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muffindaddystyles · 3 years

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DENTIST THE BAD BOI

Word count: 7k

A/N: Heavily inspired from 90's rom-coms, so if your heart swoons out of loneliness it's not on me sistas -- doctor Harry my fav.

Summary: Harry's a med-student and Y/N's an art student, being neighbours with Y/N was already a living hell for Harry but when she fusses over his cat getting her cat pregnant -- he mighty looses it.

Pairing: Dentist Harry × Artist reader, Frenemies to bestfriends to lovers, platonic affection and loads of bestie fluff.

MASTERLIST, REQUEST FOR BLURBS FROM THIS FIC ARE OPEN || PART 2

“Harryyyyy!!!!” Y/N screamed at the top of her lungs staring at the small picture of ultrasound, blinking at it several times to vision herself back into reality because the more she does the more she becomes grumpy and fussy – cursing the beast of a neighbour who got her little innocent cat pregnant.

She pulled the strings of her pyjama shorts to tighten it around her and hastily towed her feet into fuzzy slippers, giving a stink of an eye to her cat “don't act so surprised you little ragamuffin!” She mouthed at her with venom (as if trippers her cat cares), stomping her way out and writes a whole book of judgements in her rattling brain upon hearing the loud music weeping through walls.

She knocks. Huffs when it goes unnoticed and this time pounds at the door, crossing her forearms infront of her chest. Not unaware and very accustomed; of happy chatter whirling around whenever she’s trying to focus how a certain recipe goes by, his mates chanting his name from outside when he’s too occupied in whatever he's sorting out inside for their arrival, clanking of beer bottles knowing they and her have a long time to go, the music dimming in the wee of night as the door closes after every fifteen minutes and it dawns at that time –-- she always get left with one option and that’s to curse him till she sleeps.

It’s every Friday and Saturday’s story.

“Max stop that before Ni asks fo’ a dummy —-,” His neck's craned to where his friends are sitting on one of the cosy spots. His jaw popping, dimples chasmic from the smirk he’s holding and Y/N gulps then arches her brow when his attention drops down at her, “Oh .... hi, could help ya?” His cocky grin irks her – bubbling a fire in her pit and an urge to twinge his ear and drag him to her apartment, to show him what he did.

“Could you help me!?” She laughs ironically, chases her frowning gaze from the ripped patches of his jeans towards where his curls are brushing his earlobes and it kind of makes her gasp which she traps in fortunately because – he’s always wearing a hoodie, beanie or his hair up in a little fountain like bun rushing through the lobby with his thick books and laptop clutched in his arms, “Yes please .. y’could help me by transferring expenses of your cat's babies every month to me —-...um could simply have them in your apartment too if the first deal’s too bad.” She shrugs. Taking a glimpse from his shoulder of his friends bunched over eachother and he toys with his bottom wet lip, brows stringing into confusion and his bicep flexes making her flutter her eyes away as he grips the knob of the door and closes it behind him.

“What d'ya mean?”

“You’re doing it on purpose right? ‘cos there’s no way —--” He cuts her groans with a snap and runs a palm down his face, “I seriously don’t know what you’re talkin' ‘bout, Y/N.” His lips tinned into a flat line, his posture now resembling her's and she slaps her forehead with the heel of her palm.

“Then you should keep tabs of your beasty minx of a cat who got my cat pregnant!” She exclaims disbelievingly to which his eyes turns saucer and he throws his sinewy arms in between them, mimics her expressions comically, “Is that my fault? Did I get your cat prego?” She blinks up at him rapidly --- he’s such a nerve puller.

“Yes it is! You didn’t get your cat desexed —-,” She stuffs her pointer against his chest and twist it with a grit, “Now he’ll have babies left and right – like a catwhore he is!!” She aerials her hands in different directions rapidly and he takes a step closer kissing his teeth together to seethe his words.

“He’s not a catwhore!”

“Kay then take the responsibility of what he did.” She mutters tapping her foot onto the carpeted floor and guppies at him like a fish when he bursts into taunting cackles, leaning to catch the door-frame before he mushes her under his weight. ”

“Ye -‐..- you’re —- you aren’t serious are ya?” His rosy eyelids snib tightly forming crinkles to where his temples meet his cheeks and she almost pouts, how much she doesn’t want to she could never cascade her expressions.

“Oh my — .... Bambi eyed wouldn’t I’ave had free him of his ball’s heaviness –-- if I’d ‘ave enough money down me pocket?” He scrunches his nose to take a breather from laughing hard.

“Don’t call me that!” She bites at him.

“You’re cute when you’re angry.” He smirks gingerly – drums his fingers against his folded bicep and presses his back to the wall tipping his chin high.

Her blush eager to creep up her neck embarrasses her further more and she hides the softness in her voice, muttering gruffly, “Shut up.” Then turns to walk back into her apartment and to slam the door at his face -- but -- his whistle for her halts her in tracks.

“Hey – Bambi, we could sign the custody of kitties if that what ye'want.”

Three weeks after. There was another knock on Harry’s door, Niall's head perks up and bangs against the bookshelf –- he was trying to keep the furry cat in his lap, for a good warmer but its more enamoured with the ‘clucks' of his daddy’s boots than the soft flesh of Niall’s thigh as Harry chucks his wallet in the back-pocket of his jeans (he was about to go outside and bring some food) and opens the door slightly to see through the trapping chain, “who’s it?”

“Harry ‘s me ....” The voice mousey and worried. Niall recognizes it in a hot-second, frowns and tries to gain snowy’s attention, “What did y'do again? Did ya get the pretty neighbour's cat prego twice, you fat farts.” He chuckles when snowy meows at him innocently and Harry's brows skews together into a scowl.

“Call him fat farts another time —- I dare you —--,” He howls. Throwing angry upset glares towards Niall – their bickering gets interrupted when Y/N slips her hand from the crack of door, pinches Harry’s knuckles and he squeaks, “Ow —- what the fuck!”

“Harry.” Her tone threatening.

Harry puffs out a huge sigh and reveals himself infront of her, he's not in mood to fight with her over their cats, or the parcel Harry forgot to give her which got delivered to him on accident like one of the thousand times (he never found anything freakish until now .. not that he goes through what’s inside, but the labels tell they’re mostly her art supplies), or why he’s been showering for an hour because she now isn’t left with any warm water —- because he just came back from UNI and is dust bones from having two exams in a row.

“Y/N —-,” His face reeks with exhaustion. His curls drowsy, escaping from his knit beanie and his eyes glazed with sea-foam. She kinda feels bad for disturbing him -- but – it’s an emergency and she doesn’t know where to go, except him.

His weary vision falls upon trippers tucked beneath Y/N’s arm, “Is she alright?” He scratches behind her ear and trippers gives out a pained yowl.

“No –-.. that’s why ‘m here. She’s spotting blood everywhere and –-- and I don’t have enough money ...,” She’s embarrassed to say least. Not meeting Harry’s eyes and he gazes her sincerely –- belly doing weirdly funny somersaults. He clears his throat, grogs out gathering all the information in his head from the anatomy of humans and animals he studied till now.

“It’s okay for spotting in pregnancies – but ‐-.. she looks very much in pain s' we shouldn’t risk it. I’ve a friend. She’s practicing vet -- we could take her there.” He offers. Rubbing the back of his neck and Y/N bobs her head vigorously, anything to save her trippers baby.

“Fine –-- yeah, Iemme just wear my shoes ... then we're good to go.” She mumbles. Harry hasn’t seen her demeanour flatter like this ever before, whenever she’s banging and barging through his flat it’s always taut and cold banter.

He has never seen her this defenceless.

He drops his gaze down at her feet and finds that she’s wearing cute pizza slices socksies.

“Is this a clinic, or weed doing zone for animals?” She didn’t try to be mean. It just happened as she takes in the wearbouts of garage, stuffed with drums and musical instruments, spray paint on walls. Harry seems unfazed though, he could be shabbier than her if he wants to –- much fouler that could make her cry.

“Told you. She’s practicing not a vet yet.” She doesn’t question him further. Grateful enough for his help. She might not admit but he isn’t that bad of guy as she once imagined him in her head.

Y/N stifles a snort when a girl with mullet shag, having a stud in her brow and the corner of her lip, attired in all black greets Harry with a hip-check, “Vas’up booger.” She grins and Harry grumbles ruffling her hair with his knuckles.

It leaves Y/N in awe. This’s what group of friends look like -- so fun and annoying, she wanted to have this since when she’s small. Sadly, it’s just her and trippers in her friend group.

“Hi there!” She waves to Y/N trying to battle Harry’s tickles away. Takes trippers from Y/N's arms and coos up at her, “hiyaa baby .. oh, she’s having lil buns inside her.” She laughs and Y/N already likes her so much. As if, she’s the main character of any vintage styled movie.

“Rori here.” She introduces herself as Harry strolls inside her kitchen to rummage through her fridge, “Y/N.” Y/N smiles –-- eyeing Harry who’s whistling and tearing the crate of orange juice open.

When Trippers purrs from a cramp, Rori snuggles her closer to herself – “Her spotting is nothing to worry about –-- maybe she’s ready to give birth. If not I’ll take her to my hospital.”

“So Harry said...” Y/N nods.

“Oohh.” Rori exclaims, wiggling her brows curiously at Harry who’s gulping down juice hungrily, “Booger got normal friends too? Thought, those were all white lies.” He almost chokes at it – downing it cautiously and blinks vividly.

“No. Just neighbours.” Yeah, there’s nothing friendly between them –-- but how it’d be like to befriend Harry. The thought makes Y/N feel snoozy and warm.

“I see.”

“Okay then! ‘m gonna keep Trippers with me for two days –-- figure out what I could do to help her and if she heals I’ll drop her by, how that sounds?”

“Sounds good!” Both, Harry and Y/N chimes together heating their cheeks up. Harry wavers his gaze away, sulking a pouty mouth and turns all stoic again.

He doesn’t want to like, Y/N. Nope. Not at all. In any case.

She’s his bedevilling, bothersome and galling neighbour who just screams at him too much for his likening.

“Would you like something to eat?” She asks him while walking back home and he shakes his head, so she nudges him in ribs, “oh c'mon let it be a thank you, grumpy pants.”

“’M not –-,” He was about to snap at her. Instead, he groped her wrist tightly and tugged her to his side –-- she squeals into his chest as a car passes by them swiftly, honking at them in anger.

Her hair wisps from the friction of Harry’s hoodie as she pushes herself away from him, surprisingly he smells incredibly sweet – that of vanilla and citrus musk, something very cosy and like a morning breeze.

A jolt buzzes through her spine at the fact she was about to get crushed under a vehicle but she grins up at him awkwardly, “Tofu then?” His peepers widen in shock and he slaps his forehead.

“You’re mad, know that.”

Harry and Y/N. Sky and earth . She sprouts buds of irises and peonies when she speaks, her touch that shines away even an intimidating person as if they're mimosa plants, those eyes --- those eyes are itself sepia of grounds on which the tiny creatures celebrates by and Harry's well ... he’s the floss of clouds hidden behind sunshine, his rains would turn her into loam and his uppish thunder would make her loathe him.

Then some gods decided to break the needles and fix it in some other clock that rotates anti-clock wise.

Now, when she’s unable to nourish her flowers he's always there to rain and stroke a tender breeze against her that makes her lush grass snuggle the roots of who she’s.

They were enemies once. Opposite to eachother in many ways but couldn’t live without eachother despite of their distances. Just like sky's a hollow sheet of nothingness without it’s dear earth.

What blossomed their friendship was Y/N's date with this cute boy that is in her ceramic class, (not a date if you’d ask so –-- more like a meetup at this coffee house near her UNI).

Turns out he isn’t that cute. His blunt hands wandered up Y/N’s thigh without her consent and before she could know that, he was groping at it –-- making her gasp and hit her knee against the table. She struggles to writhe out of the chair but he stitches his nails in her skin, “I’m not liking it – you better stop.” She hisses, palms sweaty and slipping trying to remove his grip from around her.

“Don’t act all stupid .. you were hitting at me for hours, you want it but wouldn’t admit.” He groans, rolling his eyes and she feels like crying –-- teeth clanking letting out a shuddering breath.

“I’ll scream.” She warns him.

“You’re not that innocent, you act like.” He smirks, sliding his hand down her insides and before he could reach further Y/N sneaked a fork from the table and stabbed it in his knuckles.

“Fuck.” He shrieks, “Bitch.” He almost screams but stops when everyone stares at him as Y/N’s chair fell against the floor and she stumbles inside the bathroom.

Locking it behind her. Her chest burns with tears. Her vision spins and her fingers shakes as she dials one number she could reach for anytime, it rings then goes to voicemail so her bitten lip wobbles and eyes turn glossy.

She again dials it. There’re noises behind, that of someone instructing and Harry was in his lecture hall when she called .. his heart drops because all he could hear is quivering breath ... it shudders to tight painful gasps and he’s collecting his stuff leaving his seat immediately the doctor who's teaching them Apiceoctomy stares Harry while speaking.

Once he’s out in hallway, “Hey? Y/n are y’there? You okay? What happened?” She bolt her eyes close pressing her head to cold tiled wall and yawps outta fear when someone pounds at the door. Harry runs towards the exist, “Y/N where are you!? ‘m coming .. whatever it’s just --.. just ...” He gripes at his curls pushing them back – his heart beating loud, “ – just stay where you’re ‘n don’t panic .. yeah? It’s okay.” He mutters. Voice soft and assuring.

Her breathing patterns back to calmness – something about him so consoling, so warm and she nods. After some minutes she’s telling him the address and gladly it’s not that far away from Harry.

When he reaches. There are several people waiting at the bathrooms door and he’s knocking on it lightly, pressing his ear to it and grabs the knob (in case he’d have to break it).

When there’s no-response from inside he gets it something’s peculiar, “Bambi. ‘s me Harry.” It clicks and unlocks and he’s tumbling inside while the others groans and disperses knowing it’s invain waiting.

He’s dishevelled. His curls in moppy condition and his eyes full of concern and worry –-- she feels awful for doing this to him.

“Were you crying? Did somethin' happen?” He frowns. Ducking a bit to meet her gaze level and she clears the clump in her throat, “Can we just leave .. please?�� He couldn’t believe it’s her voice – the bubbliness and chirpiness of it died to frightened meekness.

Harry takes her hand and walks them outside, Y/N sucks in squeak when the same guy rushes to confront them and when Harry sees his injured hand -- everything pieces together and fury spikes through his veins.

His brows pinches together into a frown, his lips lifting into a scowl and his eyes darkens pitch coal like.

He grips her dainty fingers and moves her behind him protectively and his chest buffs out as he takes a step forward towering the guy – “What d'ya want?” He kisses his teeth together to grit vehemence and that guy lift his trembling hand infront of Harry.

“Look what this bitch —-,” Ah –-- he really pushed Harry’s bad button didn’t he?

Harry grabs him from collar and Y/N squeals rubbing his wrist to pull him back, no-use.

“Badmouth her or anyone —-" Harry sneers and if he'd be a cartoon character – fume would have been coming out of his ears and nose.

“Else what!?” Harry’s more of a practical person -- so he did what he's been learning for years now and breaks his nose with such force it almost knocks him out.

Y/N's still in shock. Walking behind him on jelly toes and a shiver spirals in her bone marrow when her sweat dries from the wind that’s blowing and hitting them in faces.

They wait at bus shelter, sitting side by side –-- thighs brushing now and then flustering Y/N, Moreso when he apologizes everytime.

There’s silence. Harry’s irritated groan breaks it –- he clenches and unclenches his knuckles .. the thin skin a bit bruised.

“Are you okay? I’m so sorry –-- .. ‘s my fault.” She rambles. Taking his hand to inspect it, “I shouldn’t have called you at ---..” He frowns confused and pokes her in knee conveying her to stop worrying. Because if anyone needs to be taken care of is her and wish he could just hug her and tell her that it’s not her fault – not even a tad.

“Y/n...” He gains her attention and his gaze flickers from her snotty nose towards her soaky cheeks, “Shut up.” She chuckles at that putting his palm gently back on his thigh.

“Would you like to have, noodles? I know this incredible chinese place ...” He shakes his head. His smile small and kooky, nose scrunched up as he sniffs the air – predicting a rain coming soon.

“D'we have to eat after every tragedy that happens t’you?”

“Yup, tragedies makes me hungry.” It’s her coping mechanism if she'll be honest and that’s what she’s been doing for ages.

“Who are you, Y/N?

She jumps up. Wiggling her fingers for him to take and beams sweetly, “Bambi next door?”

“From when did ya become s' rich?” He giggles. He finds her fucking adorable as she drags him along herself excitedly – she halts infront of the expensive restaurant –- where people dressed in all kind of luxuries and bright pearls are dinning in and she arches her brow sceptically, “Did you really think –- I’ll be able to take us here?” He shoves his hands in his jeans pocket, elevates his shoulders and smiles bashfully.

“Maybe one day, who knows?” They walk towards the chinese take out and Y/N trots backwards –-- facing him all while and rolls her eyes, “’M an artist whose half of paintings goes to trash.” Harry’s eyeballs springs out of his sockets hearing her statement and he really wants to knock some senses into this silly girl.

“Oh my --.. jeez .. those paintings are ‘s good y'divvy. They're hanging onto my walls, been enjoying them fo' free —- what the actual fuck .. really your hands are magical.” He feels annoyed and sad that she felt a need to dump them, because those were some beautiful art pieces.

(“Hmm. It has some hidden meaning beneath it, H. I’m tellin' ya.” Ni would always say. Standing infront of it for hours and hours staring at it.

“Looks like a pussy to me.” Max would quip sipping his bevy and Harry would smack him in head, “Guys how ‘bout we just see it like a fuckin' painting.” He'd grumble focusing back on his books.)

“Really?” She asks shyly and he bobs his head, “Guess you could just keep them then ...” She grins up at him taking the boxes from the cashier.

“Where are we going?”

