#and having to stand there clinging onto their good manners with bloody fingers

[honestlyvan]

I honestly can't imagine Teach and Isurd getting along at all. They're both highly respected, hypercompetent commanders, but they're also both very Type A with batshit high amounts of energy and a work ethic that makes everyone around them go spare, while their personal philosophies, values and modes of thinking are quite different. In an ideal situation I think they'd kinda just bounce off of each other, but in practice the potential of them having a high amount of Not This Fucking Guy Again energy about each other is too funny to pass up on.

ShidoIsu shippers have the right idea, though, it just should be more Coworker Nemeses/Enemies While Lovers, IMO

[elizabeethan]

Weather the Storm

An Overboard Addition

For @the-darkdragonfly because it’s her birthday!!!!!!! 

What started as a fluffy little addition to Overboard, one of my more popular fics that Kay loves, became something… angsty as heck. But not to worry, there’s more where this came from.

There are brief mentions of miscarriage in this piece. Please take care of yourself and remember you’re always welcome to message me with questions.

Thank you endlessly to @donteattheappleshook​ for beta-ing this

Rated E

~8600 words

Read on Ao3

Read my Other Stuff

~~~~

Emma pulls the cable knit sweater over her head and smoothes it over her hips, noting the way it falls perfectly just above her ass in her tight jeans and smirking at her reflection in the mirror. Killian loves when she wears his clothes, and she can’t wait to drive him mad in front of his crew for the entire day. 

  “ Bloody hell ,” he breathes as he walks into their bedroom, stopping short with his hand on the door handle. She smirks again, turning to face him with a smile. 

  “Like my outfit?” 

  “You stole my sweater,” he accuses, although she can see the way the corner of his lips tick up with a small smile he tries to fight off. 

  “The cream color matches so well with these black jeans. Don’t you think?”

  Stepping towards her, he shakes his head as he eyes her up and down. “I must say, I agree.”

  “Hmm,” she hums with false pensivity, pouting her lip. “You don’t look very happy.”

  Wrapping his hands over her waist, he pulls her close to himself until his hips press against hers and she can feel that he is, in fact, quite happy. “Perhaps that’s because my beautiful wife is trying to make me late for work.” 

  She giggles as their lips collide, his hands sliding up the back of her sweater so that she can feel the cold metal of his new wedding band chilling her skin. Her giggling subsides when his tongue slides against her, the sweet, bitter taste of his morning coffee waking her senses and making her fingers tighten around the hair at the nape of his neck.

  She grinds her hips against his hardening length, causing him to groan as his grip on her tightens, bringing her even closer to him and making her want to shed the cozy sweater she borrowed and toss him onto the bed they share. “Killian,” she breathes into his mouth desperately, scratching her fingers down into the black and silver hair on his chest. 

  He bites on her bottom lip before pulling away, effectively making her head spin at the loss of contact between them. “You can’t trick me again, temptress. It’s time to leave.” 

  “ Trick you?! When have I ever tricked you?” 

  Pointing a finger at her, he eyes her down suspiciously and says, “A lady as tantalizing and mysterious as you must certainly be some manner of siren, or vixen, or--”

  She cuts him off with a kiss, pulling at the collar of his sweater with her greedy fingers. “How many times do I have to tell you? I’m not a bloody mermaid. I love you. ” 

She feels him sigh, his breath washing over her face in a soothing warmth, and he nods. “Aye. I suppose I sometimes just can’t wrap my head around how lucky I am to be married to the most beautiful woman in the world.”

  With another hum, she closes her eyes and presses a final, soft kiss to his lips. “Well, get used to it, buddy. You’re never getting rid of me.”

  “Good.” 

  “Now, hurry up. You’ve made us late.”

  ~~~~

  “Good morning, wife,” Will greets cheerfully, dropping a chaste kiss to Emma’s cheek and shooting Killian a smirk and waggling brows. “I sure am excited to have you on board with us.”

  “Me too,” Emma smiles. “I think I’ll be your good luck charm. How many are we catching?”

  “If we don’t catch three, you may not be invited back,” Robin jokes. 

  With a scoff and a roll to her eyes, she says, “Please. As if you have any say. My husband can’t say no to me.”

  “Can’t blame him,” Will agrees. 

  “Alright, that’s enough,” Killian mumbles as he drops the bag they brought into his quarters. “There’d better be bait on this deck.”

  “Aye, Captain. Caught it meself this morning while you and the wife were--“

  Killian laughs when he realizes what’s happened; when he sees the small heron flopping across the deck upon Emma throwing it at Will, successfully shutting him up. 

  The sun shines brightly against her skin, causing her cheeks to pink as she lounges on the bow, giving him a distracting view as he tries to navigate through the sea of weekend fishermen to his favorite secluded spot. Sure, she’s still fully dressed, but something about seeing her in his sweater makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end and his jeans feel tight. 

  “No funny business while we’re on board, aye Captain?”

  Killian grumbles inaudibly in Will’s direction, rolling his eyes, and demands, “All the lines had best be out, Scarlet.”

  “Aye, all but the ones on the bow. Don’t want to disturb the beauty.”

  “Stop looking at my bloody wife,” he grumbles, earning a smirk from his deckhand. 

  He meets her later, when Will and Robin have completed their tasks and find themselves lounging on the deck waiting for a bite. His heart flutters when he watches her turn towards him, a beaming smile decorating her face and the color of her eyes catching the sun. He smiles back, crawling across the small, slightly slippery expanse of the deck. “You look nice and warm.”

  “You look nice.” 

  He chuckles softly at her blatant flirting as he moves to lie beside her on the deck. “May I join you?”

  “Please do.”

  She’s quick to move beside him, the towel she brought to lounge on scrunching between them as she curls up to his side. She smells of sea and sunscreen and something that’s so painfully her that his arms move involuntarily to wrap around her, his lips pressing a firm and longing kiss to her temple. “I’m glad you came,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible to even himself over the sound of the crashing waves. 

  “Me too,” she agrees. “It’s nice. Your job doesn’t seem too hard.” 

  “Oh, aye?” he laughs, rolling her so that she’s on her back beneath him, cognizant not to throw them overboard. He knows she’s joking; she knows how difficult and dangerous his work can be. But her playfulness is impossible to ignore. “About as easy as being the Sheriff, I’m sure.”

  She giggles under the weight of him, her grin beaming in the sun until he consumes it with his own lips. He slides his tongue along her bottom lip, suddenly taken by the comfort that being with her brings him. The gentle touch of her wandering hands sliding up his back, pushing his sweater away, sends a shiver down his spine. The cold weight of the white gold rings on her finger reminds him of how far they’ve come. She’s his wife . 

  “You know,” she growls against his mouth, “The waves will probably have a very interesting effect when we do it later.” 

  He bites down on her bottom lip, just a bit harder than he means to and drawing from her a whine and giggle all at once. “And what have you done to deserve that?”

  “I’m your good luck charm,” she says confidently against the shell of his ear, one hand sliding from his rear to the front of his trousers and squeezing until he breathlessly ruts against her palm. He’s always awestruck by her, but the way she can make him behave like this despite knowing that his mates are just on the other deck makes him feel like a teenager again. “You’re gonna catch big today, baby. I can feel it.”

  “Aye, you’ll feel it alright.”

  Her laughter rings through his ears again, but the blissful sound is interrupted by the raucous shouts of his mates announcing the small blips on their radar. They’re marking fish, several tuna swimming beneath his boat, and it kills him to pull away from her in favor of checking the bait and praying for a hookup. 

  “We’re on!” Will screams excitedly, and he can hear the scream of the reel being pulled out by a sea monster. 

  Emma scurries from beneath him, hastily hurrying towards the starboard side so that she can head back towards the deck. She’s always excited to see him work, to see what goes into his livelihood, and she’s made him promise to let her reel at least once. 

  Will jumps on the reel while Robin pulls in the others, careful not to allow the lines to tangle, and Emma stands beside the wheel while Killian steers. He needs to stay on top of the fish so that they don’t run out of line, he explains, and she watches his careful and diligent movements, his sweater dampened by the ocean spray and clinging to the muscles in his shoulders. She can’t help but bite her lip. 

  He asks her to take the wheel and she’s nervous, worried that her screwup could mean their loss. But he directs her perfectly, telling her when to put the boat into neutral and when to reverse, where to steer and when. Eventually, Robin shouts that he can see the fish, and her eyes bug out of her head at the sheer size of it. She’s seen plenty of tuna at the docks, many of them several feet longer than she is tall, but to see one in the water is stunning. 

  Killian takes the harpoon in his grip, lining it up and setting his jaw tightly in concentration. His brows draw close together, his empty arm lifting in front of him so that he can visualize the course to his target, and in a move that’s almost too quick to comprehend, he draws his chest and shoulder back and launches the harpoon into the water, grunting deeply as he strikes. 

  Her cheeks go red. 

  Her husband is so damn hot. 

  They work together to hoist the beast onto the deck, it’s sheer size and weight overpowering and breathtaking. They measure its length, and Robin calls out that the fish is 112 inches, a record for the Jolly Roger . 

  “You are lucky,” Killian laughs, pointing at her playfully as he stands. He bounds towards her, scooping her up and spinning her carefully as Will and Robin groan quietly. She giggles as he kisses her everywhere, his lips landing on her cheeks, her nose, her lips… she can’t get enough of the love he has for her. 

  They catch one more fish while she’s sunbathing, their joyous, celebratory shouting music to her ears as she listens to the sounds of her husband’s success. Neither of them have very conventional jobs, but she couldn’t be prouder of him, of them , for making a life together that they can both take pride in. 

  He worried when she took the job as sheriff, the last one being killed in the line of duty not settling his nerves one bit. It was the fuel for one of their first fights as a couple, a few months before their intimate beach wedding. And although the argument was difficult, she never once doubted that they would work through it. 

  They’ve worked through plenty of things, hardly any of them actual disagreements. The one thing she worried may have caused turmoil between them turned out to be nothing at all. Her shy confession that she’s never desired to have children was met with unconditional understanding and kindness, his words nearly drawing tears to her eyes each time she thinks back on them. 

  “ I planned on spending the remainder of my life alone. I never really had an opinion either way. I’ll be the happiest man alive if I just get to spend the rest of my days with you.”

  They married mere months later, her parents and brother on her side and his mates on his. She would’ve been happy enough to have it just be them and them alone, but he reminded her of what being there would mean for her family. Calling them that still sits strangely with her to this day, but ever since she and her father opened up to one another, her relationship with her parents has been much improved. 

  All she ever wanted was love and understanding. She has that, and so much more, with her husband, and there’s really nothing more she could ask for. 

  ~~~~

  The sun’s nearly set by the time they make it to the docks, Emma’s father waiting for them and giving a friendly wave when he sees them approaching. Her arms slink around his middle while he steers them towards the dock, head resting on the sore space between his shoulder blades. She pushes a firm kiss there, then another, her fingers clinging to his sweater as he shuts off the engine. 

  He lets out a soft, gentle chuckle when she kisses his neck just below his ear, knowing she must be on her toes and just barely able to reach. She isn’t especially short, not much shorter than he is, but the way he can envelope her in his arms sends happy warmth through his veins. She kisses the space between his shoulder blades and scratches against his stomach as he navigates next to the dock and waits for Will to tie them off. 

  “Got two big ones for ya, Dave!” Will shouts when they arrive, and Emma kisses his back once more before pulling away to greet her father. Standing at the wheel, they aren't in David’s direct line of sight, and for that, Killian’s grateful. He can’t ever get enough of his wife’s touch, but he also doesn’t love the idea of her father watching them. “112 incher! Gotta be a thousand pounder!”

  “Let’s see,” he returns as Emma steps onto the dock, taking her father’s hand for support. 

  “Hey,” she says as she leans in for a hug. It’s taken her a while, but she’s known her parents for over a year now, and she’s finally starting to become more comfortable with them. It was difficult at first, knowing that she was given up and replaced by her younger brother a few years later. But she and her parents have had a series of eye-opening conversations, and she’s found herself more and more willing to accept the love that they want to give her with each passing day. 

  She’s grown increasingly closer to her father over the last few months, finding that his unconditional acceptance of her warms her heart in ways that she never expected. Truthfully, despite being raised by a mother who loved her endlessly, having her father in her life changed everything. She wouldn’t have it any other way. 

  “Good day?” he asks when he releases her. 

  “Very good. I’m good luck.” 

  “Of course you are,” he chuckles, turning on the crane so that they can lift the massive fish out of the boat. Once it’s dressed, it weighs in at just over 800 pounds, Will and Robin shouting and high fiving each other and Killian gently resting his chin on her shoulder from behind to press a kiss to her cheek in quiet celebration. She doesn’t miss his grin, the one that carves deep lines into his cheeks and the sides of his eyes, and all she wants to do is turn around and hold him tight, never content to let him go. 

  They’re offered a hefty price tag for their catch, the smaller of the two weighing almost 500 pounds, and each of them celebrate with more high fives and hugs. Once the boat is cleaned, Killian sends Robin and Will home early for their hard work. She finds her place behind him again as he drives the boat through the harbor, navigating expertly through other boats and docks until he finds his place at the dock just outside of the home they share. 

  “We have to go to dinner tonight,” she remarks when the engine stops and a calm silence settles over them both. “My mom is cooking.” 

  “Aye, love,” he agrees softly, turning to face her and placing both hands on her hips. She lets her fingers trail along his jaw, combing gently through the hair spread across his face that’s getting too long to be considered stubble. 

  “I like this,” she whispers. 

  “You don’t think it makes me look like an old man? I haven't shaved in days.” 

  With a coy smile, she says, “I didn't say it doesn't make you look like an old man, I just happen to like my silver fox of a husband.” 

  He hums doubtfully, rolling his eyes and giving her a shy smirk that makes it impossible for her to stop herself from pressing onto her toes and kissing him. His beard scratches against her chin when they deepen it simultaneously, the burn delicious and enough for her to crave his mouth everywhere , but they don’t have time. He has to finish putting the boat away and she has to head to her parent’s house to help with dinner. The knowledge that the honeymoon is truly over sets in, and she pouts when they break apart. 

  “I love you,” he whispers, his forehead pressed to hers and his breath washing over tingling lips. 

  He can never fail to make her heart race in her chest, beating so forcefully against her ribs that she’s relying on the strength of his arms to hold her up. “I love you, too,” she whispers back, letting her eyes flutter shut against the wind whipping against their hair and in response to the sudden and palpable tension between them. It’s begging to be broken, each of them craving the touch of the other, needing to express their love for each other however they can, but there’s no time. “How long will it take you to clean up here?” 

  “No more than an hour.” 

  “We don’t have to stay at my parents’ long,” she murmurs, her lips nearly touching his with each word. All she wants is to be with him. It isn’t just a sexaul desire that she has for him; she needs to be with him. She needs to be touching him. She can’t stand to be apart from him, or to sit in a room with him and not be touching him. 

  “It’s alright, my love,” he whispers. “Being with your family is important. Despite how desperately I crave you, I'm willing to wait.”

  “You might be, but I'm certainly not.” 

  He laughs loudly, the sound of his glee cutting through the noisy waves and making her heart soar and her grin grow painfully. “I’ll meet you there. I won’t be long; I promise to make quick work of the old girl.” 

  She nods, kissing him chastely despite her desires and humming in agreement. “As long as you promise not to make quick work of your decidedly much younger girl.” 

  “You make me sound like a predator,” he laughs.

  “No, I told you: you’re my sexy silver fox husband and I'm your young, gorgeous trophy wife.” 

  “Of course, my love. Whatever you say.” 

  She lets out a giggle, a sound that would have been so unlike her a year ago, kisses him once more, and regretfully pulls away from him. “I love you,” she says again. “I’ll see you in an hour. I’ll be the one looking devastatingly beautiful.” 

  “As usual.”

  ~~~~

  “Your dad called,” Mary Margaret announced once they had gotten settled, each of them standing side by side preparing dinner. Emma has been put on chopping duty, and she’s decidedly avoiding the onions. “He said Killian made out very well today. That’s great.” 

  “Yeah, they did really well. Two fish were over a thousand pounds.” 

  “Wow,” she smiles, stirring the pasta after pouring it into the boiling water. “That’s impressive. You guys will have a nice nest egg soon enough.” 

  Emma purses her lips as she finishes chopping a carrot, nodding slowly and unsurely. “I guess. I mean, we both have savings.”

  “Oh, I know,” her mother says, taking the chopped carrot and tossing it into a skillet as Emma starts working on the cursed onion. “I meant more for… extra expenses,” she clarifies unhelpfully, giving Emma a presumptuous smile. 

  She stays quiet for a few moments, trying to consider her mother’s words but letting confusion take over as she tosses the onion into the skillet and Mary Margaret adds olive oil. Moving to the sink to wash her hands, she says, “I mean, we’re happy at the cottage. Maybe Killian would want a new boat soon.”

  With a soft giggle as she tosses the vegetables together, Marg Margaret adds a can of tomatoes, causing a raucous sizzle. “Honey, I was referring to… I mean… maybe a baby is in our future? I can’t wait to be a grandma!”

  Emma chokes on her own breath, reaching for her glass of wine and taking a generous swig. “Well, grandma, we’ll have to ask Leo to hurry up.”

  “Leo,” she laughs, shaking her head. “He’s too young. You, on the other hand, are happily married and at prime child bearing age.” 

  “Mom…” Emma starts, laughing awkwardly. “I’m not having kids.”

  The horror with which she drops her spatula into the skillet, as if what Emma just said is the most unbelievable piece of information she’s ever heard, sends a wave of anger through her veins. The complete shock in her mother’s face at her desire not to bring a child into this world makes Emma’s jaw nearly hit the floor. 

  Mary Margaret had a baby and gave her away. How could she expect her daughter, the very one who was left abandoned for years, to have a child herself? 

  Emma’s never wanted kids. She’s always felt this way, like if she had a baby and something happened to her, they would grow up exactly like she did. How could she bring a baby into the world and risk putting them through what she went through? 

  How could her own mother not understand that?

  “You’re not?”

  “No,” she answers definitively, the set of her jaw almost painful. 

  “Oh,” she says with a soft nod. She adds beef to her bolognese in silence, a thick tension settling in the room. 

  The quiet is awkward, and the longer it lasts, the angrier Emma feels. It’s because she knows what Mary Margaret is thinking. She knows that she’s hurt by Emma’s announcement that she doesn’t plan on having children with her husband. She’s having trouble believing it; she’s struggling to see why Emma wouldn’t want to experience the joys of motherhood. 

  It’s annoying, and it’s making Emma angry, but nothing compares to the rage that waves through her when Mary Margaret speaks again. 

  “Does Killian know?” 

  Her eyes bug out of her head, the glass she was holding dropping onto the countertop too loudly. “ What?”

  “I just… I wondered if he agreed…”

  “We’re married, ” she answers immediately. Her voice is low, almost a growl in her throat as she tries to stay calm. 

  “I know, I just…”

  “You just thought that maybe I tricked him into marrying me? Maybe I didn’t tell him my foolish idea to stay childless until after we’d tied the knot? You thought that my desire to spend the rest of my life with my husband and with the freedom of not having kids comes second to a man wanting an heir?”

  “ Emma, I never--”

  “You didn’t have to! You didn’t have to say a thing. Did you really think we wouldn’t discuss something like this before we even got engaged?”

  With a sigh, she says, “Sweetheart, of course. I misspoke. I’m sorry. I was just surprised.”

  “Surprised?” she asks, trying to calm her voice. 

  “I mean… I just figured you two would want that. It seems like a natural next step.” Emma’s quiet for a moment, making herself even out her breath and preparing to respond calmly before her mother speaks again. “And I’ve seen how happy Killian seems to be around little Alexandra.”

  She feels her heart rate picking up again, and she forces herself to take a moment, having a sip of wine before responding. “So, you’re saying he couldn’t possibly be happy unless I pop out a few kids?”

  “Oh, honey… that’s not--”

  Her answer is too slow. She can’t defend herself immediately or easily, and that’s all Emma needed to know. 

  “Okay, I get it,” she says quietly just as David opens the door followed closely by Leo. 

  “Everything okay?” her father asks 

  “Great,” she grumbles sarcastically. “Enjoy dinner.” 

  “Emma!”

