#rather than having a tankard of ale in his hand at every opportunity

[just-here-with-my-thoughts]

I just want Erend to believe in himself

Erend seems to have so little self confidence, and I just want to scoop him up and hug him and tell him it’s okay we all need you and you’re doing a great job!

I’ve loved Erend since the first game, not as a romantic option for Aloy (although he clearly has feelings for her) but he is so ready to support her no matter what.

So it breaks my heart to talk to him in the Base and he is like ‘oh yeah well I guess I’ll try and learn this stuff, not sure if I can really do anything to help though’

And it’s like EREND

YOU ARE EVERYTHING TO ME

I just want him to believe in himself ;_;

[julek]

my kingdom for a kiss (upon your shoulder)

read on ao3 | rated T | 6.2K | no warnings | for @asweetprologue <3

The sun shines soft in Toussaint.

Geralt can’t remember whether it’s always been like that — if the golden tint that falls over the city as gently as wind-blown petals is genuine or just a product of his imagination. Spring isn’t in full bloom yet, timid flowers peeking at him from the side of the road, proud birds carrying twigs and feathers to their newly-made nests, the tree branches still cold after the last snow.

They’re not far from the main square, their pace steady and unhurried since they set out to Beauclair in the morning. The midday commotion fills Geralt’s senses, spices and bread and frantic conversations making him shake his head in discomfort — busy cities always take a while to grow used to; thankfully, he never stays long.

Next to him, Jaskier sneezes.

“This weather, I tell you—” he starts, but gets immediately cut off by another dainty, kitten-like sneeze. He wipes his nose on his sleeve, then makes a face at it. “Be the death of me.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “It’ll take more than pollen to take you, I fear.”

“It doesn’t stand a chance against me,” he says, and strikes a pose, like one of the heroes in the silly novels he insists on buying, but the puffy eyes and red nose dampens it a bit. He doesn’t seem deterred, though. “Besides, I wouldn’t let pollen, of all things, keep me from performing at tonight’s ball.”

Geralt hums, flicking a fly off Roach’s mane. They were in Spalla when Jaskier was approached by a passing servant and asked to partake in some baron Geralt couldn’t care enough to retain the name of’s early spring ball — naturally, Jaskier had jumped at the invitation, eager to be among the distinguished crowds that frequent such events, even more so after a long winter tucked away at Oxenfurt.

“By the way,” Jaskier says, picking an inexistent piece of lint off his doublet, aiming for casual even though he knows Geralt can hear the curious lilt to his voice, “will you be attending tonight?”

“I might not make it in time,” he says truthfully. He rubs his thumb over the contract he’s holding in his free hand, the sharp edges digging into his skin. “I will hunt this afternoon.”

Jaskier nods. “Well,” he says, his voice soft as he bumps his shoulder against Geralt’s. “You’re welcome there. I’ll vouch for you, you know.”

Geralt smiles at him solemnly — then bumps him back, laughing when the bard accidentally crashes into an old woman perusing the wares of a silver-tongued merchant.

“Geralt!” Jaskier says indignantly, smoothing out his doublet and shooting the woman a sideways glance that’s more annoyed than apologetic. “You can’t just push people.”

“Apologies,” Geralt says, not sounding sorry at all. “My balance seems to be off, lately. You know how it is.”

“With your old age, yes,” Jaskier says and pats his arm sympathetically. “I fear you’re showing signs of decay already.”

“Hmm?”

“Oh, yes.” Jaskier takes his arm and loops it through his, a steadying hand at his back. “Your gait is off— look, even Roach looks concerned for your wellbeing.”

Roach looks unfazed.

“And all the lines on your face!” Jaskier gasps in mock-horror. “My, Geralt, we should take you to a healer. Perhaps you’ve been cursed— There! Those dreadful frown lines you sport, old friend… Have you considered retirement? I hear there are great Witcher-friendly settlements in this area, and— hey!”

Geralt smirks as Jaskier rubs the side of his head where Geralt’s innocent and weary hand slapped it. He can see the worn-down sign of the inn he favors when they’re in the city a few steps ahead, can already taste the fresh ale on his mouth.

“Whoops,” he says, trying to school his features into something that isn’t a smug smile. “Seems I’m losing control of my limbs, too.”

+

The Rose and Thorn is as it has ever been. Clean wooden floorboards that creak as they walk in, the blossoming vine hanging over the kitchen door, the innkeeper’s old dog napping in a spot of sunlight pouring in through the window.

It’s good.

Geralt likes routine. He thrives on it. He likes familiar faces and comforting smells and the sound of pans and pots banging together as the cook murmurs a string of expletives that would be considered indecorous on a lady’s mouth. He likes knowing where he stands, likes the well-loved booths and the tankards that are cracked around the edges, the face of an unruly lion faded on the ceramic. He’s pleased with the way the innkeeper’s eyes crinkle with recognition as she nods at him and Jaskier, as she wordlessly takes his coin and points her head in direction of the room he always takes.

They move upstairs, Jaskier’s lutecase hitting the narrow walls as Geralt pushes the door open. The room is simple — two beds and a small table under the tall window, light pouring in through the thin linen curtains. He sets his bag on one of the beds — the closest to the door — and puts his sheathed swords next to it before allowing himself a moment to sit and wind down.

“I’d say lunch is in order, don’t you think?” Jaskier says after a while, even though his words are muffled by the pillow he’d thrown himself face-down onto and he doesn’t seem to be moving any time soon. “I’m aching for something other than apples and jerky, if I’m honest.”

Geralt’s stomach rumbles in agreement. “Too coarse for your fine palate, bard?” He teases.

“Never,” Jaskier says, lifting an accusatory finger at where he supposes Geralt is sitting. Then, because it isn’t as dramatic as it should’ve been, he rolls over, facing Geralt, his hair sticking up at odd places and his face flushed a pretty shade of pink. “I’m well used to all kinds of provisions, but the soul wishes for something a little bit more substantial every once in a while.”

“Hmm,” Geralt concedes. He laces up his left boot tighter than the right one and stands. “Let’s go, then, man of substance.”

Jaskier grins up at him, bright and easy, and leaps out of the bed so fast the wind gets knocked out of him.

Downstairs at the bar, there are steaming bowls of pottage being sent to the patrons that are starting to overflow the room, bread and cheese abundant at every table. It must have been a fruitful winter, Geralt reasons as he nods to the barmaid and gestures to the plates.

“Ale as well, Sir Witcher?” She says as she wipes her forehead, no trace of fear in her voice. She’s probably too busy for it.

“Two, please.”

He makes his way to the table where Jaskier’s already tearing a loaf of bread in two, tapping a rhythm with his fingers on the hard wood as he looks out the window at the passersby. There’s a neatly-made arrangement of wildflowers on the wall by his side, larkspur and thistle with a touch of baby’s breath, Geralt thinks.

“Here,” he says, passing the half-full tankard over to Jaskier and taking a sip of his own.

Jaskier hands him a piece of bread. “So, what are we slaying today?”

“The only thing you’ll be slaying today is your audience’s eardrums,” Geralt says, smirking at Jaskier’s huff of indignation. He takes a bite out of the bread. “There seems to be an archespore around the vineyards.”

“An— the—” Jaskier’s face does a complicated thing and Geralt wants to point out that he looks like a gaping trout before he says, “An archespore?! This mythical— magical— never before seen creature—”

“It’s been seen plenty of times,” Geralt points out.

“Not by me!” Jaskier thumps his fist on the table, defeated, and his ale sloshes dangerously. He wipes a hand down his face. “Ugh. And I can’t even fight you on it, because I’ve got, uh, what do they call it— Geralt, help me out here, what’s the word—”

“A compromise.”

Jaskier gags. “Yes. That. I shall honor my, uh, compromise to the arts and leave you alone and defenseless before such a legendary creature. Naught but two swords and the strength of” —he looks Geralt up and down appreciatively— “roughly twelve men built like bulls to keep yourself out of harm’s way.”

Geralt lifts his eyebrows, unimpressed, and leans back on his seat as a barmaid approaches them with a bowl in each hand. “Thank you,” he tells her, and digs in.

The stew is pleasantly hot and thick with spices and vegetables, the potatoes sweet and the meat tender, and he lets a pleased rumble escape his chest.

He doesn’t get to indulge in good meals very often — when he gets the opportunity to sit down at a proper table and have a proper plate placed in front of him, the food is usually sizable and filling, but never particularly appetizing. It’s mostly overcooked, tough meat — if he can afford it — and out-of-season vegetables that remind him of dried-out fields rather than a lavish banquet.

Jaskier is used to them, though. Or was — right before he was hit on the head with a chunk of stale bread and had the brilliant idea to trail after a Witcher, to trade comfortable beds and roasted pheasants for a hard bedroll spread on the forest floor and charred squirrel, at best. It still intrigues Geralt, watching Jaskier roll up his sleeves and dig into the pottage like it’s the finest meal he’s ever tasted, like it doesn’t pale in comparison to what he’ll be served tonight. Like he doesn’t see it — the immensity of the gap between Geralt’s world and his own.

There are moments of hesitation — moments when Geralt thinks Jaskier will wake up. When he thinks the bard will look around and shake his head in astonished confusion, and his blue eyes will widen comically like they do when he’s caught slipping treats to Roach, and he’ll see through the desperately-sewn seams of Geralt’s life. He’ll see that behind the so-called heroics and martyrdom there’s nothing more than a Witcher and a horse and a lonely road ahead.

But then, just when Geralt’s doubts start to creep into his hairline and show on his face, Jaskier will prove him wrong. Like now, as Jaskier lets his spoon fall into his empty bowl and leans back on his seat, sighing happily, nothing but contentment and warmth on his scent. As he watches through the window again, with a smile that dimples his cheek and sunlight crinkling his eyes.

Geralt feels something touch his leg. When he looks down, the innkeeper’s dog is resting his chin on Geralt’s thigh, his eyes big and pleading.

He picks up a hard bit of bread Jaskier had set aside earlier and carefully brings it up to the dog’s nose for inspection. After a few curious sniffs, the dog gently takes it out of Geralt’s hand, tail wagging excitedly. His fur is soft where Geralt smoothes it out with the flat of his palm, softer than Roach’s mane.

When he looks up, Jaskier’s eyes have abandoned the window, and he’s watching the two of them with a smile that’s half fond, half soft. Too tender.

Geralt’s never been looked at like that. With care. Like he’s something precious, something to be treasured.

It feels inadequate, and he pats the dog’s head to hide the almost imperceptible tremble of his hand. Jaskier’s smile reaches his eyes, and doesn’t waver.

It’s good.

+

The soft breeze wafting through the window as Geralt straps his swords to his back is tempting.

Jaskier yawns.

“You sure you don’t wanna get a nap in before you,” he yawns again, “go?”

He’s sprawled on his bed in a position that just can’t be comfortable, limbs long and bent at weird angles, pants unbuttoned and doublet resting on the back of a chair. His hair is ruffled and his cheeks are pink from the meal and the impending sleep that will follow.

“I’ve read, somewhere,” he continues, forcefully wrestling with the blankets that are firmly tucked into the bed, “ah, that napping increases, um— aha!” He wiggles under the covers. “It increases your strength, sharpens your” — a yawn — “mind, and whatnot.”

“Hmm.” Geralt adjusts his potion belt. “And how’s that worked out for you?”

Jaskier squints at him, managing to stay awake just to be annoyed. “See? You just continue proving my point! That,” he says, gesturing vaguely at Geralt with a half-covered hand, “would easily be fixed with one tiny nap!”

“Your naps are never tiny.”

“Well, no, because as a bard, I require more energy than a Witcher. Besides,” he says, closing his eyes, “I never seem to get enough sleep, you see, since I keep getting assaulted by this beast of a man who thinks dawn is already late.”

Geralt snorts and walks over to his bed. “Should put a contract out, then. A Witcher may come across it.”

Jaskier turns around, facing Geralt. “Oh, no, thank you. One Witcher is enough for me.” Geralt can hear the smile in his voice, though.

Checking he’s got everything he needs, and closing the open windows for good measure, Geralt turns to Jaskier. “I’m going. Stay here.”

This time, it’s Jaskier who has to snort. “Napping, remember?”

Geralt hums. “Don’t sleep through your performance,” he says, closing the door behind him, and the sounds of Jaskier tossing and turning while making indignant sounds makes him smirk.

The walk to the vineyard doesn’t take long. He passes the district alderman’s house on his way over, discusses the payment and whatever information he has to offer about the vineyard itself and the archespore sightings. The man’s face goes white when Geralt asks about any late violent crime.

The sun is still high in the sky when he gets to the heart of the vineyard, the earth uneven and freshly dug up. The victims’ bodies aren’t there anymore, he knows, but the archespore can’t be too far away from him. He draws out his sword and walks deeper into the field, watching the ripe grapevine sway with the wind.