“You’d see yourself.” She sing-songs galloping over the muddy potholes and Harry looks funny doing it with his spider long legs. Their footsteps echoes in the empty warehouse and Harry didn’t expect her to be the person – that loves finding weird places and spend time there.

“Careful there.” He murmurs. Pressing a hand to her waist when she wobbles on her feet climbing the metal stairs and Harry thinks if she was this clumsy all along or it’s from what happened at the coffee house.

“Holy shit!” He cups a hand around his mouth as the traffic bustles down on the street, “You afraid of heights?” She glances back at him from where she’s standing on the cemented edge.

“Matters. If we're about to act silly and jump, then yes.”

Warmth worms up at his chest and his adam apple bobs, he barks out a laugh when she giggles demanding him to come closer to her, “Come here then you dentist the bad boi.” He tugs the fabric of his jeans from his crotch and hikes his one knee up sitting beside her, other leg swinging in air.

He listens to her hums and happy sounds as she slurps the long noodle inside her mouth, “What you’re afraid of then Harry?” Her question catches him off-guard. Nobody has ever asked what his fears are and he might be famous for an intimidating personality just because he speaks less and owns a roaring bullet –-- he’s still very nice to talk to, but he'd rather spend his time with snowy than waste his time on orgy parties.

“Snowy’s funky farts -- they're ‘orrible!! have to leave the flat fo’ a minute.” He grins when Y/N’s head lulls back and she laughs gleefully, rolling into his side to support herself, “Oh no!” She whines when her chopsticks falls and drops onto the road poorly.

“We can share mine.” He hands her his chopsticks and she thanks him timidly, “What d'you fear?” They pass it back and forth –- his lips wrapping around them as he takes a chunky bite.

Harry tries to down the food that got stuck in his throat when she said nonchalantly, “Dying alone I guess?” He chews the veggies, grimaces and shakes his head -- puts his hand over her knee squeezing it kind-heartedly.

“You’ll not.” She feels like every tulip of light around her’s sparkling – the buzz of having his company tingling her in good way, “Promise?” She asks and Harry lifts his pinky in between them encouraging her to bring her's.

She wasn’t serious about the promise thing it was more onto sarcastic side than to sincerity.

“Promise.” His dimples caters deep and his eyes crinkles when different golden lights dances against her skin making her look prettier than she’s.

He’s gonna fulfill his promise.

Y/N could be sentimental given on occasions and how bad the situation’s – but she bottles it up for good amount until later, it all crushes her completely and she’s unable to stand back.

Now, when there’s eerie quietness in the bus and the world infront of her fades behind in weird shapes and forms in her head because of the speed of vehicle – her mind thought it’d be best time to remorse over what happened to her and her eyes well up at that.

Harry plucks his headphones down upon hearing her soft sniffles and turns her towards him with her shoulder, “Y/N hey ....” His voice tender and dewy as he slides his palm under her jaw and cups her cheek to wipe out her tears with the mild stroke of his thumb.

His gentleness rakes out an agonising sob from inside her and she feels like her organs are clashing together.

“Shh. Bambi you’re okay now, ‘s alright you’re here with me -- shh, ‘m so sorry love —- but it’s over now, yeah? We're going home and I’ll make you chamomile tea, could ‘ve both snowy and trippers cuddle with you while I’ll get you all warm and nice inside this new fluffy blanket I just bought! – how does that sound?” He pets her hair. Brings her closer to his chest and she keeps her nose tucked against his clavicles to stop from crying and make a show.

When she nods, suckling a wet breath he swipes a loose errand of her hair behind, “Sounds good yeah?” She just hums snuggling into him.

Her arms slowly loops around his love-handles and he stows her head under his chin -- rubs her back in circles to soothe the stiff muscles, covers her ears with the headphones he was wearing before – plays acoustic version of Landslide by Fleetwood Mac and simpers when she hiccups his name, but doesn’t respond when he answers – his ears turns pink from fond and his belly overglows with butterflies as she babbles his name till she drops into peaceful sleep.

Y/N found herself in his bed with snowy and trippers ontop of her and Harry snoring on the couch – his gangly limbs not fitting at all.

She really wanted to call him and sleep on his bed, but she drowses back to slumber.

“Grumpy jerk and an actual ray of sunshine. Sorry, couldn’t process it – too much.” Rori teased Harry the last time they gathered and Y/N was there too! though the true statement was claimed after her departure.

Harry’s friends couldn’t believe that he stepped out of his comfort zone and made a new cute friend, now after one year of their friendship it doesn’t feel like they’re neighbours anymore –-- it's just one big home with an alleyway in between.

“What're y'doin', moppet?” Harry chuckles picking up the half eaten packet of crisps, chewy sour candies, wrappers of oreos and the romcom CDs they were playing before.

Y/N's sprawled on her tummy. Feetsie in air and her chin secured in her palm as she looks like she’s seriously about to take an admission in med school –-- she’s concentrating real hard on the thick book under her, eyes fixated on the diagrams of teeth – it makes Harry laugh like a maniac.

“Aish. Your books, gives me an ache.” She massages her forehead, shakes her head as if she tasted something icky and pushes his book away. Harry laughs harder at her antics wrappers flying away from his grasp and he flops onto couch –-- thighs spreading wide and back sinking into the cushions.

“Where?” His lips rumbles as he tries to hold back another fits of laughter when she gets his dirty joke and pouts, lips fluttering into a smile until she bursts into giggles joining him.

“Nope. My cookie doesn’t throb like it used to sneaking on reproduction chapters in biology.” Harry roars out a cackle at that and Y/N grins fiddling with the frizz of her socks, “Heyyyy it’s not funny –- very much sad.”

He suckles a breath in, their grins achy and big, “Stuff your cookie with some jam ‘n you'll be alright.”

“You’re gross!” She fake gags. Hunches over to exaggerate the severity and scares the shit out of Harry when she gasps loudly slapping his knee, “Harry! Harry! Oh my gosh.....ahhhh!” She gallops like a bunny towards the window and gazes up at the sky with glinting eyes, “Harry look! It’s snowing.” He trots behind her with a roll of eyes knowing what’s about to come next.

When she turns around with sparkly grin, hands clasped atop her chest and tippy-toes to beg him, Harry shuts his lids, “No Muffy.” Y/N loves eating chocolate muffins –-- eating them whenever she could possibly ... and that’s how the pet name Harry decided to call her was muffy.

“Please, it would be so fun .. we could have hot chocolate afterwards.” She mumbles tugging at the hem of his chunky yarn sweater.

“Nothing’s fun about snow angles, Muffyyyy!!” He whines. Squinting down at her with one eye and finds her all slumpy, head falling downwards.

“Okie then. ‘m going to sleep.” She mutters in a meek voice pushing past him –-- but he wraps his hand around her wrist and pulls her back to himself, chuckling with wide eyes, “You’re very dramatic and annoyin’ y’know that?”

Instead, she grins bobbing her head shamelessly, pats his chest and dashes to wear his warm jacket, “Biscuits on you -- hot chocolate on me.” She tells him slipping into her shoes with the support of doorframe.

He comes closer to her and her heart thuds into her tiny ribs as he zips his jacket she’s wearing up till her neck and warns her while pulling out her hair, “If I get sick – ‘m gettin'y sick too.”

Harry’s waiting outside the candy shop Y/N just barged in moments ago. He refused to step inside – knowing she’ll use him as a taste tester and at the end of the day his tongue would have a mountain sugar atop his taste buds.

The spring breeze flowery and warm. He shakes his head, smiles softly watching her switch aisles and guffaws loudly catching attention of an old couple siting on the bench behind -- at her eagerness when she started chomping onto the long chewy candy right after getting it from the cashier.

“That’s g'na rot your teeth even before your forties.” He tells her taking the small bag from her and walks beside her, “Your kids are gonna hate you ...” She tells him –- stretching out the candy with her teeth.

“You sure, y'were allowed colas and candies in childhood?” He teases her prodding her side so she throws it at his chest making him laugh and he bends down to pick it up and dump it in bin.

“You’ve got a cute bum.” She whistles and Harry’s cheeks bashes with blush – turns around and wiggles herself, “How's mine?” She hums glancing back at him with cheeky grin.

“Ten by two, I guess?” He bites down a smirk when she spins to face him a bit gobsmacked, “Not even five?” She grumps chin doubling as she tries to see her bum herself.

“Six then?” He giggles enjoying how she’s getting riled up out of nowhere and she stomps away from him so he jogs to catch her, “Bambi. Was kiddin'.”

“You owe me two muffins with the amount of insults you’ve caused my poor bum.” He knuckles at her hair and she slaps him away like a feisty kitten, “I take it back –-- you’re really ten by two.”

“Oi!!!” Now, she’s running behind him. His curls blowing away and his coat ruffling with the zephyr, his head falling back with the belly-ache laughter that bounces against the bricked walls of shops.

It’s Friday night. Y/N is doing her laundry. Plucking out Harry’s socks from Trippers furry ear, her kitties sleeping in bassinet. Harry and Y/N have named them Tum, Tug and Truggers –-- she sits back on her heels upon hearing her door closing and hikes the small basket on her hip trudging outside —-- she didn’t had any clothes that could make her feel warm during these days – even her socks were all soggy -- so was Harry’s, now all she’s gonna do is make a blanket fort and hide in it for hours.

She knuckles at her eyes, blinking the tiredness away to see properly who’s standing in the middle of room, “Harry?” He's wearing a graduation gown and tips his hat with a sheepish smile then waves his degree infront of her, “Guess who's a proper dentist now!?” She’s frozen to her spot –- jaw slacked and eyes blown away in surprise.

“Your bad boi!” The basket falls from her hip onto the floor scaring Trippers and she whispers an, “Oh my goodness.” Before, stumbling towards him and crashes in his arms giving him a tight loving hug. He slinks his forearms around her and squishes his face into the crook of her neck, lips tickling her skin and if it was possible for him to freeze the time and cherish it for some more he'd.

“I’m so proud of you.” She mumbles into him with a grin. He feels so worthy and every hardship he faced now feels like nothing, this's how life supposed be throughout –- but best things always bores fruit for the right time.

“How about we celebrate? Just you and me.” Just you and me. It feels nice to just her and him. Makes her heart swoon. Makes her feel like skies outside are wet and pink, “Umm .. can we celebrate here? It’s okay .... “ She shifts on her feet and he furrows his brows in confusion, lips ticked up as if he’s scrutinizing her.

“You and not goin' nutters for an outing .. seems odd —-,” Then his eyes falls over the surrounding, a heating pad beside his feet – aloe fused socks hanging to get dry, a tray of chocolate muffins, kettle on the coffee table so he puts one and one together himself.

“Oh muffy —-... pizza and cuddles then?” If he wouldn’t be aware of how first few days of her period are hell for her then who would? He’s always making her pot meals and curry rice – feeds her and gets all strict when she refuses to eat anything. She looses her appetite and transforms into something ‘if zombie had a baby with vampire -- it sure looked like you’ he'd always scold her.

Even bribe her with candies. Once they were awfully painful and Y/N really didn’t want to be all dramatic not when their friends were having a good time, she doesn’t like to be a party pooper.

But, when a stinging cramp cut through her pelvis and thighs she was hunching forward with a jolt -- all teary eyes and wobbly lips. Harry left everything and rushed towards her, sitting on his knees on the floor and cupped her throat to make her look at him when she refused to, “Y/N ‘m serious -- you rather tell me what’s happening with ye’ or ‘m throwin' you at my shoulder and takin’ you hospital —... cause fuck look at you been like this since morning ....” He was rambling and Y/N felt like drilling a hole into floor and hide herself there forever.

She was mortified and embarrassed, a terrible combination.

She wasn’t able to tell him infront of all of their friends even though it’s something very normal, so everyone stared and nodded when they left they for Harry’s room.

“Bambi are you okay? I’m not even kidding something’s not —-..” She wipes her nose and tugs at his wrist trying to shush him, when he doesn’t pushes a fingers against his lips.

“Don’t worry. ‘m good --- just —-... umm I’m on my periods.” She rubs her one feet on another and his mouth fall into an ‘o' when realization hit him and his brows clinches together sternly.

He sighs running his fingers through his hair, something he does when frustrated and whumpy.

“Should’ve told me. We could have done this later ... do you want anything? I’ve got pain —--,” His words swells on his tongue when her head bumps against his chest and her hands locks around his neck, hugging him with all her gentle will because nobody has ever cared for her –-- him being so tentative to her makes her want to sob into his chest.

He warms her in all the right places.

“How’re you feeling on scale of one to ten?” He speaks while chewing onto the stuffed crust of pizza. They’re cosied up on the sofa while Mama Mia plays on the telly and she’s cuddled up into him, he's holding her heat pad with the grip of his forearm and she lifts her head mousey-ly from his bicep and whispers – “Eightish...? Now, you’re Dr.Styles.” He giggles at her and pushes her head back against him with his finger.

“What does my being dentist has a connection to your periods?” He dips the pads of his fingers into her pudgy love handles and squeezes them -- she giggles thinking about the joke she’s about to crack.

“You pull teeth, it’s blood and I pull out tampon so it’s —...” Harry chuckles gruntly at her and tickles her more, “Oh no. I know where it’s goin'....”

“You asked for it!” She pouts at him and he squishes her lips together as if she’s a duck toy.

Then they flump back into their cuddling position and Harry rubs her tummy in tender soothing circles, it helps her relax and his breath syncs with her and she really tries not to pay attention to her bratty screaming hormones heating her skin up – her thighs experiencing a quiver and she squeaks down a huffy whimper.

“You okay?” Harry asks. When she squirms against him and she gulps -- they don’t hide stuff from eachother so she tells him honestly, “You’re really turning me on.” Harry’s heart hiccups at that and his palms still over her thighs.

“Is that so?”

He pets her hair and tries to make her stand, “Just go to washroom and jizz one out.”

“I can’t.”

“You can’t? Why?”

“Promise me you wouldn’t make fun....” He frowns and nods bringing his pinky to make the deal.

She clutches her sweater down to her knees, cheeks rosy and mutters out in one breath – “I’ve specific days for that....” Harry really tires to. He locks up his laughs in his lungs and it aches his chest, his cheeks balloons up but at last he rolls onto floor and guffaws into his elbow.

“You said you wouldn’t make fun!!!” She whines kicking his side lightly and he grabs her ankle, “This means all those times you’d be all locked up –- oh my god, you were playing with yourself.” She folds her arms. Her nostrils flares with irritation and she doesn’t even spare him a glance.

“Pet, waiting so long .. it’s a torture to yourself.” He tells her genuinely sitting up with crossed legs and she mumbles knuckling at her eyes, “just some reasons ... horny is bad.” Now, Harry feels kind of terrible pushy person and he really wants to help her out but he’s walking on egg shells here. So, he stops asking anything.

“Rori's girlfriend is a sex therapist —-“ She becomes all fidgety at that and Harry takes in her nervousness, “It’s totally fine if you don’t want to.” He exclaims waving his hands and she gulps giving him a small nod.

“Night time fo' some grumpy muffy!” He coos, brings the blanket to her chin and his pupils dilate adorningly when she asks him, “Could I snuggle you?”

“Ofcourse.” He pecks her temple and tells her to budge over before sandwiching her between him and the sofa.

That whole night all his mind could think was why horny is bad for her?

Y/N was feeling overly warm and heated, a tad achy between her thighs. She vigorously tries to focus on something else but her chest is heaving at this point, even opens the windows and let the cool air hit her but no use –- so she does what have to be done in order to get rid of the throb.

She cosies herself on the bed, switches onto hentai and throws her legs in air to shimmy her sheer white panty down.

“Oh ...” Whimpers teeny-ly when her fingers brushing up her soaking pussyfolds provides her a bit relief – her soft hands wanders beneath her flimsy shirt and touches her skin in the most arousing way possible –-- tweaks her nipples and jerks up, oozing more wetness.

“Ah! Fuck.” She moans easing in two fingers at once and cramps down at them watching the hentai porn –- but it’s not enough, she’s been pushing her fingers in and out for ten minutes now—she’s unable to get to climax.

So she groans sits up and switches to domineering audios, listens to it while fingering herself hard and she has no idea from where her mind gathered these images from -- but -- soon she’s thinking about Harry’s husky rasp, his sea-foam beautiful eyes and those rosy knuckles ring clad hands —-- imagining him holding her down into mattress and pounding into her at a brutal pace, making her sit on his cock and not letting her move –-- his fingers down her petty throat —-- him spanking her ass if she let’s out any voice out and he'd roar at her beg as she'd be lurking at her tenth orgasm –---- every plausible dirty stuff with him.

She was so engulfed into making herself feel good, lost in her own headspace and imaginations that she didn’t hear footsteps approaching and it’s like she manifested him as he stands at the door-frame with blown away pupils –-- guppy mouth and she’s squealing feeling dizzy upon sitting up this quick.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck —-... sorry sorry ... “ He covers his eyes and turns to walk away but bumps his head with a thud into doorframe.

She gasps, knees up and almost shouts, “No!” making him halt mid-track and she’s on the verge of tears, red face and shaky fingers.

“Please ....”

“Stay.”

Harry’s eyes turns soft at that and he walks towards bed, licks his lips wet and brushes the loose tress of her hair away.

“You want me to stay, muffy?” He asks to make sure – she isn’t in haze and all fog minded.

“Yes. I want you to stay.” She doesn’t hesitate this time. Her words honest and full of plead, she needs him, she wants him, she wants to have him.

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demigoddessqueens · 2 years

Note

Hello again ❤❤❤ got another one 🙌

What about how they would act the day/days or night before they or somebody else cast modify memory in an act to "protect" them???

Like how would they act and how would they be afterwards??

Again love you goddamn writing and I can't wait to see how you do this ❤❤💝💝

ANGST!!! AGAIN 😢 😭 💔

Oh like where it’s a member of VM or if reader’s doing it? I tried to make this go both ways/vice versa but it sounds angsty so trying to cover all my bases here 🥲

If it was you with the spell…

Your heart ached and your hands were burning from the energy. You could hold your own against the enemy mage, but now you found yourself caught in the crossfire. You could take them, you were strong enough to. But it would come at price. Shielding your loves with your magic and taking the hit would be worth it a thousand times over if it meant they lived. The price however? You would take the hit, but at the expense of your treasured memories of them. It was painful and heartbreaking, but you would find them again in your heart. Taking a final look at your hearts before casting your defensive magic, you swore them one last promise. “Take care of each other.”