  She doesn’t turn back, grabbing her wallet and moving past her brother without so much as a word, ignoring her mother’s pleas for her to stay with them. With her family. She can’t. 

  ~~~~

  It had only been forty minutes by the time he finished, proud of himself for making such quick work of cleaning his vessel. The image of his stunning wife sitting across from him at the dinner table, surrounded by the family she never thought she’d have, was enough motivation for him to hurry up and meet her. 

  At least, he thought that was his plan, until he hears angry footsteps stalking against his dock and he knows there’s no other person they can belong to other than his fiery wife. She has a penchant for heated anger, and the sounds she’s making are unmistakable. He only pities whomever put her in such a state, and prays that it wasn’t him. 

  She reaches the edge of the dock, hands in fists on her hips and jaw set tensely as she stares down at him. “What’s wrong, my love?” he asks, hearing her barely-audible growl in response. 

  She stalks onto the boat, jumping the few feet onto the deck, and approaches him quickly. Before he knows what hits him, her lips are on his, tackling him against the wheel of the boat and making him thankful that the engine is off. 

  Her fingers find the hem of his sweater, easily tugging it over his head and exposing his bare arms to the chilly harbor air. He lets out a surprised grunt when her hands land on his stomach under his shirt, scratching through the smattering of hair lower and lower until she grasps his belt and pulls his hips against hers. “Love,” he grumbles against her mouth, and as he opens his lips to speak, her tongue finds his. 

  She deftly undoes his buckle, humming into his mouth and pushing him until his back is against the exterior wall of the cabin, her hands moving from his belt up to his chest beneath his shirt. A groan escapes her throat through their tangled lips as she lets her palms explore, moving from his chest around to his back and sliding down until she can tug his shirt off, too. He shivers, partially against the cold but mostly in response to her. 

  “Emma,” he tries again as she drops lower, her tongue swirling against his nipple as her fingers undo the button and zipper of his jeans. “Baby--”

  She bites him, making him hiss and surely leaving a mark. “I need you,” she says once she’s looking up at him, her eyes dark and desperate. “Now.”

  “Bloody hell,” he breathes as she drops to her knees, lifting her own shirt off and exposing her hardened nipples to the bite of the evening air. She pulls his jeans down effortlessly, his cock springing to attention responsively despite her surprise attack, and he feels his pulse quickening as she bites her lip at the sight of him. 

  “Fuck,” she says before licking a long strip up to the tip, sucking it into the heat of her mouth. He shudders, his hands finding her hair and tangling into it, trying hard not to take control. She whimpers when he hits the back of her throat, her eyes meeting his in the dim moonlight. 

  His head falls back against the window when he sees her stirring on her knees, tucking a hand into her leggings and swirling it over her clit. He’s suddenly consumed with a need for her, a need to taste her, to hear her sing for him. He pulls on her hair and she moans around him, making him pant and tug once more before she releases him with a smirk on her swollen lips. “What is it?” she asks, her voice rough in her throat. 

  Breathless, he shakes his head minutely, intent to find out what’s gotten into her eventually, but also just as intent to be the thing that’s gotten into her and suddenly not feeling very patient about it. He releases his grip on her hair and moves his palms to her cheeks, brushing them with his thumbs before encouraging her to stand again. “Off with these,” he insists in a growl, pulling on the elastic waistband of her leggings as she stands and letting it snap against the small of her back. She yelps playfully, finally smiling and letting out the soft giggle that he always craves, pushing her obvious anger to the side for a moment. 

  “Aye aye, Captain,” she murmurs, catching his lips with hers again and swirling her tongue against his just as she had done against the tip of his cock. It makes a shiver run up his spine. 

  He hums, the sound rumbling through his chest, and says, “Ah, so it’s the Captain you want?” as his fingers find her sopping core. 

  “I need you,” she returns desperately. Her nails dig into the skin of his shoulders as he spins her, pushing her back against the wall he was leaning on and dropping quickly to his knees before her. He couldn’t even begin to consider not giving in to her. He needs her more than he needs to breathe, ready to drop anything at a moment's notice to pleasure her if only to be rewarded with the sinful, intoxicating sound of her moaning his name. 

  Her fingers cling to his hair, her hips bucking forward towards him as soon as his mouth latches onto her swollen clit, and he says exactly what he knows will make her squirm. Pushing her hips back, he chastises, “Behave, love.”

  He’s met with a breathless, desperate whimper, Emma dropping her head back against the window behind her as he swirls his tongue over her. Her hips continue to dance over his mouth as if it’s impossible for her to remain still, and she pulls his hair particularly hard when he hums against her sensitive flesh. “Don’t stop,” she begs, one hand in his hair and the other bracing herself against the wheel tower. When he curls a finger into her, dragging it out against her tight walls and then thrusting back in, she lets out a shout and bucks her hips again. 

  He bites the flesh of her inner thigh as punishment and moves his mouth back to her core before mumbling, “Be good for me, that’s it,” and earning another moan and shudder. He feels her tightening around his finger and takes it as a cue to add another, making her cry out his name. 

  With a few more thrusts and strokes of his tongue, he feels her tense, her legs quivering under her own weight as she lets out a high pitched, nearly silent scream, her brows woven tightly together and her jaw dropped. She’s so stunning like this, his wife, and he has to slow his ministrations over her clit so that he can get a good look at her falling apart above him. 

  There’s nowhere he’d rather be. 

  “There’s a good girl,” he says into her sensitive flesh, earning a full-body shiver and another soft, needy hum. “Alright?”

  Her chest is heaving, her breasts glowing in the moonlight under a sheen of sweat, and she shakes her head. “I need you,” she says again, dragging him up to her and falling back against the wall when he stands against her. His lips find hers easily when she drags him to her, and she hums against his mouth as her tongue explores against his. 

  “You’re very needy,” he agrees into her mouth, earning a nod. “And I perish the thought of not delivering.” 

  “Good,” she mumbles. The gasp that escapes her lips when he picks her up doesn’t stop her from locking her ankles around his hips. She groans when he slides into her, and it feels like coming home. They fit so flawlessly together, he can’t help but to groan as well and drop his head to the window she’s pressed against, his lips pressing to the top of her shoulder. “ Fuck. Don’t stop.”

  This is never an easy position to be in, especially with his age and with the waves of the harbor making him unsteady on his feet. Needing to support the weight of the both of them is difficult, but the way she clenched around him makes it infinitely worth it. He’s still rather fit for his age, exercising daily through his job, and he’s always glad for it when he can elicit these sounds from his wife.  

  She claws at his back desperately, begging to get closer to him despite it being impossible. With each thrust, she bites onto his shoulder or sucks on the lobe of his ear or kisses his neck, a moan that must be too loud meeting each drive of his hips. He pivots his hips just slightly so that he’s certain he’s supporting her weight, then moves one hand from the back of her thigh and presses his fingers to where he knows she needs him. The action earns another clench of her muscles and a cry of pleasure, his name ringing in his ear as she calls for him and tells him she’s close. 

  “Harder,” she begs, and it’s a clear indication that something’s happened to upset her. She doesn’t want it like this unless she’s bothered by something. Unless she’s hurt by something. He obliges, content to let her use him for the comfort that she needs as he drives into her harder, making the boat rock and creak against the dock. He’s only glad that it’s his own private property, lest the whole town hear them. 

  “Killian, I’m--” her words catch in her throat as the circles he draws quicken. 

  “Come on, angel, come for me. I want to feel you come on my cock,” he says into her ear, knowing that his words and the whispering breath on her skin will bring her to the edge. 

  She bites his shoulder, most definitely leaving a mark but successfully stifling her cry as she shudders around him. He feels her muscles tensing with her orgasm and he continues his ministrations on her clit for as long as he can, reveling in the jerking movements that her release is eliciting before he can’t hold on any longer. He spills into her, cursing as he does, at the feeling of her taking everything he has to offer and clinging to him as if seeking more. 

  They stay still for a while, longer than he can keep track of, until his legs begin to shake under the weight of the both of them and he has to release her thigh from his grip. She drops down to the deck but doesn’t let him go, continuing to hug him close to her and nestling her head into the crook of his neck. He lifts his hand to cradle her gently against him. 

  “I love you,” he reminds her pointlessly. She already knows. 

  She hums, nodding against his neck and pressing a soft kiss there, one that drastically contrasted the way she was touching him moments ago. “Sorry for jumping you. I love you, too.” 

  “Aye,” he laughs, scratching his fingers over her scalp in the way he knows she loves. He feels her shudder against him, either because of the sensation or because of the evening breeze blowing over her bare skin. “Is that something you’re ready to talk about?” 

  He feels her shaking her head immediately, before he even finishes his question, and he fights off the urge to sigh, choosing instead to hold her closer to himself and press a kiss to the top of her head. He knows if he waits long enough, she’ll sigh and give in, but at this second, she isn’t ready to talk. He’ll wait for her. 

  After a few moments of calming silence, the only sound between them the gentle waves lapping against the boat and the wind swirling around them, she lets out a frustrated groan and lifts her head. She stares into his eyes, the emerald jewels difficult to read. “You’re too emotionally mature for me,” she finally says as she walks into the cabin in search of a tissue. 

  He laughs lightly, following her closely, and responds, “You know the deal, my love. You’re only allowed to fuck me through your feelings if we talk about them afterwards.” 

  Rolling her eyes, she turns towards him, shamelessly exposing her nude form to him and making him wonder how it’s even possible for a man his age to shorten his refractory time. “ Way too mature.” 

  “Come,” he requests, holding out his hand to her once they’re cleaned up. 

  “I just did, thank you very much,” she responds with a smirk, one that tells him that she’s fighting tooth and nail against any conversation remotely related to her feelings. 

  “Twice, if I recall.” He grabs a knit blanket from the small tattered couch in the cabin and takes her hand, guiding her outside and towards the starboard side of the boat. He climbs up and onto the bow, Emma following him closely until they’re lounging in each other’s arms and he’s able to wrap the thick blanket over them. He loves her confidence, her complete comfort with herself evidenced by her silent refusal to get dressed despite them being out in the open, and he’s happy to stay naked with her if only to feel her soft skin against his. 

  “I love you,” she finally whispers into the quiet settled between them. “A lot.” 

  He pulls her impossibly closer, every part of him touching every part of her, and responds, “I know you do, darling. I’ve never doubted that.” 

  “I just--” she sighs, dropping her head dramatically against his chest. The moonlight shines against her hair, making it appear even more platinum than usual. “I love you. I love our life together.” 

  “Angel,” he breathes, “I wouldn’t trade our life together for anything, you know that.” 

  “I need to tell you something,” she whispers against his skin. “Something about my past… when I was young.” 

  “You know you can tell me anything, Emma. I’ll never judge you, especially not for something that happened when you were young.” 

  She stays quiet for a moment longer, her fingers gently tracing patterns over his chest and through the black and silver hair peppering over his skin. She’s always had a fascination with his chest hair, never able to keep herself from touching it when it’s exposed to her. Aside from the comfort it brings her to comb through the soft, thick hair with her fingertips, it also serves as an effective distraction against her nausea at the thought of opening up to him. 

  It’s ridiculous, really. He’s her husband, for goodness sake. She’s never felt this comfortable around anyone in her entire life; not her parents, not the woman who raised her. He’s successfully broken down nearly every wall she put up, and she feels the guilt settling deep in her gut as she considers breaking down this one and letting him see her whole truth. 

  “Killian,” she whispers against the gentle sea breeze. “I’m… I’ve never wanted kids.” 

  She feels him breathe out softly and nod, and she wonders what he’s thinking. Is it relief? Is it regret? 

  “I know, my love,” he comforts. “We’ve talked about this.” 

  “I know, I just… I never told you…” 

  “Emma, your reasonings are entirely understandable. I respect the decision you’ve made, and, as I've told you, I’m perfectly content to live out the rest of my days with you as my wife, with or without a child.” 

  “But would you be happier if we did have one?” she asks, suddenly needing to look him in the eyes as she presses up onto her elbows and stares. The moon glistens off of his deep irises, the darkness making them appear as though they’re the color of the ocean tonight. The way they shimmer makes her fall in love with him even more. 

  “What is this about?” he asks, his hand lifting to cradle her cheek, and she leans against his palm and presses a kiss to the inside of his wrist. His answer isn’t an answer, not really, and it serves only to drag out her feelings of guilt and insecurity. 

  She sighs and closes her eyes, entirely unable to look at him when she finally admits the truth. “When I was 16, I had a boyfriend. He was a real piece of work… I think it was part of my teenage rebellion phase.” He laughs softly, brushing his thumb over her cheek and letting her continue without interruption. “He and I… I mean… he was my first. It sucked, every time, but… I got pregnant.” 

  She bites her lip and opens her eyes, and she’s met with unconditional understanding. 

  “It’s alright,” he whispers, easily able to read the emotion she feels as she opens up to him. 

  “I didn’t want it; I’ve never wanted kids. And when I got pregnant at sixteen by someone who was no good for me-- not to mention too old for me at the time-- I knew that I really didn’t want kids. And I planned on giving it up for adoption because I knew I couldn’t handle raising it.” She bites her lip again, sighing and lying back down onto his chest. “I never told anyone. I thought, maybe I could hide it,” she laughs. “I never told Ingrid or Neal. I just found out and waited a few weeks and hid how shitty I felt. I just kept hoping that it wasn’t happening to me; that it was a dream and I’d wake up soon. And then…” 

  She gulps, tugging on the blanket so that it’s tucked under her chin, needing to be covered and held together. He reads her again and pulls her closer to him, squeezing his arms around her back and providing her with comforting pressure. “It’s alright, my love,” he repeats in a whisper. 

  She doesn't even realize that the tears have started to fall until she feels a warm wetness on her cheek against his chest. With a sudden sniffle, one that catches her off guard, she says, “And then one day I woke up and… it was gone. It was like I wished it away and it worked. I don’t even know how far along I was because I never went to the doctor, but it was… It was gone.” 

  He sighs again, his hands running up and down along her spine to gently soothe her as she breaks, crying into his chest and whimpering at the loss of something she didn’t even want in the first place. “I wanted it gone and it… I did that. It’s my fault.” 

  She never wanted to have children. That fact hasn’t changed. But when she found herself pregnant and wished that she wasn’t, her wish came true. And she’s never stopped regretting it. 

  “Emma,” he whispers, “I'm so sorry.” 

  “I didn’t want it,” she says again. “I wanted it to go away and then…”

  “That doesn’t make your loss any less painful, love. Even though you weren’t ready to have a child, you still suffered a loss. That was still something terribly difficult that you had to go through alone.”

  She nods, because he’s right. It was impossible, and she’ll never forget the feelings of guilt and regret and complete failure. With another sniffle, she says, “and today my mom asked when we’re having kids, like it's something we should be doing, and I just…” 

  “It made you angry. And hurt? Misunderstood, perhaps?” 

  “Yes,” she breathes in relief. He’s always understood her, unlike anyone she’s ever known. “And she talked about how happy Alexandra makes you and it was like she thinks I'm hurting you by not wanting kids.” 

  “You’re not, Emma. I promise you, you can never hurt me.” 

  They’re quiet for another few moments, and she lets his gentle breathing and his soothing strokes up her back and the soft waves beneath them lull her into a sense of calm. Being with him never fails to bring her back down to earth, guiding her from her fear and anger and pain and into a place of love and consolation. She can weather any storm if he’s with her. 

  “I never… I never want to feel like that again. I always knew that I didn’t want children, but that experience really… I mean, it really solidified that for me.” 

  “I know what you mean, darling. I never had a specific desire to have children myself. I would have, if you’d wanted to, but it’s never been something that I’ve found myself needing.” 

  She nods and wipes a rogue tear away. “I sure am lucky,” she remarks, caught in a sense of disbelief at the fact that she gets to call herself his. 

  “Aye, about as lucky as I am.” 

  “I just can’t,” she whispers after a moment. “I never wanted to, and now I just… I can’t do it.”

  “I know, angel. And you never have to feel that way again, I promise.” 

  “I can’t,” she repeats pleadingly, her arms tightening around his middle and her nose pushing impossibly further into his neck. She’s desperate to turn it off, the anguish that tortures her too great, and he’s desperate to help her. But there’s nothing he can do but hold her and let her cry in his arms until she’s spent, powerless to stop her pain. It kills him. 

  He whispers that he loves her into her hair, letting anger consume him for a moment as he considers her words and the fact that her terrible, too-old-for-her boyfriend did this to her. He wants to find the man and make him pay for the sobs wracking his wife. For taking advantage of her when she was just a child and making scars that still seem fresh a decade later. It’s unfair, and he feels his anger through the tips of his fingers as he tries to console her with gentle touches and soft words, unsure of what else he could possibly do. 

  He’s angry with her mother, too, for the things she said. The words that reopened an old wound when it could’ve stayed closed off in the deep pits of her mind. But he knows that the only way for her to heal is to feel, despite how difficult it clearly is for her. 

  It’s an experience that has haunted her for years, something she won’t easily move past and may never fully get over. He understands that, can empathize with her torment and guilt over her loss, and he only hopes that being here for her is enough. 

  When she calms, her breathing steady again and the tears no longer dampening his skin, he feels her let out a heaving sigh and press a kiss to his chest. “I’m sorry,” she finally says, her voice croaking after her sobs.

  “Please never apologize,” he begs. All he wants is for her to be open with him, something he’s requested countless times. Now she has, and he can never express to her what it means that she trusts him. “Thank you for telling me.”

  She nods into his chest and hugs him close to her. “Thanks for letting me blubber,” she answers sarcastically. 

  “Emma,” he starts. “You know you can blubber to me about anything.”

  It earns him a soft giggle, the sound ricocheting off the water and the smooth surface of the boat and landing in the cockles of his heart, warming him from the inside out. 

  “I know. It’s just that… Well, I know this is nothing like your brother…”

  “Don’t say that,” he pleads. “We can’t compare our losses or the pain they bring us. This was painful for you. You’re allowed to feel that no matter what anyone around you has gone through.”

  She nods with a dejected sigh, obviously letting exhaustion overtake her after the long day that they’ve had. Between leaving before dawn, spending the day wrestling sea monsters, and the emotional and physical activity in which they’ve just partaken, he doesn’t blame her. He feels it too, although she would point out that she’s much younger and more energetic than he is. 

  “You missed dinner, my love,” he points out. “Why don’t we order in? Head home and have a shower?” 

  “A bath,” she says softly. It’s a brilliant idea; being on the water is certainly settling a chill in their bones. 

  “A bath, then,” he agrees. 

  She remains still for a minute more before shuffling over him, lifting onto her elbows and showing him her face. She looks stunning, blackened tear tracks and swollen eyes and all. He gives her a smile, one that’s genuine and reserved only for her, and cups her cheek with his palm. She leans into it immediately and kisses the inside of his wrist again, making his heart skip a beat. 

  “I love you,” she whispers. “More than anything or anyone. You’re perfect.”

  “If you feel that way about me, then you better not argue when I tell you I feel exactly the same about you.”

  She smiles, finally, and nods into his palm. “Okay,” she concedes softly. “Can we get onion rings?”

  “Naturally,” he agrees. 

  When they get home, he tucks her into the couch under a warm blanket, endlessly dedicated to her comfort. He presses a kiss to her forehead, lingering there for just a moment before a knock on the door interrupts them and draws him away. He answers, Ruby delivering their dinner and smirking knowingly at his disheveled sweater. They’d dressed quickly after he’d placed the order, needing to hurry home with the knowledge of how quickly Granny works. 

  He places the bags on the coffee table before her, removing two grilled cheeses and a large order of onion rings and giving her a smile as he returns to the kitchen to fetch some drinks. She can’t imagine their life not being like this. She can’t even begin to picture a scenario that would make her happier than this. It’s taken her plenty of time to come to terms with her feelings, the realization that not every woman needs to crave raising a child of her own. She’s realized that it doesn’t make her broken, thinking like this. It doesn’t make her a bad woman, or a bad wife. 

  “There we are,” he says gently when he sits beside her, leaning toward her and pressing a long kiss to her temple. “My beautiful wife and my onion rings. What could be better?” he asks sarcastically, making her chuckle and snuggle into his side. 

  “Nothing, I hope,” she murmurs insecurely. 

  “Absolutely nothing.” 

  Eventually, she’ll go back to her parent’s house and apologize for her rude exit. She’ll apologize to her mother for her sudden and unexplained outburst. Maybe she’ll even explain her reasoning, although she doesn’t really feel that she should need to. 

  But for now, she’s perfectly content to sit here on the couch with her husband, enjoying their takeout and trash TV if only because it means that they get to spend this time with one another. That’s the only thing that matters to her. 

~~~~

~~~~

Tagging:

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[phantomwarrior12]

Coming Home

It's done.

Uldren Sov is dead. His barons, destroyed. Riven, defeated.

She can finally rest, and by the Traveler, she needs it. The Young Wolf shuffles into her quarters - well, Lord Shaxx's quarters. It's where she stays between assignments and the only place she wants to be right now.

When she steps inside, she carefully removes her cloak, gently folding it up and depositing it on the only chair in the room. Her fingers linger on the Ace sewn into the dark material, a tired smile - a pang of guilt - and she closes her eyes for the briefest of moments. It takes all her strength to unholster the Ace of Spades.

It's heavy in her hands - whether it's the exhaustion or the weight of reality, she isn't certain. Cayde-6 is gone. She's holding his gun. It's too heavy. It's—

She's crying. She watches as a single tear threads it's way along the barrel of the hand cannon. When had she started? She scrubs angrily at the tear streaks, trying to unblur her vision. Her grip on the weapon tightens as she sags into the chair, silent sobs wracking her frame as she clutches the Ace fo Spades to her chest.

Cayde-6 is gone. She couldn't save him. Cayde-6 is gone. She avenged him. He'd be proud, right?

You did all you could, Guardian. Ghost materializes before her, nudging her arm lightly, It'll be alright.

"I—“ miss him.

The words die on her tongue but her companion seems to understand as he floats up near her face, pressing against her cheek gently in the only manner he can comfort her.

I know. I'm sorry.

They stay there for what feels like an eternity until her tears run dry and she reaches up with one feeble hand, patting his shell with trembling fingers.

Let's get you cleaned up. You've been pushing yourself pretty hard. You'll feel better after you sleep.

She offers little more than a numb nod as he dissipates beneath her touch. He's done it before, but now? Now it feels different - she can almost imagine what it would be like if he were to end up like Sundance. It's an image she dearly wishes she could shake, but she can't linger on it, not right now. So, as she struggles like hell to maintain some semblance of her dwindling composure, she strips her armor off, depositing the bloodied, dirty plates in the corner to be cleaned in the morning and makes her way to the shower.

By the time she steps inside, she registers the muffled whoosh of the quarters' door and the heavy steps of the room's owner.

Sounds like Lord Shaxx is back. Ghost remarks without materializing.

The Young Wolf only nods, turning back to scrubbing the dirt from her hand. How it had gotten under her glove, she doesn't know. But she's too tired to question it.

She listens to the faint movements outside the bathroom, no doubt the Titan's efforts to  straighten up, perhaps tend to her filthy armor as he does so often after long assignments. It's his way of doting on her when he sees her so rarely. It's sweet and she appreciates it more than he could ever know.

The minutes pass in a blur, idly listening to Shaxx move about before she shuts off the water and grabs a towel. It's Titan-sized and her Hunter-sized frame practically swims in it. She winds it around herself three times and holds the end tightly as she opens the door.

She must have been in there longer than she thought. Her armor sits clean in the corner, a steaming bowl of spicy ramen sets on the table by the bed with a large cup of water. Tired eyes move from the food to the Titan staring quietly at the weapon atop her cloak.

She doesn't remember placing it there.

"He's really gone," he says softly.

She looks down, almost ashamed and it draws his attention. She hears him approach, feels his strong arms pull her close. He's still in his armor, still battle-ready but she doesn't need a battle right now. She needs her Titan.

She's never needed a protector, but in that moment, as she lays her head on his chest, she feels fragile beneath his touch as if she'll  crumble at any moment. Though, despite everything, she's safe. Nothing can hurt her as long as he holds her. She can't describe it - the soft brush of his thumb over exposed skin. The tenderness that is his touch - so firm and yet so gentle. In his arms, she is invincible. In his arms, she is home.

So when she does crumble, the towering Titan gingerly picks her up, carrying her over to the bed and takes a seat with her in his lap. Her fingers latch onto his chest plate, the fur along his shoulders tickle her nose but she makes no move to pull away.  He leans his head against the top of hers, always so gentle in the way he clutches her against his chest.

He'll hold her together. As she crumbles, he'll pick up the pieces and he'll build her up stronger than before.

"It's alright, my little Hunter. It's going to be alright."

"Couldn't save him." She whispers feebly.

"No. Cayde is gone. But so is Uldren Sov. And that, my little Hunter, is what matters. You've avenged your friend and now you wield his weapon with the same regal and pride he did."

She can't help but scoff at the mention of regal in relation to anything associated with Cayde-6, he'd abhor the term, despite its merit as a praise. She blinks back the tears, wiping away the few that escaped before she looks up at him.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

She can't see his features beyond his visor but she knows he's smiling that same soft, affectionate smile that lulls her to composure every time. He is her anchor. He is the only thing that keeps her grounded and she knows it. He is home - and for a Hunter, that means the world to her.

She offers a shadow of a smile, subtle twitch to the corner of her mouth as he tucks a strand of soaked hair away from her face. She realized she never tried to dry it in her rush to see him.

"You need to eat," he nods to the bowl on the bedside stand and she snaps to from her daze.

He stands before leaning down and gently sets her on the mattress. "I'll get you some clothes," he assures her softly after handing her the bowl and a utensil.

She nods quietly, inclining her head ever so slightly as he straightens up and moves to the closet. She watches silently as he grabs one of his shirts and a pair of her shorts before returning to her side, laying the clothes on the blanket next to her.

He lingers for a moment, reaching out to gently cradle her cheek and her head leans into his touch. It's soothing and warm even through the rough leather of his glove.

"I'll be back soon, I have a few things to attend to," he brushes his thumb along her skin and her eyes flicker up to his helmet, a shadow of concern glinting among exhaustion. "Rest, my little Hunter. You've earned it."

She offers little more than a slight nod before he pulls back and she already longs for his touch, lurching ever so slightly forward as if to prolong the fraction of contact before it's gone altogether. She watches him stride towards the door, pausing and looking back at her with a nod, "I'll be back." And then he's gone.

It's another weighted minute before she drags her gaze from the door to the bowl in her hands. It's so warm, warding off the chill that threatens to sing along her spine - when did she become cold? She looks down at the clothes beside her with disinterest. She doesn't want to eat or move. She just wants to curl up and let Shaxx hold her.

But he'll be back, he always comes back and he'll expect her to have eaten and to be dressed. It's either that or he'll fret and she hates to worry him.

So, she sets the bowl aside reluctantly, carefully getting to her feet and tugs his massive shirt over her head. It billows and hangs looser than any dress she's ever seen, but it's comfortable and smells faintly of him. It draws a tired smile to the corner of her lips as she finishes getting dressed and deposits the towel in a basket before climbing under the covers. The Young Wolf picks up the bowl, its warmth flourishing across trembling fingertips. A deep breath settles her frazzled nerves and she can finally begins to eat, all while aware of the approving hum from Ghost in the back of her mind.

Somewhere along the line, she finishes the bowl, leaving it on the dresser and she slides further under the blankets until her head settles on the soft pillow. It's then that she hears the door open again and Shaxx's heavy footsteps fill the room.

"Guardian--" he falls silent when he sees her under the blankets but she rolls onto her back all the same. "You ate, good. Just a moment," he disappears into the bathroom to change, emerging with just his helmet on and she snorts softly in amusement. Her gaze follows him as he leaves his armor beside her freshly cleaned and substantially smaller plates before he removes his helmet and shuts off the lights. It's always the last thing to go, every night - it never ceases to amuse her.

When the bed dips beneath his weight, her attention is drawn back to the towering Titan settling in beside her. He opens his arms and almost immediately, she's curled up against him, burying her face in his chest. She's never been this vulnerable around anyone but Ghost and yet, it doesn't seem to faze the Warlord as he rubs small circles along her shoulder, pressing the softest of kisses into her damp hair.

"Rest," he encourages softly and at last, she allows heavy eyelids to sag shut, though her hand clenches into a fist as she clings to him. "It's alright," he whispers soothingly, taking her hand in his, brushing the pad of his thumb along her knuckles until her fingers slacken and her breathing evens out.

"The weight of the world was on your shoulders, and still you triumphed. I am proud of you, my little Hunter. Rest well."

-------------------------

Taglists are open! Send an ask/leave a comment to be added!

Forevers: @halo-2 @reaped-winnower

Shaxx's Guardians: @ataraxia101 @squirrel-stars @genken64 @rain-dragon

[funkylittlebard]

Hey, @mayastormborn you know how I said maybe a week ago that I had something for you? TA DA!

Sorry it took me so long, woops

Here is some platonic fluffy nonsense featuring Aro Jaskier and Vesemir. Also Lambert briefly, but this isn't really about him.

CWs: none that I can think of this time.

edit 18/05: Ao3 link

Jaskier sighed contentedly, snuggling in closer. Vesemir was running a hand through his hair so gently, at such a leisurely pace, that he thought he might fall asleep at any moment. A sleepy smile spread across his face- this had been a wonderful idea. They were sat by the fire in the Keep’s library, Vesemir in a worn, comfortable armchair with his legs covered in furs, and Jaskier leant back against him from his place on the rug. It felt soft beneath his fingers where he tugged gently at the strands, the sensation comforting. He could always relax better when he had something to do with his hands. Vesemir ran his hand through Jaskier’s hair, letting it fall through his fingers.

Jaskier shuffled even nearer to Vesemir, smiling widely as the other man hummed as he buried his fingers deeper into Jaskier’s hair. The calloused tips felt incredibly good on his scalp, so good that Jaskier could feel himself practically purring. Vesemir actually did purr when Jaskier did this for him- it was a Witcher thing, apparently, though Jaskier had yet to try it on any of the others.

The fire cracked loudly in front of them, startling Jaskier from his thoughts. Vesemir chuckled at him, legs shaking as the laugh reverberated through him. Jaskier looked up, pouting. He didn’t have to say anything before Vesemir smiled at him and stroked his cheek fondly, before going back to petting his hair.

Jaskier closed his eyes and leant back. Over the last few years of visiting the Keep, he had established that it was definitely much better than seeing out winter marking mediocre essays in Oxenfurt. Here, he had a friend who would show him affection openly and had never once mistaken their friendship and its resulting closeness for any kind of romantic arrangement. It was nice to be understood. Especially without any awkward explanations about how he “simply didn’t feel that way”. Poor Valdo, Jaskier thought, it wasn’t his fault I suppose. Just as his eyes were slipping shut, sleep calling to him, there was a heavy knock at the door.

“Oy! I’m coming in,” came a yell from outside. Vesemir tutted and tugged his furs closer to him.

“Don’t know why he bothers knocking when he doesn’t even ask if he can come in. No bloody manners that one,” he muttered as Lambert charged through the door and came to stand in front of them with a tray.

Jaskier blinked his bleary eyes open, not quite able to understand what Lambert was saying. His eyes were drawn to the pair of steaming mugs the younger witcher had on the tray. There was a slight smell of spiced rooibos emanating from them and Jaskier sighed happily, wriggling his arms out from under his blanket. He reached out towards Lambert, waggling his hands at him. He still hadn’t heard a word the man had said but that didn’t matter- Lambert had tea. The witcher frowned down at him and his sentence stuttered to a halt.

“Impatient bastard,” Lambert mumbled, leaning down to pass Jaskier the spiced tea. Jaskier let out a happy little squeak and snuggled back into Vesemir’s legs with his cup. He closed his eyes again, enjoying the warming sensation. He could vaguely register the deep grumbling sound of Vesemir talking to Lambert, but he was blissfully ignorant of what, exactly, they were talking about. He took a sip of the tea and was pleasantly surprised at the combination of spices. Witchers weren’t always too keen on strong flavours, he had noticed, as they bothered their strong senses. He flicked his eyes back open, staring at the fire and its comforting orange hues again. Lambert had settled himself on the window seat with a book, his warm breath fogging up the glass.

Vesemir looked at Lambert for a long moment, and then stood up, making to walk over to the fire, but Jaskier grabbed his ankle.

“Wait, Ves, I have something for you,” Jaskier rummaged around under the chair and Vesemir frowned at him fondly- the space wasn’t that big, so it was impressive that Jaskier had managed to hide anything there at all. Jaskier produced a brown package, tied up tightly with string. He held it out to Vesemir, eyes wide and sparkling with excitement. Vesemir tore open the package carefully, smiling at Jaskier as he pulled the object loose from the packaging. It felt soft in his grip, and he ran his thumbs over it for a moment, enjoying the feel of the fabric. It was a dark, forest green colour, made with beautiful tight-knit lines of wool. He looked down at Jaskier, who smiled up at him sheepishly. “I tried to make one for you myself. But uh, it didn’t turn out so well.”

He pulled out another package- equally well- wrapped, but when Vesemir opened it he found a fluffy green hat, lopsided and with several large holes in it. There was a loose line of wool trailing down the left side, and Vesemir felt like his heart was going to burst. He slipped it onto his head, and let out a chuckle when it fell to cover his eyes. Pulling it back just far enough that he could see out again, he looked at Jaskier.

“Thank you, Jaskier, for the two lovely hats.” He paused to pull the too-large knitwear off his head and stopped when he heard a sniffle. “Jaskier, wait no, why are you crying?” The snuffling continued as a few tears started to fall down Jaskier’s face. Jaskier wiped a hand across it and blinked wet eyes up at him.

“I picked out the decent one in Ard Carraigh, the lady told me it was the best for the snows and the cold weather, and- Vesemir what’s that?” The older man was now holding a parcel out to him, which Jaskier took with shaky hands. He tore it open hastily, shreds of paper flying over his shoulders. He pulled out the soft fabric with wide eyes, a look of awe on his tear-stained face. “Did you make this?” Vesemir nodded. “What the fuck? Why were you so nice about my knitting when this is what you can do?” Jaskier scrambled to his feet and threw himself at Vesemir, clinging desperately to his friend’s shoulders. “Let me take mine back and you can pretend you never saw it,” he finished, hiding his head in Vesemir’s neck, and he felt a hand pat his back.

“And why would I want to do that? When one of my dearest friends has made something for me, how could I possibly want to get rid of it?” Jaskier sniffled again, and Vesemir hugged him tighter. They stood there for a long moment holding each other. There was a sudden loud noise, and they startled apart in surprise, glancing around for the cause. The tension was broken when the noise rumbled through the room again and they saw Lambert, now sound asleep by the window, snoring loudly. Vesemir chuckled quietly at the sight of his youngest pup slumped against the glass, and Jaskier had to hold a hand to his mouth to keep the laughter back. “I think that’s our cue to go to bed, bard,” Vesemir said, stepping up to Lambert and lifting him into his arms with ease. They headed out of the library and Jaskier walked up the stairs, wrapped tightly in his new scarf. He never wanted to take it off again.

[bitter-sweet-farmgirl]

Nunrâê Irak

**This one is pretty appropriate for today due to the fact that I’m currently on Day 3 of my period, and woke up to the horror that I bled through my pad, underwear, and pants to stain my sheet and subsequently my mattress and got a little bit of blood on my mom’s super nice WHITE fluffy blanket.  Oh Mahal, I was terrified when I saw the pink tinge to it...  So now she’s joking that I need Depends at night, lol**

Part 14 of ‘A Deep Misunderstanding’.  Link to Series Masterlist.

Thorin falls for a Dwarrowdame raised by Elves, and tries to make know his feelings, but accidentally offends her, which leads to another and another misunderstanding between the two.

Based off of @immawriteyouthings​ ‘Falling Stars’

Note:  If you wish to be tagged for certain stories, just let me know and I can add you to a tag list!

Tags:

@kumqu4t​ @pixierox101​

MASTERLIST

OC(s) Used: Estel

Word Count:  2,645

Warning(s):  Blood, time of the month, curse word(s)

Translation(s): Nunrâê Irak:  My Other Side

Kasamhili: Please

Adkhât 'âmad:  Rest well

~~~~

A great weariness settled over me that night as we set up camp, and I struggled to keep my eyes open as I sat down before the fire.  I couldn't understand why I was so tired after doing something we did every single day.

"Tired?"  A gentle voice murmured in my ear as Thorin settled himself beside me; an arm coming around to pull me flush against his side.  

I yawned, nodding.  "Very tired...  But I don't know why, it's not like we've been doing anything other than walking for the past few months..."  I mumbled, laying my head down on his shoulder and breathing in the tangy smell of sweat that hung around Thorin.  Eru, would it kill him to shed a few layers during the day?

"You should probably go to sleep."  Thorin suggested, running his hand up and down my arm in a soothing gesture.  "We're going to be walking again tomorrow too."

I let out a groan, nuzzling my head into the crook of his neck.  I didn't want to leave the safety of his arms just yet.  Not after I had fantasized all bloody day about getting to snuggle with him.  I was fully entitled to live my fantasy for a while after I had waited so long.

"Are you hungry?  Bombur has food ready..."  Thorin said, just as I had begun to drift down into the chasm of peaceful sleep.

"No, I'm not hungry."  I grumbled, wrinkling my nose at the thought.  Thorin looked at me with thinly veiled concern.

"Do you feel ill, Estel?  Should I go fetch Oin?"  He asked worriedly, but I just shook my head.  

"No, I'm just not hungry."  I mumbled, clinging to him as he attempted to stand up.  "Don't go...."  I pleaded, raising my head to look up at him.  "Kasamhili?"

Thorin watched me for a moment before sighing gently and nodding.  "Of course I won't."  He soothed, then turned towards the fire to call towards Bombur who was standing over a large iron pot.  "Bombur!  Bring me a bowl of that stew..."  He called as I closed my eyes once more, reacquainting myself with the weary tug that drew me to sleep.

~~~

Gentle movement roused me from my slumber, and I let out a sleepy groan.  Was it morning already?

"Shh, Karkith...  Go back to sleep."  Thorin's voice sounded as though it was far away, but I obeyed, vaguely noticing that I was cradled in someone's arms and tucked tightly against their chest.

"Is it morning already?"  I asked hoarsely, blearily opening one eye to look out at the moonlit forest.  

Thorin chuckled; the sound vibrating through his chest.  "No, Amrâlimê.  It is still night.  Now go back to sleep."  He murmured, and I was gently set down on my bedroll.

Letting out a deep sigh, I curled myself into a ball, pulling my blanket tight around me.  Far away, I could hear the rustlings of something, then a warm, fluffy object was laid gently over me.

"Adkhât 'âmad, Karkith."  I heard Thorin say before I was off again on the mists of sleep.

~~~~

The next morning dawned bright and early; too early.  I rolled over in my bedroll, squinting my eyes against the bright rays of sunshine that assaulted my bleary vision.

Moving to sit up, I let out a soft hiss of pain at the dull ache that suddenly erupted in my abdomen.  Gently massaging my midsection, sleep suddenly fled from me as I noticed the wet, squelchy discomfort between my thighs.

Son of a -- Oh Eru, this was not good.  Not good at all.

