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#borrowed rooms and old wood floors
highvern · 4 months
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Heart of the Sea
Pairing: Jeon Wonwoo x fem!reader
Genre: angst, romance, adventure, pirate!au, royalty!au
Content Warnings: weapons, graphic depictions of violence, blood, mentions of drowning, prostitution, depictions of parental abuse, torture, drugging, alcohol, death, eventual smut, unhealthy relationship dynamics/toxicity, they're pirates and not the peter pan silly goofy kind.
reader warnings: reader has breasts, long hair but i try not to describe more than length, she/her pronouns, and referred to as "princess"
Length: ~22k
Note: ITS FINALLY HERE!! longest fic I've ever written. my pride and joy. this is a dark fic and i tried to make the warnings as clear as possible. the romance is a slow burn. please do not interact if you may be triggered! take care of yourself first!
extra warning: MINORS DNI! 18+ ONLY! You will be hard blocked!
read more here
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Old Friends
Salt water on the stale air caresses your senses awake, rousing you from your deep slumber as the gentle rocking of the tide tempts you to return to its depths. In the belly of the ship, only the gentle flame of an oil lantern hanging from the ceiling illuminates the dark closet you call your room. Just wide enough that your palms lay flat against each wall when your arms are extended, deep enough to hang a hammock for restless dozes through the night. 
Something is wrong.
A ship full of thieves, criminals, and other degenerates never quiets to an eerie silence such as this. The lap of the ocean at the wooden sides of the vessel drowns most noise but she seldom comes away with a clean sweep like she does currently. 
Something is very very wrong.
Twisting out of the hammock, your feet hit the floor with a slash. The black oily surface of water reflects in the dim light, consuming the entirety of your boots, soaking up to the middle of your shins. A quick survey of your space shows your only possession, a small leather trunk, bobbing in the corner.
The real prizes decorate your figure. Daggers tucked in their sheaths, littering their usual hiding places: one tucked under each cuff of your shirt, the largest one strapped to your thigh, one in the lining of each boot, and several strapped to the leather belt across your chest. Your revolver sits on your hip, golden neck polished, loaded like you left it before dozing off.
The door to this room is one of the few that sits less than an inch off the ground. Meaning the water in here is likely nothing compared to what's beyond the thick piece of wood. You need to get out of here. Out of this room and out to the deck. 
Steadying yourself, you plant your feet in a fighting stance, preparing for the force that will race in once the door opens. Barely a turn of the knob, a click of the latch and the door is blown wide; smacking into the wall behind as the sea rushes in, informing you that the water beyond is up to your thigh as it threatens to knock you off your feet.
The worn wood of the threshold threatens to rip your nails as you hold on for dear life. If you fall into the flood, it's over. You won’t be able to get back up, crushed under the weight of the ocean’s will. It's the first thing you learn on a ship: the sea takes and takes and she doesn’t return what she’s claimed no matter how much you plead. And if you do get away, she’ll come to collect eventually.
Arms straining and thighs burning, you force forward against the onslaught. By the time you exit the confines of your room , the water is at your chest. Caressing your collar bones, lapping at your neck like a crude noose. The jostle of your movement claps waves into your face. 
I’ve got you now. The sea whispers. Finally ran out of borrowed time, little bird.
Salt water burns your nose with each bob of your head as you work towards the stairs leading up and out. The tang floods your mouth, pooling in the back of your throat; choking you, silencing your scream for help.
Give up. The seductive voice purrs in your ear. Come to me. Let me give you oblivion.
When the ocean finds home in your lungs, you let her take what she’s owed. 
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A knife to the throat is a less than friendly way to greet your second but Wonwoo should have expected it. His mistake for standing too close to wake his captain.
Wild eyes stare up at him, cataloging his features as the cool metal point pinches his airway. Sharp eyes, firm mouth, scar from temple to chin. He doesn’t flinch as you press a little firmer, forcing the dagger into the pale skin of his neck. Finally, safe triggers in your head.
Still, it takes a few seconds before your muscles relax enough to let you retract the small piece of steel.
“You’re needed on the deck.”
A shuddered breath is all the response he gets before you wave him out.
Wonwoo refuses to move, pointed gaze burning yours.
“Handle it.” You bark.
“Told me not to make deals in your name.”
That peaks your interest.
“Who is it?”
“Stragglers from a sinking ship.” He reports. “Seokmin pulled them from the wreckage.”
“Of course he did.” 
If Wonwoo was a stupider man he’d mistake the exasperation in your tone for fondness. But he’s not. If Seokmin was less valuable then his ass would have been at the bottom of the sea months ago. But the strikes against him are stacking higher and higher, and your goodwill is running out.
Today, you’re in one of your better moods. Seokmin will probably end up back in the wreckage with the sorry sailors he saved if none of them prove to be of any use. That is, if you let them take a breath after finding out just who exactly is standing above you.
“What colors?”
Their allegiance. The flag had been long gone by the time the three men were pulled from the chilly depths. But the brands on their necks tell it just the same. A circle with a vertical line through the middle.
“Krakens.”
You're out of your bed and up the stairs before Wonwoo can blink.
Face cold as the winter wind that screams from the north, you hone in on your target the second you're in the daylight. Seokmin doesn’t see it coming as you round on him. The brass knuckles swirling around your fingers rips a sizable gash across his cheek as the crack of your hand rings out, silencing your audience.
He falls to his knees as his own hands move to protect his face, a pained “Fuck!” leaving his lips. 
“You’re lucky I don't shoot you!” You spit, lips curled and teeth bared.
Garnet blood dripping from his chin to the wooden planks only furthers your disdain for the man in front of you. The gun on your hip sings like a siren but you have bigger problems to deal with. Seokmin won’t get the bullet with his name engraved on it today but tonight he should pray to whatever powers be that it finds another target first.
Whirling to the three strangers backed against the main mast, you eye them up and down. Wonwoo was right to wake you, because looking you in the eye with a shit eating grin is the demon you’ve been avoiding for years. The reason for your nightmares. The reason for the lump of hardened charcoal where a beating heart should be.
“Miss me?” he smirks.
In a flash, the revolver is in your hand. The shot hits dead center of the scant inches between his feet, smoke rising from the hole embedded in the surface of the deck. Whisps still rise from the muzzle of the gun as you cock the second bullet and raise your arm to aim for his heart. 
His cocky facade slips for a fraction of a second, but it pulls the infamous bloodthirsty smile to your lips.
“You’re a dead man, Jeonghan.”
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The hesitant rap at the door rips your attention away from the creased parchment sprawled across your desk. Tallies of loots, debts, bribes, and more litter the ledger in tight neat script; providing nothing more than a swelling vein throbbing across your temple.
“Come in.” You beckon, eyes glued to your ledger.
Tracking his movements in your peripheral, Seokmin’s entire presence screams terror. He doesn’t dare look up when he cracks the door to your office open, barely enough for him to slip inside. Even the click of the latch is silent as he shuts it, releasing the twisted knob once it’s back home; attempting to make himself as small as possible, like a mouse trying to escape a snake’s nest. He knows it’s judgment day and he’s been found wanting. The weight of his sentence hangs around his heart where he just might find a bullet in the next few minutes.
“Sit.”
He isn’t a horrible crew member. Bad pirate? Absolutely. But he’s loyal as they come, works hard as anyone else with something to prove to the world. 
Seokmin was a farmer's son. One of several and the last in line to inherit any crumb of wealth his family could ever offer. At least that's what he told everyone. On the Hydra, a person’s story was their own. You didn’t care who they were before they inked their loyalty onto the base of their skull, just that no one would come for them with a debt to settle while aboard your ship.
The farm hardened his body but his heart was soft as wax under a flame. In spite of the obvious flaw, it’s why he’s the best at collecting information. Pure face and a familiar warmth, naivety rolling off him in waves. A few cheap secrets swimming out his mouth, misinformed beliefs regarding the way the world worked spoken a little too loud and viola! Some fool would step up to the plate to correct him, spilling their guts on the table just before Seokmin’s knife spilled them on the floor. 
Despite what he cost you in sanity, he’d been worth his weight in gold when it came to finding leads on loose lips. Sometimes even loose legs. The women at brothels adamantly refused to take the coin you padded his pocket with. Always sending him back hours later than expected with the familiar jingle of a full purse and an unmistakable swagger in his step. You swear the velvet pocket is sometimes heavier than when it left.
You deliberately drag your gaze up to Seokmin’s face, unhurried in pace, blinking lazily, almost sleepy. Jaw relaxed, and shoulders loose; your entire posture screams threat. Each of your crew needed a different captain when it came to reprimands. Soonyoung, eager to please and prove, suffered most with silent dismissals. Jihoon, the rare times he earned your ire, only responded to direct threats.
Seokmin’s master and executioner was guilt.
“Do you know how Wonwoo got his scar?” 
Schooling your face into a neutral expression, you wait for his response. Providing nothing, refusing to allow him comfort in this moment.
Seokmin doesn’t raise his gaze from his worn leather boots as he mumbles, “No.”
“It was my fault.” You share, picking your nails as the weight of your admission settles. “I thought I was helping a kid escape some cons. Told her she could follow us to town but after that, she was on her own. Turns out she was leading us into a deathtrap. One of her little gang took a swing at Wonwoo’s face and almost took his eye with him. Luckily, Wonwoo got him first.”
Apparently, this was one of the rare instances Seokmin had the sense to stay quiet.
“He’d thought it was a bad idea, but I tried to help her anyway. Didn’t listen to his advice that some things need to be left to the fates.”
Standing from your desk, you snag the bottle of whiskey resting on the cluttered bookshelf behind you. One of the few luxuries you afford yourself. Pouring two glasses, you slide one across your desk to the frightened man before continuing.
“I didn’t listen, and he got hurt.” Your tone so sharp it bites with blood stained teeth. “Wonwoo almost lost his eye, Min. Tell me, what kind of shooter would he be with one eye?”
“Not a very useful one?”
“Just about as useful as a spy you’d be without your tongue.”
Seokmin’s pale face balks at the implication. Hands wringing in his lap, you think he might piss himself.
“I’m not in the business of charity so I say this once: pull another stunt like you did today, and I’ll have Shua make you wish I killed you this morning.” Sitting back into the ancient leather chair, you jut your chin hauntingly. “Understand?”
“Yes, captain.”
“Get out.”
The door clicks shut before your next breath.
Your head drops with a heavy thud against the wooden trim of your seat, eyes sliding shut. Holding the stretch of your lungs as you inhale, attempting to do the same to the stiff muscles corded around your shoulders as a squeak alerts you to a new presence.
“That went well.”
You don’t have the patience for Wonwoo's taunting tonight. 
Sprawling in the now abandoned chair, he leisurely sips at Seokmin’s untouched glass of amber liquor before speaking again..
“I didn't almost lose my eye.”
“I fail to see how that's of importance.”
“Too many rumors flying around means someone will eventually ask for the truth.”
“Do let me know when they approach you, I’d pay good money to watch you stutter your way through the story.”
In truth, Wonwoo’s trademark scar came as the result of too much lager and a very short pier. You both were still fresh as spring lambs to the cruel world beyond the high walls of the marble palace, but quickly figured that anything you could use to your advantage needed exhaustion. The rumors you’ve stirred up around the jagged silver mark spanning half his face granted him a reputation beyond the edges of the ship, carried further by those who managed to escape your wrath.
Legends across the seas of the Viper’s second painted a terrifying character. Wonwoo’s quiet nature and intimidating features served to fan the flames further. He was mean with a blade, even meaner with a gun. Only those with a deathwish knowingly went toe to toe with him. Those unfortunate enough to cross his mark were dead before they could even hear the cock of the pistol. 
When Wonwoo doesn’t answer, you continue. “If anything, you should be thanking me.”
“Oh?”
“How many fights have you gotten in since I started telling people your scar was because you made a deal with a daemon?”
“Several.”
“Which is certainly less than otherwise.”
“Certainly.”
“And I don’t even get a thank you.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” He grovels, cocking his head forward. 
“I’m not in the mood for your poor humor.”
“You seemed to be generous with Seokmin.”
Knocking back the remnants of your cup before pouring another drink, you respond. “When he fucks up and I let Shua cut him to a million pieces he’ll see generous as I am, I’m good on my threats.”
That’s why they called you the Viper. Lethal. Calculating. Even when things don’t appear to be in your favor, luck seems to find you as a friend. Everything could be a lesson or another method for you to strengthen your alliances.
Even Seokmin’s fatal mistake of pulling Jeonghan on board would serve a purpose.
“Speaking of threats. What are we doing with those Krakens?”
“Eager to take a swing?” You jest, ignoring the sheen clinging to his lips.
“I have no interest in hearing them screaming at all hours for the next week. Kill Jeonghan, dump the other two and let the sharks claim them.”
“But then Jeonghan won’t see how we greet old friends. The other two are insurance.”
There isn’t enough time in the universe for you to deal Jeonghan what you owe him. The hunger to see him suffer would have terrified you in a past life. Even the hit on Seokmin this morning came with a swallowed trickle of sympathy after your rage cooled to a smolder, but no room for regret on the sea. Strike first and strike hard. You’ll pay for it all in the end and guilt wouldn’t spare you. 
But what grows in you now isn’t concerned with what you’ll face on the other side of the light. The poison you’ve collected in your veins for years pleads for the chance to fruit in his blood and stop his cold heart.
“You think he cares that much?”
“He’s captain, they’re his crew.”
“So you’d squirm if Seokmin got under the knife?” 
“Ask me in a few days.”
Silence finds the space between you like a familiar companion. Wonwoo is the last piece of home you have. You’d grown up together, run away together. Found each other again and again, no matter how long you ended up separated. A friend like him was difficult to come by when everyone had a price. Wonwoo’s turned out to be too high to ever hang you out to dry, and you the same.
“Tell Jihoon I want us at port by midday tomorrow.”
A humorless breath leaves his nose, “Oh, he’ll be thrilled.”
���I don’t pay him to be happy, I pay him to get my ship where I want it to go.”
You’re snappier than usual. The fury you feed in front of the crew protects you from the whispers and speculations. You’d won the vote fair and square when your processor had been ousted, a man nothing more than a relic from the old days, lazy and more than willing to let others do his dirty work while he soaked in riches. You’d sewed patches of discontent after years spent aboard, earning favors and friends along the way, mastering every job to be done on the once dingy ship. 
Tentative friendships were easily gained, but respect? Respect was on the bidding block everyday. It wasn’t enough to stain your hands whenever needed; the price for respect was razored words and padded pockets. 
Unfortunately, Wonwoo earned his fair share of both.
“When we get to the pier, we’re dropping Chan.”
“What?” Now anger heats his tongue.
“He’s not making progress.”
“Guns take time.”
“I've got enough mediocre gunslingers, I don’t need another.” Your focus is on the parchment again, searching for the cost the youngest member of your crew is having you foot. “He’s wasting ammunition and gunpowder as if it falls from the sky.”
“No.”
Occasionally Wonwoo argued with you, pressed you to see different perspectives but rarely did he disagree completely. Even more rare was flat out refusal.
“Pardon?”
“We’re not dropping Chan. He’s better than Vernon, and better than I was when I’d been doing it as long as he has.”
Your eyes slink to his, slow and purposeful. A lioness toying with her prey, gaze sharp as the knife you raised to his throat earlier that morning. Head tilting to the side, you open your mouth with a venomous smile.
“So when he catches up, I drop you?”
The threat is empty as the decanter perched on your desk, but there is always a sliver of Wonwoo’s heart that freezes at the possibility you’ll make good on it.
“You’ll never drop me.”
“After today, I might.” 
The charade drops in an instant. Eyes closing once again, you scrub your face until stars burst against the black backdrop of your lids. 
Nights like these rip open the place in your mind that rains endless questions. What if you remained in your little piece of the world? What if you accepted the frilly dress and silly parties? Allowed your father to make your marriage match as he saw fit for his own gains, a marriage to the cold Duke of Nas-Shost’s son or one of the brutish princes of Uspar. Perhaps you’d only be subjected to the violence of one man rather than dozens. Certainly there'd be less blood, fewer scars climbing your body like grotesque ivy. The warm arms of lavish life would embrace you, dull your mind till you were pliant as your peers. Produce babe after babe for whatever loveless man you’d been bound to, allowing nannies and wet nurses to care for your children while you indulged in cards and gossip like your mother.
Destined to be a mirror image of her dreamy smiles and distant eyes. A glance at your mother’s face showed her spirit miles away, blissful nothingness constantly clouded her features. Perhaps it was her own method of surviving your father. 
She mindlessly prattled in the few hours you spent with her as a child, typically spewing tattles of the neighbors and other society ladies as if it was of great importance. Laughing at her own quips and snarks that you couldn’t quite grasp the humor of. Only one conversation of substance ever occurred amongst dainty tea cups and porcelain plates of biscuits and cake. 
During one of the numerous lessons with your pious governess, Madam Atina, a hunched woman with a face like an old leather satchel; she’d hauntingly informed you everyone was born in the world with a cardinal flaw sealed in their soul. You’d run right to your mother, sharing the new knowledge with electrifying excitement. Her jeweled fingers brushed your hair as you sat in her lap, recalling the seven faults like it was an examination.
Your governess is right. She smiled.
What’s father’s? Pride. And yours? Envy. And me? You, my little bird, were born greedy as they come.
Barely seven at the time, you squealed as her fingers tickled your ribs, joyously unaware she bared your deepest secret so easily. But now, you understood why she always had a heavier hand in your upbringing than she had in your older sisters’. 
From the moment you left the womb, you’d wanted. Even with every luxury available, any whim granted, you’d always been greedy for a different sort of satisfaction. A different life. What use was having anything if you needed the approval of another to get it? Even as a child you’d resented the way your father had the final say on your mother’s choices. On your sisters’. On yours.
Imagination taking you to the stables every morning, pulling the shy stable boy from his chores to appease your need for a new identity. Finding freedom in the far edges of the palace gardens,  pretending you were soldiers on the front line between roses, using the bushes as cover before shooting make believe pistols at a fictitious enemy. Or two warring monarchs set to duel, branches becoming gilded swords as the day lilies provided their rapt attention. Sometimes you played pirates, forcing each other to walk the plank before breaking into maniacal giggles at the ridiculous accents you donned by the crystal lake.
The garden’s behind the estate remained a stage until your mother had you moved out of the nursery at twelve and into a private room down the hall to prepare you for balls and parties. New lady’s maids combed your hair up and tailored the hem of your dress down to brush the ground, signaling to everyone in court you were now of age. And then you were tasked with mastering a new kind of performance. The type that ends with your hands, neck, and crown covered in diamonds and your name on a contract to the highest bidder.
You and Wonwoo didn’t play anymore after that.
But now, even as misery loomed like a cloud over your head, at least you were alive with the knowledge that you created your own destiny. Now, the entire world is your stage, the gods your audience.
Wonwoo crosses to the door with a few long strides, the shuffle of his feet intentional to alert you to his movement.
“Make sure Hoshi checks on Seokmin. Don’t need his face getting infected.” You mumble into your glass, attention on the flame jumping from the black candle to the left of your desk. “And no food for our guests.”
“How long?”
“Three days, longer if they start fighting. Only enough water for them to stay alive.” 
Wonwoo’s exit is silent but his absence prickles the back of your neck, threatening to rip you to shreds. You try to focus on the pop and crack of the fire burning in the hearth across the room. How your throat burns raw with another swig of booze. Even the habitual press of your thumb across the silken abalone handle of your revolver does nothing to numb the world inside your head.
Waves crash below the windows of your office as you cut through the endless sea, pounding surf singing their nightly hymn of the souls you’ve banished from this world. The haunting tune echoes louder with the knowledge that their master is shackled in the belly of your ship. An atonal ballad filled with the ghostly rattle of the chains crossed around his wrists and throat.
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Ventparsk
Sunlight glares from the vast waves, the harsh beams attempting to blind you, as an infinite blue sky supplies nary a cloud of reprieve from its brutal warmth. You’d never speak ill of a scarce blessing such as the weather of today. Glittering open sea as far as the eye could see, not a single blip in sight save for the dark mountain rising from the horizon.
Your crew has stripped their torsos down to their scarred and inked skin, only keeping the dignity of pants as they trudge back and forth below your watch from the quarterdeck. Braving the threat of a scarlett backside rather than risk fainting over the sides of the ship and into the depths. The roughspun linen of your undershirt tears across your skin as wind breathes and snaps into the white sails above, propelling the vessel closer to the crowded harbor of Ventparsk.
Weeks at sea had depleted the stock of provisions and riled the crew. Only so much entertainment to be had when surrounded by nothing but endless ocean and air. Even you found the monotony of the days tiresome despite the never ending responsibilities of being captain. Drinking and merriment kept everyone content enough, card games as well before Soonyoung inevitably ran his mouth directly into someone’s fists. He might have maintained a tight ship under your command but when everyone gathered at night to loosen their limbs and cheer their minds, a hit on Soonyoung was fair play. Sometimes encouraged. 
But the typical vices were no longer keeping their grumbles quelled. The gash on Seokmin’s cheek only fanned the flames higher. It was understood why you dealt him that hand, but their fondness for the newer member of your crew bred unconscious resentment. You’re not a physician but even you knew if you let the disease of discontent fester, it’ll kill the entire body.
The cure was simple enough. A few days wreaking havoc across dank gambling dens, cramped taverns, and numerous brothels in the great pleasure city would easily alleviate the tension rankling on board. Ventparsk opens its doors like an old friend to anyone with a few coins in their purse and your latest voyage ensured each of your crew would be welcomed like an emperor.
Ventparsk marina is a hodgepodge of every style ship and boat imaginable. Steel military ships from the cold north of Uspar tower above humble longships no doubt belonging to eastern traders of Truyso. Even oared ships from the dark days speckle through the thick rows of docks, Proera’s trademark. Your ship resembles one of the military fleet from Nas-Shost, swift and agile unlike the large square-rigged ships flying the blue and silver of the Islearain navy visible on the opposite end of the marina.
A cacophony of colors sail high above. The privateers and pirates aren’t stupid enough to announce their colors so boldly, but the armies foam at the mouth for a chance to intimidate the easily impressed. Amongst the other sheets flying in the wind, you recognize ally as well as foe. The sullen gray of the Usparian army here, a sheet rich maroon from Proera’s northern waters there. A rare flash of orange announces the Gulls, a band of Shostian mercenaries, are a long way from home. Even the maroon flag of the Seven Sirens flies high. If the Krakens had a ship to sail, the royal purple complete with a white circle and vertical slash would snap in the wind above all others. Cockiness bordering on stupidity, a bold challenge to anyone willing to follow them out of the harbor borders. But that tacky piece of cotton had been returned to the depths of the sea, finally resting where a Leviathan belongs.
The lush green flag with a golden ouroboros is hidden in the navigation room of the Hydra, far away from any prying eyes that may look your way. Men may be eager to have a public pissing contest, but you appreciated the fine art of minding your own business. The element of surprise and stealth could never be undervalued, only underappreciated. 
The hodgepodge of pirate crews, merchants, and soldiers neighboring one another along the decrepit docks only exist in the assumed neutrality of the city. If you’re caught fighting in Ventparsk, breaking the delicate truce that exists within its borders, there is no trial. Your entire crew is sentenced to hang as gull food above the gate that separates the docks from the city; staked with an iron rod through one end and out the other. And anyone is willing to sell out those that defy the rules, eager to abide by the code for the guarantee of a good time without the cold sweat of a knife to the back. 
After securing the Hydra, a portly man with watery eyes and a thick mustache waddles aboard. The worn olive green of his wrinkled uniform means he’s the customs master of this section of the marina.
He sidles up to Wonwoo, assuming his status of captain based on who can say what. Frustration lights a flame to simmer your blood, but it's better this way. The old men who run the ports won’t respond to a female captain, and if they do they’ll rip you off before finding a reason to banish you back to the open water.
“Cargo?”
“Nothing to sell.”
“Crew?”
“20.”
“Captives?”
“No, sir.”
“What’s the purpose of your visit?”
Wonwoo gives a lazy charming smile, “Just some men looking to enjoy the unique pleasures your lovely city has to offer.”
“Seems like you have something already on board.”
The desire to send a bullet through his skull swells riots but you reign her in. Last thing you need is to get your crew barred from the island city. Wonwoo would kill you himself.
Ignoring his comment, Wonwoo tosses the bag of coins at the officer. The old man fumbles to catch them but his assistant, a nimble tawny skinned boy who can’t be more than eleven, snags the jumbling coins before they hit the deck. In silence, they count and mark the toll in their book before smiling at the crew.
“Welcome to Ventparsk.”
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You’ve tasked Wonwoo and his first mate, Seungkwan, with stocking up at the trading post. The younger man could barter with anyone and you only trust Wonwoo with the extra store of coins. It’ll take them the better part of the day to haul the crates down the docks and oversee the other crew organize them in the hold.
The night crew remains on board, dozing in hammocks strung between heavy cannons below deck in the berth to avoid the blaring sun. Jihoon remains on the quarterdeck, straw hat tucked low to cover his eyes; content to stay in his corner of the ship while others explore, never one to be tempted by the pleasure houses or bidding halls. The rest of the crew looks at him with pity for not lacking the desire to hand over his time to the intoxicating pulse of the city, but you know better. 
Back home, Jihoon has a lady. He hasn’t seen her in years but sends her a stiff share of his wage at the end of every job. The few letters he’s received during his time on your ship are kept in a wooden cigar box tucked under scrolls of parchment in the navigation room just above your own quarters. You’re only aware because the box was stashed with an abandoned codex you’d needed regarding the islands dappling the eastern waters of Truyso. In haste, the small wooden trunk clunked to the floor, spilling several envelopes stamped with a teal wax seal. Skimming the first few words of swirling script, the woman was rather…descriptive in how much she missed him. Jihoon chose that moment to shuffle into the space, fuming as you gapped over his private collection of personalized smut. 
Leaving the treasure of your heart in his capable hands, you stride through the rusted iron gate welcoming you to the much tamer southern district of Ventparsk. 
Rickety buildings line the streets, each advertising their services. Thick crowds bubble out of rowdy taverns and into the street, patrons unashamed to imbibe so heavily under the midday sun. The mismatched symphony of music pouring from open windows and crevices in the slats to greet them, seduce them back inside. Scantily clad brothel workers curl around banisters and press out windows, beckoning customers with a curl of a finger and twitch of the lips. The independents work hard to lure those with less pocket change to the shaded alleyways for a quick tryst against the dirty walls. Perched on the corners of cross streets, conmen rob those stupid enough to get tangled in their cheap card tricks.
The kid pressing past you barely makes it a foot before you snatch their wrist in an iron grip. Whipping the little pickpocket back to your person, you twist their arm at an angle that’ll force it to break if they so much as breathe the wrong way. Anyone looking, and no one does, will see a dotting sister ushering their younger sibling through the crush of the crowd.
“Where I’m from, thieves lose their hands.” You snarl down at the grubby face glaring up at you.
“I didn’t take anything!” She cries, voice thick with faux tears under the tattered hood of her cloak.
Your other hand reaches into her pocket to retrieve the polished silver dagger usually kept strapped to your side, flicking it into view between you. The cheap piece of steel was worth next to nothing. Best way to keep your coin is to let a thief think they bested you by giving them an easy target, too hard to resist.
“Liars lose their tongues.”
The fury at being caught brands her features. She’s barely skin and bones, moth eaten velvet cloak weighing more than her but blazing in her eyes is fire. The same fire that burned in your own as you learned the ways of the streets when you’d first left the cushion of your father’s kingdom. 
If you rat her out to the city guard she’ll be used as fish food. Or worse, one of the brothels will bid on her bond.
“Next time you wanna lift something, think about why it’s so easy before letting your hands get sticky.”
Retching her hand away, you brush her to the side, refusing to look at her face as you slip back into the crowd. She’ll find the coin you slipped in her pocket quick enough.
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Each room of the Lion’s Den is draped in tacky swatches of gold and all variations of red. In this particular keep, a plush mattress is perched in front of the blazing fireplace. The garnet velvet bedspread trimmed with gold tassels clashes with the blush pillow cases, both jarring against the white oak bed frame and sheets of pale silk floating down from the bars. But the design of the room interests Wonwoo far less than the woman who inhabits it.
“How’s our little friend?” Yeseul calls over her shoulder. 
She’s perched at her vanity, using the light of an oil lantern to carefully fix the greasy smudges of red staining her lips. Wonwoo isn’t sure why she’s bothering with it. He’s paid for the entire night, she might as well remove wretched stuff. Laying back in the satin sheets of her bed, he lets one arm prop up his head as he watches the woman he’s visited for years tsk over her reflection. The swirl of smokey incense hazing her figure.
Yeseul was a few years older than he, versed in the ways of the world and determined to educate the once bright eyed boy he’d been. She’d imparted him with the knowledge of how to pleasure a woman even though he’d only fallen into bed with one other person. Taught the value of secrets in this world. Most importantly, Yeseul was the one who let Wonwoo know that the desire and devotion he feels towards Y/N was love, not just friendship.
“As pleasant as a spring breeze.”
“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Wonwoo.”
“That gunk doesn’t suit you either but I settle for it.”
“You don’t pay enough for me to remove it.”
“And that’s my fault? You try to send me back with half every time I visit.”
“You’re more of a friend than a customer at this point.”
“You’re growing soft.”
“Mingyu says the same.”
“He wrote you?”
“Bribed a guard to get a letter out. Probably had to bribe him to write it too since he never learned to read.”
Wonwoo doesn’t ask if Mingyu will get out of the Iron Isle. Even with the guarantee of a fair trial, it takes years, sometimes decades. More men die waiting than in the gallows at the base of the prison. 
Yeseul isn’t a fool but she is a romantic. Consumed too many novels where ill suited love wins over all and anyone can be together if they just believe it. All wrapped up in a couple hundred pages. Her way of dealing with the ugly truths of the world. Yeseul is chained to the Lion’s Den the same way her lover is chained in prison. The same way Wonwoo’s heart will always be chained to his princess. Useless in hoping to be free.
“But she’s well?”
“A stretch of the word but I guess as content as she can be.”
“So you still haven’t told her.”
“If I was, do you think she’d allow me to run to your bed?”
“With how quiet you were earlier, I assumed it went poorly.”
“It would go poorly. Especially now.”