There’s a vine in particular that calls his attention, thinner and bare, no grapes clinging to it. Just as he gets closer to it, it disappears under the ground. Geralt crouches and backs away, waiting to see it come back up — except when it does, it’s not just a lonely vine anymore.

The archespore stands tall and imposing, growling at Geralt as he signs Igni at it and aims for its trunk — he only gets one good blow before it buries itself under the earth. He waits again, looking for the green-brown color, and it shoots back up with renewed force, surrounding Geralt with acid-filled pods.

He casts a quick Quen and gets closer to it, choosing Aard this time as Igni causes it to relocate, and seizes the way it trembles minutely to get behind it and run his sword through its flesh. The creature growls, its jaw-shaped leaves curling around Geralt’s limbs. He struggles and manages to cast Igni at it, freeing himself as the plant relocates itself. When it sprouts back up, one of its pods blows up next to him, making him fall to the ground as the creature towers over him, its screeches deafening.

The archespore opens its forked mouth and screeches louder this time, acid shooting through its pores before Geralt can shield himself. The acid burns his skin where it reaches it, but the creature seems satisfied enough that it misses the opportunity to pin him to the ground. He reaches for his sword and lunges, casting Aard and tearing its leaves and damaging its thick stem.

This time, when it goes underground, Geralt has a feral smile on his face as he takes his Golden Oriole and upends it in his mouth. The venom stops burning for a second, and, when the archespore comes back up, its tendrils reaching for Geralt, he ducks and rolls, positioning himself behind it. The archespore screeches one final time as Geralt runs his sword from its head down to its core before it collapses to the ground, lifeless body still twitching. Geralt throws the severed head far enough that it won’t be able to reattach itself and slices up the remaining pods, their venom oozing sluggishly onto the torn-up ground.

He makes his way back to the city, the head of the archespore dripping slightly from its bag. The sun is setting, painting the walls golden against the pink sky, the shadows cast over the buildings helping the buzzing in his brain. He takes the less-traveled roads to avoid the commotion of the streets, but it seems the city is already mellowed out.

He thinks of Jaskier.

The first star of the night is twinkling against the pink-blue sky, the moon translucent. The baron’s residence is distant, surrounded by a stretch of the city’s walls, but Geralt imagines it’s close, close enough that Jaskier’s voice can carry through the night — that his soft melodies can reach them all.

He thinks of Jaskier, dressed up in his finest clothes that he had especially tailored — because I’ve filled out in the winter, Geralt! — drinking sweet wine from the vineyard he’s just left behind, mingling with the nobles and regaling them with honeyed tales of the Witcher’s heroism. The Witcher who is currently covered in muck and sticky with dried acid, carrying a severed head across the streets of Beauclair.

But Jaskier would disagree. He’d see a knight in shining armor, coming home triumphant after saving a family’s livelihood, the scars of the ferocious battle showing on his face. A defeated beast and a courageous warrior. A tale worth telling.

After dispatching the head and collecting his coin — what they’d agreed on, thankfully — Geralt heads back to the inn. The humming in his veins has simmered down, leaving behind a hint of exhaustion that clings to his bones and makes itself known. He calls for a bath, ignoring the innkeeper’s knowing look — she’s seen him trudge inside wearing worse.

Once he’s in his room, he takes his time unbuckling and sets his armor aside, a filthy pile that he’ll have to tend to eventually. After, he thinks, and sinks into the steaming tub. The room’s windows are open despite him closing them before leaving, tacit proof of Jaskier’s aversion for closed spaces and feeling oppressed, Witcher, and his distinct lack of self-preservation. Geralt’s chastised him enough about being easy prey, but there’s something in the way the bard moves that makes him want to protect, rather than prevent — he’d rather be the one to free Jaskier from his cage than be the one to lock him there in the first place. Not that Jaskier would ever let himself be locked away — he’s feisty enough on his own — but something about him screams freedom.

Geralt can’t take it away — wouldn’t ever want to. So he lets the cool air enter the room.

His bed is neatly made, pillows fluffed and sheets crisp. Next to it is Jaskier’s — somehow, pillows are on the floor and the sheets are turned inside out, twisted like a serpent around the blanket. His side of the room looks like it’s been a victim of a cruel whirlwind — clothes and accessories are strung about the room, picked up only to be frowned at and then put back down.

It’s tempting enough; to crawl under the covers and blow out the candles and get a half-decent night of sleep. Maybe get something to eat from the bar downstairs. Maybe drink some ale. But—

I’ll vouch for you, you know.

He knows.

+

It’s a beautiful night, in truth.

The ball is being hosted in the halfmoon-shaped garden, the cool spring breeze dancing around the guests as they dance themselves, carried away. Moonlight and candlelight alike wash over the cobblestone, a few delicate and intricate paper lanterns placed over a wooden railing casting gentle shadows on the whole scene. There are flowers all around — on tall vases in every corner and on the small centerpieces at every table, on the open hand of every statue and weaved into delicate crowns for everyone to wear.

It isn’t like anything Geralt’s seen before. He’s been to many balls — begrudgingly — but never one in which everyone carries themselves so freely, where raucous laughter is allowed if not mandatory, where not one person sits alone at their table, instead gathered around savoring the food, where there are chairs but no one sitting on them because they’re so busy prancing around the yard, marveling at the flowers and the outfits and the beauty of the night. Where everyone seems to be there because they want to be — because they belong.

He’s standing by a pillar, not hidden but not in plain sight, either. He tightens his jacket around himself, half to fend off the chill of the night air and half to hide the stain on the chemise underneath — a dangerous encounter with a drunk Jaskier and a goblet of wine. His leather band is on his wrist tonight, his silver hair tickling the spot behind his ear and catching on the high collar of his shirt. People are still coming in through the garden gates, the path to the grounds lit by small candles by each side of it, couples strolling hand-in-hand across the grounds and children running around, their flower crowns hanging off their heads.

There’s no music yet, just conversation carrying the night away. He can hear Jaskier’s heartbeat somewhere in the gardens, but hasn’t seen him yet — perhaps he’s encountered one of his old dalliances and is catching up, as he’s often done before.

Geralt moves to the balcony with the stone railing, the one looking out to the lake. The waves are calm tonight, gently rippling back and forth, shimmering under the stars. He leans his elbows on the railing, feeling very small as he looks down.

Heights used to scare him when he was a child. It’s one of the only things he can remember. His house sat on a small hill, and every night, after his mother went to sleep, he would tiptoe across the kitchen and open the window, and he would look down and feel terror beat inside his chest, gripping his heart like a vine.

Now, as he looks down, he can see the scrape of the stones jutting out of the earth, the clear beach beneath him. He can see the boats resting on the shore and the stars reflecting on the water. Looking down, he just feels at ease.

The sound of children protesting catches his attention. When he looks back to the courtyard, he can see two small children — siblings, he presumes — looking at their mother with very exaggerated frowns on their tiny faces.

“You mustn’t use your sister’s dress as a cleaning rag, Petyr,” she says to the boy as she tries to wipe down the girl’s gown.

“But the floors here needed cleaning!” Petyr responds, petulant. “You told us things should be squeaky-clean.”

His mother is about to reply when suddenly a voice cuts in. “And your mother is right, of course,” says Jaskier, winking at her and meeting her smile of relief with one of his own. “But this is a party! You’re meant to have fun, you and your sister! Don’t you like to dance?”

Petyr and his sister shake their heads. “We don’t know how to,” she admits.

Jaskier’s grin is wide. “Well, then you must be born singers!” At that, the girl smiles.

“Mama says our singing sounds more like a dying wyvern’s last breath,” she says simply, and it makes Jaskier laugh, “but we like to sing anyway.”

“And you should! Singing is the way our soul gets to have a laugh,” he says knowingly, and slowly takes his lute out of his case. “I don’t suppose you know what this is?”

The children’s eyes light up. “A lute!”

Jaskier laughs. “That’s right!” He holds it out to them. “Here, try a strum.”

The children look at each other, then at the lute like it’s something precious. Geralt knows it is. “You go first, Fiona,” the boy whispers to his sister.

Fiona approaches the lute carefully, and holds out her little hand. Jaskier takes it on his own, then gently, very gently, he runs her hand through the strings. It’s a simple chord, and Jaskier’s holding the note, but Fiona looks blown away. “Wow,” she whispers. “It’s so… pretty.”

Geralt can see the way Jaskier’s mouth quirks up and his eyes go soft at the corners. It tugs at his heartstrings.

“Now,” Jaskier says, “Do you want to try, Petyr?”

The boy nods, coming forward. He knows what to do, having watched his sister, so he simply lifts his hand and strums. Jaskier’s changed the chord, a lower one now.

“Wonderful!” Jaskier exclaims, and applauds the both of them, making their cheeks flush. “Naturals, the both of you.”

Petyr’s hand is still on the lute, feeling the strings and reaching the pegs. “And what do these do?” He says just as he turns one of them, the string deflating slightly.

Geralt wants to laugh at Jaskier’s pained grimace as he tightens the string back as he explains to Petyr that he should leave those to the adults, but suddenly he feels a pool of warmth in his stomach, an ache in his chest he hasn’t felt before — as if all the spring’s air has been stolen from him.

He watches Jaskier play a silly little ditty for the children to dance with their very amused mother, and he can’t look away. Can’t stop staring at the way Jaskier’s eyes crinkle with joy and his face is full of laugh lines and his own flower crown threatens to fall down, small yellow petals gathering at his feet.

And the thing is — he knows Jaskier. He knows he’s kind, and thoughtful, and painfully honest. He knows he feels everyone’s pain as his own, everyone’s joy as his own.

Everyone’s love as his own.

He knows that he’ll play silly made-up songs for bored children just as he knows he’ll gather herbs for Geralt’s potions without being asked to, just as he’ll buy treats for Roach, just as he’ll carefully avoid the fork on the road to Blaviken.

He sees it, now — the way his face is lit up but not from candlelight but from within, because he’s so in love with the world that he can barely stand it.

And he’s seen him before — has watched his furrowed brow illuminated by wavering candles as he writes well past dusk, has seen the curl of his mouth and the freckles on his nose and the scar that goes through his left eyebrow and yet—

Yet it feels like he’s seeing him for the first time.

There’s a smudge of ink on Jaskier’s cheek. There always is. There always has been.

Geralt’s never wanted to wipe it off.

He wants to wipe it off, wants to tuck his hair back behind his ear and kiss the spot where his jaw meets his neck. He wants to hold him close to his chest tight enough that maybe he’ll crawl into his heart and never leave.

It should scare him. It should feel like standing at the top of a hill and looking down.

It doesn’t.

Jaskier walks into the stage, a space of elevated marble he supposes a statue had been resident of. It suits him, the small pedestal — the way the golden thread of his dark green doublet glitters when moonlight catches it makes something ethereal of him, the few fallen flowers of his crown tangled on his hair — now tousled and matted with sweat — making something beautiful of him.

“Yes, yes, I’ve returned with more!” He exclaims at the whistles and cheers from the crowd, who’ve undoubtedly fallen in love with his first set. “We’re changing things up a bit now— How would you feel about something softer for a change?”

People cheer again, and Jaskier’s face breaks into a blinding grin. “Perfect! Now,” he looks around, “I want you to find the people you love. Your spouse, your lover, your friend, your sister, your child— everyone and anyone your heart beats for.”

The crowd starts gathering around in different groups, and Geralt smiles at how mismatched they are — tiny children and their grandparents, groups of single maidens hugging each other tightly, couples tenderly embracing each other.

Jaskier’s smile is softer, this time. “There,” he whispers. “Because love is something to share— This song I’m sharing with you.”

And then he’s gone — all his stage-borne facade falls away as he starts to play. His fingers are plucking a gentle, easy melody, and he’s humming along. People start slowly swaying to the sound of his voice, their eyes bright and shiny with mirth and love. Then, very softly, his voice barely above a whisper, he sings,

“Wise men say

Only fools rush in

But I can’t help

Falling in love with you…”

It’s incredibly gentle, and Geralt feels drawn to it immediately. He watches as Jaskier sways with the music, eyes closed and brow furrowed, completely lost on it. There are buttercups on his hair and love in his mouth and Geralt suddenly wants to reach for him, put out his hand only for Jaskier to hold.

Jaskier opens his eyes as the last verse comes in. “Take my hand,” he sings, and he does a brave thing and looks into Geralt’s eyes. “Take my whole life, too.”

He would.

“For I can’t help,” he says with a smile, and looks out to the public. “Falling in love with you.”

The song ends, but Jaskier keeps playing the chord progression softly. The crowd isn’t there anymore — they’re all somewhere else, holding their beloved in tender arms and swaying to the tune of their love. As Jaskier’s playing slowly fades out, there is no applause, no enthusiastic cheering nor plea for an encore.

They all know.

Geralt’s looking out to the waves when Jaskier joins him by the railing.