Eyes opening wide in horror, I quickly glanced around, checking to see if anyone else was up yet.  By the Valar, how had I missed the signs?  The strange tiredness last night, the lack of appetite and my clinginess towards Thorin...  Bloody Orcs on a pike I was in trouble.

My monthly cycles had been very unpredictable--Eru, the only thing predictable about them had been their unpredictability--once I joined the Company due to the extreme stress and strain it tended to put on me and the sometimes poor diet.  But usually, usually, they were preceded by mild cramps or something to warn me of the coming waterfall of blood.

Quickly I sat up, grimacing at the cramps that throbbed unceasingly.  I reached out to snag my blanket, but my hand clasped around a soft, furry pelt instead.  Looking down, I was horrified to see Thorin's coat draped across me.

In the night, I had wrapped myself in its furry glory after he had covered me with it.  Any other night I would have been over the moon with happiness, but now all I felt was cold, unadulterated fear.

Hurriedly spreading it out across my legs, I scanned it for any signs of stains.  Eru knew I hadn't been expecting my period so there was bound to be some leakage.  

Just, hopefully not on Thorin's coat.

But there was.  Right smack dab in the middle of it, a rusty red stain marred the soft, dark blue fabric.

"Oh Eru...."  I groaned softly, dropping the coat and putting my head in my hands.  "He's going to kill me..."

"Who's going to kill you?"  A deep voice rumbled from behind me, and I whirled to look around, scrambling to hide the stain on Thorin's coat at the same time.

The last person in all of Arda I wanted to see stood before me, looking down at me with a furrowed brow.  "Estel?"  Thorin prompted, walking closer to kneel beside me, "who's going to kill you?"

I gulped, frantically trying to think of how I could get myself out of this situation.  "Nobody, Thorin.  It was just a dream."  I covered frantically, internally wilting with relief when my voice retained its regular tone and didn't rise an octave.

Naneth had always said I was a poor liar, but perhaps that was because she was both an Elf--they were very perceptive beings--and my mother.  A combination that almost guaranteed complete knowledge over your mannerisms.

Thorin raised an eyebrow, looking skeptically at me for a moment before his eyes fell to his coat that I held tight within my grasp.  He reached out a hand to grab it, but I was quick to hold it closer to me.

A smirk began to wind its way across Thorin's face as he watched the action.  "Don't want to give my coat back yet, Halwûna?"  He teased, and I shook my head.

"No, it's too fuzzy and it smells like you."  I murmured half-truthfully, watching with a smile as Thorin laughed and shook his head.

"Oh Estel..."  He chuckled, looking at me with a twinkle in his sapphire blue eyes.  "Sorry to disappoint you, but I need it back, Amrâlimê."  

I bit the inside of my cheek, fidgeting as a particularly painful cramp squeezed my organs.  Eru, they were bad this time.

Thorin's arm shot out and grabbed a corner of the coat, easily pulling it out of my grasp and away from me.

I let out a gasp, leaning forwards in an attempt to grab it back.  I had to get it back so I could get the stain out!

But Thorin was quick to rise to his feet, shaking out his coat in preparation to put it on.  Scrambling to my feet, my blanket unwound itself from around me to fall to the ground, but I could care less.  

"Thorin, I just had this thought that I could maybe--” But before I could continue with my ploy to get him to give me the coat, Thorin's eyes locked onto the southern region of my body, growing wide with horror.

"Estel!  You're wounded!"  He exclaimed, dropping his coat as he moved to sweep me off my feet.  "Oin!"  He bellowed, lowering me down onto the ground and hovering over me.

"Thorin--” I tried to speak, but Thorin laid a finger on my lips to instantly silence me, looking down with concern.

"Hush, Amrâlimê.  Just lie still.  Oin will be able to help you."  He said, unable to help the worry that invaded his voice.  "It'll be okay."

I rolled my eyes, struggling against Thorin as the camp began to come alive around us.  Eru, I didn't want everyone to see the stains on my trousers...  Surely they would know what that meant...

Within moments, Oin had trotted over to us, traces of sleep still found on his face as he grumbled under his breath.  The rest of the company trailed in his wake and I found myself wishing that I could just disappear.

Kneeling beside my forcefully restrained form, Oin looked at Thorin.  "What's wrong with the lass?"  He asked, and I bit my lip, closing my eyes as pink tinged my cheeks.

Could it get any more embarrassing?

"She's injured and bleeding."  I could hear Thorin say, and he most have motioned toward the southern part of my body as I heard Oin let out a sigh.

"Ah, I see...  Estel?"  Oin questioned, and I opened my eyes reluctantly, looking up at Oin who wore a knowing look.

"I suppose he has no knowledge of this...  I'd be fine if he'd just let me go and take care of business, but he has to be a nosy bastard."  I grumbled, and Oin nodded, slowly getting to his feet and shooting a glare at the rest of the company.  

"Clear off you all, the lass needs some space.  Do you have any abdominal cramps or anything?"  He asked, and I nodded, grimacing and resting a hand on my abdomen upon feeling the familiar twinge of a cramp.

"What is wrong with her, Oin?"  Thorin asked, his voice carrying a stern undertone.  I let out an exasperated sigh, brushing away his hands and sitting up; ignoring his protests as I did so.

"Nothing is wrong.  This is a normal happening for a lass of her age."  Oin brushed his question off easily and turned back to me.  "For your cramps I have some dried fennel....  There might also be some pine bark around here somewhere as well.  That would work better than the fennel since it is fresher."  He said, and I nodded, rubbing small circles across my stomach in an attempt to soothe my aching uterus.

"If you are able to find the pine bark, I would accept some it, Oin.  Thank you."  I said softly, and Oin just gave me a nod.

"Of course, lass, that's what I'm here for."  He said dismissively and headed off towards the rest of the company who had gathered around the weakly glimmering fire.  

I let out a deep breath, groaning softly as a cramp tightly squeezed my uterus in an iron grip.  I jumped in surprise as arms suddenly wound around me to pull me up against a broad chest.

"Whatever this is, it pains you...  Why?"  Thorin asked softly, his warm breath caressing my cheek.

I leaned back against him, closing my eyes as I took a steadying breath.  I'd never anticipated having this conversation with Thorin before.  By the Valar it was going to be embarrassing explaining the complexities of the female body to someone his age and rank.

"Have you ever heard of a period?  That time of the month?"  I asked, mentally crossing my fingers that he had.  I mean, I knew that he had a sister and surely he would have known something about periods.

The sudden, sharp intake of breath behind me was all I needed to know that he understood.  "My time of the month came around, and sometimes I get cramps.  They'll ease up once I have some of that pine bark though.  It's nothing to worry about."  I said reassuringly.

"Mahal, I’m sorry about calling Oin over then.  I thought you had been hurt or something..."  Thorin said, and I turned my head to peer up at him, grinning at the pink blush covering his cheeks.

"It's okay.  I didn't think you knew anyways."  I said, my attention becoming disrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching.  Looking away from Thorin, I raised an eyebrow as I caught sight of Fili and Kili approaching us.

"Oin told us to give this to you."  Fili said, holding out a leaf that contained a dark, grainy powder.  "He said you'd know what to do with it..."  

Accepting the leaf, I gave the pair a smile.  "Thank you both."  I murmured and they both gave me a quick bow before hurrying away.  It could have been just me, but it seemed as though they were hesitant about being around me.

Although, they were the youngest members of the quest; and if I remembered correctly, were raised solely by their mother, which probably would have meant they would know exactly what a period was.  Kili definitely would, given that he was married.

I would have found it funny had I not been sitting in a pool of my own blood.

Quickly tipping the powder into my mouth, I made a face at the bitter taste of it.  No matter how many times I took it; it still tasted the same.  

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go change my clothes and wash them."  I said, shrugging out of Thorin's grip and standing up; my blanket once more being wound around my waist to hide the dark red stain on the crotch of my trousers.

Thorin rose to his feet beside me, his coat lying forgotten on the ground.  "Will you be okay by yourself?"  He asked worriedly, and I laughed.

"Eru, I don't want anybody around to watch me, Thorin!  'Course I'll be fine."  I chuckled, and Thorin coughed awkwardly.

"I didn't mean..."  He cut himself off, shaking his head.  "Never mind, Amrâlimê.  We'll just take it slower today.  If you need to stop and rest, or if your...cramps become painful against, just tell me."  He said, and I smiled up at him.

"You're very sweet, Mell nín.  Now if you'll excuse me..."  I edged away from him, grabbing my knapsack of spare clothes and tucking it under an arm as I eyed Thorin's abandoned coat on the ground.

What the heck, might as well get it out in the open.

Walking over to it, I snatched it up.  Thorin caught sight of my actions and frowned, striding towards me.  "Estel, I need my coat."  He rumbled, but I held it away from him, biting my lip as I stared at the ground.

"I might have stained it a bit last night...  I'll go wash it and get it out.  Sorry..."  I mumbled, my face growing hot with embarrassment.

"Karkith...  It's alright.  Don't be embarrassed about staining my coat, Amrâlimê.  It has seen many bloody battles.  Besides, it's not as if you could have prevented it from getting stained."  He said softly, laying a gently hand on my arm.  "Now, go get yourself cleaned up."  He said, giving me a smile as he walked away from me to join the company as they began to cook breakfast.

Hopefully, it was something other than meat...  I thought to myself as I wandered in the direction of the stream we had discovered yesterday.  

Eru, I wanted nothing more than to just sit and do nothing all day, but I didn't want to seem like the weak one in the company.  If it came down to it, I could pull my weight same as the rest of them, but it would just take a little more effort for the next few days.

But for now, all I had to focus on was getting the blood out of my trousers and Thorin's coat. A simple task really; enjoyable almost as I got to bask in Thorin's tantalizing scent.  So deeply ingrained in my senses that I could recall every little element of it.

Every little piece that made up the Dwarrow I called my One.

[kaiparker-avengerssmut]

CURSED: CHAPTER ELEVEN

“All is fair in love and war”

Kai Parker x OC!Mack Grace

Series synopsis: "We're both cursed, in a way."

We all know the story of Kai Parker, but he once lived in a very different life. Do you ever wonder what that life looked like?

Chapter summary: werewolf shit, guys

Warnings: death, blood, violence, swearing possibly

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

MACK clutched her head in her hands, her back resting sharply against the car wheel as her chest rose and fell rapidly, her lungs struggling to keep up with her breaths. Tears streaked down her face like paint and her eyes were swollen with fear as she stared down at his body.

Ben's head rested sickeningly in a pool of deep crimson, his eyes frozen open like a deer in headlights, unblinking and unflinching. His nose was bloodied, his clothes scuffed and ripped and his chest looked nauseatingly con-caved. Mack chocked backed sob, covering her mouth with her hand. The more she stared at him, the more the reality sunk in.

She killed someone.

She killed him.

Someone she new, someone she once loved. She killed him. Someone who was worshiped at her school, someone whose name was on every certificate, every trophy. Someone who new her mum, her dad her sister.

A demented scream ripped from her throat like a banshee, her vocals straining to make a sound that sinister and that piercing. She kept going. Her world collapsed, crumbling like sand around her until only grit remained. She would go to jail. She would be sentenced to death. She would have to leave her dad. She would have to leave Kai. Mack's thoughts swooped through her like vultures, praying off her emotions like they were merely insignificant worms or insects.

The tainted sound stopped at the feeling of warm breath tickling against her ear. Welcomed hands on her shoulders. Comforting words whispered by a soothing voice.

"Shhh. Shh. Sweetheart, I need you to listen to me." Kai cooed gently, tucking some hair behind Mack's ear and tilting her head to face him with his finger and thumb on her chin. "No one is going to find out, okay? Just - just do exactly as I say." Kai's blue eyes were so calming, soft okie the ocean - blue and dazzling with sparks of hope like the theory of salt that littered wave tops and swells. "Can you do that for me, sweetheart?" He persisted and Mack managed a nod. "Good."

Kai stood up again, moving from his crouched position in front of Mack and over to where Ben's body menacingly taunted him. Kai scrunch up his nose, gathering saliva at the back of his throat before spitting over Ben. He hoisted the boy's body up, as arm under each armpit as he dragged Ben into the tree line that outlined the small road like thick, black marker in a child's painting. Setting his body down at the bottom of a tree, Kai sprinted over to his car, opening the door and flinging the glove box open.

He rummaged through it, tossing unwanted items on the seat like a scene out of a movie. That was until he came across what he wanted.

A small teddy-bear. Small enough to fit in the palm of Kai's hand; stuffing bursting through the seams, button eyes clinging on by strangled, old threads and ears half ripped off. He enclosed his hands around it, eyes rolling back and a small groan passing his lips as the glow emitted an orange hue. A warmth spread throughout him, filling his veins like a drug. Kai missed this feeling, the feeling of magic running through him. The adrenaline was heavy now, coursing through him just like the magic and aiding him as he ran back to Ben as fast as he could.

He bent down beside the body, arms held out and palms hovering over the torso and he muttered incantations and Latin phrases.

Scatters of ash floated upwards as spread densely to the sides, flaking off like tissue paper. The embers scorned the sides, titian hues edging them and creating a malevolent glow around them. When the ash cleared and the air thinned, clearing of magic, only an empty spot of grass that boarded the broad roots of the tree remained, all evidence of Ben's body disintegrated and nestling into the forest floor like any other leaf or decaying plant.

An abrupt grunt brought Kai back to present, making his head turn suddenly in the direction of Mack.

"Kenz?" He asked tentatively, but was merely met with another grunt, "Kenz, you're really scaring me." Kai said as he made his was round the car until he was face to face with her.

Then the screaming started. Mack collapsed to the floor from where she'd managed to stand to, her leg snapping in an unnatural manner. Then she jerked to the left, another scream ripping from her throat menacingly as her bones seemed to crack and break - her body distorting into a creature. Kai's head tilted to look at the moon, hanging mockingly, a full, bright, Pearl-white circle in the dark, spotted sky.

A sharp gasp pierced through the air, Kai's breath turning into a small cloud of icy white. It was a full moon. He looked back to make quickly, her form now hunted over, resting on all fours with her head dipped.

Mack's head rose from where it's been bowed, her eyes glowing with an intense fusion of gold, pain and fury. Her top lip pulled back threateningly, unveiling a pair of fangs which protruded uncomfortably over her bottom lip like small knives. All trace of Mack was gone, besides her hair and torn-up, blood-splattered clothes. A feral growl tore from her and Kai's eyes widened, his mind finally processing the situation in full.

And that's when he ran.

Kai ran, fast. As fast as he could; along the tarmac road, his converse crunching against the gravel grossly as he sprinted back to his Jeep. Looking back, Mack no longer chased him. No. It wasn't Mack - it was a monster. It's fur ran silky over its skin, dark silvers mixed with blacks, whites and yellowy-browns, it's eyes burned gold and it's ears stood to attention in the bitter wind whipping around them. It's paws were huge - as big as Kai's feet, maybe even bigger, and it's tail was a swooshing sweep of death behind it. Kai swallowed thickly, his hand resting on the door-handle now, tugging desperately and flinging the car open wide.

He clambered in, slamming the door just in time as the wolf scraped its claws down the side of the door. Kai winced at the screeching sound, cringing at the thought of the huge scratches that would be there now. He desperately tried turning his keys in the ignition but it cut short. He tried again and again, the sound of her clawing at his door making the desperation grow stronger.

After a short while Kai gave up, slumping into his seat and burying his face him his hands and hoping that she'd soon leave.

Mack didn't. She remained relentless, scratching and scraping at his car all night long. Kai can't remember when, but at some point he must've fallen asleep, as the whole world went black and all nosies were drained out.

...

The pale sun peaked over the trees, illuminating the dark road with a creamy-white light that shone over the sticky tarmac and leaves and grass glistened with the morning frost. Kai sat up slowly in his seat, groaning at his aching body and slowly peering out the window. Nothing was there. She had gone.

He slowly opened his car door, climbing out the black jeep and wincing at the damage done to his vehicle.

Long, jagged lines of scratchy sliver-grey were clawed down the doors, over the bonnet and the windows were scattered in lines of blue where the panes had been scraped. As he wandered around the car, Kai stopped in his tacks upon seeing Mack sprawled out over the floor, her shaking, naked frame shivering in the frosted grass. He rushed over to her, grounding slowly beside the girl and quickly shedding his coat. He spread it over her, pulling Mack's head into his lap for a moment and stroking her hair calmingly. When she didn't stir, he gently collected her into his arms, walking cautiously over to his car and placing her in the back seat. He looked at her, sighing as pressing a quick kiss to her forehead.

While he drove back to Mack's house, Kai's divers gripped the steering wheel tightly and his thoughts spiralled. Could he ever look at her the same? Of course he could, she was his best friend, his... well, friend. The girl he lo-

What? He didn't love her. No. He just cared deeply for her, felt hurt when she was hurt, wanted to cry when she cried, felt immense joy when she was happy, could barely stand to spend more than a few hours away from her, not touching her, not kissing her-

Holy shit. He loved her. He was in love with his best friend, his fuck buddy. Kai's mind was sent into overdrive, his senses buzzing off adrenaline, but they were soon interrupted by a low groan from the backseat. He looked back slightly, keeping one eye trained on the road ahead of them.

"Rise and shine, sweet cheeks." He quipped cheerfully, smirking as Amelie sat up, the coat falling from her chest and giving Kai a perfect view of her breasts from the rear-view mirror. He whistled and she frowned. "Fuck, you have nice tits." Kai grinned and Mack's eyes widened. She instantly reached for the coat, pulling it up over her chest and holding it there with one hand.

"Kai!" She exclaimed as he started to laugh.

"It's nothing I haven't seen before, sweetheart. And it definitely isn't something I wouldn't mind seeing again." He mentioned with a wink and she scowled at him. Then her eyes finally caught onto the scratches and scraped littering her shoulders, her legs, her feet, her hands. She gasped, holding her arms out in front of herself and examining her hands. The coat dropped again and Kai went back to his marvelling. Mack soon realised, pulling it over herself again.

"Stop doing that!" She said and Kai chuckled.

"I'm not doing anything, sweetheart. You can't blame your own...clumsiness on my intuition to see you naked." He smirk and she stuck her tongue out at him. "I'd be careful if I were you, babe, or I might get you to put the tongue to a better use." He winked and she gasped again, slumping back into the seats and crossing her arms over her chest.

They pulled into her drive, Kai stopping the car and walking round to Mack's door. He opened it, scooping the girl into his arms and kicking it shit with his foot.

"Kai!" She screamed, giggling as he walked with her in his arms. "Put me down!" She demanded, hitting his chest with her fists and kicking her legs.

"And let your dad think I'm less than the gentleman I made myself out to be last night? Nuh uh, babe." He quipped and Mack huffed, settling into his arms and he blindly opened the door to her house.

"You're back." Ian sighed, standing swiftly from the couch and crossing over to Kai, patting him on the shoulder and thanking him. "You're a good kid, thank you so much for helping us." He said in Kai's ear as the boy let Mack down and she scrambled off to her room. Ian sighed again, sitting down on the sofa and patting the spot beside him.

Kai tentatively sat beside him, kindly refusing when Ian offered him a beer, saying it was too early. They sat back against the cushions, a silence filled with awkward tension settling over them.

"Look, I'm guessing you saw...her." Ian started, gesturing towards where Mack had scurried off to.

"Yeah." Kai said bluntly.

"And you're still here?" Ian prompted and Kai nodded.

"I'm not exactly...human, myself." Kai admitted and Ian's brow raised.

"You're a wolf?" He asked and Kai shook his head with an amused smile. "There's other supernatural creatures?" Ian pressed and Kai smiled.

"Yes, I am a siphon." Ian pulled a confused face, "I'm a witch that doesn't have any powers of their own - I can only draw from other magical beings." Kai explained and Ian nodded slowly.

"Hey, Kai, do you wanna maybe go out? I need some fresh air." Mack called, rounding the corner and walking into the living room, now clad in some jeans and one of Kai's sweaters. He grinned at her, pleased to see her earring his clothes.

"Sure, Kenz. Do you want to start up my car? I'll meet you out there." He suggested and she plodded off. After the sound of the door slamming reached their ears Ian turned to Kai once again.

"If you plan on hurting my daughter in any way, I will kill you." He whispered and Kai smiled. "Got it?"

"Not like you'd stand much a chance.." Kai mused. "But yes, I understand and I have no intention of letting anyone or anything hurt Kenz. I promise." Kai replied and Ian smiled.

"Now go, have fun, keep my daughter happy!"

[talkfastromance4]

Running Back to You-- Luke Hemmings (wwii au)

Not quite sure what this is, but I felt it within me and I had to write it out. After watching 1917 and Dunkirk, plus Memorial Day and listening to “I am a Poor Wayfaring Stranger” this sprung to life. I’ve been in a writing funk and this helped me out of it, I guess so yeah, might not be good. 

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: graphic violence, mentions of blood and injury, indicated smut(very slight), bombings, gunshots, war mentions, WWII references

Masterlist

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. *copyright is listed below*

• • • •

He awakes with a jolt. In a manner of seconds his mind plays back a reel of his dream that he’s desperate to cling onto. It’s of you. 

In this dream you’re walking along the boardwalk, a pretty pink dress with a pretty pink cloud of candy floss between your fingers. The sky is a clear robin’s egg blue, no cloud in sight. Shrieks of laughter from children still echoes in his ears but he’s chasing after you. He was about to spin you around so you’d smack into his chest, your eyes alight with giddiness as he would lower his lips to yours, tasting the sweetness of the candy floss. 

The bomb that went off from the German aircraft disrupted his dream and his space of peace. Peace is hard to come by in this war, any moment of solace is treasured. Luke has been robbed of his.

The aftereffects of the bombs are always the same; frightened shouts from other men, rapid gunfire blasting into the night sky as if they created the holes for the stars and yells of agony from the wounded. Wrong place at the right time.

They’re all in the wrong place right now. Luke hugs his rifle closer to his chest, it knocks his dog tags together. He clutches them with his other hand desperately, he can feel the flying rate of his heart beneath his dirt covered fingers. Sweat tickles his upper lip, his nose is running and the safety of his dream--and his girl--are well gone now. 

He looks to his left, Michael, a friend he’s made in the last seven months reflects the same face of terror and alertness back at him. His helmet is askew and there’s dirt on his face mixed with his sweat. Their eyes ask a silent question, how long will this last?

“How long was I out?” Luke croaks. His throat is dry as sand, voice cracking from lack of water.  Clearing it won’t help, will only burn more.

“Two hours, maybe,” Michael rasps back. He licks his lips then winces, the salt from his sweat and copper taste from his blood taints his tongue. “You seemed out. What were you seeing?”

“My girl from back home,” Luke’s response is quick. He could talk about you all day; he thinks of you every minute. You’re the only thing keeping him sane during this horrific war. 

“She a pretty bird?”

“The prettiest,” Luke smiles then shifts his gun against a large rock. He digs into his many pockets, but the photo of you is always over his heart. He holds it up for Michael to inspect, the edges are a little worn, but your smile is radiant. 

“She is a looker,” Michael nods then flips it over to read your little note. “‘Come back to me my love.’ She sure loves ya, huh?”

“Yeah, I got lucky,” Luke grins taking the photo back. “Fancied her all through school and I finally plucked up the courage to ask her to the dance. Been together ever since.”

“I didn’t see a rock on those pretty fingers of hers.”

“I’m going to give her one when I go back home,” Luke nods affirmatively. “And we’ll live on the seaside by the boardwalk.”

“My girl’s—”

“GET DOWN!”

Michael and Luke scramble into position, fetal position with hands locked behind their heads just as another bomb fell. This one was closer, dirt, rocks and other debris scattered over their backs. Luke is aware of all the yelling, wails of pain and orders shouted in roll call of their troops, but he’s also fixated on you.

**

Luke’s boots squelch through the mud as he and Michael near the small town they’re set to liberate, to search for survivors and to take down any enemy. A nice family on the outskirts of town on a farm were very hospitable to them as soon as they saw the patches on their shoulders.

They aren’t the enemy.

Luke sang with them, the first time he’s had a guitar in his hands since he was with you on the eve of his departure. It was a bittersweet moment, enjoying the young children dancing and frolicking on the wooden floor while images of you and him dancing that night flashed across his mind.

With it being his last night, the sense of urgency was heightened and soon Luke was undoing the white buttons of your dress while your nimble fingers worked on his belt. It was the first time the two of you did anything like that, bodies trembling, breathing ragged. Your love was sealed with heated kisses.

“You never finished telling me about your girl,” Luke says, averting his eyes from the broken windows of shops. Blackened paint from the swastika’s drip down on the red bricks, papers scatter along the cobblestone road.

“Not to offend but my girl is a bombshell,” Michael grins, and Luke smiles back. Their friendship continues to grow the more they go through, Michael is always cracking jokes even in this dark time.

“What’s she like?”

Luke listens to Michael rattle off everything about his girl. How her hair is the softest thing he’s ever felt, her cheeks are always pink, and she smells of lilac all the time. They always share a milkshake at their favorite diner that has the best burger and fries.

“You and your girl should come with us when we’re back,” Michael adds nudging Luke in the shoulder.

“She’d like that,” Luke nods. “In her last letter, she told me she’s been wanting nothing to eat but fries and a strawberry shake.”

“What do you—”

Luke and Michael are blasted apart. Luke goes flying backwards, his back hitting the rough brick of a building, some of it tumbles onto his chest and knocks his helmet. Shouts from his other men are faint, the sound of the blast must have damaged his hearing slightly.

Through the smoke and floating papers, he searches for Michael who is flat on the ground. A small pool of blood forming by his head that is now bare of his helmet, his arms splayed on either side of him.

“Michael!” Luke screams and crawls his way off the sidewalk to his injured friend. Shots are going on all around him, the attacker has been taken down.

Luke is coughing through the smoke, his eyes watering and as he looks down at his friend, he sees the source of the blood. Michael’s left eye was hit with shrapnel or part of the grenade, rendering him unconscious as the wound bled.

Luke’s own hands are bloody and dirty as he searches for a pulse and finds a faint one, then he tries to find something to wrap his head in. The small knapsack the farm family filled with bread and cheese was made from a large handkerchief.

The bread and cheese tumbles to the soot covered ground as Luke rips the fabric into longer pieces. Michael groans when Luke dresses his head with the fabric, the blood blooms on the white cloth instantly, as if a poppy bursting free.

“Mike! Can you hear me? Talk to me,” Luke spits urgently and tightens the makeshift bandage over his friend’s eye. “Come on, tell me about your girl and the milkshakes. What’s her favorite?”

“V-vanilla,” Michael chokes out, he tries to open his other eye.

“Vanilla? Can’t believe your bird likes plain flavors,” Luke tries to joke with his friend, and it works. Michael’s lips curve slightly.

“Says it . . . reminds . . . of me.”

“Because of your hair? She’s funny, I can’t wait to meet her. Can you sit and stand?” Luke helps lift Michael up just as another soldier comes to their aid. He helps hobble Michael to shelter where the other troops have assembled.

“I’ll get the medic over, he can clean the wound,” the young man who helped with Michael says.

Luke holds Michael’s hand as his face continues to redden from the blast and his own blood. The medic, Calum Hood, gets to work immediately when he comes by.

“Keep him talking, he may go into shock, but he seems strong,” Hood instructs popping open his first aid kit.

“What else can you tell me about her?” Luke asks hastily. Michael’s bright green eye zeroes in on Luke, which makes Luke suck in a breath. Such a bright color while his face is dirty and bloody.

“I can smell her lilacs, Luke,” Michael sighs. “So pretty.”

“I bet they are,” Luke nods.

Calum hood glances at Luke when he removes the handkerchief. There’s a big gouge where Michael’s left eye should be. Michael squeezes Luke’s hand.

“It’s gone, isn’t it?” Michael licks his chapped lips.

“Mich—”

“It’s fine. Rather my eye than my life, eh? Reckon I’m still better lookin’ than you,” he jokes then flinches when Hood pours alcohol on the wound.

“You’re right about that,” Luke smiles. “I better watch out, you might steal my girl from me.”

“That’s just the beast in me.”

**

Luke and Michael are silent on their trip back home.

The medical officer Hood recommended that Michael stay behind while the rest of the troop liberated a small encampment of a Gestapo Officer that was in high ranks. Michael refused and persisted that he won’t stay behind. He signed on to help and defend and he will do it with one eye.

As soon as their troop marched onto the land of the officer, they heard a series of gunshots. Luke and Michael reached the house first, so they witnessed the horror first. In the study, the Officer and his family lay sprawled on their now stained wooden floor; the gun in the Officer’s hand as he drowned in a river of his family’s blood.

There were about fifty prisoners kept in the basement and in makeshift barracks in the backyard. All of them were ghosts, malnourished, dirty and filled with terror. One of them cried into Luke’s chest while the other soldiers coaxed the others out of hiding. One of their men spoke fluent German, his name is Ashton Irwin and he assured the prisoners that they will be safe now. They won’t be hurt.

The horrific sights hang dauntingly between Luke and Michael as they rode back to the Army hospital in France. The pair were never apart except when Michael was in surgery to repair the damage around his eye. Michael was asked if he’d like a glass eye, but the thought was mortifying so he opted for an eye patch.

Both clung to each other on the boat ride home and woke each other up on the train as they had the same nightmares. Nightmares of what they went through, of what they saw. Luke clutched your picture tightly against his chest, he stared at your face in the moonlight as the train rattled on.

Luke is tired. His feet are tired yet he’s aching to be near you again. He pulls his dog tags from his pocket that now has a diamond ring looped on the chain. Michael helped him pick it out while they were in France. He can’t wait to come home to you.

“She’s going to say yes, stop over thinking,” Michael tells him while the train pulls into the station. They both jump when a man bangs on the window, a gleeful smile on his face as he congratulated them for being home. “I wish it was just us on the platform.”

