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highhhfiveee · 7 months

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safety net [p2] (pornstar!mike schmidt x reader)

part one: 💸 | part three: 📹

are we excited???? prepare your hearts cause the feels kinda took over

tags: fluff, lots of internal pining, porn mentions but nothing graphic. mike and reader are both genuine people and that draws them to each other. should be error free bc i actually proofread this one but if there are any, my sincerest apologies

“you have to be, like, evading taxes or something.”

mike chuckles behind you as he closes the door to his apartment--sorry, penthouse.

you're stood with your jaw unhinged, eyes scanning over the wide, sweeping space of his open concept living room and all of the furniture that decorates it, expensive-looking but cozy in a way that you wish you could replicate in your own place. you stalk over to tall windows that line the farthest wall, creating a corner that allows for you to see the bustling city below; all of the flashing lights, people drunkenly stumbling around street signs, and cars zipping and weaving through traffic.

you'd never seen anything like this, just a girl used to the urban suburbs on the south side of town, and your cheeks flush with embarrassment when you feel mike's presence behind you. you don't turn to him, dropping your shoes and purse to the ground and keeping your eyes trained on a street corner below.

"the view's what sold me on the place. i'm able to watch the sunrise on that side," he points to the windows on the other side of the kitchen, offering a view of the green space nestled in between skyscrapers. "and the sunset on this one."

"must be nice," you reply, backing away from the glass and observing the rest of the space. it was the size of, like, three of your apartments combined, organized and free of mess. "i only have a view of a corner store, and a really really busy bus stop. it's super annoying."

"where do you live?"

you give him the name of the neighborhood you'd known your whole life. you didn't recognize any of the area's flaws when you were a child. it was never a red flag to you that the street off of the one you grew up on had two storefronts of the same fast food chain on either end, or that the closest supermarket was twenty minutes away. you hadn't even batted an eye when some of your school “friends” would tell you about visiting gourmet cupcake restaurants and vintage consignments stores. you just went along with it, saying, "that's so cool. the fanciest place by my house is the $7.99 buffet." they all laughed at you.

it wasn't until you were older, freshly graduated from high school and looking to be on your own that you realized the disparity across the region. only people with certain attributes got the nice things, and you'd been conditioned to be grateful to have a daycare in a plaza with a smoke shop and tax preparation office.

"it's just too expensive for me to move anywhere else. i can barely make rent now, with the way they keep raising it every year. kept the tag on this dress just so i could take it back." you look down at yourself and mike can see the longing in your eye, the twinkle in them that wishes you could hang it up in your closet tomorrow.

after tonight, you kind of wish you hadn't bought it at all. you thought that simon would’ve found it insatiable, wining and dining you before taking you back to his place for a night cap, but all you think about now is the embarrassment of walking back into the luxury department store, handing them your receipt for the item you wore once and couldn’t keep.

it fills you with distaste and you find yourself desperate to peel the item off your skin. “is it okay if i shower?”

mike nods furiously, apologizing for not offering. he’d just been staring at you while you talked, admiring you. he was used to people with perfect appearances around him, done up by professionals that costed $200 an hour, but you were different, uncaring about your unruly curls and smeared eyeliner. you were unbothered and carefree, and that fascinated him.

he leads you down a long hall, coming to a stop once it forks into three different directions: left, right, and slightly diagonal right. the walls are lined with paintings and photos of mike and people that share his features, and at the end of the diagonal path is a giant trophy case, filled to the brim with plaques and trophies of various sizes, shapes, and finishes.

“jesus,” you murmur, abandoning your escort. mike’s walked ahead of you, but he makes his way back when he notices you’re not behind him.

“everything okay?”

you point to his trophy case, letting out an incredulous laugh. “are all of those for you?”

mike nods, and you laugh again, shaking your head in disbelief. “okay, so you’re obviously some sports star because no way someone living like this wouldn’t be.”

mike goes rigid next to you. he never knew how to bring up his career to new people he met, sometimes ping-ponging between “i work for a world-renown production company” and “i’m an entrepreneur”. he had no problem lying to other people, his guard all the way up from years of rejection and disgust at the mention of “sex worker” and “pornstar”, but something felt wrong about lying to you. he swallows hard, racking his mind for a semi truth.

“not sports, but definitely still physical.” you scrunch your nose at this, blinking at him in confusion, but you stop when he grabs your hand and nudges his head in the direction of the bathroom. “didn’t you want to shower?”

you nod, allowing him to pull you down the hall but not without a second glance at the case. what other physical career presented you with that many awards?

the bathroom is a star in it's own right, modern in a way that you fawn over when you're watching hgtv. the gigantic, complicated looking shower invites you from the corner, nestled in between the gadget-rigged toilet and garden bathtub.

all of the decor in here was clean, pale blue, a nice offset to all of the white tile and gold-accented appliances.

you're half-listening, your conscience replaced with static as mike explains where everything is. "so...towels are over here..."

his shower had a rainforest head and a small, handheld one clipped into a holder, with a screen embedded into the wall. there was a bench and railing to hold onto, a speaker on the back tile....your eyes cut to the toilet, and the smaller one next to it. a bidet??????

"...and, the bidet remote's right next to the soap. i'll lay some clothes out for you on the hall table, but let me know if you need anything, okay?" you react a little too late, raising your hand and squeaking, "wait" right as mike's backed out of the room.

"fuck."

you try to look around for things, eventually finding the towels in a closet concealed as a part of the wall and, as a bonus, a knob to turn on the heated floor?????

you strip down, completely bare under the dress, and fold it up, retail employee coded, delicately placing it by the sink with the tag on top. it was exactly how you'd return it, with a shitty excuse and plastic smile. you do the same with mike's jacket.

you throw your hair up before wrapping yourself in the towel, delicately cloaked in what had to be egyptian cotton, and pace on over to the shower. you tap the daunting screen, and it lights up with a flourish, displaying the date, time, weather, and a host of different icons.

you don't know why it's so hard for you to turn the shower on, scrolling and bumbling through a collection of options that weren't simply turn on. why did you need to use a screen anyway? why reinvent the simple wheel that was a faucet lever?

you decide you need mike's help after a bit, though self-conscious about having to ask after he probably told you earlier. you splash cool water on your face before leaving the room, attempting to wring the anxiety out of your body.

you're at the fork in the hallway again, the view of you obscured from the living room by a wall, and you turn your attention to mike's trophy case again. you're too far to see any of the engravings on anything and you're so curious to find out what they say.

you feel your muscles attempt to pull you down the lonely hall, but you halt, reminding yourself that mike was a kind person who'd invited you into his home, and you were supposed to be showering, not snooping. still, even with the moment of morality, untrustworthy interest prodded at your brain.

mike's exiting his room with a handful of clothes for you when he catches you, arms wound around yourself to keep your towel up. you haven't seen him yet, your gaze fixed on something down the hall. he gulps softly, unaware that he would see you like this so early in your connection. your long neck cranes forward to see better, and he prematurely wonders if you're sensitive there, mind swirling with musings of bites and marks.

"something wrong?" you jolt, blinking and stammering and damn near jestering as you attempt to defend yourself. mike doesn't look at you with malice or cynicism, simply stepping closer as your eyes flitter around. "i, uh...i need help with the shower. i don't know how to turn it on."

mike huffs, squinting his eyes at you jovially. "that the only thing?" fuck.

you drop your shoulders with a deep sigh, throwing a pointed finger down the hall. "i also wanna know why you have all those awards." there's a small, almost undetectable change in mike's face, his eye twitching. you watch him shrug it off, placing a hand on your shoulder to lead you back to the bathroom. "i'll explain after you shower."

you're puzzled as to why he's so cagey about it, but you don't question it, accepting his statement and finally listening to him as he explains what to do

you're alone again after he sets the clothes down and leaves. he took your dress, easing you with "just going to hang it up. no worries" and a sheepish smile, and you're eager, ready to hear about what he does and how he's able to afford all this, including this shower that provides you with the best shower you think you've ever taken.

you're able to get the water to the perfect temp, scalding, with the perfect amount of pressure to sting your skin and make you feel clean. you wash away all of your worries; thoughts of keeping a roof over your head, being okay, and finding a genuine connection extinguished with the hum of soft jazz and lather of ylang ylang scented soap.

you lotion yourself with one of the various creams on mike's counter, soothed by the powder smell, and slip into the clothes you're provided--a pair of soft, heart-covered boxers and a university t-shirt, faded into burgundy from countless washes.

mike's sitting on the couch, scrolling aimlessly on his phone when the the demure pitter patter of your feet sounds against the floors, and he swears he almost dies when he sees you.

maybe it hadn't been totally random when he chose the clothes for you, deciding to give you two of his favorite items so he could see how they looked on you. the shirt, very lived in and from his alma mater, skirted your thighs and covered up his boxers, draping over your lithe body in a way that made his mouth go dry.

"okay," you call, dropping beside him on the couch. the wispy hairs around your hairline frame your clean face, guiding his attention to the smattering of dark moles around your eyes and temples. "tell me. what are all of those awards for?"

"do you want some water or something?" he interrupts, and while you accept, you furrow your eyebrows at him. he gets up with the swiftness of a nascar pit crew, and you hold your gaze on him, pivoting your body as he moves.

"mike, c'mon, what gives? you can trust me."

his back is towards you, filling a glass with water from the filtered water faucet. he hunches at your baffled tone, your voice all soft and downcast.

he wants to scream because it's so easy to just come out and tell you what he does. you didn't say anything at the restaurant, but maybe you'd put two and two together when he finally told you truth, remembering a thumbnail from the porn site of your choosing. he wasn't ashamed---nowhere near that. he'd been in the industry almost a decade, moving past the internalized and societally-imposed scrutiny he felt for his career. it was other people that were ashamed, other people that turned their nose up at him because of what they assumed he was; sleazy, devious, a player. he'd had so many connections blow over because of it, and he wasn't sure he'd be able to handle that happening with you.

you just stare at his back, watching it rise and fall with every laboured breath he takes. what was so bad about what he did that he couldn’t just tell you? he was obviously good at whatever it was, and you wondered if it was a front for something. maybe he disarmed you with his nice guy act, and he lured you here to kill you an—-

the clink of glass on glass brings you back to reality. mike is beside you again, staring blankly ahead while he wrings his hands.

“i’m a pornstar,” he utters plainly. he squeezes his eyes shut, expecting you to make a noise of disgust or get up and leave, but you don’t.

he opens one eye, and then both. you’re staring at him with no concrete expression, lips pursed. he closes his eyes again, counting in his head before opening them once more.

you’re still there, and it almost makes him cry.

“that checks out,” you muse. you’re fairly non reactive, but not because his admission freaks you out. you’re thinking back to the awards, the sheer amount of them in that case, and how good he really must be at what he does. “why didn’t you want to tell me?”

he runs a hand through his hair, melting into his couch with boyish reserve. his eyes are a mixed bag, bouncing between relief and despair. “people run every time i tell them. lots of them act like i just told them i killed their childhood pet and it's just so...disheartening, y'know?

"i just don't get it because it's just like any other job. you work, fucking hard, because you want to perform at your best, just like anyone else. the stigma around it never goes away, no matter how hard you try to convince people. they think you get around outside of it, having sex every second of every day, or that you're gonna mess around with your coworkers and give them something. it's like the trust level is in hell before you're even able to prove yourself." you scoot closer to mike without a word and place your hands over his. his rings are cold against your palm.

it's a gentle gesture. the airy smile you give pacifies him and he swears he's never felt anything like what he feels now.

"i'm not here to judge you, mike. i never will. sex work is a completely valid career, just like anything else. i'm sorry about all those shitty people who made assumptions about you."

"no need to apologize," he whispers, adjusting his hands so that they cradle yours now. you tilt your head down bashfully, lashes fluttering. "all those times led me here."

you two chat for a long while. mike tells you all about the production company he works for, how he got into the business, what his work schedule's like, the community of other stars that he works with, his stage name. you can tell he's passionate about it, lost in his rambles and talking with his hands. certain words segue your convo into other topics, like books and food and pop culture. you two have a lot more than coffee in common.

"i was surprised you didn't recognize me, honestly. not in a douchey way, but just because everyone does. it's usually the first thing they come up to me with." you could only imagine, being approached with "i've come to all of your work" in the condiment aisle at the grocery store.

"i don't watch professional porn really. too staged for me."

"i get that. i think you'd like our content. we really found a good balance between professional quality and ethical, genuine, safe fun."

you try to stay nonchalant, not wanting to betray the fact that you're itching to watch something of his work. "that's really nice. i bet you have quite the catalog."

"almost ten years worth so, yeah, i'd say," he chuckles, bringing his bottom lip between his teeth. "enough about me though. what do you do for work?"

"nothing as exciting and well-paying as porn. i type letters and numbers into a computer in a cubicle. it barely pays the bills, but i've worked in too many customer service jobs to ever go back." mike agrees. you're about to say something else when you're interrupted by a yawn, unhinging your jaw like an animal. you quickly cover your mouth, muttering, "jeez. sorry." you didn't realize it, but you were tired, exhausted from the night you had.

"it's okay, it is pretty late." he checks the time on his phone and turns it to you. 2:23 am. had you two really been talking on this couch for 3 hours? "i can show you to the guest room if you're tired. i have a shoot tomorrow anyway so i should get to bed too."

"sure," you whisper, grabbing his hand when he extends it to you. he pulls you to your feet like you weigh nothing at all, and you tail behind him like a lovesick puppy.

you're feeling that tingly ball of warmth in your stomach, the one you've felt with every person you thought you'd marry. you usually indulge in it, but with mike, it scares you. why do you feel like this after one night with a man you barely even know?

it's rash and inappropriate, you decide, and you're still convincing yourself as you slide under the black satin sheets and duvet on mike's king sized guest bed. you recline on the satin-covered pillows, sinking into the memory foam. it's a nice departure from your noisy childhood mattress back at home.

"do you have work tomorrow?" you shake your head, and mike claps his hands together with a cheer.

"yay. i'll be leaving around 8 or so, but feel free to sleep in and hang around as long as you want. the remote for the blinds is right there, i'll put a toothbrush out for you, and there's all kinds of food in the kitchen. help yourself. just let me know when you're leaving so i can lock the door."

your eyes squint. "you're gonna lock the door after i leave?"

mike nods, smiling excitedly and geekily diving into his rationale. "mhm, i have a smart lock. i can do it from my phone."

you're so tired that the words just foolishly tumble out of your mouth. "you must have great dick."

mike lets out a laugh that's a blend of flattered, nervous, and amused and you're both red-cheeked and flustered. "i am so fucking sorry, i, uh..y--" you stammer over all of your words, finally able to wrench out, "a smart lock just sounds expensive."

mike stares you down with fascination, backing towards the door. "watch the videos and find out for yourself, yeah?" he winks at you, and you gulp so loudly you're sure he hears. "goodnight, y/n. sleep well.”