“Hey,” he whispers.

Geralt turns to face him. “Hey,” he whispers back.

Jaskier’s smile is soft as he takes him in. “You came.”

“I did,” Geralt says, voice low. “Was told someone would be waiting for me.”

“And here I am.”

The waves crash against the rocks.

“That was a new one,” Geralt murmurs, looking at the scar on his knuckle. “The song.”

“It was,” Jaskier replies simply.

Geralt looks at him. “I liked it.” It’s no big compliment, but Jaskier seems to understand him all the same.

He always does.

“I’m glad,” he says. “I like it too.”

He leans his elbows on the railing, their shoulders almost touching. Jaskier’s cheek is still smudged with ink.

“You have…” Geralt says, gesturing to his own face, and Jaskier frowns at him. Geralt shakes his head. He licks his thumb and reaches, Jaskier’s skin soft as he swipes the ink away, his mouth slightly parted.

“There,” he whispers, but his hand doesn’t leave Jaskier’s cheek. “Do they really say it?”

Jaskier frowns, confused. Their shoulders are touching. “Who?”

Geralt reaches for Jaskier’s flower crown and looks at him, a silent request. Jaskier nods. Geralt takes it in his hands and gently tucks the loose stems back together, the way he’d seen girls do it in the town square. He doesn’t lose a single petal.

“The wise men,” he says, placing the crown on top of Jaskier’s head, where it belongs. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

Jaskier takes them in his. “It is foolish to rush in unprepared. You taught me that.”

“Am I wise, then?”

Jaskier laughs, shakes his head. “I never said that.”

Geralt doesn’t know what to say, so he stays quiet, watching Jaskier’s rings as they glint in the moonlight, watching Jaskier’s fingers as they play with his.

“I love you, you know,” Jaskier murmurs, looking at their joined hands.

“I know.”

“You’re my best friend.”

Geralt looks at him. “I know.”

He needs the weight of his swords strapped at his back. He wants to be brave.

He looks down.

“I love you,” he says. “I can’t help it.”

Jaskier smiles. “Well, now you’re just being mean— plagiarizing my song right in front of me.”

“Jask.” It sounds like a prayer. Geralt squeezes his hands, amber meeting cornflower blue. “You know what I mean, when I say—”

“I know what you mean,” Jaskier says. “I know.”

They drink each other in, and Geralt knows this is the first time they’re seeing each other. Gently, he places one hand on the small of Jaskier’s back, the other on his nape, and brings their foreheads together.

Jaskier’s hands find their way to Geralt’s waist. Nobody’s ever held him like that. With care. Like he’s something precious, something to be treasured.

His nose grazes Jaskier’s cheek and he whispers, “Can I kiss you?”

And Jaskier’s smiling when he says, “I wish you would.”

So he does. Soft lips against chapped ones, lute-calloused hands against scarred ones. Jaskier kisses him back tenderly, unhurried, and it’s honey-sweet like the wine he can taste on Jaskier’s mouth, like the love he can feel on his scent.

When they pull apart — only because they have to — Geralt circles Jaskier in his arms, pressing small kisses to his cheeks, his jaw, his nose, his forehead. It makes him laugh.

“Tickles,” he says, and there’s a smile in his voice. “Your beard.”

Geralt presses a final, lingering kiss to his mouth. “Sorry,” he whispers against his lips.

The party has carried on without them, as it is wont to do. There’s a harp player on the stage now, plucking a soft melody from its strings.

Jaskier’s eyes are bright when he looks up at him. It feels right, to be holding him like this, to drown in his warmth and press love into his hands like it’s all he can do — and it is. All he can do is watch into Jaskier’s eyes and try not to get lost in them and stop a smitten smile from curling on his lips.

He’s helpless, he knows. It doesn’t scare him anymore.

“Home?” Jaskier murmurs against his cheek.

The inn, he means. “Aren’t you playing?”

Jaskier’s mouth curls into a mischievous smile, one of Geralt’s favorites. “They’ll survive without me, I reckon.”

Geralt narrows his eyes. “Jaskier—”

“Yes, yes, I know,” he protests, rolling his eyes. “We need the coin. Ugh— one would think the guy confessing his undying love—”

“Now, undying is—”

“His undying love for me would change things, would buy me some indulgence— not at all!” He buries his face in Geralt’s neck, letting out a long-suffering groan. “Why must you be so responsible all the time?”

There are many reasons. Looking at Jaskier’s flushed face and capricious frown, Geralt can’t remember any of them. “Go,” he says softly, nodding at the stage. “For me.”

Jaskier groans louder. “That,” he says, poking Geralt’s chest, “is a very unfair card to play.”

“And why’s that?”

Jaskier tangles their fingers together. “Because you know I would do anything for you.”

Geralt’s face softens. He knows. “Go. I’ll wait for you.”

Defeated, Jaskier looks at the stage, then at Geralt, pouting. “Won’t you at least kiss me farewell? I’ve a long journey ahead.”

It’s Geralt’s turn to roll his eyes — still, he reels Jaskier in and presses a chaste kiss to his lips.

“Great start!” Jaskier says cheerfully. “Now, like you mean it.”

“Insufferable,” Geralt murmurs, but he gives in. The kiss is deep and slow, and somehow full of promise. He can feel Jaskier sigh happily against his lips, his scent gone sweet and warm as Geralt’s hands find Jaskier’s sides.

They part, begrudgingly. Jaskier’s cheeks are deep pink and his flower crown sits askew on his head once again, so Geralt fixes it for him.

“We should get one for you,” the bard says, watching him.

“Hmm.” Geralt presses a final kiss to his lips. “Go.”

“I’m getting you one,” Jaskier says stubbornly, ignoring Geralt’s wish, and Geralt loves him too much. “Just wait here.”

He lets Jaskier go, and watches as he runs over to the stand where a young woman is weaving tulips and baby’s breath together into a crown. He watches as he excitedly gestures at it and cradles it in his tender hands, a look of genuine joy on his face. He watches as he turns around, his lips stretched into a too-wide grin as he waves at Geralt, pointing at the crown.

He watches as he walks toward him.

He waits for him to fit into his open arms. He waits for him to place the crown on top of his head and adjust it once, twice, before it’s deemed perfect. He waits for him to kiss his cheek and groan about having to return to his duty as entertainment for the evening.

He waits for him as he plays.

“I love you,” he tells him later, when they’re both tucked in bed and their fancy clothes have been folded and their legs are tangled together.

Jaskier grins. “Say it again.”

Geralt can’t hide the smile that curves his lips — he doesn’t want to. “I love you,” he says, and kisses his cheek. “I love you,” his forehead, “I love you,” his eyelids. “I love you,” his mouth.

He says it so much the words sound foreign in his mouth. He says it until they belong in his mouth again.

“Thank you,” Jaskier says after a while, candlelight framing the tenderness in his eyes. “It’s been good.”

Geralt smiles.

It has.

[aenwoedbeannaa]

Talking to Horses | Geralt x Reader

Summary: You work at a small inn in a middle of nowhere village in Novigrad. Your job consists mostly of serving travelers – the only people that come to this god-forsaken place – but you manage to find a way to spend most of your time in the stables. One night, while you’re holed up there talking to your horse, a new stranger arrives; but you recognize him from the traveling bard, Jaskier’s, songs immediately – the famous Witcher, Geralt of Rivia.

Word Count: 2,533

Warnings: None; this is literally just the fluffiest fluff.

Notes: I promise I’ll get back to my series soon; but it’s been a busy week and I’m sad and right now I just want to write Geralt fluff lol.

* * *

It is growing late, and you are still in the barn, as usual. You don’t mind, though. You much prefer it here than in the stuffy inn. No matter how rude the customer, their horses were always nice enough. You keep your own horse here, as well – a mare named Immi. She is a sweet little thing, though she's quite skittish and will do almost nothing without getting a treat first, but you don’t mind much. It is rare that you have the opportunity to travel, and the roads around your little village are safe enough.

You are surprised when Immi’s ears prick up slightly, the way that they do when a visitor approaches the stables. Of course, travelers came in at all hours of the day, but it wasn’t too often when one showed up extremely late at night. Relatively unbothered, you continue brushing her speckled fur, waiting for the loud crunch of the stablemaster’s boots on the ground. Honestly, no one could possibly walk as loudly as that man.

So, you are surprised when you hear the sound of approaching hooves and soft, barely perceptible footsteps. Curious, you peek your head out from the stall to see a white-haired stranger leading a horse gently by the reins. You’ve never seen him here before – but again, that is not unusual. Most people who pass through here once don’t have much reason to pass through again. It is a painfully boring town. What makes this one stand out, however, are the two swords slung across his back.

However, between the white hair and the two swords, the mysterious stranger suddenly becomes far less mysterious – at least as far as his identity goes. The chances of someone matching his exact description seem relatively unlikely. Even from a distance, you can tell that he is huge, all muscle. Hard to find any ordinary human who looks like that; doubly as hard to find any ordinary human who looks like that and happens to have long white hair and two swords on his back. So, you are pretty positive you are correct.

As he draws closer, you lean back on the open door to Immi’s stall, arms crossed across your chest and head cocked slightly to one side.

“You’re Geralt of Rivia.” You say it as a statement, not a question. You are very rarely wrong, and unafraid to embrace that. Mamma used to scold you for being brash, and you’d been called arrogant and brazen by a few of the passing travelers – but it doesn't bother you much.

“And you better not start singing that damn song.”

You smirk, kicking open the free stall across from Immi’s with a scuffed leather boot, “No ‘hello’?” you ask, shaking your head. “Not even a nice ‘and you are?”

The Witcher doesn’t seem particularly amused, but he takes the bait anyway.

“Hello,” he says, exaggerating and speaking the words exactly how you’d spoken them, “And you are?” Mrs. Leigh, who owns the inn, constantly tells you that you shouldn’t pester the guests, but there is a slight tug at the corner of the Witcher’s lips that tells you he isn’t particularly irritated. And anyway, you don’t listen to much of what Mrs. Leigh says or you’d die of boredom.

“Y/N,” you say before adding sarcastically, “Of Novigrad.”

“Pleasure,” he says absentmindedly as he begins getting his horse settled.

You could easily get back to your work, but in such a boring village, you’ve got to take advantage of any entertainment while you can, so you lean against the door, peering at his horse, which you can tell is clearly taken very good care of.

“What’s your horse’s name?”

“Roach.”

“Interesting name for a horse,” you say, watching him remove the saddle.

Immi, likely feeling betrayed because you have turned your attention from the mare for more than a minute, whinnies and lightly stomps one hoof.

“Immi!” you scold her in the gentle way you always do, turning and walking back to her stall.

You are slightly surprised to hear the Witcher speak again, “Is she yours?”

You nod, pulling an apple from your back, which you left hanging on a nail on the door. At seeing it, Immi huffs and looks at you with wide, begging eyes.

“She is,” you say, rather proudly. It is not a wealthy village, and most young women working as barmaids and stable hands cannot afford horses of their own. Of course, you didn’t actually buy her – one of the Leigh’s mares had a baby, four years ago now. It was the year your mother died of plague when it hit the village, and you’d already been working for Mrs. Leigh for three years by then and they knew your affinity for working in the stables. They told you she was yours, and suddenly life seemed a little less dull.

You hold the apple up to her snout, and she quickly devours the whole thing.

“You always feed her human food?” The Witcher’s voice is closer now; you turn to see that he’s standing outside the stall he’s set Roach up in. You get the sense that he’s appraising you, his yellow eyes settled on yours, one eyebrow raised as Immi chomps loudly behind you, finishing the treat.

You cross your arms, fully facing him now, staring right back. “Yes, I do,” you say, “And before you ask, of course I talk to her.”

At that, the Witcher laughs, but he doesn’t seem to be mocking you. You narrow your eyes slightly, questioning.

“I talk to my horse, too,” he admits. “Roach is great to talk to, because he doesn’t talk back.”

You grin, face flushing slightly at the warm gleam in the Witcher’s yellow eyes. “Exactly. No unwanted advice, no ordering me around, no demanding a third cup of ale when she’s already piss drunk.”

“So, you work in the inn, too?”

You nod in response, “Yep. Unfortunately, we don’t get enough travelers through here to make much money as a stable hand. We make our money the way every other inn does; selling overpriced ale to travelers who don’t have any other options.”

“It's even worse in the cities,” the Witcher responds. “Plenty of options, but all overpriced.”

“Hm,” you shrug, “I wouldn’t know, I’ve never been to one of the big cities. But humans are the same everywhere, I guess.”

“You’re right about that,” he says, looking somewhat lost in thought.

“Still,” you muse as you grab your bag and shut the door to Immi’s stall, “I’d like to see them.”