“Me too,” Luke replies grimly.

While they were at the hospital in France, one of your letters was forwarded to him. You wrote of your fear and worry for him, that you haven’t heard from him in weeks. You confessed your love every other line and Luke wished he could hold you, assure you that he’s almost home.

It’s been almost a year that he’s been gone. Each step of his boots was away from you, but they were also running back to you. Luke notices the tremble in Michael’s hands, an after effect from his accident but it’s been heightened from nerves.

“She’ll be happy you’re alive,” Luke assures him. Michael nods robotically. He’s nervous what his girl will say about his eye.

The two get off the train together, both searching for their loves. Being taller than nearly everyone helps, and Luke finally spots you near a pillar next to a bench. Without a second thought, he abandons Michael (for now) and pushes through the crowd of families being reunited, forcing his feet to move faster to you.

You’re already crying by the time he reaches you, his arms encasing you tightly as he breathes you in. You’re both grasping each other securely, whispering ‘I love you’ in each other’s ears. All his woes seem to disappear the longer he’s in your arms and he pulls away to plant a kiss on your lips.

“I have something for you,” he rushes out and reaches for his dog tags.

“I have something for you, too. I—Luke!” you gasp when he dangles the ring in front of you. You kiss him quickly in response, hoping he’ll understand that you mean yes. He slips it on your finger while it’s still looped on his necklace.

“What’s your—”

A small baby’s cry makes him freeze, then he finally takes in your surroundings. There’s a black baby carriage to the left of you, a pink blanket peeking out. Luke’s eyes widen as he looks between you and the carriage.

“There’s someone who’s been waiting to meet you,” you tell him. You slip your hand in his leading him to the carriage.

Luke collapses onto the bench, staring at the most beautiful baby he’s ever seen in his life. He grasps the edge of the carriage as the baby girl stares up at him, she has your eyes. You lift her from the carriage, carefully placing her in Luke’s awaiting arms. Tears fill his eyes as he kisses his daughter’s head, then you sit next to him and he holds his whole world in his arms.

“I’ve been running back to you,” he whispers to his girls.

• • • •

Copyright talkfastromance4 © All works is intellectual property of the author. All rights reserved. Any redistribution or reproduction or any part or all contents in any form is prohibited. You may not, without written expression and consent from the author, distribute works amongst other social media platforms

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[maiolica-admirer]

✂

✂ - A vivid memory

Warning for a dude getting shanked.

~

There is a saying that you never forget your first time and in that respect humans might be correct, a first love, the first time you try a certain food, the first job you have, your first kill. Perhaps the latter is more of a changeling thing given so few of them choose to indulge themselves in the temptation? Yet despite that the general rule remains perfectly apt even to their kind. One thing always worth noting and more often than not neglected a serious mention is that their dying eyes will haunt the rest of your life though personally it would be wiser to hold onto that memory as a trophy of a job well done than any guilt for knowing you were the cause of their fading light. As the numbers totted up over the ensuing decades nothing could remove it from the top spot for that fact alone.

Even from a tender young age she had been an ambitious sort but not in the name of power that many of her siblings were, no hers came in the form of cementing herself as useful to the cause and reliable, the one you could count on to carry out orders not necessarily to the letter but the desired result would happen without fail. Prestige gives you a little bit more wiggle room with protection instead of only a target on your back that the politics would plus you would be even more within your right than usual to slaughter those who tried to backstab you in turn... Such a contrast to the prim and proper lady that her human life had expected of her, death’s etiquette works very differently than the ones of life and one she had embraced wholeheartedly.

The order was given via a drop akin to a plot line that would become popular in cinema in a not too distant future and one that was a test for competence in all but name: Cut your teeth by removing someone who had the misfortune of seeing what they should not have or fail and have someone hunt both of you down. Additionally, use only what you have at your disposal until you prove worthy of our precious wares. With the directions and a description of the target it was simple and to the point, nothing like the vast strides in photography or mobile phones the modern day took for granted but such was life when such things could have only been a mere fantasy.

To her utter annoyance the era and country had declared issue with women wearing so called menswear and with not willing to put up with the screeching of gossiping wives nor fines that might come with it she simply chose a matching long jacket, a typical high collared blouse underneath and skirt that just barely skimmed the floor abusing the light flare around the boot to further cover her footsteps and simply wore them underneath to lessen the chance of being caught if a swift change of appearance might be needed afterwards. The obnoxious bustle of the time was (Gleefully) declined though unfortunately the hat alighted with ribbon was in forced attendance giving a touch of colour in purple perched as a threatening talking point. Through no fault of her own she stood out amongst these people already being of different heritage trapping her even more in the social politeness of smiling like an empty-headed waif incapable of any thought while others pointed and whispered comments behind their hands as though she couldn’t hear every word.

Frankly it was disgusting.

With a lack of pockets of suitable dimensions she also wore a bag carried by the clasp because the straps clinged so uselessly to a shoulder they might as well not exist were it not for the threat of pickpockets eager to snatch that brought the added risk of drawing attention were their hands to be crushed. Still, it did the job otherwise in keeping the stolen scissor points from making any potentially scandalous holes in her wear and allowed her thoughts to turn to what will happen next when a quick glance to the street name shows she was not far from the expected rendezvous point that should contain the target. Only a few minutes more and then it would be showtime and it is enough for a genuine smile to slip through.

Squirreled away in an innocuous back-alley Nomura finds that the information was a little dated but remained passable at a push. His wear is a decade past it even to her uncaring eye, rough around the edges in all respects with a disgusting cream colour, ruffled shirt not to mention the top hat being worried by the brim and appearing so skittish you’d think he was expecting the shadows to come out and bite at any second. His eyes remain firmly staring at a door of the establishment that he must have been kicked out of yet remaining expectant despite it all without even the sense to knock or bang any more than realising he had been put out here to be forgotten. Glancing this way and that to judge for any further pedestrians she wanders closer as quietly as heel will allow with a palm held against her chest in surprise to further sell the effect while the other stealthily flicks the clasp open ready.

“My good sir, could there an issue?” She asks ever so sweet and not being above fluttering her eyelashes to enhance the concern being peddled.

“This seems like an oh so dreadful place to be, why a rat could jump out at you at any turn!”

The man lets out a gasp on hearing her voice quickly turning to look at her then topples into a bow of greeting before a hasty return to standing straight with brown eyes much like a dish-eyed rabbit.

“Oh young miss! Please do not be afeared, I was asked to wait here to not startle the guests of the establishment. He was, ah, a little concerned about the impression I was giving to others.” The changeling makes a knowing sound at that as if a situation had happened to her or had heard of one before gesturing towards him then back to herself.

“You look about ready burst out of your very skin! Are you quite sure you are okay? If you permit my doing so I could always wait with you if you wish, sometimes good company may pass the time so much easier and I have such to spare it would not trouble me, at least twenty or so I believe.”

The way such a simple thing as mere words makes the man blush bright red is somewhat amusing to behold and when he begins to stutter over a reply she decides to make the decision for him by placing herself by his side looking towards the fabled door then to the nameless as if to encourage an answer from his lips. Alas, only a squeak manages to come and a near drop of his hat that he makes quite the fine drama of retrieving before it topples to the ground like an idiot. Her furthest hand slips into the bag and grasps the metal handles tightly contrasting the sweet.

“I have heard rumours that the owner is a rather fearsome type with ill manners, it must be rather important if you sought them out.”

“Ye-Yes there was an incident you might say and I had sought advice… Perhaps even something else after I saw something very untoward, the church had already refused me charity and I liked to hope I would bode better here. Ah, I apologise for speaking such ill things to a lady I would hate for your heart to become scarred by the sins that pursue me.” The expression he is offered for his woes is one of kindness and soft mercy before a knowing shake of the head.

“Oh they do pursue you know, right until the ends of this earth and beyond. I should know after all.”

Before a word of question has chance to leave his mouth her arm whips around like lightning and drives the scissors straight through his rib cage punctuating bone and lung with such force no human could hope to replicate. The initial breath he tries to draw is empty and he is left to stumble backwards with arms attempting to pinwheel until back meets brick and slumps down the wall until he can do so no more. With a tut she kneels beside him ensuring the fabric does not touch the ground rapidly turning bloodied from the seeping wound and pokes the very tip of his nose with a nail as though this was a little child and not a soon to be corpse she’d created.

“You poor thing, you were set up before you even got here didn’t you know?” Shamelessly glow is allowed to be revealed while he barely gargles with a vague flail of limb desperate to back away from the presumed monster smiling all too wide but only manages to slump further to the left.

“Let’s hope you fade out before anything worse than this town’s rat problem start to chew your fingers off, yes? All sorts of things lurk in the shadows not just your precious demons.”

Not fancying the risk of being caught and on the high of a job well done Nomura rises back to her feet, gives herself a quick dust off then strolls away waving a humble toodles~ to the dying who is choking on his own fluids. Slipping back amongst the oblivious citizenry beyond going about their day she leaves the goblins to finish their clean up without an audience. While it was a rather cheap slaughter all things considered there is the knowledge that when she’s allowed real toys she will be able to make everything so much more fun.

[yergink]

Bravery and a Bowline Ch.4

Starting right where last chapter left off! A bit shorter since it’s basically a part 2 to last chapter. About 2.5k words.

First Chapter

Crossposted to Ao3

Summary:��A couple of missed parties return to camp, and Willow and Walter talk about bravery. 

Includes very slightly implied Willow/Wilson

When the dawn light peeks over the wall of the camp, casting long shadows over the dew-moist grass, Willow is awoken by the patter of footsteps and the trill of voices accompanying them. 

Before she even gets a chance to open her eyes, someone is shaking her. She blinks them open to meet eight more above her, set in a fuzzy dark face. 

“They’re back!” Webber just about shouts in her ear. Willow winces, squinting and sitting up slowly with a yawn. She stretches her arms above her head, blearily watching as the camp gate opens, letting in a very chipper looking Wilson with Ms. Wickerbottom following behind him. 

They’re both carrying backpacks and looking somewhat encumbered by the weight. Wilson slides his off next to the alchemy engine, and it lands with a heavy thud. He groans, rubbing his shoulder, but overall he looks rather pleased. 

“We’re back,” he says, looking to Willow. 

She crosses her arms. “I’ve noticed.” She stands, hurrying to help Wickerbottom with her backpack. “What took you all so long?”

“The underground is not the easiest to traverse, dear,” the older woman answers for the two of them, placatingly. “We may have underestimated our travel time.” Wilson, occupied with unpacking their spoils, does not give a reply. 

After setting Wickerbottom’s pack on the ground beside him, Willow says, “You just missed the hounds.” It’s an effort to get his attention. Wilson just nods, clearly distracted. “I see.” 

She purses her lips in frustration, and she’s just opened her mouth to make a remark about seeing where his priorities lay when she’s interrupted. Wickerbottom, clearly sensing the tension, quickly asks, “How are the children?”

Oh, right. Willow straightens her back and gives a thumbs up. “All good, Ms. Wicker! I told you I was responsible. Although, there is something--”

“Willow?” Walter’s voice is soft as he interrupts, and she turns to see him just barely peeking out from the tent. Wickerbottom gives a small gasp upon seeing him, her eyes widening behind her glasses.

“Oh, goodness. Who is this young man?”

“I’m Walter, ma’am,” he answers before Willow can get a word in. She hurries to explain.

“He got here a few days after you two left. He’s, uh.. new.”

Walter takes a hesitant step out of the tent, and Willow internally groans, knowing that the first thing the older woman’s sharp eyes are going to see is the bandage around his leg.

Sure enough, Wickerbottom gets right to the point. She points to the bandages. “What happened there, dear?”

“He got a little nip during the hound attack, but I fixed him all up,” Willow assures. Although it doesn’t do her much but get her a disbelieving look from Wickerbottom. It’s not the first time anyone’s been disappointed in her, but it still stings a bit.

“I’ll take a look at it,” the librarian decides, stepping forward and patting Walter’s shoulder to push him back towards the tent.

“It’s really okay. I’m fine, ma’am,” Walter insists, although it’s not enough to keep Wickerbottom from ushering him away, insisting on taking a proper look. Willow doesn’t know whether to feel insulted or reassured that she’s going to check her handiwork.

She feels a touch at her side and glances down to see Webber shyly pulling on the hem of her sweater. “We think you did a very good job watching us, Ms. Willow!” Webber beams. He’s so cheerful, Willow can’t help but smile, even if she doesn’t necessarily think she did a very good job at all.

“Thanks,” she says, patting him on the head. “Hey, go find Wendy and let her know they’re back, okay?”

“Okay!” He chirps, practically skipping out of the camp. Willow waits until she’s deemed him out of earshot before turning to where Wilson is still knelt by the machine.

She anchors her hands on her hips. “So, how was the trip?”

The man wipes at his forehead with the back of his forearm, clearing some of the cave dust still clinging to his skin. “It wasn’t easy,” he says, and Willow believes it. He’s got several cuts on his face, one of which is still oozing blood, as well as bandages peeking out from under his sleeve and at his collarbone. It could have been worse though, she knows. At least he wasn’t coming home a ghost.

Hesitantly, she says, “I was worried about you, y’know.”

Wilson blinks, cocking his head to one side, looking almost baffled when he turns to face her. “Really?”

She scoffs. “Yeah, really.” She flicks his forehead, causing him to sputter and bat at her hand to get her away. “You’re such a nerd,” she teases.

“I’ve been told,” he deadpans. He glances over at the tent. “So. A new arrival, huh?”

“Yup,” Willow pops the word, plopping on the ground beside him. “Y’know, he’s kind of a nerd too. I think you’ll get along.”

He sighs at that, but Willow knows it’s more amused than annoyed. “All the same, I think it would be better if we could have never met.” He looks back to the bag in front of him. “It never feels good to see more children here.”

Willow shuffles closer to him, leaning her head against his shoulder. “Yeah,” she mumbles. “Especially not when you nearly get them killed.”

“Is that bitterness I’m hearing?”

She shrugs, somewhat dismissively. “I dunno. I guess I wasn’t paying enough attention to him during the hound attack, and that’s why he got hurt. And it feels sucky.”

Wilson hums. “Well, it could have been worse, couldn’t it?”

She snorts. “That’s not the point.”

“Well if you’re feeling bad, maybe you should talk to him about it.” He nudges her off his shoulder. “Go on. I’m busy.”

“No you’re not,” Willow argues, nudging him back.

“I’m about to be.” He draws out a shimmering green gem from the pack. “We discovered several of these while underground, and their properties aren’t like any gem I’ve seen before. I have a few ideas for experiments--”

Willow shoves herself off him. “Okay I get it, I’m going! You don’t have to kill me with your boring science stuff.” Wilson smiles innocently at her as she stands, and she sticks her tongue out at him before leaving him to it.

She meanders out of the gates, starting down the fields and towards the edge of the island. There’s a makeshift dock by the shoreline, with short walls built around it, protecting where the boat is anchored. It’s one of Wilson’s pet projects, something he’s been busying himself with constructing lately. Willow finds herself there soon, and she hops atop one of the walls and sits down. She watches the gentle waves lap at the pebbles of the shore.

As much as she’s gotten used to being around the others, she misses having time to herself. Over the years, she’d learned to treasure solitude. It was something she’d gotten so little of during the time she spent in the orphanage, and her independence had shaped her, had made her strong.

But mostly, she just wants some space to feel bad without anyone bothering her about it. Because when she closes her eyes she keeps thinking about the sight of Walter on the ground, clutching at his bloodied leg, and she can’t shake the feeling that it’s definitely her fault. Shaking her head to try and clear the images, she draws a few bits of grass from her pockets and lights them, watching the blades shrivel and blacken, streams of smoke rising into the air. It’s calming. She breathes in the smell of the fire and tries to think of anything else.

Unfortunately, she doesn’t get much of a chance to do so.

There’s the faint sound of someone calling her name, getting steadily louder. Willow perks at the sound of it, crushing the still-smoking tufts into ash in her palm before twisting around to see. It’s Walter, shuffling down the hillside to meet her by the dock. He skids across the wet grass, grabbing onto the wall for balance. She notices that Woby is noticeably absent from his side, probably napping back at camp.

“Hi,” he raises one hand to wave. “Mr. Wilson said you might be here.”

“Hi Walter,” Willow greets, moving to allow space for him to sit beside her on the wall. He quickly hops up to join her. “How’s that bite feeling?”

“I’m a lot better!” He kicks his legs, holding up the bandaged one for a moment before letting it fall again. “Ms. Wickerbottom said you did a good job. She just changed the bandages and put more of that pink stuff on it.”

Willow smiles. “Good to hear.”

She’s glad to see that he’s returned to his usual self. Whatever that side of him was that she’d seen in the tent last night, hollowed out and afraid and so very quiet, it was gone now. And she was more than excited to bid it farewell. Walter was best when he was loud and brash and, above it all, unapologetically a kid. And Willow’s beginning to realize she’ll do a lot to protect his right to be so.

“You know,” Walter’s voice peters out, breaking into her thoughts. It’s sort of subdued and it immediately sparks her concern. She looks over to him questioningly, although he doesn’t hold her gaze, looking away in a manner that seems almost shy. “I was actually really scared last night. I know it’s kind of dumb, but…even with just that little bite, I felt like I was about to die.”

“Walter...” she starts, trailing off. She doesn’t know what to say.

“But then,” he continues, “I tried to think of all the things you told me about. All your cool stories about the stuff you did when you were my age. And I knew I had to be brave. Like you are.” Here, he faces her fully, and Willow is startled by the sheer admiration in his eyes. It almost makes her feel sick. Her hands tighten into fists on her knees.

“You’re braver than I am, Walter,” she admits.

He frowns. “What do you mean?”

One of her hands shakily finds her lighter, and she clicks it a few times, feeling the warmth burst under her fingers. She doesn’t deserve this. She doesn’t deserve a kid like Walter looking up to her. Not after letting him get hurt and pretending like they’re similar and lying to him. Her stomach twists as she tries to think of what to say next.

Her mouth feels dry, and she swallows to clear the feeling. “I mean...you really faced your fears last night. And you’re always so goddamn hopeful and bright and…” she sighs, wanting nothing more than to throw her lit lighter to the ground and be swallowed by the flames. “I’m not any of those things. All I ever do is run.”

It hurts to see the confusion on his face, and he looks like he’s going to say something else. Willow doesn’t let him. Because she has to make him understand, because she feels aflame with guilt, and she’s not the type of person he thinks she is. She’s just not.

“I lied to you!” she nearly shouts, her voice strangled. She has to make him understand. “I lied about all those stories, about being in the scouts, about being--” she breaks off with a ragged breath “--Brave.” Unable to keep his gaze, she squeezes her eyes shut and turns away. “I’ve lied about so much, Walter, and it’s because I’m scared. I’m scared of people knowing that I’m not really cool or courageous or honorable or any of those things you’re supposed to be.”

She laughs, and it comes out like a sob. “I just didn’t want to tell you the truth. That all I really was is some punk kid off the streets they felt too bad to say no to.”

Some part of her is unsure of why she’s even admitting all this, but at the same time, she feels like he deserves to know. Because he’s not like the other survivors, jaded or judgy or apathetic. He’s Walter. He’s a kid who reminds her so greatly of herself that it hurts, even now. And he’s placed his trust in her, whether she wants it or not.

She waits for him to get angry. To cry, maybe, all hurt and betrayed. Or maybe even to just get up and leave at how she’s shattered the trust between them. But several moments pass and it doesn’t seem like Walter has moved at all. And even though every inch of her screams to avoid whatever the look on his face may be, she chances a peek.

Surprisingly, he doesn’t look particularly upset. He’s just keeping a neutral frown, looking somewhat contemplative. When he notices her, he gives a sheepish smile.

“Yeah...I kinda figured most of that stuff wasn’t true.” He looks almost guilty about admitting it.

Willow blanches. “You did?”

He shrugs. “I don’t think you really have the right fire safety habits to be in the scouts. No offense. Plus, I’m pretty sure there’s no badge for bear-taming, no matter how cool it sounds.”

She feels like her entire head has gone blank at his admission. She stammers, “B-But...Aren’t you upset? That all those things I said that inspired you or whatever aren’t true?”

“They’re stories,” he says simply, answering Willow’s doubt in that blunt, childlike way only he could. “They’re not meant to always be true.” He grins. “Unless you really believe in a hook-handed man killing people in the woods? Or bog monsters?”

It takes barely a second, and, like she’s forgotten her worry, Willow knocks his shoulder. “Oh shut it. Of course I don’t.” It startles her a bit, just how easily he’s able to lift her mood. Having come down, she’s a bit embarrassed at how much she’s just dumped on him. Walter rubs his shoulder, still grinning, and thankfully not looking too overwhelmed. They sit for a moment, watching the waves. Walter gives a small, thoughtful hum.

“For what it’s worth, I still think you’re really cool. Like, the way you fought off those dogs?” He leaps to his feet, injury apparently forgotten, and waves his fists together like he’s brandishing an invisible spear. “You got all of them without even a scratch! It was amazing! And…” he falters, hands loosening and falling back to rest at his sides. He turns to face her, eyes brimming with sincerity. “You carried me back. Even when I was all messed up. Even though I could tell you were scared too. You still did it. And you sat with me even though it was kinda awkward.” He seems almost embarrassed then, his cheeks darkened in a flush. He shrugs and kicks at the dirt, his hands linking behind his back. “I dunno. I thought that was pretty brave.”

And in that moment, those words feel like the highest praise she could have ever received. Willow lets out a breathless laugh. “You think so?”

Emphatically, Walter nods. She can’t help but laugh again at that, slouching forward and resting her chin on her palm. And even if her guilt hasn’t entirely melted away, Willow still smiles.

“Well then. I guess I can’t argue with that.”

[bellatrixobsessed1]

Kissing Dead Pearls (Part 2)

Rain beats against the side of the lighthouse, it comes down in sheets as Zuko yanks her inside. “Zuko, no!” She calls, her voice is oddly desperate and she can’t say why it is so. “I need to go back out there.”

Zuko flinches. “For what?” He asks. She can see the concern etched on his face. She pries herself from his grasp.

“I--” She starts. “There’s someone out there.”

“Since when do you care?” He asks, “even if you do care, what do you think you can do for them?”

He is right, she knows he is, every logical part of her knows it. The ship is too distant for her to do anything but reach an arm out and roar with the wind only to have her words swept away by the storm and pulled out to sea. But the feeling, that nagging desire, isn’t of logic. It is something far less rational, something rooted wholly in instinct and yearning.

“This is about Sokka isn’t it?” He persists, he is gripping her shoulders again, trying to keep her from leaving the house again. She tries to shake his grip off. “You’ve got to stop this! He’s gone, Azula.”

“It’s not about him.” She says as the wind howls against the window and rattles the door in its frame. But it is about him, deep down she knows. Why else would it matter?

“You’re going to get yourself killed.” His eyes widened. “That’s what this is, isn’t it? You’re trying to…”

“No!” She argues quickly. “I’m not. I don’t want to die, because he isn’t dead. Even if he was, I wouldn’t…”

“Then why are you doing this?” He gestures to the door.

“Because I saw a ship, it was…”

“There’s no one out there!” He shouts

“There is! There was...” She insists with an almost frantic gesture to the window. The wind throws the door open, her already sopping hair whips in her face and clings to her cheeks and forehead.

“Shit!” Zuko shouts before throwing himself at the door. “Help me with this.” He huffs.

With haste, Azula adds her weight. Even with the two of them leaning as heavily as they can against the door, it still threatens to bang open. “Zuzu,” she says through gritted teeth. “I told you that we needed to get a new door.”

“With what money?” He replies, voice just as strained. “Last I checked dad, spent that fund on his drinking habit.”

Azula frowns. It had been her job to keep him from doing that. Her job, because he is more inclined to listen to her than Zuko. At her own failure her body slackens. It is just enough leeway for the wind to burst the door open.

A dull ache is the last thing she registers as her body is thrown to the floor. Zuko toppled over her. She isn’t awake long enough to tell if he is also out cold. Hurricane waters rush to wet the entry room.

She wonders if dad would have wanted this. If he would change things if he’d known just how much pressure he has put upon them. If he’d known that he would be drunk in a sailor’s bar while his daughter lie sprawled on the floor with her forehead bloodied, storm kicking up a merciless howl just outside.

.oOo.

Lightning illuminates the interior of the Deep Dubloon Saloon, it is the only light to be had now that the storm has raged enough to throw power out. It’s winds shake the entire foundation of the building, not that it has a sturdy structure to begin with.

Ozai sits with a wooden tankard in his hand. He hasn’t seen a storm like this since the one that stole his wife from him. He stares unseeingly into the nearly empty mug. He almost laughs aloud, it is a storm like this that has him sitting upon the bar stool he inhabits. And it would seem that the ocean seeks to remind him of exactly why he is there.

“Help me with these, will ye?” Requests Khozen. His long silver hair is tangled by rain water and harsh wind. He pants as he chucks another sandbag outside and curses the weathermen for their short sight and lack of warning.

Ozai has known Khozen for many years. The man had been a pirate of sorts, he still has a parrot on his shoulder, though the creature is now safely secured away from the storm in a cage behind the bar. Next to it is a tank housing his iguana.

Ozai downs the rest of his drink and makes his way towards Khozen’s emergency supply of sandbags. He sees no point in it, the sandbags can only do so much for a building that is as ill prepared and rickety as the Deep Dubloon.

If Zuko and Azula could see the state of the bar… He knows that they have been wishing on stars for it to be blown to splinters. From the looks of it, they will have their wish.

“This be a mighty storm.” Khozen grumbles. “I’d hate to be at sea now.” His eyes go wide as he recalls that his ship is probably being thrashed mercilessly against the docks, sails ripping, boards splintering, perhaps a bolt of lightning has set it aflame. “The mightiest I’ve seen in…”

“Nearly a decade.” Ozai finishes as he hoists a sandbag atop the one he’d just laid down. “You’re lucky that your bar isn’t as close to the harbor as some of them.” He is lucky that his favorite bar is that much safer.

Rain pelts him mercilessly as he carries out his task. His eyes journey down the road and closer to the ocean. The lighthouse is a glow, but he can barely see its beacon through such a thick curtain of rainfall and mist. He has the decency to consider, for the first time, that he should be there. He wonders how his children are faring against the storm. His stomach lolls like those waves at the though that a storm could claim two more that he holds dear.

“C’mon yee big ass, we don’t got time fer starin’ at the sea, not when she’s a brewin’.”

A brewin’ is only scratching the surface. Palm trees bend nearly to the floor, shutters slam against windows or tear off entirely, water rushes to fill streets ready to was cars away, and lawn decor, umbrellas, and lawn chairs sail through the air as though they weigh nothing at all. He can hear from the inside, the buzzing drone of the battery powered weather radio.

He can do nothing now, an attempt to reach the siblings would be certain death. Were he any manner of good father, he would have done it anyhow. But he had been a poor husband and he is a worse father.

He picks up another sandbag and tosses it onto the pile.

.oOo.

Azula’s head throbs. There is a wetness on her face, a wetness all over. Her hair and clothes are soaked through and through. She jerks at the sound of a loud bang. She pulls herself up. The door is slamming in and out in the hands of a wind that is emitting a high pitched scream. Thunder roars, a battle cry, a warning that it is going to seal lives away again, just as it had all those years ago. Once again she and her family are on the frontlines.

She jolts again; Zuzu! At first she doesn’t think that he is moving. That he isn’t going to. She calls out to him but her words are lost beneath the unceasing torrent of raindrops, wind gusts, and thunder.

It doesn’t matter to terribly because he stirs and sits himself up, eyeing her with a measure of horror before coming to her side. They both shudder. “You almost went out there.” He mentions, nearly too quiet to be heard.

One door to the head and a nap later she fully processes the weight of what she’d almost done and she shudders all over again. “Sorry.” She mumbles. She isn’t sure to whom the apology is for, herself or Zuko.

He pulls her into a tight hug. He hasn’t hugged her in years. He holds her firmly and strokes her hair. Lightning briefly halos their silhouettes as the rain floods in.

“We have to do something about that door, Zuzu.” She comments. It highlights her point by slamming back against the wall, the bang echos with a roll of thunder.

“How?” He frowns.

Azula stands and looks about the room. She points to the sofa. “We’ll just rearrange the furniture.”

“Father isn’t going to like that.”

“Father should be here if he cares that much.” She shrugs. “Besides, we can move it, knock it over, and blame it on the storm.” She pauses. “We’ll probably have it back in place by the time he gets home.”

“You’re right.” Zuko agrees.

As she moves towards the sofa, she steals a glance out the window, at the furious ocean. Ribbons of lightning decorate the sky in faster intervals and rain slides off roofs, pushed by the wind, they fall heavier on the ground gathering in large puddles on sand and on the docs. In a particularly powerful finger of lightning, she sees it again, the ship. She can barely make it out before it plunges back into the water until only its sails are seen.

The power surges back on, flickering softly before plunging back into darkness. Azula backs away from the window and tries to put it out of her mind. Though images of Sokka’s smile play back in her mind as she heaves furniture. Interspersed between them are flashes of his face, but waterlogged by the ocean, barnacles and kelps clinging to it while fish work between eye sockets. Azula doubles her attention on securing the lighthouse.

For their efforts they have a sofa, a bookshelf, and a small table to hold the door shut as the hurricane batters the tabby walls of the lighthouse. Feeling entirely drained, Azula drops herself onto the remaining available sofa. Zuko is close behind. They sit in silence listening to the ruthless onslaught of rain and the roaring crash of the waves against the cliffside. She finds herself grateful that their lighthouse is perched upon a cliff high enough that the water can't reach them. Still, in the back of her mind, she fears that a particularly powerful strand of lighting may blast their seemingly sturdy perch into the restless tides below. She doesn’t know much about the tides, but she does know that they won’t hesitate to bash her bloody against the rocks as they tear her apart.