“Perhaps it's best to give her time.”
Wonwoo knows time isn’t what she needs. The only hope for anything beyond swift rejection would be a miracle performed by the gods themselves. If he were a smarter man, a stronger man, he’d stay away. Wouldn’t submit himself to the torture of her presence, her trust and reliance. But he’s not. Wonwoo is weak in all the ways it matters when it comes to Y/N. Ever since she walked into the stables when they’d both were barely knee high and demanded he submit himself to her friendship. He’s listened to every command since.
Few things in the world were certain but the one constant Wonwoo relied on was the sure way to lose Y/N was giving himself permission to want. Want her the way he has since they were teenagers, running away from curses of her father and his servitude and towards the unknown. Since she’d pulled him down into the hay in that dilapidated barn after too many swigs of the wine swiped from a merchant stall. Wonwoo never saw the smile she’d flashed him that night again. Bright and hopeful, a little shy as he covered her mouth with his own. Now the only stretch of Y/N’s lips carried a coldness, the gleam of teeth sadistic and sinister.
Hope is a fragile thing. Like a blooming spring flower just before the last frost, or a house of cards. Delicate. It has no place in this world he’s landed in. So Wonwoo doesn’t let himself hope for a chance to be free of the love in his heart. Accepts that in this life, there was never a chance for him to have Y/N the way he wants. Because the way he wants her fundamentally opposes who she is.
So Wonwoo allows himself the memories of before. Before they became Serpents, matching stains of ink at the base of their skulls. Before Jeonghan snatched her away; the scars marring her body nothing compared to what he’d done to her mind. Before Y/N found her way back, to him, to the crew, to the world of the living. 
Memories of the palace and her uncanny talent for finding him wherever he was on the grounds. The way she snatched him away from whatever task he’d been charged with to play her silly games, allowing him to be a boy instead of an indenture. How she snuck into the servants quarters and into his bed the night Jeonghan finally came to visit the kingdom. When she called him her friend for the first time. When she’d let Wonwoo hold her to his chest, warming them both against the frigid air after laying each other bare.
“Time won’t change anything.”
Wonwoo can never have anything more than what he has now. So he settles his heart at Y/N’s feet, and lets his body find distraction in another.
Always privy to his moods, Yeseul crosses back to where he lies. Perching herself in his lap, her ebony robe splits open to show the creamy skin of her stomach, the soft swell of her breast peeking out from behind honey waves of her hair, long neck split with the ruby choker all girls at this pleasure house wear. 
Maybe in another life, Wonwoo would still be a stablehand. In that life, Y/N would have married Jeonghan and the childhood friendship between a stable boy and the youngest princess of Iaslera was nothing but forgotten memories.
Yeseul’s finger traces from his lips to his chin, following the dip of his scar to his ear. It had taken him years to stop flinching when someone touched it, the sting of that rusted blade still haunting him. When her nail scrapes the hollow of his throat, Wonwoo shivers for an entirely new reason.
Flipping her beneath him, Yeseul’s flit of laughter tickles Wonwoo’s lips as he claims her mouth.
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“Another.” You beckon the woman behind the mahogany counter, tilting your empty cup her way.
“What’s a lady like you doing in a place like this?” A disconnected voice murmurs too close to your ear, a waft of booze and snuff slipping around your cheek.
Rolling your eyes, the same dagger the orphan girl tried to claim is in your hand and pressed to the soft wood in a second. The presence behind you disappears when it catches the lantern light. 
The Twin Star is one of the better taverns in this part of the city. Drinks are cheap enough, other patrons keep their heads down and the barmaids tend to turn a blind eye when one needs to implement less than friendly means to ward off drunkards.
“Keep it up and I’ll have to cut you off.” Inri snarks but fills your cup with brandy all the same.
“You’re a cruel woman.” You mutter, cradling the cool glass to your chest.
“They say the same about you.”
“I’m flattered.” you mumble with a mock salute, loopy smile splitting your mouth.
She leaves you with a sigh. You’ve been here all afternoon, hoping to drown your dread at the bottom of a bottle. So far, you’re failing.
For the first time in years, you have no desire to return to your beloved vessel. The warm fondness for the Hydra replaced with frigid unease. A drunken stupor is the perfect excuse not to go back, at least for the night. Even with the unbending laws of the island, an unaccompanied woman roaming the streets of Ventparsk was unlikely to make ten paces before she ended up pushed into an alley. One under the influence of several hefty pours of whiskey might make five if she’s lucky.  
“There’s my favorite captain.”
You’re in no mood for company. Soonyoung must have been born under unlucky stars. 
“Can a woman not enjoy a drink in peace?”
He’s in the chair next to you before you can object, signaling Inri to bring him a glass as well.
“I don’t think I’ve seen you this drunk before.”
“What are you doing here, Hosh?”
Soonyoung has the courtesy to look bashful. Just down the street is the theater you know he favors, the Temple, with dark mahogany walls and swaths of dark blue silk curtains hiding what takes place beyond the doors. The shanty building housed dozens of artists, dancers, and singers. Acrobats and fire tamers. Entertainers and actors. He had been one of them before you'd lured him away with promises of adventure and riches unknown to a poor merchant’s son. Everytime you stop at the isle he walks right back home to greet his brothers and sisters.
“In the neighborhood.”
“Your family?”
“My ma is finally speaking to me.” He lights up. “Something about a fortune teller telling her to let go of old grudges or some other nonsense. But my sister is starting to do high ropes without a net! And my younger brother, San, he’s gotten better with the knife throwing and—
Soonyoung continues to ramble as you tuck your smile into your cup. At least one person has a good relationship with their family. If someone asked, you couldn’t confidently say which of your sisters were still breathing; only aware your mother and father were alive from the whispers of Iaslerian merchants complaining about royal levies to pay for the queen’s jewels. 
“One of the younger kids showed me some slight of hand with a coin and it looked alot like the ones we lifted from those traders in Uspar.”
Swallowing a mouth full of liquor you stay quiet. The little bastard just had to be one of Soonyoung’s kin because why not? The gods had a strange sense of humor.
“Strange.”
“I thought so too. Probably just a coincidence.”
“Probably.”
“Would my captain do me the honor of escorting her back to the ship?” 
Pointedly ignoring the knowing smile Soonyoung flashes, you take the arm he offers.
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Nightmares
The three days in Ventparsk pass quickly. More booze, a tumble with a nameless man at the Winter Garden, and enough snuff to kill a horse provides a blissful mindless haze. You even managed a quick scrub down at one of the bath houses. Soaking in the heated tub for hours, muscles loose and pliant from the herbal steam and hot stones. Jeonghan’s rotting body in the moldy damp brig of the Hydra is nearly forgotten. 
Nearly.
Dreams always have a way of reminding us of the realities we wish to forget.
“You’re a dead man, Jeonghan.”
The bullet is screaming to make a home in between his ribs. Every muscle in your body pleading for the same. Sink the shot in Jeonghan’s heart and be free from him forever.
“Take them to the brig.” You instruct Jun. 
“Never could just get on with it, could you?”
The next sound from Jeonghan’s mouth is a shrill scream as blood gushes from his thigh. It swirls with the sea water still dripping from his soaked clothes, scarlett inking through the growing puddle, opaque tendrils soaking into the wood.
“Shua’s gonna have fun with you.”
Finally skating on the waves of the vast ocean, you descend into hell.
The consuming stench of stagnant water and mold invades your nostrils as you transverse through the cargo hold to reach the brig. A rat squeaks as it scurries past, looking for its next meal no doubt. You loathe this part of the ship. Too deep, not enough exits, no clear path up and out. Just another gift courtesy of Jeonghan.
Three bodies hang from their hands, bound up and over their heads, feet barely brushing the ground as the sway with rhythm of the tide. Burlap bags obscure their faces but you know which lithe form belongs to him. 
Shua sits at his desk, a collection of mismatched knives organized in neat lines like soldiers prepared for battle on one side. Jars of different poisons clink against one another in the wooden tray in the middle, the rainbow array of liquids each lapping at the sides of the vial for the chance to escape. On the far corner rests crude torture devices he’s collected over the years. Thorned strips of leather, several cat-o-nine-tails, and a lump of metal looking like a fruit with a knob attached at the narrow end.
The entire aura of Joshua’s corner of the ship screams anguish. A slaughterhouse for those unfortunate enough to stumble his way. It’s why no one visits him of their own volition. Not that he seems to mind, more than content to study the ways of the body than talk to one.
You take a seat across from the man dangling in the center of the room, nodding to Joshua to remove the sack from Jeonghan’s head.
Dark circles shadow his bloodshot eyes, cheeks sullen and pale, chapped lips bleeding. Nearly four days on board without food and possibly longer before they were rescued from the hunk of drift wood they’d been floating on while waiting to die has certainly done a number on him. You’d ordered Shua to provide the barest sips of water, just enough to keep them on this side of consciousness.
A metal goblet brushes against Jeonghan’s lips, urging him to tip his head back and swallow the cool liquid. Gulping down the contents without a thought, Shua refills it as fast as he can from a crystal pitcher. After a few shuddering breaths, another full cup is brought to his mouth and he downs it as well.
Idiot.
When Jeonghan eyes finally adjust to the pale light of the solitary lantern illuminating the cramped space, he sees you. Raising your chin, you know he won’t resist the opportunity to try and knock you down a peg despite his compromised position.
“Just couldn’t stay away.”
Joshua busies himself with arranging the necessary odds and ends on an empty wooden tray. He’s meticulous in his grisly craft, hands sure and perfunctory. The jostle of metal fills the room as he sets down the curated set on a stool next where you sit.
Not deigning to respond, you simply flash a sweet smile. The kind of smile a girl throws a man she wants something from, woefully out of place in the dark room you're standing in. But that’s precisely what throws Jeonghan off.
Standing, you snag one of the smaller double sided blades glimmering like a prized jewel amongst the collection. The ring at the bottom sits loosely around your pointer finger as you spin it round and round. Your steps are slow and calculated as you circle him, surveying his form from head to toe. Jeonghan is smart enough to try and keep his eyes on you but the metal collar around his neck prevents him from turning his head as you round him. Someone had the sense to remove his shirt before tying him up. Even if the shirt he came with was tattered to gossamer shreds, the fabric would find a use somewhere amongst the crew. 
A clammy sheen glosses his dull skin, the ring of red around his bound wrists blistered and raw. Curls of dark hair stick to Jeonghan’s forehead and the column of his neck, matted to his scalp with sea water, sweat, and blood. A spray of dark bruises along his ribs are slowly healing, no doubt from whatever destroyed his ship. They labor his breath, his chest barely moving with the shallow swallows of air. The dark stain of blood is dried near black around the hole in his left thigh.
As you stand back in front of him, toe to toe, your gazes meet. Frigid steel tip of the dagger dips into the valley of his throat before you trace it down his sternum to the soft flesh of his belly. Muscles twitch as he clenches away from the sharp bite of the blade, freezing his breath to avoid pressing into it. 
Slowly blinking you don’t turn away as you ask, “Shua, how long did you say it takes for the draught to take effect?” 
“At least a few minutes, but on an empty stomach much less. He should already be feeling it start to kick in.”
“Do you Jeonghan?” Digging the knife in the soft flesh just above his naval, “Can you feel it?”
Shua had explained the effects when he brought the vial to your office. An oily concentration of some exotic herb from the deepest reaches of the Proera, tasteless with only the faintest smell of damp earth. Typically used as a mild sedative, fond amongst those looking to see beyond the veil of reality and into the curtain between worlds. But a heavy enough dose tortures whoever ingests it with terrifying visions, nightmares come to life. Not fatal in the slightest but after the walls melt and the person in front of you turns into a demon, one might wish it was. Unknowingly, Jeonghan took a large enough dose to incapacitate a third of your crew.
An emotion you never imagined he felt takes root on his face. Eyes wild as he focuses on the copper cup now sitting at the corner of Shua’s desk, before they flash back to yours. You can see his brain turning, attempting to decipher what you’ve slipped him, how long he has before entering the unknown.
Jeonghan’s shuddering breath puffs against your cheeks, a small whiff of the herbaceous tincture carried along it. His feet roughly scrape against the floor as he tries to maintain his footing, chains around his wrist and neck relaxing for a moment before pulling taunt again as his damaged leg buckles under his weight.
Jeonghan quakes with the effort to remain quiet. Even with poison flooding his veins, he clings to years of training to resist succumbing fright. But nothing has prepared him for this.
A crack in the facade spreads soon enough. Broken pleas force past gnarled lips, chest heaving as he struggles to inhale. Soon he’s nothing more than a child lost in a crowd. Frantic, panicked, desperate. 
Horror consumes his face, the whites of his eyes visible as his eyebrows arch to his hairline, mouth opening to scream. Air rushes from his lungs as he wails, thrashing in his shackles without concern for the way the bitter metal rips into the flesh of his wrists and neck. 
You’ve already pocketed the knife that was pressed into his stomach. No satisfaction in killing him when he’s out of his mind, but watching him descend into madness will bring its own pleasure.
“What the fuck did you do to me?”
Turning to return to your seat, he screams again, “What did you give me?”
Jeonghan’s voice is shredded and raw already.
In the corner, Shua is rapt with macabre attention. Carefully jotting down notes in his journal for later examination. If one person on the crew terrified you it was the fawn eyed man sitting next to you. Being handy with a weapon was nothing when someone knew how to destroy your spirit by barely lifting a finger, dead before you knew what happened.
You observe as Jeonghan’s expression grows distant. Fear festers along the surface, bubbling under his skin. Muscles flex and twitch painfully. Ugly fat beads well in Jeonghan’s eyes to spill down his cheeks, wads of snot dripping from his nose. Splotchy red patches bloom across his pale skin, fevered flesh prickled with goosebumps. The rusted shackles bite into his skin again and again as he attempts to shake free, nearly strangling himself in his effort. Silent pleas for relief, for mercy from whatever phantom of his subconscious haunts him now.
The two other men in the back of the room thrash in their chains as well, bashing their skulls back and forth to cast off the hoods over their heads. Frenzied as their brave captain’s curdled screams pierce their ears.
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The nightmares chasing Jeonghan follow you up to your room that night.
“My little bird tried to leave the nest, did she?” Your father snarls.
The piece of cloth tied around your head doesn’t allow you to answer beyond muffled groans as you struggle.
“Perhaps I should teach you what happens when a bird leaves its cage.”
“Captain!”
You wake with a gasp, the sound of gunfire and cannons shaking your core. Jun stands in your doorway, soaked to his skin with soot covering half his face.
“Captain, we’re under attack!”
The deck is a flurry of activity. Bodies running to and fro, some headed below for the gun deck to return fire. Walls of water pour from the sky, obscuring the view beyond the corners of your ship. In the distance, flashes of light from cannons on the ship attacking yours is the only indicator of a presence beyond the moon and tide. They’re running diagonal to your port side, that much is clear. The mainsail is shredded to pieces over head, damp canvas whipping from cruel winds. The Hydra won’t outrun the ship attacking, the only end is to fight.
Scrambling to the quarterdeck, you join Jihoon at the wheel. He does his best to steer clear of enemy range, careful to maintain momentum you can’t afford to lose. 
“Cut the wheel!”
“Are you crazy?”
“They’ve got too much speed, they can’t turn. Cut the damn wheel!”
Jihoon launches the wheel clockwise, shifting the rudders to turn starboard. The attacking vessel continues their path straight, unable to correct in time to cut you off as you slip behind them. But a second too late you both realize another ship lies in wait. 
The second enemy ship attacks from behind, capitalizing on the attention monopolized by the first ship. The crew launches grappling hooks tangling around the Hydra’s rigging for them to swing aboard. They flood the deck like ants emerging from their hill, easily out numbering your crew.
You pick off two swiftly, bullets wedged deep in their skulls the second their feet land on the quarter deck. Rain stings your eyes, blurring your surroundings. Friend and foe indecipherable as you jump to the fray on the main deck. 
Chaos runs free as blows are exchanged back and forth. It’s impossible to tell in the crowd of bodies who has fallen and who remains below deck to continue cannon fire.
Wonwoo and Soonyoung are back to back, facing off against five enemy fighters. Soonyoung nimbly dodges the swords aimed at his throat, returning his own killing blows with incredible fluidity. Charges of gunpowder sting the air as Wonwoo deals his own damage, sinking the shells into hearts and bellies before moving to the next.
Whipping around, you catch sight of Seokmin pinned down against the main mast, a giant of a man exhausting him with a sword. On reflex, you duck under a swinging arm as you charge forward. Sinking your dagger between the oaf’s shoulder blades you drag down with all your strength, ripping through the muscles tethered to his spine. The scorching gush of blood slips between your fingers, freeing the handle from your grip. Kicking out a leg, you land your foot along the back of his knee and bring him down. Over his head your eyes meet Seokmin’s. You barely catch the flash of horror on his face before the crack of a fist lands against your temple. 
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Blood and rain and sea water soaks the deck, nearly sending Wonwoo to his knees. The wretch of death fills his nose, sulfurous gunpowder and bile sharpening his mind. He’s surrounded on all sides, the glint of steel flashing as lightning splits the sky. The teeth of a sword split his side open from the bottom of his ribs to his navel. Wonwoo can tell the damage won’t kill him but he’ll have a hell of a time recovering. The sting only dulled by the rush of a fight flooding his veins. 
Soonyoung is on his left, picking off enemies one by one, dodging the most damning blows and weaponizing their momentum to his benefit. Wonwoo would stop to watch if he wasn’t busy preserving his own life. 
Pushing his way to the center of the ship, he spots the door below deck fly open; Jeonghan and the other two prisoners ushered out by a small group armed to their teeth. In the same second, Wonwoo locates Y/N in his periphery; just in time to watch her crumple from a cheap punch to her head.
Rage thunders through Wonwoo’s veins. In a flurry, he cuts his way to the main mast, prepared to kill whoever he needs to. Seokmin rips his knife out of the person who knocked Y/N out but another of the enemy crew manages to drag her body over to the side where their ship is latched to the Hydra. They rush to get her aboard their ship, sensing the change in tide of the fight behind them. 
Clearly they’d been hoping to have the entire ordeal dealt with swiftly, not prepared for the force the Serpents are capable of. Minghao is already working to cut the ship away from the Hydra, nimble feet carrying him along the thin bulwark as he slashes the ropes snaring them.
Jeonghan and his cellmates are already securely on the opposite side of the gangplank, but the man holding Y/N’s body hasn’t crossed yet. If Wonwoo can provide enough of a delay, then Jihoon can get the Hydra back to the open sea. 
In this moment, Wonwoo decides to commit the most ill-considered act of bravery he’s ever mustered. Launching himself on to the enemy ship, he lands with a thud on their deck, guns blazing. He’s able to pick off one, two, four crew members before they realize what’s happening. Bodies dropping to the floor around him in quick succession. 
A final shot rings out before his ammunition runs dry and he switches to his dual swords strapped to his back. Wonwoo swings in wide arches, forcing his opponents back and away from the side of the ship to avoid the tips of his blades. Using the brief reprieve, he turns to kick the plank away, sending it to the crevice between ships just in time for Jihoon to tear free. Leaving his captain and her captor on the Hydra, and Wonwoo marooned with the enemy.
Saying a silent prayer, Wonwoo turns back to the crowd of what are no doubt Krakens, only managing to sink his sword's edge into one more before he’s overwhelmed.
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A Tale of Two Ships
The Leviathan
“Wonwoo, Wonwoo, Wonwoo,” Jeonghan says, shaking his head. “Always running to save the princess, aren’t you?”
Standing before him, Jeonghan resembles a rotten pile of horse shite. Y/N’s torture strung him out, made him weak and unstable. Wonwoo watched the strain in his muscles, the moisture on his brow, the labor of his breath. Fresh, angry halos circle his neck and wrists, blisters drying and scabbing to an ugly assembly of yellows and browns.
With his hands shackled above his head and his feet chained to the floor, Wonwoo attempts to calm his breathing. Jeonghan wants him worked up, wants him to slip and play right into his hand. 
 “What she sees in you is beyond me. Bastard stable boy, with nothing to his name except a whore mother and drunk father.”
In four beats, hold four beats, out four beats, hold another four. Repeat.
“She’d sell your soul the second it became advantageous for her. You know that, right?”
In four beats, hold four beats, out four beats, hold another four. Repeat.
Wonwoo desperately tries to zone in on the lantern, to let his mind wander in the vast recesses of emptiness. Anything to spare him from the lies Jeonghan spews.
“I know you love her. Pathetic how obvious it is, Wonwoo. Reminds me of a story actually. Once upon a time, there was a stable boy who fell in love with a princess. Now the princess was clever and made the stable boy believe they were equals, friends even. Can you believe that?”
Jeonghan rounds to face Wonwoo, a sickening smirk spoiling his face.
“She knew the stable boy cared for her and would do whatever he could to protect her. So when it was time for her to stop playing make believe, she let the stable boy take her punishment. She let him die for her and the princess never lost a second to sleep. Because the princess, no matter how she sullied herself, knew he wasn’t worth the dirt under her fingernails.”
In an effort to stay quiet, Wonwoo grinds his teeth so hard they are on the verge of shattering. 
The defiant tilt to Wonwoo’s chin sends a flash of fury across the shorter man’s face before a serpentine smile curls on his lips.
“You don’t need to speak, stable boy.” Plucking a knife from his belt, Jeonghan flashes it into Wonwoo’s view. “But you will scream.”
And Wonwoo does.
The Hydra
Crowded around the large oak table of the Hydra’s navigation room, Jihoon, Soonyoung, Jun, and you spread over the atlas of the world. Attempting to decipher what Jeonghan’s plan for Wonwoo proves to be more difficult than anticipated. Even more so when you refuse to provide details on why Jeonghan would stage such an elaborate effort to capture you. 
Your crew knows he’s disavowed and wanted by the Atterast, Nas-Shost’s military. They know you’re the reason why but you’d carefully smothered any true details of how you and Wonwoo were involved. Rumors of Jeonghan being a disgruntled lover, while half true, were enough to satiate their curiosity.
“He hates Wonwoo but he hates me more. If his desire is to torture me then he’ll leave Wonwoo alive somewhere I’ll never get him.”
“Iron Isle?”
“Do you think he plans to have himself arrested too?”
“Nas-Shost is unstable. Would he take advantage of that?”
“They’ll kill him before he speaks.”
“He’s in no shape to attempt crossing to Uspar or Truyso.”
“What about Iaslera?”
Iaslera.
Jeonghan isn’t a fool but he is ambitious and vindictive. If your father promised him something in exchange for his original target then Iaslera is a likely place for him to go. And Jeonghan knows you’ll fall right into his hands.
The knife you’ve been spinning into the wood grain digs a fraction deeper.
“How many days till Iaslera?” You ask.
“With the damage…at least five.” Jihoon breaths.
“Five?”
“At least. And that’s assuming it’ll only take us three to patch the hole in the sail and get it rigged again.”
Five days. Wonwoo will be Jeonghan’s captive for five days. 
“Set course for Iaslera.” You bark, “And I want every spare hand helping patch that hole!”
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The days of skidding across the ocean proved fruitful. If you didn’t keep yourself busy then a rut would wear into the wooden planks of your office from the endless pacing. 
If Jeonghan is truly in your father’s court then you owe the crew an explanation of what exactly the Pearl Palace of Iaslera holds. You were no artist, but luck shined on you once again with Minghao. Even the barest memories regarding the servant’s quarters or the stables were included. He sketched every detail, every crevice you could remember with shocking clarity. Reworking sections over and over until the proportions equaled out. Finally, the drawings resembled your home.
Home.
No, not exactly home. Maybe when you’d been a child, when the pearl and silver tiara felt like magic instead of a lead weight; eager to spend days lounging in the library, mind lost to far off lands and tall tales; riding along the familiar beaches, outpacing your chaperone; hiding in the gardens with Wonwoo, playing whatever new game your imagination supplied you two with.
Iaslera was the place you grew up, but the sandy shores and rolling hills only held beauty, not familiarly, the sleek marble walls bearing no warmth or fondness. It wasn’t the place you longed for when out at sea or deep inland. 
Home is the worn wood and white sails of the Hydra. Home is your mismatched crew of criminals, ex-soldiers, circus performers, and farmhands. Home is a stable boy who has been by your side since you decided Iasleria was home no longer.
Hours spent in the navigation room, your best fighters and strategists circled on either side of the heavy table, scanning the map detailing each floor of the palace. 
“What do you know about the guard rotation?”
“Nothing. Princess, remember?”
“Hard to forget. Can’t believe we didn’t realize before.”
“The way you strut about the deck did always seem particularly royal.” Jun scratches his chin, as if picturing you flouncing about with a tiara on your head.
“Would you like to know what princesses do when they’re angry?”
“Huff their nose in the air?” Soonyoung laughs. 
“Maybe if I didn’t have a gun.”
“The guards.” Jihoon reminds.
“I don’t know. My father knows we’re coming and he’s cocky. He’ll probably let us walk right in and assume we’re weak.”
“Sounds like an idiot.”
“So if we walk right in, what do we do?”
“Kill them.” Enea offers from her end of the table.
“If he hasn’t killed Wonwoo already he could have him hidden.”
“If he’s cocky enough to let us walk through the front door, do you really think he’d go through the trouble? He obviously isn’t thinking you have a chance of walking back out.”
“We probably don’t.” You say solemnly.
“What?”
“Best case scenario, my father dies and we walk away wanted by the throne. Most realistic outcome is I’m captured. If that happens, you grab Wonwoo and leave me behind.”
More than a few voices protest as the room descends into yelling.
“I’m your captain and you will listen!” You roar, silencing any objects with a swat of your hand. “Either we all die or I do. I will not pull you into this mess.”
“Not to seem uncaring but do you honestly believe we want to deal with Wonwoo with you not here?”
“He’ll be fine.” You assure. 
Wonwoo would have to be whether he liked it or not.
“He won’t.”
“The month the Krakens had you? Wonwoo shot me. Twice.”
“He got into a brawl with Soonyoung.”
“He didn’t talk for two weeks.”
“We leave with both of you. Or we die trying.”
“No one is dying for me! This isn’t some silly brawl in a washed out tavern or a rival crew we’re ambushing. My father is capable of suffering worse than anything you can imagine.” You pause, nearly choking on the horror twisting out of your stomach as you remember the king's most egregious acts. “When I was a child, I spoke out of turn at dinner once. Would you like to know what my punishment was?” Circling your gaze around the room. “He put a poker into the fire until it glowed red—”
“He hit you with it?” Seokmin opens his mouth in horror.
“No,” you swallow, “He couldn’t do anything that might leave a mark in case it made us…undesirable. We had servants assigned to take our beatings while we watched. I was five, and so was she. He hit her across the face with that poker. When I cried, he did it again. When I screamed, he hit her harder. Even if he can’t touch me, he will make sure someone suffers and I watch. I will not damn any of you to the cruelty he’s simmered on in the past ten years. Am I clear?”
The wooden door claps shut as you exit without waiting for their response.
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The King of Iaslera
Wonwoo doesn’t remember summers in Iaslera being so cold. Perhaps the bloody purple bruises blooming like a grotesque garden across his flesh have made him susceptible to the biting chill clogging the air. Or maybe the blood coating the inside of his mouth and nose. Or the cold dig of gray stone in his side.
He recognizes the damp dungeons of the king’s palace from the guards uniform, pale blue smocks with a silver lotus blossom embroidered on the back. They haven’t chained him to rings jutting from the floors or walls. Unnecessary given that Wonwoo’s right shoulder is dislocated and his ankle is broken, jutting his foot out at an awkward angle. Even if the planets aligned and the gods blessed an escape, he wouldn’t make it three paces before collapsing onto the ground.
Wonwoo doesn’t have enough knowledge of anatomy to set his shattered bones, likely to do more harm than good if he makes it out of this cell to see another day. Perhaps he should have paid more attention to Shua’s ramblings on the intricacies of the human body when he had the chance.
But he knows his arm can be saved. 
The webbed pain coming from his shoulder is familiar enough. When Wonwoo turned thirteen he’d been assigned with helping break a new stallion for the captain of the guards. The stable master only let Wonwoo watch from the fence of the ring, eyes locked on the magnificent midnight steed. Proving to be a fatal mistake when the horse, Balius, charged right at Wonwoo, knocking him off the fence, down to the hard ground below. Once wind returned to his lungs, Wonwoo got a taste for the pain of a dislocated joint for the first time. 
It'd happened twice since. Once thanks to the same dock he owed his scar, and another courtesy of the first time Jeonghan tracked Y/N across the waves to Uspar. Wonwoo knows what he has to do, but he craves to postpone the inevitable until the last possible moment.
The guards patrol in front of his cell every time the clock in the palace yard gives a large chime to signal the top of the hour. Shuffling to the bars on his bum, he uses his good foot to push himself across the weathered stone of his cell, before leaning his damaged arm between the thick shafts of iron. 
Folding the bottom of his shirt between his teeth, Wonwoo prepares for the sear of pain. Even the faint memory of agony shoots gooseflesh down his spine. No matter how many times he’d done this, tears stung his eyes for hours till the pain sent him into a dark abyss.
Wonwoo knows if he screams, the guards will come running and eagerly dole more damage. A deep breath to corral any rogue shout that may escape his throat, and then he gives a sharp twist at his middle till he hears the sickening pop! A hefty grunt escapes into the fabric as fat pearls well in Wonwoo’s eyes, leaving clean streaks down his filthy face. Vomit rises in his throat as his vision blackens and whisps float through the haze. The surging throb curdles through his blood in time with his pulse as it rushes through his veins to every inch of his body.
The pain eclipses any of the other injuries he’s sustained so far but he tries to count his breaths, sucking in four beats and trembling out another four. His jaw feels as if it might break from how hard his teeth clench, fighting to keep the groans of agony on his tongue at bay. 
Folding in on himself, Wonwoo attempts to focus on how he will survive. At least he has the advantage of secrecy on his side. Perhaps he can get in a surprise swing if it comes down to it. Wonwoo won’t die without a fight. He’s come too far.
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“I brought you the boy, now give me what you promised.”
“Our deal was for you to bring my disgraceful daughter, not some pathetic peasant.”
“If he is here, she will come.”
“You better pray to the gods she does, boy. Because if she doesn’t, I will show you there are worse punishments than death.”