You sigh, looking past the Witcher and out into the field outside, the starlit road beyond it. “The cities, I mean. Just... Seems a waste, to spend a whole life here.” Now you’re just rambling – another thing Mamma used to tell you not to do, especially with strangers – but you can’t help it. “Must be fun, to be a Witcher; you’ve probably seen all sorts of places.”

The Witcher gives you a wry smile, “And all sorts of monsters.”

“Eh,” you respond quickly, following him out of the stables and towards the inn, “You don’t have to travel to see monsters.” He stops walking for a moment and cocks his head in thought, looking down at you.

“You’re right again,” he says.

“You should meet Mr. Allen,” you say with your voice lowered, “He’s the mayor and he’s hear most every night, drinking Mrs. Leigh out of house and home, yelling at everyone, and—well, never mind—but his poor wife, though.” You shudder, thinking about his roaming eyes and careless hands, but you snap out of it quickly enough.

“Ah, suppose it is fitting. Shit mayor for a shit town.”

Once you reach the entrance, you push open the door, the Witcher following behind you. You turn to him, whispering under your breath, “Guy in the back corner.” He raises his eyebrows and goes, to your surprise, to sit at the table right in front of Mr. Allen’s. Not a choice that you would have advised, but likely to be an entertaining one.

“Please tell me you were not harassing that man out in the stables,” Mrs. Leigh says as you head behind the counter, filling up a few earthenware tankards to drop at the tables that your boss has wasted no time pointing to.

“Me?” you ask, with fake innocence.

“Y/N, honestly. We need the business.”

Grabbing as may tankards as possible – an impressive five – you glance back at your boss and roll your eyes. “Please,” you say with a smirk, “I’m half the reason these guys buy as much alcohol as they do.” A little flirting does wonders, and gods know Mrs. Leigh isn’t going to do it.

You drop off three tankards at one table; a thankfully quiet one. There are two women, one of whom you can tell from her painfully beautiful features must be half-elf. There’s one man with them, lanky and quiet. Probably the human’s brother, if you had to guess.

The other two mugs of ale were, of course, for Mayor Allen. He must have just arrived, then.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he says with a hideous smile as you set them down. You just mumble some form of no problem as you walk off. He doesn’t pay, so there’s no point in flirting with him. Besides, the Witcher’s table is next, and you cannot deny that you are dying to talk to him.

Putting on your usual flirty smile, you head over to his table, leaning on the old wood. For some reason, though, the flirtatious nature that usually comes easy to you feels a little bit different – like you actually care what this stranger thinks about you. You decide to put it down to the fact that he is famous, and famous people rarely pass through the village.

“Can I get you anything?” you ask, smile faltering slightly, but only for a moment.

The Witcher looks at you, yellow eyes locking on yours. “Two mugs of ale, please,” his lips curve into a smirk, “And your company.” You quirk an eyebrow, feeling your cheeks redden once again.

Before you have to disappoint him – and mainly yourself – by telling him that you can’t just sit down at work, he places a handful of gold pieces on the table. Definitely enough to cover the two beers, and as much as you’d bring in for the night.

“Coming right up,” you say, throwing him a glance over your shoulder as you carry the coins over to the counter.

“You’re welcome,” you say, admittedly rather arrogantly as you set the coins down on the counter next to Mrs. Leigh. She watches you with somewhat horrified eyes as you round the counter to fill up to mugs of ale.

“This is not a brothel,” she says pointedly, glancing from you and across the room at the white-haired Witcher.

“And I’d charge more for a night than that,” you retort, glancing down at the coins still on the table.

Mrs. Leigh does not respond as you grab the two mugs and head back to the Witcher’s table.

“Your ale,” you say, sliding it over to him, “And my excellent company,” you add with an impish grin, sitting down across from him. “Though, to be honest, you seem more like the Sit and Drink Alone type,” you say, studying him.  

“You aren’t wrong there,” he says, but his yellow eyes hint that he very much does not want to sit and drink alone tonight. Well, that and the fact that he asked you to sit with him.

“Then why ask me to disturb your blessed silence?” you ask, genuinely curious.

“Because,” he says, pausing to take a draught of ale, “I find you interesting.”

You nearly choke on your ale when you laugh. Out of all of the interesting creatures and people the Witcher meets, you cannot fathom why he would find you in particular interesting.

“Oh, come on,” he said, shaking his head. “You walk around like you own this place. Don’t pretend to be the shy type.”

You blush again, looking down at your cup and taking a swig before you look back up at him. Thankfully, you can blame the flush on your cheeks on the ale. “Oh, come on,” you quip back, “You’ve been in plenty of inns, I’m sure. It’s all part of business.”

Geralt eyes you curiously and shrugs. Then silence settles over the two of you, somehow ringing louder in your ears than the rowdy crowd of the crowded pub.

Finally, he speaks.

“Actually, I have a proposition.”

Your head shoots up, eyes wide as you stare at him. Maybe the gold was for what Mrs. Leigh insinuated. And while the Witcher was, without a doubt, the most attractive man you’d ever seen, Mrs. Leigh was right – this was not a brothel, and you were not… Well, that was not your profession.

“Don’t worry, it’s not about that.”

You breathe a sigh of relief, and slight disappointment, but now you are incredibly curious. What could this Witcher want from you?

“I’m not travelling far,” he explains, “And I have a high suspicion that the haunting I am investigating has little to do with dangerous spirits and everything to do with humans being humans.”

Your mouth falls open, hardly able to believe what you are hearing, and unable to form any words.

“You said you wanted to see some of the world, and I take it you can ride,” he says.

“I—well, yes, I do want to… But, I mean, I have to wor—”

“It’s a decent contract. You can half of it.”

“I mean,” you begin, “I… I couldn’t take the coin!”

“You’re not taking it, you’re doing a job,” the Witcher points out. “I can’t watch Roach all the time.”

You consider his words for a few moments before your face breaks out into a wide smile.

* * *

You are bursting with excitement as you head out of your back room, pack full of your most precious personal items, of which there are relatively few. As promised, Geralt is already out in the stable, saddling Roach.

“Good morning,” he says, that same deep, gravely voice you’d grown familiar with last night as the two of you stayed up talking until far too late.

“Good morning!” you greet him, heading over to saddle Immi, despite her somewhat confused whinnies. You rarely rode out this early. But she didn’t seem to mind all that much, as you handed her another apple from your pack.

“Hm,” Geralt says, eying you, “Cheery.”

“Not a morning person?” you ask him.

“No particular feelings about any time of day,” he says with a shrug.

You lead Immi out of the stables behind Geralt and Roach, still somewhat mystified by the man.

“Ah yes,” you say after a moment, “I hear you Witchers don’t have emotions.”

At those words, Geralt turns around to face you, only a few inches between you. “Now there, dear Y/N, you are wrong.”

The look on his face has your stomach filled with butterflies as the two of you ride off side-by-side into the early morning light.

***

Taglist: @divaroze​ @fairytale07​ @geeksareunique​ @jesseswartzwelder​ @unnamedmaincharacter​ @lazilyscentedwerewolf​ @evyiione​ @valkyriepuff​

[carelessgraces]

@clpdwings​ said: five times kissed for nikolai! ( my favorite meme of all time | accepting )

one.

The Kaelish harbor is buzzing with activity, the overlapping sounds of music and laughter and fights floating towards them. Below deck, several of the crew have remained, half of them drunk, all of them eager to take advantage of an opportunity to spend the time with their captain.

     She’s been assured that this isn’t normal, that plenty of captains make a point of separating themselves from their crew. But not Sturmhond, never Sturmhond, who, for all his legends, seems happiest like this — not in battle, not staring out over an intercepted shipment and thinking of the money it’ll bring in, but cheeks flushed with laughter, red hair falling in his eyes, looking over his crew with immeasurable fondness.

     It’s why she’s remained. Privyet insisted that she should see him like this, that it would set any nervousness at ease if she could see their captain drunk on laughter. And he was right; the more she watches him, the more she sees why every last one of them has stayed here, why they would stay, despite any bad luck or unfortunate weather or the regular risk to life and limb. She thinks this is what Fjerda is missing — the uncompromising joy, presented openly and without expectation; a sense of love for one’s fellow man not to fulfill any sort of sacred obligation, but because one’s fellow man deserves it.

     One of the sailors has a fiddle in his lap; he’s been trying to tune it all night, and he lets out a shout of excitement when he succeeds before launching immediately into song.

     There’s a hand on her shoulder and a mouth near her ear. What a change, since she’s arrived; in Fjerda she would have leapt out of her skin to be approached from behind, constantly afraid that she’d been found out, somehow. Here, Astoria only leans back when Sturmhond begins to speak to hear him over the strings and the singing and the slap of hands against thighs as the others beat in time to the song.

     “Come,” he insists, and those of the crew who see them laugh, one letting up a cheer. “It’s tradition, in my crew — newest member owes the captain a dance. Or, at least, an embarrassing attempt at one.” She’s halfway through her second ale and laughing already, and she offers no resistance when Sturmhond tugs her up and towards him. She doesn’t know the steps and he hardly seems to mind; he slings an arm around her waist and holds her hand in his and he guides her with minimal stumbling and crashing into the crates and barrels the others sit atop.

     “You’re getting the hang of it,” he tells her, voice just loud enough to be heard over the music, when she manages to dodge a fallen tankard without incident. His eyes are the most distracting shade — not quite green, not quite brown, the sort of color that’s so unremarkable it draws attention. “I hope you don’t mind being put on the spot too much,” he continues, “but the longer you spend hovering at the edges, the harder it is to connect with the rest of them. And we only work if we can all connect. A good crew is a single body; the hand needs to trust that the shoulder is doing, the foot needs to trust the knee, so on, so forth.”

     She starts to apologize but he shakes his head and squeezes her hand.

     “Nothing to be sorry for. These things take time. But this will speed it up a little. It won’t hurt for you to loosen up a bit.”

     “Privyet told me that last week,” she says, laughing, “and I thought he meant — ”

     Sturmhond laughs, the sound rich and echoing. “No, that’s exactly what he meant,” he concedes, “but I mean in general.”

     “So it’s not tradition?” Astoria teases, eyes bright from the drinking and her laughter and the way the room spins around them.

     He leans forward just a bit, until they’re nearly nose to nose. “Only for the pretty ones,” he answers smoothly, and then he releases her waist with a little push into a spin, before he tugs her right back.

     She’s dizzy when the song ends, and Sturmhond bows theatrically and presses a kiss to the back of her hand, like they’re in a ballroom rather than the belly of a ship. “My thanks for the dance,” he says, eyes sparkling. “Get some fresh air and some water before you try and sleep, if you want to head off the hangover.”

     And then he’s turned his attention elsewhere, and Astoria does as he suggests, and it’s only when she’s leaning over the rail, her elbows propped up against it and her chin in her hands, that she lets herself think about how warm his hand felt around hers, and how much she likes the strange color of his eyes, and that the sound of his laugh will repeat in her ear when she tries to sleep.

two.

She’s tipsy the first night she notices the color of his eyes but not the night she first notices that there seems to be a ring of gold around his pupil, and at the edge of the iris. Though, in the interest of fairness, she almost feels drunk on him, one of his hands slipped beneath her shirt and curled against her bare side, the other tangling in her hair and guiding her head to give him unimpeded access to her throat.

     The wood of his door is soft behind her, almost silken with age and wear, and cool against the small of her back where her shirt’s ridden up. He’s paying almost obscene attention to her neck now, taking care to be thorough enough that her knees are starting to shake, and she wouldn’t be able to hide the marks he’s going to leave even if she wanted to — but she does like the thought of him looking at her tomorrow when she pulls her hair to the side and seeing the evidence of how he spent his night.

     And then he wrenches away from her, the hand in her hair falling to brush across the spit-slicked skin of her neck where he’d just been tracing patterns with his tongue, before pressing his hand on the door behind her. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, just looks at her, and it’s then that she notices the gold. Has it always been there? Is this simply the first time she’s been close enough to notice?

     No; she was certainly close enough the night he danced with her, but she had been drinking, apparently enough to miss the sight of something so lovely. He’s almost handsome — his nose has been broken a few too many times, and the colors in him seem off at times, but perhaps it’s his confidence that makes it so difficult to take her eyes off him.

     He still hasn’t moved beyond the gentle stroke of his thumb along her ribs, and Astoria clears her throat. She wonders, briefly, if calling him captain will kill the mood, or if he’ll like that.

     “Everything alright?” she asks after a beat, and her voice is a little hoarse, a little lower than usual, and Sturmhond ducks his head to rest his forehead against her shoulder and he groans.

     “Yes,” he says, “it’s fine, you’re perfectly fine, you’re perfect — ” And he lifts his head to look her in the eye, lips curling up in a rueful smile. “Which is a problem, you see. This isn’t the best idea.”

     But he doesn’t move, doesn’t elaborate, and Astoria clears her throat again. “Do you plan on telling me why or should I make up a reason for you?”

