon would never summon him like this if it weren’t dire.

“Seulbi dear, why don’t you bring some refreshments for our guests? I’m sure they could use a drink as well. Mr. Lee and Mr. Yoo, the two of you may wait outside with the other guards. This is to be a private conversation between us and the Red Dragons. Do not let anyone disturb us. Understood?” A striking young man ordered as he straightened up in his seat beside Namjoon. Kim Seokjin, as Youngbin knew, was the son of one of the most influential couples in all of Korea. A family with so much power that even the police dared not question them. Octagon had been a gift from Seokjin’s parents to him, allowing him the freedom of running his own business. How much they knew about his activities with Seven Star Youngbin didn’t know. Seokjin acted as Namjoon’s second in command, much like what Inseong did for Youngbin.

“Any weapons on you?” Yoongi asked, wary as he observed the three of them. Youngbin always felt pity when he looked at the other, knowing full well that it was his actions which divided Yoongi and Juho. He knew that was who the former was looking for when they first walked in.

“Just our pistols. We left the rest of our toys at home unfortunately.” Dawon replied.

“If you’re lying, I’ll put a bullet through your head myself.” Taehyung spat.

“Please, as if you could draw your gun faster than me.” Dawon scoffed, arms crossed as he glared at the other. There was a certain rivalry between the two, which Youngbin attributed to their skills as snipers.

“You wanna bet you piece of sh-”

“Boys!” Namjoon and Youngbin called out in unison. Both Dawon and Taehyung closed their mouths, sitting back in their seats and seemingly sulking. They would’ve been great friends, Youngbin was sure, if the circumstances were different.

“This is not the time for your petty disagreements, we have a serious matter to discuss.” Namjoon sighed, before looking at Youngbin. “As I side over the phone, there’s been another murder on our territory this time. One of our runners. He was a good kid Youngbin, a good, loyal kid.”

“I’m so sorry to hear about his passing. I...I didn’t think this man would strike again so soon, and at you guys no less.” Youngbin said.

“Yeomna.” Namjoon said. “That’s what the man calls himself.”

“He gave you a name?!” Inseong pulled out his laptop from his bag, typing rapidly on his keyboard.

“Yeah, gave us a friendly phone call and said if we didn’t join his game someone else is going to die soon.” Yoongi replied grimly.

“Just like the call we got. Interesting.” Inseong looked up from his laptop. “So, I didn’t find anything in police records that matched Yeomna meaning they have no idea a new serial killer is out there. However, I looked up the origin for the word and it means ‘The God of Death’. Whoever we’re dealing with has picked quite a name for himself. Yeomna is said to judge the dead and rule over the afterlife, punishing souls for their wrongdoings in life.”

“So you’re saying we’re dealing with a lunatic playing God? Fucking hell.” Yoongi muttered.

“I think we’re dealing with an entire group. The night when Yeomna called us, our boys were all being watched at three different locations at nearly the same time. We thought it might have been a low tier gang trying to rank up in the Underground but I don’t know. Now I feel like they’re connected. I mean think about it, there’s no way one person could orchestrate this entire thing right? He must have others working behind the scenes and if so, what worries me is that Yeomna might not be the one in control.” Inseong rubbed his chin thoughtfully, before diving into police records one more time.

Silence settled over everyone as the gravity of Inseong’s words hit them. Youngbin hadn’t thought about the possibility of someone higher up pulling all the strings from the shadows, and it made him wonder if they had been watched this entire time. The sudden realization that his boys were scattered hit him like a wall of bricks and he shot up in his seat. “Inseong get Juho and Chani on the line, check in with everyone and make sure they’re alright. Check the cameras outside our home and Syndrome and see if any of those guys are watching them again. Namjoon-”

“On it.” Namjoon cut him off before he could finish, motioning for Seulbi, who had just returned with drinks. The latter quickly set the glasses down, before moving to a side compartment in the room, pulling out a laptop from it. She handed it to Namjoon, and bowed, before exiting the room once more. Namjoon typed just as quickly as Inseong, bringing up footage from all the cameras in Octagon.

Youngbin held his breath as he watched Namjoon’s face, heart racing as he noticed the other’s change in expression. “They’re here aren’t they?”

Namjoon nodded. “We can’t tip them off that we know though. This could be our only chance to get information. We need a game plan and quick.”

“The way I see it we have two options: either we...question one of them, or we slip a tracker on one of them. Personally, I think we’d benefit more from the second option.” Yoongi said.

“Well, that route’s not as fun but you make a valid point good sir.” Dawon leaned back in his seat. “So which one of you is going to do it?”

“Pfft, lazy piece of shit.” Taehyung grumbled.

“Listen jackass, there’s a chance they don’t know that Youngbin, Inseong, and I are here. As far as Yeomna knows, and everyone else for that matter, the Red Dragons and Seven Star are still at each other's throats. I think it’d be in both of our best interests that it stays that way.”

“Dawon’s right. It’s better if no one knows about our...temporary alliance. Besides if word spread in the Underground about this we’ll only have more problems.” Namjoon rubbed his temples. “Jimin you’re up.”

“Sure. I like the easy stuff.” Jimin shrugged, setting his wine glass down on the table as he got up. Namjoon signaled to Seulbi, who brought over a case from another one of the drawers in the room. Two soft clicks were heard before Namjoon opened it, revealing an assortment of devices. He removed a USB and a small, circular piece of metal, about half the size of a penny. Plugging the USB into his laptop, he tossed the small device towards Jimin, who caught it effortlessly. The two of them turned on their bluetooth earpieces, testing the connection twice.