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Two days pass before a soul outside of the guards visits Wonwoo’s cell. A fever claimed him yesterday, sending his body into a fit of chills and muddling his brain. The thin fabric of his bloodied shirt and trousers stick to his clammy figure like a second skin. Wonwoo figures it’s finally gone for the kill when Y/N appears in front of the bars. Back in the finery of court, gown and jewels pristine. Hair tamed on top of her head in a style Wonwoo knows she hated, beautiful face weathered with age. 
No it wasn’t Y/N. It was her mother, Queen Demetria. 
Wonwoo had no quarrel with the Queen. She’d been as powerless against the king as everyone else. But even in her limited ability, she’d cared for him and his plight. When his parents dumped him at the palace gates as an infant and allowed him to find refuge within its walls. Tasked a maid, Miss Ele, with his care. When he turned five, Wonwoo was brought back in front of the queen. He remembers how the queen asked him his name, told him it was the name of a boy who would grow into a strong man. And she let him stay, working in the stables to earn his keep. 
There were worse fates for orphans.
With great effort he tips his head in a bow, nearly toppling over as his balance abandons him. “Your Majesty.”
“Is she alive?”
“I—”
“Please, is she alive?”
“Yes.” Wonwoo breathes. If Y/N was dead he’d like to think he’d feel it somewhere in his gut.
“What is she like?”
Wonwoo isn’t sure what to tell her. Few things are as solid as his loyalty to Y/N. But he owes the Queen his life. If she hadn’t been there, he'd have been dead long before he’d met her daughter.
“She’s,” he pauses, trying to figure what he can say without telling too much. His mind working at half speed under the fever, thick as molasses. “She’s incredible.”
The Queen gives him a watery smile, prodding him to continue.
“She’s brave, and smart. And she looks just like you. She’s a lot like you actually.”
“Really?” She swallows thickly.
“She tries to be like the king, but she… She’s…” 
Good? Wonwoo knew the extensive lists of crimes and cruelties Y/N committed, the unknowns easily assumed. Good was a stretch but she wasn’t bad. She fell somewhere in between, beyond an easy answer. It's the only way to describe the princess turned pirate. A low bar to say she hadn’t been as cruel as she could have been but it's true. She’d done horrible things but at her core she was as good as someone in her position could be. Like a flame. Able to burn down villages if left unchecked, but eager to keep a freezing family warm if given the opportunity. Fire burns because that's its nature, but you can’t damn candle for the crimes of the pyre. 
“I remember when you were brought here, Wonwoo. Just a baby. I’d still been carrying my daughter at the time. And I knew once Y/N came, she’d find you. A mother just knows.” The clamor of keys tickles his ears. “Your mother asked me to protect you and I promised the gods I would. She risked her life to save her child. She inspires me to do the same.”
The door to his cell swings open, ear splitting as rusted metal scraps against stone.
“I can’t walk,” Wonwoo pants. “they broke my ankle.”
The Queen pauses at the sight of his foot and Wonwoo can’t help but stare at her. The furrow of her eyebrows and twist of her lips remind him of her daughter. 
“I have several guards that are loyal to me, not the king. I’ll try to have one fetch you and help you through the tunnels.”
“I don’t know where I’ll go after.”
“Even when she was little my daughter had a talent for finding you. I’m sure she’ll be here to collect you soon enough.”
“Thank you.”
“I should be thanking you, Wonwoo. You’ve taken care of Y/N all this time.”
“She makes it easy.”
“Love has a peculiar way of doing that, doesn’t it?”
Before he can say anything else, she’s turned to exit down the same hallway she’d come, heels echoing as she goes.
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Jeonghan paces in front of the cell like a tiger circles its cage, like he is the one trapped inside and not Wonwoo. His hair is disheveled, eyes wild, tension stringing his muscles tight. Agitation consumes Jeonghan, even Wonwoo’s infection riddled mind can see it.
The sting of vomit and other refuse in the corner of Wonwoo’s accommodations stains the air. This morning, his urine was tinged pink. The sliver of hope of seeing anything beyond these walls ever again left when the Queen turned her back to him yesterday. No guards came to help him. Only ones providing small buckets of water for him to clean himself and drink from.
“She’s going to let you die in here.”
No reply. Not that Wonwoo has the energy to open his mouth, let alone goad the man. Let him drive himself mad for all Wonwoo cares.
“It was supposed to be her!” Jeonghan’s nostrils flare as he presses his face between the bars. His hands shake as they squeeze around the biting steel. “You ruined everything, you stupid piece of filth!”
The pieces of the mysterious puzzle click. Perhaps its infection induced delirium but Wonwoo finally understands why Jeonghan despises him so.
Jeonghan hates Wonwoo because he has what Jeonghan can’t get. No matter which way Jeonghan tried to rub his unworthiness in his face, she didn’t want him. Y/N chose Wonwoo, or that's what Jeonghan believes. A peasant-born bastard beat the son of a Duke. In Jeonghan’s world it was unimaginable. 
In Wonwoo’s world, it's unimaginable too.
He can’t help but laugh. Scratchy and unpleasant given his condition but full bellied laughter fills his mouth, splitting the silence of the dungeon.
“You think it’s funny? You’re going to die here and no one is going to care.”
Snorting around caked blood and snot, Wonwoo’s hysteria continues at Jeonghan’s words. Wonwoo is laughing at his own funeral. Wildly inappropriate, but the irony of the gods sends him into a fit.
Jeonghan turns to the guards, furious at Wonwoo’s inability to respond to his attempts to instigate a fight. “Move him to the throne room, the King is waiting.”
The guards manhandling him upright might have hurt if Wonwoo’s body wasn’t begging for death. He’s slipping away into the recesses of his mind, barely able to snag the thread of reality that continues to unravel before him as he giggles manically. The jostle of his ankle sends bile to his mouth, acrid burn flooding his tongue. 
Spots paint his vision, the movement fatiguing him quickly. His head lulls to and fro, muscles retired as they carry Wonwoo out of the dungeon and through the palace. Wonwoo’s eyes refuse to open, but he can listen. Every footstep thuds like a pulse, whispered words coming to him as if he’s deep underwater. A sharp gasp greets him when the guards finally pause.
The crack of his skull on marble is the last thing Wonwoo registers before he returns to darkness.
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Onyx skies weep as a small dingy enters the harbor of Amesstino, welcoming the long lost princess home after years of separation as angry waves attempt to claim her for the tide. 
Disguised as a gang of traders, you and your crew silently dock and flee the tiny craft. Thick sheets of rain provide plenty of cover to sneak to the palace unseen. No one speaks, crashes of thunder shaking the earth and bolts of lightning splitting the sky. Even the wind whips against your body, lashing at your back. The gods are angry. 
Your fury is more dangerous.
The King anticipates your arrival, welcoming you with  abandoned guard posts and open gates. You walk through the front door with baited breath, not even a servant ghosts through the empty quartz hallways.
Several pairs of eyes take in the finery that is the Iaslerian palace. As if sculpted from a single piece of white marble, smooth ornate columns support the massive structure, free from any blemishes or ware. Pale blue tapestries embroidered with silver lotus blossoms hang from the ceiling in even rows like icicles. Exactly the same as the day you left, frozen in time, eagerly awaiting your return.
Imposing silver doors seal off the throne room, gleaming like two teeth waiting to bite. Their thickness prevents any sound from breaking free, leaving you woefully unprepared for what will greet you on the other side.
A single beat of breath passes before your crew heaves the doors open to meet your maker.
Guns cocked and teeth bare, your eyes quickly scan the throne room. In the center, your father lazes in his throne, eyes alight with cruel mirth. Your mother is poised next to him, mouth wide in shock, face pale as if she’d seen a ghost. Guards line the walls, swords drawn; tense for a fight.
But the heap sprawled to the right of the lotus emblem on the floor stops heart. The familiar mop of hair inkling across the braided silver and blue veins of the seal. His chest doesn’t move, almost unrecognizable through bloody bruises swelling half his face. 
Denial shrouds your mind. Wonwoo isn't dead. You’d feel it. In your gut, in your heart. Somewhere, you’d feel his soul leave this world and escape to the next. 
“I gave you the princess, now give me back my title!” Jeonghan demands, emerging from the line of guards to the left.
“You’re as much of a fool as your father Jeonghan! Did you truly believe I’d let you roam Iaslera? You ruined any chance to return to civility when you took that brand on your neck!” 
“You said—”
“Silence!” Carnos bellows, voice echoing between the walls. “My dear daughter has finally returned.” he smiles, “I wish to welcome her back.”
Your breath stutters in your lungs. You’ve had countless knives to your throat, guns to your back, brawled with the rowdiest of thieves and criminals. But the bravery curling around your edges shrinks back in the face of your father. 
Suddenly you're five again watching Dirce cowering on the floor, with a bloody welt across her face. Helpless as your father unleashes the monster that lurks under his skin. It’s all your fault. Your greed. Your pride. Your envy. No one is to blame but yourself.
“You wanted me here.” You manage to steel your voice. “ He’s of no use now. Let him go and I’ll do whatever you want.”
If your father wants your submission, to see you beg, you’ll do it. He can break you if it means your crew will be left whole.
“What I want is for you to finally learn your place. And you will, in due time. But first, you’ll watch your little bastard lose his head.”
“No!”
“Be silent!” He demands, guards taking a threatening step forward. “You insolent little bitch! You thought you could escape me? I am a King! You are nothing. Less than nothing. You couldn’t even escape that pathetic excuse of a pirate on your own! You needed a peasant to—”
A gunshot rings through the room. A hole in the king's chest releases a trickle of blood down his front, staining the creamy linen shirt. King Carnos shakes as he dips his chin, mouth open in shock as he realizes he’s been shot.
The smoking revolver in Jeonghan’s hand quivers, his eyes wide at what he’s done.
An eerie smile creeps across your father’s face, blood staining his teeth. His last words are indecipherable as he chokes on the next rush through his mouth.
Not even a mouse squeaks to break the fragile silence hanging in the air, bodies frozen to the floor as the great King of Iaslera falls. 
Then chaos explodes.
Your mother wails as she registers what's happened, guards rushing in an attempt to aid the king. 
Every muscle in your body screams to flee but your mind keeps you on your knees. The king is dead. Your father is dead. Mouth slack, you shiver as death brushes past you, her chilled hand resting briefly on your shoulder before she steps forward to claim his soul. The once faint whispers of the sea trickling into your ears again. I’ll collect you eventually, princess. But not tonight. Death will have to wait once more for you to trail behind her.
Soonyoung drags you by your armpits, screaming something in your face that you can’t hear, the ring of the bullet replaying over and over; as if you’re under the waves and life is happening far above on the surface. Wonwoo’s limp body still rests in the corner, face bruised and caked with flaking patches of deep maroon.
Everything rushes you at once.
“Come on Y/N!”
“Wonwoo, get Wonwoo!” You shriek hysterically over Soonyoung’s shoulder as he pushes you out.
“We’ve got to get back to the boat!”
“Please!” You beg, voice horse as tears streak your face. 
Hand iron tight around your wrist, Soonyoung doesn’t let you break from his grip. You barely make out Jun and Jihoon carrying a third body before you’re outside and nearly falling down the cliff to the shore.
Seokmin fights to keep his hold on the dingy as it batters against the sand. You and Soonyoung are the first to make it. Minutes pass by as you watch the remaining members of your crew fly down the stairs, slowed with the added weight of another. You can’t breathe. 
Jihoon hauls Wonwoo into the ship first, followed by himself and the other men. 
Nothing else matters, just the weak rise of his chest. It’s the tether your sanity latches on as you return to the sea.
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Dreams
In the liminal space between life and the abyss, Wonwoo dreams. 
He dreams, and he remembers.
The first time Wonwoo meets the princess, he discovers she’s insufferable.
The little girl glides his way, the self-righteous air of importance swirling her stiff shoulders. “What is your name?”
Wonwoo just gives her a slow blink, she’s woefully out of place amongst the smells and sounds of the stable.
Turning to the older woman, the snobby girl asks, “Is he simple?” 
“I’m not simple!” Wonwoo objects.
“Then what is your name? You have one don’t you? Or do you prefer I call you ‘stable boy’?”
“My name is Wonwoo.”
“Nice to meet you.” She says, nose high in the air as she extends her hand.
Wonwoo hesitates before shaking it like he’s watched the older men do when they settle a deal.
“No!” She objects, snatching her palm away. “You don’t shake a lady’s hand.”
Her scolding confuses him, twisting his face.
“You do know what a lady is?”
“Of course I do!” He stomps. “You’re just a girl!”
“Ladies are girls, you idiot!”
An older woman steps in, “Ma’am, your horse is ready.”
Huffing indignantly, the little girl twirls to flounce to the other side of the stables. She walks as if the ground only exists to rise and meet her foot with each step. The princess is headed where the caramel colored mare that bit Wonwoo two days ago waits. Figures. Crazy horse for a crazy girl.
“Would you like to play with me?”
“I have chores.”
“They can wait until after we play.”
“Go on, son.” urges the older groomsman Wonwoo assists. “I’ll take care of your stalls.” 
His eyes shift as he stammers for another excuse. Play with the crazy girl? He’d rather shovel the entire stable twice over.
Wonwoo doesn’t get the chance to speak before she snagged his wrist, pulling him towards the wide entrance. “Come on!”
Once tucked away in a secluded corner of the garden, both panting, Wonwoo looks at her. She looks about his age, only an inch shorter than he is at seven years old. Wisps of loose hair float around her face with a few tiny braids and twists pinned here and there. Delicate threads of silver intertwined throughout. Her dress is simple stormy blue but the fabric clearly indicates it isn't a hand me down like all his torn and patched clothes are.
“Do you know how to play soldiers?”
“Yes?”
“Teach me.”
“Huh?”
“My sisters don’t know how and when I ask the boys in court they won’t play with me.”
Wonwoo spends the rest of the afternoon running around the garden with Y/N. She’s decided they’re nations are at war, and this is the final battle.
“Yield!” She cries.
“Never!”
“Your majesty! What are you doing?” The shrill voice of an older maid rings out. “Young ladies do not roll in the dirt with servants! Certainly not princesses!”
The wrinkly woman grabs Y/N’s wrist, shooting a glare at Wonwoo.
“And you! Don’t you have chores that need finishing?” The maid spits before whipping around towards the palace.
The little princess mouths a silent apology over her shoulder, remorseful round eyes only leaving Wonwoo when she’s dragged behind a hedge.
“No way to behave! Your governess will have my head when she sees you…”
“Do you like burnt sugar cake?”
Wonwoo continues to ignore any effort for conversation, focusing on raking the new hay he’s laid down in the stall. Now that he’s twelve he’s given more responsibilities than just tossing the soiled hay into a cart.
“How long will you be angry with me?”
More silence. It’s the only thing Wonwoo can control in the unbalanced dynamic between himself and the youngest princess of the court. If she wished, she could command him to do whatever she wanted, the threat of whips at his back. But she allows Wonwoo to be angry. To be silent. She’s sat and mopped for the past two hours, huffing and sighing as Wonwoo refused to acknowledge her bids for attention. He ducks into the next stall and begins the same repetitive steps he has all morning, allowing the sweat on his brow and pull of his body to dull his mind.
What business was it to the princess that he couldn’t read? 
When he exits, he finds the piece of confection wrapped in a silk handkerchief on the wall of the stall, Y/N nowhere to be seen.
The stables aren’t warmed with her presence again. Wonwoo never admits to missing it.
“I’m going for a ride!”
“My lady, Muriel has oyspox and there is no one else to escort you.” A stammering maid attempts to placate the fuming princess.
“If my mare is not saddled this instant I will take someone’s head!”
“You cannot ride without accompaniment!”
“He will escort me.”
Wonwoo knows she’s referring to him without looking away from the saddle he’s rigging onto one of the guard’s horses. A rambunctious sandy colt named Athos with a penchant to buck at strangers. He’s one of Wonwoo’s favorites.
“Ma’am, he is a stablehand!”
“Which is of no concern to me.” The rich timber of her voice is decidedly royal. “He will be my escort and that is final.”
Handing over the reins of the stallion to another servant, Wonwoo sets towards the tack room for the appropriate gear. The dark leather saddle and matching bridle is in perfect condition despite going years without use. Wonwoo would know, he’s the one charged with oiling them.
The familiar caramel colored mare is clearly excited for a ride, baying over the door to her stall. Wonwoo can’t stop the grin from spreading to his lips. Over the years, Kalsta had become as familiar as the back of his hand, only nipping his shirt when he refuses her a treat.
Once Kalsta and another stone gray mare are prepared, the fuming princess mounts her and dashes from the stable. Her hair blasting behind her as she pushes into a dead sprint across the hills leading to the coastline below the cliff housing the dazzling white palace.
Wonwoo’s eyes roll, but follows nevertheless; careful to remain several paces behind, even when the horses tire to a trot. From this distance, Wonwoo catches a few muttered words about some royal from the next continent over the crashing waves.
“If you were to marry a girl, wouldn’t you care to know more about her than which season she prefers?”
It takes Wonwoo a moment to realize she’s finally addressing him directly. When he does, he fumbles for an appropriate answer.
“I–,” he stammers, “I don’t know. I guess.”
“Then it is of no coincidence if you disagree with her about other more important topics?”
“Such as?”
“Such as… well I’m not quite sure but certainly there are more important things than my preferences in tea.”
“Surely there is, Your Grace.”
“Are you mocking me?”
“A humble servant would never mock their sovereign.”
“Humility is a virtue you lack in spades, Wonwoo.”
The grin pulling at the corners of his lips wins the tug of war with his mind. “Ahh, so she does remember me.”
Rolling her eyes, the first smile Wonwoo has seen all afternoon blooms on her face. “Of course I remember you. A girl never forgets the first boy she beats up.”
“You didn’t beat me up!”
Her warm chuckle brightens the atmosphere despite the nipping autumn breeze.
“So you’re to be married?”
“If my father has his way, yes.”
“What’s he like?”
“My father?”
“No, the prince you’ve been mumbling about.”
“He’s not a prince, he’s the son of a duke in Nas-Shost.” Y/N picks at the seam of the saddle. “We’ve been engaged since I was twelve, but I’m not sure what he’s like. We’ve only written a few letters.”
“A few letters since you were twelve?”
“Marriage wasn’t as looming when I was a child.”
“And you haven’t learned anything about him in all that time?”
“He tries to charm me but I find it quite dull.”
“Picky princess.”
“Is it so wrong to want a man of some substance?”
“Like what?” 
Wonwoo hadn’t thought much about marriage at all. He’d caught a few of the younger maids staring at him when he worked without his shirt on but paid them no mind. No one ever gave him reason enough to think of anything more than some lighthearted touching. He was barely sixteen after all.
“I don’t know. His words tell me nothing about who he is or what he enjoys. Only that he is an incorrigible flirt who takes interest in trivial matters of taste.”
“You don’t want a man who charms you?”
“I want a man who has meaning beyond a made up title.”
“‘Made up title’,” he rolls the words around his mouth. “I believe that borders on treason.”
“Does it count if I’m referring to myself?”
Wonwoo continues to ride with you in silence, this time matching your pace. 
Wonwoo wakes to whispers of his name, urgent calls for him to break the delicate surface of dreams. He fights a shout when he finds Y/N hovering over him, hand covering his mouth. Brushing it aside, he throws his gaze around the tiny space of his quarters before returning to her.
She’s cloaked in a gauzy dressing gown, the thin cream cotton of her nightgown peeking out between the deep blue lapels where the soft skin of her chest disappears; bedraggled tendrils of hair curled around her shoulder. The gentle flicker of candlelight casts her face in a hazy glow, flame reflecting in the dark center of her eyes. The princess is in his room, perched on the side of his bed, face inches from his own. Wonwoo must still be dreaming.
“He’s here.”
Wonwoo’s brain is thick as cold honey, the day in the stables more grueling with the additional horses the king’s guest brought. “What?”
“Jeonghan. He’s here.”
“And you’ve come to my room to tell me this?” Wonwoo turns his back towards her and closes his eyes.
“He’s horrible.”
Her admission gives Wonwoo pause. Glancing over his shoulder, he catches a wet trail of tears glossing Y/N’s face, chin tucking to her chest to hide her visage amongst her hair. Pitiful whimpers spill from her lips. Wonwoo nearly chokes when she throws herself into his chest, hot beads streaming onto his bare skin as the walls of control crumble.
“He’s awful, Woo.”
Wonwoo has never navigated such an emotional response from Y/N, from any woman really. When they’d been children, she’d stomp her foot and storm away when upset. Or sometimes tackle him to the dirt and pin him under her till he apologized and begged for mercy. He’s completely out of his depth..
Remembering how his mother would comfort him, Wonwoo lifts a hand to stroke the top of her head. A fresh round of tears erupt, shaking her against him. A loud bawl escapes Y/N, freezing Wonwoo’s blood. He cannot get caught with the princess in his bed. Not in this state; thin cover pooling around his waist, his chest bare and her’s barely covered by thin scraps of fabric. Both states of dress were courtesy of Iaslera’s brutal summers. But a coincidence wouldn’t save his sorry hide if another servant walked in.
“Y/N,” Wonwoo whispers gently. “It will be okay.”
The lie does nothing to stifle her sobs.
Trying again, “It will be fine, I promise.” 
Wonwoo has never been a master of words.
“It won’t!” She shudders. “He’s awful, and rude. And he looks at me like nothing more than some prized horse.”
“They’ve only arrived today. Surely he cannot be that bad already.”
“He’s exactly like my father.”
Y/N’s father. Less of a man and more of a waking nightmare. Wonwoo barely interacted with him but the King’s reputation was well known across the kingdom.
Any words of comfort die in his chest. There’s nothing Wonwoo can do. That anyone can do.
“I wish I’d never been born.”
If Wonwoo had been born in her position, he’d wish the same thing.
“You’ve always wanted to see Nas-Shost.”
“How wonderful it will be from the confines of a palace.”
“Perhaps he’ll allow you to travel. You said the King hardly visits the Queen since you came about.”
“So I’m to pray he takes up a mistress after he’s had his fill of me?”
Telltale signs of her fury take root. Huffed breath and shaking hands, a husky scoff punctuating each sentence. Perhaps anger is better than sorrow. Wonwoo has placated her many times when the princesses' temper emerged. This would be no different.
“I’d pray he takes up several, then he’d be too busy to bother you, and let you do as you please.”
“I’d do as I please anyway. He’s barely a duke and I’m a princess.”
“Yes, as you’ve reminded everyone with every breath you take.”
“Jeonghan is the one who acts like his title is of importance! ‘Future Duke’ this and ‘when I am Duke’ that. He squawks like a bird.”
“You’re not quite dazzling to be around either so he might bore quickly.”
“I could have you arrested for speaking ill of the royal family.”
“And what do you plan to tell the guards, your highness?” Wonwoo smirks. “That you forced yourself into my chambers past midnight for some gossip and found yourself offended?”
Wide eyes glace down to his naked chest, jumping to her own as she pulls her dressing gown around herself tighter. The apples of her cheeks warm enticingly as she realizes the precarious position she’s arranged them in, still half in Wonwoo’s lap, perched between his legs.
As if burned, you jump away from his bed to the wall only a foot away. “I—. I didn’t, it isn’t.”
“Isn’t what, princess?”
A pause before indignation takes flight. “You truly are  insufferable!” She quietly shouts. Spinning to exit his room with a dramatic sigh.
“I wish for a ride.”
“I’m occupied, ma’am.”
“Well make yourself un-occupied.”
“Her Majesty wishes it, so it will be.”
“How I hate when you call me that.”
“What would Her Royal Highness prefer?”
“For you to shut your trap!”
“Such foul words from a lady.”
“I have several more for you if my horse isn’t ready soon.”
“Your Highness, would you mind if I accompany you for your ride?
“I prefer to go alone.”
“You’re going with the stable hand.”
“It’s required that I have a chaperone. Since he’s a servant, he doesn’t count as company.”
Wonwoo tries not to take offense to the subtle insult to his station. He knows she doesn’t mean what she says but the words resemble the same ones he’s heard from other, less friendly, lips many times before.
“I see. Well, I hope to speak with you when you return.”
“Of course, Jeonghan.”
“You want to what?”
“Leave. Go somewhere else. Anywhere else.”
“And just how do you expect to do that? You’ve never left these grounds.”
“That’s a lie! I visited Anlehm when I was thirteen!”
“With a royal escort! A girl on the road by herself is completely different.”
“I won’t be alone.”
“And who will join you?”
“You.”
“Me?”
“Please keep up Wonwoo, we don’t have much time to discuss.”
“Why me?”
“You are the only person in the world I trust.”
She speaks as if the admission is little more than declaring the day's weather, but the weight rests heavy on his shoulders. The only person the princess of Iaslera trusts is a bastard stable boy with nothing to his name. 
“And as such, I will need your assistance.”
“I’ve never left the palace.”
“But you understand peasant things like money.”
It’s not a slight, simply the truth.
“So I am nothing more than a guard for you?”
“Of course not, you’re my friend.”
Friend. Friends with the princess. Gods help him.
“A friend would tell you your plan is madness.”
“And you?”
“You’ll do it anyway.”
“You know me well.”
“If we’re caught, I’ll hang.”
“Then we won’t get caught.”
“Because it is as easy as that.”
“‘If her majesty wishes, so it will be.’ Remember?”
“So it will be.”
“What do you know about sex?”
Wonwoo chokes on the large bite of apple he’d been munching on. “Pardon?”
Rolling to her side next to him under the shade of the lush fruit tree, Y/N starts again. “Sex. What do you know about it?” 
“I— This isn’t an appropriate conversation for a lady.”
“Well I’m no longer a lady, considering I’ve run away with a servant. I’m thoroughly disavowed from the crown. No need to worry about corrupting me.”
Corrupting her. Him corrupting Y/N. 
Oh.
The thoughts were already there, smothered by his own guilt of imaging his friend in that way. Wonwoo suddenly pictures the first time Y/N wore trousers, the roughspun fabric hugging her rolling hips as she glided by. Worse, she didn’t even realize what she was doing, having his tongue nearly hung out of his mouth like a panting dog. And now she’s asking him about sex? Perhaps leaving the palace was a bad idea.
“It's something people do to pass the time.”
“I know what it is, Wonwoo. What is it like?”
“I don’t know. Probably like kissing I suppose.”
“And what's that like?”
“You’ve never?”
“Princess, remember?”
“Well it’s…sort of wet? And feels nice. It’s hard to explain.”
“Show me.”
“What?”
“Show me what kissing is like.”
“Wonwoo.”
“Yes?”
“You’re really quite handsome. Do you know that?”
The burn of whiskey on an empty stomach loosens even the lips of royalty, it seems.
“High compliment coming from a princess.”
“I’m not a princess.”
Y/N huffs, stumbling back into the mound of hay Wonwoo collected for sleeping. Fall looms on the horizon and the chill of the evening air requires sharing the ratty blanket. Wonwoo would happily sleep in his own pile but her disposition after a cold night left much to be desired.
“You’ll always be a princess. You still walk like a princess, talk like one, even order me about like we never left the palace.”
“I do not order you around!”
Shrilling his voice in mockery, he does his best impression of what he dubs her ‘princess voice.’ “Wonwoo, fetch us breakfast. Wonwoo, teach me to fish. Wonwoo, show me how to use a knife.” 
“Well you listen so well it’d be a shame to waste a talent.”
A pause.
“I like when you order me about.”
Perhaps he’s indulged too much as well.
“Wonwoo.”
“Yes?”
“Will you teach me about kissing now?
That night, Wonwoo teaches you everything he knows. He also learns sex is much more than passing time.
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The Edge
Dark. Wonwoo registers darkness and warmth first. As his soul slowly returns to his body he realizes he’s laying down in a cot, the unmistakable sway of the sea rocks him to consciousness. And then, Wonwoo realizes he hurts.
A sharp pounding echoes through his bones in time with his weak pulse. Each breath stretching his lungs to the point they feel as if they’ll shred. One of his eyes is swollen shut and the other waters uncontrollably under the pain. 
A squeeze around his hand anchors his attention. Using whatever reserve of strength he has left, he tries to squeeze back.
“Wonwoo?”
The voice is familiar, buttery smoothness pleasant to his ears. Wonwoo hopes the Voice will continue saying his name. Maybe it will lull him back to sleep and away from his torment.
“Wonwoo?”
How lovely the Voice is. Perhaps he is still dreaming, the smooth slide of a warm palm against his forehead comforts him before the roughness of a damp cloth wipes at his brow. 
A pause before the Voice removes what Wonwoo assumes is her hand. He calls on the reserve of strength again to protest, coughing a weak groan into the space above him.
“You’re awake!” She says, as if it's some marvel. 
When she dives into his chest, Wonwoo nearly screams. His ribs protest her weight, his lungs on the verge of collapse. But on his skin he feels her hot wet tears, her nose digging into his breastbone. Even her lips brush against the sensitive flesh as she cries his name over and over. The desire to wrap his arms around her is quelled by protesting muscles. It feels as if he’s wading through wet sand.
She must sense his pain because she removes herself from his person and coos for him to sleep, raking her fingers across his scalp gently as something foul and oily slips between his lips. Sleep, what a wonderful idea.
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The shallow rise and fall of Wonwoo’s chest has been the subject of your attention for three days.  A part of you fears that the moment you look away it will stop.
He’d woken for the first time in the early hours of the morning a few days ago, the sun barely rising from his bed beneath the horizon as Wonwoo breached consciousness. Shua lectured on and on regarding the significance of rest to healing. Better for Wonwoo to sleep fitfully than wake in agony. But the more frequent he broke the surface of slumber the more anxious you became. 
A brief shift of your focus to the vial of murky sedative Shua left for you to administer gives Wonwoo enough time to wake with a heart wrenching groan.
“Shhh,” you coo, settling the cool cloth back on his forehead. “You’re alright.”
“Y/N?” Wonwoo mumbles, eyes firmly shut but his eyes moving rapidly behind his lids.
“I’m here.” 
You move your free hand to his own on the side of the bed, thumb stroking the backs of his fingers in an attempt to sooth him. 
“Princess.” he slurs.
The pained sobs you’ve released quietly over the past few days return, watering your entangled hands as you rest your forehead against them. 
Even in death, your father still torments you.