If it was any of the others…

They all had their own motivation as to why they cast this spell, but it was for your own good. Even if it shattered their heart.

Vax’ildan - You had made a bargain with the Matron of Death, to save Vex’s life and to keep Vax from its grasp. But at the cost of who you loved, in a cruel twisted irony. They would live, but your memories of your rogue lover would die. Before you stepped forward to seal the promise, you cupped his face to memorize him one last time. His tears pooled at your cupped hands as you kissed away his sobbing protests. “You will find me again, Vax’ildan. Search for me and I’ll know.”

Pike - You were the most unexpected part of the cleric’s life, but you were the most treasured and loved. Sometimes she felt as if you took more precedence than her god, not that she would ever voice that. Unbeknownst to her, because you were never in the cards, the Everlight saw no use to keep the memories of you when her disciple sought to reconnect the bond with her disciple. She couldn’t understand nor fathom why the gnome desperately pleaded, begged and cried to keep the traces of you. The entity may not have understood, but tried to express a sliver of sympathy in a sorrowful “I’m sorry, my child.”

Keyleth - A conversation late at night led to an unspeakable decision, until now. You held the Druid tightly to her, living in the moment before thinking more of the future ahead. “Kiki, you will be a magnificent leader for your people. And I will be so proud of you.” You heard her softly gasp as a light tear fell on your hand. “I know…but when I grow stronger in power, I may forget. I could lose you.” You held onto her tighter with a kiss atop her head. “There will be no place where we won’t find each other. You’ve been the best part of my life, and we will see each other soon. One day.”

Grog - The wound to your chest only festered with each passing day. The barbarian had been staying up for days on end, begging his best friend to help heal you. It felt hopeless until there was a miraculous breakthrough. Grog felt ecstatic until he noticed the crestfallen expression on Pike’s face. “Pikey…what’s wrong?” She tried to choose her words carefully before continuing. “It is a healing spell, and it will save y/n, but…” “But, what?” “They’ll lose their memories…maybe memories of you, buddy.” She saw something change in her friend that day, something broken when he gave a solemn “Do it” as the response.

Vex’ahlia - It had been years since the glory days, but her mind was starting to fade. Those who had been a part of her journey were slowly leaving her, both in body and from her memory. Your visits were starting to grow less frequent but it was still precious time. The last time you had visited, the greys and crow’s feet were starting to grace that lovely face she used to gaze upon. It was a visit she appreciated, but one that was sorely dreaded. A spell from your fellow mages that vanquished the memories of you, at least for a few measly years of her already long life, until the time when you both looked back on them fondly in the next life.

Scanlan - The bard saw how you struggled against his injuries. Courtesy of those damned Briarwoods and their undead weapons, he bore the brunt of their worst attacks. With every passing second, he felt immense guilt, even when you grunted in frustration or pain. The price you paid for this careless fool you loved. Unbeknownst to him, by the time you expended this spell, it would take a good portion of your strength. And the memories of your laughter with him that would vanish along with injuries. Best to let him think these tears were out of frustration than the pain of him not knowing you.

Percy - Orthax knew the vengeful de Rolo was too easily riled up. The demon knew that the best way to do bidding was to strike where it hurts the most in the heart. What it didn’t expect was for you to resist at every twist and turn as it invaded your body, striking at it with every fiber of your magic. The demon would lose and be expelled forever but it laughed cruelly at what the cost would be. In your last thrashing moments to banish the creature, you held tightly to Percy’s hand. “Find me, love. I know you.”

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katia-dreamer · 2 years

Text

This is the first time I’ve written for this fandom. Please note that it’s entirely based on the TV show, Okay? This particular snippet takes place before the cliffhanger of SSN 1.

“It’s all right. You can put it down,” Vex says softly as she places her hand over his.

Rage tears through him with razor-sharp claws, and it hurts. It burns.

“It won’t let me.” His words are a warning, a plea for her to understand that he’s not in control.

He pulls the trigger, and Vex screams.

Percy wakes from the nightmare covered in sweat. Even though he knows Vex is down the hallway, perfectly alive, there won’t be any more sleep tonight. He needs a distraction.

So, he walks through the keep, keeping a mental note of how many things need fixing. He’s outside the kitchen when he hears a soft rustling. Cautiously, he approaches, ready to fight if necessary.

But it’s only Vex at the table eating a handful of grapes.

“More bad dreams, darling?” She asks.

Percy does not answer. Instead, he sits down and takes a few grapes.

There’s a pause, and then she says. “You didn’t hurt me, Percy.”

“How did you-”

“The look in your eyes. I’ve seen it in the mirror thousands of times since I almost killed Vax. I was moments away from it, Percy. The guilt of that knowledge can be overwhelming.”

“I shot Grog. I could have killed him.”

“But you didn’t,” she reaches over and takes his hand. "Most importantly, darling, you didn’t let it take your soul. You conquered that demon.”

His throat feels unexpectedly thick. “Thank you, Vex.”

“Of course,” she smiles at him, her brown eyes never leaving his.

Warmth flickers in his chest. It’s fragile and small but present all the same.

“I’m going to take Trinket out for a little while. You can have the rest of my grapes if you want,” she rises from her chair. “For what it’s worth, I don’t hate that you survived.”

“Fond of me, are you?” He teases.

“Maybe.”

Once he’s alone, Percy finds himself staring at her empty chair for longer than is probably necessary.

#the legend of vox machina #TLoVM #perc'ahlia #The Legend of Vox Machina #katie writes things

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mollymauk-teafleak · 3 years

Note

“Take my jacket. It’s cold outside.” + Perc'ahlia

I can do nothing but apologise, honestly...

Also on Ao3 if anyone wants to leave a comment

-----------

It was during the winter months that the place truly seemed aptly named. When the frost settled across everything like the sugar crusted sweets Vex had adored as a child, when the fur trimmed coats and woolen scarves came out of the storage, when the wind started to sing through the mountains, always with the quiet threat of a screaming storm storm. When the greens and browns of the valley hibernated under their dusting of snow, powdery in the early days but thickening quickly until the whole citadel was smothered, having to hold its breath until the spring. Only then did Whitestone truly earn its mantle.

Vex had seen this change happen more times than she could count. But every new winter, the old joys came back to surprise her. Like sitting in the castle’s largest sitting room, fire roaring thanks to Keyleth, surrounded by a warm, pleasant current of conversation with all of her family in reach of her. Currently, she had her granddaughter sleeping contentedly in her arms, to give Vesper a bit of a break, but she could cast her eyes around the room and count the rest. Her oldest, widening her youngest brother’s eyes with tales of her latest travels, the twins pulling faces behind her back, the fourth Percival, who thankfully shortened his name to just Freddy, submitting to his Uncle Scanlan’s jokes and hair ruffles with good grace. Pike, sitting on the floor so Keyleth could braid her hair, Cassandra nearly falling asleep in the closest chair to the fire, clearly tired after a long day. Even this close to Winter’s Crest, the council clearly still had matters to discuss long into the afternoon. Vex was secretly rather glad she had many excuses to send apologies.

The room was crowded and noisy, laughter and groans and gentle teasing all vying against each other, bodies pressed close together even though there was space to sit apart. Two vases had already been broken, there were wine stains on the rugs and Vex could sit back and watch it all in perfect contentment. She’d never been one for peace and quiet.

“Vex?”

Cass clearly wasn’t as close to sleep as she looked. Though her eyes were still closed and her lined face smooth and serene, her soft voice carried between them, slipping under the festive babble. It was rather like catching your foot on a stone at the bottom of the river, especially when Vex knew what her sister in law was going to say, as much as she wished she didn’t.

Percy had been gone for too long.

“I know, dear,” she murmured, “I’ll go check on him.”

She rose easily so she didn’t jostle her granddaughter. Little Annabelle was not an easy sleeper but there were some skills Vex was never going to lose even with her own youngest being in his twenties.

“Mama?” Vesper looked up as she passed, pausing in her story even when Raven groaned in disappointment, tail twitching. Clearly she’d just been getting to a good bit, “Do you want me to take her back?”

“Oh I’m just taking her for a breath of air, darling,” Vex assured her with an easy smile, not enjoying how simple it had become to lie to her children, “You come home so infrequently, I’m not sparing a single second of my time with her.”

Vesper rolled her eyes fondly, “Better make the most of it, Papa will be demanding his turn soon.”

“Oh I don’t doubt,” she made sure her smile didn’t falter.

In the hallway, away from the roaring fire and the press of friends and family, the temperature dropped slightly. Vex hugged her infant granddaughter closer, murmuring to her softly as she looked around. Unsurprisingly, the bathroom where Percy had said he was going was empty. Their bedroom was too, cold and dark, too early to even light the candles. The workshop did have it’s flameless alchemical globes alight, casting cool white light across the desk, looking messier than usual with its many notes tacked up around the place, labelling various tools and outlining steps. But Percy wasn’t there either. He wasn’t in the kitchens begging another coffee when he knew Pike had told him to limit his caffeine intake. He wasn’t up in the tower watching the snowfall as he sometimes liked to do. He wasn’t in the ballroom, reminiscing about parties they’d held there over the decades.

Vex wouldn’t allow herself to get worried, just stroking the soft, dark down on Anna’s head and letting it comfort her, working her way down the usual list. He would be somewhere. It hadn’t gotten that bad yet.

But as it happened, Vex didn’t find him in any of the places she’d come to expect. She was coming down the stairs as fast as she could while holding a baby, thinking to make for the firing range. Percy himself had never used it since they came home from their adventures but he liked to check Vex’s bows were in peak condition, making sure none were close to wearing down. He often said they were the difference between her coming home whole or otherwise when she was out with the Grey Hunt.

She was going to pick up her coat when she heard her husband’s voice. Feeling relief rush through her like cool water, Vex turned the corner to see Percy himself. He was wearing his old coat- or at least the fourth or fifth iteration of it after it had been wrecked on so many adventures- and was struggling with the buttons. His hands had been giving him a lot of trouble lately, especially in the cold weather.

“Oh darling,” Vex sighed, coming up to him, “There you are! Why didn’t you come back to the drawing room, everyone’s up there?”

“Hmm?” Percy turned, like he hadn’t known she was there until she spoke. Even now, when she saw her, the first thing he did was smile, “Ah, good evening, my dear.”

Vex shifted Anna to one shoulder, drawing a sleepy murmur from the child. She put her free hand on Percy’s cheek, feeling the softness and the lines that the years had etched there, spider webbing out from his mouth and eyes like paths on a map. He was still her strong jawed, regal Percival, his eyes still blue and bright behind his spectacles.

But his buttons were crooked.

“Darling,” she sighed softly, “Come back upstairs, it’s so cold outside.”

Percy frowned slightly, “I was going to speak with the guard on the gate, ask if he’d seen Grog or your brother. They should be here by now, I feared the snow might have delayed them. You can come if you like but take my coat, it’s cold outside...”

Vex felt her heart clench in her chest and she took a moment to steady her lower lip. These times were the worst.

“My darling,” she tried to speak, though she could hear her voice breaking, “Grog and...and Vax’ildan…”

The realisation came to Percy slowly, his eyes clearing and growing cold. His mouth turned down and his shoulders slumped.

“I’m sorry,” he rasped, eyes falling to the floor, “I...I don’t know what comes over me…”

“My Percival,” Vex stroked her thumb over his cheek, “You never need to apologise. Never.”

“But…” he trailed off helplessly, unable to voice any of the thousand ends to that sentence. Instead they hung in the air between them, impossibly heavy.

But we know this is only going to get worse. But we know I’ll just keep failing while you stay strong. But we know that day will come where I can’t go on and you’ll have to continue without me. But we knew all of this was going to happen and we fell in love anyway.

The silence between them was broken by their granddaughter. Annabelle roused, cooing softly, blinking slowly, lifting her head up. Her largue blue eyes fixed on her grandfather and she immediately crowed in delight, reaching out her arms to him.

Percy closed his mouth to those terrible truths. Instead he found a smile from somewhere, taking Annabelle into his arms.

“Forgive me, little lady,” he chuckled, only slightly wanly, “Is it my turn to hold you?”

Vex stepped back, watching her husband cradle their granddaughter, watching his hands grow steadier and his arms grow surer as he held her. Even with the tears in her eyes, she smiled.

“You don’t need to apologise, Percy,” she said firmly, “You don’t. Because it’s been worth it, every second.”

Percy looked up from the little infant reaching for his glasses. He searched his wife’s face, saw her unwavering certainty and, finally, nodded.

“I love you, Vex’ahlia,” he murmured as she stepped close and wrapped her arms around the both of them.

“I love you too, Percy,” she pressed her face to his shoulder, holding him tight.

And she did. However many lines were on his face, however worse this was going to get, she loved him and she would love him for the rest of her life, whether he was in it or not. Their adventures, their friends, their children, all of it.

However much her heart would break when he left, loving him had been worth it.

#percahlia #percy de rolo #vex'ahlia #vex #post canon #heavy angst #like for real #memory loss #ageing #lifespan differences

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enigmatist17 · 4 years

Text

The Mark of a Bullet (Sir Hammerlock x Wainwright Jakobs)

Y’all Y’all

I cannot wait to play their wedding DLC, I am almost there.

But have this in the meantime, because y e s I love them so m u c h my baby Hammerlock deserves happiness

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

Alistair Hammerlock enjoyed a challenge, of course, he did. Leaving his namesake, which had not been as hard as one would have assumed, freed him of some terrible shackles. The world and its infinite treasures and adventures were his for the taking, and Alistair couldn’t be happier. His renown in the hunting community exploded in such a short time, and within 10 years Hammerlock became synonymous with Alistair and his hunting. Pandora became his home after some time, Alistair happy to study and track until the war came. He was never one for shooting people and dissidents, but hunting fell to the background as he helped the small band of people try and defend their home from Handsome Jack. After the liberation of Pandora, Alistair moved on as he always did, and found himself on Eden-6. For most people, paradise did not involve swamp creatures and other horrors, but for Alistair, it was absolutely perfect. He was settled in a small town for close to a month when the head of Jakobs corporation invited him for a hunting trip. Never one to turn down a hunt, nor the rather delicious free food and exquisite ammunition, Alistair took the invite.

Where he came for Montgomery Jakobs, Alistair instead finds himself falling for Wainwright Jakobs.

He arrived two days into the hunt, startling Alistair and receiving a bullet to his shoulder. It wasn’t the greatest of meetings, the two bickering as Alistair expertly tends to the wound in record time.

“Do you go ‘round shootin’ every person ta come near you?” Wainwright snarled, watching the hunter roll his eyes as he pulls out the bullet.

“Do you find it acceptable to come around and brazenly confront a hunter amid the hunt?” Wainwright spluttered at the accusation, ears turning red as his father and associates laughed in the background.

“Here I thought big game hunters knew everythin’ about their surroundings.” It was now Hammerlock’s turn to shoot a look, pulling back to burn the now bloodied bandages.

“I was not aware I had to also lookout for a surprise newcomer, mister?”

“Wainwright Jakobs.” Alistair cocked his head slightly, unaware the heir to Jakobs corporation was even aware of the hunting expedition. “You must be the famous Sir Hammerlock then, hmpf.”

“Indeed I am.” Despite the huff, Alistair was more amused now than irritated, offering a hand to the other. “Do you often hunt with a shotgun?”

“I don’t hunt at all.” Wainwright winced as he carefully stretched out his arm, the injury only letting him about halfway. “I am far more comfortable with a good book by a fire, rather than out in the mud and grog intestines. I am here by request of my father, who is under the impression this is all for business.”

“Oh, dear.” Wainwright raises an eyebrow at the tone, but the hunter says nothing, merely escorting Wainwright to their makeshift camp. The hunt goes on for three days, Alistair hiding back growing irritation as the head of Jakobs and his business partners operated with reckless abandon. The hunter had heard rumors of avoiding any invitation by the CEO, and now he fully understood. The only saving grace was Wainwright, much to Alistair’s surprise.

Despite not enjoying the heat and swamp, Wainwright was learning tricks of the trade rather quickly. Sure, his aim was nonexistent and his brash footing was leaving a lot to be desired, but for the most part, Wainwright was a fast learner. They were up late each night, speaking about music, philosophies, books, any and every topic they could think of. The two end up staying an extra day, Montgomery bidding a hasty farewell after realizing that Hammerlock had no part with his parents’ company, and therefore was effectively not worth his time. Wainwright seemed to almost transform the moment his fathers’ vehicle was out of sight, shoulder’s loosening as he cracks open some brandy.

Hammerlock returns to his humble lodge after bidding Wainwright goodbye and finds his research was rather...lonely without the company. Alistair had never been one to seek out company for his work before, but those short days with Wainwright had been rather lovely. Taking a week-long expedition, that most certainly wasn’t extended because he got slightly lost, Hammerlock is glad to see his abode and pauses when he notices the door is ajar. Readying his pistol, Alistair slowly opens the door and points his gun at the figure standing in the living room.

“Are we going to meet with your gun always between us?” Wainwright sounds amused, but Hammerlock can tell he is nervous after hearing his pistol click.

“Perhaps that would end if you approached me in my sight.” The pistol is holstered, and Wainwright turns with a slightly bashful look.

“Fair point, fair point.” There is a freshly cooked meal on the table, and Alistair can’t help but be grateful at such a sight. “I heard you would be returnin’ soon, and as such thought ta offer a good meal.”