Straightening his clothes, Jimin left the room and made his way downstairs to mingle. All eyes in the room turned towards the security cameras, watching as Jimin weaved his way among the clubbers. Occasionally he would stop and greet a few regulars, hugging some and directing others to the bar. He ordered a couple of drinks, and situated himself with his back facing the counter. Resting his head in one hand, he casually sipped his drink, smiling at girls who looked his way. All in all Jimin looked as relaxed as anyone could.

“There’s a guy in the room to your left. When you walk he’s going to be on the right hand side. His back is turned so that’s as good of a chance as you’ll get.” Namjoon said.

Without responding, Jimin got up from his seat and made his way towards the designated room. Once inside Jimin glances to his right as he takes another sip. It’s now or never. He takes a step towards the man, before “stumbling” forward. The drink in his hand spills over the other, who jumps and spins around, just as Jimin is falling forward. Jimin’s giggling, though the others in the room can’t hear him, and he starts apologizing to the man quite dramatically. The man tries to help Jimin regain his balance, as the latter clings on, saying absurd things.

“You might want to lay off the alcohol kid.” The man said.

“I’m sooo sorry mister.” Jimin giggled again, arms still wrapped around the other’s shoulders for support. “I’ll be juuuust fine. Don’t you worry. Byeee.”

Jimin stumbles out of the room, and for a moment, the man contemplates following the boy, but shrugs off the idea once his body disappears into the intoxicated crowd. Instead, the man pulls out his phone, typing a quick text as he makes his way towards the exit.

“Alright he’s leaving, you can come back up.” Namjoon grinned. “Nice acting.”

“I try my best.” Jimin replied.

Youngbin was quite impressed to say the least. If he hadn’t known better he would’ve thought the kid was completely shitfaced. He hadn’t even noticed whether or not the boy had successfully slipped the tracker onto the guy.

Within moments Jimin slips back into the room and into his previous spot, picking up his wine glass as if nothing had happened. “Well I slipped it under his collar. It’s ready to go.”

“Alright, let’s see what we can get.” Namjoon brought up a screen filled with oscillating waves as the tracker picked up various sounds from the streets outside. “Inseong can you get us visuals while I work with the audio.”

“Sure.” Inseong typed quickly, his laptop splitting into four screens, each with a different view of the street. The cameras changed every minute or so as he hacked one camera after another, doing his best to follow the man’s movements. There were two others with him, and they appeared to be whispering amongst one another.

Namjoon pressed a few keys on his laptop, trying his best to isolate their voices only. After a moment or two, he was finally able to enhance the portion of audio that he wanted, and he turned the volume up so that everyone could hear what was being said.

“...at Syndrome. Kang Chanhee isn’t with them. We need to find the kid.”

“There were only three of them at Syndrome. The rest could all be together, we might not be able to separate the kid from them.”

“Well we gotta think of something, otherwise Boss won’t be happy.”

“Dawon call the others. Now.” Youngbin said, fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles were turning white.

Just as Dawon was about to call Rowoon, the sound of Youngbin’s phone rang through the room. Pulling the device out of his pocket, Youngbin frowned at the unknown number. “It’s him. It’s Yeomna.”

Setting the phone down on the table, he answered, tapping the speaker button. “Hello?”

“Hello again, Kim Youngbin.”

“What the hell do you want now?”

“Ah, straight to the point I see. I was merely wondering if you’ve spoken with Seven Star recently. I hear they have suffered a tragic loss.”

“You should know we don’t fuck with Seven Star.”

“I disagree. You and Namjoon seem to have quite the past. Very messy indeed.” Yeomna tsked. “Two once dear friends, nearly inseparable, were at war with each other. But now it seems as if the two of you have set aside your differences for the time being.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Namjoon and I have nothing to do with each other anymore.” Youngbin glanced over at Namjoon, who seemed just as concerned as he is.

“You can’t lie to me. I know you’re working together. I know he must’ve told you my name. In fact, I even know you’re with him right now. Am I wrong, Kim Namjoon?”

Youngbin shook his head at the other, urging him not to speak. The latter nodded in response, choosing to say nothing. After a moment of silence passed, a sigh could be heard.

“No matter. I have other things I wanted to discuss with you all.”

“Such as?”

“Player three has chosen to play.”

38 notes · View notes

eirabach · 7 years

Text

A Shadow in the Bright [Captain Charming [1/1]]

David is a shepherd. A part-time barkeep. An upstanding member of society.

He doesn’t consort with pirates.

Much.

Happy birthday, @phiralovesloki !!! Hub Science Lady and Dispenser of Adult Advice, Writer Extraordinaire and Dedicated Trashcanner. Thank you for the incredible amount of work you put into this fandom - both in terms of your wonderful fics and your mind-boggling admin skills - and specifically, thank you for putting up with my whiny ass and being the best beta-cum-cheerleader I could have ever asked for. Your constant encouragement and enthusiasim have kept me writing through many a dark night of the fanfic soul.

I took notes from your birthday request list - hope this hits a couple ;)

Captain Charming. Rated E for smut. 6.9k.

Title shamelessly robbed from Biffy Clyro’s - Know Your Quarry which is 100% my Captain Charming song rn for some reason...

Much love and fruit baskets to my betas @katie-dub, @dassala and @starlessness. All remaining stray commas are entirely my responsibility!

TW: Sex Pollen (with explicit consent, but better safe than sorry.)