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Wonwoo becomes fully sentient after a week. Weak from hunger and dehydration, but alive. Shua fusses over him at all hours like a mother hen, mixing vials and brewing all types of teas to speed his recovery along. Luckily, with all of the commotion from the crew to see Wonwoo with their own eyes, you’ve been able to fade to the shadows. 
Taking the wheel yourself gives Jihoon a chance to descend below deck. Or offering Soonyoung the opportunity to share a meal with Wonwoo as you man the rigging. Anything to stay away from the room next to your own.
Somehow Wonwoo awake and aware is worse.
But only so many distractions exist in such a small space as your ship. The crew begins to brush aside your offers of assistance, urging you to have time with Wonwoo now that he’s healing. You’re at the end of your rope when Seungkwan informs you of Wonwoo’s request to see you.
You can feel Wonwoo’s eyes watching you in the corner of his room, your own tracing the whorls in the wood grain of the floors, walls, and ceiling.
You break the silence first, “Are you angry with me?”
“When have I ever been angry with you?”
“I’m angry with myself.”
“That’s why you’re you and I’m me. I chose to go on his ship.”
“It’s my fault he was here in the first place!”
“Do you think I’m incapable of making my own choices?”
“I’ve never,”
“If given the same chance, I’d do it again. I don’t regret it.”
“I—”
Wonwoo cuts you off before you can protest. “Why have you been avoiding me?”
This is the start of the conversation you’ve been running from. 
“I haven’t.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
He’s right. And rather than continue to lie, your feet carry you out the door and back in the safety of your office.
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Two more days pass before you gather enough courage to brave him again. You’ve never been afraid of Wonwoo; never shied away from his presence. Even after tense moments, having him around was a comfort and he indulged your desire to ignore whatever bubbled between you two. But not anymore. Wonwoo is demanding answers you don’t have to questions you're terrified of asking.
He sleeps thanks to the sedative Shua slipped in his tea before re-sewing some of the garish stitches along his ribs. 
Resting in the chair next to the top of his bed, your eyes catalog his features. Even through the swelling and bruises, Wonwoo’s still handsome. From the sharp tilt of his jaw to the gentle pout of his lips, even his scar warms your heart as he dozes. It's hard to settle the panic hanging over your shoulder, a swirling mass of fear and dread. 
So lost in your own mind, you don’t realize his good eye is open and glaring straight at you.
“You’re back.”
Jumping at the rasp of his voice, you launch to your feet. “I was just leaving.”
“Of course you were.” He scoffs. 
The venom in his tone freezes you as your fist clenches around the doorknob.
He continues, “I asked Jihoon to take us to Ventparsk. I’m going to find a new crew.”
“What?” You’re trembling.
“You don’t want me here.”
“I never said that!”
“You don’t have to! You can’t even look at me without running in the other direction!”
Wonwoo just stares. He’s patient in the worst ways and the injuries littered across his face obscure any emotions he may be experiencing himself.
“I don’t know how to do this, Woo.”
“You’re too scared to try.”
“Maybe I am! But if I’m a coward, what does that make you?”
“A fool.” he spits. “I can’t pretend to not feel for you. Not anymore. If you truly do not want me then I’ll make it easier for the both of us and allow you freedom from any guilt.”
What can you say? The man you’ve bound yourself to in mind, body, and spirit, who has risked his life for you more times than you can count, is willing to walk away for your comfort; unconsciously taking half your heart with him. The idea saps the oxygen out of your lungs. You without Wonwoo. Like a flower without the sun. The sky without stars. Ocean without a tide.
Wonwoo has never asked, only allowed you to take endlessly. Perhaps it’s time you give something to him. 
Tears are welling in your eyes before you can speak. “I don’t want you to go.” Shaking your head, your voice breaks as you cry like the little girl you were so long ago. “Don’t go.” Quivering like a leaf in a storm you beg. “Please.”
Through the blur of tears you can make out Wonwoo attempting to rise out of his cot. The extensive wounds and injuries make it a Herculean effort, causing him to nearly topple to the floor before you approach him. Strong arms tangle around you as you bury your face into his neck, pleading for him to stay.
“I don’t know what else to do.” He whispers into your hair.
You continue to bawl, plagued by images of your lonely figure, missing the better half of your soul. The only steady presence in your life, the one person who played witness to your weakest moments. Months of separation at the hands of fate were child’s play considering the bleak future Wonwoo suggested. Nothing sacrificed or gained would be worth the pain if he isn’t there to share it with you. 
“Please.”
“You’re being selfish.”
“If this makes me selfish then yes I’m selfish! I’m selfish and I’m cruel because I can’t imagine a world where we separate. Please!”
“You’ll make do.”
“No I won’t.”
“So you ask me to stay by your side, knowing how I feel, and do what? Ignore it? Pretend it doesn’t exist?”
“When have I ever asked you not to feel?”
“When have I asked you for anything? Any wish or whim in my power I do. Why can’t you try?”
“I do not know how.”
“That’s a lie.”
“What do you want me to say?” Your voice cuts like glass, tears of sadness transforming into tears of frustration.
“I want you to tell me the truth!”
“I am! I have no idea what any of this means!” Your back up and pacing, hands nearly ripping your hair out in an attempt to ground yourself. “I thought you were dead Wonwoo. I thought my father killed you! And for a moment it felt like I died too.”
“And you don’t think that means something?”
“My apologies that I’m not able to write sonnets about feelings I don’t understand!” 
“You refuse to even try. I nearly died and you can’t even stand to be in the same room as me!”
“Because it’s my fault! I decided to leave the palace! I decided to pull you into my mess! How can you even look at me?”
“Because I love you.” His eyes burn. “For years, I’ve loved you and I tried not to but—” Wonwoo swallows roughly. “It’s become something I live with.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“Because telling you served what purpose? You had one of the crew tortured and tossed overboard because he guessed we rolled around in some hay when we were children. Didn’t inspire confidence you’d be receptive to the idea!”
“So you decided for me?”
“Impossible as it might be, please attempt to consider how I felt.”
“And now I’m selfish? You decide to keep secrets and it’s somehow my fault?”
“Then it's my fault for not being brave enough to face your rejection?”
“I wouldn’t—. I haven’t rejected you.” You blink. “It’s terrifying. Want you the way I do. I can’t think, I couldn’t breathe until you woke up. What happens to me if I let myself have you, and you disappear?”
“I would nev—“
“What if someone comes for you again and this time they do kill you? When I saw your face at the palace, I felt…” Another hot wave of tears emerges. “I couldn’t do anything. All I saw was you. I begged my father to kill me so I wouldn’t have to live without you.”
Silence.
“Did it feel like no matter how many breaths you took there wasn’t enough air? Like you were drowning on dry land?”
“Yes—“
“Like the sun fell out of the sky and the tides stopped? Because that’s how I felt. When Jeonghan took you. My body was here but my soul was with you.”
Of course the one person who understands you is Wonwoo. He sees and he knows. And for all his claims that words aren’t his strength, he gives you courage.
“I wasn’t raised to understand this. My mother told me the most I could hope for with a man was friendship, maybe fondness. Love isn’t a privilege I’d learned to understand.”
A pregnant pause passes. 
“Then we learn together.”
Sitting back on the cot, you allow the warmth of Wonwoo’s calloused palm resting on the knobs of your spine to calm you. Sniffling pathetically, you listen to his heart drum in his chest. It reminds you all the times you pressed against him for warmth when you first ran away. The beat of his heart lulling you to rest better than any lullaby your nanny sang in the nursery. 
Wonwoo breaks the delicate silence shrouding his room.
“A liar and a coward. What a pair we make.” He chuckles, humor in the irony.
Releasing your own puff of air, you hesitate before asking.
“What do we do about it?” 
“About what?”
“These… feelings.”
“I don’t know.”
From all the stories you read as a child, confessions of love and wanting meant joy and happiness. But in its stead is something like sorrow, a firm pain of a crossroads without a clue where either path led. 
“Wonwoo?”
He hums.
“What do you want to do about it?”
Wonwoo is silent as he ponders. 
“Right now, I want to hold you.”
Moments pass as you trace shapes along his chest, careful to avoid the bandages crossing over his shoulder. The pressure of his lips against the crown of your skull turns your head up. 
Wonwoo’s face is soft, staring at you with undeserved fondness. The same way he did that night in the barn, the same way he has always done in private when he thinks you aren’t looking. If Wonwoo is brave enough to tell you, then you owe him the same.
Tracing his features with your fingers, you carefully avoid the wounds still dappling his face. Starting at the temple where his scar begins, you follow it to the plush of his lips, the skin chap under your touch. Before following the loop of his nose and the curve of his brow. 
“I love you.”
Your whispered admission floats in the air above your heads. 
Wonwoo shuts his eyes and lets you do as you please, leaving a gentle kiss to the pad of your pointer finger as it returns to his mouth. 
The smooth slide leaves you craving the contact across your own mouth. Rising up, you gently brush your lips across his. Barely a ghost of flesh but Wonwoo chases the contact. Lips slip against one another, soft passes filled with tender longing. 
One the next stroke, you suck his lower lip between your teeth and allow the tip of your tongue to trace it. You faintly register the copper taste of blood and the salt of the sea. The drag must ignite something in his blood because Wonwoo attempts to twist you underneath him before he yelps in pain.
“Stop! You’ll tear your stitches!”
“Damn the stitches,” he grits, claiming your mouth again.
Carefully maneuvering out of his reach, you break the kiss as you rise from his cot. A genuine smile of joy returning to your face after years of drought.
“When you’re better,” you whisper. 
“You’d have us wait?”
“I’d rather have you when your face no longer resembles the wrong side of a horse.”
He fails to make a grab for your sleeve, huffing as he rests back into the mattress. “I thought I charmed you with more than my looks.”
“Unfortunately, I’m quite shallow.”
“There should be an old scarf in my desk drawer, perhaps that can be of use?”
“Woo,” you gently coo. “You can’t even sit up straight.” 
“I believe that’s a matter of opinion.”
You chuckle. “When you’re well enough, I’ll lock us in here for as long as you wish.”
The simmering displeasure is clear on his face. Wonwoo isn’t angry with you. He’s angry with his injuries. With Jeonghan and your dead father. With the fates.
“As long as I wish?”
Humming in agreement as you rest one knee onto the bed, you lean over his form before whispering. 
“You should try and listen to Shua so I don’t have to wait much longer.”
“Fine.”
“It’s a deal.”
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Three months. 
Three months of silently mourning the death of your father in the dead of night, when you’re safe from prying eyes and your mind wanders free. You hardly knew him, he was as much of a stranger as a merchant you stumbled passed in a busy market. Guilt whispered across your mind as each tear slipped down your face. Mourning the man who terrorized a nation and his family, who paid for your execution, who tortured Wonwoo. 
Three months of Wonwoo downing every greasy concoction and bitter remedy Shua prescribes. One month for the bruises to yellow and fade into memory, for his cuts to scab and scar. Two months for his shoulder to cease its insistent throb. Two months of keeping his body firmly planted in his cot until he’s cleared to rise with the assistance of a mahogany cane courtesy of Jihoon. Another month of hobbling along the deck, relearning his center of gravity under the threat of toppling into the sea.
Ninety two days of heated gazes and longing brushes of hands in passing, conversations littered with double entendres verging on obscenity. More whispered confessions and declarations. Twenty four nights of you visiting his room under the cover of the moon, sitting by his side, clasping his hand while he slept fitfully, administering more oily sedative when the nightmares chase him awake and one night he pulls you down beside him. Then seventy two mornings blinking wake, curled against one another under the thin sheets like you had all those years ago, whispering promises in the gentle dawn.
The first night Wonwoo shuffles across the deck without the assistance of the familiar piece of wood, you nearly take him against the main mast. Instead, you settle for pulling him to your cabin as the oil lantern begins to burn low, when the eyelids of the crew droop from exhaustion and their heads turn away in consideration.
A choked groan leaves your throat as his hips settle between your thighs, molding together so tightly there’s no deciphering where you end and Wonwoo begins. Mouths refuse to separate as you roll against one another, a cacophony of breathless whimpers and husky moans blending between lips.
Your bodies burn with the inferno of a pyre, every hair stands on edge like lightning is about to strike a hair width away. There’s no air to breath, but the space you’ve descended into thankfully requires none. Only you and Wonwoo exist, not time or the sea or the stars.
“Say it again,” he whispers into your mouth.
“I love you!” You gasp back, eager to seal the words with another suck of his tongue.
Calloused hands palm your chest, breasts heavy and full, nipples growing to stiff peaks as deft fingers brush and pluck. Wonwoo laps at the smooth dip between before latching onto one, nipping and sucking as you writhe in the sheets, thrashing wildly against him. Your own hands make busy twisting and pulling his hair, nails scraping against the dip of his neck and across his broad shoulders.
“Again.” Wonwoo bites into your skin, punctuated with another harsh curl of his hips into yours, so deep he’s in your lungs.
Sobbing your reply, eyes closing as your forehead presses to his, you nearly choke on air as he drives into you again and again.
“I love you.” 
“Again.” He pants desperately.
“Wonu!” You keen, back of your head pressing into the pillows as your chest collapses from his precarious rhythm. Streams of light rupture across your vision, tension swelling in your veins and ripping you apart.
“Love you, I love you,” He mutters like a prayer into the crease of your shoulder, face buried in your neck as he snatches your wrist, twining your fingers with his next to your head, grip so tight nails sting into the back of each other's hand.
Another prayer of his name rips from your throat, cannoning Wonwoo into a frenzy. He pummels into you with such force the crown of your skull knocks into the headboard. His hips stutter as he finds his release, filling you with his seed as he cries your own name into your lips.
Stuttered breaths settle for a moment.
“Again, Woo.”
He eagerly follows your orders, just as he’s always done.
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Epilogue
Once upon a time, an unlikely friendship between a princess and a stable boy bloomed in the gardens of a king’s palace. The stable boy followed the princess wherever she decided to go, and the princess knew that if she ever needed to turn back, the stable boy would welcome her with open arms. Even when age led her to the other side of this life like an old friend, the stable boy couldn’t help but follow. Though he was eager to return to her side once more, the princess had remained behind to welcome him with a smile when he walked over the hill.
Some say that when the moon dips below the horizon of the sea each day, it's the princess returning to the warmth of her lover's embrace. Always destined to find one another in each life, never to be kept apart, no matter what came between.
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Text
Moonlight
AO3 Link
Ominis and MC go for a nighttime walk, and quite literally stumble into the perfect little clearing.
Ominis x fem!MC
NSFW—sexual content
Fluff that devolves into rough al fresco sex. Not much more to say about this one, there's teasing and good old-fashioned rough sex. These two love branching out into new and creative ways to fuck lol
Word count: 2,971
A/N: For @callmehopeless :) @sebastian-and-ominis-share-me requested a tag too. As always, MC and Ominis remain my excuse to indulge in writing disgustingly sweet, idealized married life, and I will never apologize for it because my! 👏 boy! 👏 Ominis! 👏 deserves! 👏 it! 👏
⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆
Night walks were always Ominis' favorite. His blindness made walks enjoyable at any time, but under the soft cover of night, he felt more protected from the prying eyes of those who sought to invade his precious few moments of peace. Perhaps it was a holdover from his days growing up in the shadow of the Gaunt family, or perhaps he would have enjoyed it regardless of his circumstances. It mattered very little, especially when he could take these walks with MC.
MC shared his love of nighttime outings, and had begun the habit when she was just a student. She would wake from vivid, unspeakable nightmares of Victor Rookwood and his poachers that left her entire body shivering and drenched in a terrified sweat. She would throw on her cloak (or Ominis', if she had borrowed it from him for the night) and stride into darkness that blanketed the castle grounds until her trembling fingers slowed and sleep once again tugged at her eyes.
They had found each other late one spring night, aimlessly wandering the castle, and decided then and there that, should one of them not be able to sleep, they would find the other and walk together until they were too exhausted and would drift off in the protection of each other’s arms in the Undercroft or the Room of Requirement.
The pair had decided on this particular summer night that a stroll at midnight was exactly what they both needed after they had spent all day hiding away from the punishing sun. Poor Ominis always looked as if his delicate paper doll skin might catch alight in the harsh rays, and MC could not stand the lethargy that threatened to pull her to the floor upon which she stood. The muggle neighbors who surrounded their peaceful country house were asleep at this hour, and Ominis would be free to navigate using his wand without fear of being seen by non-magical folk. The bright moon taking flight overhead would be their sole witness as the couple reveled in a world that belonged only to them.
The night air was intoxicatingly sweet, the smell of honeysuckle and roses floating on a breeze's soft sigh from someone's nearby garden. The pair walked hand in hand as if they were adolescents again, whispers of their love for one another on their lips as if they were afraid professors and other students might hear them.
On a whim, MC decided to wander off the road and explore the woods as the two had often done in the Forbidden Forest. MC and Ominis did not care that they might be considered too old to find joy in meandering through leaves and dirt, over fallen branches and through the scrub; they had both always felt at home in the frowned-upon and the impermissible.
Ominis, with his wand as his guide, deftly navigated every obstacle—far more easily than MC who had to rely on her imperfect nighttime vision. He crept up behind her and startled her so badly when he caught her in his arms that she shrieked and slapped his chest with a laugh. She struggled for a moment to break free of his grasp, and he tutted at her.
"Wherever do you think you're flitting off to now, my little hummingbird?" He leaned down to steal a kiss, drawing a luxurious sigh from her lips as he pulled away. "Certainly it's too dark for such a lovely little creature to be out here all alone."
He released her, and she skipped a few steps away before turning to smile at him. "You’ll have to be quicker than that if you want to ensnare me, my pretty serpent." With that, she was off through the forest, her floor-length skirt fanning out and Ominis not far behind, their mirth carrying over the trees as they leapt and ran on wings of night.
MC did her best to outrun him, but Ominis was still faster and stronger. She had made her way to a clearing dotted with wild daffodils when her husband seized her. He finally lost his footing in the excitement of his successful hunt, and the two tumbled into the long grass. MC was stunned and, for one dreadful moment, Ominis feared he had hurt her. Instead, she gasped and began laughing again. Ominis heaved a sigh and lay on his back, listening to the pure happiness bubble up from her lips. Crickets droned lazily under her voice, and he could feel another cool breeze carrying the scent of the flowers all around them. As she caught her breath, she looked over to see his eyes blankly staring upwards, a smile dancing across his lips. He turned his head toward her, and his smile faded into longing that pulled in his throat. MC's eyes followed the little constellation of moles up his cheek to his deep, starry eyes that glinted moonlight like sharp diamonds. She knew that look. He was thinking—intently.
"You somehow look even more stunning than usual, Ominis," MC smiled, her fingers dancing along his hand that lay between them. "What is it that's on your mind?"
"You," he breathed almost instantly. "Here, in this heavenly night, just the two of us... it does things to a man to know his beautiful wife is so madly in love with him. Lying here in a field of sweet-smelling flowers and grasses next to you, I feel as if I’m fifteen again. It's exhilarating."
He rolled himself up and, supported by his arms, leaned over her. He slowly brought his face to hers, and she could see every detail she had long since memorized in his still-open eyes. He moved forward until he was so close that her own eyes, trained on him, fell out of focus. She felt an exhilaration whenever he did that, leaning in while his eyes tried their damndest to stare at her. He was like a cobra, ready to strike. Her eyes fluttered shut as she welcomed his attack upon her lips.
He desired to be closer to her still until he was pressing his weight down on her, feeling her sigh into his lips. His kisses gradually pushed deeper into her lips, and his voice slithered from his throat.
"I need you," he moaned, growing bolder with every passing second. "I need to be as close to you as possible..." His hips rolled fruitlessly against her in accord. MC gently pressed her leg between his, and his moan sent hot tingling through her ribs and spine.
"Ominis," MC could barely get in between his kisses. "Are you sure you won't mind the dirt? Would you not rather wait until we get back home where we have a soft bed and warm, clean sheets?"
"To hell with dirt," he growled, lips now drifting towards her neck and leaving pure fire in their wake. "We can always have a warm bath—together—if we so desire."
Ominis had already begun undoing the buttons on MC's blouse, his fingers flicking expertly over each one. He was getting fast, she thought, and she briefly pondered finding blouses and dresses with more buttons just to be cheeky with him. In a few short moments he had released her from her pretty little ruffled top, and MC placed it in a pile knew would only grow. He placed a hand on her sternum, expecting to feel the thin fabric of a chemise beneath his slender fingers. Instead, he felt bare skin and his eyes lit up in surprise.
"It was too hot to wear anything under my clothes today," MC whined. "And anyhow, I had a feeling you wouldn't mind too much."
Ominis hummed to show his agreement, and he got straight to work worshipping her skin. He gave slow, soft kisses along as much of her as he could reach, as if he had been starved of her affections for months. Her skin was perfectly smooth, save for her nipples that stood firm in the night air. MC moaned softly when Ominis pressed his lips around one to kiss and suck at it, his hand mindlessly kneading her other breast. Each flick of his tongue or tweak of his fingers dazed MC, her eyelids fighting a losing battle to stay open.
"How does it feel?" Ominis asked with a devilish smile.
MC tried to reply and only let out another moan as heat pooled in her core. She had never been sure how he managed it, sometimes driving her to orgasm from teasing her nipples alone, but oh how it was inebriating.
Her own hand slid up the back of his head and carded through his soft, blond hair, brushing off bits of dirt and undoing some of the pomade that had kept it immaculately brushed back all day. She looked down to see him slowly becoming more wild.
"That's it," she whispered. "Just like that. Oh, your tongue—"
Ominis growled wordlessly and hips rolled again, now with more force, and MC reached down to help Ominis out of his trousers and pants. His hand and mouth reluctantly moved away from teasing her, and he stood on his knees, one on each side of her hips, as he made a show of stripping off the bothersome garments.
How absolutely spectacular he looked, a furious blush blooming across his face as he did not even bother taking off his shirt. His erection was endlessly beautiful. MC had seen her husband fully naked hundreds of times, but it never grew less arousing to see him leaning over her, cock swinging lazily and dripping with need, just waiting for her.
She rose and pushed him to his back, straddling his hips. "If I'm going to be covered in dirt and dust, I think it's only fair that we do the same for you," she smirked.
Ominis glowered at her for just a moment, annoyed that he was no longer on top. All was forgiven, however, when MC held his wrists to the ground and, underneath her skirt, slid her dripping wet core up and down the underside of his now-throbbing erection. He made a noise somewhere between a massively pleasured moan and a deep, feral growl. She knew how this game was played, and she knew the prize that awaited her if she could build up enough steam inside him.
"Oh, you feel so much better than any part of my hands," she goaded as she savored every single millimeter of his cock that slid against her needy clit over and over. She could not believe her luck, that she—and nobody else in the world—got to witness his current expression as it betrayed nothing short of pure lust. His chest rose and fell, impassioned as his eyebrows knitted together and, before he could catch himself, he hissed his need in parseltongue. She had learned just enough from him to piece together that he desired to fuck her hard and deep, and her core practically flooded around him.
Ominis growled deeply again and, with as much gentleness as he could muster, lifted her as he sat up and laid her on her back. "I can't take it anymore," he groaned. He leaned down and whispered dangerously, so close to her ear that his breath felt blazing hot on her skin. "I will have you."
His shaking fingers fought against her skirt and won, unbuttoning it and pulling it off her completely. She felt vulnerable there on her back, absolutely nothing between her panting body and the forest around them, and for one brief moment she was almost frightened. Ominis shrugged off his shirt and leaned back over her, eclipsing her anxiety. He tried his best to be a good and dutiful husband, reaching his fingers down to tease her core and play with her clit, but she knew what he truly wanted and pulled his hand away for him. He tilted his head, and MC answered his silent question with a hand on the back of his hips, gently pushing him further towards her parted legs.
She offered a leg around his waist and her arms around his neck. She ran a finger along that little spot, just under his ear, that sent tendrils of chills up his spine. His eyes rolled shut, and in one swift motion he buried his aching cock to the hilt and her head swam, tears springing to her eyes. He leaned forward with urgency and kissed her face comfortingly, but she pushed her hips against him to urge him to start moving. He was more than happy to oblige.
He moved in and out of her with a surprisingly slow, gentle rhythm, but the look on his face said all she needed to know. Even as he had her scandalously pinned down in a field in the middle of the night, he was waiting for her to ask for more.
“Fuck me,” she growled, surprised at how agitated she sounded. “We make such soft and gentle love in the confines of our comfortable bed. So show me what you really wanted to do out here—why you were so impatient.”
She earned herself a forceful thrust that grated dirt and grass against her back, and she savored the light sting. She gripped his hair encouragingly. “Oh, fuck yes,” she groaned, and Ominis was lost completely in her body.
Each rough thrust echoed as an animalistic growl in his throat, and she craned her neck to kiss and suck at that throat. He held her arms down and listened to her slide across the earth each time he pounded into her. Each time he wound up, he left her feeling woefully empty—empty to the point that she wanted to beg for him. And each time he rammed back into her, her vision flared white and she wondered how much longer she could contain herself.
He could hear every contact of skin and succulent fluid, and he pressed himself closer to her until each thrust pushed against her clit and she moaned his name. He could tell she was holding back the inevitable to draw this out, and he wouldn’t allow it. Perhaps another night, but not tonight.
“Come for me,” he seductively hissed. "I want to hear your cries and feel you tighten around my cock. I want to feel your pretty little body writhing beneath me in the dirt and grass.” Goosebumps rolled violently over her skin and she threw her head back, a tiny glimmer of amusement in the back of her overloaded mind about how much dirt must be in her hair by now, and suddenly there was nothing in the world except the two of them and the searing pleasure that ripped through every fiber of muscle in her body over and over. She couldn’t control the scream that carried Ominis’ name, or her nails raking over his shoulders, or her walls that clenched unforgivingly around him. Her entire body pulsed and bucked, desperately needing his release like she needed air.
Ominis surrendered to his own orgasm as she pulsed and milked his cock relentlessly. He matched her voice with her name and dug his perfectly trimmed nails into the soft flesh of her arms. With each sublime thrust, he whined and emptied himself deep inside her until he had nothing left, and he was left desperately out of breath as the rest of the world came rushing back to their ears. Save their panting, the only sounds were of crickets and a soft breeze that soughed through the trees and grass. MC's vision returned and she saw Ominis above her, mouth hanging slightly open and eyes lidded even heavier than normal. If only he knew just how beautiful he was, she mused as she reached a comforting hand up to the side of his face.
Ominis began to pull out, but MC whined and placed her other hand on the small of his back to stop him. He chuckled and pressed a delicate kiss to her collarbone. Ominis had become his typical sweet self again, and he smiled at her.
“Are you feeling better?” she breathed, tucking a rebellious strand of hair behind his ear and watching it fall out again.
“Merlin, that was good,” he groaned. “You’re always so lovely for indulging me like this.”
“Indulging you?” she laughed. "I should think this was quite mutual."
Ominis kissed her again. “You are a far better wife than I could ever hope to deserve.”
“And you, my beguiling serpent, are a perfect husband.” She punctuated her reply with a small tap on the end of his nose, causing him to flinch slightly and laugh.
MC finally relented and let Ominis go. He pulled out of her and she relished in the feeling of some of his seed spilling from her. She gingerly sat up on her legs and, with her husband’s help, tried to brush the dirt from her back. She felt long, loose strands of her hair escaping from her bun. Sighing, she pulled out the myriad of pins and combs and let it fall in a halo around her. Ominis combed his fingers through her long hair and couldn’t help but pull her into another loving embrace. “You’re just like a little nymph,” he hummed in amusement. “As much as I wish we could stay here so that I may admire your divine beauty, however, perhaps we ought to get you home so we may both have a bath.”
“Yes please,” she giggled as she leaned against his bare chest, the remnants of his cologne, the grass around them, and the perfect scent of lovemaking radiating headily from his skin. “Perhaps just a few minutes more like this, though?”
Ominis kissed her head in agreement. He suspected they would be taking many more night walks after this.
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siempre-bucky · 2 years
Text
Sunscreen
Bob Floyd x Fem!Reader
Summary: Bob burns. Your daughter gets very paranoid when he forgets his sunscreen one morning and insists on bringing it to him.
wc: 1.4k
a/n: ahhh my first bob fic. I just love the idea of him as a dad!
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“Do you have everything?” You called from the kitchen, the rustling of objects from upstairs perking your ears. 
“I got it, darlin’,” Bob told you kindly as he trotted down the stairs while zipping his tan backpack. 
Beach football had become a tradition since the first game almost seven years ago. One football emoji from Maverick in the team’s group chat would have everyone rushing off base or nearby homes and gathering on the beach across from the Hard Deck. Bob would smile every time but quickly turn off notifications and grimace as Phoenix and Hangman started their taunts. 
The blond wrapped his arm around your waist and kissed your cheek, “Don’t come home with a bloody nose, please,” you jokingly pleaded, pushing up his aviator glasses up the bridge of his nose. 
Your husband chuckled and draped his backpack over his shoulder before walking over to the other side of the counter. His hand playfully grabbed hold of one of his daughter's space buns and pulled her closer. “Be good for your mom, Ames” he told her as he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. 
“I’m always good, daddy,” the six-year-old sighed dramatically and looked up at him, her matching aviator glasses slipping off the nose that also matched her father's. 
“I know, but as your dad, it’s my job to say it,” he reminded her matter of factly before offering a quick ‘I love you’ and ‘I’ll see you later’ to his favorite girls. 
Amy returned to her coloring book, her cheek resting against the palm of her hand as she meticulously colored her half-finished page. You leaned against the counter and watched as he walked towards the front door, casually eyeing him up and down with a smirk appearing on your face as his yellow shirt rose slightly.  “Gross,” Amy mumbled under her breath after hearing the door shut. 
You playfully scoffed and tugged on her other bun before kissing her forehead. “One day when someone catches your eye, baby, the payback will feel so good,” you chuckled before leaving her to her coloring book. 
The house was still. 
Like her father, Amy was a quiet child and her soft voice only ever rose when she was in distress or angry, which wasn’t often. “Mom!” she cried. Your blood turned cold at the shrill tone of her light voice, the basket of clothes collided with the wood floor. 
“Amy,” you breathed as you hurried into the room, your heart pounding against your chest.  The little girl stood in the center of the kitchen, tears filled to the brim as she looked down at the cylinder spray bottle in her hand. You came closer and got down on your knees, instantly looking for scrapes. “Are you hurt?” 