“How very kind of you.” Alistair doesn’t mind the small amount of grime he sullies the couch with, knowing there will always be later to clean. They both slip into a conversation as if they had never parted ways, the late hour slowly turning to early morning as they continued. It should be silly, men in their late forties and early fifties respectively laughing and regaling each other with stories like teenagers. A night turns into a week, Wainwright taking Alistair around for an in-depth tour of Eden-6. It’s late one night when gazing up at the myriad of stars on the roof of Hammerlock’s cabin, that Jakobs leans over and captures the hunter’s lips in a kiss. For just a moment, Alistair freezes at the contact but is soon moving his flesh and bone hand to caress the side of Wainwright’s jaw. They eventually part and Alistair suddenly thinks that coming to Eden-6 had been his wisest choice throughout his career.

It only hits him a few days later, bidding Wainwright a goodbye after escorting him home, what that feeling of utter peace meant. When Alistair arrives at his own abode, his shirt is quickly yet efficiently removed. Just above his left nipple, a patch of skin that had always been barren was finally alight with a symbol. The design, still in the process of solidifying with dark hues of reds, greens, and blacks, appeared to be forming the most ornate shotgun Alistair had ever seen, crossed over his own infamous sniper rifle.

Coincidentally, it looked suspiciously like the personal gun of one Wainwright Jakobs.

Some grogs were momentarily stirred from their slumber by a loud bout of elated laughter.

The symbol solidifies the day before Wainwright offers Hammerlock a permanent place in his own estate. The hunter moves in with no hesitation, the housekeeping staff clustering around the study door that evening. They can see Hammerlock shedding his shirt, saying something and pointing to himself before Wainwright lets out a loud bout of laughter. The symbol on Alistair had now grown to fill the entire upper left side of his chest, Wainwright reaching out and touching it with an expression neither of the staff had ever seen before.

It was pure adoration.

Hammerlock says something to other man, who gives a shrug before shedding his own coat and shirt. It was clear he was slightly shy, a bit soft around the middle from his simple gunsmith work, whereas Hammerlock was built and toned from his occupation. The hunter seems not to mind at all, eyes drawn to Wainwright’s back when he turns around. Alistair’s prized journal, one that only Wainwright had been blessed to see, was seemingly tattooed onto his back. Astonishingly the pictures displayed moved, flickering both from what he had drawn over the years, to images of Eden-6. It was rare for one’s soulmate mark to be so vivid, and even rarer to change its shape at will, or in this case, it’s pages and images. The eldest staffer finally shoos everyone away when Alistair kneels down, spindly fingers tracing over Wainwright’s mark as if he was touching gold.

“This is just astonishing.” Hammerlock can’t help but breathe, the roll of his breath across Wainwright’s back making the shorter man shiver.

“So you’ve said near hundred times I reckon.” Despite feeling a bit inadequate at the moment, the Edenian can’t help but feel his heart flutter. Catching sight of his own mark in the mirror just a day ago had sent a feeling of...peace when he realized just what it was. He had nearly scared some of the staff running to and fro, ordering various rooms to be prepared as if for many guests. Thoughts of personal space and potential unwant had faded the moment Hammerlock had arrived. The hunter and the gunsmith had shared a look that felt like it had lasted years, the world just settling in a way that had never been before.

It felt like they had finally found steady ground, and had taken to privacy almost immediately.

Alistair and Wainwright end up sitting on his bed, the gunsmith on his stomach as Alistair touches and kisses what seemed every inch of his mark.

“A gentleman might get a right jealous of attention like that.” He chuckles, and Alistair sits up with his own amused look.

“Well, I suppose I shall have to rectify this posthaste, shall I not?” Wainwright all but blinks, and Alistair has settled beside him as if they had done this a thousand times.

“I suppose you should.” Wainwright sits up slightly when he notices Hammerlock shift, clearly becoming uncomfortable in his prosthetics. “Do you need some assistance ?”

“I can manage a few hours longer.” Alistair shrugs, finding the slight frown that crosses his partners’ face almost adoring. Mhm, calling him partner so soon? Hammerlock knew that soulmate bonds could be potent, but never before had he ever thought of such a thing happening to himself. He would have laughed, shaking from his thoughts when he feels his prosthetic arm be worked free with its’ quiet pop. “Winny, a heads up if you don’t mind!”

“Winny?” Alistair can’t help the faint blush that flares up, the nickname having slipped without a thought.

“I...you see.” Any excuses that he could have come up with fade when the other starts shaking, clearly holding back some laughter.

“Ain’t never had a nickname before...I like it.” This man and his endless enthusiasm for all things, were most definitely going to be the end of Alistair, absolutely.

“Yes, Wainwright is a fair mouthful, and I find that Winny, well it suits you, my dear.” Wainwright is now the one blushing, Alistair removing his leg prosthesis with practiced ease, setting both it and the arm on the bedside table. Hammerlock barely sits back before he is swept up into Wainwright’s arms. They shuffle a little bit, and soon Hammerlock has his head tucked into the crook of Wainwright’s neck, rather appreciating how soft the other was against his scrawny back. He feels soft and slightly calloused hands brushing along the designs of his mark, hearing a soft chuckle as Wainwright traces his own gun. The hunter doesn’t even feel himself falling asleep, having never felt so unguarded and safe to do so. It’s the first time in years he sleeps without nightmares or pain and knew that hopefully, this would be the beginning of something wonderful.

#borderlands 3 spoilers #borderlands 3 #wainwright jakobs #sir hammerlock #alistair hammerlock #jakobslock #guys #they did so fucking well with them I can't #I love them so much #and I'm so happy Hammerlock gets someone that makes him happy #p l e a s e #I need more of them #pls #Borderlands 4 #can't wait for that DLC

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sockablock · 4 years

Note

I KNOW MY PROMPT! Per the thing I sent you in DM: Mighty Nein x Vox Machina fighting some eldritch deity tigether that swaps their powers mid-battle with who their players play. Percival de Rolo, the man who would be atheist if the gods were not so clearly real, needs to literally pick a god and /pray/.

it’s wild how long it’s taken me to do this and also you’ll need this post for context (tweaked just slightly by yours truly)

—

Of course, they’d been warned that reality would be thin here.

Essek had told them all, at length, that usage of the beacon would likely thrust them into a world slightly different from theirs, and Allura had repeated, again and again, that nothing about the Chained Oblivion would make sense. It was the manifestation—the primordial source of delusion—and as powerful as any of them were, they would still be at the mercy of its maddening effects.

Which was why, when the battle finally began, when the abyss started seeping into the Prime Material Plane and the first broken chain lashed out of the empty dark, when the threads of probability started curling, swirling, cocooning around them with the one strand where this was possible—

—well, it really shouldn’t have been all that surprising when Keyleth just swung her staff upside Tharizdun’s skull.

What passed for its skull, anyway.

And then Vex’s arrows crackled with necrotic energy and for a second, Percy could’ve sworn she’d spouted wings. Grog lunged forward and a sword was in his hands, icy-blue, mist in the air, and the supposed monk from that other motley crew suddenly thrust out and called lightning from the sky. The hands of their wizard now glowed with the Everlight, and their aasimar fighter, or whatever she was, had suddenly called forth a hail of thorny vines. And as Percy looked down at his own palms, he realized suddenly that his gun felt foreign, and clumsy, and wrong.

His fingers fumbled against the catch and the safety of knowing, the security of understanding, was slipping rapidly, terrifyingly from his mind.

He looked around desperately, then dodged another chain that lashed out towards him, slicing through the night.

Or did he? And did it actually miss, or had it tried to hit the mirage now at his side, a flickering, shifting, image of himself, a perfect copy, one he didn’t know how he made—

A sorcerer, then, he quickly decided. Or, perhaps, some kind of warlo—

This time, the chain didn’t miss, striking directly at his chest. But his arm was up before he could even shout, and strapped to his elbow, clutched in his hand, was a silver shield, shining bright—

A paladin? Oh, gods, not the—the gods.

But he didn’t have a chance to groan any louder, because more of the abyss was pouring through, now. Their allies—the united forces of two continents—were still keeping the demons at bay, but the longer that Tharizdun could exist, the angrier they got, the more distorted their minds, the worse the probability that they’d lose this fight—

The light of the Luxon flickered, and Percy knew he had no time to waste.

He threw himself back into the battle, kicking scorched grass up as he ran. His eyes darted across the other fighters—a goblin, a firbolg, but who had his guns? Who had he switched with, where was his power—

And then, he saw it, in the hands of a blue tiefling. Bad News had somehow found its way into her grasp, and she was crouched behind a boulder, looking confused but understanding, eyes focused and breathing low. Percy desperately had to wrack his mind, and through the confusion and the twisting and the blood, inhaled, focused, remembered—

The….Traveler?

He jerked around another writhing chain, ducked behind a half-fallen tree to ask.

“Is that you?” he hissed, under his breath. “Ah…Traveler? Are you out there? I could—gods, I could use the help!”

Dirt and ash flew past his face. The sharp smell of blood filled the air.

Something warm pressed into his chest.

Frantically, Percy threw the axe aside. His fingers dug below his coat and after a second of desperate rifling, they clutched around something hard and he thrust his hand back into the night—

The symbol of a doorway, reflecting the light of a thousand different realities, all in one.

The image was…oddly familiar.

And then, he heard Vex’ahlia cry out. His head shot above the charred bark and he swiveled around, saw her stumble, saw a sword in her hand that he’d never seen before and saw her teeth grit, saw a chain rise—

He ran forward, cried, “Vex! Watch out!”

A burst of holy light exploded around his wife, enveloping her with a blazing, green glow. He watched, steps faltering, as her wounds began to close, as her posture straightened, her lips grinned, eyes narrowed—

She was back in the fight before Percy could recover. Of course she was, and her next strike was brutal—

He took a deep breath, steadied himself.

“T-Traveler?” he tried. “Was that…you?”

A voice, lilting, and soft and—

“Of course. Can’t have her falling, not now.”

—oddly, oddly familiar.

His eyes went wide. He whirled around.

“Artagan? Is that—is that you?!”

—

Ko-fi in bio✨ | Finished 5k fic prompts right here! 💜 Requests Are CLOSED!

#huehuehuehuehue #critical role #critfic #fic #critrole #cr2 #cr1 #vox machina #the mighty nein #CROSSOVER EDITION #jay writes #fanfic #long post #ficlet #jay fills requests #5k fic request #I HOPE YOU ENJOYED THIS AHHHHH #volarfinch #text

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dm-oran · 3 years

Text

The Apothecarist

One for the Road

The tavern was quiet, uncommon for The Copper Flagon. The bar’s customary patrons had shuffled off shortly after dusk, leaving the tavern’s tables towered in turned up stools. The establishment’s proprietor had made quick use of this time, however, tidying up his work space with a dampened rag and a bit of slouched muscle. He worked feverishly scrubbing at the sappy droppings of the establishment’s signature mead beneath tilted brew barrels.

“May I trouble you for a mug of that?”

The tavern keeper jolted in a quick fit of surprise. In his focused duties of bar maintenance, he’d must've missed the swing of the bar’s door or its auditory stop in its frame. He acknowledged this shock as he turned to his sole patron and said, “Huh, ya startled me, friend. Apologies. I didn’t hear you come in.” He rubbed the bar towel between his gruff hands in preparation of his liberal duties, “Guess I got distracted by my custodials.”

The bartender paused for a moment, locked in an aura of assessing his new guest. The man stood just over six feet with a slight slouch. His posture curved left in a favoring figure, huddled in a cloaken pile of burlap frock. His attire was wet and dirty, and visibly effected by the elements, taking on different shades of murky gray. Peaked from the nook of his heavy soaked hood lay a scruffy orange red beard. It hanged in a tangled mess of briar down to the middle of his chest with a single streak of silver darted down its center.

“Don’t worry for the distraction, sir. It happens to our best,” the patron responded as he leaned forward on his tucked left elbow and removed his burlap hood with his right hand. His was a face carved in its features; the most notable, a scar that seemed to create a bald patch in his hairline and continue down his temple into the middle of his right cheek. The hair that remained, was pulled back in a knotted braid of rusted orange and gray. “So, how about that mead?” he asked with a warm smile. His face smeared with dust, his kind disposition still glowing through with eyes blue as an ocean surface.

Snapping back to his duties, the bartender complied with a snapped pointer finger and immediate clutch of the bar’s signature vessel, a copper flagon. Gripping the broad mug-length wood handle, he poured the honey wine, elaborating about how the concoction was brewed with smoked orange peels, cinnamon, and vanilla bean. This fascinated the stranger, considering these ingredients were quite the anomaly for this region. He continued filling the copper mug, making short order of the flagon’s empty space.

Nodding impressed, the stranger complimented the bartender saying, “I can respect a craftsman who takes the time to build a perfect recipe.”

The bartender humbly rebutted, “I don’t know about perfect.” He then twisted the tap tight, limiting the liquid’s escape. Turning right round himself, the bartender escorted the spirited mug to his patron and placed it on the oaken railing to his front. “There were most certainly countless incarnations before this finished product, however. That’s for sure.”

Admiring the copper mug, the stranger smiles reflectively. "We've all the requirement of taking the long way round to perfect." Meeting its placement, the patron immediately complimented the motion with the offering of two gold coins. Shook, yet again by the patron’s actions, the bartender informed the man that his mead was only two silver pieces. The man simply smiled.

“If your mead is as delicious as its reputation precedes, then a couple gold coins hail in comparison to its deserved measure.” The man then lifted his mug in a gestured toast towards his bartender. “To the keeper of spirits: may his intoxicants cleanse us of our sins.” Then, before drinking, he made the same gesture towards the bar top in a single tapping motion. “And to this temple of libations, may her walls keep our stories as the breathable air.”

Then, in a calculated gesture, the man upturned his mug, and filled his mouth with the viscus amber grog. His eyes closed as the concoction rolled over his taste buds in what appeared to be a sort of swig of celebration. He slowly placed the copper mug back at its previous spot, marked by a ring of discoloration left by a touch of spillage. Slurping what was stuck in his mustache's bristles through his bottom lip, the man tilted his head in an approving nod and proclaimed the mead to be a “crowning achievement.”

“Do you maintain your own bees?”

“I do, as a matter of fact,” the bartender affirmed. “But a great deal of it is merely a byproduct of my own obsessive behavior.”

The man laughed. “Is this so?” He asked, while sipping another gulp of the quite floral mug, whose bouquet was so strong, it could easily be mistaken for a vase of freshly picked dandelions. Wiping his mouth with his palm he continued with his comedic inquisition. “You must have the bees on a rather tight regiment. What’s your secret? Do you hold their queen at ransom?” He added, with an ironically stoic grimace of a judge, “Succulence or death, drones. The choice is your own.”

They both laughed at the notion. During which time, the bartender took notice of the man’s exposed hand and the rings with which it was adorned. As he chuckled, the bartender counted three copper rings: one on the man’s pointer, one on the man’s middle finger, and the third on his little finger. The ring on his index was the most decorative of the three, with a blue crystal lens clutched by a dragon's claw. The second was a broader ring with square pieces of it carved out. The last was quite plain, short of a raised hook on its face. Each of the rings carried their own specific symbols. Each symbol completely indiscernible to him. But the bartender had seen many a man in similar haggard garbs, and none of them wore with them aesthetics such as these, or offered such eloquent conversation.

Cautiously continuing, the bartender confessed to simply being an anthrophile. He admitted to having a rather large greenhouse, in which he’d grown and tended to thousands of different breeds of flowers, where the bees were free to pollinate. “It’s through this obsessive need to tend to more and more of these beautiful plants that I am able to procure such flavorful honey. In my efforts, a symbiotic relationship has formed between myself and these little buggers, and so long as I keep giving them a means, they allow for me to take what I need to craft my mead.”

The bartender’s sentiment struck a chord with the man. “That’s wonderful. You know, I recently learned that the orange blooms from a flower. Is this tr-“

In a quick gesture of interjection, the bartender’s nod confirmed the man’s assumed theory. “That’s correct. Citrus sinensis is a small five pedaled white flower that blooms into the fruit.”

The man chuckled in amusement pulling another swig from his mug. Through his chuckle he recited, “Citrus sinensis,” in a humorous confirmation to himself. Then, drawing his attention back to the bartender he complimented him for his knowledge. To which, the bartender went on to explain that it was his business to know such things. He grew the oranges himself, along with the vanilla bean, and cinnamon. The stranger thought for a moment, processing, then told the bartender that there were few in the world who could truly appreciate his drive to ensure that something he would be offering was his absolute best. “There is no other way to be sure of the best possible outcome, than to master all aspects of it, and do it yourself.”

The bartender laughed, saying, “Yeah, so long as you can fit it all in a lifetime.”

The man looked up his brow to the bartender and in a vote of confidence replied, “One mustn’t depend on time, in service to the efforts of their life's goals. Time is but an illusion; a construct we men have created to hold governance over change. You mustn’t bend to time's will, but merely find the means to make time bend to yours.”

This frazzled the bartender, and for the first time since the man’s arrival, he wished they weren’t alone. He’d heard stories of other bartenders or patrons being attacked by random oddballs and never be seen again. But he had simply figured the stories to be exaggerations based around the city's location in relation to the Towering Oak. All forms of unknown magic had been supposedly practiced within the hedge line of that forest, and it had been known to bring the periodic crazy to the city of Winterstead in search of its secrets. More often than not, they'd be caught by the city guard in the midst of some back alley incantation with the innards of some traveler splayed in offering, and normally filled with food from the tavern.

The bartender focused. He was to stay vigilant. He was to stay professional. He was to stay polite. He was to see to his duties. But he must be ready to kill this man. If it be his choice, he mustn’t allow this man to choose for him.

This seemed the perfect time for the bartender to learn more of his solitary guest. Perhaps learning of the man’s destination or reasoning for patronage would give him the peace needed to calm whatever quelled fears were bubbled in his belly. Fear, as it was, was simply a result of limited understanding. He knew enough to know that. He would start with a name.

“Well listen,” the bartender started. “I never got around to giving you my name. The name’s Radegan. Sorry for not being more forthcoming with it. The lack of customers kind of has me off my game.”

The man was almost oblivious to Radegan’s introduction. Caring more for the bar’s limited occupancy, the man commented, “Yes, it is rather empty in here. I would assume this mead of yours would be enough of a catalyst to have even the common consumer bellied up for at least a single share of this divine drink; not to mention the varietal drunkard something so delectable would draw.”