"you too,” you croak.

you're out like a light once he leaves, but not before telling yourself to put up a new sticky note at home: “watch mike's porn."

you awake what feels like days later, refreshed and made anew. you click on the remote for the curtains, and they rise slowly, flooding the room with rich early afternoon sun. the clock on the nightstand reads 12:38 pm.

you hop to your feet and make your way to the bathroom to brush your teeth and wash your face before stalking to the living room. it's filled with light, and you think about how you'd probably never be depressed living in a place like this.

a box, red and moderately sized, sits upon the kitchen counter. you think you should ignore it, but as you get closer, you see a paper with your name scrawled across it. you like your name in mike's voice and handwriting.

you pull up the lid and inside is your dress from last night with the tag missing, two fat wads of hundred dollar bills, and another note that reads, “you deserve to feel beautiful and pay your rent <3 call this number when you're ready to go home. -m”.

in this moment, you're 100% positive that you're falling in love.

wow wow wow wow. they are so fucking CUTE! i love themmmmmmm <3 hopefully this tides y'all over for a bit because i need to outline the rest of their story, and i wanna work on some other stories for a little bit 💜 more parts are definitely coming, have no fear!

i'd also like to say that while i use y/n in my stories, reader is typically a character that i'm inventing. using your own name and likeness while you read is totally fine, of course! i just use y/n as a placeholder name for my reader character bc i don't feel like coming up with character names all the time <3 sorry if that doesn't make sense 💔

i hope you all enjoyed! happy reading my seedlings 🌱💜

faire's seedlings ✿

@leahdhopkins4321-@pyr0-kai-@angstywhore-@sunazroo-@nyxthoughtsss-@mirophobic-@fayethor-@marixsimps-@regretfulme-@ithinkitszeph-@707xn-@cattt777-@violetta-ximena-@amnesia33-@topnerd03-@fastnights-@laprvphette-@savage-aespa-@mfdxz

#mike schmidt x reader #mike schmidt #mike schmidt fluff #fnaf #fnaf movie #fnaf fic #faire is writing stuff #faire's (pornstar) mike schmidt <3 #they are so fucking cute #like omg #i get the feels from them and they're my characters #rooting for them fr #josh hutcherson

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weemssapphic · 9 months

Note

Hello, friend!

Would you be so kind as to write a one-shot where r is a local boudoir photographer in Jericho and Larissa gets a shoot done(for whatever reason)? Then it becomes an often thing and r just can't stand seeing such a beautiful woman single ;) maybe some fluffy smut at the end?

A/N: HELLO FRIEND. i'm actually embarrassed looking at the date on this ask and i request your sincerest apologies. i really loved writing this and i hope you enjoy it!

All My Pictures of You

Words: ~5.4k | ao3 link in title

Content/warnings: mutual pining, boudoir photography, lingerie, nsfw (smut) - vaginal fingering

Larissa sat in her car in front of the small cottage, her gaze shifting nervously to her watch. 2:57 pm. Her appointment was at 3. She still had a few minutes - she still had time to turn around, to reverse out of the long, winding drive and send an apologetic cancellation email.

No, Larissa told herself firmly. She would go through with this, she wouldn’t back out now. With a deep breath, Larissa wiped her clammy palms on her skirt and stepped out of her car, striding up to the door of the cottage and knocking firmly.

You opened the door quickly, as if you’d been waiting for her, a wide smile on your face as you introduced yourself and gestured for Larissa to come in. Her heart stuttered in her chest as she gave you a once over - you’d been so kind and attentive over the phone, and your voice had been rather attractive, but she hadn’t expected you to be so beautiful. Now she found herself even more nervous than before.

“Please, sit for a moment,” you said warmly, guiding Larissa into your small, homey living room. She perched herself awkwardly at the edge of your couch, her back stiff as a board. “What would you like to drink? I have water, coffee, tea, wine, champagne…”

Larissa clasped her hands in her lap, picking subconsciously at her cuticles. “Wine would be lovely, I suppose.” She was definitely going to need a glass if she was going to get through this afternoon.

“White or red? Wait - let me guess.” You tapped your finger on your lip, giving Larissa a not-so-subtle once-over that had Larissa blushing profusely. “Red?”

Larissa nodded, her heart rate picking up considerably at your adorably wide smile as you sauntered into what she could only assume was your kitchen, before returning a few moments later with a large glass of wine and a glass of water.

She accepted the wine gratefully, muttering out a nervous “thank you” as you sat down across from her and took a sip of your water.

“Before we get started, I just wanted to go over some of the notes I made during our call last week, just to make sure we’re on the same page.”

Larissa nodded, watching as you plucked a notebook off the coffee table and set it on your lap.

“Seeing as you said that this is your first boudoir shoot, I want it to be as comfortable as possible for you. My only ‘rule’ is that you speak up if you feel uncomfortable or self-conscious, and we can go ahead and work through that or stop the session, okay?”

Larissa nodded again, taking a healthy swig of her wine and feeling her cheeks glow with warmth.

“Now I know you’ve come with your hair and makeup already done, as you’d said you would, but I can do touch-ups throughout the afternoon if you’d like. You said you wanted to do the shoot in lingerie, is that still the case?”

“Yes,” she replied breathlessly, feeling more than a little flustered at the prospect of undressing in front of a stranger - a very attractive stranger.

“I assume you’re wearing it right now?” You raised an eyebrow and Larissa nodded sheepishly, her cheeks tinged pink. “I’ll show you where the bathroom is, then, for you to freshen up and get ready, and then we can move into my studio space. Do you have any questions for me before we get started?”

Larissa shook her head no and watched you stand, following your lead as you padded down the hall and opened a door for her. “Take all the time you need.”

Stepping into the bathroom, Larissa shut the door behind her and slumped back against it, squeezing her eyes shut.

She still didn’t know what had compelled her to book a boudoir shoot. She supposed it came down to a desire to feel young and attractive again - years of all-nighters to catch up on work, the stress of running an entire school coupled with dealing with children and constantly putting out fires left her feeling more than a bit run-down. Her age was showing, her crows feet and laugh lines becoming more prominent with each passing day, and she couldn’t help but feel a bit self-conscious.

The photographer had gotten back to her quickly and suggested an introductory call - despite her nerves, she felt too bad to call the whole thing off and say “never mind”, so she’d gone through with the call. You’d seemed nice enough, very enthusiastic but also very considerate when she’d explained she’d never done something like this before.

And now, Larissa stood in your bathroom, slowly removing her clothing with shaking hands to reveal a red lace bodysuit. It wasn’t particularly revealing as far as lingerie went, yet Larissa blushed furiously as she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. It wasn’t that she didn’t find herself beautiful - despite her reservations about her own aging, she did possess a certain confidence in her appearance. But the thin lace left little to the imagination, particularly in comparison to her usual, more conservative attire, and Larissa was about to pose in front of a total stranger with a camera - the implications were just now beginning to hit her.

It’s now or never. Larissa opened the bathroom door almost robotically, slipping out into the narrow hallway. You seemed to have heard the creak of the floorboards, because you poked your head out of a room at the end of the hallway and beamed at her - her heart skipped a beat and she swallowed nervously.

“I’m in here,” you said brightly, waiting for Larissa to walk the length of the hallway and join you in your studio.

The studio space was a large, well-lit room at the back of your cottage. Lots of natural light filtered in through the window, spilling onto a beautiful, vintage-looking rug. An intricately framed mirror stood across from a large bed with a plush, velvet headboard that took up much of the wall.

Larissa didn’t have much time to think about how awkward she felt - from the moment she stepped into the room you were talking up a storm, walking her through the room, showing her your camera and equipment, cracking jokes. She couldn’t help but be enamored with you, and she found herself relaxing slightly as your enthusiasm began to rub off on her.

“I was thinking we could start at the window, the lighting is really great there and it doesn’t feel quite as intimate as shooting in the bed.” You directed Larissa towards the window seat - she perched at the edge of the cushions, unsure of how to pose, but you took over for her in an instant. “Can you lean back against the wall a bit? And turn your head to the right? Just like that.”

Larissa followed your instructions, hearing the shutter of your camera click, her face flushing. She was certain she looked ridiculous, but you kept instructing her to pose and encouraging her happily as if she wasn’t blushing like a schoolgirl - after a few minutes, Larissa found her blush fading slightly, feeling more confident in herself.

~~~

You felt the air leave your lungs when you saw Larissa standing in your hallway in nothing but a lacy bodysuit, looking terribly yet adorably awkward. The next minutes as you started the shoot were no better - you were definitely overcompensating for your attraction to the woman with over-the-top enthusiasm, over-explaining your process and trying to bring the blonde just a bit of comfort.

Being fairly good at your job, you could tell that Larissa was beginning to relax - she wasn’t blushing as much, her posing was less tense, her smile came more naturally. It was then that you were able to admire her beauty in full - and, God, what a stunning woman she was.

She was perched on the window seat, overlooking your lush garden. Sunlight hit her face at the perfect angle, casting a soft shadow across the left side of her face and creating a subtle halo around her perfectly coiffed white hair. Her eyes sparkled like sapphires, bright and clear, and her pale, freckled skin was practically glowing in contrast to the red lace.

You tried your best not to ogle her - she was your paying client, after all, and the last thing you wanted was to make her feel uncomfortable. You normally had no trouble with this, but you’d also never been this attracted to a client before.

“You are very beautiful,” you whispered - the words left your mouth before you could stop them, and your heart skipped a beat as Larissa’s gaze met yours, those deep blue eyes widening and her lips parting slightly as your compliment registered in her brain. Then she smiled, ducking her head shyly, and it was the most breathtaking thing you’d ever seen - you quickly snapped a few photos, Larissa’s smile widening as she heard the sound of the shutter.

~~~

“I’ll upload the photos tonight and start the editing process,” you told Larissa as you led her to your front door. “I have a light workload this week so I should be able to send you the photos in 2-3 days, and then if you want physical copies of any of them, I can help you get those printed.”

“Thank you, I appreciate it,” Larissa replied with a genuine smile - it was your turn to blush. “I’ll be awaiting your email, then.”

“I’ll try not to keep you waiting,” you teased lightly, noting how Larissa’s pupils widened slightly at your tone.

You watched Larissa walk to her car, noting how long and toned her legs looked in her heels - you should have asked her to keep those on, you thought to yourself. Closing the door, you rushed back into your studio and grabbed your camera, then settled on your couch with your laptop - you couldn’t wait to edit her photos.

It was something that kept you busy for the entire evening, and most of the following morning. One of your regulars canceled on you at the last minute, so you ended up having some extra time before your next late afternoon shoot to finish up the editing. You wanted to be done quickly for Larissa, eager for her reaction to the pictures, but it was proving to be quite difficult - your eyes would get stuck on each picture, drinking in the details and getting so lost in simply looking that the editing took ages.

You’d never been this affected by a client before. Sure, you took pictures of beautiful, scantily clad women all the time, you’d been doing it for years at this point. And some of them you did find really attractive. But they were still just clients to you - beautiful, certainly, but strictly off-limits.

But Larissa? There was something about her that captivated you, that made it nearly impossible to think straight - it was entirely inappropriate, but every time you’d caught her smiling in your direction, you’d been overcome with the urge to lunge forward and kiss her senseless. Even now, looking at the pictures you’d taken, your heart skipped a beat.

There was one in particular that you couldn’t seem to stop sneaking glances at. Larissa was lying on her back, her long legs bent, her arms draped over her head. You’d taken the picture from above, and you’d been cracking jokes hoping to make her laugh. And laugh she did - it was loud and unabashed, and it left her with a beaming grin stretching from ear to ear and little crinkles around her eyes. The bridge of her nose crinkled the tiniest bit, bright blue eyes scrunching up. You were grateful for your years of experience, because the sight briefly made you forget how to work your camera - your finger worked on autopilot to snap photos while your brain short-circuited.

Once you finished the editing, you uploaded the photos to your cloud and sent Larissa an email with the link - butterflies erupted in your stomach as your finger hovered over the “send” button, and you realized how fucked you truly were.

~~~

Late the following afternoon, you had another shoot - Sam, a woman you’d taken pictures of on occasion and developed an easy rapport with. After she left, you decided to make yourself some dinner before doing some editing for the evening. Just as the water for your pasta had started to boil, your phone began to vibrate in your pocket.

“Hello?”

The voice at the other end of the line - smooth, sultry, British - made your heart stutter in your chest.

“Hello, this is Larissa. Weems.”

“Oh, hi! I’m assuming you’re calling about the edited photos I sent you?” You tried hard to keep your voice level, to treat her as you did every other woman you took photos of - it proved to be a challenge however, as your voice rose nervously in pitch. Oh, God, what if she was unhappy with them? What if she hated them? What if-

“Yes, I wanted to thank you again. I wasn’t expecting them to turn out so well, I- well, I’m unsure what I was expecting, but they really have turned out beautifully.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” They’re only beautiful because you’re beautiful. “If there are any that you want physical copies of, you can send me an email with the file name and we can go over exactly what you’re looking for?” You paced about your kitchen, filled with too much nervous energy to stand still.

“Oh, yes. There are a few, I suppose. Actually… I wanted to know if there is any way we could do a second shoot?”

A second shoot?

You felt your pulse skyrocket.

“A second shoot? I mean, yeah, of course - whatever you want. Do you have a day in mind already?”

Larissa hesitated a moment before speaking again. “Perhaps next Saturday, the same time as this week?”

“Sure, Larissa.” You trailed off, caught off-guard - you’d thought (at least you’d hoped) that Larissa had become more comfortable by the end of her shoot, but you hadn’t dared dream you’d ever see her again. “Is there something you were unhappy with or…?”

“I just really enjoyed myself and… I think this could be good for me.” You could practically hear the blush in her tone - it made your stomach flip.

“Oh. Yeah. I mean, that’s the goal with these photos, you know?” You paused for a moment, your next words slipping out before you could stop yourself. “Did your partner like them?”

“Oh, no it’s nothing like that… I don’t have a partner.”

You could feel your breath catch in your lungs as you processed her words, scrambling to come up with a suitable answer as you worried you’d made things awkward. “Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to assume. I mean I just thought- you know, you’re so beautiful, I assumed…” Way to make things even more awkward…

“It’s quite alright, my dear.” My dear. Swoon. Her voice was filled with warmth, bordering on teasing, and it made your stomach do a somersault.

“I’ll see you next week then? If you still want to, that is.”

“Yes. I would love to. Thank you.”

“Thank you,” you whispered, before hanging up the phone.

~~~

This time, when Larissa walked up to the front door of your cottage, she felt a little more confident. She knew what to expect now - and honestly, the first shoot hadn’t been as awkward or humiliating as she’d thought it would be. Really, the photos had turned out so well - they’d made her feel sexy, they’d made her feel young again. And you’d been very patient with her, always making sure to direct her into poses so that she never felt helpless - there was a reason your clients spoke so highly of you in online reviews, she supposed.

But there was something else. The way you’d looked at her during that first shoot, particularly when you thought she wasn’t watching, had stirred up feelings inside of Larissa that she hadn’t felt in years. She felt desirable. Under your gaze, she felt attractive - it felt natural to pose in lingerie when you were the one watching her. And it was insane, really - she didn’t even know you, and you were simply doing your job. But Larissa couldn’t help but feel like there was something more there.

You let Larissa into your cottage and, after offering her a drink, directed her to get changed and meet you in the studio. Larissa didn’t miss the way you blushed and squirmed when she stepped into the studio in a matching set - a mesh, sage green bra and panties.

She still found herself a bit shy about her body - her stomach was on display a lot more this time around, and she crossed her arms subconsciously over her torso.

“That, uh, that color really suits you.”

It was Larissa’s turn to blush, and she smiled a shy, closed-lip smile. You directed her to the floor in front of the mirror, explaining that you would love to use the mirror for some shots. Larissa agreed and sat down, drawing her legs up to her chest to hide the stomach rolls that formed as she sat.

“None of that,” you teased, tapping her knee and instructing her to stretch out her legs. Larissa leaned back on her elbows, her body now on almost full display for you. Your eyes roamed her bare skin - just briefly - and you bit your lip. “You have a gorgeous figure, Larissa. Really, most women would kill to look like you.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that…” Larissa felt her stomach flip at your compliment. You gave her a look that she couldn’t quite place, your eyes briefly flicking over her body. Part of her did feel self-conscious but another part, a part that was quickly taking over, felt alive under your gaze. She felt her body come to life as she posed for you, and she almost found herself forgetting there was even a camera present - she often looked past the lens, directly at you, admiring you in your element, basking in the soft smiles you would shoot at her when you caught her looking.

“Um, Larissa?” you asked suddenly, lowering your camera slightly and cocking your head to the side.

“Hmm?”

“Could we try… maybe we could try taking your hair down for a few photos?” You bit your lip and watched intently for Larissa’s reaction - her eyes widened at your suggestion and you immediately started to backtrack. “I mean, it looks like it was a bitch to put up so I totally get it if you’d rather not! And I mean it looks amazing, you look really beautiful, so it’s nice as is!”