     “I’m not — I don’t want to deceive you, that’s it. There are things you don’t know about me.”

     “I know.”

     “Beyond the standard for the crew, I mean.”

     “I know. I’m not under the impression that pirates — ”

     “Privateers.”

     “ — are particularly upfront about the intimate details of their lives or identities. Are you married?”

     “No.”

     “Secretly decades older than me? Or several years younger than me?”

     “Older,” he says, lips twitching up again, “but not by much.”

     “Have you committed unforgivable crimes I don’t know about? I don’t count lying as unforgivable.”

     “No. But — ”

     “Are you ready to tell me all of this?”

     He considers for a moment, then shakes his head, and Astoria shrugs.

     “Then tell me when you’re ready. I don’t care about the details. Whoever else you are, you’re Sturmhond right now, and I can promise you that I want Sturmhond.”

     He looks at her for a moment, and Astoria leans forward to kiss him. Immediately, he presses her back against his door, and he groans again, this time against her mouth. She shivers, delighted.

     “And if you don’t want me when you know more?” he asks, pulling back just enough to look at her and speak.

     “Unlikely, but even if that’s the case, I still want Sturmhond. You’re not misleading me. What I want in this moment isn’t going to change.”

     He moves the hand against the door to guide one of her legs around him and he lifts her — she lets out a small noise of surprise that turns into a half-desperate whine when he returns his attention to her neck. Once he’s deposited her on the bed he climbs over her, looking down at her with equal parts affection and amusement.

     “You’re sure?” he asks one more time, and Astoria lets out a frustrated sigh.

     “Saints, either do something about this or give me enough room to take care of myself,” she tells him, and he laughs and slips both hands under her shirt to sweep the fabric over her head and toss it aside.

     When she wakes the next morning — still in his bed, still beside him, the morning sun lighting him with a gentle glow that makes Astoria suspect that the whole world is as absurdly smitten with him as she is — she thinks she catches sight of a bit of blond peeking out from beneath the red.

three.

"I don’t know how I feel about you on a suicide mission,” he says one night, his tone light but his expression troubled even as he looks out over the sea instead of at her.

     Astoria looks up in surprise. Sturmhond — Nikolai, she corrects herself silently, though she knows better than to fall into the habit of using his true name around anyone else — had accepted her volunteering without any fuss, though she should have expected that it wouldn’t be the end of it. She treasures these moments, almost as much as whatever time they can spare to sneak off together, the two of them standing in amiable silence and watching the water as it rocks around them.

     And she’s not sure that she wants to sacrifice one of these moments — considering that they are, at least for now, limited — to become too serious. She shrugs one shoulder, turns her face back to the sea. “I don’t know how I feel about you on a suicide mission,” she retorts, “but alas, I am doomed to live with the inevitability of it.”

     “Your Ravkan is getting better,” he says a little sourly, and she lets out a snort of laughter.

     “That’s what you get for reading to me.”

     “My mistake. I’m serious.”

     “So am I. Of every idea you’ve had since I met you, this is my least favorite, and I’m including the time you promised me I’d like whatever that sheep’s stomach thing was in the Wandering Isle.”

     “It’s a delicacy!”

     “I respect the variation in world cuisine, but even so — ” She thinks for a moment she’s succeeded in distracting him, and is about to congratulate herself for it when he lets out a heavy sigh.

     “This could get ugly.”

     “What’s the worst that could happen?”

     “On a suicide mission? You die.”

     Astoria yawns. “Are you forbidding me from coming, captain?”

     “If I did, would it work?”

     “No.”

     “Then I’ll save my breath. At least I tried.”

     “Clever boy,” she teases, and she offers him a smile, but he doesn’t return it. Astoria lets out a sigh, and after a beat she reaches to gather his hand into both of hers. It’s a departure; she’s not often so affectionate in open view of the rest of the crew, though she has no doubt that they’re all aware of where she spends her nights, if they care at all. Tenderly, she turns his hand over in hers, and she traces her fingers along the lines of his palm. “Us aside — this crew saved me when I had nothing. My captain saved me when I had nothing. I was no good to anyone, and you kept me anyway, and you gave me everything. I’d say that’s worth loyalty in the face of possible death.”

     “Is it true they’ve started a pool on whether or not we survive?”

     “Yes. I put a fair amount on us living through it. When I win, I’m buying for everyone when we reach port.”

     He lets out a humorless laugh. “At least I can’t complain about the company,” he says, and she grins, bumps her hip against his.

     “That’s the spirit, love.”

     “Storya.” His voice is serious, even a little urgent. “If you’re going to do this, be sure you’re careful, alright? Don’t do anything foolish, don’t try to be heroic, don’t try to get me out of trouble. Don’t draw attention to yourself.”

     “I promise.”

     He sighs, defeated, and he withdraws his hand from her grasp; he moves behind her and winds his arms around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder as she looks back out over the water. It’s a rare display of affection in such a public space, but Sturmhond ( Nikolai, she thinks, warmed to her core ) either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care.

     “The crew will accuse you of having favorites,” Astoria points out, and he presses a kiss to her cheek with a quiet laugh.

     “They’d be right.”

four.

She’s been singing under her breath all morning, one of the Kaelish folk songs she’d learned on the Volkvolny from a Squaller whose hair, a red so bright it put Astoria’s to shame, always seemed to stand a little bit on end. She’d remained on the Volkvolny under Privyet, like most of the crew, and Astoria is almost envious. 

     Not to be with the crew, but to be on the ship, to be back out to sea. She’s traded in her clothes — loose enough to stay cool under the sun, worn-in, comfortable — for a borrowed First Army uniform. The olive of her coat is underwhelming and dull, and the cut is hopelessly shapeless, but it’s clean, and doesn’t smell of sweat and salt, and it’ll do. Nikolai walks with the soldiers here, carries himself with an ease that makes her smile in spite of herself. Prince of the people. He looks up at the sound of a laugh behind him and catches her eye, winking theatrically. 

     ( “It makes sense,” she said the night before. “She’s a living saint. She’s a folk hero. If she can destroy the Fold, and defeat the Darkling, she’d pose the greatest threat to you as king if she ever decided she wanted the throne to herself. It’s a good move.” 

     “You’re not — ”

     “No, I’m not bothered by it. I think it’s genius.” Her fingers slowed over his arm, where they’d been tracing nonsensical patterns as they spoke, and she blew a stray curl out of her face. It fell back where it had been listlessly, and she gave up, unwilling to move. “Did you think I would be upset?”

     “It’s not exactly ideal for you,” Nikolai pointed out, rather sensibly, and he reached over to tuck the curl behind her ear.

     “No, but — I don’t have any illusions about this, Nikolai. You know that, right?”

     “Enlighten me.”

     “I’m an illegitimate Fjerdan grisha fugitive. The only title I’ve ever held is sailor. I have no land, no wealth, and no political connections besides you. You’re aiming for the throne. Your marriage will have to be right for an entire country, not just for you, and even assuming we survive everything that’s to come and you decide you want me around after that, that isn’t me. It’s not something I take personally. And she is, objectively, the best choice. Besides.” She raised her eyebrows and grinned, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “Royal mistresses are put under much less pressure.” )

     She wrinkles her nose in return, and his smile widens before he returns his attention to the men walking beside him. Beside her, the tracker is silent, and fuming. 

     ( She followed after them quietly, allowed past when he described her as a personal guard. 

     “You’re fine with this?” Mal asked after Nikolai explained himself, expression thunderous. It was the first time she had been addressed in the conversation, and Astoria only shrugged. 

     “What do I have to complain about? That Ravka will have a worthy king, or that Ravka will have a worthy queen?” )

     There are many things to complain about already: that she and Nikolai have been keeping plenty of distance between them, that they’ll have to continue to do so at least until they reach the capitol. That she has, apparently, forgotten how to fall asleep without someone next to her, and without the rhythmic rise and fall of his breath. That Mal is so furious he won’t carry on a conversation while they walk, and she’s bored stiff, and she misses the ship and she misses the sea. 

     At some point in the day Nikolai returns to the coach where Alina has been riding, and it’s not jealousy Astoria feels — until she thinks of the sharp ache in her feet, and then she’s jealous enough that she can feel it in her teeth — but it’s not something particularly pleasant, either. 

     “You’re fine with that?” Mal asks quietly, nodding toward the coach, and Astoria doesn’t answer. 

     She’s summoned to the prince’s tent when they make camp; he’s waiting for her, blessedly alone. “I sent for your kefta today,” he says by way of greeting, and he looks up from the map in front of him with a grin. Sturmhond’s grin, not a prince’s.

     “How? No one took my measurements.”

     “I,” he says, “have a very good memory. It’ll be ready for you when we reach the Grand Palace. If you’re going to stay with my personal guard, they’ll want some reason why.” 

     “You’re serious about this, then? Letting me stay with you, instead of going to the Little Palace?”

     “Absolutely. I need people I trust with me. Tolya and Tamar are staying with Alina, so unfortunately for you, I’ll need you available to me regularly, and I’d rather you were bulletproof, or close to it.” 

     He’s still wearing that grin. Astoria takes a step closer to him, then another, until she’s standing beside him, looking at the map, her hand on the table next to his. “And I won’t make things more difficult for you? Being there?” she asks, voice low. There’s a funny insecurity that’s settled in her chest, and the arches of her feet tingle uncomfortably. Since when has she been nervous around him?

     Nikolai bows his head to bring his lips to her ear. He moves his hand just enough to cover hers, and he squeezes her fingers lightly. “The greatest difficulty will be focusing on anything that isn’t you standing next to furniture we haven’t put to good use,” he promises, his voice a rumble of laughter. “But I’ll do my best.”

     “We shouldn’t have unrealistic expectations for ourselves,” she says airily. “We need to be comfortable with the occasional failure.” 

     “Very wise.” 

     “What were you looking at, on the map?”

     “Hm? Nothing, really. I thought it would complete the look.”

     She laughs, then, looking up at him, and he releases his hand in favor of catching her jaw in his hand and bringing his lips down to hers. All the discomfort from the day vanishes. ( He is still her captain. The thought brings her more relief than she can quite express. He is still her Sturmhond. Still hers. ) 

     When he breaks the kiss he presses another to her temple. Yes; she can do this, easily — what’s a bit of unease in the face of his victory? 

     She leans into him, and he doesn’t move away from her, either certain that they won’t be interrupted, or not caring if they are. She taps her fingers against the map, and she looks up at him again. “Teach me?” she asks, and he meets her eyes, a surprised smile unfurling on his face. “This is important to you. I’d like to be able to know about it.”

     Still smiling, Nikolai takes her hand in his and guides it farther west. “This,” he says, “is where we are right now. You never made it this far south when you crossed the border, did you? Right — so it’s still some time before we reach the Grand Palace, which is here, in Os Alta...”

five.

“It suits you.” 

     She’s grateful that he was the only one present when it was given to her. The kefta is everything she’d always imagined it would be — a deep, beautiful blue, the cuffs and lapels embroidered with a lighter shade. The contrast against her hair is striking. The fabric fits as though it’s a second skin — Nikolai hadn’t been kidding about knowing her measurements, and she’d almost blushed when she put it on and felt the way it clung to her. 

     She loves it so much it’s a wonder that she’s taken it off for anything, but if anyone could charm her out of the kefta, it’s him. 

     “Is that why you were so eager to get me out of it?” she asks dryly, and Nikolai laughs, gathering her hair out of her way as she shrugs it on. 

     “Can you blame me?”

     “Not a bit.” He releases her hair over her back again, and she turns around to face him. He hasn’t bothered getting dressed yet, and it’s almost enough to have her stripping the kefta off again. “You’re cheating.”

     “I am. I’m trying to be more distracting than whatever else you have planned today.”

     “Rifle training. I imagine it’s important, for your personal guard.”

     “Has it been a difficult transition?” he asks, suddenly serious, and Astoria hesitates before answering. 

     It has, in ways she hadn’t expected. The beds are too soft. As if to apologize for the unconventionality of their circumstances, he’s dedicated himself to ensuring her comfort, and she has no complaints, though her back aches in the mornings even still. She spends more time observing, less time speaking; he’s invited her to every meeting he attends, and she stands a few feet behind him, hands clasped behind her, watching and listening eagerly, though she finds there are only so many times she can listen to his brother talk about road repair before she has to fight off a sudden wave of tiredness. 

     And she so, so rarely has him to herself. That, she thinks, is the worst of it. 

     “Not as much as I imagined it would be,” she says, her words measured. “I’m glad to be here. Are you tired of me yet?”

     “Absolutely. I’m planning to have you thrown from the palace once you step out those doors.”

     “What charm, captain.” And she hesitates, then, and chews the inside of her cheek. “Should I not call you captain any longer?”