She thinks of the ship, overtaken and at their mercy. She clutches the sunstone starfish pendant that hangs upon her neck. She hasn’t taken it off since he’d given it to her.

“I doesn’t look like there’s too much damage.” Azula notes. The lighthouse is designed to withstand. The townsfolk are quite fond of reminding everyone that, “when the ocean takes the town, Sea Candle Lighthouse will remain.” She supposes that she should be glad that her home is allegedly secure.

“Yeah, we can worry about the flooding after the storm.” Zuko agrees.

She lays her head back and observes the spiraling staircase that lead to the uppermost part of the lighthouse. Sometimes she and Zuzu grab sleeping bags and sleep there were they can stare at the stars and the ocean. Tonight they will remain on the couch, content to ignore the storm as much as they can. Though night won’t fall for another six hours at least.

“Is your head okay?” Zuko asks.

Azula touches the knot on her head. “Yeah, I think so. Your’s?”

“I didn’t hit my head. But my elbows are bruised.”

She lights up a few candles and thinks of the stormy days when their mother had read them stories. Those days had been so brief.

“I hope father is enjoying his drinks.” Zuko scowls.

She understands his resentment and hatred. But Azula can’t bring herself to share it; frankly she feels pity for the man. Perhaps even empathy--Sokka was supposed to have returned months ago. He has been declared dead by law. Lost at sea. She doesn’t believe it, not quite. They haven’t searched long enough to say so, they haven’t found wreckage. But people at school look at her the same way the fishermen and dock workers looked at Ozai after Ursa’s death.

“Let’s talk about something else, Zuzu.”

[unicyclehippo]

prompt: beaujester + secrets/mysteries

beau moves down the staircase like a scattering of ball bearings, her heart and mind knocking around within her, pulse thudding so loudly she’s sure it must have alerted the others. but the xhorhaus is still and silent so late in the night—or what they assume is night, within the clinging cover of constant inky dark—and no one seems to rouse, no one comes to question the monk. no one is awake to ask why it is that they can hear her coming, stumbling down the steps, wrist loose and unattended to knock heavily against the wooden swirl of the bannister.

she stops there on the landing. the wide staircase turns ahead of her, falling harshly away into the dark of the first floor, like steps down into a pool of dark water. the rest of the second floor hugs to the outside of this landing—yasha’s room, and the war room and happy room side by side, the room nott and her husband share tucked further away behind them. beau’s own room is a few doors away, and for a moment she just stares blankly at where it stands, seeing but not seeming to register it.

her brain feels stuck, stuck on the one thought that keeps tripping through her mind over and over, and any new thought that threatens it—even so minor as walk, and go downstairs, and get jester—takes a few seconds longer to hit, a few seconds longer for beau to act on them.

it does take a minute but she stumbles to her room. their room, the one she shared with jester. the other girl is asleep in her bed, curled up tight in her blankets. for a moment, beau just stands over her and watches a curl flutter as jester breathes out. it settles when she breathes in. flutters when she breathes out again. the pace of it is slow and steady.

‘jester.’ nothing. ‘jester,’ beau says again, her voice a hoarse whisper. ‘i need you to wake up.’ the girl doesn’t shift. beau kneels beside her, sets a careful hand on her shoulder and shakes, gently. ‘jester?’ she comes awake then with a snuffling snort and a spasm, leg kicking out, head falling from where it had been pillowed on her arm.

‘huh? wha-‘ jester mumbles. ‘beau? are you-‘ a great yawn cuts her off. ‘you okay?’

beau shakes her head. she can’t see jester’s face, not when the world to her is all layers upon layers of black. everything she sees, jester’s silhouette, the outline of the bed, her own hands—the dark, the shadows, cast it all flat and shallow, like shadow puppets against a screen. she doesn’t need to see jester’s face.

‘i need you,’ beau tells her. ‘are you - can you scry? do you have that prepared?’

she can’t see jester’s face; she doesn’t need to see it to hear the worry, hear the heavy frown in her voice.

‘yah, i can scry. is everything...okay?’

beau bows her head. she’s still kneeling at jester’s bedside and with the world so flat and dark as it is, it feels like she hardly moves at all to drop her head low, press her forehead to the thin mattress of jester’s bed. after a moment, she feels jester’s hand on the back of her neck. a cool, careful finger curls in the wisps of hair there, traces the faintly shimmering tattoo.

‘no,’ beau tells her. the thought, the question, ticks over and over and over in her mind. refuses to leave her. gets louder and louder with each passing moment, until the volume of it screaming in her head can’t get louder so it presses at her temples, at her teeth, makes her grind them hard. ‘i think—if i’m right, i think we’re in a lot of trouble.’

‘okay. okay.’ jester bends low over her. with her eyes closed, beau’s mind doesn’t translate the shadows into far and flat; instead, she feels in perfect clarity the way jester encompasses her for a moment: the hand sliding low on her back, pressing beau closer; jester’s hair toppling down in sweet-smelling curls to knock against beau’s forehead, all around her like a canopy of lavender; the kiss she bestows on beau’s forehead; the fingers of her other hand that she brings around to twine into beau’s, which twists into the soft sheets of her bed.

‘scrying,’ jester says, pulling back. she swings her legs out of the bed, hurries around to collect her haversack, her sign of the traveller, anything else she thinks she might need. ‘where do you want to do this? the tree is good.’

beau jerks.

jester must see it because she says, ‘the training pit?’

‘no,’ beau rasps. ‘absolutely not.’

‘where, then?’

‘the war room.’

jester hesitates. ‘beau,’ she starts, voice wavering, about to topple into a question. she bites it back. ‘okay.’

beau stands. she feels heavy and stumbles, caught by the elbow by jester who pulls her upright. up close like this, beau can vaguely make out jester’s distress; blue eyes and blue hands search her for any discomfort, any injury, but she finds nothing. unhappy, unconvinced, jester takes beau’s hand and guides her to the war room.

beau locks the door behind them.

‘what is this about?’ jester asks, even as she begins to set up the ritual, clambering up onto the solid table to sit in its centre. ‘light, please.’

‘no. no light. if anyone is scrying on us—‘

‘they probably would have dark vision,’ jester points out. ‘i need to see the ritual circle,’ she tells beau, who moves then to coax the small, green-tinged lantern to life. the faint light is minor, but enough for jester to see by as she arranged the ingredients according to her instruction, the traveller’s instruction. ‘who am i looking for?’ she asks, putting the final touches into the chalk circle she’s drawn, sitting cross legged within it. ‘beau? i need someone or a specific place.’

shoving a hand deep into her pocket, beau removes a small square of cloth. a simple handkerchief. smeared with blood, jester can see when it comes into the radius of the light.

‘this helps, right?’

‘i mean, it depends—‘

‘if something belongs to the person you’re scrying on,’ beau clarifies, tone impatient. ‘that helps you focus or something?’

‘yah, i guess.’

‘okay.’ beau holds the handkerchief out to her, forcefully sets it into jester’s hand.

‘who—‘

‘dairon.’

jester frowns up at beau. ‘are you worried she’s been captured?’

‘no. i’m worried they’re working against us.’

‘dairon? your mentor? no,’ jester denies. ‘there’s no way—‘

‘every time they say they found new information for us, dairon gave us the smallest bit possible,’ beau tells her. she rubs at her eyes, feels the pounding in her head grow again. ‘they say they know where the beacon went, but no paper trail. they tell us they had close shaves here but nothing found them?’

‘you don’t believe her?’

‘i can’t believe her. that’s the thing about cults—they find useful people everywhere and twist them, turn them, until the secret of the cult is so hidden it becomes the core of them. the one secret to keep from everyone else. she gave us nothing useful, not really, knew who vence was but maybe that was planned. they wanted to organise a meeting for me, for us, with the king. not herself meeting the king—us.’

‘beau,’

‘i know it sounds mad,’ beau admits quietly. ‘like i’m jumping at shadows, like i’m being paranoid. but please, jes—i need you to look. if she’s trying to use me—i gave her my seal,’ beau admits, voice cracking. ‘i trusted her, i told her everything we’d learned, i gave her my seal—i put all of us in danger so i need to know, i need to know how badly i fucked up.’ beau takes a calming breath that shudders through her. braces herself against the table, head hanging low between them. ‘there’s this feeling,’ she tells jester after a moment, voice purposefully flat and clean of emotion. ‘an itch, all over, like there’s something i’m missing. i gotta know,’

‘okay.’ jester settles in her scrying circle. nods sharply to beau. folds the bloodied cloth—dairon’s blood, an old bandage—into her hand, clutching it tight in one hand and her talisman tight in the other. ‘okay. i’ll help.’

the power crackles into the wood beneath her. smells of burning spices—cinnamon and nutmeg—and of sugar and salt, the heavy scent of paints and perfume, all manner of scents mixing that beau would never think could work together but somehow do, mixing into a powerful almost overwhelming wall of smell in the room that had smelled of nothing but dust and a faint chill to the air. jester’s eyes close and then open again, awash with faint green light. she cocks her head slightly as though listening to someone speak, and she smiles; ‘we’re looking for someone,’ she says quietly, an answer to a question beau can’t hear. ‘their name is dairon.’

[mintjamsblog]

Wet (by MintJam)

Peaky Blinders fic: Tommy x Alfie

Read on A03

Summary: In which Alfie is not feeling himself.  

"He realises that the clothes he was wearing when he got into this bed last night are nowhere to be seen; he's naked as a newborn. It's pretty disconcerting that, because a man needs to keep a grip on a few basics in life doesn't he? Like the whereabouts of his own fuckin' underpants. All sorts of other things can start going awry if a man doesn't know where his kecks are or who took 'em off."

Warnings: NSFW!

Wet

It’s raining when Alfie wakes up on a Thursday morning. Proper rain. Not the usual damp London drizzle, but big, fat droplets that seem to fall too slowly and land too loudly. He hasn’t looked out yet but he can hear them smacking thickly against the glass, warning him to stay put. It makes a pleasant change, he supposes; it’s usually the birds that wake him first, welcoming the not-yet-dawn, although it seems they’ve all taken cover this morning, too busy keeping their feathers dry. Contrary little fuckers, birds; happy enough to chirp delightedly each morning over the Somme, heedless of the acres of filth and stench of death, and yet silenced by a simple downpour.

He lies still, listening to the water collecting in the gutters outside, running down the street and gurgling noisily into the drains. His sheets are drenched and he needs a piss. He ought to get up. No doubt the rain had a hand in conjuring up last night’s choice selection from the darkest recesses of his mind: Old Archie Pembroke. Fucker should have paid up of course — was one of the few that could afford to. Alfie had made sure it was a suitably watery end for the landlord of The Ship, The Lock Tavern and The Black Buoy. Drowning. In a barrel of his own beer. The ripples it sent through Camden doubtless saved the lives of a dozen other landlords who thought better of standing up to the volatile Jew thereafter. One life wrung out for the loyalty of dozens; he’d do it again in a trice.

The level of detail his subconscious mind can recall always staggers Alfie — the strength of grip required to keep a man's head beneath the surface; the frantic gasps for air after each submersion; the surprisingly long time it took for him to finally stop struggling.  He'd forced the bar staff to watch (there's really no point in the theatre of it without an audience to spread the word) and they had gasped their way into his sleep too. Still, it was a far better death than many Alfie witnessed in France. Gas was the worst. When you've watched a man retch up yellow liquid from the depths of his own lungs over two whole days and nights — before finally drowning in it — then it's hard to feel sorry for a man like Pembroke.

Funny how the battlefield is not the thing that haunts Alfie. It haunts Tommy, he knows that much. Not that they ever discuss or even acknowledge that fact unless absolutely forced to. If Tommy’s aware of Alfie’s dreams then he doesn’t let on. Which is fine. It’s the same tack Alfie’s taken many times in reverse because no good comes of dragging those thoughts into your waking hours, far better to leave them wrapped in the sheets. Food or a fuck is Alfie's preferred medicine — although seeing as the cupboards are bare and Tommy hasn't been in London for days neither is on the menu this morning.

The rain continues unabated as he splashes cold water over his face; washes his eyes, his hair, his beard. The dream refuses to wash off, its remnants cling to him like smoke; not the specifics, just a vague feeling of unease that he knows will last well past lunchtime. Which is why, when Edna shuffles in, a blast of petrichor in her wake, he welcomes the distraction and insists she drink tea with him. She knows the score, knows she'll find wet sheets when she heads upstairs, but Alfie's strange gruff manner doesn't bother her. She'd never have lasted this long if it did. And so they share tea and Alfie asks after her brother, a man so wrecked by the war he never leaves the house. They share the bagels Edna brought in comfortable silence until, with warm tea and food in his belly the heaviness starts to lift. Alfie can't help but think of his mother, like Edna a hard-working, uncomplaining woman. He wonders vaguely what she'd make of the man he's become? Would she be proud or dismayed? Neither, probably, she was always a pragmatist. Alfie's pulled from his thoughts by the shrill ring of the telephone in the other room. It's Olly, all of a panic — there's been some sort of flood at the bakery. He's starting to wonder if his watery dream was an omen.

–––––

The mess at the bakery is nothing short of a disaster; the priority is keeping the surviving barrels dry and protecting the molasses (that stuff is still not easy to come by — not quite the liquid gold it was a few years ago, but valuable nonetheless). He spends half the day knee-deep in cold, filthy water and the other half bellowing at his staff, the insurance broker, several suppliers and anyone else with enough of a death-wish to come within 5 yards of him. Which all means that by the time he gets home he is freezing, stinking and ready to kill the next person to so much as look at him the wrong way.  He runs himself a bath (upstairs; he's too tired to fill the copper tub) and lies in the warm water pondering the fucking fortune it's gonna cost to sort out the buildings — not to mention the lost stock, revenue and good will. The one saving grace, if you can call it that, is that the whole shebang appears to have been an act of God, which at least means he doesn't have to add retribution to the list of actions required (the Lord God Almighty is outside even Alfie's jurisdiction). He lays there, eyes closed, and tries to empty his head, to think of nothing, to think of the value of sight, but his mind is too busy and it isn't long before he finds himself wondering what's been happening with the Shelbys. In and of itself, this fact is downright bloody disturbing. The last thing he needs in his current mood is an unsolicited image of John and Arthur skittering across his mind — it's enough to make his already disinterested cock retreat back inside his body entirely. Fucking hell. He's not one to cast aspersions on the virtue of the late Mrs Shelby, but the idea that Tommy was born of the same blood as those two gormless idiots is just ... well it's fucking preposterous is what it is.

If he's honest, he's a bit disappointed that Tommy hasn't been in touch for days. Not that he's made any running himself, of course. Tommy will be in touch when he's good and ready. Or when he's spectacularly fucked himself up somehow. One or the other. He drags himself slowly out of the bath and decides to turn in for the night because he's not feeling all that great — throat a bit sore, chest a bit heavy — all that fucking cold water no doubt. It doesn't prevent the ghastly dream that follows shortly after, it's William Taylor tonight (stabbed in the chest) although he wakes halfway through the grisly climax because there's banging coming from downstairs. Shit, he forgot to lock the fucking security bars. He grabs his gun as he stumbles onto the landing, physically shaking off the nightmare as he limps down the stairs. It’s Tommy, of course, and he's clearly had a couple of drinks ... not a skinful, but enough to make him a little louder than usual.

"You haven't locked the fucking security gates, Alfie."

"Well hello to you too, darling."

Tommy's looking at him strangely, brow furrowed. "Did I get you out of the bath?" he asks.

Alfie looks down, momentarily perplexed, before realising his undershirt is soaked. "Yeah, yeah, s'nothing," he grumbles. "Shitty day, that's all." He'd rather not have to explain exactly why he's drenched in sweat, but one of the benefits of sleeping with an emotionally repressed numbskull is that he's highly unlikely to pry. Especially when he's had a few. Alfie heads back upstairs and straight to his room, retrieving a fresh undershirt from the press. He's just changed into it when Tommy appears from the bathroom, looking less clothed but more bemused. He sits down on the edge of the bed and opens his arms in a clear signal he wants a hug. He's definitely had a drink, then. Alfie walks into the embrace, stands between his open thighs and lets warm arms wrap around his waist. Tommy rests his head against Alfie's stomach for a moment and it fucking warms his cockles, even if the man does smell of whiskey. Of course then Tommy opens his mouth and spoils the whole bloody moment, but that's him all over innit? "Nearly broke my fucking leg in there," he mumbles into Alfie's shirt. "S'water everywhere. Wet my socks. And you didn't empty the tub, it's full of cold water."

"All fuckin' right," Alfie says defensively. "Anything else you'd like to complain about? It is me own bleeding house, mate." He was going to add an amusing quip about whales and blowholes but his brain doesn't want to play ball. It wants to close down for the night, despite the slightly drunk man clinging to his middle who is now trying to nose down his shorts.

"I really need to get some shut-eye, mate."

"Too tired for a blow job?" Tommy says, fingers tucking into Alfie's waistband.

"Fraid so," Alfie mumbles, at which Tommy looks absolutely incredulous. Which is a bit offensive actually. It's not like he's a total whore on an average day now, is it? Although, actually ...  where Tommy is concerned ... now that he looks back on the past few months ... well whore's not quitethe word he'd choose. He can't help it if he's generally enthusiastic. Because Tommy is genuinely the best shag of his life and can get him hard just by walking through a door... usually ... bloody hell, which is a sure sign he's not one hundred percent tonight, but doesn't mean ...

"Alfie? You sure?"

"Fuckin' hell Tom, never thought I'd say this, but yes."

"Alright," Tommy says, pushing himself up. Only now he's fucking pouting. Alfie can't resist reaching over and flicking the bottom lip that's protruding just enough to have crossed the line between sexy and childish. It doesn't go down well – Tommy smacks his hand away irritably and proceeds to unbutton his shirt. If Alfie was feeling more himself he'd find a suitable way to repay Tommy for that. But he's not. So he doesn't.

"Just get in, Tommy," he sighs as he pulls back the covers and slides one leg into the bed. The sodden sheets make him recoil instantly, "Oh for fucks sake," he yells. Tommy looks up at him sharply. "S'fuckin drenched. Just like this entire wretched day. I'm gonna sleep in the spare room." He heads for the door in exasperation, fully expecting Tommy to follow. He doesn't. He just stands there looking like he's been slapped. "With you, you bloody idiot," Alfie snaps, grabbing Tommy by the hand and physically dragging him across the landing. How come, right, he's the one who's just relived, with ungodly realism, a brutal (albeit necessary) stabbing; he's the one who feels like shit, and yet Tommy's the one who needs reassuring?

He gets into the spare bed and manhandles Tommy into some sort of spooning position. He can't tell whether the man's still pouting or not, but the way he presses his back against Alfie's chest suggests not. He kisses the back of Tommy's head, hopeful of a more peaceful night now that this surly, peevish little gypsy is back in his bed. Well, not his bed, technically. His spare bed. But the point stands. He's asleep within moments.

–––––

The bloody birds are back on form the next morning, little bastards, cheerily welcoming the new day. At least that means the rain's stopped. He's confused for a moment when he opens his eyes, can't quite place where he is. He feels rough as old boots – his head aches, his throat feels like glasspaper and his limbs feel like sandbags. He's overslept, must have done, the sun's already up and there's no sign of Tommy. He realises that the clothes he was wearing when he got into this bed last night are nowhere to be seen either; he's naked as a newborn. It's pretty disconcerting that, because a man needs to keep a grip on a few basics in life doesn't he? Like the whereabouts of his own fuckin' underpants. All sorts of other things can start going awry if a man doesn't know where his kecks are or who took 'em off. Not only that, but there's a towel in the bed. It's all bunched up and digging into the backs of his knees uncomfortably, but it's very definitely under him. He digs his fingers into his eye sockets as if that might rub some recollection into them. It doesn't, so he throws himself back down against the pillows instead.

"Morning, Alfie," Tommy says a couple of minutes later, carrying a tray into the room. Alfie tries to reply, but all that comes out is a strained croaking sound. He coughs and tries again, but it's not much better. Fucking hell he is on the back foot here — Tommy is up and dressed and back to his usual rigid self. He's looking as beautifully buttoned up as ever, whilst Alfie doesn't even know where his clothes are, let alone how he got out of them.

"Oh dear, oh dear," Tommy mocks. "Has Alfred Solomons lost his voice?" He looks fucking delighted with himself. Bastard.

"Well," Alfie croaks, "I am of course only here to ensure a smile passes your lips at least once a week. Glad to see my misfortune has achieved that already this morning."

"Shut up, Alfie," Tommy says, "you sound like a toad."

It's a fair point. Rude, but fair. He manages to stay quiet for all of twenty seconds before curiosity gets the better of him. He has a feeling he's not going to like the answer to this question but he asks it anyway.

"So did you have your wicked way with me last night whilst I was unconscious or has an evil fairy performed a vanishing spell on my clothes? Hmm?"

"They were wet," Tommy says dismissively, before swiftly changing the subject. "Thought you might like something to eat," he says, placing the tray down on Alfie's legs. "Tea, toast and some weird-looking pastry things," Tommy says, recoiling from the plate.

"It's a type of food, Tommy. Some of us actually enjoy that, you know."

"They remind me of pissing contests in the school yard."

"You what?" Alfie splutters.

"You know, all of us boys would line up and see who could piss the highest up the wall. That's what they look like — a row of little dicks."

"Fuckin' hell Tommy, that is just nasty." Despite which, he finds himself wondering who won, even rooting for eight-year-old-Tommy. His brain is quite clearly addled. "They're called rugelach; Edna makes 'em. You should try one."

"No thanks," Tommy says, grimacing. "Only dick I wanna put my lips around is under those blankets."

That makes Alfie laugh, or at least try to, it catches in his throat and turns into something between a wheeze and a cough.

"I've gotta go," Tommy says, leaning over to give him a peck on the forehead. "Think you'd best stay here, eh?"

"Yeah, yeah, m'not going anywhere. All that bloody water. Must've caught something."

"I'll be back later. Got people to see."

–––––

Alfie spends half of the day in bed, hoping he can sleep off the worst of whatever this is. He avoids the towel and the damp sheets by sleeping on Tommy's side, but eventually his back forces him up — staying still for too long never does it any good. The light is grey and watery, must be afternoon by now, so he finds himself trousers and an undershirt, pulls them on as carelessly as ever and covers them with not one waistcoat, but two. He wraps a scarf around his neck for good measure and makes his way downstairs. One thing's for sure, he can't go to the bakery in this state. Men work harder for a monster than they do for other men – it doesn't do to humanise oneself with the staff. He makes an exception for Edna, calls Olly and has him send her over even though it's not one of her days. Be easier, maybe, if he installed a phone at her house. He makes sure to berate Olly soundly for all the things he knows will be sliding in his absence, as much to satisfy his irritability as to keep up appearances.

His theory on leadership is reinforced nicely by Edna's reaction to his watery eyes and rasping voice. "Oh Mr Solomons, you're not well. You must let me light you a fire. I'll bring honey and lemon. And make you some soup."  See? Just like that he is no longer a leader of men but a little boy, as feeble and fallible as the rest of them. Much as he can't stand fussing, he can't deny that the soup, when it arrives, is deliciously welcome.

"If you could change the beds, Edna, please," he says, blowing across his mug of hot lemon. "I'll have a visitor tonight."

"Very good, sir. But ... " she pauses, nervously, "are you sure you're up to guests?"

And there it is again, that line being crossed purely and simply on grounds of his temporary infirmity.

"I'm up to this one," he answers gruffly.

Once she's gone he takes himself back up to bed. His whole body feels heavy and slow and unusually cold but the clean sheets are a luxury he can never take for granted — not when he's slept too many days and nights in mud thick with excrement and the slime of rotting flesh. Give him cool, crisp cotton over lice-ridden wool for the rest of his days and he will consider himself blessed. He should bathe really, but he can't face the bother. Maybe in a little while...

A hand on his cheek wakes him that evening. Fingers unmistakably cool and dry. He's fully clothed atop his sheets and feels a little better for the rest. But he's  cold.

"Come downstairs for a bit, it's warmer," Tommy says quietly. Bloody hell, he hates this, feeling weak, coddled. He's tempted to refuse on principle. But Tommy is waiting for him on the landing and the fact that he isn't pushing forces Alfie to comply. "Not sure I can be arsed, mate. Too much bloody effort," he mumbles as he follows. He draws the line at Tommy holding his hands out, though.  "I'm not a bloody invalid," he snaps, before undermining his point entirely by taking them nonetheless. Well, lying down all day has made everything seize up a bit more than usual.

As they reach the living room it's obvious that the fire is roaring in the grate. In front of it is his huge copper tub, like a ship ready to set sail, already steaming. And, that is something innit? He perks up a little at the sight, before frowning again, because it is rather disconcerting that Tommy managed to come into his house, get the tub from the yard and complete the laborious task of filling it with hot water without Alfie ever waking. He should be bothered by that. Very fucking bothered. Except there's a pleasant warm feeling in his belly that he chooses to go with instead.

"Come on then, get 'em off," Tommy chides, gesturing to the clothes he's still wearing, "before it gets cold."

The hot water is a joy to his aching joints. He's just leaning back against the high end when Tommy, fag dangling from the corner of his mouth, uncorks a small brown bottle and pours something into the water. The room immediately fills with a fierce, fiery smell, like pepper, or mustard, or fuck knows ... cloves or something. It's pungent and so acrid it hits the back of his throat.  "Good god, Tommy, what the fuck is that? Are you tryin' to off me?" he coughs, just as the ash falls off into the water. Bloody hell, no finesse that boy.

"It's good for the chest," Tommy says, obliviously putting the cork back. "Fetched it from Ada's this afternoon."

"Smells like it's meant for horses, not humans."

"It is," Tommy answers bluntly, swirling his hand in the water to spread it through.

"Fucks sake, you're not even joking are you? You can take the boy out of the caravan..."

Alfie rests his head on the back of the tub. As the smell recedes a little it becomes familiar, sparking a memory of the first time he ever set eyes on Tommy, all those years ago. "This what you used after the Italians did their job on you?" he asks.

"It is."

"Fuckin' hell, talkative tonight, aren't we?"

Tommy ignores him as he throws his cigarette end into the fire and starts removing his cufflinks, rolling his shirt sleeves up to the elbows. When he's done he pulls a footstool over and seats himself right up against the tub. "Sit up a bit," he orders, as he scoops water into a small cup. Alfie complies, wondering what the fuck he's doing. "Look up, you don't want this stuff in your eyes." Alfie is just about to ask him why when Tommy pours the water over the back of his head and starts raking his fingers through his hair. He feels like he ought to protest, but Tommy's already doing it again, pouring the water and raking it through, three times, four times, all brisk efficiency and alright, this has taken Alfie a bit off guard but he is suddenly intrigued. Tommy's movements are swift and awkward and he's very definitely looking at anything but Alfie; almost like he's embarrassed. Which is kind of odd, because it's not like anyone asked him to do this did they? He can see Tommy leaning down for something out of the corner of his eye. "That better not be any more of that horse potion," he mumbles, but it's soap, which Tommy is lathering furiously between his palms as though it's done him an evil in a past life.

The next thing he knows the soap is being slapped onto his head. Tommy proceeds to scrub at his hair so roughly it makes Alfie's head joggle on his shoulders, and yet he can't help but smile broadly. Here he is, a grown man approaching the fourth decade of his life, having his hair washed like some school kid visiting the nit-nurse. The man doing it is so bloody awkward it's comical, like he's actively trying to sabotage his own (rather thoughtful) gesture by deliberately going about it in a way that suggests he doesn't care at all. It really shouldn't be so fucking endearing. Alfie suppresses the desire to outright chuckle, because despite the absurdity of the situation he doesn't want it to end. Instead he shifts himself slowly backwards until he's leaning against the end of the tub again. Tommy stands up and walks round behind him, and somehow, being out of Alfie's line of sight seems to relax him a bit — his movements slow down and his fingers soften, which in turn allows Alfie to settle. He closes his eyes and focuses on the feeling of Tommy's fingers as they slip down to his shoulders, more sure of themselves now; they start a slow, firm slide upwards, thumbs pressing into the nape of his neck, fingers splaying out behind his ears. That's it. That's much better. When they reach the top of his scalp they start turning small circles around his crown, his hairline, his temples. Bloody hell, it feels good; he lets out a low, satisfied groan.

"Alright?" Tommy asks quietly.

"Yeah s'alright. S'fucking good, mate. Really fucking good." And so Tommy keeps going, firm fingers pressing and scraping all over his head and neck until it's sending actual shivers down Alfie's spine, and not just from the pure physical pleasure. It's the fact that Tommy, a man generally oblivious to his own physical well-being, is lavishing attention on him. Care. Part of Alfie wants to rebel, to fight the implication that he needs this in anyway, but the truth of the matter is that no one has ever done anything like this for him before. His mum must have done, once upon a time, but he's blowed if he can remember it and damn sure the bath wouldn't have been this hot or the fire this bright. And so he contents himself to watch the water — glowing orange like a sunset as it reflects the copper and the flames — and to lap up every delicious second of Tommy's hands on him. It's affectionate and intimate and Alfie would like to acknowledge that he appreciates it; to tell him that it means something. But in the end he's too wary of breaking the fragile silence, so he sits and sighs and silently enjoys the attention.