The tavern is over warm tonight, the blast of the open fire mixing uncomfortably with the mass of bodies who’ve dragged themselves in from the cold, their discarded furs and capes and leathers draped over the backs of chairs and gently steaming in the heat.

David runs a cloth over his forehead to banish the sweat that’s gathered there before hoisting another barrel into position on the bar top. He jams in the tap with practiced hands and hands off the first foamy tankard to a scrawny looking man with black teeth and beggar-dog eyes.

“On the house,” he mutters as the man scrabbles about his person for a coin purse David knows perfectly well doesn’t exist. “It’s cold out.”

The man babbles something that’s probably gratitude, but David’s not entirely paying attention. His eyes are fixed on one corner of the tavern where the heat haze swims across his vision and he tells himself he should tamp the fire.

(It probably, maybe, doesn’t have anything to do with the fire at all.)

It’s been six weeks since he brought the sheep down from the hills and tucked them up safely for the winter in his mother’s barn. It’s been a good year, it has, not like the last when the frosts came late and the lambs came early. This year he’s enough coin to keep the farm afloat and his belly full until the new season. This year he doesn’t need to work the winter away in a tavern where the walls sweat and the roof leaks.

(But there’s a burst of laughter from the corner, the sound of tankard against tabletop and the first notes of a song, and maybe, secretly, he does.)

There’s more to life than coin, his mother had told him, her wizened hand soft at his cheek. Don’t forget, David.

He hasn’t forgotten, he just isn’t sure this is what she had in mind.

The first time he’d seen them - seen him - had been one of his very first evenings at the taps. It had been bitter that night too, and the slam of the tavern door had sent him spinning, scowling, a retort on the tip of his tongue to Shut that door behind you, were you raised by wolves? And then he’d seen the glint of steel, the swish of leather, eyes bluer and shrewder and older than he’d ever seen before. He’d snapped his jaw closed so hard, so swiftly, that he could have sworn it was audible. There’d been a beat, perhaps two, and then those blue, blue eyes and leather had swaggered up to him, leant in a little too close and asked:

We’re just after a drink, not a problem, is it?

No, David had said, arms crossed, fists clenched tight. Just pay your dues.

Leather and blue had smiled - smirked, really - an uptick at the corner of lips pinker and plusher than David had cared to dwell on.

Oh, I always do.

He always does.

He calls himself Captain Hook, brandishing his namesake he bears in the place of his left hand under the nose of any who try to start trouble, but David knows him as Jones. He knows him to be honourable enough to pay his bills; gentle enough that the girls vie for a place on his knee, starry-eyed as he tells tall tales of lands David hardly believes enough to scoff at; and terrifying enough to keep his crew close and cowed under the threat of the steel.

David knows him to be a friend, of sorts, in a world and a season that feels increasingly friendless.

Then the heat haze clears and David sees the line of his throat, his head thrown back in laughter, the wrinkling of his silk vest at the urgent press of the girl in his lap, the firelight against the curve of his hook.

And David knows hardly anything at all.

He certainly hadn’t known what to think the first time he’d felt it - that sick rush of jealousy that flowed heavy and hot and settled in his stomach like some nauseating rock - only that it half knocked him off his feet. His hands were full of tankards that slopped mead over his shoes as he stopped dead before the table where Jones, where Hook, had buried his face in the crook of a wench’s shoulder. Her skirts were rucked up and her stockings a wrinkled mess that had David turning puce on the spot.

When he finally came up for air Jones had taken his red face, his silent staring, for anger. He had kissed the girl on both cheeks and sent her on her way with a whispered, Later, love. Later.

(David had memorised that sound, the whisper of it following him through sultry summer nights on the hills when the sky was too big and the world was too lonely.)

When David had dropped the tankards half empty to the table, Jones had laughed through kiss swollen lips and said I never took you for a prude, Dave! His crew had laughed too as Jones slapped him on the back and promised to find him the finest wench, just say the word, Dave, and they’re yours.

Even then the only word on the tip of David’s tongue had been You. Even then when he’d barely known what that might mean. When Jones had still been a pirate and he’d still been… well. David’s never been the changeable sort. Steady. Certain. Handsome enough to win the eye of a lady or three - if not rich enough to win their hand.

Not the sort to consort with pirates, and certainly not in the way he wants to consort with Jones.

(A sticky night in a shepherd’s hut a thousand miles from anyone to hear him, but when Jones fell from parched, parted lips, it was the shock that made him shudder.

And David doesn’t know anything, except that he shouldn’t.

Except that he does.)

Tonight the fire burns long into the night, the howling wind keeping people within the safety of the tavern for as long as their purses allow. But eventually David’s patience runs low and as the drink slows to a trickle, so do the patrons. Until in the end it’s just Jones and his crew that remain ensconced at their corner table, Jones’s arms flung over the back of the bench as he watches David mop slop from tables, his face relaxed and young-looking, his grin a little looser from the rum.

“Aren’t you bored?” he calls, “It’s late.”

“And I’m working,” huffs Dave as he wrings out another cloth into the bucket at his feet. “Which is not something I expect you to know much about.”

He expects a guffaw, or maybe even a sneer depending on how much rum Jones has consumed over the course of the evening, but instead he gets a long, serious sort of look, Jones’s hook tapping lightly on the table as though he’s considering David’s words.

“In the eye of the beholder that, mate,” he says eventually. “Like beauty.”

The last word rolls through his mouth and trips off his tongue, honeyed and a little lower than the rest. David clenches his fist around his damp cloth and wills himself not to blush.