     His eyes slide from her to the bed; his bedding is thoroughly mussed, and one of the pillows has been flung halfway across the room, while another’s fallen to the floor. His eyes flicker back to her, the corner of his mouth curling up in a crooked, wicked smile. “Was I not clear in how much I liked that?”

     “I’m serious.”

     “So am I. I like the reminder.”

     Astoria lets out a contented sigh, and she leans into him. She’s adjusting better than Mal, who seems bound and determined to work through this in the unhealthiest manner imaginable — she’s heard about the fights, even considered participating in them, though there seems to be no sport for him, just an urge to be hurt. Perhaps there’s something to be said for the grounding influence of remembering who you were while adjusting to who you are. 

     Nikolai’s hands settle at her waist and she winds her arms around his neck, pushes herself up to her toes to kiss him lazily, languorously. She could stay like this indefinitely, wrapped around him, and never tire of it, and that almost frightens her, to imagine that she could have something permanent, even if it looks so different than what she wished for as a girl.

     When she pulls away from him he sighs, reluctant. “On today of all days?” he says with feigned hurt, and she responds with another kiss, brief but no less intimate, no less adoring. 

     “I will spend the night silently admiring,” she promises, “and thinking of ways to make it up to you, and when we return from the dinner I will put my three best ideas to use.” 

     He steps out of her grasp with his swashbuckler’s grin, the one that knocks the wind out of her and leaves her hungry. He knows her too well. “I’ll hold you to that.”

     He’s getting dressed as she finishes pulling on her boots, and she hesitates at the doorway. She’d spend the whole day with him in this bed if she could, but they’ll have plenty of time for it later. 

     The transition has been difficult, but worthwhile, and here, he shines, almost like he did on the water. She has grown terribly fond of this place and everything it means for him. 

     “Happy birthday,” she says, and he looks up and he smiles, and not for the first time, she has faith, real faith. 

[monsterlovinghours]

Pirate Zhuk befriending a selkie maiden after she flees to HIS ship during a raid. They stole her coat and she promises to gift him a treasure from the seabed if he'll PLEASE help her get it back and then oops they fall in love

-The last thing he was expecting to see when he returned to his ship was a naked woman. Especially a naked woman that seemed to be there of her own volition. She had stowed away in his cabins, and he locked the door behind him, more to keep his crew out than to keep her in. “Start talking, devushka,” he commanded, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “I will not harm you, but I am not a patient man, nor am I fond of surprises.”

-Quickly, she explained her situation, what she was and the predicament she had found herself in. Scoundrels had stolen her coat while she was sunbathing, absconding with it before she could chase them down, taunting her from the deck of their ship. She described their colors, and he ran a hand down his face. Yes, he knew the ship. And yes, he knew where they were heading.

-She begged him to help her get her coat back, to return her to her beloved ocean. In return, she promised him all sorts of treasures, gold and finery lost to the ocean floor, all could be his if he would just help her. Zhuk sighed; this was not what he wanted to get mixed up in the middle of. But her eyes were so sad, and her lips trembled, and he gave in. 

-The ship wouldn’t be docking for at least a week, on some fishing port around the other side of the cape. He told his men to head for the port, then busied himself in his cabin, making sure his guest was fed and clothed before consulting his charts, mapping out their next destination. It wasn’t long before she laid her head on his shoulder, asking what he was doing, huffing that she was bored, that she wanted to go outside. Zhuk closed his eyes, mostly to keep them from rolling, and turned to explain that if he let her go outside, he feared how his crew would react. She moaned that she was still bored, and then grinned, clasping her hand beneath her chin. “Tell me a story!”

-He sighed. It was better than staring at charts, anyway. And that is how he spent an entire day entertaining this young woman with tales of his exploits, the places he had been and the people he had met, the danger and the intrigue. He was floored by her expressive eyes, giving away each minute reaction to his stories. By the end, he honestly could not decide who was more entertained by who. 

-She fell asleep curled up on the small sofa, listening to a story about navigating the Cape of Good Hope in the middle of a storm, and he smiled, draping his long coat over her before retiring to bed himself.

-The week passed remarkably quickly, and she was never far from his side for a moment of it. Occasionally, he would allow her to go outside, but only under his strict supervision. The crew whistled and catcalled to her, but he silenced them with a withering look, announcing that this woman was his guest and if anyone so much as looked at her the wrong way, they’d be shot and dumped overboard. She, oblivious to the commotion, was leaning over the gunwale to watch the waves. 

-She told him stories in return, of her brothers and sisters, of the wonders beneath the waves, of her home and its beauty. Zhuk couldn’t help but be fascinated by her, by her stories, by the wonder with which she seemed to see everything. Indeed, he became so enamored with her that when the port was spotted, the ship they were pursuing already docked, he felt his heart sink, knowing his time with her was drawing to a close.

-He told her to wait aboard the ship, that he would return with her coat in no time. It didn’t take him much time to find the man he sought, or rather, men. Cia and Bajo were having a grand old time at the tavern, tossing back enough tankards of ale to kill a fully grown man with hardly a slur to their words, and Zhuk rolled his eyes. “Ciarog. Escarabajo.” he said, his voice booming, cutting through the revelry. The two heads swiveled, eyes going wide as they saw the taller, more commanding captain filling the doorway. “A word.”

-Once they were out of the tavern, Zhuk laid into them about stealing a selkie coat they found lying around. “You of all people should know better than to take such a precious item, Ciarog,” he spat, and the Irishman had the grace to look properly ashamed. “I’d suggest you go get it, and quickly, before I turn the Perperuna’s cannons on you.” Bajo fetched it from his cabins aboard his ship, and they scampered back to the tavern to nurse their wounded pride.

-Coat in hand, Zhuk returned to his ship, her eyes going wide and filling with tears of joy as she saw it in his arms, cradled so gently, as if it were a living thing. “Here, moy tsvetok. I believe this belongs to you.” She took it from him with trembling hands, then reached up to touch his cheek.

-”I can never hope to repay you for this,” she said quietly, “but I will spend my life trying. What can I bring you?”

-Zhuk’s hand covered hers, and he smiled, though it seemed sad. “The pleasure of your company was payment enough, little one. Go, be with your people. You belong in the sea, sweet thing.”

-Tears still filled her eyes as he accompanied her above decks, watching her slip back into her coat. It wasn’t as easy to convince himself that they were tears of joy this time. In her true form, she pushed herself off the deck and into the water, barking joyfully before disappearing beneath the waves. 

-Zhuk retreated back to his cabin, feeling strangely cold, the room too quiet, too empty without her. A day passed, his men taking the opportunity to drink and restock on supplies. At sunset, while he waited on the docks for his first mate to return with the last few barrels of gunpowder, he heard a splashing, a familiar barking melting into an even more familiar voice, shouting his name. 

-It was her, naked and dripping and clutching her coat in her hands. He went to her, dead heart leaping to see her once more but worried. “Malishka, why have you come back?”

-”I needed to give you something,” she said in a rush of excited breath, and when he opened his mouth to protest, insisting that he needed nothing from her, she pressed two fingers to his lips. “I won’t take no for an answer.” He fell silent, and she took a deep breath before holding out her coat to him. “Here. It’s yours.”

-He stared at her, floored. She was...No. She couldn’t be. “Dorogoy, you don’t know what this means. I cannot accept this.”

-”Of course I know what this means. It means I stay with you. It means that I get to spend my days listening to your stories, and maybe I get to see a few of them for myself. It means that I don’t spend a moment away from you. Zhuk, please. Let me stay with you.”

-He couldn’t have refused her even if he’d wanted to. He took the coat from her gently, then pulled her into his arms, needing to feel her against him, needing to taste her lips and oh...oh, the way she melted into him. In every language he knew, he whispered that he loved her, that he would never, never take this gift for granted.

-Her coat remained in his possession, kept in a locked trunk so that no scurrilous intruder could steal it. Zhuk insisted that she wear the key to it around her neck, so that she still had control of her freedom, that she could have her coat whenever she wished. Occasionally, she would slip it on and dive into the water, whenever the longing for her ocean home grew too great. But she always returned to him, and she always gave it back to him, 

[eeveevie]

Apodyopis!!! 😁

from this list

The much anticipated return of my other rarepair! And everybody’s favorite insufferable drunk bastard Hawke! 💕

Varric Tethras x Bethany Hawke 

928 words (under a cut) | Ao3

Another evening in the Hanged Man spent with Hawke—Varric wouldn’thave it any other way. It helped that Hawke kept fantastic company as well,with a few of them even offering to pick up the tab on a few rounds so it wasn’talways him that was left to flash the coin to Corff at the end of thenight.

Varric leaned against the bar nursing a tankard of dark ale,just beaming as Hawke serenaded the tavern with his tales of conquest. EvenIsabela, who he had been desperately trying to woo seemed interested—perhapsit was all part of the ploy—it was all amusing to Varric. As Hawke raised hisarms up in another large gesture for Maker knows what, Varric felt atingle along his spine. As he took another slow sip of his drink, he had the distinctfeeling that he was being watched.

Out of the corner of his eye, he quickly found the culpritand flashed a small grin, quickly winking in Bethany’s direction. She wasn’tjust watching him, she was ogling him with a dreamy expression, her chin tuckedinto the palm of her hand, elbow propped onto the table where she sat. Shesmiled in his direction, eyes darkening, dropping across his form before slowlycrawling up once more and fixating on his chest. Ah—was she…undressinghim? The flirt.

Varric carefully peeled himself away from the bar and slowlysauntered in her direction. Her smile grew, but she otherwise didn’t overreactto him taking the spot next to her. They were practically experts now atkeeping their affair a secret, but that didn’t mean Varric was about to takethe risk on accidental public displays of affection. Even in the back-cornertable, away from the main crowd of patrons and their closest friends, theyneeded to be careful.

“How much have you had to drink?” Varric asked, eyeing thebottle of brandy—no doubt Isabela had purchased for the girls to share.

Bethany titled her head, cheek sliding further against herhand. “Enough.”

She shifted to sit up, taking two cups and filling them soVarric could partake. Against his better judgement, he drank—but who was he towaste Antivan brandy? That Isabela bought? Plus, it wasn’t every evening that hehad the opportunity to drink with his Sunshine or be this close. Theydrank, exchanging knowing glances and small secret smiles as the laughter andmusic around them grew. Bethany’s foot tapped against his, and he’d push hisknee against hers—she’d touch her shoulder against his, and he’d brush his handagainst hers when passing the bottle of brandy for a refill. A little game justfor them.

Still, Bethany was watching him, eyes raking over his body,lingering across his exposed chest and daring to dip further to his lap. Hechuckled low.

“Do you like what you see, Sunshine?” Varric teased,waggling his eyebrows.

“I think,” Bethany started before leaning dangerously closeso she could whisper in his ear. Varric stayed cool, snapping his eyes towardsthe grouping of friends at the bar and their expressions—none of them werelooking this way. Bethany’s hot breath fanned across his neck as she spoke. “I’dquite like to see what you’ve got hiding in those pants.”

Okay, so it wasn’t the filthiest thing Bethany could’vesaid, but it was still utterly tantalizing coming from her. His bodywent rigid as he nearly spat out the gulp of brandy he had just taken a swig ofand took a moment to compose himself, trying to feign as if what she had justsaid was as if little importance. Especially when a few of their friendsglanced their way. He laughed, leaning away from Bethany, and felt his skinflush with heat as one of her hands slid across his thigh beneath the table.

Maker—hope nobody witnessed her.

“Hmm?” she hummed, daring to lean in again. Varric was strugglingto not lean in and just steal a kiss and make their relationship known.  

His mind was clouded, his heart was racing, but his gut instinctwas screaming—

“Fuck—” he nearly choked out the word and coughed beforelaughing as Bethany grinned, a bright blush on her cheeks. The group wasdistracted, Varric thought, as if to convince himself. They’d never noticetheir absence. “Let’s get out of here.”

Bethany giggled as she nodded, and quickly followed Varric’slead as he shuffled out of the corner. As clandestine as he thought he wasbeing as they made their way towards the stairs and towards his private room, avoice called out to them.

“Hey!”

Bethany’s face drained off all color, but she quicklyrecovered in time as her brother jolted up the stairs to join them beforeVarric’s door.

“What are you two doing? Leaving the party? Are we being tooloud?” he asked, tossing one arm around each of their shoulders. For as tipsyand drunk on emotions as Varric felt, Hawke was shitfaced.

Varric hesitated, for the first time at a loss for words. Heblamed the brandy, and temptation.

Bethany smiled at her brother. “Varric is writing a manuscriptabout our story and wanted to share some of it with me.”

“What?” Hawke pouted. “No fair!”  

As Hawke continued on a short tirade of the importance ofaccurate, but embellished storytelling and how he wanted Varric to describe himas manly, Bethany shot him a small smile, and a wink—they’d have theirmoment one evening. Hopefully sooner rather than later.