He was right in his assumptions. If this was any other night of the year, the tavern would be wrought with customers. The Copper Flagon was a customary stop for any and all. Whether it was an Assembly of fresh soldiers to refit the city guard, traders set out from Thraudjaak and Alessjae, caravan crews in need of a break from the elements, or local merchants looking for a means to self-medicate and alleviate the isolation one could feel in such a secluded city. For though the city of Winterstead housed over 200 proud Magran citizens, a majority of them lived in service to the Junjaard Family and very rarely left the Queen's Keep. With this, the Copper Flagon had become a means of escape.

Not this night however. This night carried with it a certain importance. Everyone was expected up and sober, and moving bright and early. The following morning, a caravan would set out for the edge of the Towering Oak. On this caravan's manifest was a list of ten young boys and girls; five and five. The Magran Army would be escorting them to the Queen's oracles to serve as apprentices. These types of trips occurred once a year, around the first snowfalls of winter, and were not too uncommon for the Magran soldiers and teamsters who tended to the caravans. It would not be too farfetched to see them in the Copper Flagon until the earlier parts of the following morning just to finish out their drunk with the quick assembly of a passenger car’s cargo and immediate slumber after departure. Many of the outpost’s crewmembers could follow the routines of these trips with still the sweet haze of fermented honey wafting from their breaths, but this occasion was a touch more important. For what you must realize, the reason for the emptiness and due diligence, was that a member of the Royal Family would be accompanying them.

The word had spread through the ranks of servicemen; as soldiers, teamsters, and stewards began sharing their tidbits of disseminated guidelines for the upcoming trek. The biggest of the bunch being that the apprentices were to be escorted into the Towering Oak by the Royal Family member, alone. During which time, the caravan personnel were to wait at the outskirts of the forest for said Royal Family member to return from the exchange. This was enough of a fire to light a sense of urgency in everyone involved with the caravan. Especially the Assembly Captains who tasked out their forces to up armor and fortify the wagons in preparation for any assault, be it supernatural of a simple Khulai Seditionist ambush.

Radegan, being the town’s bartender, was also the town’s keeper of secrets. He knew of logistical concerns involving a royal passenger, but tried his best to limit his reception of information for instances such as this; where he would find himself abreast a stranger with nothing but a belly of butterflies to guide his translucence. It was his civic duty to keep these secrets. Knowing this, Radegan probed further with his questions.

“What business have you in Winterstead?” Radegan scouted the man’s expression for any tells to his true motives, but saw nothing apart from spacklings of dirty and smeared clean spots from the man’s recent mead consumption.

“One last hoorah for chivalry.”

The man’s words were as cryptic as his countenance.

The bartender probed further. “That what brought you in here? Chivalry?”

The stranger laughed heartily. “No,” he continued with a throat clearing cough. “I’m in here for the mead, of course, and a conversation. One for the road, they say.” The man pauses for a moment, as though to glance at a memory. After a blink, he asked, “You ever hear that phrase?” He shuffled and shifted his weight further onto his left elbow. Raising his mug to take another drink he continues, “You being a bartender on a trade route, I’m sure you’ve heard that saying before, right?”

Radegan nodded. His face juxtaposed to his heart rate, as his anxieties pumped in his chest, a demeanor of patient observation masked the mounting fears of possibility. All he could do was hold himself together.

“Are you familiar with its origin?” The man asked with a slightly callous tone, wiping what missed his mouth with his ring strung hand after putting the mug to rest back on the bar.

Radegan imagined a duck. He would see them a great deal in his youth. His family maintained a homestead just south of the Lady's Waters where a great many water fowl would claim it for their home on the warmer seasons. He remembered the ducks' faces, expressionless, as they would glide over the surface of the water in such graceful fluidity. He would wonder how they would be able to move so fast on the water's surface with nothing but their tail feathers to move them. It was not until some years later, that his mother taught him that the ducks move on the water's surface with such speed because of their feet frantically kicking under the surface. It was this unseen effort that got these birds around the water's surface. And much like these fowls' means of conveyance, as Radegan held together a calm demeanor, underneath, the feet were kicking, preparing for the next move.

“It’s something to do with a last drink before heading into war, is it not? [This man means to kill me.] Something to do with the idea of liquid courage, if I’m not mistaken. [There is nothing to stop this man from killing me where I stand.] Soldiers believed alcohol had empowering spirits of confidence and fortitude, right? [The city guard cannot save me out here.] Gave them a fighting edge? [I am all alone.]”

The man chuckled with a hint of glee. He’d brought something new to this learned tender’s scope. “You are mistaken,” the man added. “Clever deduction. But still mistaken.” He swallowed another glub of mead. “Before a man is executed, he’s allotted one last drink before they drag the poor bastard out into the center of town for all to watch his head leave his neck. They give him his drink before leading him out onto the cobbles. Since they can’t be marched through the masses, the crowds form a sort a thoroughfare. That pathway becomes the last road they ever venture down. That drink is for that last trip. It’s that, ‘one for the road.’”

Concerned, the bartender asked, “So, that what you're doing here? You're headed to an execution?” Slowly leaning forward, Radegan grabbed hold of a small blade he had hidden just under the railing of the bar. He knew not if the man was there to rob him, kill or dismember him for information or pleasure; but he knew that he was ready to defend himself.

“Yes.” The stranger took another swallow. Clearing his throat, the man finished, “Just not my own.”

In a flash, the bartender had made the decision that his life held more value than this copper ringed stranger and had unleashed with the dagger. Radegan had spent a collection of hours practicing this very swipe. The air of quiet, late nights was filled with fumbled slashing sounds and grunts. He practiced thousands of swipes, each time a faceless silhouette receiving his wrath. His every movement slowly evolved into a quick stabbing motion that when done right, would cross space faster than sight. This moment was the culmination of these trained attacks.

As the blade carved a crescent, Radegan lunged at the strange man without a thought as to what would follow. The blade led his arm in a vanishing momentum, trapped in a blurred series of frames. This was not the night for this thug. This was the night that Radegan proved his measure beyond the soldiers' depiction of the “boy who fawned for flowers.” His hand shook from the ferocity of his grip. The blade punctured the man’s throat. At the point of impact, and recognition of, Radegan looked to what he’d done to find the blade had disappeared.

Radegan felt a small tickle in his palm. He pulled his elbow back, twisting his wrist to bring his palm into view. He opened his fingers loose from his palm in a cascading manner; with his pinky in the lead, his ring and middle were quick to follow. It was then, a bee emerged from the hollow of his hand. Overcome with shock and fear, the bartender's knees fell weak and he slumped back into his bar’s back. His neatly organized copper mugs caught his fall taking the brunt of it as a couple fell to the floor.

All the while, the stranger watched with an almost disinterested face. The perplexed bartender, who had only heard of Transmutation spells was well outside of his comfort. What he had just seen was taking him much longer to make sense of than his ego would have allowed. Never did he think that something so complex could be achieved so quickly, and all by reaction.

The man remained stoic. Expressionless. He took another drink from his mug. He spoke.

“I’ve done many a horrible things in my life, Radegan. At this point, I stand to gain nothing from the murder of such a masterful brewer as you.” Then, sliding two more gold coins loose from his garb, the man asked for another flagon.

Radegan however, had reservations about these pieces. He had caught a glimpse of the man’s power, and was now trying to deduce if these were just another part of the man’s magic. He eyeballed them from the back counter.

“Those real?”

The corners of the man’s rusted out mustache rose for a moment. The question had made the man smile. “Probably.” With his first two fingers resting atop the stacked coins, he split them in a V. In doing so, the two coins separated from their stack and joined a corresponding finger.

“What is real, if not the result of probable?”

As the stranger began sliding the two coins closer to the bartender, Radegan saw the man’s copper rings. The sigils were far more visible, but no more decipherable. The rings were etched in series of runic symbols. Even the ring on his pointer, with the dragon's claw clutching the crystal lens, appeared to be attached to a second ring that seemed to swivel under the lens. The second, more bulbous of the three, looked to have carved out slots and rivets under and around the engravings. The third, seemed to have more than the one hook on its face, and in fact, was adorned in what looked like three separate hooks that each corresponded to a different runic symbol.

The man then cleared his throat, bringing Radegan’s focus back to his tending duties. He then turned right round and retrieved a copper flagon from the counter and began filling it with the spirited honey.

Nervously dispensing the mead, Radegan admitted his frailty, apologizing for his attempted murder. Confessing his fears and suspicions of the man, but concluding by saying, “I could call the city guard, ya know. I'm sure they'd be interested to know there's a wizard snooping around Her Majesty's winter home."

"You could. But you won't."

Through the gasping sound of the mug’s filling, the man suddenly asked, “Have you any children, Radegan?”

“I do, actually,” he nervously responded. “I’ve a little girl. She’ll be one this coming spring.”

“That’s wonderful,” the man celebrated as Radegan finished his pour, then two step venture to the bartop. “Do her mother and she live here in camp with you?”

“No,” Radegan answered somberly while placing the flagon on the bar between the stranger’s nearly empty mug and the two gold coins. He peaked through his eye’s corner and found the man’s fingers still resting atop the coinage. This was only for a moment, though. Radegan had figured the man would’ve seen the glance and he did not want to draw much attention to it, and continued on about his family. “They live in the capital. I jump on a caravan every spring season to see them. I bring what money I’ve made. It's meager. But every bit helps.”

Radegan stopped for a moment in what was either recollection or resentment. The stranger was not sure.

“That must be hard,” the stranger uttered. “The capital is by no means an affordable place to live. Perhaps the two of you should speak about a change.”

Radegan scoffed. “That is much easier said than done, sir. My wife has what is referred to as a ‘Contractual Obligation.’”

The man understood immediately. Radegan’s wife was owned by either a family of noble descent, or by a Madam of the Chamber. Based on his countenance, it was safe to assume she served a Madam. But, neither lives were ideal when considering that the poor woman was held to the same object standards as furniture. The only assurances were that such a life could be temporary if enough coin could be amassed.

“Every coin counts, then,” the stranger hinted, drawing his deep blue eyes to the coins on the bartop. Their position, much like moon phases sat side by side; trapped under the tips of his fingers.

Radegan looked to the coins wedged under the man’s fingers. He hesitantly lowered his fingers to mirror the stranger’s. As he lowered them down, he quivered in concern and confusion as to what would happen. He thought of the odd and horrible things he may be morphed into, and how foolish he would be to take those coins. But those coins were a means to an end, so he placed his fingers on their edges to pull them free.

And in doing so, the two coins began to rattle and vibrate. Suddenly, each stack began to grow as coins multiplied and plopped to stacks of twenty. As they began replicating and piling atop themselves, the bartender stood in awe of the spectacle, for never had he seen coins of gold be manifest from pure will before this day. Resounding in a towering echo reminiscent to a shuffled deck of card, the stacks rose the width of a man’s fist.

“Is this enough to buyout your wife’s bed space?” the stranger asked while replacing his empty mug with Radegan’s most recent offering. He raised its edge to his lips and drank. The coins remained in two perfect twenty coin high stacks; flush.

Radegan stood speechless.

The man grinned. “Or do you need more?”

Upon asking the question, the stacks grew another sixty coins higher, tripling the towering coins’ height. With the inflation, Radegan’s eyes expanded. He’d never seen so much in so small a space. Such magic, yet such empathy. But how?

“You love them, don’t you?”

Snapping his gaze back to the scarred man's face. Radegan asked for confirmation of whom he was speaking.

"Your wife and child." The man confirmed. "You love them, don't you?"

Radegan began to feel emotional. His vision glassed, as his eyes welled with tears with to confirmation that ‘yes, [he] did love them.’

“You would do anything for them, wouldn’t you?”

Radegan wept at the sensation of his love. Such strong feelings welled up. So many instances of longing being repressed for the sake of the people around him and their grievances. He sobbed, softly sucking in panicked breaths as he confirmed that ‘yes [he] would do anything for them.’

“Good,” the stranger acknowledged. “Then you’re going to hear a story. That is how you are going to save your family, Radegan. You are going to listen to this story. And when it is through, you will have the means necessary to rescue your family from the lives to which they have been victims.” The stranger looked at the befuddled bartender with a raised brow. “Do you understand?”

Radegan nodded.

“Good,” the stranger continued. “With that being said, let me tell you the story of Duron Huemfrai: the Apothecarist.”

#fantasy writing #storytelling #fiction #storyteller #MonsteredMan

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quartermastersawbones · 4 years

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i was staying behind on the ship in case an emergency happened, since we were selling stuff at the reaper’s hideout. to be helpful i was taking our loot and setting it by the ladder so the crew could grab it easier. when i set down our chest of a thousand grogs though, it just completely disappeared. nobody knew where it went. it just VANISHED and we were all like “oh well i guess!”

4 hours later and this is where i found it.

#sea of thieves #got it out with a harpoon once we all stopped marveling at it

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pikelansource · 5 years

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Happy pikelan day!

Modern adventuring au where Scanlan used to be in a famous boy band when he was in his teens and early 20s. And it was one of those situations where there was a very public meltdown and breakup and an ill-fated attempt at revival when several of the members were hurried out of rehab for an international tour that didn’t pan out.

And he went into musical recluse. Writing songs for some people but growing a beard, trying to be there for his daughter, staying out of the limelight.

But also taking bardic jobs with different teams for several years. Until he keeps working with the team who eventually becomes Vox Machina.

He never intended to tell them who he used to be but he’s a bard and it’s not like he can avoid singing forever.

So one day Vex storms in to the diner they have breakfast meetings in and slams her phone on the table, playing one of the many videos of boy band Scanlan, going “Ha! I knew it!” And the jig is up. And he winds up having to spill a lot about his real life.

Amongst the razzing he gets it’s a revival of discussions he never wanted to hear again— such as, who the hottest one in his group? which contemporary boyband was better? like really what bad illegal things happened on tour? do you still talk to the hot one (the one Scanlan was a better singer and performer than but who was taller and blond and a better dancer and went on to have a multi platinum solo career? No they’re not in touch.)

Vex and Keyleth keep singing the chorus to some of the hits. Not even maliciously, absentmindedly, which is worse than the teasing. Grog and Vax however never miss an opportunity to make boyband joke. Even Percy makes an off hand jibe about that time he’d had highlights that actually makes Scanlan feel a bit wounded. And stuffy ass waspy Percy dunking on him in a way that worked marks as the lowest point of revealing his past to his friends.

Without Scanlan even noticing himself he, sort of, stops singing. He sticks to silly, downright irritating quick and simple inspirational riffs and rhymes. He’s not really going to any effort like he might have a few times for these people.

It’s not even something he notices really until one day Pike sits down next to him on the street, where he’s sitting with a drink, not drinking it, outside of Vex and Vax’s, where a party is going on inside.

And she says, “I didn’t really listen to pop music. Back in high school. So if it makes you feel any better I never read about you in Teen Vogue.”

He laughs but he’s not really in it. Because fuck. He didn’t even think about That. Pike was his age. Boy bands by nature of what they were, attracted younger fans. So while of course Keyleth and Vex knew all the radio hits, Pike had been a level headed Pike-teen at the time. She would’ve been inclined to think of him as a joke before they even met.

Then in a softer, closer voice, she says, “if you want, I’ll make sure no one brings it up again.”

Part of him is mildly alarmed that it’s so obvious he’s bothered by it. He’s not faking it good enough, which has never been a problem before. But he shakes his head. “It’s not even them. Not really.”

When he doesn’t speak she just presses against him, knocking her shoulder into his.

“Sometimes it’s just hard to know you peaked before you were a legal adult. I’ll never be as famous as I was when I was a stupid kid, when I didn’t know what to do with it. For something I wasn’t even that good at. That I didn’t even really enjoy, because I never got a break, not even at parties. I’m a better musician now. I wasn’t even that bad back then, but none of that matters when you’re just ‘the funny guy’ in a boy band. I’m always going to be some schmuck kid from Teen Beat, no matter what I say or do.”

“Scanlan,” she says by way of admonishment but doesn’t have the usual laugh in it. “You didn’t peak. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you.”

It’s a sentiment he’s heard before but it never once gave him a sense of relief or freedom or whatever it was supposed to give him. So he doesn’t say anything. Just stares ahead.

Until Pike slips her hand into his and squeezes. “I’m sorry we all teased you about it, but for us it’s only funny because... none of us can even imagine what being a famous pop sensation is like. It’s, well, sensational. What you do now, for us, with us, for your daughter... that matters so much more, Scanlan. It’s impossible for you to have peaked then when you’re so much more important to us now.”

There’s a huge mass of something lodged in his chest. But he musters enough breath to say “Thanks” and squeezes her hand back.

“I can still tell everyone not to bring it up again. But we’re all just a little jealous.”

He shrugs. “It wasn’t really a great time. I had to work all the time and I was never alone. Lots of creepy industry execs, lots of paparazzi, hangers on.”

“Yeah, I guess we just don’t think of that in the peanut gallery.”

“I did a lot of drugs and had a lot more sex than a teenager probably should.

“Well, I mean I figured Kaylie came from somewhere.”

“Not a lot of be jealous of, is my meaning. Except for the money. Which I wasted a lot of.”

“I mean you did once spend, like, what was it? A hundred thousand dollars on a purple-ly fancy guitar? That you didn’t even play on stage except once in Europe.”

Scanlan stares at her for a long moment as the most mischievous smile breaks across her face.

“It was a custom Les Paul and it was only fifty thousand.”

“Oh well that’s much more reasonable.”

“I thought you didn’t read anything about me in Teen Vogue. I thought you weren’t into pop music.”

Pike shrugs too nonchalantly with a non-subtle innocence. “There were other magazines you were in.”

Pike stands up abruptly but but reaches a hand down for Scanlan.

He doesn’t really have any other option than to take it.