(The corner of Jones’s mouth ticks up, and he thinks he’s probably failed.)

“Come sit,” says Jones, gesturing with his arm at the space beside him. “It’s been a long voyage and we’ve few friends to regale with adventures.”

“Probably because you’ve robbed them all,” David grouses, but he slips into the warm space beside Jones nonetheless, managing to hold himself upright as Jones gives him a hearty slap on the shoulder.

“Lucky for you I’ve no use for a flock, eh?” he says brightly. “Now Smee, here…”

There’s a snort of laughter around the table as Smee, a small, portly little man with an oversized red hat and sharp, rat-like eyes, scowls at his captain.

“You said you wouldn’t bring that up.”

“Excuse me?” David says, wrinkling his nose. “Actually, on second thoughts, don’t. I don’t want to know.”

“Can’t say any of us did,” says Jones with a grin before taking a swing from his flask. “Smee just got a little caught out in one of our games, and we’ve all had to suffer the consequences.”

He knows he’ll regret asking the moment he opens his mouth, but Jones is smiling at him and the room is warm and he doesn’t want to be anywhere but here, not really. Not even if it’s only to listen the timbre of Jones’s voice and feel the vibration of him in the air between them.

“What games?”

Jones’s eyes are bright as he talks, his cheeks flushed pink as he gestures at the other men. Their laughter is muted and dull to David’s ears compared to the sound of Jones’s voice.

“And that’s when Mullins there discovered she was really out of the pleasure dens, and he with not a coin left to pay her!”

Mullins winces at the memory, but shrugs it off after a long draw from his tankard.

“Paid her off in other ways though didn’t I,” he says, slightly smug. “Got you all in on the next night’s game too as I recall.”

“And very grateful we were, aye lads?” Jones says with a grin, lifting his flask in salute. “To the pleasure dens!”

“The pleasure dens!” cry the crew, voices petering out to hiccoughs and sighs as the drink settles in their bones.

David swallows, fingers inching towards his cloth again at the thought of Jones in some den of iniquity, his silk vest undone, his eyes dark with lust as someone - some woman - worked her body over his.

He shudders, and Jones notices, one brow quirking up.

“Alright there, Dave?”

“Pleasure dens?” David says, jealousy colouring his tone with disapproval. “Sounds sordid.”

“Not these,” Jones says, shaking his head. “I’ve seen my share of brothels, but this place…”

“It’s the games,” says Hill, a scrawny, youngish lad, who lean over the table and winks conspiratorially at David. “Make all the difference, see?”

“So you’ve said,” David mutters. “Care to expand?”

Jones pauses his drinking for a moment, his grin changing into something a little more challenging as he considers David.

“Alright. Hill, go fetch Dave a drink.”

“I’m working,” Dave mutters, but Jones shakes his head.

“Not right now you aren’t, now -” he pushes the tankard Hill has brought to the table closer to David with the curve of his hook. “The rules.”

“You play by rules?”

“I do in these sorts of games, Dave. Good form and all that.”

He taps the side of the tankard encouragingly, and David takes a sip.

“Alright,” he continues. “The game goes as follows. Each participant shares something… unaccomplished, shall we say. And then they’re helped to…,” Jones pauses, and David could swear his eyes flick to David’s lips. “accomplish them.”

“Virginal types like Hill here have a hell of a list,” guffaws Mullins. “And as for Mr Smee…”

Smee scowls, his hand falling to the cutlass at his side before Jones slaps his hand down on the table.

“Now if you’re playing the game, and you fancy a little of that yourself, you simply take a drink,” Jones demonstrates with a wink. “And one of the lovelies will be sure to oblige you. Fancy a game?”

“There aren’t any girls here,” David says without thinking.

“None at sea, either mate,” says Jones, dropping his voice conspiratorially, “but I won’t tell if you don’t.”

It’s, well, fun, at first, though there’s an undercurrent of something that David dare not name that fizzles beneath every one of Jones’s words and sparks when his shoulder brushes David’s. For his own part David is careful to time sips of his drink so as not to accidentally expose himself as having the same fetish for toes as Mullins or as being as nervous as Hill.

“I have never been kissed”, the boy says, half choking on his mead as he guzzles it and hides his red face behind the tankard.

“Come here then”, laughs Jones, “we can’t have that, can we?”

David takes his own gulp quickly in the space between Hill’s gibbering refusal and the crew’s laughter, and pretends he doesn’t feel Jones’s gaze on the side of his face.

“Interested, Dave?”

“No,” he says, a little too soon, a little too sharply. “Just thirsty.”

Jones hums, a low sound that David feels in the base of his spine, and takes a drag from his own flask.

“I know how you feel.”

Drink sees the crew off in the end. Drink, and their own desires stoked up by a game of one upmanship and off to be slaked in the beds of whichever wench is fortunate to have a space in her schedule. Eventually it’s just David, Smee and Jones sitting in the corner, little more than shadows in the flickering of the dying fire.

Silence falls between them, thick like a woollen blanket. David knows he should get up - the floors won’t mop themselves and the taps need sealing - but he finds himself unable to move from the bench seat at Jones’s side, his breathing a little quicker, a little shallower, as it synchronises with Jones’s own.

Jones doesn’t move either, just taps the edge of his hook on the tabletop and watches Smee drain the dregs of his drink.

“Time to be off then,” Smee says, smacking his lips together and pushing back from the table. “You coming, Captain?”