Eventually Tommy fills the cup again and pours water over his hair; Alfie has to sit up a bit so that it doesn't run onto the floor and Tommy moves to better reach him. He uses one hand to shield Alfie's eyes from the soap, smoothing his palm and pushing the water backwards. It makes Alfie's stomach flip, alarmingly. Just the way he's being so damn careful about it, tilting Alfie's head, stroking his hair, concentrating.  Hard to believe that it's Tommy. Tommy, who is always so stroppy and closed up and desperate to maintain his distance and his composure. Tommy, who only articulates anything meaningful under duress. Tommy who stripped his damp clothes in the night; who pretends not to know the real reason for the wet sheets; who brought him a towel to sleep on and breakfast in bed. Tommy who fetched some remedy from Ada's and heated pans on the stove to fill this cumbersome old bath — despite there being a perfectly functioning one upstairs — because he knows it's what Alfie prefers. He wishes it was easier just to say all that out loud, but it's not, is it? Because it will make Tommy self-conscious and evasive and defensive and then Alfie will have to spend hours (if not days) coaxing him back round. So he reverts to safety, to actions not words, because this is what they do.

"Get in," he growls. Tommy looks down at him, a slight twitch to the corner of his mouth. Alfie grabs his wrist until he drops the cup and looks him straight in the eye. "You, are gonna get in here in the next sixty seconds or I'm pulling you in with your clothes on."

"You feeling a little better?" Tommy asks, with an actual, proper smile.

"I'm planning on feeling a little gypsy," he replies, pulling harder on the arm. Tommy starts to move, irritatingly slowly, unbuttoning his shirt and pulling it out of his trousers (too easily Alfie notes). "You need to eat something," he says.

"Fuck off," Tommy snaps back, and Alfie chooses to fight that battle another day, because he's meant to be feeling appreciative. Instead he focuses on the sight of Tommy folding himself up between Alfies legs, back to his chest, both facing the fire. It never fails to amaze him, how small Tommy can make himself, so lithe and wiry he can bend in two. He smoothes his wet hands across Tommy's shoulders, making his skin glisten. He really has a rather lovely neck, Alfie thinks as he leans down to kiss it, slipping his hands around to smooth over the pale planes of his chest. He is too fucking small, but it's hard to care when he’s nestled into Alfie like a cat, practically purring as Alfie continues to nuzzle at his neck. When his fingers find Tommy’s nipples they tease gently and a low sound vibrates in Tommy's throat. Alfie squeezes harder, pinching both nubs painfully and not letting go. The water splashes gently by Tommy's left foot as he flinches at the harsh touch, which only makes Alfie let out a low groan of his own.

He doesn't relent, just pinches harder still until Tommy tenses his feet against the foot of the bath and pushes back against his chest. Fuck, there he is, Alfie's needy little bastard. He finally lets go when Tommy hisses. And just like that, the atmosphere has changed, been charged. He runs one hand down Tommy's side and slides it over to cup his cock, satisfyingly hard already. "Mmmm," Alfie whispers into his neck, gently teasing his balls, "think you've earned yourself a reward. Get on you knees."

Tommy hesitates, turning to peer over his shoulder at Alfie. "I thought you weren't feeling well," he says. Which is not an outright refusal, is it? More a play for time.

"Never said that," Alfie replies. Which is true. Plus he is never going to amit that the gypsy potion might be doing some good.

Tommy slowly starts to lift himself, confused but compliant, clearly a good boy tonight. "That's it, face the fire," Alfie says, hands already stroking up and down Tommy's thighs, admiring the view. He's kneeling upright, between Alfie's knees, back to his face.

"Alfie, what are you doing?" he asks, sounding a little fed up.

"Just hold onto that end for me," Alfie says, nodding towards the foot of the bath. He resists using the words "bend over," even though that's exactlywhat he means, because they both know Tommy doesn't like it.

"What the ..." Tommy starts to protest and Alfie just cuts him off. "Just do as you're told, eh?" Tommy swallows and reaches towards the end of the tub reluctantly. When he's got both hands on it, back slightly arched, Alfie lifts his knees, one at a time, and places them either side of his own. That's better, the stance is wider and he runs his hands over the smooth cheeks now just in front of his face. He really wants Tommy to bend down lower, but he's willing to take his time. He leans for the soap and lathers it up to a thick foam before reaching for Tommy's cock — less hard than it was before, signalling his self-consciousness. It's disappointing, but Alfie is unperturbed. He proceeds to massage the soap all over Tommy's balls and cock before stroking over his arse. "What the fuck are you doing?" Tommy asks, sounding a little shocked.

"Just returning the favour, love," he says, tone all innocent. His intentions are anything but as he rubs his thumb down the crease between Tommy's pale cheeks, feeling him flinch each time he passes the hole. He's enjoying the view immensely as he rolls Tommy's balls with the other hand, soaping them gently like a pair of delicate eggs. The hand on his arse keeps stroking the crease, up and down, catching on that puckered little hole on each passing glide. Tommy is starting to relax, to push back slightly and lower his head. That's it, Alfie thinks, like coaxing a kitten to a saucer of milk, he'll go gently and get what he wants. He slides his hand back to to the re-hardened cock, spreading the suds until everything is soft and slippery and too captivating to ignore.

He can't help but stare at Tommy's arse while he slides his hands over everything. He pushes the tip of his thumb into the hole and quickly back out - the little gasp from Tommy like music to his ears. He repeats the movement, quickly, eagerly, just short, sharp stabs that make Tommy clench and Alfie sigh.

"Just stay there love, right fucking there," he says, gripping one thigh like a warning. He picks up the cup and pours water from the small of Tommy's back, watching as it floods down the perfect crevice of his arse. When the soap has all gone he slumps slightly in the water and prises the cheeks apart with his thumbs. Tommy rocks forward slightly at that, everything tightening against the scrutiny, but Alfie keeps his grip, keeps him spread. Then he does what he's wanted to do for a very long time and flicks his tongue over the tight little entrance, once, twice, three times.

Strange that this should  feel forbidden, despite everything else that they do. Which may or may not explain the gut-punch of lust overtaking Alfie right this bloody second; the unusually vocal sound Tommy makes as he sloshes forward in the water does absolutely nothing to quell it — it's as if he's trying to escape, but Alfie just puts his hands round the front of his thighs and pulls him back into place, because he has no intention of stopping. But neither does he have any idea of what might actually feel good to the recipient, he realises. It can't be that different from kissing he figures, so he presses his lips to the hollow dimple and licks softly, reverently until Tommy responds with a strange, strangled sound.

"Just relax," Alfie mumbles, because fuck this is turning him on; the heat, the smell, the smooth, fluttering muscle – the way Tommy's subtly resisting – pulling away and tightening up so that Alfie has to grip his hips hard and hold him in place. He lets his tongue flatten and skates it upwards, firmly, licking the length of his crease slowly, repeatedly. He pays some attention to the back of his balls but can't help but return to lick over the central nucleus, wetting him, lapping him, tasting him.

When Alfie's tongue dares to dip inside Tommy's head droops dramatically downwards; he moans out a curse and seems to collapse, shoulders dropping like he's suddenly boneless. His head rests on his forearms, draped over the end of the bath and he groans so carnally that Alfie feels his stomach lurch and his cock respond. He starts sucking as well as licking, sealing the entire loosened ring with his lips and flicking gently with his tongue. Tommy loosens up further — moans and pushes back — which just makes everything easier to reach, to admire. He delves as deep as he can with his tongue, intrigued by the feel of it, so tough yet so soft. He keeps stopping to look, pulling back and opening him before plunging back in with his mouth. Fuck, he is in awe, as usual, of how delightfully Tommy moves, intermittently bearing down and clenching up like he's drawing Alfie in.

The problem is that Alfie's neck his aching, and though he doesn't want to stop, not with every flinch and every quiver so delightfully on display, he knows Tommy's knees must hurt too. Not that Tommy's complaining, but then again he never does, even when Alfie hurts him. Which is what finally does it, forces him to make the move because he wants Tommy enjoy this too.  

"Upstairs. Now," he growls, pulling himself upright and slapping Tommy's arse for emphasis. They both move impressively quickly, fleeing the bath with a haste that showers water and soap over everything. The each grab a towel and head up the stairs, like children playing tag.

Once in his room, Alfie lays Tommy on his belly and stuffs enough pillows under his hips that he looks like a fucking invitation, perfectly positioned for Alfie to lick until his tongue burns from the exertion. Which is exactly what he does. He delves and circles and laps at that perfect pink ring like a tiger grooming its cub. Any earlier malady is forgotten in his hunger for every squirm and sigh and stifled moan from the man beneath his mouth. By the time he crawls up the bed Tommy's arse is so slick with drool that he doesn't even bother with oil; simply laces their fingers together as he lines himself up and presses relentlessly in. Tommy gasps as he's entered, arching rigidly against him, and making a high, shaky sound that turns Alfie's legs to liquid. When his full weight rests flat on Tommy's back he just waits, marvelling at how he can fit himself inside the taut little ring he's been licking. It doesn't look possible, and yet here they are, slotted so tightly together. When, after a minute, everything is quiet and utterly still he murmurs, "there we go," softly against the curve of Tommy's ear.

And then he fucks him, slow and heavy, like he wants him to feel every inch and every ounce, to understand the weight of his want. And when even that's not enough he wraps his arms under Tommy's chest and pulls him onto his side. Actions are easier than words for Tommy, he's learnt that much by now, so Alfie wraps him tight around the chest and fucks him till he's exhausted, till everything hurts. He presses their bodies so close together it's like he's trying to join them with pressure, to cold-weld them together. Tommy just lets him, shallows his breathing to compensate and lets Alfie fuck him senseless.

Only when he's trembling right on the edge does Alfie loosen the embrace, moving one hand down to stroke him thoroughly through it. Tommy comes with a sharp gasp of breath, which makes Alfie moan unabashedly — lost in the sight and the sound of Tommy letting himself go. He can't see his lovely face at this angle, but he knows that his mouth will be open, his eyes closed, his brow gently furrowed. He kisses the parts he can reach — ear, neck, shoulder, clavicle — so focused on those that he's not even thinking of his own climax, just pumping his hips on pure instinct, lost in the moment, until Tommy makes a strange whimpering sound and taps his arm frantically. And for some reason that brings him back, tips him over until he is coming too. "Fuuuck," he groans as he floods into Tommy, shuddering helplessly as he tries to hold still.

Tommy goes limp with relief, slumping drowsily onto his belly and Alfie moves heavily with him, arms still wrapped round his chest. They lie like that for several minutes, still stickily joined together. Tommy clenches once round Alfie's softened dick as it withdraws in a hot rush of slick. He seems half-asleep but still murmurs irritably at the loss, which makes Alfie want to kiss him all over again. He presses his lips to Tommy's back, smoothing a hand down his side, pausing to pull the sheets up slightly, before he starts to shiver. He sinks lower, kissing all the way down Tommy's spine to the small of his back, revelling in the smell of sweat and sex and Tommy. And affectionate as this is, his mind is being slowly overtaken by an obscene and confusing thought. He's mildly troubled by it (or more accurately, by what Tommy might think of it) but he'll find out soon enough because he's already shuffling down the bed, under the sheets, kissing as he goes. Tommy groans sleepily as Alfie pushes one of his knees up the bed and out of the way because he wants to look, to see where his cock has been, what it's done to that innocent pink hole. God, he can smell himself down here which surely has no business feeling so satisfying. He moves one hand to spread Tommy's arse and is vaguely aware of an irritable response, above the rushing of blood in his ears. "Alfie, what the fuck...?"

"Shhh," he soothes, before biting Tommy's arse-cheek gently, teeth clenching round the firm muscle. Then he pulls it aside, looking straight at the evidence of his defilement. He moans involuntarily, a sound that rattles in his aching chest, and runs one thumb up the cleft of that beautiful backside. Tommy's hand comes round to swat him, but Alfie just grips it easily and holds it in mid air. He is focused shamelessly on that glossy, wet passage — can't help but push his thumb back inside — just to see how easily it glides in now that he's fucked it open. He pumps a few times, insistent but gentle, watching the mess that drips out of him. It's impure and possessive and Alfie couldn't care less until Tommy frees his hand and grabs his hair and pulls him up the bed. "Fucking hell, Alfie," he sighs, which might mean he's cross or self-conscious. Or neither. He sounds more tired than anything. Either way, he escapes to the bathroom, leaving Alfie alone with his thoughts.

"Who else you done that for?" Alfie asks when Tommy slides back in beside him.

"What?" Tommy asks, frowning. "If you mean have I ever let anyone lick..."

"Not that!" Alfie laughs, he know enough to be sure that that was a first. "The other stuff. The bath and the hair and ... you know, the towel and that."

"Charlie," Tommy says, reaching over to the nightstand for his cigarettes. "He likes it when I do bath time. Ada, when she was a kid. Arthur was never interested in helping." He pauses as he lights the cigarette. "My mother... towards the end." He looks wistfully at the ceiling as he blows his smoke in the air. Alfie just stares at him, picturing all the things he's just said, thinking of all the things he doesn't know about Tommy. How that always surprises him.  "I can look after people you know," Tommy says, looking mildly affronted.

"Hmmm," Alfie says in a tone that sounds entirely unconvinced. "Just not yourself, eh?"

"Fuck, off," Tommy replies, but he doesn't actually deny it. He finishes the cigarette and turns to stub it out in the ashtray before pulling Alfie in close. It feels strange to be the little spoon, but Alfie goes with it, shuffling down under the covers. He's going to regret the exertion in the morning, he can already tell, his chest feels like it's filled with hot sand. He might have to hold onto that little brown bottle, without telling Tommy of course, because he did manage to forget feeling ill for a while. Bloody hell, what is happening to him? Fucking horse medicine. But he drifts into sleep happy and sated and to dreams that are filled only with stallions. Which wouldn't be his first choice, let's face it, but could be an awful lot worse.

[let-it-raines]

Hi! May I ask for a fic about barmaid Emma and pirate captain Killian in the Enchanted Forest? Please?

He comes into the tavern at least five nights a week when his ship is docked in the harbor, standing tall amongst all of the small vessels that are mostly for personal use and fishermen, each of them usually going out into the sea each day while the Jolly Roger stays in its place for weeks at a time. It’s always a nice week for business when the crew is around, more ale and money flowing than a usual night, but it also always means that she and Ruby are left to serve drunk pirates who can get rambunctious and disorderly to the point that glasses are broken and that the occasional table is splintered into pieces. She’s come to expect it, really. She’s worked in this tavern for seven years, and she’s seen all matter of things happen.

On her first night, her eighteenth birthday when she’d been officially kicked out of the orphanage, she was learning how to balance all of the drinks on a tray when a man started serenading his lover, openly weeping with his love for her only for him to pass out drunk on the stairwell before making it to the room he had rented upstairs. She had to help his lover carry him upstairs. She once watched a woman go around the room pick pocketing every single male patron, and while she should have stopped it, she was once a young girl doing the same thing so she didn’t. That girl never came back, and Emma will always wonder why. Her favorite stories, though, always involve the dwarves and when they decide to come in. Somehow, without fail, they always manage to lead the entire place in a rousing rendition of sea shanties despite the fact that none of them have ever been out to sea. She also rather enjoys when Leroy attempts to flirt with Ruby. It’s hysterical to watch Ruby’s faces as she plays along, just like she does with every other person who comes in. “It pays the tips, darling,” she always says, throwing Emma a wink.

So the Mistress of the Sea tavern sees its fair share of drunkards, scandals, and infidelity, but there’s nothing quite like when the crew of the Jolly Roger decide to spend their coin and their time here. If she’s honest with herself, she likes them. For pirates, they’re rather well behaved despite their rambunctious ways, and they always pay well for their drinks, food, rooms, and anything they break. Smee, a short little man who always wears a red knit cap over his head no matter the temperature, will come in early in the morning when she’s just waking up and walking down from her room so that he can cover any damages that they may have caused. It’s something she and Ruby appreciate, especially with Granny having passed and it just being the two of them working there now, so as long as they keep paying, they’ll always be welcomed.

On nights when the dwarves and the crew are both around, those sea shanties get sung at such a volume that the building must shake. Most of it is gibberish since only the pirates know the actual words to most of the songs, but she’s finding that she’s learned some of them too. She has to adapt to her situation, to always stay on her toes, and if that means singing along and wearing a corset that makes her breasts practically spill out the front of her dress so she gets paid more, she’s okay with that. If anyone touches her however, she threatens to cut their hand off with a kitchen knife.

It seems to be a pretty effective threat.

So she knows how it is to work in a pub and a tavern, to even live there in a small room upstairs with nothing more than a bed and a fireplace, and she knows all of her customers, talking to them and asking them about their families and work and whatever else strikes her fancy. She’s got to stay entertained, after all. It’s not as if she’s the one who gets to go on adventures. She’s simply the woman they all come to when their adventure is done and they need a drink in their stomach and a warm bed to sleep in – occasionally with someone else as well. She’s not blind. She knows what happens upstairs in the dark of the night. She’s partaken in nights like that herself.

But the person she knows least is Captain Killian Jones. He sails the Jolly Roger, and he’s always the last of his crew to come in, entering the door when most everyone is halfway to being intoxicated. Without fail, he saunters to the middle of the room, his long leather coat trailing behind him with a flourish, and sits down on the bench in the center of the room, his crew always making room for him. Within minutes she hands him a small tumbler of rum, and she swears that every woman in the area must sense his presence as they all crowd around his table, throwing themselves at him while he plays cards with his crew and lets poor, unsuspecting townsfolk lose their money to him.

It’s odd to watch him, to try to figure him out. He’s handsome. That much she knows. His years at the sea have obviously kept him fit, his leather trousers clinging to his muscled legs, and the dip in his billowing shirt shows clean lines and an expanse of dark chest hair that she watches other women curl around their fingers. After all of that, though, the most striking thing about him are his eyes. They’re blue, much like the ocean he sails, and she doesn’t think she’s ever seen a color that light in the dark of the night. It’s almost intoxicating, and she’s not one to be distracted by a man like that. The kohl he wears around his eyes likely helps bring out the brightness. It does the same thing to her eyes when she wears cosmetics, but she doesn’t have the dark hair that fails in wisps down her forehead or the defined jawline covered in scruff. She doesn’t have quite as bright of a white smile, one that really doesn’t belong there, or the tanned skin that accentuates it all the more.

She imagines men wouldn’t find her quite as appealing if she did have a beard.

“I’d sleep with him,” Ruby said the first time he ever came in.

“Rubes.”

“What? That’s a handsome man, Emma. You wouldn’t be making eyes at him if you didn’t think so.”

“I do not make eyes.”

Ruby’s shoulder hits hers before she’s moving away to check on a table. “Sure you don’t.”

So maybe she’s a little fascinated by Captain Jones. He could easily be a Naval lieutenant with his looks and charm. Hell, he could be one with his manners too. She was never taught any kind of etiquette, but she’s observant enough to know when someone has had formal training and when someone hasn’t. Killian Jones definitely has.

And yet he’s a pirate captain, a profitable one at that, who she knows does things that are less than honorable. She doesn’t care about any of that as long as he keeps paying his tabs. She’s simply curious.

She’s got to stay entertained, after all. That’s all it is. Entertainment. Curiosity quenching her thirst for adventure.

The night moves on as normal, the sounds increasing in the tavern as more drinks are poured and as time passes, and she thinks that things will be just any other night until two of the pirate crew, John and Will she believes, get into a fight, punching and rolling around until they crash straight through a window, the glass shattering and the wall cracking a bit with the two of them landed on the floor.

“Fuck,” she mutters under her breath, dropping her empty tray down onto the counter and kicking out her skirt as she heads over to the area, pushing through the crowd that’s watching everything unfold to see just how bad the damage is.

“Are you a damn imbecile, Scarlett? What about you Hawkins? Getting drunk off your arses and crashing through a fucking building where we are regular patrons here!”

She stands in stunned silence, glass cracking underneath her feet as she watches Captain Jones berate his crew and strike fear into their very souls. Emma’s never thought of him as a dangerous man even with his occupation. He laughs and flirts too much for that, but the way his voice is deepening and booming could strike fear into her core. It seems to be doing the same to all of his crew, not just John and Will who are down on the ground against the wall with bloodied faces that will bruise tomorrow.

“This is coming out of your stipend,” Killian speaks, his voice much more even now, as he crosses his arms over his chest, his shirt tightening over his back without his heavy coat leaning over it. “And you two can clean the whole damn ship until it shines. Apologize to the ladies.”

His last words make her stumble, falling to the ground with her hand stopping her on the shattered glass. She has no idea where Ruby is in this mess, but she must be around somewhere. She has to be.

When she rises back to full standing position, her hand sore and tender to the touch as it bleeds from the cuts she must have sustained, she finds Ruby standing off to the side of all of the commotion, very obviously muttering curses to anyone who can hear. If the crew weren’t scared of their captain, they should be scared of Ruby. Their eyes find each other, and when Ruby nods at her, she knows that she’s got it all under control so that Emma can move back behind the bar and deal with her hand and with closing out the tabs of everyone else who was in here tonight now that the mood is officially dead.  

“Shit,” she mumbles as she tries to pick out the glass after closing out a few tabs for some patrons. It’s a good thing she’s not a lady. Her mouth is far too foul for it. Plus, she likes wearing trousers far too much. They’re more comfortable and efficient some days. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“Looks like a pretty nasty cut there, love.”

“Not your love,” she mumbles, the words almost instinctive, before looking up at the man who just spoke, a soft smile curled on his lips as he nods to her hand.

“Simply a turn of phrase,” Killian explains, shrugging his now coat clad shoulders.

“You say that, but I have a lot of men in here who if I respond to that, they think it gives them a right to touch my ass.”

“I hope you bloody well punch them.”

She chuckles, dabbing at her hand and hissing at the sting as she attempts to pull a small piece of glass out. She needs a better light than this. They should get more lanterns in here. “I do. Do you need something, Captain? Or are you just here to tell me that your men are going to break another window?”

“Aye,” he sighs, reaching up to scratch behind his ear. It’s his tell when he’s gambling, and she wonders what exactly he’s about to lie to her about. “The other lass who works here – ”

“Ruby,” she tells him as she finally gets that piece of glass out, more blood pooling on her skin, the red a contrast to the white.

“Yes, Ruby. She told me to settle up my tab with you and to discuss the payment for the window. We’ll pay for the new glass and woodwork, and I’ll have my carpenter come to fix it. Do you have a price for that?”

“Ah yes, let me magically know how much all of that costs off the top of my head.”

“So you don’t then?”

“No,” she sighs, rolling her eyes a bit before wiping her hand on a rag, hoping that it’ll be good enough for now even though she can still feel glass embedded in her skin. “Your men completely tore some of this place apart. It’s not cheap, but I’d say at least ten gold coin.”

“Ten? It’s just bloody glass.”

She holds her hand up. “And a bloody hand, which I need to work.”

His lips press together in a firm line as he nods. When he reaches into his coat, she thinks he’s going to grab his coin purse, but instead he pulls out a silver flask, quickly opening it with his ringed thumb and holding it out to her. “Give me your hand.”

“Why Captain, you have to court me before I give you my hand,” she teases, using her best high-pitched voice even as her stomach twists at that and how ridiculous it sounds.

He rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t say anything else, simply sticking his free hand out in front of her. She stares at it for a moment, examining the red scars shadowed against the tanned skin and ornate rings, but she does eventually place her hand on top of his, feeling the warmth as his fingers grasp her wrist. She doesn’t take her eyes off of her hand in his as her heart begins a quick, steady rhythm in her chest, so when the rum is being poured onto her cut, she tries to jump back only to be tugged forward.

“What the hell are you doing?” she squeaks, grimacing at the pain as tears pool in her eyes.

“Be still.”

“It stings.”

“It’s supposed to, lass,” he sighs, pouring a bit more rum – because she knows it has to be rum with him – on her hand. She has to bite her tongue, the taste of iron filling her mouth, and clench her free fist to keep from punching him out of agony. “You need to disinfect your wound, or you’ll end up with something rather nasty.”

“I know.”

“Then why haven’t you?”

She shrugs, looking up at him and wondering if maybe he’s trying to get out of paying her so much by helping her. But that doesn’t seem right. His smile seems genuine, and he always pays. If it was anyone else, she’d expect something different, but he’s a man of his word despite every inclination telling her that he can’t be.

“I was a little busy trying to keep this place from falling apart.”

He clicks his tongue but doesn’t say anything else, putting his flask down and reaching over to grab the rag she was just using, tearing a small piece off of it with his teeth before wrapping it around her hand as a bandage, deftly tying it with his fingers. For a moment she swore he was about to tie it with his teeth too, but that would have been far too much when she can bandage her hand herself.

“All good then,” he tells her, patting her hand before dropping it. “Smee will come in the morning with the idiots to pay you and have my carpenter start his repair work. I’ve got personal matters to attend to, so I likely won’t be by until evening again.”

“Are you going to see your lady?” she jokes, figuring he must have someone in Misthaven for him to be constantly docked here. But really, she doesn’t know. It’s simply a hunch, and honestly, she’s not sure why she’s asking.

The right side of his lip twitches a bit before curling up in what she can only describe as a smirk. He leans in, the scent of sweat, salt, and rum briefly passing her nose, and she takes a deep breath to steady herself. “That is none of your business, but if it were, would you be envious, lass?”

“You’re a pirate.”

“Aye, a devilishly handsome one at that.”

“Doesn’t explain why I would be envious of your lady, who I am still not entirely convinced exists with the way you flirt with the women in here.”

“Why, Swan, I have always thought you were rather fond of me with the way you’re always checking on me and paying me attention.”

She can’t help herself but to lean forward, her lips practically touching his as she looks him directly in the eyes. He’s always cocky like this when she talks to him, and whether she admits it or not, it’s fun to get to go toe to toe with someone who can keep up.

“It’s my job, and I do it with every man in here. I even do it with the ladies.”

His brow raises at that. “Do you now?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Perhaps I would.”

She’s got a retort on her tongue, something biting and witty, but then Smee is standing in front of them, tugging on Killian’s sleeve. “Captain, Mr. Townsend wants to talk to you about your meat order before the morning.”

“Aye, Smee,” he sighs, leaning back from her so that she’s left with a heat in her cheeks and a sting across her skin, most likely stemming from her hand. “I’ll see you tomorrow then, love.”

“Not your love,” she repeats, crossing her arms over her chest.

“And what a bloody shame that is.”

“Girl,” Ruby laughs, coming over to her with a pan full of broken glass after Killian and his crew have mostly cleared out, only a few patrons staggering behind, “you are flirting dangerously.”

“It’s not flirting.”

“It is. The Captain fancies you. That’s why he’s always in here and makes sure to pay all of his debts. He doesn’t want you to get annoyed with him.”

“That is not true.” She rolls her eyes and pulls out their ledger so she can begin to do the math of their profits as she takes inventory of what they have left on the shelves. “And if it is, that’s one expensive way to try to stay in the favor of a barmaid when he has kingdoms of women he could be with.”

“I think he likes the challenge.”

-/-

True to Killian’s word, Smee comes in the next morning, far too early for her taste, to pay she and Ruby and set up a time for his carpenter to repair the window once they’ve gotten the new materials. Will and John stop by to help clean up the remaining mess and fix a few odds and ends around the place before offering to get the new materials themselves so that the window and wall can be fixed as soon as possible. It’s likely the most efficient repair job the Mistress of the Sea has ever seen, and by the time they open in the late afternoon, it’s almost as if nothing ever happened the day before.

It’s not as busy tonight, only three or four people spread out across all of their tables, so Emma stays behind the counter polishing glasses while Ruby tends to the rooms upstairs, changing bedsheets and quilts for when they inevitably get more visitors as the week ends.

If she’s honest, nights like these are her favorite. She loves a good crowd as much as the next person, but this means that she can sit on a stool and read her book, unhurriedly flipping through the pages and getting lost in the tale of the man who lost his love at sea and yet tried to find himself there.

“The ending of that tale is rather sad,” a familiar voice speaks, and she doesn’t bother looking up as she hears the scrape of a stool against old wood, “but I have a feeling you’d rather me not tell you the ending.”

“Such an intelligent man.”

“I know.”

She rolls her eyes, something she does a lot with him, and looks up after marking her place. He looks just the same as the night before, as he always does, but the kohl around his eyes isn’t quite as thick and the beard on his jaw is thicker, the dark hair more prominent than the light. He looks tired, exhausted really, and she wonders if maybe he did actually have a personal matter to attend to today. And if that personal matter was somehow an unpleasant one.

“Where’s your crew? They didn’t follow you in here?”

“They’re working. We’re departing for the summer isles soon, so I have them all stocking up and preparing the Jolly.”

“Ah, so what? They work and you get the night off?”

He smiles, lips softly pressed together. “I am the Captain after all.”

Her shoulders sink forward as she reaches to adjust her bandage, this one much cleaner than the rag the night before. “Sounds like the life. Do you want some rum, or did you just come in here to bother me?”

“Both actually,” he laughs, his smile so wide now that his eyes crinkle and his nose scrunches up, looking all the more friendly instead of fierce.

“You can have one or the other but not both.”

“I think I’ll bother you then.” He pats his pocket. “I have my own rum.”

“What in the world is the point of you coming here if you bring your own drink?”

“I like the pretty barmaid.”

Her cheeks heat, but she doesn’t acknowledge that. He probably wants to sleep with her, and as much fun as that would probably (definitely) be, she tries not to sleep with people who she sees regularly. It gives them the wrong idea. She hasn’t looked for long term companionship since Neal abandoned her in the middle of the night six years ago, and sleeping with Killian seems like it would be complicated, even if he is leaving for awhile.

“Ruby is upstairs.”

“Not talking about Ruby. She’s a fine lass in all, but she doesn’t challenge me quite like you do.”

Huh. Maybe Ruby was right about him liking a challenge. She likes one too.

“Is that what it is then? The challenge?”

“Partly.”“What are the other parts?”