Larissa did have to admit your suggestion caught her off-guard - her updo had become an integral part of her uniform, another part of her mask. She’d figured out long ago that it suited her, gave her an untouchable air of sophistication, and it became a staple for her - there were few people in her life today who’d seen her with her hair down, and so wearing her hair down had begun to feel very intimate.

But something about you, about the entire situation, felt different. She felt safe here in this little studio space. So, after a moment’s hesitation, she smiled and nodded. “I can take it down. It’ll take a few minutes though, there are quite a few pins.”

“I could help - I mean, only if you want me to, of course, sorry.”

Larissa couldn’t help but grin at your chaotic nature. “I would appreciate your help.”

You set your camera on the floor and scooted closer, settling on your knees behind Larissa and running your fingers over the intricate curls. “Wow,” you breathed, before gently beginning to pry pins out of her hair - Larissa felt her cheeks go pink, unused to so much praise.

Your fingers danced over her curls, setting them free one by one. The pressure from the pins was slowly being released, and she couldn’t help but let out a soft moan of pleasure. She felt embarrassed by the noise, but it seemed to embolden you - you began to gently massage her scalp.

“Is this okay?” you whispered.

“Mmh… yes, it is.” Larissa let out another hum of pleasure and leaned into your touch.

“Why do you wear it up like that if it’s so tight?” Your voice was curious as the pads of your fingers reached the muscles at the nape of her neck.

“I just do.” Larissa shrugged, another soft moan escaping her lips - this time, she didn’t try to hold it back. “I found it suits me. And I enjoy the process, I like having my routine and my structure.”

You carded your fingers through loose, platinum curls, draping the long locks over Larissa’s shoulders and moving around to face her. Your eyes were wide as they roamed over Larissa’s face, over long lengths of hair - your cheeks turning red in real time.

“Uh, looks good. The light is kind of coming in from the side, if I go over there and you kind of pose in front of the mirror, I think that would look cool. Maybe we could do some standing shots?”

Larissa grinned, very aware of how you were trying to cover up your own embarrassment at the sudden intimacy. How endearing, she thought.