She shook her head, moving the can towards you. “Daddy left his sunscreen,” she told you meekly. 
Your face instantly softened as she passed it to you. Amy was never the same after last summer when the sunscreen was left in the room while you were out in the hot weather. Bob came back a bright blinding shade of red. The sounds of his pained groans and restless nights still haunted Amy. She hated to see her dad in any kind of pain or even slight discomfort. 
“He’ll probably borrow Aunt Nat’s sunscreen,” you tried to reassure her, taking your finger and pushing up her glasses. 
“But it’s his special sunscreen,” she grumbled, her eyes slowly narrowing. “We have to go give it to him!” 
You looked down, the bold labeling reading: up to 110-degree protection. A laugh threatened to escape your poorly concealed smile. Bob swore by this stuff, proudly taking it with him everywhere during summer outings since the incident. “Ok,” you gave in, “we’ll go.” 
The salt air was refreshing, the seagulls wailing loudly from above and the testosterone-fueled shouts were not any less quiet. You took a quick glance inside the windows of the Hard Deck, sending a quick wave to Penny before Amy pulled on your other hand. 
 “I see him!” Amy gasped excitedly, seeing Bob sitting in the sand with some of the other aviators while they reset for the next game. She let go once she noticed you watching, taking off towards Bob. “Daddy!” she called. 
Bob’s eyebrows knitted together as he heard the familiar voice, he looked up to the sun wondering if he was overheating. The voice called to him again, the voice huffing and puffing before standing in front of him, her little shadow blocking his slightly pink face from the blazing sun. He looked down in surprise, “What are you doing here?” he asked with a grin. 
“You left your sunscreen at home,” she said as she pulled away, showing him the can. 
“She was adamant about bringing it to you,” you chimed in from behind. Bob’s torso turned and he wrapped his arm around your calf to pull you closer to his side. 
Bob chuckled and took the can, pressing his kiss to her cheek. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, darlin’,” he hummed.  Amy put her hands on her knees and inspected his face, noticing the small patch of red forming on his nose. There was only one way to get her to relax. Bob popped open the lid and removed his glasses before spraying it all over his face. “Is that better?” he asked, one of his blue eyes opening to see her reaction.
She was about to tell him to spray his face once more but a gasp left her throat as she was hoisted into the air and seated on broad shoulders. Her eyes were screwed shut and her arms had a death grip around the person’s neck. “I didn’t think I’d get to see my favorite girl today,” he said. 
Her eyes opened once she heard his Texas drawl. “Jake!” she giggled, her eyes opening widely and a bright smile forming on her lips. 
“Come to save your old man from losin’, baby bob?” 
Amy blushed and shook her head bashfully. It was no secret to the team that Amy had a little crush on Hangman. “No, daddy left his sunscreen at home. I didn’t want him to get burnt.” Jake looked down at Bob and tsked, teasingly shaking his head in disapproval before carrying Amy off towards the water. 
You took a seat next to Bob and looped your arm around his. “You know I just borrowed Natasha’s, right?” You couldn’t help but smile at the small laugh he had in his voice, it was your favorite sound in the world. 
“I know,” you sighed, resting your head on his clothed shoulder. “You should have seen her face. She was worried you looked like a lobster.” 
“I was doing just fine,” he hummed, turning to kiss your temple. “I promise.” 
 You looked down at his sand-ridden forearm. Raising a single eyebrow in suspicion, “You’re looking a little pink there,” you smirked, nudging him with your shoulder. Untangling your arms, you moved to sit on your knees, taking the can from its spot in the warm sand. “You could always…” your voice faded off as you eyed him up and down, hoping he’d get the hint. 
Bob noticed the slight change in your tone and watched as your thighs clamped together while your eyes examined his clothed chest. “Baby,” he said in a low voice.
"Lift," you said sternly. He did as he was told and lifted his arms so you could spray his strong arms. You looked over, Amy was still sitting on Jake’s shoulders as he ran her down the beach, her little arms held the red football tightly to her chest, and giggled as the guys tried to reach for it. “She’s with her fan club,” you murmured before dragging in your lower lip. 
The blond gave in and took off his shirt, gently placing it over his backpack. “This is what does it for you?” he joked, pointing at his pale skin. 
“Very much so.” You nodded happily and started to spray his chest and back. Goosebumps started to form from the cold mist, naturally flinching to get away from it. “You should keep your shirt off,” you told him, sending a wink in his direction. 
He pulled you in for a kiss, “You would like that wouldn’t you, sweetheart?” he mumbled against your lips.
“You guys are so gross!” Amy whined as she trotted towards you, plopping down right in between your bodies. Bob rolled his eyes and took back the sunscreen, spraying a little on his finger and dabbing it on her nose. She pouted, yet still nuzzled against his bare chest. “Thank you,” she sighed, scrunching her wet nose. 
Amy shifted into your lap after the team called for Bob. He groaned and stood up from his spot, instinctively reaching for his t-shirt. A low hum of dissatisfaction rumbled from your throat, his head whipped towards you and caught your knowing expression. “Fine,” he sighed before walking back towards the beach, looking back to see your grin. He looked down at Amy and pushed up his glasses, making his daughter giggle and do the same.
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kydrogendragon · 3 months
Text
Dec 29 - Moonlight
(Ao3 Link) (Masterpost Link)
Morpheus has been awake for hours. It’s still dark out as he lies in Hob’s bed, listening to the gentle breathing of his friend beside him. Moonlight filters through the blinds, illuminating the familiar room with a soft glow.
It has been just over a week since Morpheus arrived at Hob’s flat, following in is sister’s footsteps. The overwhelming sensation of… everything. Of light, of sound, of touch, it was so much. It took many days and nights to simply feel comfortable enough in this new human body to just exist. Hob has treated him well, through all the struggles. He has been patient and kind. More so that Morpheus deserved. It is more than he will ever be able to repay.
And now he lies in his bed, sharing it while the one Hob ordered the first day he arrived ships. It is the second night he has lain here and recalled more than just pain and sensations he did not know what to do with. Morpheus did not sleep the previous night. He knows, from Hob’s recollection, that he slept at various times the days before, but he had not dreamed yet. His body had still been recovering from being made and lived in that his mind had not the energy to spare to travel to the Dreaming. But last night, he could have. And that is why he did not sleep. It is why he does not sleep tonight, as well.
He sighs, gently, and slowly works his way out of the thick duvet and plants his bare feet on the hardwood floor. He turns, watching Hob. His friend sniffs and shuffles in his sleep, but remains deep in the embrace of the Dreaming.
Morpheus makes his way to the living room, clothed in a borrowed pair of Hob’s joggers and an old t-shirt, and stands there for a moment. The moonlight is brighter here, unblocked by the thin wood panels of the bedroom blinds, here is filters in untouched. The moon’s cool light coats the living room in a white haze. It is almost dreamlike.
He moves towards the large window adjacent to the fire escape and opens it. The air outside is cool, but not too much so. Morpheus clambers out of the window and onto the chilly metal platform. His movements are awkward and unsure. He hates it. But he makes it out of the window and into a seated position, back pressed against the edge of the wall and stares up at the night sky.
There is much he was unprepared for in this new life. Having such a limited body that he cannot control as he would like was the first hurdle, and one he had no doubts would be a continuous one. Then, there was the matter of eating and cleaning this form. Another continuous struggle, but one he is slowly beginning to enjoy as Hob shows him the wonders of food as a human. He had not cared for it much before. Now, he feels otherwise.
The thing he was most unprepared for, however, was dreaming. The irony is not lost on him. He was Dream for his entire life. For eons, ever since his own inception. And now he fears it.
There is a knock on the window and Morpheus turns to see Hob’s face. He smiles, though his brows are pulled close. “Wondered where you ran off to. My snoring really so bad?”
Morpheus shakes his head and turns his gaze back towards the night. “You did not snore. I simply. Could not sleep.”
Hob hums and turns away, but he is not gone long. When he returns, one of the many large couch blankets are in his arms and he’s climbing through the window himself. He is much more agile about it than Morpheus was. Hob sits down at his side and drapes the fluffy fabric over his shoulders.
“There, much better, I imagine. It’s chilly out. How have you not frozen to the metal yet?” Hob jokes, settling in so their shoulders touch.
“Perhaps that is why I am still out here.”
Hob laughs. It is a hearty thing, full of joy and warmth. Morpheus, typically, does not laugh much, however he is finding himself softening to the idea each time his friend laughs.
“I knew you had a sense of humor in you, deep down,” Hob chuckles. They sit together in silence for a moment. It is nice, calming. The roaring in Morpheus’s mind was quieting. It had been so loud for so long, he had not even realized it was there.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Hob asks a time later. Morpheus is unsure. To voice his concerns would mean baring them to the world. It would mean the chance that he would be looked up on and deemed foolish for his anxieties. But he needs only show himself to Hob. His friend, who has already seen him at such lows he could not fathom before, would surely only look upon him with kindness, would he not?
Morpheus opens his mouth and speaks. “I am… afraid.” Hob turns to him, eyes pinched in concern.
“Afraid of what?”
Morpheus takes a breath. “Of dreaming.”
Hob’s face softens. His arm moves to curl around his shoulders, pulling Morpheus closer into his warmth. He follows without resistance. Resting his head on Hob’s shoulder, he continues. “I am afraid of how I will react once I reach the Dreaming. How my old subject would act or feel. If they would shun me. Torture me, perhaps, for the cruelties I enforced upon them during my reign.
“Maybe even more so, I am afraid that when I close my eyes I will find myself unwelcome to the Dreaming. That Daniel will have revoked my invitation to my old home as punishment for the burden I had given him while he was still so young. I fear that I will be barred from ever again knowing the soft grasses of Fiddler’s Green or the gardens of the castle. I fear that I will never get to experience that which I have helped guide countless dreamer towards.”
Hob gives him a gentle squeeze as he talks. “Well, the only way to know is if you try sleeping. And if you don’t, these human bodies of ours are excellent at forcing us to do things when we least expect, especially the longer we put it off. So unless you feel like finding out while you’re passed out in a bowl of cereal, I suggest you try and get some shut eye.” Morpheus smiles at that.
Hob tilts his head, pressing it against Morpheus’s own. “Besides, I’ll be there right by your side if you need me. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Very well,” he whispers into the night. They stay there a few moments longer before a strong shiver runs through Hob. His friends sighs and moves to his feet, rubbing his hands together as he does.
“Christ it’s cold out. I think it’s about time for me to head back in. Are you joining?” He asks, holding out one hand to Morpheus. He stares at it for a moment before replying.
“I will soon.” He says, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “But go. I will be there shortly.”
Hob smiles back and pulls the edges of the blanket around Morpheus’s form closer together. “Alright then, I’ll see you soon.” Morpheus watches him clamber back inside and pads his way back down the hall to the bedroom.
He sighs and tilts his head up, staring back up at the moon, feeling a bit lighter than he had before.
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coffeewritesfiction · 1 month
Text
Fill prompt for/inspired by this post by @unboundprompts. Saw it and knew what I had to write. Still got a bit away from me.
BTW if you see this, do me a favor. I'm gonna reblog this post with some links to my friend @actualblanketgremlin's stuff. Stella is the one who made Sadie and they're letting me borrow her, see. They've been having a really rough time lately so if you can spare some money or need to buy some pretty, handmade stuff [especially wood-burned boxes], check the links out? And reblog that version of the post if you can.
Okay it's Cthulhu Mythos time again here we go.
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A terrible thing, silence. Unnatural, like things moving around in the dark skies over the city. Nothing but predators wandering in late hours. Laying in bed, Sadie waited, listening to the empty air. 
Chicago wasn’t like this. Chicago knew how to breathe at night. Chicago knew how to bleed. It even wept, sometimes. Of course it did. Everyone wept there, bodies piling in the streets in the street wars between smiling, scarred men in their expensive, wide-legged suits. Even now, after she left, the papers told it all - the country crumbling into pieces with the banks that failed them.
Arkham didn’t bleed, or breathe, or sleep. How did anyone get sleep in this town? Didn’t anyone feel it? Didn’t anyone know? Something had gone wrong. Something was alive, but not alive. Something was… dead, but not, and not in some strange in-between either, something she couldn’t wrap her head around… But should. In her bones, or beneath them, somehow, she should, she wanted to, she did not ever want to, understand.
Beautiful city, Arkham. Some of the buildings dated back to a few years after Salem’s founding. Walking through the city, you walked through the past. Someone’s else past. Her past. (Had she gone mad already?)
Laying in bed, curled up so safe under the blankets, she listened to empty air.
She waited, and listened.
Here, on the second floor, she could hear the young man in the attic quite well, when he walked around. Who he was, she didn’t know. A student at Miskatonic University by his uniform, dark hair, white skin. He avoided her. But the whispers from the other renters, they said he’d asked for the attic, because of its history.
A strange man, in a strange house, in a strange town…
Sadie closed her eyes, and listened. Why did I come here, she thought, why did I come here.
And above, a chair squeaked. Above a man stepped and stalked around the room. Above something mumbled and it wasn’t the man at all.
If she listened she’d understand the hissing, grumbling whispers. If she just listened closely enough, she’d understand. Sadie entwined her hands into her curly hair and clenched her eyes shut tighter with focus. Focused on the scratching scrambling clawing sounds that came between her breaths, focused on that faint masculine voice that dragged out between creaking, groaning, ancient wood.
Focused on it. Focused and listened.
The voice that was not the man who lived upstairs chattered and chuckled. Sharp claws dug into old familiar routes in the wooden walls. Cat soft footsteps. Creaking wood, creaking house, creaking doors.
Doors? She’d closed her door.
Sadie lay still in her bed, and did not move. Sadie lay there and listened to the clawing catlike footsteps. The breathing of a man that wasn’t. She listened to the words but had stopped. But now in the pit of her stomach and the base of her neck she knew, if the words began again, she’d hear, she’d understand.
Why did she listen?
She had to listen.
And when the voice spoke, she listened well.
“Goode be your name but not your blood, you are no child of Salem. Deeper stains run through your line than clever human magic. I smell it. She knows it. But do you?”
Within the darkness the creature laughed.
“You must. Would you listen to me elsewise? Poor orphan you are. Do you know the shell of which you’ve glimpsed? You fear the dark, for the horrors it hides, but it is the day which shelters the most dreadful of them all.”
Sadie opened her lips to speak.
“Be you wise and hear me now, Sadie Goode: you have not angered that which you have challenged, merely raised a terrible curiosity. You are known to him, our great master, as were your parents before you. It falls to you now, to decide your fate, and to decide with haste, for it was only a mistake that you escaped his sight.”
The voice deepened, darkened as the skies overhead.
“Your parents knew him. Do you think we could not tell the child of one of our own? No witch-child you are, but your parents served him well. How else would you be so blessed? But if they earned his wrath, and you follow in their steps, you will earn their punishment, three times three.”
And the darkness shifted and shivered with her body.
“Beware, Sadie Goode. Beware the mistress of this house, legend you may think she is. Beware the friends you keep, the enemies you make, the strangers on the street. And beware, my dear, beware yourself most of all -- for you have gained the interest of the Crawling Chaos, and you may gain more unmeaning. And there is no greater danger in all the planets in all the universe than to become a favorite of our god, Nyarlathotep.”
Sadie listened, and listened, and listened. And the claws sunk into wood, and the door hinged creaked, and the house breathed around her again. And she did not move, she did not open her eyes. Listened to the house shifting, and birds waking, and the strangers stirring in their beds unknowing, as the sun’s return brought Arkham back to life.
Tag list:
@slenders1ckn3ss @jacqueswriteblrlibrary @redacted-metallum @actualblanketgremlin @higgs-space @phantomnations @mushabumi @assistantdirector--janson @aldhidbah @sabtael @yourheartonfireblog @jade-island-lives @carnocus @cecuesta @darkhorse-javert @comicgoblinart @lizadomuch @minutiaewriter @izzyspussy @passthebeat-blog-blog @dragonedged-if @andromedaexists @cyanide-latte @suckerpunchfemale @late-to-the-fandom @eldritch-flower @cljordan-imperium @royal1asset-if @pineywitch @fragrant-stars @mynameis40and4 @starry-voids @wubsbian @divine-anarchy @elbritch-kit @tousled-birdmad-girl @pen-for-sword @noightwitchers @bee-barnes-author @amielbjacobs @dyrewrites @astras-rambles
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theferricfox · 10 months
Text
Here's a cute little drabble for Momma Kuchel's birthday. I don't even know how I managed to punch this out so fast considering I've had so much writer's block lately that I could build a damned house with it.
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“Hey, Ma?”
“Yes, darling?” Kuchel responds from the small bathroom adjoining their room. She brushes out her long, dark hair with an old horse-hair brush – the handle crumbling into splinters.
Levi sits on the edge of the bed, his chubby little legs dangling over the edge. He rocks them back and forth, leaning back to balance himself on the flat of his palms. He looks pensive – so serious for so small a face that it’s laughably adorable – as he watches his mother sort out her tangles. 
“When’s your birthday, Ma?” Levi asks.
Kuchel pauses and sets down her hairbrush. She turns and walks to her son, kneeling on the half-rotten floor so she can be near eye-level with him.
“Why do you ask, angel?” she cups his cheeks and playfully squeezes, making giggles erupt from his lips.
“Well, we celebwate my birfday,” Levi says through the squish she’s made in his face. “But we neveh celebwate yoahs.”
Kuchel smiles softly and stands, picking him up along the way. She sways, humming a song as she thinks. She remembers that she was born in spring, but days bleed together down here. She wouldn’t know when the first of the month was if she didn’t get harassed to pay her room fee.
“Well,” she sings with a smile. “I am pretty sure it’s today.”
“Today?!” Levi nearly jumps from her arms at the news. “We gotta get you a sweet!”
Levi wriggles in her grasp eagerly.
“Down! Down!” he calls out. 
When she sets him down, Levi rushes to the door of their room, standing on the very tips of his toes to pull at the handle.
“Levi, where are you going?” Kuchel chuckles as she pulls open the door and watches him shoot down the hallway, his bare feet slapping against the wood of the hallway.
“I’m gonna get you a sweet!” he calls back, halfway down the hall.
“Not without your shoes, mister man!” she calls back. 
When Levi turns, she bends down to pick his shoes up and dangle them in front of her. He rushes back, twisting his feet into the tattered shoes as she slips her own on and stuffs a small wad of bills into her bra. The pair ready to go, Levi tugs on his mother’s dress.
“C’mon c’mon!”
Kuchel lets Levi lead her out and into the street, and although he clambers clumsily over the deep wheel tracks in the dirt roads, he resists being picked up and carried, wanting instead to guide her to the market. She has to gently remind him of the next turn a time or two, and when they arrive at the market street, he darts forward, his destination apparently firmly in mind. 
She follows him to a small bakery stall where they usually buy their bread. 
“Miss Caroleeeene!” Levi shouts, holding onto the table of the stall. His mop of black hair barely peeks over the edge, despite him standing on the tips of his toes.
“Caroline, darlin’,” Kuchel corrects gently as she approaches.
“Miss Caroleene,” Levi says, ignoring his mother. “I need a sweet please!”
Caroline, with bright golden hair and brilliant green eyes, leans over to smile at Levi.
“Well, hello, Levi dear. You need a sweet you say?”
“Yeah! It’s Ma’s birthday! I need a sweet to surprise her with!” Levi says eagerly, seemingly heedless of the meaning of a surprise.
“Well, that is a cause for celebration!” Caroline says warmly. “I just so happen to have this little cake that I think has your Momma’s name on it!”
Caroline leans over the counter to Kuchel and says, “I couldn’t get any milk, but I did get some eggs. Sugar’s kind of scarce right now too, so it’s not very sweet, hun.”
Kuchel waves her off and smiles.
“It’s no problem.”
“Ma!” Levi shouts. Kuchel sees him holding up one tiny hand, palm up. “Can I borrow some money real quick?”
Kuchel laughs and pulls a few bills out and hands them to Levi. He spins around and hands the bills to Caroline. The baker adds a few rolls of bread to the bag with the cake, takes the money and gives most of it back to Levi.
“That’s your change, darlin,” Caroline says. When Kuchel looks up at her with questioning look, she winks and says, “Happy birthday, Kuchel.”
Kuchel can’t help the small tears that come to the edges of her eyes as Levi spins around, money in hands and says, “That’s your change, Ma!” She whispers a quiet thank you to Caroline as Levi takes the bag and starts back to their room.
“What’s in the bag, honey?” Kuchel asks, playing along with Levi’s game from the stall.
“It’s a secret surprise!” Levi declares, hugging the bag close. 
“Okay, then,” she says with a laugh.
She watches as Levi navigates them most of the way back to their room by himself, needing a gentle push in the right direction only once. Once back indoors, he scuttles down the hallway, calling behind him excitedly.
“Ma! Ma come quick I have a secret surprise for you!”
“I’m coming, angel!” she calls back. She tries to ignore sounds of moans, cries, and creaking beds from the other rooms as she passes by them on the way to her own.
Once back in their room and their shoes off, Levi urges Kuchel to sit on the floor with him, where he has already pulled out the small crate they use as a table, the bag sitting next to it. She does, a smile pasted onto her lips.
“Happy birthday, Ma! Happy happy birthday Ma!” Levi sings. He digs into the bag and places the small cake – the appearance of which resembles a large cracker more than a cake, onto the small cloth that serves as a plate. “Ta-da! Surprise I got you a sweet!”
Kuchel reaches over and pulls Levi into her lap, showering his face in kisses.
“Oh, thank you, my darling. What a wonderful birthday surprise you’ve given me.” She holds him close, tears in her eyes. “I have the very best son in the world.”
Levi squirms in her arms, reaches down and picks a piece off the cake and holds it against her lips.
“You gotta make a wish when you eat it okay?” Levi says, suddenly very serious. “And you gotta wish really hard or it won’t come true.”
Kuchel makes a show of closing her eyes and scrunching her face up, thinking of a wish before she opens her mouth wide and grabs Levi’s whole hand in a big, playful bite. The act makes him squeal in surprise and they fall into a fit of giggles as they finish off the cake together.
“What did you wish for, Ma?” Levi asks as he licks crumbs from his fingers.
“Now, that’s a secret just for me,” Kuchel whispers into another hug.
I wish for my boy to live long and in the light.
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roadkillremi · 11 months
Text
Sequel series to - Please Don't Kill me, Mr.Ghostface
Randy Meeks x Fem!Reader
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MasterList
Warnings : Minors DNI, NSFW, P in V, overstimulation Language, Smoking, Mentions Killing, Trauma, Reader has hallucinations, Reader thinks they're a monster/killer. (If I Miss any let me know)The song I link that the Reader listens to is dark.
I do not support killing
Summary : After the 1996 Woods borrow murders, will you move on? Attending college with some old friends and making new ones. Your past stalking you at times making everything difficult.
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You both breathed in unison, Randy pressed his forehead against yours gently kissing you. You both finished a couple minutes ago but you both didn't want to separate. You fluttered your eyes closed sighing with pleasure. He was going softly trying to overstimulate you too much.
From the corner of the room your heard a chuckle. You glanced over to see Billy crossing his arms smirking. Randy looked over to the side mid thrust, "What's wrong?".
You shook your head, "Nothing, Harder.." you look into his eyes. He nodded gripping your thighs for his support. You closed your eyes biting your lip. Randy's head rested by the right side of your head. His breath was on your ear, both of your moans filling up the room.
"Does he know we did this?" Billy asked looking over you. He eyed your body, you gripped Randy's forearm feeling his muscle. You closed your eyes tightly, Randy slowed down.
"You alright?"
"Yeah-"
"We can stop if we need to." He whispered. You opened your eyes, Billy was gone. You looked up at Randy, "I'm fine, Randy.". He nodded the continued to thrust, you wrapped your arms around him your nails slightly digging into his back. Randy's thrusts started to get sloppy and slow. He groaned loudly, you gently kissed his neck, "Randy are you tired?".
"No, just need..to cum.." Randy tried to hold himself back not wanting to finish before you. You cooed at him, cupping his cheek, "it's alright, you can finish..".
Randy kissed you more aggressively than normal. He sat up pulling your body closer, he took shallow breathes. He gripped your legs before thrusting quickly into you. You gasped and tried to close your legs due to overstimulation. He held your legs apart before pulling out to finish on your stomach. He sighed wiping it off your stomach with a dirty t shirt.
"Was that okay?" He asked.
"Mhm. Just a bit overstimulated." You mumbled. He laid down beside you leaving kisses on your neck.
"Randy let me in!" Paul banged on the door. You laughed as Randy groaned pulling himself out of bed.
"one second!"
You sat up putting a t shirt and pajama pants on. Randy out on some boxers and opened the door.
"God dammit, Randy! It's my room too! I get your girlfriends hot but-" Paul stopped talking once he made eye contact with you.
"Hey."
"Hi Paul, I'm sorry about Randy. We'll hang out somewhere else for now on."
Paul nodded and looked away, you sighed. The poor guy was still scared of women. You were probably the only girl that talked to him. You grabbed Randy's hand and your bag and walked into the hallway. He rapidly grabbed a t-shirt off the floor as he walked with you.
"Randy, I know this is shit timing but I think I'm going insane." You opened your bag pulling out cigarettes. He put his shirt on and leaned his head against the wall looking at you.
"How so?"
You lit a cigarette putting it between your lips, "I have a bad feeling..". You looked down, he gently grabbed your hand.
"This is how sequels start."
"Randy!"
"Sorry! Sorry!.. have you been taking your medicine?"
"nightly."
"Water?"
"6 cups a day."
He sighed, "Maybe it's just the final girl trauma.. Since we're getting comfortable in a new place."
You shrugged, "Do.. do you think I'm a killer?". Randy went silent, "is this about Gales book?".
"No- I just.. I don't know."
"What Gale says doesn't matter. She just pulls shit outta her ass to make money.".
"I know. It's just people look at me weird."
"You're not a killer. You defended yourself. Those dipshits had it coming. The movies coming out so it could feel like it's resurfacing. I know you don't like me mentioning it but, have you spoken with the therapist?"
"Not since last month."
"Okay, just contact her when you feel like it. Lets get you to bed.".
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"He was back.".
"Did he say anything?"
"Yes, he uh.. appeared when me and Randy were having sex."
The clock ticked loudly.
"Does Randy remind you of Billy?"
"Fuck no. He's the opposite of him. Sweet, caring, Randy wouldn't hurt me."
"Then why then?"
"I don't know. He mentioned the past and how we had sex." You fidgeted.
"Does Randy know?"
"No.."
"That could be it."
Silence filled up the room the the point of your eyes ringing.
"Why don't you tell him?"
"Because he might think I'm a monster."
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Sydney woke you up, "Hey, your boy toys on the phone". She smiled softly handing you the phone.
"Hello?" You asked in a groggy tone.
"Hey wanna see the stab movie tonight?"
"Randy. It is 7:47 and you ask me that?! No Good Morning or I love you?!" You fussed.
"Sorry! I love you."
"I love you too, no. I'm not seeing that damn movie."
"don't wanna see how cute they make our relationship?"
"No, thanks I have the real Randy Meeks. Not some actor pretending to be a nerdy movie freak."
"Hey!"
You laughed softly, "I don't wanna see it, besides we can just crawl into bed instead.".
"Alright. See you in class later."
"See ya, nerd." You hung up putting the phone on the night stand.
"Not gonna see it?" Sydney asked referencing the movie.
"No, After Gales book I had enough of memory lane." You got up lazily. Sydney sighed, "People have been prank calling us again.".
"I'll take care of it, Syd."
She nodded before leaving, you sighed and got ready for the day.
12:04pm
You took a bit of the macaroni on your tray. Randy had his arm around your chair and scoffed at Mickey's movie comments.
"The Shining sucked ass man!"
"you're just saying that."
"Even Stephan King didn't like it." You added in. Randy kissed your cheek, "See she's not just all beauty." He joked.
"Do you guys talk about anything other than brain rotting movies?-" Hallie mumbled. Hallie was one of Sydney's new friends, she was still weary of you. Sydney and her boyfriend just smiled at each other while eating their food.
"Are you gonna see the stab Movie?" Mickey asked throwing a fry at you. You swatted the fry away before it could hit you.
"I don't need a awful retelling of what happened to us on T.V." you leaned back into Randy.
"I heard they made you one of the killers in the movie." He added staring at you. Randy sat up, "What the fuck are you implying?" You practically yelled.
"Guys, it's just a movie." Sydney said trying to calm you down. You leaned forward towards Mickey.
"Billy Loomis deserved to die.* You got up grabbing you bag leaving.
"Hey!" Randy called after you. He looked at Mickey, "Good going jackass.". Randy ran after you he reached out for your shoulder.
"Randy please leave me alone." You muttered.
"You always wanna be alone! Let me help you." He said walking beside you.
"There's nothing to help with! Everyone thinks I'm a killer!" You yelled. Randy stopped walking, he stared at you on shock. You closed your eyes holding back tears. Your chest tightened, "Sorry. I didn't mean to yell.".
"Woodsborrow killings are over."
"I know-"
"Why won't you tell me what's wrong then?-"
"I'm scared."
"of what?!"
You fidgeted, "Of myself? I.. I have these visions and nightmares. They've been bothering me lately." Tears started to fall down. Randy pulled you into a hug, "Why didn't you tell me?".
"I was scared."
"I understand."
He didn't.
You whipped the tears off your face, "I'm sorry. I just need a moment to myself. Can you just come by my dorm tonight?". He nodded, "Sure thing.". He kissed you softly, you smiled up at him.
You took a shower and sat in bed. You played your Nirvana CD while Sydney wasn't here. She claimed their music was too dark.
"You cant escape it."
Billy sat on the edge of your bed.
"Escape what?"
He looked at you, his lifeless eyes looking into yours.
"The urge. You want to kill."
"I don't."
"Then why are you having such a hard time!" He yelled.
You flinched and stood up off the bed. He chuckled standing up going behind you. You could feel his ghostly presences against your skin. His hand softly going down your arm.
"There's a reason you stuck around with me and Stu."
"I don't want to be a killer."
"Yeah and I didn't want to be dead!" He yelled. You closed your eyes, "You're not real.".