#pikelan #scanlan shorthalt #pike trickfoot #fic #critical role #au #modern au #long post #pikelan day

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chroniclesofthesevenflames · 5 years

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Grogleth Thoughts Pt. 4

Who is ready for more Grogleth headcanon? You too? Great! Let's Go.

***

Grog and Keyleth's first real fight is an absolute battle. Literally. Grog refuses to budge and Keyleth will not listen. So they fight. She turns into a Rock Elemental and he rages and they throw punches and yell and scream and tear apart a section of the forest around their home. When they tire out, they finally lose the will to argue and talk it out. Honest words that soothe and sting. And when they are finished, they are even stronger.

Keyleth likes to surprise Grog with new flowers. He doesn't know the meaning behind a lot of them, but the smile on her face makes him feel a thousand feet tall, so he takes them every time. He takes the flowers and tries to plant them again to make sure they stay alive. It doesn't work, but she appreciates the sentiment. The years pass and they age, the smile stays and the feeling in his chest grows. When he's old and weak, she hands him flowers with the biggest smile she's ever worn and tears in her eyes, and he goes to see Kord feeling like he could challenge a god again.

Grog and Keyleth have two kids: Luka and Faena. Luka is a soft and loving rail of a boy, with hair like a blazing fire and free and wild spirit. He lives in the trees and weeds, a friend to everything in the woods. Keyleth teaches him how to move the earth at will and command the elements as he sees fit. She gifts him with the Spire when he completes his own Aramente, and she believes it is the best hands possible.

Faena is the quiet side of her mother mixed with her father's rage. She trains with him to fight, to learn and to be with him. She is a daddy's girl through and through and Grog is infinitely proud of her. He gives her his blood axe when she turns thirteen, and the Titanstone Knuckles when she becomes a hero in her own right.

#critical role #grog strongjaw #keyleth #critical role fan fiction #grogleth #i love them #fanfic #headcanon

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fenriersden · 5 years

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Daily Art 95! ✨ A couple of my favorite things from Sea of Thieves. Salty and the Chest of a Thousand Grogs! ✨ #dailyart #digitalart #procreate #seaofthieves #fanart #art https://www.instagram.com/p/ByYj9tbHioE/?igshid=rd4wvonf4ok4

#dailyart #digitalart #procreate #seaofthieves #fanart #art

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alexandralyman · 6 years

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Fic Update - Between Heaven & Hell

Summary - A Hook/Emma angel/demon AU. They hide in plain sight, the servants of heaven and hell. The angels and the demons, who can save your soul or damn it. They stand on opposite sides, they are the bringers of light and the agents of darkness, they are enemies in an eternal war, but what happens when an angel and a demon are inexplicably drawn to each other?

This chapter on AO3 here and on ff.net here

Part Twenty-One

Caribbean Sea - 1802

The white sails rose high against a cloudless sky, rippling loud as thunder and snapping taut in the wind. The sea breeze raked through his hair like a lover's eager caress while he stood at the helm, watching the unending line of the horizon in the distance and holding their course towards the isle that bore the French colony of Saint-Domingue. The island itself was not yet visible to the naked eye, not even to Killian's gaze, far keener than that of any of the mortal sailors who worked the lines, pumped the bilges and swabbed the deck under his command. They were a rough crew, made up of deserters and thieves and degenerates, a hard-drinking, gambling, whoring group of men who were all guilty right down to the marrow of their bones of a multitude of sins. But they all feared Captain Hook, known in every port from the northern reaches of the Carolina coast down to Rio de Janeiro for his ruthless methods and black heart, a heart - that it was whispered quietly below decks over one too many cups of grog - was not human.

That same dark heart beat a bit faster in his chest with the rise and fall of the ship on the waves, the narrow prow cutting easily through the white swells like a hot knife through butter. With nothing but the sea and the sky surrounding him on all sides it was the closest a demon like him could get to flying, with the whistle of the wind in his ears and the warmth of the sun on his face. If he closed his eyes he could barely feel the planks under his feet or the smooth wood under his hands for a brief moment that seemed to last for an eternity. His initial foray into the Caribbean sea trade had started as nothing more than a whim, an opportunity to invest some capital, add to his considerable fortune and he found the tropical weather to be much more to his taste than the chill of the drab and damp European winters. But Killian had found to his surprise that he genuinely enjoyed sailing for its own sake as well. There was a subtle art to it, in the rise and fall of the sails to make the most of the breeze, in the turn of the hull into ancient currents that led right to the four corners of the globe. North, south, east, or west, under the crimson flag of piracy it was all just pure freedom. The chains that bound him were not the shackles worn by the mortal souls helplessly trapped in the most inhuman of bondage practiced in the whole of history, his irons went unseen by all by him. He felt the weight of them nonetheless, and the burn of the invisible brand that marked him for what he was. Forever damned, with no hope of salvation in this world or the next, his master's leash was long but the collar could not be pried from his neck.

Yet out on the open sea, with the salt in his throat and the spray on his skin, he forgot all of that for a little while.

A flash of gold caught his eye and he looked down to the foredeck, where the angel stood with her back to him. A crewman carefully inched past her, a bear of a man with hands roughly the size of ham hocks and heavily tattooed forearms that were ropy and corded with muscle. He spent as much time in gaol as he did at sea thanks to a temper that could be provoked with nothing more than a curious look, but when Emma flicked her divine gaze to him he merely reached up and lifted his hat to her as if she were a noblewoman come to survey her domain before scurrying away with the back of his neck flushed as red as a whore's rouge. Speculation about the mysterious Lady Swan and her purpose on the ship was rife among the crew, as the single passenger on a voyage where they were carrying no cargo, no smuggled casks of spirits or undocumented silks to be found in the empty hold. It was clear that the haste in which they had departed Tortola was all because of her, the men recalled from the brothels and the gaming dens on his order to ready the ship for the journey with no expense spared in the process. Their curiosity went unsatisfied, Killian was not in the habit of confiding in his crew and none of them dared to ask too many questions of the scourge of the seas, lest his ira, his dark wrath turn upon them, and the wrath of a demon was far more terrifying than the fiercest storm.

Emma had boarded the ship very late at night, emerging through the thick fog that had rolled in over the harbour with the hood of her dove-grey cloak covering her hair and her gloved hand reaching easily for his when he held it out to assist her in stepping from the gangplank to the deck. Mr. Smee had already drunkenly spread the tale of the captain's latest presumed conquest to the crew as Killian knew he would and there was some knowing looks and furtive glances exchanged among them, along with the unmistakeable flare of rising lust in the air underneath the brine of the sea. Luxuria, a commodity in the ports as much as salt beef and ale, where men vastly outnumbered the women and the pleasure houses did as brisk a business as any of the more respectable merchants along the wharves. He gave a warning glare with just the barest flash of red in his eyes that made them all back off, his hand curled possessively around Emma's elbow. It was more for show than anything, she was more powerful than the lot of them put together and then some, but the crew only saw her as a woman with the tantalizing curves of breast and hip hinted at under her close-fitting gown. His little display was enough to let them know without words that she was the captain's honoured guest and was not available to slake their lust during the long nights that lay ahead on the dark ocean. The ache in their loins would go uneased by feminine companionship, they would have to make due with the relief found by their own hands or with buggering each other until they made port again and they all slunk dejectedly away from Emma like rats from the light.

She had her own cabin for the journey, second best on the ship after his own. It was small, but he'd had it scrubbed clean for her arrival and adorned with a large bunch of lilies that he'd impulsively bought in the marketplace earlier that day. Killian had first been drawn to the goldsmith's wares, examining necklaces and bracelets set with Brazilian emeralds and shimmering opals and other precious gems. But he remembered how the pearl earrings he'd tried to tempt her with in France had been rejected and didn't think she'd be willing to accept any jewellery from a demon's hands. Greed, avaritia, was clearly not the way to win over an angel. The flowers had been sold by a child in bare feet and a ragged calico dress, her thin arms dirty and scratched. Children typically shied away from him, even the boldest young pickpocket didn't dare to attempt to lift his purse, but the girl with tangled hair veiling her eyes and hollow cheeks had plucked at his sleeve and stared right into his startled face without flinching away. An innocent young soul, bearing the floral symbol of the Holy Virgin herself in her arms. Lilies of the field were far from diamonds or pearls, but those hadn't worked. Perhaps a more modest gift would succeed instead.

The child snatched the coin from his palm almost quicker than even he could blink and thrust the whole bunch at him before darting back into the crowd and disappearing from his view. He'd only intended to buy one, but he shrugged and handed them to his servant to carry back to the ship. No sense in letting them wither away shut up in the darkness of his own cabin and Emma had noticed them at once when he'd escorted her to what were usually the purser's quarters. The bed was made up with fresh linen and the floor was swept clean, while the flowers threatened to spill out of a large silver cup stamped with with his own serpentine monogram and worth more than a month's wages to a common sailor.

"To browse in the garden and to gather the lilies."

Killian immediately recognized the bit of Scripture the angel quoted softly to herself in the small room, completely unconcerned by the presence of a demon nearby and touching a petal with one finger before turning to face him with a smile.

"Gratias tibi ago, Captain."

For some reason he felt a twinge at the words of thanks, strangely bashful at her acknowledgement of his humble offering.

"They're just flowers, milady."

Emma had given him a speculative look and pushed back her hood, revealing the golden halo of her hair and making the breath catch in his throat.

"Not just for the flowers."

They'd been at sea for three days and two nights and still had not spoken of the true purpose of the journey to Saint-Domingue. So many of the islands in the Caribbean Sea were named for saints, for the glory of martyrs long dead while the gravest sin of all flourished like the lilies under the harsh yellow sun. The beauty of the lush vegetation and the tropical blooms didn't fully mask the ugliness that lay underneath, empires rose on the backs of serfs since the first man had risen to stand on the backs of others and crowned himself king. Killian knew what was raging on the isle named for a holy servant of God, a rebellion inspired by the people of France and the toppling of a dynasty that claimed to rule by divine right. The slave uprising was not the first such outbreak in the colonies, but none of the others had lasted nearly as long or come as close to succeeding, nor had they been as violent. Hundreds if not thousands had already died, whites, slaves and those born of mixed blood, the Angel of Death had come for them all and spared not fragile babes in arms nor the most hearty of men. The situation in Saint-Domingue was a topic of discussion in rough taverns and elegant drawing rooms both, but Emma was utterly silent on the subject when they sat down to dinner in his quarters and shared bread and meat and wine like the lovers the rest of the crew assumed them to be. He did nothing to dissuade them of the notion that the beautiful Lady Swan was his newest mistress, letting the rumours go unchecked belowdecks while he wondered alone in the privacy of his empty bed why she had chosen to seek out a demon and ask his assistance in her endeavor. It seemed that He was not the only one who worked in mysterious ways.

The wind kissed the hollow of his throat and his lips tasted of salt, but he thirsted not for water or wine. His own lust burned hot in his veins and his thoughts turned to the carnal, a dark longing that had not fully abated since that first chaste touch of an angel's hand to his cheek in a virgin's bedchamber and he'd known what it was to experience a miracle. Her skin could touch his without injury to either of them, her lips could breathe the air from his lungs and he wanted - needed - to know if he could press his mouth to the flutter of her pulse and make the blood underneath rise to his touch, wanted to feel her delicate white hands exploring where angels should fear to tread and to see if the divine and the damned could become one without destroying them both. He would have once thought such a thing utterly impossible if he had even bothered to entertain the notion at all (which he hadn't) but he found that something had changed over the centuries since that night in Rome. Darkness was bound to consume the light, and yet he had slipped free of those bonds for a moment and felt for the first time that he might be capable of something more.

They were sailing to the west, into the setting sun. The sky darkened to indigo while the sea ahead almost appeared to be on fire, reflecting orange and red tongues of flame that licked at the hull of the ship until the sun finally slipped below the horizon. Night fell swiftly so far out on the ocean with no hint of welcoming shore in the distance. But the stars were brilliant, and looked almost close enough to touch if one was to climb the ship's rigging all the way to the top and reach for them. Killian turned the helm over to Smee with a quiet order to hold their course and made his way down to the foredeck, where Emma was standing with a white lace shawl draped somewhat haphazardly over her shoulders and slipping down her bare arms, fluttering in the breeze. The temperature had dropped considerably, even this far south the nights could be be surprisingly cool at times. Especially on the open water with no shelter from the elements, his heavy coat was meant to provide the warmth he didn't need and he wondered if angels felt the cold. Yellow cones of light illuminated the deck, the crew had lit the lanterns when the sun went down and the kerosene flames held the darkness at bay. He moved on silent feet, the light faltering around him and shadows flaring out from under the leather that swirled around his knees. She had to have sensed his approach, if she could feel him the way he felt her as the distance between them narrowed until he was standing right behind her. The waves crashed loud against the hull and the ship rocked with sudden violence, as if in warning against his blasphemous thoughts. Captain Hook paid it no heed, though the men on deck muttered oaths and fought to hold their footing against the movement. Emma was as still as a statue, marble-white arms pale and as finely sculpted as any of the stone angels who stood silent guard over the churches and cathedrals he did not enter.

"I can hear them."

Her voice was low, intimate, the words were clearly meant only for him and not for the crewmen who were still skulking around on deck, shadows in the mist that surrounded them. Killian blinked, confused by the quiet confession.

"Who?" he asked.

"All of them. Saint-Domingue, Martinique, Kingston...they cry out and no one listens. But I can always hear them."

Angels heard the prayers of mortal souls, he knew that and yet he hadn't really considered how that divine gift was also something of a curse. To always be listening to the pain and misery and suffering that mankind was adept at causing itself, he saw it, he was the cause of it, wherever he went, his corruption rotting them from the inside out, but it was easy enough to tune it all out.

She turned to face him then, silvered by the moonlight and her eyes were the marbled green of sea glass, gemstones born not of fire and earth, but of tides and time. They drew him in despite the danger, or maybe because of it. He could set the whole ship aflame and emerge unscathed from the conflagration while it burned right to ash, but he wasn't meant to look into the light.

"A heavy burden, for such a slender back to carry."

He hooked a thumb in his belt while he spoke and rocked back slightly on his heels, "Emma," he said, soft and imploring, "Tell me why I am taking you to Saint-Domingue."

"Because I asked?"

She wasn't wrong, but his frustration clearly showed on his face and her own flashed with what he thought was guilt.

"Captain-"

"No," he snapped, and that sea-glass gaze darted away for a moment before she pushed her shawl back up her shoulder and met his eyes again, "You ask this of me, you drink my wine and share my company, you say that you can hear me, when we both know that should be utterly impossible, so do me the courtesy of calling me by my name!"

The flame of his anger licked hot along his spine and would have made any of the crewman flinch and cower under the force of it, but the angel was more defiant.

"Yes, I hear you, Killian, I hear you and I answer! I can answer you, but I can't answer them! I can hear them, but I can't save them on my own and that's why I needed your ship to take me there."

The anger leaked away at once at the sight of the tears in her eyes, even as the sound of his name from her lips made him shudder under the dark leather of his coat while his blood ran even hotter. Killian tamped down his lust, the last thing he needed right now was for another succubus to appear like a siren from the waves and wreak as much havoc as Zelena did in Paris before Emma struck her down.

"I can't save them."

It went suddenly quiet around them when she said it again, the whip of the wind turning into a dead calm that settled over the ship. They were practically toe-to-toe on the deck and he wasn't sure if he had moved or if it had been her, but the space between them had shrunk down to almost nothing and the hairs on the back of his neck rose.

Heaven and hell were not meant to stand so close.

He tipped her chin up and ran his thumb under the curve of her jaw, feeling the velvety slip of her skin under his cautious hand. The contrast of the heat from his body and the cooler ocean air had them shrouded in fog that hid them from view, but he was acutely aware of the fact that they weren't alone. Emma stared up at him, unflinching at his touch. Her hair was loose down her back like a maiden's and the muslin gown she wore was unadorned by embroidery or trim, falling in loose folds to the deck but low-necked enough to display a creamy swath of firm bosom pushed up high by the stays underneath. Any man on the ship would have had her on her back in a heartbeat if they thought they could get away with it, but he wanted to fall down on his knees at the vision before him.

"Then why do you go, if you can't save them?"

She didn't answer and the wind picked up again, stirring the hem of her gown about her slim ankles and filling the mainsail into a white wing against the obsidian sky.

"Why do you not trade in slaves, Killian?"

As the respectable Captain K. Jones of Jones Shipping Limited he transported sugarcane and textiles and other trade goods legally aboard his flagship, The Jewel of the Realm. As the brigand known as Captain Hook, he sailed under the crimson flag instead and smuggled uncut gems, seditious books and casks of newly-distilled rum, bribing customs inspectors and port officials to look the other way as he moved contraband from the islands to the mainland and back again, but in neither guise did he traffic in the highly lucrative movement of slaves.

"Does that surprise you?" he asked, leather creaking over his shoulders as they dropped and his hand fell back down to his side.

The corner of her mouth quirked and she looked him up and down, "You are a pirate," she teased gently, her real meaning clear.

His own voice was more serious, "Aye, that I am. And those who sail with me are sinners bound to spend eternity in chains forged by their own hands, but they are all here of their own free will. Slavery is a dark stain on the soul of mankind worse than any corruption wrought by me, there is no greater sin than this belief that one man can own another body and soul. Judge them for the evil they do to each other, but do not lay their crimes so neatly at my feet and blame me for their moral failings. I can only tempt them to fall, I don't push them over the edge. They choose to jump."

His shadow fell over her face and dipped down into the neckline of her gown in a soft caress that he could almost feel with his fingertips while he spoke. Killian took a step back, letting it fall away and leaving her in a pool of moonlight. It laid a path in front of the ship as neat as a line on a map, rippling with the waves and shining bright on the dark sea. Man had always looked to the stars and followed where they led. His own master had been a shining light in the heavens, once, eons ago.

The angel led and he followed, down into the bowels of the ship and to the narrow door that led to her borrowed quarters. He leaned one shoulder on the wall and watched as she pushed it open, swinging silently on oiled hinges and revealing the small, unlit space within. The lilies still sat in the silver cup, open in full bloom despite the lack of sun.