After the shoot, when she was sitting in her car, Larissa realized just how good that intimacy had felt. She craved it, and most importantly, she craved it with you. What she didn’t know was that you were sitting on your couch, your stomach flipping as you reviewed the photos you’d taken - completely smitten by her and wondering when you’d get to see her again.

~~~

You did that dance for months - every so often, Larissa would book a shoot, seeming to become more and more comfortable each time. Her lingerie became more revealing, her posing more confident - she often wore her hair down, once she even decided to forgo makeup. Both of you flirted - just a little - dancing around each other, perfectly in sync but never daring to go for more. Every so often your hand would linger just a little longer than it should when you’d direct Larissa into a pose, every so often Larissa’s gaze would travel over your own body as you snapped photo after photo.

Today’s shoot was no different. Larissa wore a white teddy, nearly see-through, with lace around the cups and a deep plunge. Her hair hung in loose waves down her back, one side pinned back from her face. It had stolen the breath from your lungs when she’d entered the room and you’d busied yourself with your equipment as you tried to compose yourself.

Larissa sat down on the bed, legs crossed demurely as she waited for you, hands clasped in her lap. Little did you know that today’s shoot would be very different to the rest - Larissa would make sure of that.

“Do you want to start on the bed today then?” you asked, glancing over at Larissa as you fiddled with some settings on your camera.

“Yes, I think so,” Larissa purred, her voice sending a shiver down your spine.

“Whenever you’re ready.” You tried for a casual smile, hating the way your voice broke slightly - it was getting harder and harder to keep your composure around the woman.

Larissa shifted slightly on the bed and you stepped forward to get a closer angle. The blonde looked straight into the camera, eyes seductive and heavy-lidded, and uncrossed her legs - you snapped a few photos. Then, at an almost glacial pace, she spread her legs, a smirk playing upon her lips.

You were so focussed on her full, red lips that it took you a moment before you glanced down between her legs - the sight had your mouth going dry. Larissa’s lingerie was crotchless - there, between soft, milky thighs, was her pussy, bare and glistening with arousal.

Larissa rested her hands on her thighs, gently squeezing the soft flesh there, before trailing her palms slowly inward and upward, subtly spreading her legs even farther, spreading herself open in the process.

You watched, mesmerized. As if pulled by an invisible force, you found yourself setting down your camera and crawling up the bed towards Larissa, until you were nestled between her thighs. You could feel heat radiating off her in waves - it made desire pool in your core, like a tightening coil. Leaning in, you stopped until your face was inches away from hers, until you could feel her breath fan across your face. Your eyes were glued to her lips - red and plush - as you closed the gap, your eyelids fluttering shut as your lips connected with her own - soft and warm.

A soft sigh escaped your throat when Larissa began to kiss you back, moving her mouth against your own. Her hands landed on the curve of your hips, causing your heart to flutter madly. You pressed forward, your hand resting on Larissa’s shoulder as you guided her backwards - Larissa followed your lead until she was lying on her back and you were hovering over her, your knee inches away from her warm core. “I’m very attracted to you, Larissa,” you mumbled against her lips.

“Do you do this with all the women you take pictures of?” Larissa’s voice was deep and sultry, her eyes half-lidded, but you could tell from the way her fingers twitched against your hips, the absence of her breath against your face, that your answer mattered to her.

“It never even crossed my mind until I met you…” It was true. You’d never desired another person this much before, and you’d certainly never dreamed of pursuing a client. Except Larissa. Larissa, who was staring up at you with wide eyes and rosy cheeks. Larissa, who in that moment wrapped her arms around your neck and pulled you down, her lips meeting yours in a hungry, passionate kiss that stole the breath from your lungs.

It was as if Larissa was trying to devour you, her lips moving against yours in desperation. She deepened the kiss, her tongue swirling around yours as her hands found purchase in your hair, nails gently scratching your scalp.

You let out a deep groan as Larissa arched her back off the bed, pushing her body up into your own and letting out a soft whine.

“Fuck, Larissa.”

“Please.”

That one syllable was so needy, so filled with desire that your thighs clenched together of their own accord, the heat between your bodies becoming absolutely unbearable. Your hand traveled lower and lower, caressing Larissa’s waist, her hips, her thigh, your fingertips memorizing the softness of her skin - every dip and curve of her body. Your hand reached her inner thigh and Larissa let out a gasp, her legs twitching.

“Can I?” you breathed, pausing in your ministrations. You were met with a breathy ‘yes’ and an enthusiastic nod of Larissa’s head - then with a whimper as your fingers brushed against her wet folds.

Larissa tightened her grip on your hips, squirming slightly beneath you as your fingers explored her cunt, trailing up her slit to gather the juices there and smearing them over her clit.

“Mmh, right there, keep going.” Larissa’s voice was becoming breathier as she began to roll her hips. It was so incredibly hot, how you could see the muscles in her thighs and stomach tighten as she ground her pelvis into your fingers.

Larissa arched her back off the bed, tilting her head back as she let out a low groan when your fingers began to tease her entrance. “P-please,” she whimpered.

You happily obliged, letting out a moan of your own when you slipped a digit inside of her hole and felt her walls clench needily around it, drawing you in.

“You feel so good.” You leaned down to press your lips to Larissa’s - the kiss was hungry and desperate and hot, the blonde’s breathing labored. Her hands slipped under your shirt and clawed at your back, leaving angry red scratches in their wake - the pain felt delicious and you dragged Larissa’s bottom lip between your teeth in response.

Your finger pumped in and out of Larissa at a steady pace and you soon added a second finger. The pads of your fingers found her sweet spot while your thumb began to flick gently across her clit, drawing a whine from her throat.

You drew back slightly from the kiss to catch a glimpse of Larissa’s face - she took your breath away. Her face and chest were flushed, her eyes were heavy-lidded, mascara-coated lashes fluttering slightly, lips parted as her jaw went slack. When she noticed you watching her, the corners of her lips quirked up slightly into a seductive smile, and she squeezed your waist.

“You’re gorgeous,” you breathed.

“Then kiss me.”

You didn’t need to be told twice - you descended upon her again, pouring all of your passion and desire into the kiss as your fingers curled inside of her and your thumb massaged her sensitive clit. You swallowed her moans as she got closer and closer to the edge, fucking her through her first orgasm - and keeping up your pace even as her thighs trembled and her nails dug into your skin.

A second orgasm quickly followed, then a third, then Larissa was gently pushing your hand away.

“I need a moment,” she admitted between deep, labored breaths, a soft smile on her face as her eyelids fluttered shut.

You happily scooted up the bed to join her, settling next to her and pressing a kiss to her temple as she nestled into your side. Propping yourself up on your elbow, you watched Larissa come down from her high, allowing yourself to freely admire her stunning features.

“Larissa?” you whispered, resting your hand on her hip and gently stroking the soft skin.

Larissa hummed in response, burrowing her head deeper into the crook of your neck and placing a kiss to the side of your throat - it sent a shiver down your spine.

“I have a confession to make.” You bit your lip, your pulse hammering as Larissa leaned back slightly to fix you with a curious gaze, her eyes wide and blue and gleaming, kiss-swollen lips parted slightly. “I have wanted to do… this since our first shoot.” As if to emphasize your point you caressed the curve of Larissa’s hip as you watched for her reaction.

A contented smile spread across Larissa’s face and she leaned in for a kiss, her lips warm and comforting against your own. “I know,” she whispered with a smirk.

“You know? What do you mean you know?” You suddenly remembered that Larissa had mentioned during your intro call that she was the principal of Nevermore Academy and your eyes widened. “You can’t read minds, can you?”

Larissa chuckled at your perplexed expression. “No, I can’t read minds. But I’m afraid you’re not very good at hiding your attraction.” Her tone was teasing and light, and you could feel your cheeks turn scarlet.

“God, I’m so sorry if I creeped you out,” you mumbled, burying your face in the pillow.

“I found it quite endearing actually.” Larissa’s voice was inches away from your ear, her breath washing over the side of your face before she placed a kiss to your cheek. “In case you failed to notice, I’m attracted to you as well.”

Larissa’s fingers found your chin and she tilted your head to face her. Her eyes swam with warmth as she inched towards you until her lips captured yours in a languid kiss.

“Larissa?”

“Yes, darling?”

Darling. Your breath caught in your throat.

“Would it be… I mean would you be interested in… Would you like to-”

The blonde watched you struggle, her shoulders beginning to shake with laughter before she (mercifully) cut you off.

“Are you trying to ask me on a date?” She grinned at the blush on your cheeks as you nodded your head. “Yes. I would be interested in going out with you, darling.”

You couldn’t help the smile that spread across your face as you leaned in to kiss Larissa again, your head clouded with euphoria and your heart pounding. Her hands came to grip your waist and she flipped you onto your back, hovering over you as her lips began to mark every inch of you she could reach, her hands slowly unbuttoning your shirt.

It was something you’d been picturing over and over again since you’d first laid eyes on Larissa - but reality was definitely proving to be better than even your wildest fantasies.

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cognacandlilac · 11 months

Text

To the Depths - Part Five - NSFW

(Pirate!Silco x F!Reader) The Pirate's Waltz

AO3 - Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3.1 - Part 3.2 - Part 4

Rating: Explicit/MDNI Chapter Summary: You struggle with the terms of your punishment even as you begin to win over the crew. For a moment, all is well even though you are technically a prisoner. Will the sea allow a moment of peace? Chapter Tags/Warnings: def a little nsfw but not nearly as much as other parts, nothing that hasn't been in past parts. Not beta'd bc I was too impatient to get the update posted lol *edited on 8/5 to fix mistakes that would have been caught with beta reading. There is a lesson here...*

You flee the cabin immediately without another word. Your entire body hums, rages, cries, and begs for release and you know you will not find it in that room. Something stings and burns in your chest, wrapping around your heart and squeezing tight. You’re reminded of Silco’s sea serpent tattoo but immediately shake the thought away. His body is the last thing you want to think about right now.

Especially since the ache between your legs only grows with each step. You briefly entertain the idea of finding a dark, shadowy corner of the ship to bring the relief denied you, but that thought flies out of your mind the moment you see the crew standing idle on the deck, their faces all turned toward the short stairwell you’ve just climbed. You freeze on the last step.

Before Silco dragged you back down to the cabin, you’d passionately declared for all to hear that you were the reason they had to spend the night fighting a violent storm and why thick pools of drying blood now stain the deck. No doubt you’ve made an enemy of yourself to every single person staring at you now.

You could return to the cabin but the thought of being enclosed with Silco is unbearable. You are caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. Almost literally.

Luckily, you aren’t trapped in your frozen state for long. Jinx darts into your field of vision, her eyes wide and frantic.

“You look awful ,” she says, cupping your face in her dainty hands. The coolness of her skin alerts you to just how scorching your face is. No doubt flushed, too. “I hope he wasn’t too harsh with you.”

Harsh certainly isn’t the word you’d choose to describe what just happened in his cabin. “I received the punishment I deserved for my error,” You say, hoping to avoid bringing up any particulars of that punishment, not when your ass still stung in the shape of his hand. Before Jinx can ask another question, you make your way across the deck to the poor crewmate you tricked.

“I owe you an apology.” You speak to him with the same grace and dignity you would reserve for a noble. “Tricking you wasn’t just wrong, it was cruel. If I thought for even one minute that things would turn out the way they did, I never would have done it but that does not make it acceptable.”

You bow your head and sink into a half-curtsy.

“Please, accept my sincerest apologies.”

The walleyed crewmember says nothing at first. Your cheeks grow red from embarrassment as you try to figure out what you ought to do next. He saves you from your discomfort when he lets out a loud, cawing laugh.

“All those fancy words for me, miss?” He guffaws. “In all me days I never thought a lady would speak so pretty to me.” He throws an arm around you in a friendly, but rough, manner and you straighten up to avoid falling over altogether. “So, am I forgiven?”

“Ya ran a bad scheme and it bit us all in the ass. We’ve all done it,” he assures her. “But it’s nice to know you aren’t too high and mighty to take the consequences.” Relief floods you as the other crewmates circle around. They give you approving nods, though you won’t go as far as to say they look upon you with trust or friendliness.

“Surely, the Captain requested more than just an apology,” Sevika says with a suspicious glint in her eyes.

“The apology was my own doing,” you say as you approach her. “His punishment dictates that I am to report to you. I am to clean the deck.” Her eyebrows twitch as the corners of her mouth quiver like she’s trying not to laugh.

“I wouldn’t trust someone so soft-handed with the care of my deck but if the Captain insists…”

She trails off as she walks away. You realize you are meant to follow and hurry after her. She doesn’t offer anything by way of instruction. She tosses a bucket and a thick bristled brush towards you, which you fail to catch. The items clatter onto the floor. Your cheeks burn when you hear chuckles behind you. “Get to it,” Sevika grunts. You look at the empty bucket, noticing that it’s…well, empty.

“Where would I find water?” As soon as the words are out of your mouth, you realize your mistake. Everyone who heard begins to laugh.

“I think you can figure that one out on your own, princess,” Sevika smirks before heading below deck.

Jinx appears at your side, silent as a ghost but with the energy of a toddler who has had nothing but sweets all day.

“I rigged up a pulley system so you can fill your bucket. I’ll show you.”

She loops her arm through yours and pulls you across the deck. You fill your bucket with saltwater and approach one of the more gruesome remnants of the morning’s violence. Your stomach heaves as you spot something that might very well be a skull fragment.

Determined not to look foolish or weak, you get on your knees and scrub. You work diligently and without complaint, even when your arms start to ache and the wood remains stained despite your efforts.

It isn’t the approval of the crew you want, exactly. But you are going to be trapped on this ship for two weeks. While you aren’t looking to make friends with your captors, you also don’t want to find your throat slit in a moment of anger.

“How long are you going to keep doing that?” Jinx materializes by your side. Her braids fall into the puddle you’ve created with your scrubbing efforts. She doesn't seem to mind that she might be getting blood in her long hair.

“Is this a trick question?”

“No.”

You lift your head to find wide blue eyes staring at you with curiosity.

“I will keep doing this until the deck is clean.”

She barks out a laugh. “You’re never going to remove all the gross stuff with just water. Didn’t you know that?”

“I don’t often find myself in positions where I am scrubbing up gross stuff ,” you reply. “What else am I supposed to use?”

“Did Sevika not tell you?” Her brows knit together in a mix of concern and confusion.

“Tell me what?”

Jinx studies you for a moment longer before giggling. “Oh, I get it. Sevika’s having a go at you. Don’t worry. Everyone knows you’ll work without kicking up a fuss. I’ll be right back.”

She bounds off, leaving you confused. You take a moment to give your aching arms a break. You are aware of eyes on you, though the crewmates scattered around the deck do a decent job of not staring at you directly. You know this is some kind of test, one you’re determined to pass with flying colors even if the reward is earning the respect of pirates.

Jinx returns with a small tin.

“Watch this.” With a grin, she opens the tin to reveal vibrant purple powder. She sprinkles a little over the blood-soaked wood. “Pour a little water on that.”

You do as she instructs. With wide eyes, you watch the water hiss and bubble. It takes on a pale purple hue as it spreads. It eats away at the blood but leaves the wood unblemished.

“More water,” Jinx instructs. You comply. The bubbles wash away leaving behind smooth, clean wood.

“What is that?” You ask, eyeing the purple power.

“We’re still working on a name. I have several ideas but they always get shot down,” she says as she replaces the lid and tucks the tin into one of her many pockets.

“We?”

“The ship’s doctor. He likes to experiment.”

“This is the same doctor you got that strange drink from before, when I was first brought aboard?” You press.

“Yup!” Jinx beams.

“Well, the Captain tore that drink from my hands and threw it overboard before giving me water. What was wrong with it?” You shudder at the thought of drinking a substance that is capable of dissolving blood and chunks of brain matter being served to you in a cup.

“Nothing!” Jinx raises her hands, palms facing you. “Sometimes it has side effects, but usually it’s completely safe.”

“Usually?” You arch a brow.

“Sometimes it makes your veins swell and glow and you can occasionally develop abnormal growths on your body,” she explains. “But that’s only if the batch is made wrong or you take way too much.”

“None of the words coming from your mouth are bringing me comfort.”

“It’s science! It’s all about trial and error,” she shrugs. “If I thought it would hurt you I wouldn’t have given it to you.”

Despite everything, you believe her. You haven’t seen a hint of malice in her since you were brought aboard.

“But you still haven’t told me what it is,” you press.

“It’s…a tool,” she says with thoughtful consideration. “Depending on how we process it, it can do a lot of things. It can be medicine and poison at the same time. It can clean wood with gentle precision but also dissolve bone. A tricky thing, it is. Truly fascinating.”

“Interesting,” you murmur as your mind wanders to a person who possesses that same versatility. Another tricky thing.

You see Silco’s face in your mind’s eye but quickly shake his image away. You don’t want to think about the Captain right now. You’re still cross from the way he teased you and denied you. You’re even more cross knowing how much you would have begged for your pleasure had he not chosen to punish you the way he did. “Thank you for the help. Can I have some of that powder to help me clean?”

Jinx almost seems like she’s going to agree but she holds back. “I’ll just stay with you. We can talk and I’ll sprinkle a little whenever you need it.”

“That works for me.” You offer her a warm smile, a genuine one. She smiles back and settles between two crates to keep you company as you clean. ******** Though you finish cleaning the blood and gore from the deck the very day they were spilled, Sevika isn’t shy about giving you extra tasks. She never gives you anything too difficult though you know it’s not out of consideration for you, but for the ship.

You’ve scrubbed the deck twice a day for three days. When you aren’t scrubbing, you put your sewing skills to use mending sails. The thick material is hard to work with and the needles are little more than scraps of half-rusted metal but you make do.

With the help of quick hands, fast learning, and the strange purple powder Jinx offers you soon have far too much idle time on your hands.

You aren’t particularly fond of aimlessly pacing the deck. The Captain’s cabin is always open to you, but you spend as little time there as you can manage.

Despite Captain Silco’s demanding schedule, he always manages to be in the cabin whenever you are. The room is small enough as it is, but when you are in there together, the very air seems to struggle for space. You don’t speak to him. You don’t look at him unless you can help it. Yet, he never misses a chance to brush close to you. You feel his eyes on you, always. Even when you sleep.

Sharing his bed is a necessity but you keep your limbs tucked close to you and your body curled toward the cabin wall. He never touches you, which brings both relief and unimaginable frustration.