"Your doctor shit won't work on me." He scoffed.
"Go away!" You screamed. You opened your eyes and he was gone. You looked around the room, a knock on the door startled you. You opened the door to find Randy.
"Hey. I got one of your favorites.." he held up breakfast club. You smiled and dragged him in by his shirt. You pulled him into a kiss, "I love you."
"I love you too." He said between kisses. You separated from him looking at the movie.
"Where are we gonna watch it?"
"I didn't think that far ahead." He said smiling bashfully. You rolled your eyes, "Maybe we can just chill.". You paused the music and sat on your bed. Randy laid on your bed, you looked over at him.
"What visions do you have?" Randy asked softly. You looked on the ground, "They're of Billy. As if he's in the room. I guess since he was my childhood friend." You look at Randy. He looked at the ceiling then at you, "Did you two fuck?".
"Excuse me?!"
"Come on, he was a good looking guy. There had to be a time when you two fucked."
"Yes. It was before we dated." You sighed.
"Did you like it?"
"At the moment."
It was silent, you looked at Randy. He got jealous of other guys easily. You leaned down and kissed him softly.
"But I like it with you more. He rushed, didn't do it for my pleasure just his."
Randy pulled you on top of him wrapping his arms around you. You kissed his neck softly before sitting up on his lap. He smiled grabbing your hips instantly.
"Randy keep your dick in your pants."
"You're the one on my lap."
His bulge poked through his jeans, you felt it against you. You rolled your eyes, "Randy, Sydney will be back any minute.". You leaned down and kissed him. His hands slid down onto your thighs.
"Randy, we shouldn't."
"I know." He mumbled against your lips. His hips bucked up against your lap. You gasped and sat up.
"Randy Meeks!"
"Yes?" He smiled.
"We are not fucking."
He sighed, "Yes ma'am." You smiled placing your hand on his chest. His heart beat echoed throughout his body. You got off his lap walking over to your desk. Randy sat up watching you, "What are we gonna do after college?". You looked over at Randy, he sat there thinking.
"Make movies? Maybe be a porn star." He wiggled his eyebrows. You scoffed, "No! Like seriously!".
"Well, we both agreed we don't want kids.".
"True."
"Where do you want to live?"
"Not sure. We can go further into California." You suggested.
Randy shrugged, you looked at the notebooks piled on the desk. A Polaroid film peaked out of your film notebook. You grabbed the edge yanking it. It was someone wearing a Ghostface mask with a knife.
'Im back' was written on the bottom. You gripped the photo turning to Randy.
"Randy... This was in my notebook." You handed it to him. He looked at it and sighed, "maybe its a prank.". You paced the room, "Why?".
"cause college kids are shit heads." He said. He put the photo in his pocket, "It's okay. Calm down.". You shock your head, "What if it starts back up??". Randy stood up grabbing your shoulders.
"I won't let it happen. I'll make sure you're safe."
You nodded sitting on the bed.
Randy left when Sydney came back. You didn't go to bed until she did. You felt uneasy the whole night. The next morning you got ready for class. Everyone gave you weird looks, people commented more than usual.
You walked into film class early putting your bag down. Cici walked in, "Did you hear?".
"hear what?" You asked.
"There was two killings at the Stab Movie last night. They couldn't find the killer."
You sat down, your stomach dropped and you felt dizzy. Randy walked in sitting beside you. You looked at him, "I told you.".
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oopsgracie · 2 years
Note
steve x fem reader
Can I get a request where the group is at the Creel house, and Steve is super protective of the reader.
i hope this lives up to expectations!! super sweet unless you’re scared of spiders like me <3
haunted house with a picket fence
(to float around and ghost my friends <3)
warnings: spiders and swearing
word count: 1.3k
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The study door yawns open behind you, groaning beneath its own weight on antique hinges stiff with rust— a classic horror trope. Almost so cliche it doesn't scare you as dust swells into the air like insects, winking in the strobe light of Steve's borrowed flashlight and sinking back between the floorboards as though it were never disturbed.
But only almost.
You start, swinging round to face him, his familiar silhouette backlit against the empty hallway, his eyes narrowed in the face of your flashlight that’s aimed at his forehead. He throws his hands up and grimaces.
“You know is that really necessary?” You stand there, unimpressed, going so far as to scowl at him and stubbornly refuse to lower it like a petulant child, “I feel like i’m being interrogated or some shit.”
“And you deserve to,” you hiss, “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Manifest in the doorway like something out of Poltergeist.” You steer the light toward a grate absentmindedly, shaking your head as he leans against the frame and you go to jab two fingers into his sternum, “Not cool.”
“Hey, you’re fine. You’re fine. I was just checking you hadn’t fallen through the floor it’s all pretty—“ He kicks a loose board and it shrieks in protest, “… old.”
“Oh come on Steve,” You giggle, something so strangely uplifting to hear among the cobwebs and the dark, a sound that’s been lacking here for thirty years— in this joyless maze of dingy rooms that sit forgotten in the cold light of day, light that seeps through boarded windows and ripples on the floor like water, “It’s just a big, old house.” You jump to test it’s strength, the floorboards mewling beneath your feet, “I’m totally safe.”
“I know, just— please don’t wander off on your own. Copy?”
“Loud and clear, Mom.” He rolls his eyes but guides you into the hall kindly by the small of your back, his hand warm against your skin as it boldly snakes beneath the hem of your sweater into the waist of your skirt.
“How about you take the big, scary bedroom next and i’ll have a nose around the bathroom?” You turn, eyes level with his throat and tilt your flashlight beneath your chins, carving out the bow of his lips, soft against the hard shadows that gather beneath his brow bone and settle in the hollows of his cheeks. It reminds you of telling stories at camp, nostalgic and sweet.
“Yeah, uh no. That’s not happening.”
“I’ll be just across the hall.” You brush your lips chastely over his, not in a kiss but the ghost of one, your noses brushing delicately against one another.
“What did I say about wandering off?” His adam’s apple bobs in anticipation.
“Steve.”
“I don’t like this.” He murmurs softly, his breath comfortingly warm on your cheeks and different to the damp which festers in the air, stagnant since the 50s. He tastes like toothpaste.
“It’ll be fine I promise, I don’t think this wizard sleeps in the tub.” He smiles unwillingly, the corners of his mouth curling upward in his best attempt at holding back laughter. “And it makes more sense— it’s like way more efficient.”
“Okay.” He relents when you smooth your hands dotingly across his shoulders, sweeping away the stray flecks of dust that decided to settle on his jacket— and fixing his collar too while you’re at it. “Okay fine.”
“Really?”
“It’s not like I can stop you.”
“Correct.” You call back to him. It echoes in the eaves and lingers for a moment after you’ve spoken.
“Hey uh…” But he clears his throat, hovering at the threshold opposite, fingers caught on the doorframe like an afterthought and drumming anxiously against the splintered wood, “Just yell if you need anything and… i’ll be as quick is I can.” You smile brightly and you nod with silent promise before disappearing into the dark and out of his sight with curious anticipation.
The floor is in better condition here, more stable as you step into the room considering it’s paved neatly with porcelain tile in geometric patterns, even beneath the copper tub that lacks a faucet handle. Besides the dirt that accumulates inevitably over the course of a few generations it was beautiful, had antique charm. And while you rifled through the cabinet, kicked at a few loose slabs on the floor it had no secrets to share with you. There were no clues here. You went to leave, distracted suddenly by an air vent that winks in the beam of your flashlight like crystal. It’s different to the one you found earlier— sunk into the floor and suspiciously screwed shut.
You pick at it, determined, tampering with short fingernails until it eases reluctantly away from the frame.
Jam jars are huddled like spies inside and the cobwebs strung between them are thick with flies. You reach for the tallest one, wanting to know what they hold. The dust is so thick it feels like velvet on the glass and peering through it there seems to be only twigs and something cottony inside, definitely old and dry but caught in it there’s a marble sized spider. More of them, trapped in there like someone’s pet but shrivelled with age and curled tightly into itself, it rattles at the bottom. Truly, truly disgusting and long dead now.
It’s not like you’re frantic, but hastily you shove it back between the others and leave them there as you press the grate haphazardly over the hole, that’s until something twinges on the cuff of your sweater, light but not unnoticeable and when you do, you only have to shriek once.
Before you’ve finished flicking it off, the spider now scuttling into a crevice, steps fly in the hall and you collapse against a warm body who’s arms close around your waist firmly, hauling you backward in the hallway, even slamming the door shut behind him. He twists you by your shoulders, his eyes searching earnestly for injury, raking over your face, your arms, your chest. “Are you okay?” You’re shaken, fingers curling into the sleeves of his sweater until your knuckles are white as you brace yourself against him to catch your breath, pulse beating in your throat, shattering your ability to speak for a moment. “What? What’s wrong? Who—“
“S-spiders.” You croak, staring at his anxiously expectant expression and feeling safer when he tugs you to his chest, cradling the side of your face with an open palm like you’re made of glass.
“Oh god, it’s okay, you’re okay. No need to panic.” You coil your arms around his neck and breathe in the smell of his detergent and hairspray— both are perceptible in the same way his fingerprints are, specific to him. “Here.” He offers and slowly, so as not to startle you, he turns your back to him by tugging gently at one hand and begins to comb through your hair with careful fingers, picking out anything that might have fallen into it. He goes so far as brush it over one side, smoothing the back of your sweater flush to your skin and fondly kissing the point at which it meets your neck, eventually pressing his face into the crook of your shoulder intimately. “Spider free.” You can feel his mouth against your skin as he speaks and lean back into the warmth of his touch. “Totally safe.”
“Thank you Steve.” Gratitude wells up your chest and your eyes flutter closed in contentment, releasing any tension with a satisfied sigh and whispering apologetically, “Sorry for scaring you, it was stupid.”
“No. No, it’s not stupid at all. You know i’ll always be there to… to—“
You laughed quietly into the dark, something that didn’t seem so threatening anymore, and like waves he felt it reverberate through his chest. “Protect me from the spiders?”
“Haunted houses, ghosts.” He snickers. “From anything you need me to. Always.”
let me know what you think!! my requests are open for anything you want to read next!! <3
you can also read my other fic ‘get to it’ - steve harrington x reader here.
821 notes · View notes
metalhoops · 1 year
Text
Steve had always thought his house was haunted. It wasn’t until the bodies started showing up on the front porch that he suspected it was something more sinister. 
The Harrington house had an air about it, with its elongated, hollow halls resembling gaping maws come sundown and all the familiar clicks and ticks that came with living in an enormous house alone. The pipes rattled like cuffed hands clapping when Steve stood beneath the shower spray. The wooden walls warped with the seasons, making all sorts of odd creeks. Then, of course, there was the wildlife, the shrieking of nightbirds and nocturnal creatures in the woods around the house. 
He used to think the haunting was the extrapolation of an overactive imagination. It was the reanimated corpse of a broken home. Sometimes an open window would blow shut a downstairs door, letting Steve think for a moment his parents had returned, only to find a silent house at his feet. 
After his first run-in with The Upside Down, he got paranoid. He slept with his bat by his bed, bolted the windows and checked the locks twice before going to sleep. Nothing ever happened. Each time the paranoia waned, another apocalypse would rear its ugly head, and he’d be back to the old routine. 
March 1986 sent him over the edge with Vecna's disappearance, Max’s coma, and Eddie’s death. He made new sets of keys, figuring with Hawkins being the way it was, his parents would avoid the place like the plague. He borrowed one of Nancy’s guns and kept it in his bedside drawer. However, unlike in other years, the house was anything but empty. 
He’d wake to the sound of slamming doors in the middle of the night and walk downstairs to find all the kitchen cupboards open and the front door ajar. Things escalated quickly. By mid-May, he was finding dead animals on his doorstep. 
He’d held back vomit one morning when he’d stepped out onto the welcome mat to find his once pristine white Rebooks wedged between the ribs of a coyote. The creature was pallid to the point of purpling. The front yard was a crime scene, the neatly cut grass streaked with blood. It seemed like the blood was everywhere but within the animal. It’d gone cold and stiff in the night. 
The next week it was a fox, the week after, a possum. Steve became more well-acquainted with death. He’d thrown house parties every week back in high school, and knew about deep cleaning, burying any trace of what a state the place had once been in.  
At first, he’d tried to think rationally. He tried to make some excuse about the change in weather, bringing the creatures to his doorstep. He’d even mentioned it to Robin, who’d been appropriately disgusted but level-headed. After all, the town had almost been cracked into a hundred little pieces months before, and nature acting strangely was expected. Every other day a bird would take a nosedive into the video store window. 
Steve became good at explaining these instances away until he found the final body on the floor of the living room. It wasn’t dead, but it should be. 
The familiar sound of a slamming door roused Steve from his sleep. He grabbed the gun and headed downstairs only to find himself looking down at the familiar body of a boy, sprawled out on the living room carpet. His form was covered in fading scars, his pale skin ashen with the transparent sheen of death. It was Eddie. The boy Steve had watched die. 
Steve saw the man’s chest rise and fall in languid gasps. He was dying at his feet all over again, and Steve was too used to strange things to question the authenticity of the sight before his eyes. 
“Eddie?” Steve choked, disbelievingly watching as Eddie’s eyes sprung open. He’d known them as warm brown coco, but now they were gaping black pits, open yet unseeing.  
“Stevie?” He echoed, sounding disorientated. 
“It’s so freaking cold,” the boy huffed, attempting to sit. It was an echo of a conversation they’d had while Eddie was dying. Maybe Steve was dreaming.
He dropped the gun and helped pull Eddie into a sitting position, one hand on the back of the boy’s knee, the other on his shoulder blade. His hands were covered in blood, but Steve couldn’t see an injury. 
“I was looking for you... thought you’d know what to do. Jesus Christ, you’re warm,” Eddie hissed through chattering teeth, his whole body leaning into Steve. They were on the cusp of summer and Steve was sweating, while Eddie was as cold as death. 
Steve felt like he was standing on the edge of a steep cliff, being asked to jump. Something primal in the base of his brain was screaming for him to turn tail and run. 
“You died, Eddie. I saw you, you shouldn’t be here,” Steve let out a string of incoherent ramblings. The boy couldn’t be alive. 
Eddie curled further into himself, into Steve, a quiet groan escaping his lips. 
“Can we save the crisis for later? I’m so damn hungry, man.” Steve nodded and pulled Eddie to his feet, leading him by the wrist to the kitchen. 
He switched on the lights and watched Eddie wilt beneath them, using his hair to shield his face from the brightness. Steve, oh too familiar with migraines, flipped the lights back off, letting darkness swallow them. 
He poured Eddie water from the sink and watched him inhale greedy gulps, his Adam’s apple bobbing while a vein in his neck throbbed. Steve scraped together food from the fridge and watched as the man ate with the same frenzied fervour, before spinning on his heels and throwing up in the sink. Steve cringed but rubbed circles across the man’s back.
“I feel like I’m dying,” the boy groaned.
Steve couldn’t tell him he wasn’t. He didn’t know what was happening to Eddie, but he knew he didn’t want to watch the guy die again.
Steve felt Eddie’s body trembling beneath his fingertips. He rubbed his hand down the length of Eddie’s arm, trying to warm him. 
“I’m going to get you a blanket,” Steve spoke, backing away from Eddie, keeping his eyes on the boy until his back slammed into the doorframe. 
By the time he gathered the sheets from the upstairs closet and returned to the kitchen, Eddie was gone. The only trace left of his visit was the open front door and the bloody handprint on the sink. 
After that night, Steve stopped locking his doors. He didn’t tell anyone he’d seen Eddie. They’d think he was crazy. He thought he was crazy. 
It would be weeks before Eddie woke him again. This time, Steve was startled by another body sliding into bed beside him. The room smelled of rotting fruit and iron. Sickly sweet and coppery. Steve rolled over, finding himself looking into the vacuous black eyes he’d come to know as Eddie’s. 
“Are you real?” Steve murmured, almost certain he was dreaming.
“Last time I checked,” Eddie grumbled, still shivering.  
“Are you the one leaving the animals on the porch?” Steve asked. He’d been doing a lot of thinking, and contrary to popular belief, if pushed, he could put two and two together. 
Eddie didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. His face spoke volumes. 
“It works in horror movies,” Eddie grumbled.
“Did it work?” It surprised the both of them how non-judgemental Steve’s tone was, as though they were discussing the weather. 
“No,” Eddie confessed. 
Steve felt the same sinking sensation he had when Eddie first appeared, but he never was one for running from danger. 
“Do you think something else might?” He tried to remain cool, but his heart was a kick drum in his chest. Steve was good at playing the martyr. That didn’t mean he wasn’t terrified each time he did it. 
“Satanic Cult Leader Lays with Hawkins High King and Local Golden Boy, Luring Him into his Ranks Through Blood Sacrifice. That headline has a nice ring to it, huh?” Eddie teased, putting on his most dramatic news anchor voice, shattering the illusion as he stuttered the final words out through chattering teeth. 
“It’s a little wordy, and ‘lay with’ are we five?” Steve grumbled, trying to help Eddie by moving closer to the boy. 
“I didn’t mean to imply...” Eddie grumbled. Despite his decrepit state, he still managed to look like a deer caught in headlights. 
Steve shook his head and sighed. “I didn’t care that you did. Do you still feel like you’re dying?”
Once more, Eddie’s silence spoke volumes. Steve knew he was about to do something stupid, but chose to do it anyway. 
“I want you to try it,” Steve insisted. Instead of moving closer, Eddie shuffled further away, going to stand when Steve reached out, catching him before he could recreate his disappearing act. 
“I know what happens to you in horror movies, Stevie,” Eddie whispered, shaking himself from the boy’s grip.
“Only the predictable ones,” Steve argued, sitting up in bed. 
“I don’t want to kill you.” 
“And I don’t want to watch you die again, so just hurry up and get it over with,” Steve hissed. 
“Christ, you have a death wish,” Eddie grumbled but returned to the bed, sitting cross-legged opposite Steve. 
The two boys sat, looking each other over for a moment, unsure how to proceed. Steve watched as Eddie’s eyes became darker. The moonlight from the window turned his skin the same silver, blue as the night. His lips purple. His cheeks hollow. The veins across his face appeared like a million little highway lines cutting across the map that was his skin. 
“Can you hurry up?” Steve spoke, feeling his nerves stretched thin.
“Sorry, Harrington. S’not like they give you a manual on this shit,” Eddie complained, leaning over and gathering the gun from Steve’s bedside drawer, switching off the safety and placing it in Steve’s right hand. He took Steve’s free hand with a beat of hesitation. 
“Here’s something I thought I’d never say. Harrington, I give you consent to shoot me if shit goes sideways.” Steve’s eyes swelled wide, but he nodded to show he understood. 
The idea of something was always worse than the real thing. He shut his eyes and tried not to squeeze his finger on the trigger as a sharp spasm of pain shocked up his left arm. The sound was worse than the pain. He could block out the sensation as time went on. It was hard to ignore the intermittent slurps or smacking of lips. Just when the world started to blur around the edges, Steve felt Eddie pull back. 
“Sorry, sorry.” Eddie apologised as he grabbed a shirt from Steve’s things, trying to wrap it around the wound. 
Eddie’s face was a sight to behold. Blood painted it from nose to jaw, a pool coagulating at the corner of his lips. That was the thing that tipped him over the edge. Steve felt the world go dark. 
He woke hours later. The curtains were drawn, and he felt a body by his side. A warm body. Steve rolled over, surprised to find Eddie’s face pressed into his side. The boy was deep in sleep. Steve glanced at his mangled wrist, finding it wrapped in gauze, unsure where Eddie had found it. 
Steve supposed his life was never going to be normal anyway. He might as well let it happen. At least he wasn’t going to be alone in the house anymore. If Eddie was alive, Steve couldn’t be haunted. 
220 notes · View notes
softagenda · 9 months
Text
skin deep (leander)
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leander x reader(f)
au - mc/reader ties up leander
originally posted on ao3
masterlist
Preview
“You can tie me up first if it makes you feel better.” 
After a moment’s contemplation, you slowly nodded. “Okay.”
Leander’s grinning face went slack, his jaw dropping. His hands paused in the middle of removing the leather gloves from his fingers. “I - wait, what?”
“Let’s tie you up first. I think that would be safest, for both of us.” You glanced back at the Wet Wick. “Would they have a room we could use for a short while?”
His mouth moved soundlessly for a moment, his cheeks flushed, before he asked, “You… want to tie me up?”
“Mm.” 
“Oh. Uh. Hold on, let’s - ”
You led the way back into the Wick.
A dozen heads seemed to turn around as you stepped through the doorway. Hesitating, you glanced through the crowd but when no one met your gaze again you approached the bar. The din of the crowd pressed against you, laughter and the clinking of glasses ringing in your ears. Somewhere in the middle of the room, Leander caught up to you and trailed behind.
The barkeeper refilled a glass and looked up, her dark eyes flickering over you first, then Leander with something akin to boredom. “What can I get ya?”
“Do you have a room we could borrow?” you asked, mentally counting what little coin you had left in your purse. “We’d only need it for a short time.”
“Oh?” Her gaze swept you from head to toe, taking the measure of you, before she shot a narrow-eyed look at Leander. “A short time? I’d have thought this one would warrant more than that.”
Leander flushed and cleared his throat, his expression sheepish, but you cut in before he could speak.
“He’s been more than generous with his time,” you said, not wanting the barkeeper to think less of Leander on your behalf. “It’s at my humble request. I’d be happy to pay a fair wage.”
A thin, polished brow arched high. She seemed to digest that for a moment, then shrugged. “To each their own.” She reached under the bar and slid a key across the counter. “Your usual room’s open.”
You turned to Leander. “Oh, do you live here?”
The barkeeper snorted. 
With a quick, strained laugh, Leander placed his hand on your back and guided you toward the stairs. “Not quite, but you know how it is. Late nights, plenty of drinks, good friends. I’m a regular.” His face was turned back toward the counter, exchanging a look with the barkeeper you couldn’t quite see except for the grin on her face. 
“I see.”
Old, beautiful oak wood and iron finishings molded the second floor of the Wet Wick. A long hallway stretched into the back of the building, a new door fixed every few paces and labeled with their own knocker. As you walked, you took note of the emblem’s etched into the surface: a hissing badger, a sleeping squirrel, a dog with its nose and tail poised in the air. They’re well-made and charming, in a strange way.
“Animal motifs?”
“Yeah.” 
“I’m curious to see what lies on your usual door.” 
Leander’s boot caught on the floor, and he stumbled. His hand swept through his hair, a grin spreading on his lips. “Ah ha ha, don’t read too much into it. Barkeep’s got a twisted sense of humor.”
By then, they’d reached the end of the hall. One door took up the corner, its front and trim cast from a dark, glossy rosewood and decorated with more delicate filigree. This one too had a crest on the front, though much larger and finer than the rest. Initially, you mistook the shape for a large rat with a long tail - then you recognized it.
“A mongoose?” you asked, leaning closer. A narrow head grew out from the furred body, with gleaming gold eyes and a protruding fang, its tail curling high as though warding off predators. You considered that for a moment before glancing at his neck, where the golden earring of the sword and the snake, eating itself, rested. “Because of…”
He unlocked the door with a flare of his wrist. “Like I said. Twisted sense of humor.” He held the door open and gestured you in. “After you.”
You paused before the threshold, instinct rising like a wary wolf and baring its teeth in the back of your mind at the thought of entering a closed room with a stranger. A powerful stranger at that. A mage with abilities similar if not greater than her former teacher. A man nestled in the heart of his territory, surrounded by his pack. 
That mental beast of vigilance had hunted you - dogged your footsteps through the journey to Eridia. Always wary. Always watching, waiting for the knife to swing on your back.
Forever you would look at every shadow with fear, every person with suspicion. After all, Mericka had been your teacher and companion, your guide in this volatile world - if even she could plunge the knife and turn it, why not a stranger?
Still, you had to try. Otherwise, how could you move forward?
Several people seemed prepared to vouch for Leander. The mysterious doctor, Kuras. The barkeeper. The unknown dozens of people who worked as part of the Bloodhounds. This - trusting him - was a calculated risk.
“Is this the room reserved for the rich and famous?” you asked, surveying the spacious room with a table, chairs, dresser, and a large bed in the center of the wall. Two bedside tables were draped in a green velvet cloth and topped with antique feylamps that cast the room in a golden, slightly greenish glow. A tapestry was draped over the wall and undulated under a breeze invading from the window opposite the door. Its many threads and colors depicted a map of the city itself.
“I’m about as famous as it gets for the Wet Wick,” Leander said, amused, as he closed the door and crouched down to untie his boots.
You hastened to follow. It’d be rude to dirty the floor for this, when there might be guests using the room later. 
With boots and jackets hung by the door, you lingered just by the foot of the bed. “So… ropes?”
When you turned to look at him, your breath caught in your chest. Beneath the coat, the layers of shirt were skin tight and sleeveless. Taut muscles bunched beneath the black fabric but bared his arms, leagues of smooth skin threaded with the occasional vein. The scar that peeked over his jaw spread down his left arm, the edges jagged but faded, like ink across the thick bicep and forearm.
You blinked and forced yourself to look away. It’d be rude to stare.
At your question, Leander’s brows arched, but he clapped and said, gamely, “Jumping right in! Brave one, I see. Well, I appreciate a woman who knows what she wants.” He headed for the bedside table and began rummaging through the top drawer. 
You’re the brave one . Your hands twisted together, your gut tightening. 
“Luckily, I’ve always got the essentials on hand.”
“Rope counts as an essential for your nightstand?” 
Leander’s shoulder twitched, and when he glanced over to you, his face was slightly rosy. “Well, you never know where the night will turn.”
You mused over that before nodding. In a sprawling city like Eridia, full of monsters and magic, you supposed the likelihood of getting ambushed while asleep was high. It’d be useful to have rope nearby to subdue your attackers for interrogation.
“Here we go!” Leander turned. In his hands was a pile of silk.
You stared at the fabric. “You’re… quite kind to your prisoners.”
Leander’s lips parted, his eyes searching for something in your face, before a single, awkward laugh escaped. “Not into that?” 
“No. I mean,” you hastened to explain as his eyes widened, “It’s not that,  just… It’s a good thing, I suppose. Just surprising. Will that truly be able to subdue a fully grown man?”
“Oh, yeah.” He grinned as he looked down at the silk, the slippery material almost dripping from his wrists. “It’ll hold.” 
He spoke with such confidence that you assumed he must know from experience. You stepped closer and inspected the bundle. “Is there an enchantment on it? To make it binding?”
Leander met your gaze. The soft fringe of his hair fell across his brow, the ends caught in the fan of his lashes. “There could be. Do you want that?”
The quiet held between you for a moment. “That might be for the best,” you murmured, though you would understand his caution. After all, you were just as much stranger to him, as he to you. That he would even allow you to tie him up spoke volumes on his courage.
He leaned closer, and his next words brushed across your face. “So sure your touch will drive me to madness?” His eyes held you to the spot, the clear, emerald depths gleaming, identical to the magic that had conjured lilies from thin air in the pub below.
Your throat felt exceptionally dry. You swallowed, your gaze trailing across the strong nose and olive skin, his gold earring swaying from his ear, before lingering on the edge of the scar that cut up his jaw. “Yes,” you whispered.
A hum rose from within him, rumbling like the early boiling of dragon’s roar. “More and more,” he said, almost in your ear. “I’m starting to believe it.”
A shudder slipped down your spine. 
With a quick breath, you stepped back. You cleared your throat and said, fighting the tremble that threatened to slip into your voice, “You should.” 
Leander rolled his shoulders, the bones cracking, before his winsome grin returned, if a bit more subdued. “We’ll see. So,” he gestured to the bed, “how do you want me?”
You walked around the bed, grabbing the headboard and the frame to test the give of the wood. Luckily, the headboard seemed to have been nailed to the wall. Likely to prevent thieves from stealing such high quality pieces. There was even a decorative window of wooden spokes embedded across the length of it. “We can improvise with these.” You grabbed one and tugged hard, but luckily the wood held fast.
Leander’s lips pressed together as though fighting the urge to say something.
“Or not - think they’ll break?”
“Oh, no, they’ll be fine. They were,” he paused, his cheek hollowing, “practically made for that purpose.”
For tying rope ? You pondered that for a second before setting that aside to consider later. Perhaps weavers used the spokes to create custom throws and bed sheets.
Leander sat on the end of the bed before laying down and sliding over, his head nestled on the feather pillows. His arms stretched out to the corners of the bed, his muscles shifting beneath the shadow of his shirt. He somehow seemed even broader spread across the bed like this, the thick duvet holding him snug. 
“How’s this?” He reached back and hooked his fingers through the spokes, tugging until his back lifted an inch from the bed, the muscles of his arms and abs flexing, straining. 
Your heart was beating strangely fast as you considered him. Must be nerves.
“Hmm. It’d be a more effective hold if your arms were tied together. Less flexibility or leverage to maneuver.” 
“Like this?” He lifted his arms above the crown of his head, his elbows loose by his ears. 
“Yes. Same with your legs.”
As he shuffled into place, you picked up the bundle of silk from the bed and rubbed the fabric. There’s more to the texture than the silk you’d felt in the past - the old but well-cared for square that your teacher had spread on the altar - a sort of roughness that sparked beneath your fingertips. The strengthening charm, you’d bet.
You tied first his legs before moving up to his arms, Leander docile beneath you. As you leaned over his face, working the silk around his wrists and spokes into a double-looped mooring knot you’d learned from fishermen in your childhood, he shifted slightly. You glanced down. 
He was watching you from below, his chin tipped back. His dark hair had fallen back onto the sheets, exposing his face to the warm glow of the feylights, their flickering embers dancing in the corner of his eyes. His lips were parted, his skin flushed once more.
You froze, realizing your position. “Sorry, almost finished.”
“Take your time,” he replied, sounding a little breathless. 
You glanced down again with concern, looking at his chest. Could the position be restricting his ability to breathe? The shirt had seemed flexible, if rather tight. You’d better pick up the pace.
With a tug, you secured his arms and sat back to give him space. “How does that feel? Too tight? Not tight enough?”
Leander licked his lips and peered up at you from heavy-lidded eyes, a smile teasing the corners of his mouth. “Just right.”
You stared back, bemused by his attitude. “You’re being awfully gracious about all this. Most people would balk at the idea of a stranger with a dangerous curse tying them to a bed.”