[justmilah-archive]

Call of the Sea (2/?) | Millian

Yep, so apparently I had decided to write more of this. Apparently, where the first part was 1500 words, this one decided to be almost 3700. Who knows, maybe part three will be 700 words. (Or, yegads, 7,000.)

(I really should get off my lazy rump and get these on a03 and ff.net, but meh, tagging’s a pain in the rear.) 

I feel like I’m finding her voice a bit more. That makes me happy!

Part 1

Title: Call of the Sea (2/?) Rating: T (for suicidal thoughts and depression) Summary: A couple of weeks after their first meeting, Milah finds the Jolly Roger in port again. He’s angry about the day, she confronts him about it, but before that she had doodled on a piece of paper. And before that, Baelfire

(I don't know how to write children but fortunately for that Baelfire always came across as having a progressed vocabulary for his age.)

xxx

There were moments when Milah almost believed Baelfire would be enough. If they lived anywhere else, if it were just the two of them, he surely would have been. While the young boy ran underfoot as she did household chores, helping in the way only a young child could, it was the most she had believed it since that night her husband had sold their future.

Baelfire would normally be with his father in town but even though he had been given the cure weeks ago, both parents had come to the rare agreement that the boy should stay close to home. They were not sure if the potion held any side effects, or that it had completely healed him. Milah wondered if Rumple did not also have another motive. Perhaps he hoped  leaving her alone more with their son would show her that he would be enough, that they would be enough.

What Rumple did not know was Milah already knew her son was enough. But it was such an unfair burden to put on the boy. What if one day her weakness became stronger than even the deep seated knowledge that her child loved her? What if one day that tiny voice finally convinced her to just walk into the sea and keep going? That should not be a burden her child should have to bear.

What would another child have done for her? Or more? Could they have been enough to keep that tiny voice? She knew she would have loved them as much as she did Baelfire either way but that opportunity had been taken from her.

"Mama, what's this?"

"What is what, dearest?" Milah dried her hands, wet from the washing she had been working on. When she saw the small rock her son held in his tiny fingers her heart gave a curious sort of flutter.

A part of her felt guilty that she should even have it in the house but it was so innocuous of a trinket that she could not resist. "That is a fake memory stone."

She knelt down beside him and guided his wrist up close to the flickering candlelight. "The real ones are supposed to hold memories. But this one holds the colors of the sea."

He leaned forward to get a better look, eyes wide and mouth opened. "Pretty. Where'd you get it?"

"A friend." It felt safe to call the pirate captain that in explanation even if she was not sure if it was the case. It was easier to describe him as that than any number of other adjectives that came to mind. "When you were sick he knew I was sad, so he gave it to me."

"Oh." He said it as though he got it, and when he looked over at his tattered and well loved cloth bear, she knew he did. With the exaggerated diligence of all children his age, he delicately placed the stone in the palm of her hand. "I'm glad."

He stood, brushing off his trousers and looked toward the door. He was going to go out, to play, and for him the nightmarish hell of snakebites was a quickly fading memory that only lingered when the nights were too dark and the dreams were too troubled. Milah no longer held the innocence of youth, and while she knew she would let him out, she still reached for him. "Baelfire?"

He looked at her with a quizzical tilt of his head but was easy to comply with the unvoiced request for a hug. Her arms folded around him quickly, holding him close and secure, her hands brushing down his back and through his hair. "I love you."

"I love you, too." He kissed her cheek and she answered by peppering her lips all over his face until he was a giggling mass of wriggling squeals. The sound set her heart light and her smile was easy.

"Stay safe. Don't wander too far." She wanted to tell him not to try to touch any more snakes, or to pet them, or whatever it had been he had wanted to do. "I'll call you when lunch is ready."

He waved at her through the doorway and she struggled against her recent ridiculous urge, to lock him away so he could never be hurt again. Instead, she placed the tiny stone in a small hinged box, nestled on a piece of wool that had been her first failed attempt at spinning.

She was able to keep that light feeling of his giggles in her mind even after her husband came home but he lingered in the corners of her eyes and the room, never out of sight, and she wondered if he hoped he would forgive her if he didn't give her the room to breathe when he was around.

She had been trying. She was trying. But it was still too fresh, despite the weeks that had passed, and having him near like this only reminded her of why she was so angry and left her very little chance to grieve.

So, shortly after lunch, she did what was rapidly becoming a habit. "I'm going to the tavern."

"But Milah, it's barely after midday."

She scowled at him after she made sure Baelfire was otherwise occupied, her voice lowered so he wouldn't hear. "I'm not going there to drink, Rumple. I'm going there so I can think clearly without you hovering."

There were a few more words exchanged, some biting because that was easier and others not, and she left him with instructions on when to put the roast in the stove before she wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and headed out of the small cottage.

---

Milah probably should have said the docks rather than the tavern. But somehow, that stretch of wooden pathways and the bustle of people who had been places other than this small community made her feel as though she might be part of the world and not tucked away from it.

She was surprised when she saw a ship she had only been on once. She had not expected them to be back so soon. Ships were normally gone for months at a time and it had taken her years to memories the few that would come back regularly.

She found a stack barrels that was close enough, one Milah knew would not be moved due the time she spent here, and perched on the edge of the shortest one  as she tucked her knees and long legs out of the path of the dockworkers. She wondered if her face was becoming as familiar to them as their's were to her. What did they think of the woman who had recently come to sit out there among them, doing little more than watching the men on the ships or milled about?

A loud, angry shout tore her away from those questions. Eyebrows furrowed, she turned toward the ship, his ship, and wondered if he was as angry as he sounded or if this was how he normally was with his crew. She folded her arms on the taller barrel beside her, chin resting on her wrists, and watched.

At first she was certain this was just how he usually was on the deck when his crew was around. Milah imagined a hard voice and sharp words were important on someplace as dangerous as the sea could be. Then he spotted her on the dock and even from where she sat, as far away as she was, he could see that angry facade falter for just a moment. She knew that look, was intimately familiar with the way his eyebrows sharply creased together as his next order came out with far more than it had before.

After his words remained in that elevated ire Milah slid from the barrel, suddenly realizing she was likely a distraction he did not need at the moment. Smoothing out her skirt she made her announcement to her husband a reality when she walked up the planked wood and toward the tavern.

Off the side of the path she spotted a piece of parchment. Bending down she saw that it was a notice from one of the boards around the port. While it was illegal to tear them down, she felt no guilt in securing it in her hand before slipping into the tavern.

The cost of paper was dear, so much so that she did not mind the smudges of dirt, the wrinkles, or even the notice laden with an emotionless decree on the rising taxation of cabbages on the other side. She would probably scratch the bit of charcoal, normally tucked in the folded waist of her top skirt, around and over the lettering of that side, as well, if she got far enough.

Despite what she told Rumple, she ordered a light ale. It was cheap and let her stay tucked at a table in the back corner of the already bustling establishment. She scribbled little images, each one so close to the next that they were almost the same picture. If she was going to draw, she would leave as little wasted space as possible.

There was the bartender with the mustache she could not quite match, the buxom bar wench who had more or less left her alone after delivering the frothy tankard, and a handful of patrons with features curious enough that she wanted to capture them. She moved on to images in her mind, little scribbles of places she had heard about, birds she had seen, and even that ornery barn cat that chased after her every time she would walk past Old Man Milligan's farm.

She had started on the sails of a ship when she felt the added weight on the bench. Expecting it to be some sort of unwanted company she whipped her head toward her unexpected companion with a threatening bite of warning on the tip of her tongue. The words died and she had to bite back the amused grin when the captain of the ship's sails she was scratching out leaned back a little with raised eyebrows.

Turning back to the slip of paper, more so she did not have to fight that grin, she continued with her sketch. "Have you finished terrorizing your crew, Captain?"

"That is a task which is never done, milady. I am merely giving them a short reprieve."

It was not the first time he had addressed her as such and she gave him a look out of the corner of her eye as she finished the final lines. "I am hardly a lady, Captain. It would be like calling a donkey a horse."

"Or perhaps referring to a flower as a weed?" Her blushed pleased him and she wondered if she should want to punch him for it. "If not milady, what should I call you?"

It had never really occurred to her that she had not given a name. She felt a bit foolish for the oversight and oddly thrilled that he wanted to know. She hoped she hid it well as she straightened her spine and forced her voice to be prim. "You may call me Milah, the same as anyone else."

"Milah." He said it slowly, drawing it out until it was longer than the two syllables it should have been.

She never thought much about her name. To her, it was just a name. But the way it rolled in his mouth and tumbled from his tongue left her inexplicably pleased she had not been named anything else.

She hoped she hid that thought as well when she turned back to him, her sketch finished and left without excuses not to, and tilted her head. "Yes?"

He grinned at her, nice and slow, and it was almost real. "I'm testing the name, lass. I've been curious about it."

There was another blush, damn him, and she took a sip from her tankard, which had grown warm with barely a third gone. He turned to the bar wench, caught her eye, and pointed toward the tankard and held up two fingers.

She was too busy studying him to protest. There was something off, something not quite right in the set of his jaw, the line of his mouth, or how his eyes did not sparkle the way they had when he offered her nearly everything. And while she might not know him well enough, his was a look she was did.

"Are you alright? You're still angry." She caught herself because it was possible she was reading him wrong. "I mean, you seem angry. Or were."

He arched an eyebrow. "What makes you think that?"

Oh, so she had been wrong. "It's just...I thought it was the kind of angry I know, where it's better to be furious at everything than to break."

He studied her for a moment, all of his attention suddenly on her. It felt just as it had that first night, when she had felt he believed her to be the only other person there, and the intensity of all that focus had her dropping her eyes away as it had done then.

"Today is not a good day." He didn't take his eyes off of her as his thumb hooked through a chain around his neck, the one that was more hidden than the other. She saw the glint of thick metal at the end and wondered if it was an unconscious habit or if there was some meaning to the gesture.

Milah wanted to pry, to get him to tell her what it was that would put that look on his face. Is it just today that was bad or was it an anniversary of sorts? Not a good one if that were the case. She wanted to know but he hadn't asked too many questions a few weeks ago and reciprocation of that courtesy felt right somehow.

The new tankards of ale arrived and she felt a moment of distraught when he pushed one to her. It was tempting, would be more fresh and less flat, but to go for it in favor of the old one would likely lead to waste. "I shouldn't. I still have this one."

"There's an easy solution for that, lass." He took her warmed ale and before she could protest it was done. He made a face and shuddered at the flat state of the beverage before putting the empty tankard back down. "That was vile. But now, it appears I owe you a drink. Fortunately, I had the foresight to order one beforehand."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Was pilfering my drink your plan all along, Captain?"

He leaned his elbow against the table and held up a lazy finger in her direction. "It's only 'pilfering' if you have no plan for recompense."

She tilted up her nose but took the fresh tankard. After all, he did owe her. It tasted better, of course, without the overwhelming coating at the back of her throat of the flat one.

"So what brought you to the docks today? Hoping to catch sight of a dashing pirate such as myself, perhaps?" This grin was more like the one from that first night and less than the grimace in disguise from earlier. "Would this mean you've thought of me often?"

This time it was her who arched an eyebrow at him. "Do you always think so highly of yourself, Captain?"

"Of course." It was a quick response, one that was perhaps practiced. The rest of his words were slow to come. "But I was also hoping perhaps I wasn't alone in that."

There was that curious flutter in her chest again and she had to study her tankard for a moment. "I cannot admit to that." There were many reasons why she couldn't, and one of them was the important one. And then there was the other. Still, he had looked almost hopeful, so she could at least offer him part of the truth. "But I can admit that my surprise in seeing your ship again so soon was not of disappointment. Perhaps even pleasant."

"I will gladly take what you can give me."

Her eyes were quick to find his again and she found truth there along with an undercurrent of something else, a hint of promises that she could not fully read. The flutter in her chest turned into a dull, cacophonous thudding and she had to grip her fists in her skirts. "That-- Um--"

"So what's this?" His tone changed back to normal, throwing her for a moment until she realized he was now holding the paper she had scribbled over.

This times her pinkened cheeks were from embarrassment and she tried to hide it with a light laugh. "Oh, that. It's-- They're nothing. I do it when I can. My husband brings me bits of paper when he can. I drew a portrait of our son for his birthday." She refused to do a self-portrait.

Bringing up her husband felt wrong and yet she was aware the reminder needed to be said, for him and for herself. The reminder that Rumple would bring her paper when he could was one she used on herself often.

He took the cue and shifted back on the bench, just an inch. "Well, I imagine when they're something, it's a lovely sight." He set the paper back down far enough away to avoid condensation. "How is your boy? Doing better, I hope?"

It was a better and happier topic for Milah. "Oh, much. Thank you. The price we paid was worth it." That was said with a firm, decisive nod because maybe if she said it outloud it would be. She found out it wasn't so she hurried on.