On the third night, you lay wide awake. Your entire body hums with pressure from the release that was denied days ago. The longing never went away but tonight it’s nearly unbearable.

You listen in the dark. Silco sleeps beside you. His breathing is deep and even. Though there is a soft glow from the ember of his ruined eye, you know he’s asleep. Slowly, very slowly, you shift onto your back. You wear only a borrowed shirt to sleep in. Your legs are left bare and your undergarments never recovered from your unexpected dip in the ocean. Tonight, it’s an advantage.

With great care, you slowly lift the long hem of your shirt until you feel the skin of your lower belly. You part your legs only an inch or two before letting your hand slowly wander between your legs beneath the shared blankets.

You listen intently as you move. Silco’s breathing never changes and you keep the rustling of bedsheets to a minimum.

You find it safe to assume that Silco is a heavy sleeper. Between the winds and rocking of the ship, it would be difficult for a finicky sleeper to find peace here. At least, that’s what you tell yourself. As sound as your logic may be, logic is not what drives you at this moment.

The sensation of your fingertips against your skin is enough to make you shiver. You freeze, silently admonishing your lack of self-control before making another attempt. You don’t need much. Just a few light, indulgent touches. Just enough to remove the biting edge of desire that has taken up permanent residence in the back of your mind since Silco bent you over his knee. The pad of a single fingertip brushes against that sensitive, soaked bundle of nerves at the apex of your thighs. Your teeth sink into your bottom lip, hard enough to hurt. The pain is necessary if it keeps you from making even the softest of sounds.

You wait for a moment, listening to Silco’s breathing. When you are certain there is no change, you allow another slow drag of your fingertip. Then another. And another. Pleasure spins through your mind and soothes the needy ache you’ve carried in your core for days.

Fragmented images from the night of the storm slip through your mind. The memory of Silco’s soft groan when you rode him so slowly sends another ripple of warmth through your body. You can recall the exact sensation of his tongue as he teased your nipples. You can feel the way he throbbed inside of you when you drove each other to maddening releases.

Yet, somehow, you manage to keep your movements minimal, discrete, and silent. Even as your blood heats up and your heart pounds, you have enough self-control to keep yourself quiet as you relieve your desires.

An intoxicating sense of smugness adds another layer to your pleasure. Though it was memories of Silco that fueled that pleasure, he remains asleep beside you. Completely oblivious.

His ability to consistently underestimate you was truly something-

“What do we have here?” His velvet voice slides through the darkness and wraps around you as his hand finds yours. You’re grateful for the pitch blackness of the cabin so he cannot see the redness of your cheeks. Your mind, still caught in the haze of pleasure from your fingertip, struggles to come up with any sort of explanation.

There is nothing you can say for yourself. You’ve been caught.

His hand, still covering your hand, moves. He presses down on your fingers, forcing you to tease yourself. You push your hips down into the mattress to avoid the pressure of your own touch. “Oh, now you wish to follow the rules?” He taunts lightly.

You roll so that your back is to him. You tell yourself that you remain silent because you will not sink so low as to dignify his taunts with a response. Yet, deep in your belly where that spring of desire sits tightly coiled, you know that you cannot trust your own tongue right now. If you open your mouth to slice him with scathing words, there is a chance you’ll simply end up begging for pleasure.

Hatred blooms within the blush on your cheeks. How dare he toy with you in such a way? How dare you struggle so much to keep yourself in control around him? What happened that night, within the violence of the storm, was about control more than it was about pleasure.

But now? You have your hand between your legs, sneaking pleasure when you’ve always been able to go without when it suited you.

He’s made you desperate.

You remove your hand from between your legs and tuck both arms against your chest. You clamp your thighs together and pray that the sweet ache between them fades soon.

“If I catch you doing that again, I will not hesitate to bind your hands behind your back.” Silco’s voice comes through the darkness once more before he falls silent. You continue to say nothing. When the sun rises, you dress as quickly as you can and flee the cabin. Silco sits at his desk and you do not even have to look at him to know there is a smug smile on his mouth. Embarrassment and irritation propel you through your daily tasks in record time. It is not yet midday when you find that you have nothing to do.

The rest of the crew mill about at a comfortable pace. They don’t seem to be in any particular rush. Jinx is nowhere to be found. You assume she’s below decks with the strange doctor you have yet to meet. Disappointment flutters in your chest. As strange as it is, your favorite parts of the past few days were when she would perch near you ask you worked, and ramble on about everything and nothing. She often jumped from topic to topic without rhyme or reason and rarely bothered to make sure you had the proper context to understand anything she said, but you enjoyed listening. She helped you keep your mind busy.

When your mind is not busy, even for the briefest of moments, your thoughts always turn to Silco. More specifically Silcos’s hands. Or his mouth. Or his voice or his cock or his insufferable personality. Without care, it’s so easy for you to lose yourself in a whirlpool of obsessive, never-ending thoughts about that ridiculous, despicable, revolting pirate bastard.

Prickles of pure fury ripple over your skin. With a soft snarl of annoyance, you scan the deck for Sevika. You find her near the bow, watching the calm sea.

“I need something else to do,” you say.

She initially seems as though she does not hear you, but you’ve come to realize that it’s part of the game she plays. She makes you wait before turning slowly and looking at you as though you’re a piece of flotsam.

“Mend the sails,” she says.

“They’re all mended.” Despite their somewhat worn-down appearance, the sails are of remarkable quality. Even after that vicious beast of a storm, little mending was needed.

“And the deck?”

“As spotless as it can be with all of the wood rot.”

“And the spare line?”

“In perfect condition. It may as well be coils of silk.”

“How many pickled eggs are in the barrel?”

“Two-hundred and seventy-three.”

Her thick, dark brows shoot up. “You’re kidding.”

“If you want to double-check, you’re more than welcome but please give me something to do first before I throw myself overboard.”

Several emotions fight for dominance on Sevika’s stern face. You see flashes of surprise, humor, annoyance, and perhaps a little bit of respect though that might have been a trick of the light.

“Arlo is doing one of his big cooking hauls today,” Sevika says. “I’m sure he can use an extra set of hands.”

You had yet to venture below deck to meet the ship’s cook and see the mess deck. Jinx preferred to eat in the open air and had taken it upon herself to bring an extra serving for you at mealtimes.

You find the meal offerings of the Zaun’s Revenge to be, frankly, repulsive. At first, you assumed it was because your palate was used to Piltover’s fresh vegetables, vibrant spices, and choice cuts of meat. But you’d seen the way others look at their meals with disgust and longing and you knew you weren’t alone in your dislike of the cuisine.

Of course, could you truly expect to find something tasty aboard a pirate’s ship?

Sevika does not wait for you to answer. She turns away as though you are not there and focuses her gaze on the sea once more. You wonder if she’s looking for something or simply pondering. It’s not hard to imagine that those aboard this ship have had difficult lives filled with strife. You have more than most ever will, despite your losses, and you often need to take a moment to deal with the weight of it all by gazing at a soothing view. It clears the mind.

You make your way below deck, passing the crammed tables of the mess deck.

Arlo isn’t difficult to find. The mess deck and the kitchen are one and the same. A heavy-set man covered in a light sheen of sweat frantically tosses…something in a wide pan over a massive flame. The air carries a scent of burnt food and vinegar. Arlo watches the pan as though he believes the contents will jump out and bite him. To be fair, that doesn’t seem impossible.

“Hello?” You call softly, over the violent sizzle of the ill-fated meal.

Arlo looks over his shoulder and sets the pan aside, looking relieved to do so before a stern expression overtakes his somewhat doughy features. You can’t help but notice the red tinge to his watery grey eyes, irritated by the fumes of cooking such a creation.

“No early meals. You should know the rules by now, princess.”

“Oh, no,” you shake your head. “I’m not here to beg for food. Sevika suggested you might need an extra hand. She said you were doing some kind of…food haul?” While you understand what each of those words mean separately, you are unsure of the combined meaning of them in this context.

“Aye?” He sniffs as he brings the corner of his apron up to rub at his eyes. “I like to cook big batches of things all at once and preserve them so it is easy to handle mealtimes. This lot is hard to feed.”

“Preserve them?” You ask. “You have enough salt for such a task?”

“Of a sort,” he says. “The good doctor below decks whipped up a preserving powder that works wonders. It tastes like nothing.”

Arlo jerks his chin towards a bowl sitting on one of the stained, cluttered counters. The bowl is filled with a grainy substance the same vibrant shade of purple as the powder that helped you get blood out of the deck.

“What is it?” You ask, leaning forward just a little.

“Beats me,” Arlo shrugs. “It’s not my place to ask questions, especially not when I’m given something helpful for free.”

“I can understand that,” you nod. “Do you need help with your food haul?”

“I won’t say no. Can you cook?”

You hesitate for a moment. “No. But if you have a recipe I can look at, I can surely figure it out.” You’ve always been a quick learner. And so many people know how to cook so how hard can it truly be? You doubt whatever concoctions Arlo makes take much skill.

“I don’t waste my time with recipes.”

“Then how do you cook?” You ask, unsure if you want to know the answer.

“I do what feels right.”

What feels right often leads to grey foods that are both mushy and crunchy at the same time.

“Did you study somewhere to become a cook?” Your training in polite conversation rears its head before you can stop it. Of course, he didn’t train anywhere. He’s a bloody pirate.

“People are trained to be cooks?” He looks at you with utter confusion.

“They prefer to be called chefs, but yes.”

“Ach,” he waves her off. “I’m no chef and I do not pretend to be. I just do my best to use whatever isn’t rotting or foul to keep the crew fed.”

Well, at least Arlo seems to have some sort of self-awareness. “Were you not able to gather more ingredients when we stopped at Port Fairna?” You ask. You vividly remember plenty of spice sellers and bakers lining the dirt streets.

“No,” Arlo answers sharply. “I do not mess about with such things.”

You tilt your head in confusion. “You do not manage your own stock?”

“No.” Came another curt reply. The cook avoids your gaze, choosing instead to look at his own hands.

You decide not to push the matter and instead, turn your attention to the shelves of the well-stocked scullery. Unfortunately, your confusion only deepens. The shelves are lined with rich spices from all over the world that look untouched. You spy garlic, onions, potatoes, carrots, and all manner of staple ingredients labeled and stored with heaps of the purple preservative.

“What are all of these?” You ask.

Arlo looks at the shelves you point to but quickly looks away. “Don’t know. Never seen ‘em before. Don’t know how to cook with ‘em so I don’t use them.”

“But it says what they are right on the containers,” you point out. “Surely, you’ve heard of garlic and potatoes even if you’ve never had them. Right?”

Arlo goes quiet for a moment and you briefly wonder if you’ve made some unforgivable error in an innocent question. “Aye. Yes, I’ve heard of them but I did not know we had them.”

“But they’re labeled. Did you not label them yourself?” He controls the kitchen, does he not?

Arlo’s cheeks turn a patchy red color that is not from the fumes or heat. “No, no I didn’t. I…can’t.”

You stare in confusion before shame and embarrassment creep into your gut. “You do not know how to write?”

“Or read.”

Arlo can’t meet your gaze. He seems frozen in place. Though he is nearly the side of the large, tattooed crewmember that once pulled you from the sea, he looks like a small child.

“Oh,” you say softly. It’s clearly a point of tenderness for Arlo. You don’t wish to upset him even more. “Well, then this seems like a perfect arrangement.”

He lifts his head and looks at you with a quizzical expression. “What?”

“I can read but I cannot cook. You can cook but cannot read. It seems like an ideal pairing to me.” You offer him a smile.

For a brief moment, you wonder at your own actions. You’d never go out of your way to be unkind to someone who did not deserve it and you always try to do what’s right, but you know yourself. You have a temper and a spiteful streak that prevent you from ever calling yourself a nice person, though you like to think you are kind in all of the ways that matter.. Arlo is a pirate. Arlo likely knew of the plan to kidnap you and hold you for ransom. Arlo is one of Silco’s men and, therefore, cannot possibly be a good person.

Yet, you find it easy to be nice to him. Natural, even. He doesn’t seem like a scowling, sneering member of a villainous pirate crew determined to put you through hell before returning you to your father and fiance.

He’s just…a person.

So is Jinx.

You are surrounded by people. Just people.

You shake away the thought. Yes, the crew of the Zaun’s Revenge are people but they are people who willingly follow a terrible man capable of terrible things. There are no innocent people aboard this ship and you cannot allow sentimentality and loneliness to cloud that fact.

Still, if a little teamwork can yield some decent food, you’re willing to give it a go.

With Arlo’s approving nod, you push into the scullery and examine what you have to work with. The stock aboard this half-rotted ship rivals your larder back home. You gather up ingredients you know work well together and read the labels to Arlo. His eyes light up with inspiration.

“If I had known we had such things, I would have used them ages ago,” he says with an excited smile.

“No one helped you until now?” You press.

“In case you haven’t noticed, we’re not exactly a helpful bunch. We handle our own responsibilities and we don’t gripe to anyone else. No one wants to be seen as a weak link in the chainmail. Weak links don’t last long. Asking for help would mean dumping some of my responsibilities on someone else’s lap. It’s just not done, you see?”

“No, not really,” you answer. “Asking for help is not a weakness.”

“We can agree to disagree on that but let me ask you something.” Arlo took a head of garlic and began peeling and mincing the cloves with speed and precision. “When was the last time you answered a call for help?”

You open your mouth to answer but falter. You cannot remember a time you were last approached by someone in need of help.

“Well, no one has asked me for help in recent memory so I cannot say,” you answer.

“And that automatically means that no one around you needed help?”

“I-” you stammer. “I don’t know.”

“I bet you live in a big, fancy house. Yeah?”

“Yes,” you say, your cheeks coloring with embarrassment as you pass a vial of dried green herbs to Arlo.

“And lots of people get paid to be in that house and make your life easier?”

“Yes,” you repeat.

“And you don’t think those people have struggles that you could probably help with?”

You want to say no. You want to believe that everyone working for your family is happy and content with their job as well as their personal lives but you are not that naive.

Except…perhaps, you are.

“I never thought about it,” you admit.

“And they never asked because that’s not how it’s done. Their burdens are their own. My burdens are my own. It is the way of things.”

You let his words sit heavy on your chest as you rummage through the scullery. You’re almost grateful when you smell the thick stench of rot from ingredients kept too long. You clear out everything that doesn’t look right and shove it into a bin to be disposed of later.

You think of your lady’s maid and realize you know little about her. You do not know if she has siblings, a lover, a best friend, or even if her parents are alive. You have no idea why she applied for a position with your family. As much as you’d like to think your family are good employers, you know it’s foolish to believe her greatest joy in life is tightening your corset and brushing your hair.

“Would this be a tasty addition?” Arlo calls, bringing you out of your thoughts as he holds up a jar of dried peppers. You read the label and wince.

“Are spicy dishes popular among the crew?” You ask. “Just one of those would set your mouth on fire.”

“Better leave it for another day, then,” he shrugs. “I don’t want to overwhelm anyone with too many new flavors.”

Though Arlo never had any training, his instincts as a cook come to life the moment he fully realizes just what he has to take advantage of. Vegetables are minced and sauteed quickly. You find some bone broth tucked away in the scullery. There is no shortage of fishmeat to choose from. You read the labels to Arlo who looks on in wonder.

“I thought this was bass and this was carp,” he says, pointing to two containers of preserved fishmeat. “I never knew that was eel. It all looks so different when it’s sliced up and skinned.”

“Who does the fishing?”

“A few crewmembers have a knack for it. All of Sevika’s gadgets make her the obvious choice for skinning, deboning, and filleting,” Arlo explains. “It’s brought to me all packaged up like this.”

It seems odd to you that the systems around food are so sloppy, especially since Silco seems to thrive on order. Upon further reflection, you realize you haven’t actually seen him eat. He left his plate untouched at the tavern. He let you eat his bread and potatoes. You saw him drink from his tankard but you cannot recall him taking a bite of his food.

Surely, he must eat. Though he is a pirate, he’s displayed a sense of elegance and taste on more than one occasion. You simply cannot see him eating the food prepared by his illiterate cook.

But why does it matter to you? He’s obviously eating enough to keep himself alive. Why would you care what he eats?

You don’t care. And you don’t want to think about him. You have an important task on hand that is, truthfully, quite fun. You’ve come across many of the spices and herbs stored in the scullery during your travels. Smelling them brings pleasant memories. While you do not know how to cook, you know how to describe what things taste like. In the event Arlo knows nothing about an ingredient, you are sometimes able to provide some knowledge. It’s a strange system, but it somehow works.

Arlo keeps your mind busy. He even teaches you how to chop a few things. Your hands are clumsy but you make it work. Within an hour, you are dutifully stirring a massive pot of fish stew. While it’s not something you’d choose for yourself, it’s an improvement on whatever Arlo made before. “It’s strange to be a cook on a pirate ship in the middle of the ocean and have access to things I never even knew existed growing up,” Arlo says, holding a potato in his hands.

“You never had a potato until joining this crew?” You itch to ask why he joined in the first place but you allow him to reveal information about himself at his own pace.

“Potatoes grow from the earth, yeah?” He asks. You nod. “Which means they need something in order to grow.” He gives you an expectant look. You know you’re being tested again but potatoes are a safer topic than the unknown personal lives of your staff. “Sunshine, water, and fertilizer, I presume.”

“There is no sunshine where I come from,” Arlo says. “Water can’t be wasted on plants but even if it could, there is no earth. You can’t grow something of the earth if there is no earth for growing.”

“Oh,” you murmur softly. “You’re from the Undercity, then?”

“Almost all of us are,” Arlo says. “I’m surprised you didn’t know that.”

“Well, I haven’t been in a very social mood as of late. Being kidnapped tends to do that.” You offer a small smirk, which Arlo returns.

“Fair enough,” he nods. “You seem like a decent sort for a spoiled heiress.”

“You seem like a decent sort for a pirate who can’t read.”

Arlo barks out a laugh. “Perhaps, your ransom money will buy me a tutor.”

You can’t help but laugh at that as you continue to stir the stew. With a little thrill of accomplishment, you realize that you’ve not only assisted in the preparation of a meal but you’ve done so without thinking of Silco for more than a few moments. He’s hardly entered your mind at all.

Footfalls thump on the wooden stairs leading to the deck. You spot tall, well-kept boots wrapped around slender legs.

It is as if your thoughts - or lack thereof - summoned him like some kind of devilish moth to a flame that would prefer to be left unbothered. “Ah, there you are,” Silco says as he enters the mess deck. “What on earth are you doing?”

“Working,” you reply, keeping your eyes on the stew.

“I did not assign you to the kitchen.”