“Not tonight,” Jones says, and there’s something odd in his voice, something a little like nerves. “I’ve business to attend to here.”

Smee’s nose wrinkles in confusion.

“Here?”

Here?

“What I said, wasn’t it? Be off with you, and I’d better not find any fleeced stowaways on my ship.”

“That was a joke,” Smee sniffs.

“So you say,” says Jones, and waves his hand toward the door. “Be off with you.”

Smee nods, first to his Captain and then to David who can only incline his head minutely in reply. It’s as though he’s frozen to the spot, his heartbeat thundering in his ears as Smee takes his leave.

The door slams behind Smee, a gust of icy air left in his wake, but it isn’t that that sends the shiver down David’s spine. From the corner of his eye he can see Jones’s long fingers playing over the rim of his flask, his eyes a little darker than normal as he turns to straddle the bench leaving David sitting, sraightbacked and statue-like, between his thighs.

“Well,” Jones says. “This is cosy.”

“You should go,” David says, “I need to close up.”

But he makes no attempt to move, and Jones only taps his fingers against his flask a little harder.

“If you want me to leave,” Jones says, “I shall. On the condition I can ask one thing.”

David makes a sort of low squeaking sound that Jones interprets as permission to continue, leaning in until his mouth is barely an inch from David’s ear. His leather pants creak as he shifts his weight closer, his words more of a breath than a whisper.

“Will you let me show you?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” David lies.

Jones sighs, shaking his head slightly as he drop his flask to the table.

“Do you think poorly of men like me, David?”

David lifts his eyebrows, shooting Jones a curious look from the corner of his eye.

“Pirates?”

“That much you made clear last winter, Dave,” Jones says wryly. “All that disapproval has aged you, you know.”

“Is that how you impress your women?” David scoffs.

Jones shrugs then says, “not trying to impress a woman, am I? So I’ll ask again - what do you think of men like me?”

David’s throat works as he swallows heavily. It sounds like a dream come true, this man, this ridiculous intoxicating man, pressing his thigh into David’s back and asking - and asking what, exactly? Paranoia makes his heart race, his palms sweat.

(He thinks it’s paranoia.)

“I think it’s a long voyage.”

“That it is,” agrees Jones, “and this isn’t the closest port.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” David mumbles, and Jones smiles.

“I think you do,” he says softly, “I think you watch me, David. I catch you doing it, when I’m watching you. I think you want things you don’t know how to ask for - but I know. I know, David.”

He hears Jones’s swallow, feels the bob of his throat in the air between them.

“I have never kissed you, David.”

(A hundred lonely nights he’s wondered what that voice would feel like at his ear, and now he knows. He knows it’ll follow him forever. He isn’t sure he cares.)

His hand moves, fingers curling around the tankard, Jones’s sigh warm against his neck as he drinks then turns. They’re so close that he brushes Jones’s nose with his own, tasting the rum on the other man’s breath as he gathers his courage, and says:

“Please.”

Jones kisses him first, a soft gentle press not unlike those David had shared with the blushing maidens of his youth, and he almost laughs, so different is it from what he’s expecting - whatever he’s expecting.

He’s the one to deepen the kiss, to tilt his head and open his mouth, but it’s Jones’s tongue against his that makes him groan, Jones’s hand that sneaks between them to tug at the collar of David’s shirt. It’s also Jones that pulls away first, lips red from stubble burn and eyes a little hooded with lust.

“That was - ” David manages, but Jones shakes his head.

“Just a start, love, I promise,” and then he smiles. “You can call me Killian, if you like?”

“Killian,” David says, then, surer, “Killian.” And he surges forward to recapture that smile with his own.

Jones has maneuvered them up against the bar, David’s back to the wood as the other man kisses a wet, sharp trail down the side of his neck. David’s breath comes in strange, desperate pants that he hardly recognises as Jones lowers himself to his knees.

The hook makes a dull thud on the tavern floor and David swears he feels it reverberate up his spine, his nerves singing as he fumbles with the laces of his pants, the bar top sharp at the ridge of his spine.

Hook, Jones, Killian, looks up at him through long dark lashes, his teeth white against the red of his lip as he bites down.

“You don’t have to,” Killian says again. “We don’t have to.”

A furrow forms between his brows, and his body seems to straighten, tighten, as if he’s preparing to stand up, and David’s throat is too dry, nervous desire setting him too on edge. He’s going to lose this, he knows it, he’s going to lose it and he finally finally knows.

“No,” he manages. “No. I want to - I want you -”

And then Killian’s hand is on his, warm and a little damp as he helps steady twitching fingers and works the knots from David’s laces, and then -

A warm breath of air against touch starved skin, an intake of breath, those blue, blue eyes that focus on his own, pink lips that part, the slip of a tongue -

And he is undone.

He almost falls to his knees at the first sweep of tongue, his thighs trembling uncontrollably as Killian takes him deep, deep, deeper than David had even thought possible, until only the press of Killian’s fingers into the skin of his hip and the wood at his back keep him upright. His whole body shudders as Killian pulls back only to press his tongue into the ridge that makes David cry out, his fingers scrabbling for purchase on the bar top behind him before giving up to wind themselves in Killian’s hair.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, but he feels the way Killian’s mouth curls into a smile around him. “I don’t… I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Killian pulls back further, the air so much cooler than the warmth of his mouth that David gasps in shock. Killian makes no move back towards his twitching cock, though, instead looking up at him, his hair mussed from David’s fingers, his lips slightly swollen.

“You never - none of your girls? Truly?”