“You’re fascinating,” he hums, leaning back and cocking his head to the side, a pensive look gracing his face as he seems to study hers. “You’re not a lady even though you have the hair and face of one, but you have good manners and education for you to be reading that book and talking as well as you do. You’re fierce and have kicked the arse of many men who come through here, and well, I do fancy you from time to time when you’re not yelling at me.”

“Charming.”

“I am, thanks.”

“Oh God,” she laughs, shaking her head back and forth despite herself. “Do you even hear yourself when you talk?”

“I do. And?”

“Do you not realize how ridiculous you sound?”

He shrugs. “I will admit that sometimes I overexaggerate my speech, but I’ve also found that certain people respond to different kinds of charm. You, lass, get riled up when I flirt with you, and I enjoy the way your nose scrunches up in what I know is fake disgust.”

“How do you know it’s fake?”

He reaches his hand forward and bops her nose, and dammit, she does scrunch it up in response.

“Because when you’re actually annoyed you furrow your brows and your lips practically disappear. I see it happen time and time again at night. You’re not the only observant person in here.”

She hums, a bit of disbelief settling in her stomach, before she hops onto the back counter, letting her legs hang over the ground as she wipes away a piece of dirt from her trousers. “I can’t quite figure you out, Killian Jones. You’re too educated and too polished not to have gone through some kind of formal training and yet you work as a pirate captain. You’re also younger. Most pirates who are in leadership positions are much older, so that doesn’t make much sense either. And I know all about pirate code, but that usually doesn’t involve always paying debts at taverns and not a single crew member actively making a pass at the barmaids.”

“What can I say? I’m a complex man.”

The tavern stays empty throughout the rest of the night, only a few people filtering in and out, but the one thing that never changes is Killian sitting at his barstool nursing the glass of rum she finally gives to him. For awhile, she tries to ignore him, going about her duties and reading her book, but he seems to be a never-ending supply of words as he tells her stories from his time at sea and bits and pieces of what she assumes is his childhood. It’s difficult to piece the timeline together, but as the nights go by, Killian coming in every night for the next nine days, she gets a clearer picture of this man who intrigues her despite everything.

He’s thirty, five years her senior, and he’s originally from Misthaven, which shocks her as his accent is different, but then again, most accents here are varied since this is a diverse kingdom where people of all colors and sexes are treated the same most of the time. He left Misthaven when he was a child, though he gave no reason, and has been on the sea ever since, which doesn’t explain his schooling or how he became a pirate. He doesn’t seem like some kind of evil, scum of the earth man, and with each new piece of information, she has at least five more questions for him. But asking him questions, showing him that she’s interested in knowing more about his beginnings, isn’t something she wants to do. Despite the fact Ruby says he fancies her, that he has admitted it himself, she knows that this is not a man she should get involved with even if he’s growing on her even more with his charm.

But then he leaves. She knew that it was coming, that he wasn’t going to stay docked here forever before he went to the summer isles, but it still takes her aback when he stops by one morning as the sun rises over the horizon, waking her out of bed, to leave her with a coin purse for any improvements that she and Ruby might want to make. If she had been more awake, sleep not still tempting her, she would have refused. But then it was placed in her slightly scarred hand, and he was gone, only the remnant of a touch of skin against skin remaining.

And he stays gone for weeks, five so far to be exact. She wasn’t counting, not really, but whenever he’s away, their business significantly decreases without an entire ship’s crew filling their tables. It’s nice in a way, allowing she and Ruby to sit and chat and work on other tasks, but she misses the money and the liveliness, especially as winter blows in and a heavy chill is placed over every building close to the sea, all of the wood aching just as the bones do in the cold. That’s always been the downside of working here. During the summer, there’s no better place than to be able to feel the salt air on her skin and the sunshine on her back as they open all of the windows and let the sound of music from street musicians waft in. She and Ruby and some of their friends will walk down to the marketplace, loading up on freshly grilled fish and baked goods before settling down on the sand, likely getting drunk on some of their cheap wine before stripping away their clothes and losing time wading in the waves.

The winter, however, is something entirely different. All of the windows stay shut, and a fire roars at all waking hours. They’d keep it lit all throughout when they sleep if not for fear of the tavern burning down. She and Ruby keep the ones in their quarters alive, simply so they do not freeze bundled in their warmest clothes and blankets. Everything is almost dreary, the colors of the sea and the sky more gray than blue, and she finds that she longs to be able to run outside again and get to do more than simply struggle to stay warm and keep her nose from falling off when collecting firewood.

And despite herself, she finds that maybe she misses the pirate captain with the blue eyes and the charming smile. He’s a pain in her ass, but he’s entertaining. And maybe, deep down, she does find that she likes him and enjoys his company. She doesn’t trust many men, not anymore, but despite everything, she trusts him. He’s never gone back on his word, and no one in her life but him has ever been so consistent and trustworthy like that.

But she doesn’t know him, not really, so she pushes down those thoughts and tries to get through the winter to keep the tavern alive, never touching the money Killian gave her except to buy she and Ruby new coats and a new lock when the tavern gets broken into one night.

Life gets busy as the winter snow melts away and the warm spring sun arrives, and with the sun arriving, so does a familiar ship that she can spot without even trying. She sees it when she’s airing out quilts in their courtyard, clipping them to the lines, and her stomach flips and twists, making her almost nauseous with…something.

“Huh,” Ruby sighs, placing her hands on her hips and looking down to the docks. “Looks like lover boy is back, and we’re going to have customers tonight.”

They do have customers that night, nearly all of the freshly tanned crew of the Jolly Roger, but there’s one noticeable Captain who is missing, his boots never stepping over the threshold. She ignores the sympathetic looks from Ruby because they are nothing, she and Killian. She shouldn’t feel anything for him. She doesn’t know him. Just because he talked to her night after night for a little over a week after dancing around her for years doesn’t mean that suddenly he owes her anything, like she owes nothing to him.

It doesn’t make it hurt any less.

When did she become the type of girl to miss a man?

No. Scratch that. She has never thought it to be weak to miss a man or to crave companionship. Everyone needs someone, whether that be a spouse, a lover, a friend, or a child. Much of her life has been spent alone, so she knows the value of being loved and how precious that is. But she wonders when she stopped hating the idea of having someone besides Ruby and some of the fellow girls in town be her companion. She wonders just when she decided that maybe not every man is going to fuck her and then leave her.

She wonders.

She wonders when in the world she decided to miss Killian Jones.

She wonders if he missed her.

He never shows that night, and she goes to bed with a sting spreading across her skin and in her heart despite every inclination not to let herself be bothered by someone not showing up to see her when she should have never expected it in the first place.

By the time the Jolly has been docked a week and there’s still no sight of him, she decides, probably under the influence of the glass of rum she just drank, to wander down to the docks and up the boards to step foot on a pirate ship where she has no business being. She nods her head at Will, who is looking at her with parted lips but with understanding in his eyes, before she makes her way across the solid wood to where the Captain’s quarters are, using her memory of where she’s seen him exit before to know where to go. She knocks, and when there’s a quiet “enter,” she does.

The room is small, but it’s decorated nicely, a table in the center and bookshelves lining a wall with a bed nestled into the corner. It takes her but a moment to realize this used to be a Naval ship, and suddenly all of Killian’s knowledge of etiquette and good form make sense. She’d bet that he was once in the Royal Navy and that he wasn’t always a pirate. Maybe one day she’ll even ask about it.

Maybe one day she’ll truly get to know him.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he mumbles, not bothering to look up from the table where he has books spread across the wood, neat, curving handwriting filling nearly all of them.

“I was missing my best customer.”

“Aye, I know. My apologies. I – I – it has been a busy week returning. I’ve had books to fill and goods to buy, and it seems my usual docking spot is not available through the summer so I’m attempting to figure out where to move us until June when I’ll have my spot back.”

“We have a spot,” she says, boldly sitting down in the chair across from him. It’s what gets him to look up at her, and she sees that his blue eyes are rimmed in red as if he were just crying. She ignores that and keeps talking, not knowing what else to do. “The tavern gets one. It’s for a smaller boat, but I’m sure we could work something out with the harbormaster.”

“Why, love, if you wanted me to stay so badly, you could have just said so.”

“I want you to stay.”

His lips part as if he’s about to say something, but then they press together, only the smallest hint of a smile peeking through as his head nods up and down. “I’d like that.”

She stays with him in his quarters for the next two hours, letting him regale her with stories of his time away and all of the beautiful islands he saw while in the summer isles, and when she tells him she has to go to work, he promises he’ll come by tonight.

He does.

And every night that week.

It’s around two Sunday morning when she slides onto the bench across from him, offering him a glass of water that he gladly takes, likely needing to sober up a bit more.

“Why are you all doom and gloom today?”

“If one more person asks me that I swear I’ll break every stool in here.”

“That’s going to be an expensive rampage.”

“It’ll be worth it.”

“Hey,” she soothes, reaching over to place her hand right in front of his, hesitating before she places it fully over the warm skin and contrasting cool rings. He doesn’t look up at her, his eyes intently staring at their hands, but she watches as his jaw clenches and his Adam’s apple bobs up and down his throat. “I’m sorry. I’m not going to coddle you and say that you can destroy my property because you’re having a bad day, but I am sorry that you’re having a bad day.”

Killian nods his head before he looks at her, the intensity of his gaze nearly burning her, and she focuses on it instead of the way that his fingers twist around her skin, interlacing their fingers and resting them on the tabletop. It’s…comfortable. She likes the way her hand fits into his.

“My brother died seven years ago today. He was…he was the only family I had left, and even though he could be an insufferable arse, he didn’t deserve to die.”

“I’m sorry,” she sighs, not sure what else to say as she watches a tear roll down his cheek. This must be why his eyes were red rimmed last week and maybe why he avoided the tavern for awhile. She guesses the tough pirate captain is still a human with feelings underneath the leather exterior. She’s always known that. It’s simply unexpected to get to see it.

“Me too,” he smiles, squeezing her hand and running his thumb over her knuckles. “I was in the Royal Navy, you know? Joined the moment I turned eighteen after living as a cabin boy on a ship, working my way up from practical slavery. Liam and I were going to change the world and protect our kingdom, this kingdom, to honor our mother. And for awhile, we did. But then – well, then the king turned out to be a bloody liar who sent us on a mission for a cure to a disease his wife was afflicted with, but instead we were really collecting poison so that he could kill off an entire enemy kingdom.”

She knows what’s going to happen before he even says the words, and it takes everything in her not to vomit out the contents of her stomach.

“Some of the inhabitants of the island told us it was poison, but Liam wouldn’t believe them. He said our king was too honorable, that he wouldn’t do that. Then Liam touched the plant, the spikes pricking his skin, and he was g-gone not an hour later. I think I went mad that day, losing the person I loved most in the world, and the rage inside of me made me declare that I would never trust or serve a king again, that I would sail my own ship and my own crew in honor of Liam even though I know he would be ashamed of me for being a pirate.”

“If he loved you as much as you still love him, I don’t think he could ever be ashamed of you.”

He smiles again, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “When I was here last, love,” he begins, and she decides to let the love nickname slide – it doesn’t bother her quite as much as it used to, “the personal matter I had to attend to was going to my childhood home. I despise this kingdom, but being in this one small part near the sea and near where I was raised, it’s comforting to me. I keep coming back for the memories of Liam and my mother, and God help me, I think I keep coming back for you too.”

That’s the absolute last thing she was expecting, and she knows he must feel her hand go stiff in his because he loosens his grip, allowing her the option of pulling away. She doesn’t. She can’t. The man just shared his soul with her, and she finds that she doesn’t want to pull away when he continues to be more than she ever thought he was.

When he continues to be someone she cares about.

“I’ll always be here.”

-/-

The last remnants of winter and spring melt away into a sweltering summer, everything smelling of sweat and the sea. It’s just what she wants, what she likes, and even though she could do without sweating every day, she could not be more excited for June to be here, especially because after leaving for the month of May, Killian has promised to stay here for most of the summer, only leaving when he absolutely has to.

Their relationship is odd and it’s not one she really understands, but she’s chosen not to question it as they have naturally fallen into it, almost like there was really no other option for the two of them. Most of her early mornings are spent below the deck of the Jolly Roger sleeping in Killian’s bed with his body wrapped around hers and the ocean gently rocking below them. The first time she spent the night on the ship had been an accident. Killian had been at the Mistress of the Sea drinking with his crew, and they’d gotten into a conversation about star charts. Killian insisted that she come see some of his charts that he keeps in his bookshelf, and after she closed down, she walked with him to the docks and scoured over the papers as Killian pointed out the different constellations to her. She’d fallen asleep sitting at his table that night, and when she woke in the warm comfort of his bed, she saw Killian sleeping in an uncomfortable desk chair, his legs kicked out in front of him and his arms crossed over his chest.

It was as innocent as could be.

That quickly changed one afternoon when they were sitting on the sand at the beach, her bare toes drawing patterns in the sand as Killian told her the stories of the scars on his hand and across his back, a lifetime of hardship marked into his skin for him to remember forever. For some reason at that moment she had no ability to speak and everything she felt for him needed to be released, so she grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled his lips to hers in what ended up being the slowest, most passionate kiss she’s ever experienced, every emotion she’d ever felt for him settling in her stomach as she felt the steady beat of his heart against hers. And as she’s learned, Killian Jones knows how to kiss in a way that makes her toes curl and her entire body stand on edge, and she’d like to live in a world where he keeps making her feel that way.

For right now, she thinks that it’s going well.

“What’s your favorite color?”

“Seriously?” she asks, repositioning herself on top of him so that her arms rest on his chest and her chin on her forearms just below his face. “Why do you want to know that?”

He hums, seemingly content not to answer her and instead to run his hand up and down her bare back with it finally landing on her ass. She’d think that it was an unconscious movement, but she notices the little twitch at the corners of his lips and the slight squeeze of his hand.

“Well, darling, it seems that I know the deep dark secrets of your heart and all about those who have hurt you, as well as just what flick of my tongue makes you fall apart at my touch, but I don’t know your favorite color or season or exactly which sweet is your favorite. If I’m going to properly court you, these are things I should know as well.”

She dips her head down to kiss his chest and taste the salt that always seems to linger on his skin. “I think we may be far past the courting stage for proper ladies and gentleman.”

“It’s a good thing we’re not proper,” he laughs, gently slapping her ass so that she scoots up his body a little further, her tongue dipping into the hollow part of his skin just above his collarbone. “I want to know you, Emma. You fascinate me to no end, and someone as bloody wonderful as you deserves to have someone know the depths of their heart intimately.”

Her heart literally flutters, which can’t be healthy, and she smiles into his chest before looking up at him and the sun that’s streaming through the windows, a small beam falling across his right eye and making the blue shine.

“My favorite color is yellow, like on a sunflower, and my favorite season is summer. We need to go swimming sometime soon because it’s my favorite thing to do to get out of the heat. Ruby, the girls, and I go all of the time. I want you to come with me when you’re not pillaging and plundering and all that. And my favorite sweet is any sweet, but specifically, I like anything with chocolate and cinnamon.”

He closes his eyes and nods his head, like he’s trying to memorize these facts about her, and she watches as he lifts his free arm and rests it behind his head so that she can see the muscles of his biceps and the siren tattoo that’s etched there to color his skin.

“We can go swimming tomorrow afternoon before you have work. I have nothing to do but find you a bouquet of sunflowers and a basket of chocolate and cinnamon sweets, so I think it’ll work out well.”

She narrows her eyes, and he simply smiles in return. “What are you up to, Jones?”

“Nothing, my love.” He encourages her to move up so that he can slide his lips over hers, nibbling at her bottom lip and making her sigh into him and into this life. “I like seeing you smile is all. It’s half of the reason that I keep sticking around these parts and wandering into that tavern of yours when I know you overcharge me.”

She scoffs, hitting her hand against his skin and quickly biting his upper lip. “We only overcharge the scoundrels at the Mistress of the Sea, thank you very much. We’d never overcharge a pirate captain who has more gold than he knows what to do with. That’d be ridiculous.”

Killian laughs, a sound she’ll never tire of hearing, before he expertly flips them over, caging her body in and pressing her into the mattress while his lips never cease their movement against hers, drowning her in pleasure and happiness and love that she never thought she’d feel, especially with him. As the ship rocks below them, Killian rocks inside of her, slowly taking his time to help her find her bliss like he always does when they get quiet moments hidden away down here.

She loves him. Really and truly, and she’s thankful that he decided to go back to Misthaven despite all of the heartbreak he’s experienced here.

“You,” he begins after they’ve both fallen apart, sweat coating their skin and Killian’s thumb running back and forth over her cheek as sleep calls to her, “are my mistress of the sea, but I do think that I love you more than I’ve ever loved the ocean.”

[honestsycrets]

Unwelcome Eyes

❛ pairing | alpha!bjorn x omega!reader x elder!Rollo

❛ type | oneshot

❛ summary | Hey, could you write something where the reader is married to Bjorn and enjoy him on his raid for the Mediterranean and Rollo can’t take his eyes and mind off of her… Maybe Bjorn getting jealous and fucking the shit out of her or fighting his uncle, please? + ABO Universe 

❛ warnings | smut, alpha male snaps, explosions, nsfw, threats

Being an omega meant a certain… few things.

It meant that being married to an alpha would be a naturally aggressive relationship. Not only for the simple fact that omegas and alphas were both prone to their own aggression in different manners– but your husband?

Bjorn Ironside. Whose temper was unyielding.

“So that is Rollo the traitor?” You ask, holding your cup of ale about your chest. Across the way was a man of a likewise tall physique. His long brown hair framed his pale face, casting a shadow upon his brilliant eyes.

He thought he snuffed out other alphas looking at you… Even when that other alpha was his very own so-called flesh and blood. Bjorn wasn’t sure why he was surprised that his uncle stood back against his throne waiting for you to finish eating. You take the last chunk of shredded chicken between your greasy fingertips, wiping it away on the dull brown dress you wore.

“He’s always been a traitor.” Bjorn rumbles, bringing his shoulder up to wipe the ale off of his beard. “There is a reason he summoned you out of the dungeon with me.”

“Let us see if he is as bad as is rumoured.” You reply.

It did little to frame your figure and for that, Rollo did not like it. You stand up to your uncle-in-law, looking at his sword on his belt in admiration for its craftsmanship. Your father was a blacksmith, lain now deep in the cold and unforgiving earth. The love for his passions remained in his absence.

“That dress.” His uncle says. “It does nothing for your figure.”

They had the same taste. As if that was a stretch. Their sexual reputation preceded them. Still, his uncle was not forgiven. Not for his betrayal in Paris and certainly not now, drooling over his beautiful wife. His hard stare turns to his uncle, holding him responsible for the eyes that would have been better popped out and on a dish.

This was what his uncle did. He betrayed him… and worse yet, you seem to be fond of the attention from the man who shamed his family in lavish Frankish robes.

“Oh, you think I have a figure under this?” You laugh. “I could be a bit of plank.”

“You wouldn’t have a Ragnarsson if you were a plank,” Rollo says fondly. The words seem to hurt his tongue as he says them, and still, you flutter your lashes at him. “And I know what a well-endowed woman looks like. I spent enough years chasing them.”

You look down to your toes, lifting your skirt just a bit over your ankle. Heavy breath forces its way out-- but it's not yours. It’s not Rollo’s either. Bjorn huffs out short breaths as he sits motionless, turning his head so that he might watch his uncle interact with you.

“What would you suggest?”

It’s a trap. You know it, Rollo knows it… and Bjorn, oh he knows you’re baiting him for a reaction, like the self-serving omega girl you are. Always in need of more affection. It works. Rollo looks to Bjorn, reading his heated gaze lingering upon your body standing before him. It’s a careful game he plays between the two of you. He steps behind you, his ringed fingers snatch your shoulders.

“Something fitted and rich.” Rollo drags his hands over your loose sleeves, caressing them. Bjorn sits upright, swinging his boots onto the other side of the bench. His legs bounce and bounce as he listens with teeth clenched. “Around the breasts-- and around the hips.”

“Wouldn’t that cling to my stomach?” You ask.

“Of course. That way, when you are with child, you can show it off.” By now, Rollo’s fingertips have swept over your stomach, calculating in every sweep of his fingertips. His soft touch is far from the brash warrior you heard in stories as a girl. You were told that Rollo was a beast of a man who left children in his wake and sundered families.

“I’m not interested in having babies yet.” You laugh it off.

“Maybe not.” Rollo shifts to look over at a servant whose hands are heavy with fabric. Her eyes look down in furtive regard as if-if she focused hard enough she could disappear altogether into the stone floors. “Bring that here.”

The servant girl walks to her master and offers up the goods in her arms. Bjorn’s eyes narrow upon the priceless gown that Rollo unrolls from her, throwing jewelry into his throne. It’s some sort of fine silk with a tailored neckline that is modestly low.

“Now this dress is fit for a princess.” Rollo states.

“Well, it does like beautiful.” You glaze your eyes over the fabric, jealously looking toward the fine silk.

“Would you like it?” Rollo asks, enjoying the glisten in your eyes. Excitement unfurls in your belly and he knows it.  

“Then you should take that rag off.”

Without concern for your husband nor anyone else in the room, you loosen the ties on the back of your dress and dip down. Bjorn’s eyes widen and focus upon your movements, peeling the layers of dress from your thin ankles.

“Beautiful,” Rollo says in a slow, calculated tone. Rollo’s eyes are indecipherable and wrought in obfuscation as the women in the room gasp clearly unable to understand the intentions of a woman that would peel away her clothes in the presence of an estranged uncle-in-law and a husband who at that very moment, whirls his cup across the room.

It’s the start of the end-- because you hear Bjorn’s ripping steps behind you. He pants in his heavy steps. You could feel his anger frothing and in fact, you nearly taste it on your tongue barreling past you. The statuesque guards animate to bring up sword and shield but its already too late with Bjorn’s hands digging into his uncle’s tunic, whirling him around off the steps only to toss him across the stone floors.

“Leave him! Get out.” Rollo holds up his hands, feigning as if he had no intention to fight his nephew. Bjorn storms down the steps, fisting Rollo’s lavish tunic with one hand and raising his fist up with the other. The blows collide with his uncle’s face in something subhuman-- as if something had switched off for Bjorn, chucking his uncle to the floor over and over again.

A final punch leaves Rollo bloody and strewn on the floor, but the only reason it was a final punch-- and not just another punch?

“Are you done yet?” You say not the least bit concerned for the old, ex-Viking. Bjorn rolls about, dilated eyes focusing on you waving forward and back, your hands on your hips. Naked and oh, so proud, sitting upon one of the arms of the throne.

You were bating him! He drops Rollo’s collar and stands upright. He’s coming for you-- and the only thing you do? Giggle and run your hands through your lavish long hair. Bjorn barrels up the stairs, huffing in annoyance when you don’t move for a thing but instead, reach out to stroke his cock through his trousers that were wound into ties. He jerks you up from his uncle’s throne and-- in response, you grip the arms of the chair. A hand holds you in place behind your neck. You scrunch your shoulders up, eyes screwing shut tight as the round head of your husband’s cock prods for your hole.

He sinks inside of your soaked hole, dropping his other hand to the back of your neck. You were enjoying this-- the attention from Bjorn in the middle of a now empty throne room. Well, empty but for Rollo rolling up to sit, watching his nephew’s pleasure splashing over Bjorn’s face.

“You’ve forgotten who I am.” Bjorn throws a spiteful look over his shoulder. Rollo staggers up to stand, a look indecipherable to you on his facial expressions when you look over your shoulder. But Bjorn can read it as clear as any man could with a wife that was appealing to the rivaling alpha males. Especially a wife that was an omega, a precious one at that.

Rollo thought himself exceedingly good at the art of artifice, but he wasn’t-- and this was what he had to show from it. His hips drawback, punching out forceful breaths as he draws his hips harder, faster, more intent on christening the crown with his heathen spunk. Rollo watches from afar, your breasts jiggling as he moves. The words flow from his lips, soft and husky as he turns his hooded gaze back to you, the hand on the back of your neck holding you submissively below him on the chair.

“Your father and I shared once,” Rollo says as if its an afterthought. The wrong afterthought as he speaks of Lagertha, his mother. Bjorn knows that much to be true. Bjorn says nothing else, knowing that perhaps Rollo’s idea of sharing might be to keep him in this Frankish hell. No.

“But you’ve forgotten who I am, uncle. I am Bjorn Ironside.” Bjorn barks out, booming the walls of the throne room. The words shoot straight down to your cunt-- causing you to clench him with more purpose, even if at this angle, that almost felt impossible. “I don’t share. Isn’t that right, (Y/N)? Tell him.”

“No.” You disobey him blatantly.

You grit your teeth together, the stubborn little omega that you are doesn’t let you concede to it. He’ll have to work harder if he wants you to say that. Even if you are bent over Rollo’s throne, nails digging curling indentations into the wood with your husband pounding your pussy raw over, and over, and over again.

“Tell him!” He booms.

“Fuck you.” You snap back in quick work of your tongue. Bjorn’s hand snaps back over your ass, giving you a sharp rippling slap for what you said. His large palm leaves a nasty red print, welts sure to last as with every second of your disobedience, you deserve another and then another. Your eyes squeeze tight together and form a ridge of wrinkles, holding out on crying out for him yet again as your pussy throbs around his cock. It’s what Bjorn wants.

“Tell him, wife. Tell him all about whose woman you are.”

He wants your screams to infest this Frankish stronghold-- to spill out of the room and show his prowess. Prince of the Danes, Bjorn Ironside, soon to become king. Your stubbornness pisses him off and despite your eyes straining to focus on the precious cushion, you’re aware of the fact that you’re soaking him in juices. Your muscles quiver as they strain to hold you up upon the chair. At last, a shout falls from your lips, wrenching louder and louder with one of Bjorn’s hands between your legs, leasing your engorged lips in teasing spirals before seeking out the perfect combination to leave your shouts into barely recognizable groans.

The work of his fingers reminds you of the first time you met him by your elder sister Aslaug’s side. Surfacing from the water after a long breath and praying that Ragnar’s men hadn’t seen you-- but Bjorn, Bjorn always saw you. He saw right through your antics and right now, with his dick stretching and filling your pussy with every fuck of his hips, you knew he knew you for just who you were.

“I’m -is, I’m his, I’m his! Bj-- Bjjorn, Bjjjjorn ple-ase!” It doesn’t matter that your words are nonsensical. Only that you’ve said them, and more than that, Rollo hears them with his ale to his lips.

“There you go.” Bjorn leans over you as you descend into the burning white roiling pleasure that claims you. He opens and closes his mouth with sharp puffs as you gush, exalted in your pleasure. You’ve cum without him by far-- but your bear of a husband pants louder and louder with his intent on using you for his pleasure. Nevermind that your clit felt raw from your orgasm. It didn’t take long, or rather, it didn’t feel like it did with his thick muscles shifting against your back. He plunges deep, filling you with his seed while his forehead rests against your back, cringing the whole way through. You pray that he wouldn’t pop a knot this time because the humiliation would be thick.

No such luck.

Rollo sits drinking his ale, waiting for his nephew’s knot to go down. As soon as it does, Bjorn tucks himself away and jerks you to stand back up.

“Get your dress.” He demands.

“She can take the new one,” Rollo says from down the stairs. “It’s fit for a queen.”

Bjorn says nothing as your dress in silk and a sheer overlay, clinging to his arm dressed in Frankish jewels. Then, he extends his hand out to you.

“Come shieldmaiden. We’ll see Rollo on the boat.” He says, dragging your arm closer to him. You glance after your shoulder, waving playfully to him. This time, however, Bjorn tugs your arm close to his chest. He leans in before speaking. “If you ever try and leave my bed again, I’ll tie you to it.”

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[chinatea]

Ian/BG, royal abo au, a side story to SG/Di royal au. Takes place shortly after BG arrived at Snow Castle for the first time. 

Warning: omega pussy up ahead.

Jiyeon. Is. Livid.

As in angry-sparks-crackling-in-the-air livid. 

Last time he was so mad was when some dusty alpha lord back home thought it would be a good idea to pull him onto his lap for a laugh and live to see another day.

He thought wrong.

If there is one thing that Jiyeon won’t stand for, it’s disrespect. He’s a prince. A royalty. The monarch-to-be. And he’d be damned if he ever had to take lip from anyone, be it his own damn mate, let alone some lousy keeper of the royal chambers.

Not that the wretched thing had the nerve to run his filthy mouth in Jiyeon's presence, of course. That Jiyeon might even have respected, the outrageous audacity of it - would still flay him alive, of course, but respectfully. 

But no. Jiyeon just happened to overhear a conversation between a couple of mouthy attendants. The attendants were immediately questioned. Vigorously so. Apparently the conniving bitch hated his guts. For reasons as old as the world itself, no less - Ian just happened to take him to bed that one time...

Years ago. 

And suddenly, everything fell into place. All those unfortunate accidents that seemed to hound Jiyeon’s new life in the castle. Very naughty indeed. But as long as Jiyeon is concerned, the only person who is allowed being naughty here is him. 

No one else.

He doesn’t bother knocking as he simply invites himself into Ian’s chambers. He’s slightly peeved at the alpha, too. Not because he had lovers in the past - gods know, Jiyeon hadn’t been a saint either - however, for some reason, Ian thought it perfectly acceptable to put one of his little flings in charge of Jiyeon’s comforts and now his dearest alpha is going to hear all about how utterly moronic, in Jiyeon's opinion, that decision was.

Only Ian isn’t in his chamber when Jiyeon arrives, eyes furious and hair wild, static electricity zipping through the air. 

Jiyeon huffs, pacing in circles until he finally finds an armchair to squeeze his bottom into, arms crossed and eyebrows drown in a frown. He’s deeply upset but also tuckered out. He’s been running circles around the castle for the past two hours, upending the whole castle in search of that traitor, and he’d be damned if he spends another hour in the same fashion. Better to stay put and sooner or later, Ian’s bound to come looking for him anyway.