“You told me to take orders from Sevika. Sevika sent me here. Arlo and I are getting along brilliantly, aren’t we?” You look over your shoulder at the cook who glances between you and Silco with a look of panicked confusion. Eventually, his gaze stops on Silco.

“I didn’t know you didn’t want her working in the kitchen, Captain,” he says quickly. His voice trembles with nerves and you feel anger flickering to life in your stomach.

“I should warn you, Arlo,” Silco speaks as though the cook said nothing. “Our prisoner does not have a talent for following directions. She can be sneaky and disobedient if she believes she can get away with it.”

Your cheeks burn as you understand exactly what he means.

Before you can stop yourself, you pull the wooden spoon from the stew and chuck it at Silco. He dodges, but barely. His good eye widens in surprise as you search for something else to launch at him. Perhaps a nice sharp butcher’s knife. Instead, you find a whisk. You throw it without hesitation.

“Have you gone mad?” Silco snaps, dodging the second projectile. How can someone with one working eye be so good at dodging and judging distance? Although, you don’t know for certain if the ruined eye still has a vision. Could that be possible?

You let out a frustrated groan as your mind tries to give in to your curiosity about the infuriating pirate before you.

“Oh, I see,” Silco chuckles. “You’re just upset I won’t let you cu-”

He is silenced by a spatula spinning through the air as it hurtles toward him. He dodges once more.

“I have plenty of things to throw at you,” you warn him. “And if I have gone mad, it’s entirely your fault so I will not feel bad if I crack your nose with a rolling pin.”

“I don’t have one of those,” Arlo murmurs softly.

“Temper, temper,” Silco tuts before backing up toward the stairs. “Don’t let her poison me, Arlo. I don’t put it past her to try.”

Arlo gives you a concerned look as Silco vanishes.

“Don’t worry,” you say with a bitter note in your voice. “I won’t poison anyone.”

“It’s not that, though I’m glad to hear it,” he said. “But you just threw things at the Captain. Have you lost your bleeding senses, woman?”

“Most likely.” You find another spoon to stir the stew with and continue on as though Silco did not interrupt your work.

“Just be careful,” Arlo warns. “The Captain is not to be trifled with.”

“Neither am I.” ******** The stew is well received, but that’s not a surprise. Even if it still tastes off to you, it’s a massive improvement. The mess deck is packed with crewmembers licking their bowls clean and sniffing out second helpings. You and Arlo made enough stew to last several meals but it is all gone in the span of an hour. Arlo frets about rationing ingredients but his worries are soon put to rest from an overflow of praise. Even Sevika cracks a smile as she sips her broth.

Silco does not eat with the crew, but that doesn’t surprise you. A spiteful part of you is glad that he will miss out on such a delightful meal. It serves him right for being so…so… Him.

As night falls, the crew settles into a leisurely state.

You get to work scrubbing the dirty dishes, eager to have a task that will keep you out of the Captain’s chambers for as long as possible.

“Ach, leave it to me,” Arlo says. “You’ve done enough.”

“I don’t mind,” you protest, even though dishwashing is not an appealing task after seeing the way the pirates eat. “I should be helping.”

“Come have a drink with us,” comes the deep voice of the tattoo-covered man. After listening to the conversation during mealtimes, you gleaned that his name is Locke.

“Oh, I-” You stammer, surprised by the invitation. A slender crewmember with dark choppy hair moves to Locke’s side. You’re fairly certain they go by Ran.

“Come on,” they urge. “You’ve worked hard enough. And none of us have given you proper credit for taking Walley’s punishment the other day. It took nerve to speak up like that. Most of us wouldn’t have done that.”

You look back at Arlo, who gives a nod of approval. Your gaze returns to Locke and Ran. Though they do not look as intimidating as they did when you first came aboard, you wouldn’t call their demeanors friendly, either but that’s something you’ve come to expect. Everyone on this ship comes from a rough place. It makes sense that even kindness looks abrasive in your eyes. “Okay,” you nod. A part of your mind begins to scheme. If you can befriend some of the crew, perhaps you can pull off an escape after all. The other part of your mind is simply glad you have a reason to stay out of the Captain’s cabin. Besides, it will surely irritate Silco that his crew is being so welcoming to you. That’s a lovely bonus to this situation.

You follow Locke and Ran to the main deck where quite a few members of the crew including Jinx and Sevika stand around a cluster of torches bound together in a damp barrel. It doesn’t seem like the safest arrangement, but you don’t say as much. You move to Jinx’s side. She beams when she sees you and throws a playful, but rough, arm over your shoulder.

“It’s about time you started being social,” she says with a glint of mischief in her eyes. You almost want to remind her that you are a prisoner, a captive. Socializing is not a priority. You decide against it. She’s just a kid. She’s happy and she’s aware of the situation. You’ll leave well enough alone.

“Here, princess.” Sevika presses a tin into your hand. You can smell the alcohol even though the tin is nowhere near your face.

“What is it?” You ask.

“The finest vintage imported from uppityland courtesy of Star Crossed Shipping,” Sevika snorts before taking a gulp of her own drink. You try not to bristle at the mention of your father’s company.

“Seriously, what is it?” You whisper to Jinx.

“I don’t know. I only drink coralberry juice,” she shrugs. “Nothing else is sweet enough.”

You’ve never heard of coralberries or their juice. It’s entirely possible that Jinx is making up a random drink for the fun of it. Either way, your cup is filled with something dark and pungent. It is only when you notice that many crewmembers are watching you with curious and expectant looks that you realize they’re waiting for you to drink. They probably expect you to choke and sputter, proving that you’re too soft and fragile compared to them.

You don’t know why the idea bothers you, but it does. You brace yourself and take a drink.

And it is awful.

If you had to guess, you’d say it was some kind of spiced rum but that doesn’t make the burn any easier to bear as you swallow it down. Your eyes water so much that everyone blurs together in a smudgy mess. For a moment, you think you’re going to be sick. Or that your skin is going to melt off. It’s hard to know for sure.

Even when you swallow the liquid down and the feeling passes, your tongue feels numb. Surely, that’s nothing to worry about. Right?

You are rewarded with approving glances but never any outright praise. Not that it matters. Why would you want the praise of a bunch of pirates? Why would you want praise for choking down something that tastes like it was made in a boot?

You shudder as you realize that it likely was made in a boot or something equally foul.

Thankfully, attention moves away from you as everyone settles down to swap stories. Jinx pulls two crates together and urges you to sit on one.

“Every word of these stories is utter shit, but they’re entertaining,” Jinx whispers to you. “I hope Locke tells about the time he caught a deep sea spineshark with nothing more than a stick and some fishing line.”

You listen to the stories and Jinx’s words ring true. It quickly becomes clear that the purpose is not to share experiences, but to outdo each other with fictional feats of glory. Though, when Sevika speaks of punching a ravenous whale right in the eye, you feel as though there is a measure of truth in her words. Especially if that punch was done by her three-pronged attachment.

“I wonder who is going shout liar first,” Jinx murmurs as her eyes scan the faces of those around her.

“What?” You ask.

“Eventually, someone tells a story that’s so impossible, so unbelievable, that someone else calls them a lair. Then they fight over it.”

“Fight? As in, fight ?” You shake your head. How is this considered a fun activity?

“Yup!” Jinx’s eyes sparkle with excitement. “It’s the best part.”

“If you say so,” you shrug and continue to listen.

Sure enough, a skinny sailor with sunken eyes and a permanent scowl tells a tale that is just a little bit too farfetched and it sends Locke over the edge.

“Lair!” Locke booms, spilling some of his drink.

“You wouldn’t know the truth if it bit you in the ass,” the other sailor snarls.

“This is going to be a boring fight,” Jinx mumbles. “No one will throw a punch at Locke and Locke is too honorable to punch someone smaller than him.”

Never in a thousand years would you have looked at Locke and thought the word honorable applies to him. But Jinx’s prediction rings true. The two sailors shout and swear at each other for a little while but they do not come to blows.

“At least I am a decent shot,” Locke grumbles as the argument reaches its head.

“My nan is a better shot than you are and she’s fuckin’ blind,” the other man snarls, earning a round of snickers from the rest of the crew.

“Your nan died three years ago, you twat.”

“Yeah! And she can’t see for shit!”

You nearly spit out your tentative sip of likely-rum at that. You try to rein in your laughter when you realize everyone else is doing the opposite, especially Jinx.

“Bring me a rifle,” Locke snaps. “We’ll settle this now.”

“You don’t have any targets to aim for, you buffoon,” Ran quips as they drain their cup.

“That don’t matter,” the skinny sailor says with a dismissive wave. “I’m so drunk I can see just about as well as my nan.”

“Then how are we going to settle our little disagreement?” Locke demands. “By proxy?”

“Sure, I’ll choose a proxy to defend my honor,” the sailor scoffs. His bleary eyes scan his surroundings before his gaze lands on you. “I bet the little heiress can outshoot you.”

Locke rolls his eyes and your cheeks flush red.

“I’ll bet my life’s earning she’s never even held a firearm before,” Locke mutters.

“Yet she can still outshoot you,” the sailor slurs.

Your apprehension melts away as you realize everything is said in good fun. For reasons you are unsure of, you decide to join in.

“I’ve never held a firearm but I’m certain Locke has never danced a waltz,” you say.

Locke levels you with a hard stare, one brow arched. “Who needs waltzing?”

“Who needs to be a good shot in alone in the middle of the ocean?” You point out.

“Good marksmanship is very useful in piracy,” Locke says. “Waltzing is not.”

“Waltzing requires grace, balance, self-awareness, spatial awareness, and the ability to read those around you. You don’t have only your partner to worry about but other pairs around you. Can the same be said for shooting?”

“Yes!” Jinx exclaims. “Well, maybe not the bit about a partner but that’s all true.”

“What a load of shit,” Locke grumbles.

“It’s true,” Sevika chimes in. Her word seems to make all the difference even if she only speaks up for the sake of her own entertainment.

You look at Locke who still seems to be struggling with the idea that a waltz and a rifleman use the same skillset. “I propose a challenge.”

That gets everyone’s attention.

“If I can shoot better than Locke can waltz, I win,” you say.

“Win what?” Locke asks.

“Bragging rights?” You suggest. You don’t want to trade away any chores since you need them in order to avoid being alone with Silco.

“Done,” Locke nods with a smirk. Despite his menacing appearance, he looks almost…giddy. Like he’s happy to take part in something that’s truly ridiculous. “Come take your shot.”

You stand and approach Locke as Ran brings a rifle to him.

“Do you have any idea how to shoot this at all?” Locke asks.

“Nope,” you admit.

“In the spirit of good sportsmanship, I’ll show you just enough to keep you from hurting yourself,” he says.

“How gallant.”

He shows you how to hold the rifle, which is far heavier than you imagined. As per instruction, you keep the barrel pointed toward the open ocean at all times. As you hold it, your arms start to tremble. Locke prepares the rifle for firing and you suspect he’s taking longer than necessary just to see you struggle.

“If there is no target, how can we know whether I’ve made a good shot or not?” You ask.

“Don’t worry. That won’t matter.”

“But my part of the challenge is a test of marksmanship,” you protest only to be met with a chuckle.

“Okay, princess. Go ahead and fire.” Locke gives you a nod and you gently tap your finger against the trigger. Aiming at the endless, empty expanse of the black ocean, you pull the trigger fully. You expect the loud boom but you do not expect to feel the entire rifle revolt against your grip, slamming into your shoulder. You stumble back with a small yelp, much to the enjoyment of the spectators around you.

Locke tosses his head back and laughs, his shoulders shaking.

“What the hell was that?” You stammer. Ran takes the rifle from you, freeing your hands to rub at your shoulder.

“Recoil. To be honest, I expected to you land on your ass,” Locke chuckles.

“You might have given me some warning.”

“Where is the fun in that?” The pirate says.

“Well, once I confirm that my shoulder hasn’t been launched from its socket, I’m going to make you waltz and we’ll see how you do,” You mutter, still testing the soreness in your arm and shoulder. “If you complete the waltz without tripping, you’ll win. Is that fair?” That seems fair to you since Locke expected the rifle’s recoil to send you to the ground.

“Easy enough,” he agrees.

“Good. Stand here.” You direct him to stand in front of you. “Watch my feet.”

With a phantom partner, you demonstrate the basic steps of a waltz before returning to Locke.

“Got it?” You ask.

“Yes,” Locke nods though he does not seem very confident.

“Good. Remember, if you trip, I win.” You place his hands in the correct positions and do the same for yourself. He’s much taller and broader than anyone you’ve ever danced with. Your arms feel suspended in an awkward way that almost makes you laugh.

“I don’t suppose we have any music?”

“Depends. Can one play a waltz on the side of a barrel?” Jinx asks.

“Likely not,” you chuckle. “It’s no matter. I will count out the beat. That won’t be too difficult for you, will it?” You taunt Locke who only nods.

You begin to count, but nothing happens. Locke stands stock still.

“You’re the man. You’re supposed to lead,” you prompt him.

“Right. Naturally,” he grumbles and waits for you to begin your count. When you do, he steps forward instead of backward, trampling your foot. You hold in your laughter as you shake your head.

“I didn’t think you’d stumble on the very first step,” you tease. “Had I known such a game would be so easy to win I would have joined the fun sooner.”

“I’ve never done any of that fancy Piltover dancing before. Let me try again,” Locke mutters. “It’s a stupid dance. It’s not that hard.”

“If you say so,” you shrug before taking up position again. You begin to count once more. To Locke’s credit, he manages two steps before stumbling, earning a round of laughter from the crew.

“What is the meaning of this?” A voice like a burst of cold wind blew over the deck. Silco stood at the top of the stairs leading to his cabin. The laughter amongst the crew faded into nothing. Only Jinx looked unaffected by the Captain’s sudden presence.

“A friendly challenge,” you explain. “Nothing more.”

“I can see that,” Silco says as he steps closer to the cluster of burning torches. The firelight casts his face in harsh shadows that make him look even more inhuman than he already does. “But I cannot allow the crew of the Zaun’s Revenge to look incompetent. Locke, step aside.”

“Aye, Captain.” The confusion is clear in his voice as he stumbles back. You are unable to fully hide your confusion as well, especially when Silco steps before you and takes your hand.

“The honor of the Zaun’s Revenge is at stake. You will not leave this ship under the misbelief that no one here can execute a decent waltz.”

Well, that’s an unexpected development.

“Do what you are able,” you reply with a note of challenge in your voice that does not go unnoticed by your new partner. You bring your hand to rest on his shoulder as you prepare to dance. “One more thing,” he says before looking to his crew. “Walley, do you still have that old fiddle?”

“Aye, Captain.”

“Fetch it.”

The crewmember scurried away and quickly returned with the promised fiddle.

“Play Across a Sea so Clear and Blue, ” Silco orders before looking down at you. “I doubt you know it but it will suffice for a waltz. Surely, you can adapt.”

“Surely,” you bristle.

Walley beings to play his fiddle. Though you do not know the song, the time signature is well-suited for a waltz. You wait for Silco to lead you into the dance, expecting him to miscount or falter but he doesn’t. The pair of you move across the deck as though you’ve done this a hundred times before and plan to do it a hundred times more.

You quickly adjust to each other’s movements and soon he leaves room for you to add flourishes to the simple steps, which you do without hesitation. Your movements are slow and precise. As you dance with him, you cannot help but think of how different this is from the passion you shared during the storm. Silco leads you through the dance expertly, trusting you to be a competent partner. This isn’t a show of dominance or power but a display of grace and unity. Two bodies moving as one to create something elegant and lovely.

The song ends far too soon, as does the dance. You feel breathless even though the dance was not at all physically demanding. You’re speechless even as your body moves you through the motions of curtsying to your partner.

Thankfully, Jinx appears at your side. She’s nearly vibrating with excitement.

“How did you do that? You looked like you were floating!” She says, looking between you and Silco. Her question is a good one.

Where does a pirate learn how to waltz, let alone waltz so well?

“I…” You start only to trail off. “I need a drink.”

You move away from Silco, back to your abandoned cup. You force yourself to take a sip and you are grateful that it goes down easier this time. The alcohol settles in your belly and dulls the unwanted feelings swirling through you.

Jinx joins you soon and within minutes, the crew is back to swapping stories and boasting as though the waltz never happened.

Your gaze wanders to the bow. Though that part of the ship is kept in darkness, Silco’s figure is even darker and you can see him easily.

Curiosity and something deeper that you do not wish to think about tugs at you. You do your best to ignore it for as long as you are able, but it’s like a persistent buzzing fly hovering around your head.

With a resigned sigh, you get up and move toward the bow. No one stops you or questions you.

You reach Silco’s side and stand quietly in the darkness for a moment. You can hear the gentle lap of the water against the ship’s hull and you can see the sparkling array of stars above, but everything else is black.

“If you’ve come to beg for another dance, I’m afraid I will disappoint you,” Silco says, his voice softer than you’ve ever heard it, as though he does not wish the stars to overhear him.

“I wasn’t going to,” you say. “But I was going to ask where you learned to dance like that.”

“It does not take much to learn how to waltz,” he says. Though you cannot see his face, save for the glow of his ruined eye, you get the sense that he’s avoiding something.

“It’s not just that,” you say. “You dance like a gentleman. You carry yourself like a gentleman. You speak like a gentleman, for the most part. Yet, you’re…”

“A pirate? A sea hound? A scoundrel? A criminal?”

“You could have stopped at pirate but yes,” you nod, earning a soft chuckle from Silco. “But even still, you’re nothing like the pirates my father has encountered.”

“I’ll admit to that,” he says. “I am not like any other pirate roaming the seas. I have no wish to scavenge from trade ships. If I wished to fight for scraps with a thousand other desperate fools, I would have stayed in the Undercity.”

Silco does not need to see your face to know his words have thrown you.

“Is it more believable that a pirate can carry himself well than it is to believe a gutter rat can do the same?”

“I have not known what to believe for several days now,” you say. “I’d be willing to believe almost anything.”

The chuckle that leaves Silco’s throat is dry and humorless. “The Piltover Naval Academy loves bottomfeeders with a sad story.”

Your eyes widen in the darkness.

Of course, that makes perfect sense. He wasn’t daunted by the storm. He runs his ship with precision and discipline one would not attribute to ordinary pirates. He’s managed to instill a sense of both fear and loyalty in his crew. And those who attend the academy are taught etiquette, dance, deportment, and anything else that can shape them into shining jewels of society.

Your mind snaps back to the day you were kidnapped, before everything went to hell. Captain Vander spoke of the academy briefly. There was a moment when a shadow fell over his features as he spoke of his past. And he knew Silco. As did Quartermaster Benzo.

“Did you know Captain Vander?” You ask softly, unsure if you wish to know the answer or not.

Silence stretches out between you and Silco. Even though you are within arms reach of him, you feel as though you may as well be an ocean away.

“Yes.” His voice is soft yet somehow still harsh. Bitter but sad.

“Were you…close?” you ask, unsure if there is a better way to phrase it. The way Captain Vander looked at Silco aboard The Hound went beyond normal anger. There was history there.

“For a time,” Silco replies.

You’re shocked that he gave you any kind of real answer.

“What happened?” You press, wanting to see how far you can take your questions.

“Professional differences,” Silco mutters. “It doesn’t matter.”

“I think it does.”

Silco turns to look at you as silence falls once more. Though you can barely make out his features, you can see he is fighting some kind of war within himself. You are about to take the high road and apologize for prying, as the rules of polite conversation demand, when the ship suddenly heaves hard to one side.