His voice is different too, rougher, but with less of the captain in it. Less of the captain and more of something David recognises all too well.

Longing. It sounds like longing.

David shakes his head.

“They never - I never- I never wanted…”

He lets the words sit for a moment, wills Killian to understand the ones he can’t quite say.

Until you.

Except you.

Killian smiles and it’s like the sun coming up over the mountainside, a breathtaking sight that has David sagging back against the bar again, his knees far weaker than they had been even under the careful ministrations of the other man’s tongue.

“You want now,” Killian says, and it isn’t a question.

But David tightens his grip in his hair, and it’s an answer all the same.

It’s been a long voyage, a long summer - a long, long life, truth be told - but those are hardly the only reasons he’s never been so keen to make port before.

Aye, the weather has changed for the worse - an ill northerly wind that blows ice water into his eyes each watch - but port is hardly a shelter for men like them. Men like him, with a bounty on his head and not a friend to turn to when it’s called in.

(He never minded that, before. But perhaps he’s getting ahead of himself.)

This winter is different though. There’s a frisson in the wind that doesn’t come from the cold north, but from here, from this nameless, worthless port town. A frisson that comes, in the end, from him.

Last winter the tavern at the dockside had meant nothing more than a warm hearth and the prospect of some entertainment for men too long cooped up at sea. Killian hadn’t been looking for anything more than a game of dice and a fresh barrel of rum when he’d first walked in, but then he’d been met with fierce eyes and broad shoulders, distrust and displeasure, and, well, he’d always loved a challenge.

At first it had been a good game, watching David seethe from the bar as Killian and his crew made merry, nights of drinking and whoring only occasionally broken by the clash of steel. But as the weeks had passed David’s shoulders had relaxed, his gaze more contemplative than angry, and Killian had found himself inviting him to join them. For a drink. For a story.

For the flash of a dimple. The curl of a smile. The soft, gentle voice that carries more than any drunken shout when it called Jones.

And then it hadn’t really been a game at all.

Killian can’t say that David is the first man to catch his eye - voyages are long and sailors are suspicious after all - and he is beautiful. He’s all broad shoulders and strong lines and a jaw that anyone with a pulse would want to bite, but there’s something different about him. Something that calls to a part of Killian he’d thought long lost to Neverland and Crocodiles and love’s last dying breath, the part that’s buried hard under the layers of leather and defended at the point of a hook.

More than desire, though desire him he does, David Nolan makes Captain Hook want to be better.

That’s probably why he ran.

(There’s no probably about it.)

When he closes his eyes all he sees is David, flushed red and wide eyed, still half propped against his own bar with his breeches askew. When he swallows he imagines the taste of him thick against his tongue, lies in his bunk and winds his own hand through his hair and pretends, pretends, pretends until he aches with the want of it.

(Don’t you want..? David had asked last night as Killian rose from his knees, his voice a broken sort of whisper.

Not tonight, he’d lied. That wasn’t the game.)

It’s a long, long way from a game, and when the men leave for the docks the next night, he doesn’t join them.

Instead he makes his way to the hold where the air is cool and damp and smells of whale oil and the inventory distracts him from the itch in his skin, from the ache in his heart.

“Is this where you’re hiding?”

At first he thinks he’s imagining it - that one kiss, one mouthful, of David Nolan and the man has possessed him - but then he feels the shift in the air as someone enters the room. Hears the creak of the boards beneath another’s feet.

“I thought you were working,” he says without turning, and hears the shrug of a woolen coat in reply.

“I took a night off. Smee seemed keen on covering the taps.”

“You left Smee in charge of your tavern?”

The boards creak again. One step, two.

“Not my tavern. And anyway, I had better things to do.”

Killian hums a noncommittal reply as David’s hand sneaks around him to lift one of the vials from the chest he’s examining.

“What’s this?” he asks, holding it up to the light, and Killian’s eyes widen when he sees which one he’s chosen.

“I wouldn’t - “

“Why not?”

“It’s a delicacy of sorts, one used by those who frequent the pleasure dens.”

David lifts his eyebrows, and Killian feels himself blush.

“And?”

“It… increases your desire. And reduces your recovery time.” He winks, determined not to appear discombobulated in front of David. “Not everyone is as blessed as me.”

David’s eyes widen momentarily and then he nods, humming slightly as he curls his fingers around the vial.

“About that. You disappeared last night.”

“Were you expecting me to be the cuddling type?”

David tilts his head to one side, considering him through narrowed eyes.

“I expected you to want me to return the favor,” he says.

There’s something in his tone that makes Killian wince and turn his back, concentrating on his inventory so as not to see the look on David’s face.

“I didn’t do it for that,” he admits, the words gritted out. “It wasn’t - it wasn’t for payment.”

David barks out a laugh. “Well that’s a relief, at least. So why did you? Proving some sort of point?”

Killian turns to look over his shoulder, but it isn’t disgust he sees on David’s face, but confusion, honest confusion, two high spots of colour in the other man’s cheeks as he meets Killian’s eyes.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he huffs, “who could I possibly have been proving a point to? I’ve been half hanged for less.”

“I’ll bet you have,” David says, and takes a step closer. “Doesn’t explain…” he gestures between the two of them with the hand holding the vial, “this.”

Killian turns around fully, and he swears his heart skips a beat or three as David’s gaze drops to his lips.

“Does it need an explanation?” he asks.

“No,” says David, “I suppose not.”