“I’m not most people,” he said, “and it’s not the first time I’ve been tied up by a beautiful stranger.” Leander rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck while you attempted to digest that statement before he continued. “Well, I’m ready for you. Shall we?”
You hesitated. “...are you sure?”
“That I want your hands on me?” He grinned. “Never been more sure of anything.”
“This isn’t a joke, Leander.”
He released a long, heavy sigh before shifting his hip to nudge your thigh. “All of this,” he began, gesturing to his tied up body with a flutter of his fingers, “is for your sake, not mine. Well, maybe a little for mine, but not how you’d think,” he conceded with a quick grin but held your gaze.“Listen to me. I’m confident in my abilities. I can handle whatever you throw at me.”
A film of luminescent magic swept over his body, as thin and glossy as a spider’s web. He tilted his head to the side, his cheek brushing his arm.
“So,” he continued, his voice dropping deep and soft. “Touch me.”
Your heart pounded in your chest, anxious, racing. His eyes were as calm and bright as the surface of a pond, without a trace of fear. 
With a sinking feeling, you looked down. If you ignored the bandages, your hands could almost look normal. The size. The shape of them. You hadn’t been born with tentacles or massive talons or nails as sharp as knives. Maybe that would have been easier. 
What made them grotesque far transcended their appearance.
With trembling fingers, you pulled the end from the bandage around your wrist and began unwinding. Each new layer revealed more of the skin beneath, dark and stormy like a bruise, threaded with strange cracks of hardened gold, until you’d dropped the last of the bandages from your black fingernails. 
You flexed your fingers idly, dread sitting like a stone in the pit of your stomach. When you glanced over, Leander was watching eagerly.
“Interesting…” Then, with another warm smile, he gestured with a tilt of his chin toward the golden pin on the front of his shirt. “We match.”
You huffed before swallowing around the weight in your throat. “Where should I…” you trailed off, avoiding his gaze. 
He hummed thoughtfully, sounding far more at ease than he should be. “Since I can’t hold your hand properly like this, how about my arm?” 
You paused, wondering if you should do this on your feet for a faster escape, but in the end you simply twisted your hips until your leg pressed against the side of the bed. 
Leander laid perfectly still and relaxed, as though he were out on the grass tracing shapes from clouds on a summer afternoon, rather than subjecting himself to potential insanity. The arm closest to you eased further into the bed as he settled in. His right one, where the edges of that scar reached around to the more tender flesh of his inner arm. 
You checked his eyes again, searching for any hint - however tiny or hidden or cowed - of fear, concern, anything. He only smiled back. 
You took a long, steadying breath, your heart in your throat. Then you reached out with a shaking hand until a point just beside his elbow. Retreating for a moment’s panicked indecision, you repositioned closer to the middle of his forearm. 
You stared at your own fingertips, enduring that familiar loathing and fear down to your marrow. Please. Please, don’t hurt him . You prayed whatever powers that Leander believed in were steadfast and watching.
Then, you let your fingertips drop to his skin for a single moment, before immediately yanking them back to your chest.
His body twitched, the bed creaking at the sudden movement. That luminescent web of magic flared, rippling across his skin for a brief, bright wave, before vanishing. His eyes were closed, his face blank.
“...Leander?” Pulse pounding, barely daring to breathe, you waited.
Then as his mouth slowly twisted into a smile, one eye peaked open. “Is that all?”
You watched with bated breath, still on the edge, still waiting. 
Leander tossed his hair back from his face and stretched his arm out toward you, encouragingly. “Come on, you’ve got me all wrapped up like this - it’d be a shame if you stopped there.” His voice lowered, rich and sweet as honey: “Keep going.”
Inch by inch, your shoulders began to sink. The tension in your body ebbing away with every word - every confusing, vaguely ridiculous word. You suddenly felt your body again, as though you’d been adrift as a spirit before getting sucked back into your mortal flesh: the sweat sticking to your back, the ringing fading from your ears, your heart beating against your ribs.
Your lungs pinched, forcing you to suck in a quick breath, and the relief seemed to burst over you. 
“Leander, you’re - “
“Just fine.” His eyes softened, more of that genuine warmth seeping through the cracks of his charismatic facade. “That’s one hell of a curse. Nothing I can’t handle, though.” Leander gestured once more with his chin. “C’mon. Try again?”
Inexplicably but hopelessly tempted, you reached for him again, still wary, your eyes darting from your hand to his face. You let your hand fall until your whole palm was pressed against him, skin to skin, checking his expression all the while.
He’s flushed around the cheeks and collar, but there’s warmth and humor and life in his face. 
You could hardly believe it, but it’s there. 
You smoothed your hand up his arm carefully, in awe at the feeling of his body heat against your bare skin. Fingertips pressing in here and there, tracing the curvature of muscle and bone, your thumb lingering on the pulse just beneath his glove, his heart thumping beneath your touch.
You’d touched people before - even been intimate and embraced others - but always through the veil of the bandages. You’ve spent the past few years on the cusp of giving up all hope that you could ever have this. 
Now, at the threshold of your final desperate chance, the very day after you’d made your peace with death as you laid bleeding out in a swamp, at the claws of a vicious monster - you’ve found it.
You traced your hand back down his arm, following along the path of a vein, your other hand gripping the sheets so tightly your knuckles strained white. The feeling was unlike anything you’d ever known.
Leander’s hushed voice broke through the dream-like trance you’d fallen into. “Am I the first person you’ve been able to touch like this?” 
Caught between embarrassment and abject longing, you admitted, “So far.” Idly, your fingers continued to delicately trace his scars, the raised edges contrasting vividly against his smooth skin.
His lips parted, the look in his eyes inscrutable, before he said, his voice slightly rough, “Anything you want.”
You froze.“What?” 
“Touch anything you want,” Leander said again, his cheek nestled against his arm. “I’m all yours.”
Your hand stilled as the bold, frankly outlandish offer sunk in. 
For having only known you for a few hours at best, Leander was proving to be very generous with his time, his skills, his magic, and - apparently his body too. You’re even a little concerned at the prospect - as he himself had said about the Senobium, things that seemed too good to be true usually were. But was the truth here that Leander was creating a trap, or that he was by nature generous to the point of endangering himself?
Still. You licked dry lips as you fought with yourself. No one had ever offered a second touch before. No one else had survived the first.
Feeling your morals losing the battle against utter temptation, you asked, “... you wouldn’t mind?” You knew you shouldn’t - truly he’d been generous enough, you shouldn’t take any more than that. But you wanted to, more than a little desperately.
“Not a wick.”
Treading with caution, you braced one knee on the bed and rose over him. You reached forward until both hands stopped, poised above his wrists. Being able to touch another person with one hand - that had been barely more than a dream. Both seemed like utter fantasy. With a small breath for fortitude, you gingerly laid both hands on his skin.
A breathless laugh escaped you as you stroked gently down, the sensation electric for all it was a barely-there touch. Once you’d reached just above his armpit, you trailed them back up again, this time with the lightest scratch of your nails.
Goosebumps chased your fingers up his arms. Leander seemed to shudder under you.
His eyes narrowed on your face for a long moment before he clenched them shut. “You’re really not doing this on purpose, are you,” he said, the words more like a pained truth than a true question.
You frowned, unsure what he meant. You started to pull away, but the moment your hands left him, his head whipped up.
“Wait, that’s not - Ignore me.” When still you hesitated, Leander attempted to shuffled closer, his back lifting from the bed as though intending to close the distance himself. The bedframe creaked ominously, something wood letting out a hissing wheeze. “Keep touching! Do with me as you will. Don’t stop on my account, please.”
“Ah, you shouldn’t move so much - your wrists - “ When you glanced up, his hands were turning purple from the tight pull of the silk rope. 
Without thinking, you leaned forward and tried to unravel the knot as quickly as possible amidst the shaking of the bed, only for Leander to grow suddenly still underneath you. You paused in your struggle to unravel the mooring knot and looked down.
His face was just inches from yours. You froze, staring into his shocked green eyes, the thick fan of his lashes, his flushed skin and full, parted lips. He held your gaze for a moment before glancing down at your mouth, then back, and something about the way he looked at you snapped a curl of fire through you, like a lit match sparking on a line of gunpowder.
Purely on instinct, you grabbed the headboard and pushed yourself back, almost tumbling off the bed in your haste. “Sorry, sorry,” you hastened to apologize, burning from head to toe. “That was - an accident.”
On the bed, Leander was silent for a moment, still angled toward the ceiling. Then he sighed. “...I know.”
You turned away to hide your face, working furiously to get yourself under control. You couldn’t believe how thoughtless you’d just been. Here Leander was, sacrificing his time and safety and comfort to help you, and you just - smothered him in the process? And to almost - 
The sight of his lush, parted mouth flashed through your mind.
Immediately you began silently reciting the Register of Alchemical Ingredients , fighting for distraction. By the time you’d reached spirit of nitre, your once teacher’s voice echoing in your head, you turned around and cleared your throat.
“I apologize again if I’ve made you uncomfortable.” 
Leander’s brows rose, but he shook his head. “Not at all. Well - “ He glanced down his body before avoiding your gaze. “No harm, no foul. Want to continue?” He’s smiling, his eyes crinkling, but soon frowned when you shook your head.
“It’s probably for the best that we stop here.” Clearly, you’d need to prepare for the next opportunity. If there was one, either with Leander or someone else. You felt dizzy with this new opportunity, this freedom you’d been searching for all your life. Even so, you couldn’t lose all sense of respect like that. 
You untied him, from the side of the bed and well out of his personal space. As Leander slowly sat up and rubbed his wrists, the skin now bright red and raw, you felt a pinch of irony well bittersweet in your chest. You took a seat next to him and pulled a small vial of salve out of your pocket. He’d already begun tugging his gloves off and offering his hands at the sight, an eager smile on his face.
It’s enough to make you genuinely fond of him already.
“It’s funny. We restrained you in case you lost control, and then I…well,” you trailed off, delicately holding his wrist and smoothing the salve across the angry marks. To have bruises this dark, even with silk…. “I should have been more considerate of you.”
“I disagree. If anything,” he said in a low voice, just above a whisper, “you could’ve been greedier.” 
For what felt like the thousandth time that afternoon, you glanced at his mouth again, your blood heating at the sight of that whiskey sweet smile spreading across his lips, crinkling the corners of his eyes.
“Still could be, if you want,” he continued, leaning in, his shoulder bumping into yours. The swing of his earring caught the glint of the feylamps, the light flickering down the length of the sword.
You got to your feet and tucked the salve back into your pocket, along with your other meager belongings. “I couldn’t impose.” He looked a second from arguing the point, until you met his gaze solemnly over your shoulder. “Thank you, Leander. I can’t express how much this meant to me.” 
Then, you smiled. 
It was undoubtedly an awkward, cracking thing - you couldn’t remember the last time you’d attempted more than a half-smile or a short laugh. This one seemed to fill your cheeks up.
You had a moment to witness Leander’s jaw drop, before you hurriedly turned and began gathering your things. It’d be rude to overstay your welcome, after all. 
Your eagerness to get back out into the city had nothing at all to do with the way his mouth kept popping up in your mind or the way your hands ached with the desire to touch him again.
________________________
“How about you, sparrow? I did say I’d buy you a drink earlier.” 
“No, no, no, my treat. ”
“If anything, I should treat you, Leander.”
“Oh? ” 
“As an apology for the rope burns.��
“..."
“...”
“...”
“It’s, uh. Both exactly what you’re thinking and not.” 
_________________________
a/n: thank you for reading!
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minefield-of-a-ninja · 9 months
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Summary: Gabriela Cruz invests in a Victorian mansion in the middle of America where the rule of Buyer Beware is absolute. When her twin sister goes missing, a couple of federal agents show up. Lucky for Gabi, Dean and Sam Winchester are on the case.
Characters: Gabriela Cruz, Camila Cruz, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Ed Zeddmore, Harry Spangler
Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, language, mentions death of family members, cursed object, mentions of blood + gore, sarcasm, twin dynamics, explicit sex
Words: 4,600
Author's notes: thank you, @brrose-apothecary and @stusbunker as always for the pre-reads and support!
CAVEAT EMPTOR
I consider myself a strong, independent woman. I pay my own bills, put a little money away in savings every month, and I just recently took out a loan all by myself to buy an old Victorian mansion cum bed and breakfast in my hometown.
Which brings me to my first point — that most of the time, I think I’m rad as fuck. Then, once in a blue moon (literally, in this case), some guy finds his way into my life, and I personally end up winding back the advancement of women by a century for good dick.
It’s humiliating.
How, you ask? Well, let me tell you...
“When you said Victorian bed and breakfast, I thought it’d be all lace doilies and ornately carved wood. This place is sick!” 
Camila, my little sister by 15 minutes, had driven down from Minneapolis to help me move into my new home. We hadn’t seen much of each other in the past year because she was living with a man who considered our twin bond to be “unhealthy” (read: he’s a pissbaby.)
What he couldn’t wrap his tiny brain around was that Cami and I were not only twins, but we’d spent the entirety of our adult lives with only each other to call home. Our older brother was killed by a drunk driver, our mom by breast cancer, and our dad by colon cancer, all before we were old enough to vote.
Anyway, Camila told him he could stay in his glass box of a top-floor condo in the city while she popped down “just for the weekend” to help me unpack. Little did he know, she’d brought with her an obscenely priced bottle of pink Taittinger Comtes de Champagne 1973 from his wine cellar. 
“Camila Beatriz!” I cackled as I popped the cork.
She was living with a guy so worried about our “connection” that he never bothered to ask about her predilection to permanently borrow (her phrase, not mine) things from the men she dated.
“He’ll never miss it. Just pour.”
We sipped, kind of unpacked, nibbled on a fruit and cheese platter, and generally basked in each other’s presence. As we squeezed the last drops of pink bubbly from the bottle and the sun dipped below the horizon, I felt a chill. I assumed it was exhaustion, nerves, stress — whatever. 
“I’m tired, sissy,” Cami confessed. “Show me to my room, would ya?”
I did, giving her a long squeeze. “Thanks for coming, sissy,” I whispered in her ear. “Sleep sweet.”
I gave her a kiss on the cheek, and she kissed mine before I headed to my room to take a warm shower. Even though the chill never quite left me throughout slathering myself in lotion and wrapping up in my warmest pajamas, it didn’t occur to me that anything was off off.
Then, at midnight, when the third full moon of the season was at its fullest, I was awakened by a blood-curdling sound that seemed to hang in the air for hours after it was released.
“Camila!”
I bolted from the warmth of my bed, flung my heavy door open, and sprinted down the hall to where my sister was supposed to be sleeping. What I found inside that room can never be erased from the darkest corners of my mind.
There was blood everywhere — on the floor, the walls, the ceiling. The room was frigid and vibrating. I felt a presence that turned me inside out, and I started to sweat and heave, regardless of the temperature of the room.
“Cami!” I called out to her, receiving no reply. “Sister!”
I rushed further into the space as whatever it was that I felt began to recede.
“Camila! Where are you?”
I searched and cried, but my sister was nowhere to be found.
The police arrived within minutes, and neighbors hovered on the edge of the property, haphazardly bundled in robes and coats like vultures at the site of carnage. There were hushed whispers of a ghost, a ghoul, or dark spirits.
An ambulance came.
Once the police had questioned me, I was examined by the EMTs and given a sedative. I was told I was in shock. Someone asked if I had any relatives or friends in the area who could stay with me. 
I shook my head. “Cami’s my only family.”
The sedative dumbed me down more than anything. I wasn’t able to sleep or relax. Before dawn, two FBI agents appeared on the scene. The local police were reluctant to let them speak with me, but they somehow persevered.
“Ms. Cruz?”
I looked up to find a string bean of a dude with puppy-dog eyes and a tentative, soothing voice. He introduced himself as Agent Gass and his partner as Agent Black. He asked how much time I’d spent in the house.
“Not even a day.”
Both men nodded. 
I suppose it should have tipped me off that they were not run-of-the-mill federales since they didn’t seem at all surprised by my answer or the situation the way local law enforcement did.
“You just bought the place, right?” asked the other agent.
Until he spoke, I hadn’t realized how tightly wound I was with fear and grief. The quality of his voice had a visceral effect on my senses, like a deep tissue massage or an epic fucking orgasm. 
This man’s voice, you guys...
I blinked rapidly, trying to clear my vision, then found that the face belonging to that voice was so beautiful I could no longer hold the tension in my body, and the tears began to flow.
(I know this sounds very dramatic, but I promise we won’t be spending much more time on the grim details. Also, don’t worry; Cami’s fine. I mean, she’s fucking traumatized, but it wasn’t her blood decorating the walls, is what I’m saying.)
The agents quickly bookended me. Agent Gass tugged a paper towel from the roll I’d left sitting on a side table the night before and handed it to me, muttering something about my nose and tears before Agent Black started talking again. 
“There’ve been reports of strange occurrences in this house for decades, but nothing violent.” He was so close that I could feel the rumble of each syllable like the hum of a lullaby or a stealth percussionist in the wild. “Have you witnessed anything out of the ordinary in the last 12 hours?”
I sniffled. “Besides all the fucking terrifying shit I’ve already told the cops?”
Agent Gass cleared his throat beside me. “We’re sorry, but we need to record our own findings. Do you mind telling us what happened?”
I rolled my eyes and blew my nose. “Fine,” I sighed, tossing the wadded-up snot rag into a nearby trash bag.
“It started when the sun set…” 
I recapped the evening’s events, groggily noticing once again that neither agent seemed nearly as taken aback as the local police.
“‘Blood-curdling sound’ — like a scream?” Agent Black’s question pinged in my brain while other parts of me continued to react to the sound of it. 
“I don’t know why I keep using that phrase... it wasn’t a scream, but... it woke me up, and I immediately knew something was wrong. I was chilled to the bone.”
Agent Black nodded. “You said you were cold before, so you took a shower. Was it the same kinda chill you felt when the sound woke you up?”
I shook my head, squinting to try and remember. “No... I- there’s cold chill and scared chill — I felt both at different times. I... I don’t know how else to describe it.”
Agent Black nodded, peeking over my head to his partner, and they exchanged a silent agreement.
I cannot stress enough how aggravated I am that I felt attraction at that moment. My twin sister was missing, and yet I couldn’t stop staring at his stupid mouth. At the time, I didn’t rationalize it at all, probably because of the drugs the EMTs gave me, but suffice it to say that Dean Winchester is a sorcerer. 
He pushed up from beside me, smoothing his tie and buttoning his suit jacket. “Thank you, Ms. Cruz. Try to get some sleep.” He made a subtle gesture to his partner, spurring him into action, then turned to survey the room with a narrowed gaze.
Agent Gass handed me a card. “Please give us a call if you think of anything else. We’ll be in touch.”
Well into the next day, my new home was under constant guard, filled by local law enforcement and various consultants. I didn’t see Agents Gass and Black again until two weird little guys with video equipment showed up. 
I walked out onto my side porch from the kitchen, wiping my hands on a dish towel, wondering what kind of new crew was on the case. By the time I made my way outside, Agent Black was there, hovering over the bearded guy with glasses.
“...I will shoot you, and you know I’m not fucking kidding,” he growled.
“Agent?” I asked, amused beyond reason at his violent threat and casually draping my dish towel over my shoulder. 
At this point, I’d been able to get some sleep and put a bit of time and space between my cognitive processes and the happenings surrounding Cami’s disappearance. So when that cocky little (there’s nothing little about Dean Winchester, OK, I’m being facetious) shit stretched those long, strong legs and climbed up onto my porch, I was fully aware and accepting of just how incredibly attracted to him I was.
He turned, his posture neutralizing and his eyes softening.
“Ms. Cruz. Yeah, hi...” He strode toward the porch. “Thought I’d stop by, see how you’re doin’.”
“Gabi, Agent.”
He grinned wide as he took the last step to stand in front of me, sliding his hands into his pockets and rocking to his heels and back. 
Such a little shit.
“Gabi… right.” He smirked, then glared over his shoulder at the newcomers. “These two botherin’ you?”
I peeked around him and shook my head before pulling back and looking him in the eye. “This’s the first I’ve seen of them. Coffee, Agent?”
He smirked. “Call me Dean.”
In hindsight, inviting him in for coffee was probably my first mistake. I could’ve offered coffee to him and those two boneheads from Wisconsin outside, but, as previously mentioned, I was busy derailing feminism. 
“How do you take it, Dean?” I asked, swiping one of the clean coffee mugs from an array of disorganized kitchenware yet to be shelved from the move. 
As I took the last two steps to my second-hand Nespresso machine, Dean remained silent, so I glanced over my shoulder before reaching for a coffee pod. He shook his head and blinked up from where he seemed to be mesmerized by something in the neighborhood of my hips.
“Black,” he answered with a lush, lopsided smile.
I nodded, then turned to focus on my task. “What brings you back this way? Is there something new with my case?”
“Uhh, yeah, actually — Agent Gass found some interesting things about the layout of this property on the county assessor’s website. D’you know this was a safe house in the Underground Railroad?”
“Yeah.” I turned and handed the agent his coffee. “That’s one of the reasons I bought it and one of the attractions of the bed and breakfast.” 
He thanked me for the cup, eyeing me closely. “So you’re aware of the secret passages in the home? In the room where your sister was sleeping the night she disappeared?”
I shook my head. “What? No. There’s no passageway in my sister’s room, only in the basement and the outbuildings.”
Dean shook his head, holding my gaze. “There’s a full network of passageways in the exterior walls of this house, Gabi,” he continued slowly and pointedly. “Your sister could be trapped. We’d like to take a look at the room again.”
(The next night, over a post-orgasmic cigarette, Dean told me all about another structure he and his brother had cleaned out and sealed off. Someone had erected an apartment building on the execution site of America’s first serial killer. Because Dean Winchester, in addition to being exasperatingly sexy and good with his hands, is a ghost and monster hunter with his brother not-Agent Gass, they come across this kind of thing all the time, I now understand.)
Five minutes after agreeing to let them explore the alleged secret passageways, Agents Black and Gass were sans jackets, rolling up their sleeves, and peering into the mouth of the Rosebud Suite’s small closet. 
“So...” I paused, absorbing the confirmation that all the things I feared went bump in the night and more are real. “What do you think you’re gonna find in there? A ghost? Vampires? My twin sister’s disembodied head?”
For the first time since meeting them, the agents looked at me in alarm. 
“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Dean said, crossing the room to clasp a big, warm hand around my wrist and squeeze. “You’re twins?”
I nodded.
“Then if that twin stuff everybody talks about is real, you know she’s gonna be fine.” He smiled down at me with kindness. “All we know is that she’s missing, and we know the blood in the room is animal blood.”
Dean was right; I knew in my heart that Gabi would be fine, but as relieved as I should have been, I was suddenly much more disturbed on an entirely different level.
“Animal blood? No one told me this was animal blood. What the fuck is going on?!”
“That’s what we’re here to find out,” Agent Gass appeared at Agent Black’s side, and they exchanged looks before Agent Black continued.
“I dunno why the police didn’t tell you about the animal blood. Maybe they didn’t want to alarm you-”
“Alarm me? I’ve been walking around here worried Camila’s guts were all over one of my guest room walls. I’ve taken sooo much Xanax since Friday night. Is there anything else alarming I should know about?”
They looked at each other again for a beat before Dean shrugged.
“Those two little weirdos outside?” 
“Yeah?”
“They picked up readings that indicate the presence of a cursed object as well as confirmation of human life other than those of us in plain sight.”
I sighed, dropping my eyes to where Dean helpfully caressed my wrist.
“I feel like I’m in catechism... what’s a cursed object?”
I didn’t pull away because, like I said, his caress was very helpful.
“Just like it sounds. Somethin’, usually old, that’s been loaded up with black magic. If we can find it, we can cancel out the magic-”
“Black magic?! Who the fuck- wait, old?” 
Dean nodded, and sadly, he released my wrist.
“Oh, my god, the wine!”
The agents perked up at that and exchanged more silent looks.
“Gabi... where’s the bottle?”
When I say that I am unreasonably attracted to Dean Winchester, this is what I mean: watching him and the clean-shaven Ghostfacer pepper and ash an empty champagne bottle in a graveyard after telling me said bottle was “cursed” should have made me worry about their and my eternal soul like any other good Catholic girl, but no — I still took him to bed. 
Once we found Cami, of course.
“Cayenne pepper. Interesting.”
Dean unwedged the shotgun from propping his trunk of many wonders open before dropping it shut. “Not just for cookin’.” 
He shifted and swayed and sighed as he slid his hands into his pockets and fixed his crinkly, sparkling gaze on me with a lick of his smug smirk.
“Sam?” I asked about his gigantic younger brother, who was back at the house with the other Ghostfacer, rescuing my sister. “Does he have Camila?”
Dean’s face lit up, and his eyebrows popped. “Oh, yeah. She’s good. She’s talkin’ to the police.”
I sighed. “I’d like to go home now.”
I must’ve looked like a frightened and exhausted child at that moment because Dean’s entire demeanor softened as he reached out to pull me in for a hug. His clothes and skin felt and smelled warm, and I started to cry into his white button-up. 
“It’s a lot to take in, I know, but I gotcha, sweetheart,” he murmured, holding me close. “You’re fine, and so’s Camila.”
This. Man.
This gorgeous, brave, smells-like-you-expect/hope/pray- for-Axe-body-wash-to-smell (but it doesn’t) man, holding me like a fragile doll and calling me sweetheart is the only man I have allowed to witness a sliver of vulnerability since my dad died. So you can imagine the abject horror I felt at the increasing flip-flop from my guts and the heat pulsing even lower. 
I’ve experienced attraction, okay? I’ve had romantic and sexual partners, I self-lubricate at appropriate times. I orgasm.
But the way Dean Winchester made me feel was so alarming that I have since added that feeling to the stack of alarming things happening after Camila and I opened that bottle of wine.
He loosened his embrace but didn’t pull away completely, looking down at me with curiosity in his tender gaze. “Let’s go.”
Dean ushered me to the front passenger door, opened it, and helped me inside. We were quiet as Dean drove back to my bed and breakfast. The silence allowed my thoughts to dance until he pulled into the alley behind my house.
“They’re just wrapping up with the cops,” Harry said, sliding forward with his phone in hand.
The lights were on inside. Sam was standing in the middle of the kitchen, behind Cami, with one hand on the back of her chair. She was wrapped in a blanket, nodding her head at the men on the other side of the table, and Ed was in the corner, pocketing his phone.
It was all so clear, and I couldn’t wait to get out of the car and inside to hug my sister. 
“Whoa, gotta put the car in park, sweetheart,” Dean chuckled, doing just that.
I guess I really couldn’t wait.
And then I was sprinting to the back door.
Like I said before, Cami is fine. She’s shook, but alive and breathing and not bleeding. I’ve never felt so sick and relieved at the same time or cried so hard. That experience didn’t only bag me the sexiest, warmest, most loving man alive, but it also further strengthened Cami and my priorities for each other. 
Dean kicked the cops out, and Sam made coffee for everyone (which Dean spiked). At some point, the little Ghostfacer dudes squirreled away into guest rooms for the night, Sam and Dean lost their ties, and Cami fell asleep draped across my lap where we were huddled in the front parlor.
“Sammy’ll put her to bed,” Dean whispered, gently tugging me to my feet as Sam indeed lifted Camila in a bridal carry. “Which room you want her in?”
“The one adjoining mine, east wing at the end of the hall.”
Sam nodded, and Cami mumbled, burrowing into his massive chest. He turned and swept toward and up the stairs into the quiet darkness.
“Is it really over?” I asked the house itself as much as Dean. Thankfully, only Dean answered.
“Yeah, it’s over.”
I turned to face him, heaving a sigh. He watched me with that same inquisitive expression as the one from the graveyard, this time with his hands in pockets, sock-footed, sleeves neatly cuffed to his elbows, crisp white collar open at his throat — and he looked like he belonged there in the center of my parlor.
“Agent Black-”
“Yeah... about that...” He dropped his eyes for a beat before looking me in the eye with a renewed spark. “We’re not really federal agents.”
You might think that another surprise would send a person careening into catatonia, but not me. No. No, no, I laughed. I started laughing because it was fucking absurd — the whole thing was berserk, right? 
Cursed objects? Cayenne pepper as some kind of supernatural DEET? This remarkably handsome man existing? I was being Punk’d, right? Is that show still running? What is Ashton Kutcher doing these days anyway?
The answer to me being Punk’d is no. You might want to Google Ashton Kutcher because I still don’t know what he’s doing these days. 
Do I sometimes still stop feeding my chickens to look up at the clear blue sky and pinch myself in case this is all a dream?
The answer to that is yes.
“My name’s Dean Winchester. Sam’s my brother. We've been hunting ghosts and demons and-”
“Demons?!”
The good Catholic girl inside me stammered over that, and Dean nodded slowly, blinking even more slowly as he took a step and reached for me.
“I’ll tell ya everything,” he said with a tired smile and an easy clasp of my hand. “D’you mind if we get a few hours’ sleep first?”
I didn’t mind.
I led him upstairs. We peeked in on Cami, where Sam was watching over her, stretched out on the chaise in that room. They were both fast asleep. 
Dean followed me to my room, and I didn’t think twice about stripping myself bare as I made my way to my ensuite. Before I could conjure any pesky stranger-danger excuses, his hands were on me under the hot spray of water.
The next day, Cami dumped her boyfriend. I have a feeling she’d have done it even if the deadbeat had been assed to make the trip south during her 36-hour absence, but his ineptitude made it easy.
Turns out, the brothers Winchester are more than okay with Cami and my connection. Turns out, they’re more than familiar with that kind of connection too.
Dean molds himself to my back, pressing kisses to the side of my neck and the parts of my shoulder that are bared by my tank top. 
“Almost done? Sammy’s makin’ breakfast.”
I hum, letting him swallow me up. “Shower first?”
Ever since that very first night, Dean and I have showered together just in case the water’s cursed, and if it isn’t? Conservation. Right?
Plus, we really like giving each other orgasms.
Five minutes later...
“God damn, I love your mouth,” I sigh as water sluices over my shoulders and spirals my arms before filtering into his hair, where he’s burying his face between my thighs.