Unable to right yourself in time, you start to fall. Silco’s arm snakes around your waist as he pulls you to him, allowing you to use his body to steady yourself. Farther down the deck, the crew voices their confusion amongst themselves, unsettled by the sudden jolt.

“What was that?” You ask, turning your gaze to the sky as though you expect another terrible storm to blow in out of nowhere. But the skies are perfectly clear and the wind is calm. The ocean, however, tells a different story. The faint light of the torches reaches the water closest to the ship. Instead of the calm, docile sea, the Zaun’s Revenge glided on only moments ago, the water was as violent as a bubbling cauldron.

“Get back,” Silco urges, guiding you away from the railing.

“What is it?” You repeat.

Silco does not get a chance to answer. In the blink of an eye, the sea erupts. At first, you fear the ship has nudged some kind of explosive. You can think of nothing else that would explain the towering column of water rising just off the starboard bow.

The water crashes back down to the ocean’s surface except that it doesn’t. Water rolls off the form of something huge, something that also looks like water. You blink over and over, trying to make sense of what you are seeing.

You spot two glowing orbs that shine brilliant blue, brighter than any star in the sky. They look like glowing stones that are somehow perfectly round. Your stomach drops as the crew leaps to action around you and more torches are quickly illuminated. The glowing stones are not stones at all.

They are eyes.

Glowing, unnatural eyes deeply set into a massive head made entirely of living water. The head boasts a long snout. Water vapor floated like smoke from what you believe to be nostrils. Its long, curving neck ripples as the water that made up its body somehow managed to keep its shape. Its serpentine body vanishes into the sea as its proud head takes in the sight of the ship. Its watery jaw opens revealing long, sharp teeth that look deadly despite also being made of water.

The creature let out a shriek that makes your vision go blurry for a moment. Your mind still grapples with what your eyes attempt to understand but there is one thing you know for certain. You are not safe.

The water monster shrieks once more and dives toward the deck with open jaws.

#silco #arcane #silco x reader #arcane silco #silco arcane #pirate!silco #silco fanfic #silco fic #silco smut #to the depths

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boyyboss · 2 years

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sincerest apologies if any of these have been done before

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pedros-immaculate-vibes · 6 months

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A Peaceful Elf

Part X

Halsin/Tav fanfic (slow burn, fluff, angst)

The pine bark bit at your fingers in a familiar way. You had always found a path to commune with The Lady of the Forest while running your fingers through the cracks of a fir tree, closing your eyes and finding the chord in your soul that sung her melody. Injured, you hadn’t been able to visit her presence through prayers the way you did every morning; peace had rippled down through you as you knelt at her alter again.

Metaphorically knelt, of course—you no longer needed the splint, but your leg wasn’t prepared for that yet; although, it was far down the path to mended. Your Druid companion had a way with healing magic and repaired it faster than you had assumed was possible. No wonder those hands were so famous in the grove…

That thought almost severed your focus. Halsin’s morning voice wiped it clean away.

“Good morning, I see you’re up.” A yawn, uncannily like a bear, “I would have thought you’d like to sleep a bit later given last night.”

Gods, I hope I get to hear that sentence from him again, under different circumstances.

“I had a hard—Difficult time, falling back to sleep. It was a bit jarring,” you said, feeling your heart beat in more than one place. You needed to finish your prayers and to collect yourself. “I’ve been meditating all morning, I’m almost done, is it alright if you—”

“Oh, my apologies, I merely thought you were appreciating the pine forest. Carry on,” palms up in a placating way. “Find me when you’re done,” and he left.

A deep exhale, trying to ground yourself again. A few minutes later, and you were focused, pleading with your lady for strength, healing, and the wisdom to not do or say anything stupid today. You swore you heard a mirthful, light chuckle filter through the pine needles. You sent one last token of thanks, then closed the connection as gracefully as possible.

You made your way back to camp, feeling how others had told you they felt before a battle: shaky and heart pounding. You could blame it on the lack of sleep—clearly you were just exhausted. If he noticed (of which there was a good chance), that’s what you’d say. A little deception can smoothen out certain unavoidable discomforts. You began rounding a boulder that marked being within earshot of the camp when a sudden wave of relaxation washed over you from no where in particular.

My sincerest gratitude, Mielikki. You touched your forehead and offered your hand to the tree tops in thanks to the goddess.

Maybe today would be easy after all.

Arriving back at camp, you saw Halsin straddling the end of one of the campfire circle logs, slicing a third apple into wedges on a plate, the dish of honey nearby. He was still in his camp leisure attire, looking very comfortable. “Hello, again,” much less gravel in his voice. “I figured I could have a light breakfast before we head out and test that leg, if you’ve any interest.” He finished slicing the apple wedges and began drizzling honey over them, conservatively. “After what I did last night, I think one more healing should do the trick; however, feel free to correct me if I am mistaken.” He shook his head quickly to the side, sweeping his eyes back down at his plate, “you seemed to do a number to it while you slept, thank goodness you cried out when you did. I was quite entranced by a dream I was having…nothing less would have roused me,” he said with a mysterious smile.

…Could he have had…

No, no there’s no possible way.

You blinked, trying to regain your presence of mind.

“I think I have the strength for it now, when you’re ready. What did you have in mind?”

Halsin lifted his eyebrows and peered up at you. “I’m that effective a healer, am I? HaHA, I’ll take that as high praise,” he grinned, popping an apple wedge between his teeth. “Excellent! I’ll make quick work of this and ready a few more things. A patrol of the road and back should be enough, agreed?” as another wedge disappeared.

“Agreed.”

Not ten minutes pass before you both leave camp. You thought to bring the walking stick, but there’s no need, you felt fine. It would just be a burden. The walk should only take…you realize you have no idea how far you’ll be walking.

“How far is this little trek?”

“Do you see that ruin at the top of the hill?”

It was at least a quarter mile away. “…yeah.”

“To there.”

Oh, joy, okay, you thought with a quiet sigh.

“And if you start to ache before then, we can always turn back.” He meant it kindly; you took it as a challenge.

“I’ll be fine.”

***

You were not fine.

Trying to keep your breathing steady, you managed to make it to the top of the hill, driven by pure spite against your own wound. As someone with healing abilities, you should have known this was poor judgement; as someone who prided herself on being hard-headed, you chose to ignore that.

The injury was one thing. Still needing a good night’s rest was another. You were no githyanki warrior nor were you exactly built like you had designs to become a paladin; your strength came from shifting into something stronger. God’s only know where Halsin seems to get all of that from, you mused, looking at his shoulders.

He had begun pestering you with questions as soon as he saw the first limp. “And you’re sure you don’t require some assistance? I’ll remind you, I can’t heal you effectively while you still need to walk on it; you need to rest. Perhaps, if I tried healing you and carrying—”

“Tch,” a hand raised in resistance to the thought, “I already said I’d pass,” eyes wide at imagining the experience. “I have to maintain some level of dignity,” you muttered under your breath. Riding piggy back would ruin just about anything I have left.

He turned to face you, walking backward down the hill. “Have any acquaintances ever informed you that you have a stubborn streak as long as the Chionthar?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, they have. I’ve thanked them each time,” you stuck out your chin.

He smiled, sighed, and turned back toward the downhill path.

A moment passed, and he turned to face you again with a curious, mischievous look in his eyes. “Have you ever ridden a bear?”

“Wha—?” You’re face drained, realizing what he meant. “No, absolutely not. There is NO possible way I—”

In that instant, Halsin hunched while his eyes glowed and his smile turned to one with fangs and fur, and then…

You were faced with a cave bear, the same gigantic one from what felt like months ago at the goblin camp. It seemed intent on not letting you walk the rest of the way down, blocking your path when you tried to circumvent the beast.

And of all the options you had at your disposal, you decided running was the best. Limp be damned.

“No no no no NO no no no No,” you chanted, almost to the Lady of the Forest herself, praying to keep a shred of self respect by miraculously making it back to the camp on your own, the giant bear in tow. You heard a howl that sounded suspiciously like his laugh, closer than you expected. “BY HELM’S BEARD, IF YOU—” and you never finished the sentence. Catching up with you, Halsin curved his snout around your waist from behind and leapt slightly, bouncing you onto his back. You caught the fur at his shoulder blades, then worked your way up to a slanted sitting position.

You were mortified.

You were relieved.

This was exhilarating.

***

“What would you have happened if I’d fallen? You complete idiot!” You tried to foment some level of anger in yourself. What he’d done was objectively stupid; you should probably be mad…right?

“I wasn’t going very quickly. And, I would have caught you, of course,” not a shred of doubt in his response as he found his pipe and began packing it by the campfire.

“Caught me with your bare hands, would you?” You were proud of the pun.

“My elven ones, yes. I’d planned on shifting and catching you, should your balance fail,” not a drop of remorse as a few sparks came from his flint and knife, igniting a glow within the borders of a stray campfire coal he’d grabbed.

MY BALANCE FAIL. For some reason, that subtle dig did find purchase in your irritation.

He lit the pipe with the glowing coal end, notching it between his canines. Glancing up at you, he must have seen the growing ire.

“I promise to not do it again, on my honor,” removing the pipe and placing one hand to his chest, looking down like a knight swearing fealty, “until you request it of me,” his gaze rose back up to yours with a smirk.

“You regret nothing, do you?” You smiled back in astonishment, no longer able to sustain the annoyance. “And I’M the stubborn one.”

“You are. You’re just not the only stubborn one, dear one,” placing the pipe back in his mouth, his lips encircling it with a grin. He sauntered back to the tent, kneeling by the side of your cot to sift through the equipment bag.

There was that title again. When did you hear it last…Had you heard it before, or had you imagined it?

He paused his searching, hung his head and sighed deeply. Turning on his heels back to you, he soberly added, “If I have truly wronged you, I do apologize. Sometimes, I let the bear get the better of me, but I should not make that your concern,” he smiled, wanly.

“Thank you,” you replied, distracted from your thoughts. “Just don’t surprise me next time, alright?” You mustered the very last gram of irritation you had left on the subject.

“I promise,” he nodded. “Now, if you’re not opposed, let’s take a look at that leg.”

You’d temporarily forgotten the ache until that moment. “I’ll be honest, riding a bear probably wasn’t the best choice with an injured thigh,” you remarked, walking unevenly to the cot.

“…You’re not wrong,” he agreed, scratching his forehead, horror poorly concealed as it crept into his features. “Has the pain worsened?”

Your eyes twinkled as you sat down, enjoying his discomfort, “No.”

“Silvanus preserve me, woman,” he huffed under his breath, both vexed and relieved. Victory, as he began puffing billows again, muttering, “Let’s take a look.”

He lowered to one knee and allowed you to move your skirts to the side, once more. The bandage was clean, and not wanting to waste good wrappings, he took the time to unravel it. You reminded yourself to breath evenly.

“Hmm,” a thoughtful exhale, as he viewed the healing claw marks, “still progressing well.” He’d wanted to heal the wound focusing with the interior, first; the aesthetics and exterior came after the most vital areas.

He placed the pipe by his lowered knee, shut his eyes, hovered his palms over the wound, and stretched his neck up to the tent ceiling. A pale green glow crackled silently around his hands and your leg, his eyebrows knitting as he focused, muscles taught in his arms and throat.

Shamelessly, you admired the view.

The glow subsided, as did the ache in your thigh. His eyes opened, clear and focused, migrating to you. “How does it feel now?”

Clearing your throat, “Better. Thank you.”

“Of course,” he looked down, grinning. He raised an eyebrow, inhaling deeply, and still not looking directly at you, “You should get some rest, let the healing set in a bit. Perhaps take those hours you couldn’t after your,” his voice became husky, “after this morning.” He collected the wrappings and replaced the pipe, puffs of the sweet and earthy smoke floating up and out through a few well placed vents in the tent sheets. “I’ll finish my rounds, maybe see if I can find anything for dinner.”

“Or more honey.”

An unfiltered chuckled slipped from his lips, “Or more honey.” He rose, still not looking directly at you. “Get some rest.” And with that, he was gone, lowering the tent flap to allow a bit more shade for your respite.

You nestled into the blanket, the same one you had designs to make your own; so far, those designs seemed to moving along nicely.

***

You awoke hours later, according to the sun’s placement: just before noon. There was no sign of your campmate. Your leg had rested long enough, you thought, easing your way up and off the cot. Peering out between the tent panels, you looked for any sign of him; still, nothing. After asking the cub and Scratch, you’d found he had not returned. The patrols weren’t short trips, but three hours? Odd. Scowling at the tree line, you heard movement far off; rhythmic movement, like walking. There was no way to tell yet if it was Halsin or someone you were less interested in meeting. Glad I centered myself this morning. You tuned yourself to your Rothe shape, grinding your right leg into the dirt, testing for any lingering ache. You gathered it was fully healed as your wild shape remained prepared; the idea of a fight brought you an odd sense of satisfaction.

*Rustle* *SnAp* *sNap*

An audible stumble followed.

This didn’t sound like an invader. You remained waiting, still crouched behind the corner of the tent.

A large hand pushed back the concealing, low-hanging bough: Halsin’s hand. He carried an unfamiliar satchel and strode the few yards between you slower and less adamantly than you were used to.

“Did something happen?”

“Yes, but not something, a few someone’s.” With one hand, he moved a log that lay between him and camp. “Not to worry, they’ve been dispatched. They did, however, have a few sundry items I think our camp may appreciate.”

“Oh! Well that’s a nice surprise. We don’t usually get very good loot.”

“Not often, no,” he agreed, stopping at the edge of camp to meet you. “Did you rest well enough?”

You would have answered if you hadn’t seen the oozing gash on his face and cuts on his arm.

“What kind of fight was it?” Visually taking the injuries in. A few more on his other arm, one looked like an arrow had grazed him.

“A few thieves looking for easy prey. They judged poorly. Nothing to concern yourself with,” he answered mildly and he pressed forward to the center of camp.

“Halsin, those don’t look great.”

“I’m alright.” He unpacked the thieves’ satchel, piling food into the communal basket.

“Halsin. Stop what you’re doing.” You mimicked a paralyzing glare as best you could, and pointed to the tent at your right. “Tent.”

—

I hope I hear that again under different circumstances, He thought, admiring Tav’s steely portrayal of authority..

—

“Stubborn bear,” you murmured as you followed him to the cot. “Sit down and let me take a look.” The height difference between the two of you seemed even more prominent now that you tried to assert some level of power over the situation. A crooked smile as he looked down at you, “Yes, little healer,” eyes never leaving yours as he sunk down to the edge of the cot.

“Thank you,” as curt as possible, with a tinge of concern in your voice.

You took in the wound on his face, still bleeding. There is no way this doesn’t hurt like the hells. A clean cut, but deep. Another two on his left upper arm, more superficial, and that arrow graze on his right forearm. Now it was you rifling through the medical pack, looking for something to clean with. The clotting had started and you needed a clearer view. “How many were there?”

“A few.”

“Halsin.”

He maintained his bemused gaze. “Eight.”

Eight? “Eight what?”

“Thieves, I told you, little one.”

“Eight gnomes? Eight gnolls? Eight what?” Depending on their faction, you may have had to worry about poison on their blades.

“Just men, maybe a few half-orcs. Nothing likely to have exotic coatings on their weapons,” He looked passed you as you cleaned the facial laceration. Alright, so he’s thinking the same thing. Holy hells, that sounds bad, though.

“Eight men and half-orcs? And you just—you just fought them off.”

“Not exactly, they had laid an embarrassingly well-concealed trap. I was dangling from a treetop for a bit, there.”

Your hand paused. Then resumed.

“The netting was weak and did nothing for a cave bear,” he grinned slightly, wincing at the pain the smiled caused. “By that point, they’d heard the alarms attached to the trap and came running. I found higher ground and held it. Easily dispatched.” He concluded as if talking about what dish he’d planned for that evening.

You were speechless for a moment. There was no chastising him, what could he have done differently? There was no comforting him since he seemed fairly ambivalent if not proud of the outcome. “I’m glad this is all you sustained,” a quiet relief in your voice.

His eyes met yours, “As am I, dear one.”

I could easily kiss him right now, maybe see if he moves the same way as that dream, your mind wandered, so you asked about the scar he already had next to the one you hoped wouldn’t form.

He looked past you again, recollecting. “Ah, that, well, sometimes Nature forgets I am not wed to it, and needs reminding.” He shifted in the cot slightly, then looked at you, seeming to think you’d understand.

Confused and almost done cleaning the rust-colored flakes from his left temple, “Needs reminding of what?”

“Well, ha,” he stumbled over his words, self-consciously. “I didn’t exactly pick this scar up in battle. I was in wildshape, only I forgot it was the season when bears are…particularly social,” he mentioned, modestly. “A she-bear claimed me as her own, and did not appreciate being spurned,” almost a chuckle.

“…Oh, I—I see…” you stammered, as you examined the cut, unsure what to say in response. Now who’s self-conscious. You realized that up until that point, neither of you had mentioned actions akin to being “particularly social”. “Does it still hurt at times?”

“Not for many years. The last it felt tender was probably before you were born.”

A smirk at his assumption and subtle fishing since you had yet to mention your age. “I’m 62, Halsin.” You judged that the wound would heal easily with a magic touch.

He hesitated. “…Really? Unexpected. I suppose you would have been a youth, then,” he stated, making his head bob yet again.

“I suppose so… Now hold still,” you told him, one hand beginning to glow near his left temple while the other gently but firmly held his chin steady. You could feel his face pull into suppressed smile. Beneath your illuminated palm, the skin stitched back together, just like it had done hundreds of other times. “There, good as new,” you said, gently rubbing a thumb over where the cut had disappeared.

“Ha, it’s strange being treated instead of treating. I’m usually where you are.”

“Well, then, perhaps you’ve had this coming for a long time.”

His head leaned almost imperceptibly into your palm.

“Thank you, Tav.” His eyes rose to yours, “You’re not a bad healer yourself.” The compliment was minor, but the look in his eyes…

The look made gravity shift.

“I try,” a humble response with a humbler smile. You realized your other hand was still holding his chin. You used it to pat him on his shoulder. “Do you need help with the others?” You turned to the supply bag, pretending to look for more supplies to clean the wounds with. His arms were resting on his lap, propping him up. You hoped he would accept just so you had an excuse to let him see you on your knees in front of him. I’m just torturing myself, by this point.

A deep inhale as he examined the remaining scratches, beginning to treat the wounds himself as easily as flicking away drops of mud. “You’re too kind. I’ve had much worse, trust me. Thank you, however.” There was the wall again. You could sense the tension dissipate immediately, like a torch being thrown into a pond.