She shifted again, leaning perhaps a bit too close to him, but it was only because she loved her son and enjoyed talking about him when she could. "He found the stone. I showed him the trick with the light and I think he liked it."

She had to stop herself because she could talk about him for hours but she was not sure if the captain would be that interested. So she went for a new topic. "And what about you? Did you manage to go anywhere exciting on your short trip?"

His grin was sheepish and he scratched the back of his ear. "Not really this last time. We just managed the next port over." He opened his mouth before closing it again and this time he leaned forward. "Would you like to hear about Arendelle? Where the stone is from?"

Milah blinked in surprise, not having realized how far that stone had traveled to get to her. She knew it was the only thing she had that had traveled so far. "I would love that. Is it as cold as they say?"

"Aye. Sometimes." This time his was the grin from that first night, transforming him into someone closer to his true age instead of the added years he had only lived through by experience.

He told her of men who carved ice out from the mountain and the rumors that the prince's new bride was really a fairy with control over ice. He told her that when it snowed the flakes were so big that when one would fall on clothing instead of skin he could nearly count the fractals.

The more he told her the closer she leaned, her ears eager as her eyes tried to read the story of it on his face, to follow along. It sounded amazing, everything he said, even when he told of the scare they had with frostbite.

She was not sure how long had passed but soon she realized that the quiet din of the tavern picked up in noise as more people filed in, looking for an early supper. She had to shake herself in order to remember that she had not really left the tavern, that she still lived in the same small port she always had. The way he spoke, though, she could almost taste the flecks of snow as they fell from the heavens.

Realizing how close they were she leaned back, shoulders falling ever so much a she folded her hands in her lap.

"What is it, Milah?"

She shivered but didn't know why. It was a quick little jolt down her spine. "It's just...I need to get home. Supper will be soon."

"Ah." He leaned back. "May I escort you to the end of the docks again?"

She should refuse. "I would like that."

Somehow, along the way, he wound up with her page of sketches. It started as a little thing, with him offering her a new bauble, something small and discreet but still pretty, and ended with her refusing it for nothing and him insisting her page and a promise that next time he would be allowed to tell her of where it had come from.

She accepted, of course, and her cheeks burned with embarassed pleasure when he shushed her for calling it worthless chicken scratch.

This time, when he kissed her knuckles, there was none of the lingering fear for her child to hide behind. It was warm and lingered perhaps a hair longer than was necessarily proper but it settled nicely into her skin when he was done, leaving a ghost of the feeling behind.

She was happy, more so than she had been in weeks, maybe even months. It didn't stop her from leaning against a tree in the thickest part of the small woods between her little cabin and the town to cry. No matter how good this felt she knew that one day she would probably get her heart broken over him and she had no room to complain about it being unfair.

[dassala]

An Evening Away

2165 Words. One-Shot. Rated PG.

Pretzel Week - Fake Dating Trope in the Enchanted Forest

One drink. It was all Emma needed to steel her nerves. Pulling the hood up over her long plait of blonde hair, she ducked into the small tavern nearest the castle. It was a seafarer’s haunt, so she knew the patrons would largely be those passing through Misthaven on their way to other destinations. She swept in through the door and made her way past a crowd of burly sailors before settling at a small table nearest the window. She turned her back to the outside and looked around for the nearest serving wench.

“What can I get you?” A pretty young girl asked, swinging her skirts up against the table as she collected the tankards left by the previous occupants.

Emma kept her head down and hood on to avoid being recognized. “An ale, please,” she slid a shiny silver coin across the table. The girl picked up the coin and hurried off to the bar to place the order. Looking up, Emma watched the girl go before relaxing into her chair. The day had been long and arduous.

Negotiations were taking place amongst her father and the heads of several other kingdoms. Emma was required to sit in on the talks, considering she seemed to be the largest bargaining chip King David had to his name. Her future was up in the air. She would be sold off to a single King or Prince; whoever presented the largest bid. No matter how much she begged her father to reconsider an arranged marriage, he always gave her a painful smile and promised he would find the best suitor possible.

It was maddening for Emma, especially given that her late mother had spent every night in her youth telling her own beautiful love story. Queen Snow had promised the Princess an opportunity to find True Love and yet, her opportunity had never come.

“You’re somethin’ special, aren’t ya?” Came a gruff voice from the corner, snapping Emma from her thoughts. She glanced in the general direction of the sound before looking back down to the table and shifting her position to show disinterest.

“Aww, come on now,” the voice continued. There was a scraping of wooden chair legs against cobblestone floor, and heavy footsteps made their way toward her. Emma closed her eyes tightly and swallowed hard. Confrontation was absolutely the last thing she wanted. “Give us a smile, would you?” The man continued, placing two large hands on the table in front of her.

“Please, just leave me be,” she sighed, keeping her head low. “I’m not looking to be social with strangers.”

The bar wench appeared once more and slid a tankard of ale across the table to her, then flitted quickly away once more before Emma could appeal to her for some assistance.

The large man chuckled. Emma could only see the meaty, heavily-scarred paws he rested on the shabby wooden table. She dared not look up at him for fear of being recognized. “Then let’s not be strangers, eh?” The table creaked as he leaned down to peek beneath her hood.

“So sorry I’m late, darling,” another male voice, this one much less intimidating, came from behind Emma’s current company. “Did you order me one?”

Emma looked up to see a rather dashing young man approaching, the thumb of his right hand looped into his belt as he swaggered in her direction. His eyebrow raised at her and he nodded slightly.

She understood immediately and gave a slight smile. “Silly me, I forgot. Here, have mine. I’ll order another,” she raised her hand in the general direction of the server.

The younger, smaller man patted the larger, oafish man on the shoulder. “Excuse me, sir. Thank you for keeping my lass company,” he grinned. “We’ll be having our drink now.”

“She’s yours, eh?” The large man stood again to his full height. Emma examined him. His face was scarred and pockmarked, nose standing crookedly to one side. He seemed to be missing one half of an eyebrow, and his large biceps were nearly the size of her rescuer’s head. “Don’t see your name on her.”

Although the newcomer was smaller, his confident grin told her he had no problem coming to her rescue. “Well, mate, if I play my cards right, she might take my name. Why don’t you see if one of the wenches feels up to entertaining you while I enjoy a night with my love, hm?” He took a step closer to the other man, and it was only then that Emma noticed the light glinting off of her hero’s left hand. Or, where his left hand should have been. In its place was a sharp silver hook. Raising his left arm, the smaller man used the hook to rub just underneath his nose as his eyebrow flicked upward in a warning gesture to the intimidating intruder. Emma suddenly wondered which man’s intentions were worse.

The larger man took a step back and raised his hands in surrender. He silently turned back to his corner as the smaller man eased into a seat across the table from the Princess. He raised the tankard to his lips, muttering behind it, “Are you okay?”

A second tankard appeared on cue and Emma moved to slide another coin across the table. She was bested by the man across from her, who flicked one to the bar maid first.

Emma cleared her throat. “I’m really not looking for company of any kind, just so you know, but…thank you,” she adjusted her hood back just enough to let him see the sincerity in her eyes as she spoke.

Her rescuer’s shining blue eyes took a moment to examine her. He smirked slowly and gave a nod, “Understood.”

Lifting her own mug, Emma took a deep swig and closed her eyes, letting out a breath she swore she had been holding since early morning. The ale was bitter and lukewarm, but it soothed her senses in a way that the palace wine could not.

“Hard day, Love?” The man asked, watching her.

“You have no idea,” she replied, placing her tankard back down onto the table. Although she had claimed not to want company, the idea of venting her frustrations to the handsome stranger niggled away at her. “My father. He’s a complete hypocrite.”

“Sorry to hear that,” the blue-eyed stranger replied. He licked his lips slowly and tapped the fingers of his remaining hand against his tankard. “I’d offer a hand, but it’d give us away. Killian Jones.”

Emma thought carefully before replying. She knew if he had not yet recognized her, the name may tip him off. “Elsa,” she replied in a low voice.

Killian took another drag from his mug. “Pure swill, innit?” He asked, making a face at the ale, “I prefer rum.”

With a smirk, Emma shrugged. “Can’t say I’ve ever had rum.”

Both of Killian’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Well then,” he gestured again to the waitress and pulled a gold coin from his pocket. “A bottle of rum and two glasses, please.”

“I don’t think I should really…” Emma laughed.

“Just give it a try. No obligation to drink any more than a sip,” he winked at her and pushed the ale aside. “So tell me about this father of yours.”

It was near dawn before Emma stepped out of the tavern. She had found out she was not exactly a fan of rum, but the conversation had been enough to keep her interest. She was followed by Killian, who during the course of the night, she had learned to be Captain of a pirate vessel called the Jolly Roger. Oh, if only her father could see her now.

Since the intimidating oaf had not yet left the tavern, Killian had offered to walk Emma ‘home’. So far, she had managed to keep her true identity a secret. All talk of the pending arranged marriage was discussed in terms of earning a new farm with a couple of goats for her family, rather than large tracts of land and a new summer palace. Keeping up appearances as they left was important, given the pair of eyes which watched them depart.

“I’ve met with my fair share of pretty lasses,” Killian noted as they strolled down a cobblestone street arm-in-arm, “but I believe, Miss Elsa, that you take the cake.”

Emma laughed softly and shook her head, “I’m hardly your type, Captain Jones.” She drew in a deep breath of the cold night air. “I come with many, many complications.”

“Seems so,” he replied, conceding to the facts he had learned earlier in the evening. “But that doesn’t mean you’re not my type.”

The Princess was not stupid, by any means. She knew there to be a dagger strapped in her boot, and should a man with bon mots such as the Captain try to accost her, she would be able to protect herself. “Well, Captain,” she muttered, stopping at the end of a long street of cottages, “I thank you for your assistance tonight. Save travels.”

With a smirk, Killian nodded. He grasped Emma’s hand and bent to press his lips to her knuckles. “My absolute pleasure, Miss Elsa.”

She felt somewhat guilty, lying to him as she had. But giving up her identity to a pirate was probably not the best idea. She smiled politely and drew back her hand after he had kissed it. As she took a step backward, she heard a shuffling of feet. Large feet. Both Emma and the Captain glanced side-eyed toward the first alleyway down the street.

“Bloody hell,” the Captain breathed. He grasped Emma’s hand in his once more and tugged her toward a darkened cottage just past the alleyway. “Play along,” he whispered quickly.

Emma nodded and found herself twirled in a circle. With a loud giggle, she twisted around as prompted by Captain Jones. He then slid his arm around her waist and backed her up against the wall of the cottage. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, but Emma and her sixth sense could tell it was not completely genuine. In a second, his soft lips were upon hers. She drew in a deep breath. Closing her eyes, she slid her hand around the back of his neck and reciprocated, just slightly allowing her tongue to flick out and taste the rum lingering on his lower lip.

“He’s too dim to realize this house is empty,” Killian whispered breathlessly after breaking the kiss. He leaned in to capture her lips again. Emma silently wondered if the kisses were genuine or part of the act. Her fingernails dragged slightly down the back of his neck, her hand coming to rest upon the high collar of his black leather duster. “Duck inside. I’ll make sure he’s gone before I signal you to leave.”

With a nod, Emma gazed for a second longer into Captain Jones’s eyes. She bit down gently on her lower lip, then leaned forward and pressed her lips to his one last time. As she parted, the blush in her cheeks was clearly visible in the light of the full moon. She stepped into the cottage and closed the door behind her.

Killian backed slowly away from the cottage, winking as he turned to leave, whistling softly. He lingered for a moment near a barrel at the end of the alley, glancing down in the most inconspicuous manner he could muster on that much rum. Finally, he gave one bird call-sounding whistle and Emma darted from the dark cottage, hurrying down the lane toward the castle. She knew the road would curve so much to hide her true destination from him.

--

“Your Highness,” a servant said softly as she stood next to the Princess’s large canopy bed, “are you yet awake?”

Sunlight had streamed in through the windows early in the morning, but Emma had buried her head beneath her feather-stuffed duvet to be able to get a few more hours of shut-eye. She groaned in reply and turned over, pushing her messy hair from her face. “Well, now I am,” she sighed.

The servant bowed her head and curtseyed appropriately, holding out a small silver tray. “This has come for you this morning,” she said, offering up a letter with sweeping, elegant handwriting.

With a frown, Emma took the letter from the tray. The servant curtseyed again and dismissed herself from the room. Breaking the wax seal on the envelope, Emma tugged out the parchment.

Your Highness,

It was a pleasure to meet you last night. Should you tire of your gilded cage, know there is a smoldering-eyed pirate at the docks who would gladly whisk you away to exotic destinations upon your whim. Just say the word.

Captain Killian Jones

Emma blushed deeply and bit down on her lip. She turned her head to glance out the window, which provided a view of the vast, blue ocean glimmering in the mid-morning sunlight. Clever Pirate.