But then, they had another celestial being to nurture them instead.

"What happens if you cease?"

Emma turned, her brow creased in confusion and one hand resting lightly on the doorjamb, "Cease what?"

"Listening."

He had an inkling of just what would occur that was practically confirmed by the flicker of gold behind her eyes and the sudden curl of her fingers into the wood. The thought was filed away for later, when he could peruse it fully at his leisure and figure out how to use it to his advantage. But for now he only shrugged and pushed off the wall, flicking a dismissive hand in the air.

"No matter. After all, I would greatly despair if you ever ceased listening to me."

It kept him awake for the rest of the night, alone in his own quarters with an open bottle of rum on the table and the gentle rock of the ship underneath him. Stripped to the waist and barefoot, he tilted back in his chair and balanced it perfectly without any support while he contemplated silently in the unnaturally deep gloom that surrounded him.

Nothing he had said to Emma on the deck had been a lie, he had not borne false witness. Like the simple flowers that had been accepted while rich jewels were spurned, his honesty had been rewarded with some very interesting bits of information that was as much currency as coin. But these were to be hoarded instead of spent, and he turned her words over and over again in his mind and examined them carefully from all angles. She could hear him. Spain hadn't been a fluke and his suspicion in that chapel at Versailles had been correct, when he'd called out without words and she'd paused in her flight from the palace. He couldn't be saved, but she heard him anyway.

And more than that, she could answer.

Demons could be summoned unwillingly, with the proper incantation. It wasn't easy and it usually required a sacrifice of some kind, a precious object or a blood offering, along with reciting the demon's true name, but it could be done if the summoner was determined enough. Most of his kind guarded their names closely as a result, using titles and aliases to keep their real identities carefully hidden. The dealmaker Rumpelstiltskin was the Dark One, even the cackling succubus Zelena had been known as the Wicked Witch before her not so untimely demise in Paris. Captain Hook was his latest moniker, and not a man on his ship knew that his name was actually Killian. If he were to be summoned with it, he would have no choice but to go to whoever called him to their side and even be forced to do their bidding, if the summoner was powerful enough. But that was rare, most had to offer even more for the favours he could grant, desiring wealth, power, pleasures of the flesh, and were willing to trade their own immortal souls for earthly delights, the bloody fools.

Angels were not bound by the same laws as demons, they couldn't be compelled to appear against their will nor could they be controlled. If any demon discovered a way to summon an angel and force their compliance, they would have unimaginable power that all of them would covet for their own.

Emma came to him in Spain.

She came now for those she couldn't save. He didn't trade in slaves, but he knew many of those that did, brokers of human souls. The rebellion on Saint-Domingue had no hope of succeeding, it was too dangerous to allow freedom to some and give hope for the same to the others still trapped in bondage. Or at least he'd assumed as much, whenever the topic came up in the dockside taverns over foaming mugs of rough ale amid rougher company. Now he wasn't so certain, not with her aboard his ship.

It was dark as a tomb in his quarters, tucked away under the stern of the ship and only shadows swirling in the window panes instead of the light from the moon and the stars above. He lifted his hand and snapped his fingers, making a spark that leapt into the air and hung suspended above the table for a long moment. It illuminated the bottle of rum, the glass the murky hue of bottomless seas full of hidden dangers. He could see his own reflection in the curve, not the handsome visage that had seduced blushing virgins and virtuous wives both to his bed, but the true face that lay hidden underneath. Eyes the red of infernal fire, bones that pressed against the skin like knives and a dark mouth full of sharpened teeth.

Summon the demon, and he would appear.

Killian snapped his fingers again and the spark went out, leaving him sitting alone in the dark.

________

Emma opened the door at the knock and was met not by Killian, but by the round, bearded face of William Smee, the man she had met at the somewhat ramshackle offices of "Jones Shipping Ltd" back on Tortola. At the sight of her he quickly snatched the red cap from his head and gave a jerky bob of his chin.

"Cap'n demands...er, requests your presence on deck, if you please, your ladyship."

She nodded, pulling the door closed behind her while Smee tried and failed to keep his eyes on the floor instead of on her. The ship's crew were all curious about her, she could hear the whispering that went on behind her back and the somewhat crude remarks about her and their captain. They all thought she and Killian were lovers, who only kept separate quarters to maintain an illusion of propriety. It didn't bother her as much as it should have, they had spent long hours shut up alone together in his cabin after all, and she was hardly worried about the nonexistent "Lady Swan's" reputation being sullied by their association.

There were more important matters that currently occupied her thoughts than the idle musings of lustful sailors.

Smee followed along behind at a respectful distance while she climbed the steep stairs that led to the deck, clearly full of questions that he didn't dare ask. All of the men on the ship were wary of Killian, or as he was referred to by them, Captain Hook. That wariness extended to her, as his presumed companion, and while she could feel their interest none of them had attempted to proposition her in the dark corners and narrow corridors that wound through the ship like a rabbit's warren. Killian hadn't either, the seducer who had charmed his way into the bed of any woman he desired had been a perfect gentleman during their late night suppers at the table so small that their feet had tangled together companionably underneath it and their knees touched. Still, his gaze had lingered, blue eyes darkened to indigo and each swipe of his tongue across his lips to catch errant drops of claret had reminded her all too well of a kiss that could never be repeated.

She was walking a fine enough line as it was.

The light and air was a welcome relief when she stepped onto the deck into the sunlight, sensing his presence close by and turning to seek out his black-clad figure among the more drably attired crew. Killian was standing next to the rail with a brass spyglass held to one eye, fixed on some point in the distance and when she went to stand next to him he passed it to her without a word.

Three ships were visible through the glass, looking as tiny and insignificant as children's toys. Emma closed her eyes for a moment and when she opened them again the magnification had been increased tenfold, she wasn't all-seeing like the Heavenly Father but she did have the power to see much farther and much more than mortal eyes did. Killian took the spyglass back and looked through it again, his free hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword.

"They're French," she said, too low for anyone except him to hear.

"Aye," he agreed, equally as quiet, "Warships. Sent to help quell the rebellion at last, most likely. Saint-Domingue is too valuable to lose, not when France is barely clinging to their remaining colonies in the New World by the skin of their teeth as it is. I'm afraid it was inevitable that it would come to this, avaritia is rooted deep in the hearts of men."

Avaritia. Greed, the deadly sin that had led to the enslavement of untold men, women and children. As sweet as the sugar cultivated on the islands was, it was the bitter other half of the coin. She'd heard the crewmen talk when they didn't know she was listening, they were all greedy for gold, greedy for more grog than their rations allowed, greedy for the slippery warmth that lay between a woman's legs. Their fear of Killian wasn't enough to deter them from serving aboard his ship, the greed in their hearts was far too strong.

Do not lay their failings at my feet.

Emma curled her hands around the railing and stared at the French ships. Each was easily twice the size of Killian's vessel, riding low in the water and clearly heavily laden with both troops and munitions. The sea was calm and the wind had been in their favour the whole journey, but that meant it was also in favour of the warships. They were headed straight for Saint-Domingue.

"At this speed they'll make landfall in Port-au-Prince before dusk," Killian continued, squinting at them again through the slim brass instrument, "Unless by some miracle the tides turned?"

It was not a rhetorical question. The lilies in her cabin bloomed continuously day and night, a tiny miracle wrought by her own hands. Hands that could halt entire armies in their tracks, turn day to night and night to day and bestow a holy blessing upon a saint with a single touch. The same hands that were now helpless, bare and ungloved and clinging uselessly to the wood to stop them from trembling. She hadn't wanted him to see, she hadn't wanted him to know the full truth, but...

"I can't."

It was a confession wrenched from the depths of her own, well, she didn't have a soul, not the way mortals did, anyway, blank slates born pure and innocent but with the potential for both the greatest good and even greater evil depending on the path they chose. But she had something that was uniquely hers, her divine light that that marked her as one of the Blessed Angels, granted passage through the very Gates of Paradise themselves for the whole of eternity by His grace.

The one once known as the Morning Star could no longer cross that barrier into Heaven, his own light had been ripped from him when he fell into eternal darkness, or so they all believed. Some said he fell with a smile, some said it was with a scream.

Maybe it was both.

Blue eyes rimmed in kohl narrowed right to dark slits and then the demon was upon her, hands grasping her upper arms with firmness and trapping her neatly between his body and the rail. She should be afraid, she was vulnerable right now as if she really was a lone woman surrounded by dangerous, lustful men with greedy souls and none more dangerous than him, but Emma felt no fear and when her palms landed flat on his hard chest it wasn't to push him away, if anything she wanted to pull him closer.

"You can't interfere...not that you won't, you can't."

Emma could see that his clever mind was making quick work of everything she'd left unsaid from the moment she'd crossed his threshold and greeted him as Captain Hook. Her fingers curled in his waistcoat and she looked up at him, ignoring the crewmen surrounding them with their ears pricking up and straining to overhear what was being said. This was only between the two of them, no one else on the ship could even begin to understand.

"It is forbidden to you. Moreso, you are bound from intervening, as if your wings were clipped. That's why you needed a ship, and safe passage. That's why you needed me. This...this is outright defiance, your own personal rebellion. Oh, Emma."

"Yes," she agreed, closing her eyes. It was far more dangerous than even he was, she'd been granted her divine light by His grace and His alone, and what the Lord giveth, the Lord could taketh away. She couldn't save Man from this most reprehensible of sins of their own creation and the failure was like ash in her mouth.

"Well then. It is said that fools rush in where angels fear to tread, and three warships against a lone brig certainly qualifies as foolish. Mr. Smee! Hoist the standard!"

"Cap'n?"

She looked up in shock, taking in the firm set to his jaw and the heat she could feel growing under her palms, not the enveloping warmth of divine radiance, but the burn of infernal flame.

"You heard your captain!" he bellowed, "Hoist the Jolly Roger and man your stations, we're all drinking French brandy instead of grog tonight!"

"Killian."

His true name got his attention at once as she knew it would, and his answering smile was as sweet as a choirboy's when he looked back down at her.

"Beata angela," he murmured, "I may be incapable of miracles, but I am not without a few tricks up my own sleeve. I promise you these ships will not reach Saint-Domingue, whether the reprieve will be enough for the rebellion to succeed remains to be seen, but I suppose far stranger things have happened."

The demon winked and she felt a flush on her cheeks that was not from the wind. The late nights they had spent together in his quarters had not involved any of lewd acts of fornication that the crew so eagerly imagined, but it had been intimate nonetheless. Perhaps even more intimate than engaging in the pleasures of the flesh, the hours of conversation had revealed even more clearly that he possessed far more than just that seductive wit that was all surface and no depth, reflecting a flattering image back to the subject of his interest while revealing nothing of himself. Though he had not yet revealed why he had appropriated the surname "Jones" for his own use, he had spoken of his travels since she'd last seen him in France and how he'd crossed the ocean on "not quite a whim" with a wry twist of his wine-stained lips that did not fully hide the bitterness in the statement. What went unspoken was that his will was not truly his own and instead of pitying the poor soul who had obviously summoned him, Emma found herself pitying him.

Stranger things indeed.

There was a flurry of movement from the crew as the orders were carried along the length of the ship with a hue and cry that had them all jumping to their feet and rushing to coil up ropes over their shoulders and tie down loose items on the deck. It was a sudden tempest that swirled around them where they stood in a blur of loud noise and riotous colour, but in the eye of the storm there was nothing except the demon in front of her.

"Emma," Killian said, as serious as she had ever seen him, "I promised you once that I would do anything you asked if it was within my power and not require any form of payment. My word is my bond and this is not a devil's bargain that I am offering, but all actions have consequences."

His expression flickered for a moment, jaw pulled tight and that deep blue gaze darting away from her eyes. It was a clear warning, and Emma wondered if it cost him something to give it.

"I know."

He looked back at her and queried softly, "Do you?"

She reached up and dragged her thumb slowly over the thin scar on his cheek, hearing his sharp inhale of breath at the movement. The mark had been left by the torture he had suffered at the hands of the Inquisition, she'd seen it laid fresh and bloody right down to the bone and been unable to leave him there to suffer any more no matter what sins he was guilty of.

Killian turned his head abruptly and kissed her palm before whirling away with his coat flapping behind him like the wings he did not possess. If she was a swan then he was a raven, dark and sleek and a harbinger of ill omens. Captain Hook yelled orders to his men in a thunderclap , the demon of the sea unleashed and whipping them all into a frenzy as they worked the sails and readied the cannons with the dark flag of a grinning skull atop a pair of crossed bones snapping high on the mast.

The cannon fire was black, smoke as thick as tar enveloping the warships when the captain called, "Fire!" Too much to be natural, it poured across the dark sea in long tentacles like some fantastical monster of the deep while the acrid scent of gunpowder filled the air and faintly beneath it, Emma could smell the sulphur and brimstone of infernal flame. She heard the shouts from the French ships even through the cacophony, blasphemous oaths and the utter shock at the frenzied attack from a single vessel not even half the size of theirs.

David had holy aim and divine intervention on his side when he took on Goliath with nothing but a rock and a sling. This...this was hellfire brought to life by the demon in black with the devil's own smile on his face. The intensity of it was shocking, she felt it more than the violent lurching of the ship underneath her that threw seasoned sailors clear off their feet. Every angelic instinct flared to life from the force of it and she had to fight not to respond in kind, keeping her light at bay and her wings hidden. The crewmen were unaware of her, blind to her continued presence on the deck while the battle raged on all sides. One of the French ships broke off and began to retreat away from Saint-Domingue, obviously too heavily damaged from the cannon fire to continue. Two were left, and amid a rising tide of bloodlust that turned the crew into frothing, howling demons of their own making she heard Killian give another order.

"Ramming speed!"

The heavens went dark with stormclouds and the seas churned white, as if the water itself was boiling over. More cannon fire was traded back and forth, one heavy ball shooting clean across the ship's bow and almost hitting a man square in the back. It landed harmlessly on the planks instead with a flick of Emma's wrist, but she was still bound from performing grander miracles and she let out a huff of frustration.

"What is the point of listening if you won't let me answer?" she muttered to herself.

"Brace for impact!"

She looked up and quickly found Killian high in the rigging, a rope wrapped around one forearm while he pulled a knife from his belt. Their eyes met across the distance, he could clearly still see her even though his men no longer could. A moment of calm seemed to fall over the both of them, where the wind no longer whipped her skirts about her ankles and the sun briefly pierced the clouds above to shine down on his inky hair and the long coat of dark leather.

Then he was gone, and in the next instant came the shudder and crash as the bow of the ship plowed straight into the broad side of the larger French vessel and it was only by her divine grace that she remained standing while others fell down to their knees around her.

There was no prayer she could recite, not for a demon's salvation. All she could do was watch, and bear witness to whatever it was that he planned to do now.

For her.

______

Killian let go of the line he was holding and easily grabbed onto the thick ropes that formed the warship's complex web of rigging. He'd flown without wings, using his knife to slash the line free and swinging across the tiny gap in the heartbeat before the two ships collided. It was an insane maneuver that was likely to rip them both open and send them straight down to the bottom of the ocean, but the risky gamble paid off. He could see that the bowsprit had been completely ripped off from his ship and the mainsail had collapsed, but there was no buckling of the hull or the deck from the collision. The warship listed on such a steep angle that it seemed to be on the verge of tipping over completely, crew and soldiers both on the deck forced to clutch at whatever they could reach to avoid falling overboard. It hung on the precipice itself for several moments before it began to roll upright, the greater bulk forcing his own ship back on the wave that formed from the motion of the keel. Dimly, Killian was aware of cannon fire, plumes of smoke rising in the air all around him. But fire and smoke could not affect a demon born of Hell itself, and when a hand tried to grab his ankle he looked down into the whey-faced soldier who'd climbed up after him with a grin.

"Mon Dieu!" the soldier cried, an oath that turned Killian's grin into a snarl.

"Your God," he spat back, "Not mine!"

He gave a vicious kick that caught the soldier in the jaw and sent him flying backwards, caught at the last second by his heel in the ropes and hanging upside down. Killian left him there, his own boots easily finding purchase as he picked his way along the line. One man against an entire ship was madness, but he wasn't a man.

Besides, he had been sent on this mission by an angel herself.

His eyes burned red and the wind shifted, sending smoke from the cannons straight into the faces of the French captain at the helm and the navigator beside him. Both disappeared under the choking black cloud, unable to see, unable to steer, unable to give any order. Killian let out a triumphant noise and turned to face the ship's mainsail, rippling like quicksilver against the suddenly heated air rising around it. His own shadow appeared on the heavy cloth, a twisting figure that began to writhe and grow into something else. Something inhuman, with too-long limbs that could bend both back and forth and the twin points that formed not a halo over his head, curved inward, like the hook that formed at the end of what had been the shadow's hand.

Hooks and horns were not all that dissimilar, after all.

A long rent appeared in the sail, another shadow at first that quickly became real with a twist of his wrist. It ran down the length of it, tearing it apart with a great ripping noise while startled yells came from the soldiers and sailors below.

"The Hook! The Hook!"

His legend would only grow from this and it fueled him even as he blinked back a strange, misty haze that had crept into the edges of his vision. Something was sapping his strength, something foreign and unfamiliar that made his fingers slacken on the ropes and his boots nearly slip as he almost lost his footing. But he held on by sheer will, until the sail was rendered into nothing but useless ribbons that tangled around what was left of the rigging and wrapped around the mast in knots that would be impossible to untie. It would take days to get the whole mess completely down and raise a new sail, days where the warship would be as hobbled as a lame horse, unable to continue on in such condition even without the rest of the damage.

He'd broken her wings.

Before he could revel fully in the satisfaction there was a loud popping sound from down below and something small and round and hot came straight at him. Killian felt it graze along his neck with a sizzle, a hairsbreadth away from his jugular. He looked down and saw the barrel of a pistol pointed up at him in the hand of a soldier who was barely more than a child, not even old enough to grow whiskers on his ruddy cheeks. He knew at once that the boy was still an innocent soul, innocence that would be quickly lost in the service of the French army once he'd fought and whored his way to manhood, blood drawn on his blade and between a woman's thighs all in the name of honour and glory.