Dean’s let his hair grow lately, giving me a lot more to grab onto, not that he needs direction. (He has a beard, too, which wouldn’t normally be my thing at all, but because I know what’s under there, I’m good with it.)
He hums and licks and moans and sucks. The pressure’s always just right — never too much or not enough. I’ve never had anyone down there who knew as much about eating pussy as Dean Winchester. He’s good with his hands, his dick, and toys, too, but man, he loves giving head and is a mother fucking pro at it.
“Dean,” I gasp and flail, nearly busting through the shower curtain and toppling over the end of the claw-foot tub to my death.
Dean lunges up and hooks an arm around my hips, gathering me closer, and I explode.
“Mmm, such a good girl, Gabriela.” He licks his lips as he drags me into the tub with him. Water beats down on his back as he notches his hips in the place his face just vacated. 
I toss one calf over the back of the tub and watch Dean grip his hard dick to slip and slide along my slit. 
“Don’t tease me, Dean. Get inside.” I thrust my hips and reach for him. 
He cocks a brow, lifting my other knee to drape over the other side of the tub, punching the curtain, and slopping water onto the floor. “Honey, I ain’t teasin’; I’m goin’ easy on ya.”
“Pfft!” Now I’m panting like a dog with my ass suspended three inches above the base of the tub. “Who asked you to take it easy on me? I sure didn’t.”
Dean smirks, wrapping one big hand around one hip and steadily guiding himself inside. 
“Fuck.” I drop my head to the porcelain under me and clamp my hands around the edges of the vintage bath to take what he gives.
Every time.
Every time, he feels so perfectly hardhotsmooth, so thick, so heavy. 
And I can’t not stare because he is perfectly beautiful.
“You’re so beautiful, Gabi,” he whispers as he slides his other hand around my other hip and grinds into me.
“Uhhh!”
We both groan, and my back arches all by itself.
He tells me I’m beautiful, and sometimes it feels like a lie — not because I think he’s dishonest but because Dean Winchester is the most beautiful man I’ve ever known.
He drags out slow, and thrusts back in hard and hot, swearing before biting his lip. 
“Fuckin’ perfect,” he mutters, tossing his head back into the fall of water before looking back down at me as he blinks water out of his eyes. Then he smiles wide and bright, almost like he’s laughing. “Hold on tight.”
I never take Dean’s warnings lightly.
He sets a hard rhythm, grunting with each thrust, and I echo.
“You look so good, baby — fuck me so good.” 
Dean’s a tough guy and everything, but he loves praise. I give him pet names and tell him how smart and strong he is. I am always sure to thank him for every little thing he does to help me. And he goes fucking crazy when I praise him for fucking me right.
“Give it to me,” I breathe, clenching around him. “I love your dick... so hard and thick — please, Dean.”
I can’t pretend with him, either. No praise I ever give him is lip service. I really do love his dick.
He pitches forward, bracing his hands on the edge above my head, stretched over me like a telephone wire, and that fucking shift-
“Hooofuck, I- ahh!” 
Dean arches and grinds up against my g-spot, pinning me in place until I burst.
“Yesyesyes!” Dean beats a hand against the side of the tub in time with my pulses and throbs around him. “Fuck, honey, yes.”
And then five minutes after that...
“All I’m saying is, if you want some alone time,” Sam actually uses air quotes. “Just say so, and we won’t wait. At the kitchen table. Directly beneath your bathroom.”
Dean rolls his eyes, and Cami and I stifle corresponding giggles.
“It’s not like I personally came down here and burned the toast,” Dean pretends to make sense as he folds a piece of bacon into his mouth. “Bacon’s good.”
He looks to me for agreement, and I nod. 
“It is good bacon!” Then I look at Sam. “We’ll be quieter next time.”
Cami guffaws. “No, you won’t!”
I playfully backhand her and shrug. “Probably not, but the bacon’s still good, and I love you guys.”
Sam snorts and shakes his head. “Yeah, OK, I love you, too, Gab.”
“Hey, don’t be gettin’ my girl mixed up with yours.” Dean mumbles around a mouth full of food as he stabs into his pile of fried potatoes.
I peek over at Camila and catch her looking at me. A memory flashes in my mind of pink bubbly and shivering myself to sleep and that awful fear that my sister was gone forever. Then, Camila blinks, and I’m filled with the warmth of knowing she would return to me and that we would both live happily ever after with the perfectly imperfect Winchester brothers from Lawrence, Kansas.
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echo-goes-mmm · 7 months
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Ambrose and Elliot #10
Masterpost
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Warnings: implied past non-con with multiple abusers
They left Hearthwood Inn after the dishes were washed. Mas- Ambrose locked the doors and led him into town. He’d had to borrow an old pair of Ambrose's shoes. They were too big, and he only just managed to keep up with Ambrose’s long stride.
Hearthwood was on the main road, but set aside from most of the village. The inn was the first building Elliot had come to, and he’d only seen the rest of it from the windows. 
There was an old weathered sign someone had freshly painted: ‘Little Wood’ in neat black letters. Under that read ‘welcome’ but it was faded. Maybe they’d do it later.
The street was cobblestone and there were smooth grooves where lots of people had walked for years and years. Not many people were out at the shops, but the few Elliot had seen waved at Ambrose while they passed. The strangers looked at him a little too long for comfort, and he pressed himself closer to Ambrose. He was his master now and he’d keep Elliot to himself. Hopefully. 
His old master shared him with his friends, but never outsiders. Ambrose didn’t seem to have friends like that.
Ambrose took him to a shop larger than most of the ones Elliot had glanced at. A little brass bell rang when they went in.
The walls were lined with shelves overflowing with fabrics of all colors. He couldn’t tell immediately how it was organized, and his stomach began to turn. His eyes wandered around the room. There was a stack of furs in one corner and jars of pigments sat on the floor near another basket of rough cotton. There was a trio of mirrors in the middle of the room, the left and right slightly tilted towards the center.
“Katie, are you here?” called Ambrose.
“I’m in the back! Hold on!” came a muffled voice. Ambrose sighed, and he heard some thuds and distant shuffling. Eventually the woman, who must be Katie, came into view. Her hair was in a messy bun. A long measuring tape was draped over her shoulders, and eyeglasses hung from a chain around her neck.
“Good morning, Ambrose! Good morning, person-I’ve-never-seen-before!” she said, her voice bright. Elliot moved slightly behind Ambrose. “What brings you into today?”
“Morning, Katie. I need a fall and winter wardrobe for Elliot. A few items to deal with the lingering heat, too.” explained Ambrose. “I’ll pay for expediency, too.”
Katie’s gaze zeroed in on Elliot in a second, and his heart began to pound. 
“Hi, Elliot! It’s sooo nice to meet you! Do you know your measurements?”
Elliot shook his head. 
Kaite clapped her hands. “Perfect! I love measuring new people,” she sighed, dreamy. “This way, please!” She gestured towards the mirrors.
Ambrose squeezed Elliot’s hand once, and it did help a little. Ambrose went with him, snagging a stool to watch Katie.
She guided him to stand just right, and plucked off her measuring tape.
“Have you ever done this before?”
“No, ma’am.” 
“Okay, so, I’m gonna touch this tape to you, like, a lot. I’ll write everything down and then we’ll start talking colors, style, fabric, allll that. All you gotta do is stand like usual and stay still. Mkay?” Katie’s voice was still bright, but thankfully not as loud.
“Um,” he glanced over at Ambrose, who nodded his approval. “Okay.”
Katie was fast, and Elliot could barely keep track of her position. She moved him around a couple times, like adjusting his arms to check a something-or-other, but she was pretty much keeping the tape between him and her fingers. She kept her pen in between her teeth and wrote like lightning in her little notebook. 
She ran into trouble a couple times. He was wearing the clothes Ambrose had given him, and she had to work around the extra fabric. Thankfully she didn’t seem to mind, and let him keep them on.
“So you want a full wardrobe for fall and winter, right?” Katie asked him.
“Yes, please,” said Ambrose from the corner.
“Great, so are you a skirt fan or pants only? I’ve got some great patterns for fall skirts but you’d need, like, stockings or something if you want winter ones too.”
Elliot hadn’t thought of that. He’d never worn a skirt or dress before. He liked the way skirts looked on other people, but the idea of easy access made his gut clench. 
“Um. No thank you, ma’am.” 
“No worries! I always ask, ‘cause you never know, but just pants are fine. So I’m thinking, like, a couple pairs of looser pants around the leg and a few more form fitting so you can wear two layers in the winter and single in the fall. And only a few shorts, I can always make more when spring rolls around. A variety of short and long sleeve shirts, obviously, and do you want any formalwear?” Gods she talked fast, too.
“Uh-”
“Maybe some other time, Katie.” interrupted Ambrose, to Elliot’s relief.
“Great, so like, do you need socks and underwear?” Elliot nodded, flushed, and Katie jotted it down.
“I’ll get you a wool coat too, and some scarves. Gloves or mittens?” Elliot shrugged. 
“Both then. I’ll get you larger mittens so you can tuck gloves into them, and you’re really thin, like, all over, so like are you planning on that changing ‘cause I can totally make your clothes a size larger and hem them so you don't have to buy new ones, I can just let them out, okay?” she said, all in one breath, and Elliot’s head began to spin trying to understand. It was so much.
“That would be wonderful, Katie.” said Ambrose. 
“Great. Thoughts on color? Style? I have some ideas, but I thiiink you’d look great in-” she went on, but Elliot couldn’t keep up.
Katie looked at him, expectantly, and Elliot gulped. Ambrose didn’t save him this time.
“Maybe, uh, simple things? M’sorry I don’t- I don’t know.”
“That’s fine actually, I’m good but not, like, fashionista good, so I can get this all to you, like, really fast 'cause it's simple. Favorite color?”
“Green?”
“Perfect. I’ll do, like, cotton and wool if that’s good, or do you want silks and linens and stuff too, cause Mr. Fancy-pants over there loves the good good stuff, ya know? He practically gave me this shop with all the gold he spent when I started out-”
“Katie, please,” Ambrose rolled his eyes, smiling. “We have a lot of errands today.”
“Yeah, yeah, gotcha. Cotton and wool will be faster anyway. No shipping involved. Okay, I’m finished. I’ve already got some stuff made for the season, so I’ll alter things and send that over first.”
Katie stepped away, and she began to discuss prices with Ambrose. Elliot waited by the door to calm himself. How did one person have so much energy? 
“Alright,” said Ambrose, rejoining him. “Let’s get you some proper shoes.”
taglist: @cupcakes-and-pain @secretwhumplair @paintedpigeon1 @whump-blog @whump-em @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight
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horseyneigh2002 · 28 days
Text
A Divine, Defiant Community
Basically, Doomguy marries a borrower and starts a community in the sky.
Summary: It’s been a month since the Earth has been saved. The battle has been won. The crew of the Fortress had time to rest and relax, but the war against the forces of Hell continues to wage on.
There are still planets worth of people to save.
Samuel Hayden has his plans that he must put in motion, and he must bring the Slayer back into the fray no matter what it takes.
[Ao3 Link]
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Chapter 3: A Cup of Tea and Willing Ear
Summary: Valen is worried about his King. And he finds an unexpected well of information in Warren. 
This chapter, uh, ran away from me. 
Content Warnings: Mentions of death and violence and apocalyptic conditions, and that’s pretty much it. 
Word Count: 2.5K
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The modifications that the Slayer had made to the fortress were equally impressive and concerning. First, the Slayer dragged him around the barracks hall and let him pick a room for himself. He even let Valen get his choice of more private quarters if he wanted one. Valen picked a normal soldier’s barracks, not seeing himself worthy of private quarters. 
Then, he was dragged into the armory. The Slayer’s praetor armor and undersuit hung up on the wall, cleaned and mended. Next to it was Valen’s armor and undersuit, also cleaned and mended slightly. Sentinel gear, spears, swords, shields, and a single crossbow hung on racks on the walls. Near the untouched gear was a single set of Night Sentinel armor, a very old design, in a display case. 
In addition, there was a lot of ammunition for the Slayer’s weapons in boxes on shelves. Surplus ammunition, the Slayer had signed at him. Surprisingly there had been none of the Slayer’s weapons Valen knew he used present in the armory. 
The greenhouse had been next, and it was full of all manner of living and thriving plants. Warren had actually taken over the tour momentarily, showing off the kinds of plants he and Vega had been tending to. What was going to be ready for harvest soon. The systems that had been set up for one so miniscule to be able to perform such labor. 
Then, he was dragged down stairs, and into what had been the war room at one point. The heavily fortified room that would be used for planning and commanding had been converted into some kind of… recreation center. 
Valen was no stranger to his King’s habit for collecting strange trinkets wherever he went. He was aware that his King liked to read in sparring moments of peace, and collect toys, but this was… this was something else. 
His weapons were all jammed into a single corner of the room, just to the left of the door. A large barrel held long and thin melee weapons, and two large display boards had his weapons. Most had been cleaned, but his beloved shotgun had been put back up still bloody. The Slayer had grabbed it off the display wall and went down to what should have been the map table, but it was clearly broken, with all manner of armor and gun and maintenance pieces strewn about it and began to clean the shotgun. 
To the right of the door was a brightly colored rug over the floor, some acrylic material instead of skin or wool. A throne sat on the rug, with the Slayer’s insignia and spiked decorations across it. Another smaller chair, much more plush and brightly colored, able to fit in Valen’s palm, was perched on one of the arms. In the display shelves behind it sat rows and rows of toys. Plenty were scale models of demons, with less detail and softer shapes. There were also all manner of toys that looked like the Slayer. Several toys looked like Earth animals, some small scale versions of real objects. Some had been whittled from wood, some were scraps of metal twisted and shaped together in a complex shape. Even further down was a wooden bookshelf stuffed to the brim with what had to be Earthen books. Some were slim, some were thick, some were about real objects, most about fictional things. A whole box in the floor was nothing but those slim paper picture books that the Slayer had once found and refused to let go of. 
Valen walked further into the room. A large painting of the Slayer in his full armor holding a rabbit was hung on one wall. The little rabbit the Slayer had once confided in him had been killed by the demons. On the other wall was a display rack of instruments. The guitars that his King had once drawn an image of. One thrummed with raw argent energy, one looked like it had been carved out of hellgrowth, and one looked like it had been based off the praetor suit itself. Above it hung the horned skull of a Marauder. 
Down the few steps, Valen was greeted by a cleaning drone with a knife strapped to it, asleep in its charging port. A very destroyed looking version of the praetor suit was hung up on thick chains in a metal frame. The broken map table was covered in bits and pieces. Another table, shoved up against the thick window, had several electronics spaced across it. Some more of those little thin books scattered around, and even half eaten rations. A few wheeled chairs were down in this pit, and Slayer had seated himself in one to clean and repair his shotgun. 
It reminded him faintly of the vault on Argent D’nur. Where the Slayer hid away all sorts of strange objects and treasures. 
“My King.” Valen finally managed to speak. 
The Great Slayer looked up from his maintenance. Warren had remained in the greenhouse, so Valen would be able to talk to his King in private. At least, as private as one could in a fortress with a machine spirit in it. 
“What is our next step?”
He blinked at Valen. ‘What do you mean?’ He went back to working on his shotgun. 
“Where shall we strike at the demons next?” Valen remained standing when the Slayer motioned for him to sit. “The Hell Priests, the Khan Mayker, the Icon of Sin have fallen, but the world below still is being besieged.”
He shrugged. 
The Slayer merely shrugged his shoulders at the reminder Hell still reigned on the planet his very Fortress circled. 
Valen could not believe this. He turned on his heel and left his King to his maintenance. He was allowed to stay here only by his King’s good graces. The machine spirit would toss him back into Hell if he proved to be a threat to his King.  He would need to keep his head level for the moment. 
After wandering the halls, Valen found his way to the armory and wasted no time getting himself into his armor. 
He did not feel like himself until the very last piece of armor was on his body and secured, and Hellbreaker was secure on his back. 
Once he had been returned to his armor, Valen stood outside the doors to the armory, trying to decide what should be done. Should he leave this place before he ruins this too? Would it have been better if he had stayed in Hell and continued his penance until his death? Could he serve out his penance on the planet below? He knew nothing of the planet below. If Warren came from the planet, then no wonder the demons ravaged it so thoroughly. The populace was so miniscule in stature they stood no chance at defending themselves from the demonic hordes. 
A little whirring noise filled his ears and he lifted his head to find the little man, Warren, on the drone from earlier, floating down the corridor. 
“Hello, Valen!” Warren slowed his drone to almost no movement before Valen. “Are you and John going somewhere? What’s with the armor?” 
“I choose to wear it. As far as I am aware, the Slayer is not leaving the Fortress.” 
“Ah. Well, I finished up some chores in the greenhouse.” Warren raised the drone a little to be closer to Valen’s eye level. “Would you like some tea? John found some tea bags on his last trip to the surface, and I would enjoy a little company.” 
“Would you not rather seek company with the Slayer?”
“Maybe.” The tiny man shrugged his miniscule shoulders. “But we barely spoke during our meal, and any friend of John is a friend of mine. I have to make a full cup of tea anyway, and I would like to get to know you.”
Perhaps getting to know his King’s lover would give him insight to his King’s current mental state. Why he was acting the way that he was. What his plans might be for the future fight. 
“Very well, I will join you.” 
“Wonderful.” The little drone turned in the air and started towards the kitchen again. 
~
Warren was preparing a cup of tea while Valen assisted. Warren couldn’t help but notice Valen wasn’t sure what to do with him or what to think, considering he stood an arm’s length from the counter, watching every move Warren made, still as a wall unless Warren specifically asked him for something.
“Why do you refer to the Slayer as ‘John?’” Valen finally asked as Warren picked up the sugar packet to bring over to the cup. It was the first time he had talked without being spoken to since they had entered the kitchen. 
“It’s the name he gave me.” Warren stepped up onto the saucer and unfolded the flap of the sugar packet. He lifted it up and tipped the contents into the cup. “I know it’s not his real name. As far as I can tell, he can’t remember the name he was born with. But he told me his name was John, he responds to it, and that’s good enough for me.” He brought the empty sugar packet back to the base of the sugar container that was on the counter to be refilled later. “Why do you call him ‘My King?’”
“Because he is my King.” Valen heard the electric kettle that was boiling the water click off, and he glanced at it. “Shall I pour the water?”
“Sure. I can’t pour a kettle without a drone’s help.” 
Valen poured the boiling water into the cup and then set it back onto its base. “Do you wish for me to bring this anywhere?”
“Just to the table.” Warren waved for the drone to come over to the counter so he could move himself around.
Valen carried the cup and saucer to the table and very carefully put it onto the table top. Warren hopped onto his mobility drone and it took him to the table for him to step off. 
“So.” Warren waved the mobility drone away and sat down on the little chair at the miniature table that John kept on the table for him. There was a box of tiny clean dishware Warren eventually would need to rummage through for a cup of his own, but that could wait. The tea needed to brew and Warren needed some questions answered anyway. “John really is a king, isn’t he?”
“Yes.” 
“I assume a king from wherever you’re from… Argent something, right?” 
“Argent D’Nur.” Valen nodded gravely. “Very few outsiders have been given the chance to enter the Night Sentinels, and none have been allowed to rise to the ranks of a Warrior King. But the Slayer’s prowess in battle, and eventual blessing by the Wraiths themselves, we would have been fools to keep him as a lowly gladiator and laborer. Without the Slayer, we would have been completely overrun by the demons.”
“I understood… most of that.” Warren hummed. “John doesn’t like talking about the Night Sentinels. From what I understand, all of the ones that didn’t work with the Maykers ended up dead.” 
“That is true.” Valen’s prosthetic hand clenched. “The Slayer and I are the only ones that remain. The Slayer is the only true King of Argent D’Nur. I worry for those that remain on my homeworld, especially after the fall of the Hell Priests and the Khan Mayker.” 
Warren nodded slightly. “I’m… so sorry that that happened.” 
“It was not something you could have prevented. Generations have passed since it happened.” 
Warren tilted his head slightly, trying to ignore the continued confusion Warren would have about John’s- and now Valen’s- age. “If I’m dating a Warrior King… what does that make me? Do I get some kind of title?” 
“It depends, do you fight?”
“Oh, no.” Warren shook his head. “I am… way too tiny to be fighting. You’ve seen the size of those demons.” 
“I thought as much. Without being a warrior yourself, and being an outsider. you are nothing more than a consort in the eyes of Argent D’nur.”
“I can live with that. Being John’s boyfriend has some perks of its own.” Warren stood up and rolled his wrists a little bit. “Alright, I asked my questions, ask me whatever questions you have. I’m sure you got at least a couple.” He pulled out the crate of dishes and started looking for a mug within it. 
“The planet below. What is it called?” 
“Earth… though some people call it Terra Sol. Sol’s the name of our star, so we call all our plants something Sol.” Warren finally found the mugs and took a minute looking it over. Luckily it hadn’t been chipped during its last wash. “Earth usually has humans as their dominant species, but I think the demons have taken that spot for now.”
“So you are a human?”
Warren snorted and stood up with his mug. “Nope. I am part of a species with many names. Vega calls us Borrowers.” He bowed deeply and then approached the tea cup with his own mug. “But we’ve been called all kinds of things. Little Bits, Tinies, Smallfolk, Pixies, and, uh, well a bunch of stuff but they tend to be calling us just nasty things or another animal that people don’t like.” 
“Ah…” Valen was silent as Warren stepped up onto the saucer and then dipped his mug into the teacup before retreating to his little table. “So what might a human look like?”
Warren thought for a moment. How to describe a human to someone who looked basically just like a human without saying that? Especially from his perspective.  
“Well… humans look an awful lot like you and John. They just tend to be a little bit shorter, and typically less muscular and scarred.” Warren shrugged his shoulders. “Or a really big borrower.” 
“Hmn.” Valen nodded to himself. He hesitated for a moment before asking another question. “How did you meet the Slayer?” 
“He found me while he was killing demons down on the surface.” Warren blew slightly on his mug and took a sip of tea. “I thought he was going to kill me too, but you know. I’m obviously not a demon, so he kidnapped me instead.” 
Valen nodded again. “That is much like him. On Argent D’Nur he found himself drawn to the smaller creatures of my home planet. It would make sense if he were to find a small creature like himself, he would become romantically entangled with one.” 
“He’s all mine, and I don’t like sharing.” Warren really hoped the teasing tone of his voice came through. “You should probably take the tea bag out and drink that before it gets over brewed.” 
“Mn.” Valen removed the tea bag and set it on the saucer. He carefully cradled the teacup between his hands. “Thank you, Warren. You have given me… very interesting information.”
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aithilin · 20 days
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hello!! :) If you're taking suggestions from the march prompts, then how about fairies?
March Prompts are Here!
I'm always taking prompts!
--
"It's for a show!" The defence always came out too sudden, too insistent. Too undermined by the grin that Mollymauk could not, for the life of him, actually wipe off when it came to getting caught like this; makeups and paints spread across the rickety and half rotted table that served as a vanity for the cramped room. "I swear."
Caleb paused in the doorway, hand still on the knob, book in the other with finger pressed between the soft pages to keep whatever place he had been working from. If he looked hard enough, Mollymauk could see that perfect memory and quick mind trying to work out what he meant by the excuse. He could also see the moment Caleb gave up and just opted to ask; "Show?"
"In my defence of that terrible excuse," Mollymauk turned back to the surprisingly difficult task of trying to apply even makeup with just a polished spoon he picked up somewhere for a mirror; "life if a show, pet. In or out, magic man? In or out?"
There was a heartbeat, two, three, and the old floor creaked before Mollymauk heard the true shift of weight and the door pushed back into place.
"Gustav used to think up fairy stories for everyone to play. Got most of this makeup talent from those."
"Ah," Caleb managed before he started to dig through a bag. "There were stories when I was little about..."
"About?" That hesitation that came up again and again. Even when he had relaxed into their presence, their group, Caleb still hesitated; "Don't keep me waiting, Mr. Caleb. I need to breathe some time."
"About fooling the fairies. The ones who slipped through the woods with hags and the like." Something about that tickled the back of his mind. Woods, deep and dark, with broken boughs and little flowers that shattered in the light of day like a cloud of dust from the fey realms. A hag in an old hut that smelled of rot and leather. Boiled leather. Made to stretch over-- and the touch of that dark was gone as Caleb reached for the thin brush borrowed from Jester in his hand. "You pick an animal to disguise yourself, Mr. Mollymauk. I think this is for the festival the town is still intent on putting on?" "Oh, of course. I'm not passing up an excuse to dress up and have a good time." Surprisingly strong hands were on his chin and for a moment, Caleb looked over his work with a critical eye that seemed far more determined than Mollymauk was used to. "Care to guess?"
"Peacock. May I?"
"You're the perfectionist. Going to hide me from errant fairies who want to whisk me off to the worlds beyond?"
The brush was dipped in the gold Molly had been working with, and he bit back the grin that threatened to ruin the lines Caleb would need to make.
"Only I can whisk you away, circus man."
"Be still my heart."
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bari-the-witch · 1 year
Text
Steddie Fic rec PART I
Some of my personal favorites I could read over and over again. You can all find them on AO3:
The shire is NOT on fire by kissesforcas (50k+ words, Rating E)
The kids convince Steve to take them all to a Renaissance Faire and LARP event. Steve has more fun than he admits. And then Steve has a LOT more fun than he admits.
Comment: One of the first Steddie fics I read, love it!
Wouldn't it be nice (if we could wake up) by kissesfarcas (100k+ words, Rating E)
Steve finds his pulse. He carries Eddie out of the Upside Down, he keeps his heart beating until they get to the hospital. And then the government intervenes, that shady part of the government? With Sullivan? And he and Eddie wind up locked up, together, in a cell. There's one bed, and glass walls, and it turns out that he and Eddie? Might need each other more than either of them thought they might.
Comment: It's Kas Eddie, what more can I say?
this is what fallin in love feels like by plutoelegies (50k+ words, Rating M)
“For the sleeping thing- I get it. I really do. So you’re gonna get in my car and you’re gonna sleep in my guest room until you look more like a person and less like a Night of the Living Dead character.” Steve said, a tone of finality in his voice.
“Steve, man, I couldn’t ask you to do that.” Eddie said.
“Good thing you’re not asking. This is what we do, we take care of each other. Because if we don’t, nobody else will.” Steve said.
Or: Eddie has nightmares, Steve has a sexuality crisis, and while they’re busy co-parenting some freshman kids, their unlikely friendship begins to turn into something more.
Comment: Season 4 Fix-it with nightmares and a good old-fashioned sexuality crisis
The Adventures of Eddie Munson, Cheerleader by bookworm1805 (20k+, Rating E)
The moment the basketball players walked into the gym, all hell broke loose. 
Curses were spat. Teenagers whispered in scandalized tones as their nikes squeaked over the polished wood floor. Prayers were chanted. Somewhere across town, a baby probably cried.
Eddie Munson grinned. 
or
Eddie borrows Chrissy Cunningham’s spare cheerleading uniform as a prank. The ensuing chaos tips his entire world on its head, for the better.
Comment: This is so funny (and hot!)
Steve Harrington's Guide to Planning a Party (Without Blowing Up) by Anonymous (80k+ words, Rating T)
In a way, Steve was kind of grateful for the swift intervention. He knew now, after all, that most people in the world didn't have the ability to pick out people's emotions, and in a town like Hawkins he wouldn't have lasted long if he commented on every feeling he encountered. It was the reason why despite everything, he had turned out normal, despite all of life's attempts to turn him into something other than a popular somewhat dim-witted jock.
Comment: I'm a sucker for Steve has Powers! It's so so good and well-written.
Must Have/Can't Stand Checklist by deludez3 (60k+ words, Rating E)
Steve decides to move to Chicago for a fresh start after everything is settled with Vecna. Three years later, he returns to Hawkins for the kids’ graduation and rekindles some feelings he discovered years earlier for Eddie.
When Eddie offers his apartment for Steve to crash at to stay longer in Hawkins, Steve can’t say no. Sure he was supposed to drive home on Sunday, and sure he was supposed to work that week, but how could he say no to those chocolate button eyes?
Comment: Eddie and Steve become temporary roomates - hot shenanigans ensue.
someone else's favorite song by fastcardotmp3 (100k+ words, Rating E)
“Not sick, not sick,” he slurs, and Eddie wants to see his face, wants to hold it in his hands, wants to look him in the eye when he says, “just sad. Sad. Fuck… fuck, sad.”
“Why are you sad, big guy?” Eddie asks.
Steve laughs again, but it’s sharper this time, it doesn’t last as long, because as soon as the words slip out of his mouth— “My mom’s dead—”
—it walks that treacherous line between the two sounds and morphs straight to a broken sort of sobbing that reaches directly into Eddie’s chest and drags out his heart.
- A friends-with-benefits relationship goes complicated when who Steve and Eddie are to one another shifts with the coming of a new sort of tragedy.
Comment: This is the best piece of Steddie fanfic I've read out there, I swear. MUST READ
Sanctuary by SpicedSage (40k+ words, Rating E)
After Steve Harrington goes missing, Eddie Munson gets exposed to the secret dangers of Hawkins, Indiana in 1985 instead of 1986.
Will a different first meeting lead to a change in his fate?
Comment: Eddie helps Steve after he got captured by the Russians post Season 3, the characterization is so so good in this one.
More will follow :)
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katy-l-wood · 2 years
Text
So, @bixbythemartian asked for some more new country recs that aren't R*publican Country, but the other post was getting rather long. SO. Here's some other newer country/bluegrass/indie stuff I quite enjoy:
Lily Rose. A very new artist and she's also queer!
youtube
Ballad of a Young Troubadour by Julian Taylor. His voice delights me so much.
youtube
Oh, Mama by Aoife O'Donovan
youtube
Delta Rae. Another one of those bands that has some stuff that's more country than others. They've got a mix of original and cover songs.
youtube
Borrowed Rooms and Old Wood Floors by Emily Scott Robinson. This one gives me. Feelings. Have never quite decided if they're good or bad. A+ song. She's got other great stuff as well.
youtube
Yours to Bear by HoneyHoney.
youtube
Honestly, I could go on for hours. My Spotify playlist with this sort of music is 29 hours long. Here's a link to the whole thing if you want it, and I'm always adding to it: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4zixhXhIf1PATvNN5zCAcK?si=acc9ca48d535473d
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