His anger gradually lets up as minutes pass and before he knows it, he has his eyes trained firmly on Ian’s bed. Matted onyx base hovering in the air with dark gossamer veil for privacy. The sheets glint silky and inviting in the light of many candles.

A moment later, a wicked idea has fully consumed his mind as Jiyeon rises back onto his feet, fingers working on the buttons of his lavish gown, letting it slide down his lithe body and swarm around his ankles. He steps over it gingerly, palms running up his bare arms - the chill nips at his skin and Jiyeon shivers, but not just from the draught in the room - he's impishly thrilled.

For a moment, Jiyeon forgets all about manners or his status: that he’s a prince and there is a strict etiquette to adhere to before invading an alpha's bed. For a moment, Jiyeon sinks right back into the mindset of a little devil that has been playing the game for too damn long to be beaten at it by some prissy little wretch.

The sheets are chilly when he climbs in, clinging to his skin like morning frost. Jiyeon curls into a ball and rubs his palms together, casting a little warming spell that Ian taught him a few days ago. It’s still finicky but it does the trick of keeping him nice and comfortable under the covers.

In fact, it’s so nice he barely notices when he falls under, soothed by the pleasant warmth and gentle rocking of the bed from side to side. Ian’s bed feels princely and Jiyeon doesn’t think he'd ever want to leave - his own bed pales in comparison, an icky little cot. 

(And now Jiyeon is fully aware who he has to thank for that.)

Jiyeon has no idea how much time has passed, whether it’s been an eternity or less, but what he learns upon waking up is that - he’s not alone in the room any longer. Also, Ian looks younger than he’s surprised. 

Jiyeon takes his time stretching his limbs, not at all bothered by his alpha's heavy gaze on him, devouring every inch of skin presented. Jiyeon stifles a giggle, pulling the covers up in a belated attempt to preserve his modesty. His drawn up knee stays strategically untucked to further titillate his alpha with the view - innocent yet lewd. His body is a marvel, nurtured in the sweet richness of the southern magic and pampered to perfection. His alpha should be in awe. And he is…

He is. 

“You’re...here,” Ian says, voice barely above a raspy growl as his eyes wander. It’s heated. And the pit of Jiyeon’s belly stirs in response, awakened by the thick desire sipping into his alpha’s gaze. 

His slit is greedy and selfish, it’d push him to do anything to catch his alpha’s attention, to seek his approval and gain pleasure from his touch. His slit is also bloody stupid but for now Jiyeon allows himself to melt into it, his natural instinct to please - Ian is his mate, if not him, then who.

“Your bed just looked so comfortable,” Jiyeon murmurs, tipping his chin down in a demure gesture that alphas find extremely pleasing. “I couldn’t help myself, alpha.”

He knows very well that what he did was naughty, intruding into the alpha’s private space like that - they haven’t been intimate yet, with the exception of kissing and groping and such. By all accounts, he is asking for trouble, but Jiyeon can sense when an alpha wants him - and Ian, Yannie, doesn’t just want him, he adores him.  

“Whatever I’m going to do with you,” Ian sighs, picking Jiyeon’s gown off the floor and burying his nose it, taking in the scent, eyes locked with Jiyeon’s. 

It’s desperate and raw, the sexual tension between them. A needy sound trills at the back of Jiyeon’s throat. His omega whines to present himself, open and wide and lewd, to beg for Ian’s mouth. It’s been so long since he had anyone give him what he needs, but this time…

This time, he knows it’s more than just that - Ian is getting to him, stirs his blood and it messes with his head. Jiyeon hasn’t been the same when they’re around each other.

“I don’t know, alpha, show me,” Jiyeon aims for a flippant giggle, but it comes out more akin to a whimper. His lips tremble, fingers gripping around the silk. His slit throbs - he wants him so much.

“Please.”

A floral tattoo is wrapping around Jiyeon’s thigh, starting at his ankle as a single sprout and flourishing into a bouquet of swirls, petals and colors. Ian traces it gently, gaze transfixed on the elaborate design, the way it transforms under his fingertips, responding to his touch. 

Tattoos like that have a special purpose in Jiyeon’s family. Infused with powerful magic, they act as sigils to protect, heal and nourish. Everyone in his family has one of their own with a unique design that matches the frequency of their soul. It’s ill-advised to let others see it, let alone touch it, but exceptions are made for close family and mates. And Jiyeon has been careful to save that part of himself for his husband - let him be the first to see it, caress it, kiss it silly. 

“Yannie,” Jiyeon calls, voice breathless, as he reaches out for the alpha, tugging at his clothes. “Want to feel you, skin to skin.”

And Ian doesn’t have to be asked twice. He pulls his loose shirt off his body, hard muscles of his stomach rippling under the skin and Jiyeon whimpers, wanting to touch and kiss and nuzzle his way down to the real prize - his husband’s cock. He’s a little cockslut, has always been, most omegas are - but Ian’s cock is a fucking masterpiece and Jiyeon wants to lick every inch of it before taking it inside his dripping slit, fuck himself into stupor, just let himself loose. 

Gods know, some days that’s the only thing he ever wants.

Jiyeon falls back onto the pillows, marveling at the sight of his husband as everything inside of him is pulsing with need. Sweet scent of his arousal is cloying in the air, so heavy and thick he thinks he can grasp at it, smear it between his palms.

Ian, as bare now as he is, crawls over him, caging him in with his body, skin to skin. Jiyeon purrs, pressing a kiss to his neck. One of his hands rests on Ian’s shoulder before trickling down to feel up the tense form of his triceps, bulging with effort as Ian has to prop himself up to not crush Jiyeon completely. The tangible proof of how strong his alpha is, strong enough to submit Jiyeon to his will if he wanted to, sends his omega into a toe-curling glee - something that Jiyeon has always hated about his nature, although, if anything, he’s the one with the ability to hurt the other because Ian is so helplessly in love with him, his heart might as well be in Jiyeon’s hands.

It’s his luck that Jiyeon is just as mad about him, too. 

“How beautiful, utterly breathtaking you are, my prince,” Ian says intimately, breath caressing his ear. 

His hand is firmly placed at Jiyeon’s hip, thumb circling over a scattering of soft blossoms there - it’s nice and sweet, but Jiyeon wants more. Wants to grind over Ian’s cock, rubbing his heat over the sheer girth of it, make it all wet with his slick. He won’t be able to take it in, not just yet, but he’s tired of waiting. He needs something to happen now, he needs a release - needs to know what it’s like to feel his mate rub himself over his slit and paint it with his seed. If he can’t have it inside him, he wants it all over him, tasting it on his tongue, too.

“Yannie, please,” he says as he grabs at Ian’s hand holding his hip and brings it up to wrap his full lips around the thumb, giving it a nice wet suck, letting out a low moan as the ache between his legs transforms into an incessant buzz inside his head. He wiggles his hips and whines - a raw guttural sound of need.

“So impatient,” Ian chuckles, tone light but gaze completely overtaken by red - Jiyeon can feel his cock lay heavy between their groins, the thick shaft cradled between the folds of his slit, the fucking tease. 

They kiss. And kiss and kiss again until Jiyeon can’t take it anymore, his hand sneaking between his thighs - Ian pins it down, eyes flashing blood. 

“No,” he warns.

Jiyeon watches him, wide-eyed, heart in his mouth. Slowly Ian leans to kiss him again, under his jaw, then above his clavicle, mapping his way down his body, open and trembling under his lips. Then, finally a puff of breath caresses his slit - it clenches in response - Jiyeon rolling back his eyes in pleasure as Ian runs a thumb over it, parting the wet folds, smearing more slick along with it. Making a little mess - Jiyeon throws his head back, failing to bite back a moan. It feels like an eternity since he’d been touched that way by someone other than himself, his own touch so dull in comparison, lacking in so many ways - his body was made to be fondled and touched and fucked by someone else, the love of his fucking life. By Ian.

“Goddess, I want you,” Jiyeon mutters. “Want you so much. Your mouth, please. Please, please, please. Yannie.”

“So naughty, darling,” Ian says, rising up to press a wet kiss to Jiyeon’s parted lips, tongue slipping inside, it’s full of raw unbridled emotion, their kiss. All the while Ian keeps stroking his slit, tips snagging at his hole, teasing around the rim - a sweet torture, but torture nevertheless. 

And Jiyeon’s just about had enough of it.

“Make me cum, alpha. Make me scream,” Jiyeon whispers, fingers digging into Ian’s neck. “Show me just how well alphas from the North fuck their omegas.”

“Anything for you, blossom,” Ian grins into his mouth, their final kiss before Ian grips around his hips, holding him down, and dives in.

They spend the rest of the day in bed, soaking in each other's scent.

Jiyeon is thoroughly tuckered out, but sated and blissed out, purring like a happy cat, curled against Ian’s form. The alpha is caressing his back, gentle fingers tracing the shimmering swirls of his tattoo, as they share kiss after kiss, sweet and mellow. 

The events this morning, his ire, seem like a distant memory now. Cradled by all this coziness, the last thing he wants is to bring that wretch up and let him indirectly ruin the afterglow. 

"I owe you an apology, petal," Ian says, out of the blue. 

Jiyeon looks up from where he’s sprawled on top of Ian, propping his chin on the back of his palm. 

“You do?”

Ian cards back loose strands of his hair, mussed up from their activities, a look of utter adoration in his eyes. 

“I know about what happened,” he confesses. “Forgive me. I should have known.”

“So you do realize how ludicrous it was that you put one of your past flings in my attendance?”

Jiyeon doesn’t mean to sound sour, doesn’t want to spoil the idyllic mood - it’s not even that he’s upset with Ian, definitely not after Ian gave him so many orgasms he stopped counting at some point, but the whole thing has left him feeling a bit stupid. Like a laughing stock in the eyes of the whole castle.

Ian’s gaze softens further. He moves them together so Jiyeon can nuzzle into his neck, seeking comfort, as Ian kisses the crown of his head, warms hands holding him close. 

“I am sorry, darling. It was years ago, back when I was careless and stupid, and I know it can’t excuse my oversight, but if there is any doubt how much you mean to me, how much your comfort means to me...”

“No,” Jiyeon stops him, kissing his chin. “There is no doubt, alpha. You take good care of me. I couldn’t wish for a more devoted husband, love.”

He follows with another kiss, seeking Ian’s mouth, kissing him wet and deep. Rolling on top of him in the process because from now on staying away will be one of the hardest things in his life.

“Although, you’re still very naive when it comes to omegas, aren’t you?" Jiyeon teases him after they part, smothering a giggle against Ian’s neck. 

"So many things I still need to teach you, alpha.”

Ian retaliates with a low rumble at the back of his throat as he flips them again, rolling on top of his omega, a knee nudging between Jiyeon’s legs, spreading him open all over again - Jiyeon’s breath catches in his throat, heart thumping in his chest, a heady rush of alpha pheromones clings to his skin. Ian grins down at him, a thumb running under Jiyeon’s bottom lip. He says,

“I am eager to learn, blossom.”

----

Extras:

> In the North, the crown is passed down from omega to omega, so it's BG who'll be crowned Omega King in the future. Ian will be conferred the title of Prince Consort General. But it's not as if Ian is subordinate to Jiyeon. Those are just titles. De facto, they will rule together. 

> According to the Northern tradition, BG and Ian must sleep in separate rooms until the first heat they spend together, consummating their bond. But BG was like, fuck that shit and moved into Ian's room anyway - it's not like anyone was going to tell him otherwise. 

> Since BG was still a virgin, technically speaking, as his slit had yet been broken, they had to wait until BG's heat to go all the way, otherwise the experience would be too painful for him.

That's all for now, folks.

[melonkooky]

butterflies [kim taehyung]

requested

word count: 3869

genre: fluff, highschool!au

author’s note: ahh this was so cute and fun to write. i also did not run through to check for spelling or anything so sorry about that. prompts: 16. “you know i’d do anything for you.” 17. “are you hurt?”

please do not copy my work. but please like and reblog it. thank you!!!!

kim taehyung was one of the most popular boys at school, or rather he was the most popular boy at school. he was part of a known group of friends who deemed themselves bts. a few years ago, when their youngest member jungkook joined their little group, they claimed that their name stood for bulletproof boy scouts. people thought it was cool at the time, but now that everyone had grew and matured, it didn’t sound as cool now. so they changed it to beyond the scene, whatever that meant. perhaps it was secret between them, a little inside joke or special meaning. it didn’t really matter to you, however, because you never really had an interest in them, unlike every other student.

you were more on the quiet side, especially in your group of three friends. you were sweet and positive, and you didn’t understand the point of obsessing over the hottest boys in school. you more focused on your life, and getting through the school year. this year has taken its toll on you, that’s for sure.

the moment everything changed was when you were simply leaving the classroom after a long, dreadful lecture on why students should pay attention in class. well, it was hard to pay attention when the teacher���s voice was so enthusiastic and monotonous to the point where it could lure the entire room of students into a deep sleep. you stood up from your seat, thankful that mr. kim’s class was your last class of the day, so after that exhausting class you were free to go home. you stretched your legs and back before putting things into your backpack, swinging it onto your shoulders. you were the last one to leave the class unfortunately, because you were taking your time.

just as you were walking towards the door, it flew open. luckily the door wasn’t metal, and it wasn’t too thick either. but it still hit your right in the face, specifically your nose. you let out a pained squeal, your hands flying up to your nose as you felt something wet trickle down your nose. your nose ached, causing tears to spring in your eyes.

“oh my god, oh my god, oh my god!” you heard a rather deep voice squeal in surprise. “i’m so sorry! i didn’t see you there. are you hurt?”

as you cupped your nose, you felt warm hands gingerly touch your own hands. you forced yourself to bear with the pain and pried open your eyes, finding a familiar boy standing in front of you. he was taller than you, slightly surprising you. but you guess that only seeing him from afar has caused you to misjudge his height. you stared into his dark, worried eyes, as he frantically tried to think of a way to help you. “o-oh.” was all you managed to squeak out.

“tilt your head forward, don’t tilt it back.” he instructed.

you hesitated before following his instruction. you have never had a nosebleed before, but kim taehyung must have or have experienced someone else with one if he knew the procedure for it. he gently placed a hand on your shoulder, “let’s take you to the bathroom before it gets worse.”

taehyung led the way down the hall, making sure not to run into anybody. luckily, the hallways were clearing out as people started going home. taehyung led you to the girl’s restroom. he opened the door for you, but didn’t dare to go inside. you stared ahead, feeling your head begin to pound.

“get some tissues or something and hold it up to your nose. don’t forget to pinch the bridge of your nose.”

you followed his instructions, finding a paper towel from a dispenser and held it up to your nose. you gently pinched your nose, keeping your head tilted forward. “like this?” you asked.

“yeah, now just hold it. it should stop shortly.”

you walked over to taehyung, a red tint forming in your cheeks. you sighed, which sounded quite nasally due to you pinching your nose. “thank you.”

he smiled sheepishly. “i feel so bad. i didn’t know someone was there. i’m so sorry.”

you laughed a bit. “it’s okay, really. it was just an accident.”

taehyung nodded, staring at you. “do you want me to stay with you or…” he paused.

you shrugged. “whatever you want to do.”

he blushed, “alright, i’ll stay here.”

after a few minutes, you checked to see if your nose as stopped bleeding. it had. you immediately threw away the bloodied napkin before thoroughly washing your hands with soap and water in the sink. once you were finished, you stepped outside, finding that taehyung was waiting for you. you were slightly shocked, and wondered why he was still here. “where’s your group of friends?” you asked, adjusting your backpack.

“they went ahead to some place to eat.”

you nodded. “why didn’t you go with them?”

he chuckled shyly. “i left my phone in that classroom.”

“ah,” you said understandingly. “well, i’ll help you look for it, since you helped me with my nose.”

taehyung nodded and began to walk to the classroom. you walked alongside of him. “does it hurt still?” he asked.

you shrugged. “not as bad as before.” you gingerly touched your nose. you looked at taehyung. “is it still red.”

taehyung winced a bit, before holding his hand up, the tip of his index finger close to touching his thumb, “just a bit.”

you and taehyung arrived at the classroom. he held up the door for you as you walked inside. “where’s your seat?” you asked him.

he pointed to the very back row, closest to the windows. “there.”

you walked over in that direction. taehyung wandered nearby as he searched the desks for his phone. you checked his desk, then bent down to look under his seat. you hummed, “i don’t see anything.”

taehyung was about to agree with you, until he did find his phone. “ah-ha!” you exclaimed.

you stood up and watched as he bent down and picked up his phone, holding it up. he laughed. “this is jimin’s seat. me and jimin compared out pinkies earlier and he got mad that his was so small, so i guess he thought stealing my phone would do him some good.”

you laughed. “such a petty move. and he then forgot that he did that.”

taehyung nodded. “well, thank you for helping.”

“of course, and thank you so much for helping me.”

“well, i’ll see you later then.”

you waved at taehyung as he slipped out of the classroom. you released a sigh as soon as he disappeared. “what a day.”

----

the next day, you walked into school. unfortunately, your nose still ached slightly and felt bruised from the accident yesterday. luckily for you, your nose looked normal, so you wouldn’t feel like a clown with a big red nose as you walked around.

you approached your two friends, “sup, ladies.”

they turned, “oh, y/n. are you okay?”

you stared at them questioningly. you hadn’t told them about yesterday. in fact you were planning on telling them soon, or now. “yeah, i’m fine.” you replied quite confused. “but how do you guys know? i haven’t told you anything yet.”

they laughed. “everyone knows about it. yesterday a few people saw taehyung helping you, even assisting you to the girl’s bathroom.”

they wiggled their eyebrows in a suggestive manner. you shook your head, rolling your eyes and turning around.

“wait, y/n.” sohee, one of your friends, called as you began to walk in the opposite direction.

you felt someone cling onto your arm. “we’re sorry, y/n.” minnie begged, “we didn’t mean to annoy you.”

she had raised her voice, trying to use the rather effective tactic of aegyo. you couldn’t help but smile. “nothing happened. i simply got a bloody nose. that’s all.”

“if you say so.” sohee replied.

you nodded. “i also helped him find his phone yesterday. but that’s it!”

minnie laughed.

as you walked in between sohee and minnie, you heard a loud sound of laughter. you turned out of curiosity to find bts under a tree right next to the school entrance. it was a spring day, so the weather was warm. they were probably under the tree for some shade before class started. however, you didn’t think anything of it. you saw them laughing with each other and messing around, and then continued to look at all the other students.

you truly loved spring. and with your friends on either side of you, you felt that today was a good day.

you felt sohee slap your arm excitedly. “y/n, y/n, y/n.” she repeated rapidly.

“what?”

you followed her gaze to find kim taehyung walking in your direction. you sighed, turning to sohee, “will you calm down please?”

honestly, you didn’t know how to act as taehyung walked towards you. was he even walking towards you. was there something or someone else behind you. you didn’t have to overthink for long, before taehyung was standing in front of you with a shy smile. “hey.” he greeted, looking at you with squinted eyes due to the bright shine of the sun ahead.

you felt minnie squeeze your arm. you wondered if you would lose circulation in a few minutes. “hey.” you replied.

“i was thinking just now, and i realized i didn’t catch your name.”

you blushed slightly. “o-oh.”

“we’re going to go one ahead and get to class.” minnie suddenly said.

“yeah, we’ll save you a seat.” sohee smiled before her and minnie left you alone with kim taehyung.

you laughed nervously. “they’re so weird.”

taehyung smiled. “so, what’s your name?”

“y-y/n.” why were you so nervous suddenly?

“y/n.” he repeated, which actually caused your stomach to flip nervously. why was he causing you to feel this way.

“you’re kim taehyung.” you said.

the smiley boy nodded. “yes, i am.”

you smiled and nodded, feeling a blanket of awkwardness fall over you and taehyung.

“how does your nose feel today?” he asked.

you shrugged. “it’s better, it still hurts though, more when i touch it.”

taehyung nodded. “i was thinking, do you want to hang out sometime?”

you felt your cheeks grow hot, and this time not from the sun. no, this wasn’t a sunburn. you were blushing. “you want to hangout with me?”

taehyung’s smile grew wider. his own cheeks were reddening. he was obviously as nervous as you. “yeah. i still feel bad about hitting you with the door.”

you laughed. “you don’t have to feel bad.” you paused, “but, i think that would be fun.”

his eyes lit up. “really?”

you nodded. taehyung grinned. “okay, can i have your number? that way i can text you later.”

you cleared your throat as you reached for your own phone. “y-yeah.”

so, you and taehyung exchanged phone numbers. afterwards, he hurried away, practically skipping over to the rest of his friends. you realized that they must have been watching the entire time, and suddenly you felt the need to scream and jump. you rushed inside to hide yourself from taehyung. you hurried into your first class, finding sohee and minnie immediately. “guys!” you yelled quite loudly.

you hurried over to them as they waited for you to sit next to them. “what happened?” minnie demanded.

you sunk down into your seat. you could feel the throbbing of you heart as it beat quite fastly. you felt the feeling of butterflies in your stomach. you took a deep breath, pausing for a dramatic effect. “i got his phone number.”

your friend squealed as they crushed you in a hug. “oh my god! y/n, you’re really changing. before, you didn’t care for any of those boys. but if i know any better, you are in love with one of them.” minnie explained.

you glared at her. “yah! we’re just friends.”

sohee narrowed her eyes, “really?”

you blushed. “although, i might be lying to myself…”

----

things between you and taehyung escalated from there. you and him learned a lot about each other. over a period of time, you and him grew closer.

right now, school was on break, meaning that there were two weeks of no school. you planned on hanging out with sohee and minnie, obviously. but most of your plans were with taehyung. he was a fun person in general, and he was naturally creative. he was always able to come up with something fun for you and him to do.

it was a few days into break. you were laying in your bed, fast asleep. or you were at least trying to sleep. your phone was going off like crazy. with a heavy sigh, you reached over and grabbed your phone, unplugging the device from the charger. with an annoyed sigh, you opened your phone and opened up the messaging app. soon enough, you found that all fifteen messages were from kim taehyung. seeing his name, you didn’t feel as annoyed. although it was a little excessive, you couldn’t help but laugh. all his messages were like ‘y/n’, ‘hey’, ‘are you awake?’. he was just trying to get your attention.

you typed, “i’m up.”

immediately, as soon as your message was marked as read, his name flashed on your screen as he called you. you shook your head, “this dork. hello.”

“y/n. are you busy today?”

you hummed in thought, mentally going through your day. “nope.” you replied.

taehyung yelled. “great! we’re going to the amusement park today.”

you smiled happily. “alright. what time do we plan on going?”

“uh, maybe later in the evening. let’s say five o’clock.”

“so late. what am supposed to do all day?” you joked.

taehyung laughed. “there’s lots of things you can do. i’m going to hang out with jungkook and jimin today.”

“oh, that sounds nice. so then i’ll see you at five?”

“yeah. i’ll pick you up.”

“okay, have fun.”

“i will. bye, y/n!”

you blushed, “bye, taehyung!” and you hung up.

you sighed. you were excited for the amusement park. you loved to go during the warmer seasons, and you were happy to be going with taehyung. but it was at five. you turned on your phone screen. it was 9:37 in the morning. that meant you had approximately eight hours to kill until you had to leave. you were too excited. today was going to be a bit rough.

eight hours later, after a new drama was watched, you checked your phone for the nth time. it was almost four o’clock. you smiled, “i can take a quick shower and get ready to go.” you mumbled to yourself.

you turned off the television and hurried into your bedroom. you grabbed a change of clothes. it was something you wanted to wear. the outfit was cute, and perfect for a date like this one. was it even a date? you wondered. taehyung didn’t say anything, but it is not like it has to be said. you blushed and took your outfit into the bathroom. you stripped and hopped into the shower.

afterwards, you put on your outfit and began drying your hair and styling it. you put on makeup, but not a lot. once you were satisfied with your look, you checked the time. it was 4:12. so close, yet so far. you sighed as you felt the feeling of butterflies, once again, in your gut. it had became a natural feeling for you. and it was always caused by taehyung. you were falling in love with him, and getting close to him. you wondered if he liked you the same way. the only issue was, taehyung was naturally friendly. it didn’t matter who the person was, he was nice and outgoing with them, and always was polite. he acted that way around you, but sometimes there were moments when his actions or words got you thinking.

you walked back into your bedroom for a pair of shoes and a small bag that could hold your phone and other essentials. once you were ready to do, you sat down on the couch and waited. while you were waiting, your mom came home. “oh, hey dear. you look nice.”

you smiled, “hi mom.”

“what’s the occasion?” she asked.

“i’m going out with taehyung.” you smiled subconsciously. “we’re going to the amusement park.”

your mother smiled as she looked at you. “alright then. have fun, and be safe.” she reminded sternly. “don’t do anything i wouldn’t do.”

you laughed. “always.”

then your mom disappeared into the kitchen. you sighed. the anticipation was becoming unbearable. you were beginning to feel restless and antsy. you started to think about all the places you have gone to with taehyung, and all the things you and him had done together.

the very first date, as you counted it as, was the day after he had hit your face with a door. he had paid for a small, casual meal at a cafe. he apologized to you, and began asking your questions about yourself.

a few days later, he texted you, asking about which movie you wanted to see. however, you named a movie you knew taehyung would like.

a few a days after that one, you and taehyung went on a picnic. you cooked most of the food but taehyung tried to contribute, before admitting that his mom had helped it when he mentioned you. that when you knew, you were lying to yourself, that you were in fact in love with taehyung.

your memories were interrupted with your phone buzzing in your hands. you lifted your phone up, seeing that taehyung had texted you. “i’m here.”

you jumped off the couch and hurried to the front door. you slipped on your shoes and adjusted anything else that you felt needed adjusting. then you opened the door, and looked outside. you spotted a car parked in the front. you recognized it as taehyung’s car. you closed the door behind you and practically skipped down the steps. you opened the passenger door and slid into the seat.

“that was fast.” taehyung said.

you laughed as you put on your seatbelt. “that’s because i am excited.”

taehyung smiled before pulling away from the curb and continuing to drive down the street. he had the radio on with some recent pop songs playing. you and him happily sang along on the way to the amusement park.

once taehyung arrived and pulled into a close parking spot. you and him got out and together you walked towards the ticket booth. you pulled out your wallet to pay for your own ticket but taehyung was already handing the employee his card, an innocent smile on his face as you begrudgingly put away your wallet. he grabbed the two wristbands, which gave the both of you unlimited access to the rides. upon entering the park, he put the wristband on your wrist, making sure it wasn’t too tight. then, you did the same for him.

“alright,” the man beside you began, “what’s first?”

“should we try all of them?”

taehyung shrugged. “i have to tell you something first.”

you looked at him as he spoke. “i’m afraid of heights.”

you grinned. “ah, it’s okay. i’ll be right beside you if you get scared.”

taehyung winced. “i can watch you go on the high ones.”

you shook your head and hooked your arm with him. “you suggested this. you should try it at least.”

you began to walk to the first ride. luckily it wasn’t too high for taehyung.

two hours passed. during that time, you and taehyung went on a ton of rollercoasters. also, you and him stopped for some snacks and sweets. (while taehyung was in the bathroom, you sneakily switched flavors of cotton candy. of course he noticed though because yours was pink and his was blue. but he laughed it off). he also wanted to play games and win some things. he won two keychains that just so happened to match, almost like a friendship bracelet or necklace. you suspect the person who ran the booth, because you were certain that the keychain was a couple’s keychain. taehyung now had one half of the heart, and you had the other half. taehyung had also won you a purple bear at one of the games. you loved the bear.

“well, y/n. there’s one more to go on.”

you cuddled your bear as you walked alongside of taehyung. “which one is it?”

“the ferris wheel.”

you looked at him. “but taehyung, you’re scared of heights.”

he shrugged. “i’ll be fine. i promise.”

you were a bit skeptical, but you followed taehyung towards the ferris wheel line. a few minutes later, you and taehyung were getting on. you and him buckled the seatbelt as the worker locked the bar in front of you to ensure that no one falls out. you were a little nervous yourself. not only was it because of the height of the ferris wheel, and not only was it because taehyung seemed nervous, you also felt that something was going to happen. sitting next to taehyung, you could feel the butterflies again. this time, they kinda overwhelmed you. “hey, tae, if you’re uncomfortable, i can yell for them to bring us down.” you said, less of a joke and more of a serious statement.

taehyung turned to you and smiled. “i’m fine. just wait.”

your eyebrows knitted in a hint of confusion, but you waited. soon, the ferris wheel stopped, most likely to let someone else get off and on. it was a coincidence that you and taehyung were now on the top, and you could get a perfect few of the sunset. “wow.” you mumbled at you squinted at the sun peeking over the city of seoul. “the sky is purple.” you commented.

taehyung laughed quietly. “i have to tell you something, y/n.”

you turned your attention away from the beauty of the sunset to look at taehyung. he was smiling so warmly at you. and he was staring at you with such intensity and focus that you froze. “listen to me, okay? you know that i’d do anything for you, right?”

you blushed and looked down at your feet, your hands moving to touch the bear that sat in your lap. you turned to taehyung again. your mind was swarming with thoughts, and those butterflies… damn those butterflies were driving you crazy. before you knew it, you were kissing taehyung. and what was more shocking was that he was kissing you back. his lips were so soft, you could feel that against your own.

your mind was now clouded with taehyung, he was what you were focusing on. in fact, you didn’t even realize that the ferris wheel was moving until you pulled away from taehyung and felt a slight breeze of wind against your skin. both you and taehyung blushed, but taehyung was smiling widely. “perfect.”

you smiled and continued to mess with your bear. “was this your plan?” you asked.

taehyung nodded. “did you like it?”

you looked at him, “i loved it.”