The wound on his neck smarted but he could easily take the pain, he'd suffered far worse. It would take much more than a mere pistol or a blade to cut down a demon. Still, he felt another wave of dizziness that he fought with a shake of his head, climbing higher up the rigging and slashing more ropes as he went. Cannon fire roared loud in his ears and muted everything else, all he could hear was muffled shouts while the warship began to list again, tilting at a rapidly growing angle. He was surrounded by fire and blood and this was his glory, hacking and slashing his way from one end of the yardarm to the other. His own ship was a league away, ready to overtake the last warship with his crew salivating for their promised rewards. Greedy bastards, the lot of them, not an honourable man left among those who called him master. The old captain had been a man of honour, a rare breed, but…

Killian pushed the thought away, holding his knife between his teeth and reaching for a dangling rope to help pull himself up even higher. He saw that the clouds were drifting, grey storm giving way to pale sunlight and a beam pierced through to shine off his rings, the dark, square-cut ruby flashing with brilliance and as bright as a beating heart. The reflection shone right into his eyes and blinded him for a moment, making his fingers slip while his vision swam. His hand groped wildly for the rope but found only empty air. The knife fell first, blade down not into the deck, but towards the rolling ocean. He could see the glittering waves swallow it up and then he was falling as well, thrown clear of the ship and hurtling straight for the water. He'd climbed too high, and he'd been struck down by an unseen hand.

The impact wouldn't kill him, but it would be hard and painful and not the kind of pain he enjoyed. At least the water wasn't sanctified, and Killian braced himself for the final drop with one word slipping past the salt on his lips, a whisper, a prayer, that was swept away by the wind.

The sea below him was marbled green and the clouds above were white and feathery, filling his sight while he plummeted down and then he saw that it wasn't clouds at all as he collided with something in mid-air. The swirling green sea was Emma's eyes, staring right into his as her wings enfolded them both and everything else vanished into pure nothingness.

____

"Killian? Killian, wake up! Killian, come back back to me!"

He forced his eyes open at the summons with a gasping breath and saw the angel above him, her lovely face creased with worry and hand pressed to his cheek. It took a moment for the fog to clear from his head and then the memories came crashing back, the French warships, the sea battle, the drain on his power from some unknown source that had made him lose his grip and sent him plunging down towards the ocean. And then…

"What did you do? Emma, what did you do?"

He sat up, stunned by what he was remembering. Emma's arms around his chest…the look on her face...the brilliant flash of gold behind her eyes…

Her wings.

They'd wrapped around him before he'd hit the water, so incredibly soft to the touch and yet as strong as steel. Stronger. The contrast was maddening, and he couldn't quite believe that he, infernal demon of Hell and eternally damned, had been held in their divine embrace.

"How?" he breathed, searching her immediately more guarded expression for an answer while his hand circled her wrist and he implored, "Emma…"

Whether it was his beseeching tone or her own desire to try to articulate the inexplicable, she was a messenger, an interpreter of mysterious signs, either way their eyes locked and she finally said, "I saw you start to fall and I...jumped."

Killian gaped at her, feeling his mouth open and close as his usual eloquence failed him completely. Emma's gaze darted away from his and she rose to her feet, pulling free of his grip and shaking sand from the hem of her gown. Or what remained of it, at least, it was torn and rent in several spots and he caught pale flashes of the petticoat underneath. Behind her he could see the ocean, but it was nothing but an empty, flat expanse for miles. No flags in the distance, not the French tricolour or his own Jolly Roger, and no sound but the crash of the waves against the shore. They were alone, completely and utterly, he could sense no mortal souls at all and for a wild moment Killian wondered if by some miracle he had managed to pass from the Earthly plane into a divine realm of existence in the angel's embrace. He turned his head and saw lush green vegetation that was growing wild right down to the sliver of beach he was currently sitting on, with nary a path or a footprint in sight save for the ones he knew were hers. Flowers grew by the dozens, more lilies like the ones he had given Emma, along with bright orange hibiscus and delicate pink orchids the same colour as the large seashell in his quarters, the one that had belonged to the Jewel's previous captain.

It had no value and only took up space, a precious commodity aboard a ship, but he'd kept it anyway, as a reminder.

Greenery and flowers, and only the two of them.

It was like...like the Garden.

But that was impossible.

"Where are we?"

He stood, hiding his stagger out of habit. Any hint of weakness was ruthlessly exploited in the company he normally kept - although he was usually the one doing the exploiting. But he could feel his strength returning, his dark power sparking under his skin like the coals of a smothered fire flaring to life again. The sword still strapped to his hip left a mark in the sand as he found his footing, marring the pristine surface while the angel walked to the water's edge and let the waves lap over her bare feet.

"I don't think it has a name," Emma said, "It's like a blank canvas. I'm not sure if anyone has even set foot here before, it's completely unspoiled."

"Well," he drawled, looking down again at the quarter-circle slash left on the beach and feeling his heels sink down to firmer ground, "Not anymore."

Emma turned and he gave her a wry smile, "Demon, darling, remember? Damnate. It was unsullied."

He thought the wrinkling on her nose was because of the endearment but she only repeated his other moniker, "Damnate," infernal one, forever damned, softly, as if she was reminding herself, "You think your very presence here is corrupting?"

"No, I know my very presence is corrupting, beata. You, more than anyone, know that too."

The serpent had slithered into the Garden and tempted Eve with forbidden fruit that held within it the knowledge of good and evil. Original sin was born in a place much like the isle on which they now stood, when Man first fell from grace and the angel drove them all away from the patch of Heaven on earth with the flaming sword held aloft.

He carried a sword, not her, but she could still banish him from this place, back to the darkness of taverns and whorehouses and away from her light, but when she crossed the stretch of sand again and he dipped his forehead to rest against hers she didn't push him away and none of the flowers around them withered or turned black from his taint.

If anything, they bloomed open even more in defiance of the setting sun.

"Emma," he breathed, hands circling around her waist.

"You're injured."

He'd almost forgotten about the graze on his neck but with her reminder he felt it again, a dull throb that ached even more when he tried to wrench away, afraid to let his blood touch her own skin and corrode it like acid. It should have healed on its own by now, but perhaps he was still hindered by whatever had affected him back on the warship and he attempted to deflect her attention with a smile.

"I've had far worse, believe me."

Emma didn't let him pull back, shushing him and lifting her hand towards the wound. She didn't fear him, not his wrath or his lust or any of his sins, and he felt a sudden certainty that his blood posed no danger, a conviction that he couldn't explain except with a word that he dared not speak.

Light pulsed in her palm and he closed his eyes, it slid down his throat as easily as the finest spirit and he could feel the wound immediately close up, healing at once with nary a sting.

"Thank you, Killian. For everything."

Their embrace lingered, turning like the tides and slipping inexorably into something more. All the long nights aboard his ship had been passed chastely, despite the bed in his quarters invitingly made up with a feather tick and rich bedclothes that had seen respectable planters' wives and slattern tavern maids both seduced by Captain Jones and the notorious Captain Hook. But under a velvet sky rapidly filling with jewel-bright stars he was neither man, he was Killian to her and he always would be, his long coat thrown down to form a makeshift bed atop the flowers while he kissed an angel who kissed him back with a fervour that almost made his knees buckle again under the force of it.

Golden hair spilled down over his hands like a waterfall and he tore right through her gown and underpinnings in his sudden haste that was met with her own eagerness in divesting him of his waistcoat and sliding the linen shirt off his shoulders. Skin met skin and he groaned low in his throat, the heated slide of her bare breasts to his equally bare chest was merely a preamble of what was to come and yet it was more delicious than any full coupling, the way her head tipped back with a sigh and his chin fitted perfectly to her shoulder, lips pressed to the long line of her neck and the fan of her fingers against his back.

He felt no shame in his nakedness and he relished hers when the remains of the dress finally pooled at her feet, he'd seen her as a Roman noblewoman in silks and an English Samaritan in homespun, as an artist's muse and lover and as a lady at the court of kings, but he'd always seen her for what she truly was and now he saw everything. The firm, full breasts that had to have been made for his hands to cup, tipped in a shade of pink he swore he had never seen before that put every last rose in existence to shame, the flare of her hips, curved just so, the feel of the bones that lay under that velvet skin, from the notch at the hollow of her throat to the ladder of her ribs, the flex of her spine when he dragged his fingers down the long line of it and she arched up against him. Her own hands were hardly idle, exploring all the planes and angles of him as thoroughly as his own perusal of her. Killian felt almost...virginal, at the contact, as if he'd never experienced the touch of another before this. Emma molded him like clay, rising hot and heavy under her hand to full readiness in a blink that had him light-headed again while his palms burned with the desire to mark her as his, leave his brand on her flesh as indelible as any that marked the slaves as property of their masters.

He fought it desperately, determined not to give in to his baser urges. Corrupter he was, but not tonight and he lifted her legs around his waist and fell down to his knees with her arms around his neck and their lips never parting. No spirit he'd ever drunk was as intoxicating, no fruit as sweet as the taste of angel in his mouth, and his eyes were opened to the knowledge that it could be like this.

Emma lay against the dark satin lining of his coat, wrapped in him as he'd been wrapped in her and Killian felt her thighs spread even more underneath him. The silent invitation was unmistakable and the roar of the ocean was nothing compared to the roaring in his ears, blood pounding with the urge to accept her wordless surrender to the sin. But he held back, pulling up on his elbows and wrenching their mouths apart.

Wordless surrender was not enough.

"Look at me, angel. You know what I am…I can never be more than that. Say you want me, want this. Say it, Emma!"

It came out as a desperate plea that had her eyes going wide beneath him. Lips swollen from his kisses parted but no sound came out, and he was sure that she was going to vanish, taking the reprieve as her chance to retreat back to where he couldn't follow and leave him utterly alone in the dark. His hips jerked, balanced on the knife's edge between possession and desolation and for all his charm and the dashing countenance that had won him countless conquests in the bedchamber, he was suddenly as uncertain as a green young lad.

A hand rose, pushing back the lock of hair that had fallen over his forehead and tracing feather-light along the sweep of his brow and fanning across the apple of his cheek as though she was mapping his face. It was a gesture unlike any that had ever been granted him before, a benediction from an angel who shone with golden light. Gentle fingers pressed to the nape of his neck and drew his head down until her lips pressed to his ear.

"Killian….I do."

He was swallowed by the light, it pulled him in even as he pushed forward and the heat of infernal fire was not doused, it was fanned incandescent by divine radiance. Sparks exploded in the air around them and fell down in a shower of both his crimson and her gold that reflected off the blade of his sword and made it appear to burst into flame next to them. Man and woman had been banished from Paradise by a flaming sword, but Killian was not a man and nothing could stop him now, not when he was joined with the one he had coveted for so long. Zelena had tried to tempt him with Emma's face and form and he'd resisted, declaring that he'd have exactly what he wanted and nothing less. His patience had been rewarded and as his hips pressed flush to the backs of her thighs while his forehead rested on hers again, he understood at long last why it was considered such a virtue. Heaven was forbidden to him, but he'd found it in her embrace and their fingers laced together tight against the bed of flowers.

It was a miracle.

_____

It was a sin.

Darkness surrounded her on all sides, black leather under her and black hair that passed through her fingers, dark as ink, dark as the sea at midnight. His head was bent in supplication and he knelt between her legs, a demon paying homage to an angel. Emma could feel the flames licking at her thighs with each roll of his hips, shadows caressing under her breasts and along the line of her neck like unseen fingers that made her writhe from the sheer, voluptuous pleasure of it. She'd lain with men before, mortal men, a gift bestowed along with visions and prophecies and divine inspiration, but this...this had her arching up into each stroke of his body in hers with no thought for anything else but feeling it again and again and again. It was blissful, and dangerous, but she couldn't bring herself to stop, not when his mouth pressed to a spot behind her ear that made her gasp, not when his pace faltered as she met his thrusts with her own upward tilt and squeeze around him. Killian threw his head back at that, the cords on his neck straining and she pressed her hands to his shoulderblades, the closest he had to his own wings in the shape and solid line of them under her fingers. His skin was dusky, like burnished metal in the moonlight, the colour of sunsets and whiskey as if the fire within was flickering through.

"Is this what it is?"

"What?" she asked, and his head tilted back down.

"To experience a miracle?"

Emma had not expected that. She'd expected him to gloat, to revel in his victory, not to sound so much like the saints and shepherds, completely awestruck by her mere presence. That he thought it miraculous was even more surprising, he was no Puritan but certainly a demon only fornicated, ravished and defiled like the pirate he was supposed to be. Could he also feel the immense joy, the Song of Songs in his heart as she did? He'd brought her lilies like an ardent young suitor, roses blooming in his cheeks when he'd turned suddenly bashful under her praise. Roses and lilies both surrounded them now, along with flowering shrubs covered in pure white blooms that perfumed the night air with a scent that was both sweet and sultry at the same time.

In a flash their positions were reversed, Killian supine underneath her with her thighs caging his hips and surprise on the handsome face, mouth slightly open and sea-blue eyes blinking up at her, crinkling slightly at the corners. Emma drew the tips of her nails down his chest and along his flat stomach, making him hiss and shift at the sensation while the hard length of him throbbed hot inside of her.

"Do you really want to know?"

It was a challenge that had one brow quirking in clear interest while his hands settled on her waist, thumbs rubbing the jut of her hipbones and his shadow fanning along her flank. His tongue darted out to lick his lips and she heard his answer without words.

The wings that had carried him across the ocean unfurled again, as unbound as they'd been when she'd launched herself off the ship and became one with the sky. The feathers brushed the tops of his thighs when she rolled her hips and arched her back, her breasts thrusting up, high and proud. A sound that was something between a gasp and a groan escaped the demon and when Emma looked down at him she smiled and whispered, "Behold."

Her light flooded through him like lightning, brighter than any star in the heavens above as it lit him up from the inside. Her weight was the only thing that kept him anchored to the ground, his body surging upwards and seized with divine ecstasy. It should have been impossible, his damnation barring him from receiving anything that was holy, but as the forbidden fruit held all that was good and evil in the world locked within she held him inside and his fire didn't burn and her light didn't blind.

"Again!" he begged, eyes flying open and every hair on his body standing on end, "Emma, again!"

She rose and fell in a steady rhythm that he matched, knees bending and feel planting, pushing her forward so that her breasts grazed his chest and the light pulsed between them like the pulse of his rigid male flesh, a hot spill that warmed her while his thumb pressed right to where she ached the most and with a flick and swirl she was flying again in a different way. Emma clutched his shoulders, her cry swallowed by his kiss. The flowers should have closed up when the sun set but they continued to bloom, the miracle rippling outward from where they lay as lilies grew from sand and salt water, as blue as the sea, as blue as a demon's eyes.

"Sleep now, angel."

His voice was soft, the only one she heard when she pressed her face to his neck and drifted off with the heat of him gently warming her under the blanket of her wing covering them both.

"Well, we didn't bring about the Apocalypse last night, so I suppose that's good news."

Emma didn't open her eyes, tracing the shape of his heart on his chest and feeling the kiss of the sun on her cheek and the sound of birdsong from the trees. Dawn had broken in their secret garden bower, where they lay entwined under a canopy of greens with her head pillowed on his shoulder. "Is that what you expected to happen?" she asked.

"I've no idea...but I do know that everything comes at a price."

She lifted her head at that and met his gaze, realizing that they were still sheltered under her wing and both as naked as Adam and Eve. There was no fig leaves to guard their modesty here, his bare hip pressed to the inside of her thigh and the hair on his chest ticked her fingers. Killian's hand skimmed up her side and found her breast, he bent to press a kiss to the soft slope of it while his words made her shiver despite the heat of his mouth. They'd each defied what they were, and rebellions always came at great cost.

What price would be paid for this?

And by whom?

Her wings folded closed, obeying her command in a heartbeat and leaving her fully bare and exposed. Lips closed around her nipple and a soft gasp escaped her, while a glance down showed her that Killian's ardour had not been fully sated by their first coupling, his cock was hard again against the wiry thatch of hair that surrounded it. Neither had hers, she could feel the growing dampness under her own downy mound and the burning ache when he started to make his way lower, whiskered cheek nuzzling against her belly and that silver tongue flicking out against her skin like a serpent's. The light revealed what had been concealed by the dark, glints of amber at the tips of his eyelashes and threaded through his beard. He'd been born in flame and he bore the birthmarks of his own infernal creation, but then the dark head dipped between her open thighs and her eyes fluttered shut against the rush of sensation.

"You would risk the End of Days for this?"

It came out as a sigh, barely audible over the crash of the waves against the shore. Flowers floated away like driftwood, petals as soft as the pads of his exploring fingers swept away on the tides.

"For my very own guardian angel?" he said, voice somewhat muffled in his current position and yet she heard him as clear as a bell, "Everything."

Afterwards he plucked one of the flowers from the earth, white and fragrant as he twirled it between his fingers and his thumb.

"I like these more than the lilies, I think. They remind me of you."

Killian drew it under his nose and gave a deep inhale before reaching to tuck it behind her ear. In the distance Emma could see his ship, summoned back to retrieve its master and just breaking over the horizon. None of the men aboard had witnessed her flight, they were blind to what they could not see and they would have only noticed a bird, a swan perhaps, straying too far from land.

His hand clasped hers, enveloping it completely while the leather coat swirled about his knees as they stood together on the beach and watched the ship's slow approach in silence. The sun rose high overhead and the sky was perfectly clear, as it had been the day before, and would again tomorrow. Nothing appeared to have changed in the world around them, and yet everything had. An angel had sinned, and a demon had looked into the light.

But when the Final Battle came they would be enemies, Heaven and Hell colliding like armies on the field and they were bound to stand on opposite sides. Darkness would always seek to snuff out the light.

She couldn't save him, and he would try to destroy her.

It was inevitable.

#cs ff #cs fic #my fic #Between Heaven and Hell

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