This kiss is different from the last - rougher, harder, a little more certain in the push and the pull - and it’s Killian who’s backed up against the chests tonight, David’s teeth at his pulse point. Killian who whimpers out a yes, yes please as David pulls at his coat and begs permission with his tongue at the hollow of his throat.

“You’ll tell me?” David pants, “You’ll tell me if I do it wrong?”

And Killian almost laughs at the absurdity of it all, that here they are in the oil drenched bowels of his ship, the man he’s dreamt of all summer sinking to his knees before him whispering words he can’t hear. He pushes Killian’s leathers over his hips and just the flutter of his hand is enough to have him keening like a virgin.

“Just right,” he manages, his thighs trembling as David pulls back his foreskin and tries a first, tentative lick. “Just perfect.”

It seems to be all the encouragement David needs to try another, then another, his hand working the base of Killian’s cock as he wraps his lips around the head and writes soliloquies with his tongue. Maybe it’s not the best he’s ever had - far from it, perhaps - but the sight of David’s blond head between his legs, the callouses on his fingers as he pumps and twists, are enough to have Killian on edge in minutes. His panted warnings come just a little too late for David who pulls back only to have his chin and shirt painted white as Killian thrusts into his fist.

“I’m sorry,” Killian mumbles. “I’m sorry.”

David narrows his eyes again and runs his tongue over his lips to catch a drop, the action almost enough to have Killian dropping to his own knees.

“It’s alright,” says David, in that soft, gentle voice that makes Killian ache in an entirely different way. “I can get my own back.”

The storm lasts a fortnight, the snow lying thick on the roofs of the village houses and swept overboard hourly by the land locked crew of the Jolly. It’s a rough one. The food stocks are low after a pitiful harvest and the people of this nowhere land know to expect no assistance from the cold hearted rulers of the kingdoms they border. No-one has coin for the tavern.

There’d be no-one there if they did.

David spends his days in the barn attempting to keep his flock alive in much the same way as Killian carefully, almost obsessively, counts out rations to the men of the Jolly, but his nights? His nights he spends warmer than he’s ever been.

He can’t regret this storm, not when it’s brought him these nights. Not when he knows that when the storm leaves, so will the Jolly Roger.

Not when he knows what that means to him, now.

So he’s going to make the most of it while it lasts.

He commits every touch, every smile, every stupid pirate joke to memory. Wills himself to recall precisely how the deck feels under bare feet and the exact shade of puce Smee turned the one time he entered the captain’s quarters without knocking.

(He wraps himself in the lack of judgement, in the silence instead of whispers, in the control Killian exerts with one quirked brow.)

On the fourteenth night, with the storm still raging beyond the windows of the Captain's cabin, he sits propped up in bed with silk sheets wrapped around his legs, watching the play of candlelight over Killian’s bare skin as he blots the ink on his latest inventory entry and stretches his arms over his head.

“This damn storm had better pass,” Killian groans, rising from the table. “All the spices of the east aren’t enough to make frozen rat a palatable meal.”

He picks up his flask, shakes it, and sighs miserably.

“Not to mention the rum.”

“You drink too much anyway,” says David, parting his legs so that Killian can sit between them. “The drought will be good for you.”

Killian pouts, a ridiculous, mockable thing that he’d never dare show to any other man on the ship, and David rolls his eyes as he presses a finger against the protruding lip.

“I’m only concerned with your health,” he says, and it’s Killian’s turn to roll his eyes, shifting his body weight until he’s able to kneel on the mattress and lean forward to kiss the smile from David’s mouth.

“I can think of a few other things you’re concerned with,” he says, moving to rest his hand on David’s thigh and smirking at the way he shivers as he whispers in his ear. “Want me to demonstrate?”

“Actually,” says David, his heart pounding as he says the words he’s been thinking of for a week or more. “I’ve got an idea.”

“Are you sure about this?” Killian holds the vial in his hand, the dark powder glinting within as he presses his thumb against the edge of the cork. “I have seen this used before, but - ”

“A first for both of us then,” says David, his eyes fixed on the vial as he worries at his lip. “Haven’t you been wondering?”

Killian half scoffs. Of course he’s been wondering. He’d seen the ecstasy of the faces of those exposed to the power - watched them writhe and moan and consume one another with no apparent concern other than the pursuit of pleasure. It’s why he’d brought it back, after all. But David is new to this - to the touch of another man’s hand, at least - and he doesn’t want to frighten him, doesn’t want him to look at him differently when the powder wears off, to see Killian in a darker light than that cast by the Jolly’s candles.

He doesn’t especially want to examine why that is, either, but no matter. He already knows.

But then David’s larger hand is over his, and he’s taking the vial, and his eyes are sharp and blue and certain.

“I want to,” he says, each word formed carefully and clearly. “Do you?”

Killian breathes, nods, and the vial pops open.

It’s warm, with a soft sort of cinnamon smell that entices and ensnares in equal measure. Killian dips his finger into the vial and lifts it to David’s lips.

“Ready?”

He’s never been so ready for anything in his life.

Just the merest hint of powder against his tongue and it’s like fire is coursing through his veins, his hands burning with the urge to take and grab and possess. It takes only moments to consume them both and send them reeling in the half dark, seemingly unsure of how to quench the fire.

The wind howls and the sheets are a torn, sodden mess on the floor, but none of that matters.

Not when Killian is arching beneath him as David tightens his fingers in his hair and his tongue slips out to lick a trail of fire into the sweat at David’s jaw. David’s blood feels thick, his head so clouded with lust and the heat of Killian’s skin that he’s barely aware of the heave and roll of the ship or the screaming storm outside. The world around him has narrowed to one indiscernible point, all his senses devoted to memorising the scent of sweat, the unsteady catch of breath as he presses his thumb into the hollow of Killian’s throat. Until all he can see, all he ever wants to see, is the desire in Killian’s eyes as he tightens his thighs around David’s waist and sobs out a sound that might be his name.

And the world is spinning, throbbing in time with his cock as Killian flips them over and rears up, grinding his hips down until lights seems to flash red-white in the corners of David’s eyes. And then when David’s biting down on steel to keep from screaming from the sheer desperate ache of it - Killian rises up.

Sinks down.

(They say the world explodes in colour, but all he sees is blue.)

David wakes first to calm seas and a shaft of winter sunlight that plays along the line of Killian’s spine and reveals the fresh, pink marks scattered amongst the scars. David presses his lips against their own perfect imprint at the curve of Killian’s hip as he sits up, his body aching, and reaches for his breeches.

He knows that last night, somewhere between that first tentative thrust and Killian’s pleas for David to make him his own there’d been a shift, a sudden certainty in their actions, a meaning that hadn’t been there before. The storm between the two of them had reached a crescendo that spilled out in fevered promises and words that David, for one, had never said before, pressed into every scar on Killian’s body and written with tongues on sweat-slicked skin.

But the storm is over. Life resumes.

It was always coming, after all.

Such is the way of things, he supposes, but as he holds his breeches loosely in one hand he finds himself unable to move to put them on.

The hand at his elbow is a little sticky still, but the grip is firm enough.

“Where are you going?” Killian’s voice is rough from lack of sleep and overuse, but David hears the confusion in it. The want. He knows his own is no steadier as he struggles for a reply.

“Back,” he manages. “The storm’s over, Jones. It was...” he takes a deep breath, bites his own cheek, “fun.”

In a single motion Killian is upright, his knees pressed into David’s thigh, and David daren’t turn to look at him because he can feel the heat of his stare, the anger behind it.

“Fun,” Killian says. “Right.”

David half shrugs, the words from last night thick at the back of his throat. He wants to let them out, he does, but how can he now in the bright dawn with the tide already pulling them apart?

(His mother had always told him he was stubborn, but Killian, Killian is worse. Killian will make it worse.

He does.)

“So that’s it? You’re leaving?”

“The farm - “

Killian laughs, a harsh, cold thing worse than any storm.

“The farm? Fuck the farm! Come with me.”

David does look at him then, his own mouth curling into a sneer. He says it like it’s nothing. Like David’s whole career - David’s whole life - isn’t worth considering, and the arrogance of it makes his blood warm, his words less measured.

“As what? Captain’s pet?”

Killian jumps back as though he’s been slapped and David cringes at the hot rush of shame that courses through him.

“Is that what you think this is?”

“No,” David says, quickly, too quickly, and he wants to be right. He’s never wanted to be right so much in his life.

This has mattered. He wants it to always have mattered.

“Because it isn’t,” says Killian, and his eyes are like fire and his muscles seem to scream with tension. “It hasn’t ever been - I won’t make you.” He shakes his head, his hair falling in his eyes, and David’s fingers twitch with the urge to brush it aside.

“Nevermind. Go back to your sheep,” Killian says, lying back down. “I’m tired anyway.”

(He has his back to the door when David leaves, and the ship is gone by sundown.)

It takes longer than he’d intended. Winter isn’t a prime time for sheep sales, after all, and he’ll need more than the bare minimum in his purse for what he has planned. But eventually he manages to convince someone to take on his flock for almost market rate, and by the first spring tide he’s making the appropriate enquires of every seafaring man who crosses the tavern’s threshold.

Turns out not many men try to seek out pirates (not many pirates are like his), but eventually he hears that their banner has been spotted in the waters of Queen Regina’s kingdom. Although it’s not a place he’s any desire to visit he’s packing up his meagre belongings in moments and praying to a deity he doesn’t believe in that the cost of his travel is no more than the profits from the sale of his farm.

(It’s all of it, every last sovereign, and he’d laugh but all he cares for now is the sea spray on his face and the blue, blue horizon ahead.)

So he hasn’t much when he settles himself into the corner of a dockside tavern. Just a blunted cutlass and enough coppers for a weak mead, the leather of the faintly ridiculous coat he’d brought tight across his shoulders as he watches the door. His foot tapping against the straw covered floor.

If Killian doesn't want him, what then? David has walked away once, after all. And it’s been months. Months. And -

And the door opens to blue, blue eyes, and leather topped with a smirk like sin, and it doesn’t even matter. Not when he sees the moment Killian realises, the way his jaw drops, oh so slightly, before he swaggers over to take the seat opposite and hides a shaking hand in the sleeve of his coat.

“Saving this seat for anyone?” he asks, as though he doesn’t know, as though he can’t feel the way David longs to reach for that shaking hand and squeeze it with his own.

“Only you,” David replies. “That alright?”

“Aye,” says Killian, the word barely a breath on the exhale. “Alright.”

(Consider it forgotten, Killian promises later that night as David kisses apologies into his hips, and it doesn’t matter about anything, the months of regret and loneliness banished with the brush of lips against lips. Forgiveness in the whisper of forever at the shell of an ear, and nothing nothing nothing matters but the I love, I love, I love you as the tide takes them away.)

#romantic captain charming #captain charming #captain charming ff #team trashcan #ouat fic #clare vs writers block #clare vs rare pairs

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