“Of course…old bear,” you shot with a smirk, still rummaging through the satchel.

—

His face shot left, up towards Tav’s, a quirk of a grin. He looked forward again, setting his jaw and standing up as if about to take his leave. With his left hand, he grabbed the back of her tunic, lifted the half-elf up a few inches and tossed her on the recently evacuated cot, smiling to himself as he left the tent.

Old bear. Not that old, he thought with a scoff.

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cevansbrat0007 · 1 year

Note

Hello Mr. Barber, I wanted to ask what are some qualities we ladies should look for as our deal breakers in finding a perfect match? I'm not very lucky in the dating sphere and I'm quite ready to give up. You and your wife are very lucky to have found each other and worked on your relationship. Obviously every person is different in what they look for in a partner, but do you have any suggestions or advice?

Summary: Andrew Barber returns to answer even more of your burning questions about love and marriage. Written from Andy's POV. Also check out Volume I and Volume II, as well as an Interview with Mrs. Barber.

Warning: the following response contains mature themes, including references to oral sex and cursing. Minors DNI.

A/N: For more insight into Andrew Barber and his Baby Girl, please check out my ongoing Growing Pains Series. All mistakes are my own. Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated.

___

Well hello again, everybody! First let me say that it’s nice to be back. My wife and I have really come to enjoy these questions. However, this time I felt the need to consult her as I wrote this response. This is in addition to letting her review my answers before hitting “publish”.

I just wanted to make sure that my answers made sense. Lucky for me, Baby Girl is a very honest creature. So, without further ado, here we go.

Allow me to begin by saying that there’s no such thing as a perfect match. Although I initially disagreed with this, my wife helped break it down for me so that I could better see her point. That’s one of the many things I love about this woman, you know? She’s willing to challenge me and the ways I see the world.

And sometimes that’s exactly what I need.

Now, that’s not to say there’s no hope of ever finding the yin to your yang. That’s absolutely possible. I just mean that perhaps you ought to consider tweaking your perspective a little.

Maybe reframe it in terms of you’re seeking a partner. Because that’s what you’re looking for, right? That’s the goal – the endgame. You’re searching for someone to do life with, together. Forever.

And in order for that to happen, you need an effective partner. Someone who sees you for who you are. Who loves you the ways you need to be loved. Someone who enhances instead of detracts.

You want someone who’s willing to meet you where you’re at with the intention of helping you grow.

With that in mind, I would implore you not to lower your standards. Maintain your values. Know your worth. Don’t ever compromise any of that for another person. I’d also advise you to be immediately wary of any man or potential significant other that ever asks you to do so.

One of things that really attracted me to my spouse is that she expected to be treated a certain way from the very beginning. She’s the type of person who commands respect from everyone wherever she is. She’s always been that way. And it’s because she knows her worth.

Case in point, when I almost blew it on our very first date. To this day, I’m grateful that I found the balls to chase after that woman when things went south at Cibo Matto. This man right here “ain’t too proud to beg”, I can tell you that much.

And yes, I know that’s a song by The Temptations. I was actually just serenading Baby Girl with it the other night. If memory serves, she was pissed at me for eating the last of her homemade cinnamon rolls. So, I did what any good husband would do when their lady threatens to run away to the grocery store and never come back. I swooped her up as she was stomping out the door and carted her off to my office so that I could apologize for my actions.

Besides, I’d much rather eat her any day. I mean can you blame me? My woman is the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted. The stories I could tell you about all the ways I’ve convinced her to forgive me for the stupid things that I’ve done…

But that’s not what this was initially about, is it? My sincerest apologies. Where was I? Oh, that’s right. Knowing your worth and refusing to lower your standards.

During our first date, my girl refused to settle for being treated as an afterthought. So she left. Just straight up walked out on me. Because she deserved better than how I was treating her.

That evening should have been about us getting to know each other better. Instead, I unknowingly allowed my ego to get in the way and almost derailed everything before it had the chance to start. Which meant that I almost lost out on something magical.

Which brings me to my next point. Everyone makes mistakes. This can be especially true when nerves are involved. I’m fortunate in that my Baby Girl eventually forgave me, and with that also came a second chance. But only because – and she explained this to me again last night – I had enough sense and maturity to apologize.

And fucking mean it.

So, I’m going to suggest that you be willing to grant any of your potential suitors some grace. But only if they’re worthy of it. Meaning that if he’s not willing to apologize – especially if he’s done something to accidentally hurt or disrespect you – then walk away.

Because that’s a sign that you’re dealing with a boy. Not a man.

The only other thing I would encourage you to do is to keep yourself open to love. Magic tends to find us when we least expect it. It likes to sneak up and knock you square in the face. And when that happens, I think you should embrace it.

Run with it. Cherish it. Be thankful for it.

Treat that relationship like a seed and water it daily. You’ve got to pour into one another and tend to that love. Cultivate it gently with tenderness and patience. And hopefully one day you and your partner will look up and be utterly amazed by what has blossomed.

Thank you for your question and never forget that Mrs. Barber and I are cheering you on from the sidelines.

Best Wishes, Andrew Barber

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pagetreader · 28 days

Text

@honorhearted {x}

On the outside, Portia F.eatherington appeared well composed, poised, and refined, but on the inside, she was screaming at the top of her lungs, prickling with anxiety and dread. After the recent and rather unexpected passing of her husband, may his damned soul know no rest, the Feathington estate and all the family’s assets were to transfer to the most immediate family member, which was Archi.bald’s cousin, Jack F.eatherington. However, Jack was still out of the country, currently galavanting somewhere in America. God only knew when the man would deign to return and rescue them from financial ruin.

While her eldest, Prudence, was only twelve and not yet in need of a prepared dowry for a future husband to claim, it was preferable to Portia to have the means – something she’d possessed, or so she’d thought, only weeks ago. Then Archibald had admitted to his gambling debts, the squandering of their comfort.

Soon after this tragic revelation, his sins had caught up with him, leaving Portia and the girls destitute. Until Jack’s tentative arrival, it was as if she was left to paddle through the ocean without a life preserver and not a single boat in sight. She was panicking, suffocating. She needed consolation, a source of relief.

While an American tutor was far below her status, it hardly mattered. Portia knew that her age put her at a severe disadvantage. Prospects would be slim were she to attempt to find a new husband with enough wealth to support her and her daughters. No, this improper attraction wasn’t about finding a suitor. This was purely carnal.

After the dismissal of her daughters from the library, and a barrage of questions for Mr. Tall.madge from little Penelope, Portia, who’d been observing from the entryway, made her presence known to her employee, evidently startling him as he absentmindedly went about his routine packing. "Oh! Mrs. F.eatherington... I'm so sorry, I...I didn't hear you come in."

“My sincerest apologies for alarming you, sir” she replied, smiling warmly, a glimmer of intent in her eyes.

“You just missed Prudence, if that's who you're looking for. She's doing an exceptional job with her arithmetic -- all your daughters are doing remarkably well, in fact, and I'm not just saying that because you cut my checks."

His humor was cruelly ironic. Incidentally, Tall.madge was one of the few staff she could afford to pay these days.

"You’ve done absolute wonders for my girls…Perhaps there are a few intimate things you could teach me, Mr. Tallmadge."

"Intimate?" he appeared puzzled.

Portia stepped forward, “That’s right.”

"Well...if you wish for a one-on-one lesson as well, I would be more than happy to oblige. Don't let the naysayers tell you any differently: it is never too late to learn a new skill."

There hadn’t been even an ounce of flirtation in his tone, though he didn’t appear to be implying rejection of her advances. Perhaps he’d misunderstood. Evidently, despite being gifted in academics, the man was entirely obtuse when it came to the opposite s.ex.

"Are you familiar with The A.eneid, by chance?” he asked, removing the book from his satchel, “I tend to start all my pupils with this book since it's relatively simple...though I confess, my female students don't tend to be nearly as enthusiastic about this choice as the boys."

“It’s a childhood favorite, in fact. But I’m afraid you’ve mistaken my meaning.”

Here, she placed her hand over his which held the book, removing it and setting it on the desk beside them before offering his palm a soft squeeze, “You know, the love shared between Aeneas and Dido is infamous...”

Still holding fast to his hand, Portia dared to brush her fingers along his weskit, downward until she reached his breeches and ardently tugged him forward by their hem, “Passionate and lustful.”

The latter word rolled off her tongue like sweet honey.

#an intimate discourse #honorhearted #lime

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frost-faerie · 8 months

Text

☆ Cotton-headed ☆

Fluffy sickfic! phoenix gets a cold and comes to work anyway, his supposed rival isn't thrilled when he realises (concerned edgey ^_^) but they get it alllll sorted! can't spell teasing without tea <3 we love these dorks

Wooo!! Wrightworth/narumitsu drabble for the people! I'm not very good at writing, so sorry if it's not up to expectation >_< please enjoy it! where this fic takes place on the timeline is completely up to interpretation, i didn't really have it in mind ^^;

"You look worse than usual," Edgeworth said, barely trying to conceal the insult he had just hurled. It wasn't like Phoenix wanted to be here today; he'd done pretty much everything to put off going to the prosecutors office, but in the end, it hadn't done him any favors.

Repressing a sniffle, knowing that Edgeworth would pick up on it in a way that only a legendary prosecutor could. As much as Wright felt... sickly, he couldn't stay home. Work needed to be done, and some cold wasn't going to stop him.

Realizing that he hadn't responded to Edgeworth's quip, Phoenix gave a stilted smile. "You sure know how to make a guy feel special," Phoenix said, hoping that the sarcasm laced through his tone didn't make him slip up and cough.

"...Hm," Edgeworth hummed noncommittally. "Have you been sleeping well, Wright?"

If it was anyone else in front of him, Phoenix would've thought that there was a hint of concern in their voice. Hell, for a second, he even thought that Edgeworth was concerned for his well-being.

More than is probably healthy, he couldn't help but think. He'd spent a lot of his time sleeping, as of late- just half an hour ago, he'd caught himself before he'd dozed off in his office!

Despite this, his cases seemed to be going well; no investigations, and Maya was busy busy busy with all the business she had to attend to, and-

"Considering your lack of response and your dazed eyes, you have not been resting nearly enough," a voice boomed with an air of authority and finality. Oh, right, Phoenix thought dazedly. Miles was talking to me.

"I've been sleeping," Phoenix sighed, hands raised in surrender. Sneezing into a tissue, just so Edgeworth wouldn't chide him for messying a perfectly good suit. Every hour spent not asleep was dedicated to work, and he knows that Mia had once said something to him about this being a terrible habit, but that didn't stop Phoenix from falling asleep the second his stuffy, cotton-filled brain hit a comfortable pillow.

Edgeworth looked at him, seeming skeptical and unconvinced. Whether that was because of Phoenix's clear poorly state or just because that was what his face always looked like, Phoenix wasn't really sure. "You've been sleeping," Edgeworth said, the skepticism seeping through every word.

"Mhm," Phoenix said. The urge to rub sleepiness out of his eyes was strong, but the evidence that would come of it was stronger- perhaps even decisive. If Edgeworth hadn't already figured it out, that was.

With a slight shake of the head, Edgeworth let a small smile slip onto his face; not a usual sight, and definitely not something Phoenix expected to see at work of all places. "Objection," he said, sounding much more fond than he did in the courtroom. "I said you hadn't been resting enough. Sleep is technically a form of rest, but it is not a stand-in for being well-rested."

Phoenix looked up at Edgeworth with a scowl. (Since when had he been sitting down? He distinctly remembers standing not too long ago.) "My sincerest apologies, master of self-care," Phoenix said, knowing very well that the sarcasm got to Edgeworth even though his stuffy nose. (Well, his stuffy everything.)

After finally relenting to the fact that yes, he was sick, Edgeworth was on the move; Phoenix distantly heard a kettle boiling, as well as a few calls that he wouldn't be able to take his meetings today. All the while, Phoenix repressed the urge to shut his eyes once again. There was some kind of low-note classical music playing from a dingy radio that seemed out of place in the office, and it was strangely soothing.

Before Wright could fall back asleep, however, there was something gently pressed into his hands. He startled with the heat of it, and then his face got equally warm once he sensed Miles looming over him.

"Peppermint tea," he said, as an explanation to what was in the glass. "Normally, I'd house the drink in a proper teacup, but I'm not sure you'd be capable of holding it in this state. It... it is a heavy kind of porcelain."

"You mean a fancy rich kind?" Phoenix said, a small smile gracing his face. As much as it hurt to talk, he couldn't pass up an opportunity to tease Edgeworth- especially if it was about his large about of disposable income.

It seemed to have a calming effect, much like the aroma of the tea and the slow classical music, as Miles smiled in a dorkish manner. "Just drink the tea, Wright," he huffed fondly.

"But I don't even like tea," Phoenix said, taking a sip regardless. It was quite nice- Miles had clearly taken the courtesy of adding extra sugar, knowing full well of Phoenix's sweet tooth- but he wasn't going to admit that.

Miles merely shook his head, fondness in every movement. "Of course, of course. How dare I take care of you?"

Phoenix felt his face go a little red, all whilst Miles went back to his desk to begin working. He traced the rim of the teacup with his finger, thinking the same thing. How dare you take care of me?

Now the hole he's been going down since he was nine had burrowed deeper.

#ace attorney #miles edgeworth #phoenix wright #narumitsu #wrightworth #fanfiction #fanfic #drabble #sickfic

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letters-from-dekarios · 1 month

Note

picture of val if needed ^ :) [Valentine is a redeemed durge tiefling barbarian who is still doing his best to abide by Gale’s request to send letters while he is away. He is a sweet, affectionate, if not a little oblivious, man who will lend a helping hand to anyone who needs it, even if his hands are full, or covered in cuts and bruises.

Luckily, Valentine’s handwriting has improved tremendously since his first letter and nearly every word is legible. This letter is written on a page torn out of a sketchbook, evident by the rough edge on one side of the paper. There are small doodles around the edge of the page as if the person writing had gotten distracted while trying to think of what to say.

After the events in the main campaign, he and Gale get married, and the two of them occasionally visit old friends. (that scene in-game was so cute btw) However, this time, Gale was too busy to come with him, leaving Valentine to visit Halsin on his own. (I wasn’t sure how to write this so I hope this is ok! D:)]

My beloved Gale,

I am still a little upset that you sent me all this way all on my own. Although I am a very capable man, your company is still always appreciated on these journeys.

When I arrived in what used to be the shadowlands, Halsin was very eager to greet me. Although, he did deflate a bit when I explained to him why you weren’t with me. I’m sure he understands that you are very busy as a professor. Although, he requested that you visit with me next time. He says that he misses your witty humor. (I do too at the moment.)

I saw the owlbear cub that we sent home with Halsin at the last reunion. He looks wonderful! He has grown a significant amount, I’m not sure he realizes this. Still, I rough-house with him nonetheless, although I can already imagine your complaints about all of the dust in my hair once we’re done. Perhaps you could wash it for me when I return. Somehow, I always miss a patch no matter how much I scrub. I suppose the horns get in the way.

Unrelated, but I feel as though I am getting better at this letter-writing thing. As we have discussed in passing, we lead very different lives before the tadpole situation. From the little I can recall, I did not have to write letters very often. Your pointers have been very helpful, although I am not surprised, you are a wonderful teacher, my dear.

I will be leaving in 3 days to come back home to you. I assume that by the time you receive this letter, I will be well on my way home. I will do my best not to keep you waiting.

Yours forever and always, Valentine P.S. Look, it’s us! (There is an arrow pointing to a small doodle of two stick figures holding hands.)

Sweet Valentine,

I send my sincerest apologies for being unable to make the journey with you this time around, my love. Be it any other time and I would have gone readily with you, but with my nose so deep into my work, it is hard to pull away. I promise to make it up to you when you return.

Give Halsin my regards as well. I am sure he understands, but I hate to even think of the big bear of a man upset over something so trivial. I’ll make sure to write him when I catch a moment to myself.

Be careful with the cub, darling! Though I am pleased to hear he is doing well. I had no doubts about the young creature growing just fine on his own, but with Halsin he is sure to have sprouted quite a bit since I last saw him. Give him some pets for me, darling.

You are improving quite a bit with each correspondence we send, my love. It feels as though only yesterday I was teaching you how to address an envelope, and now you are sending them entirely on your own. It warms my heart to know you were willing to learn something so mundane for me. For us. I’ll have you know I’ve kept every last one of your letters, and this will be added to the growing pile.

I await your return home, my love. Though it has only been a few days since you left, my heart longs to be close to yours once more. May your journey home be safe and quick, darling.

Always yours,

𝑮𝒂𝒍𝒆 𝑫𝒆𝒌𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒐𝒔

P.S. I think I may have this letter framed simply for your drawings. You should teach an art class!

text reads: gale dekarios

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deucebox · 2 years

Text

: ̗̀➛ quite the prankster

jade leech x gn! reader

fluff

wc: 545 words

warnings: just made mc curse twice, nothing else. jade deserves it anyway.

your lover’s way of affection would surely give you a heart attack… in a bad way.

you groaned in frustration, you just couldn’t find it and you know well that jade would be upset if you don’t.

“is there anything i could do to help you?” jade appeared from behind, startling you.

you immediately faced him, putting your arms behind your back. “jade! hello, uhm. sorry, what was that?” you asked, not quite catching what he said.

jade walked towards you and you instinctively stepped backwards until you no longer could due to the kitchen counter being in the way.

“i asked if there’s anything i can help you with. you seem so bothered, dear.” jade looked at you worriedly and you swallowed the lump in your throat, wishing it would ease your nerves.

you were sure that he was starting to notice what exactly was wrong but you didn’t have the heart to admit it so you resorted to averting your gaze somewhere else.

jade leaned forward curiously, his left hand on the countertop for stability while his right reached for your left arm to reveal it.

he put your hand to his face, carefully examining it. you couldn’t figure out his actual reaction but not long after, he finally stared back at you.

“look, i was trying to find it, i swear…” your voice trailed off. “i’m really sorry, jade.” you deflated, there really was no use in making up excuses.

you couldn’t suppress your shock when he kneeled down on one knee all of a sudden.

“oh great fucking seven, you little shit,” you muttered, gazing down at his figure, in his grasp shows your priced possession that you’ve been looking for. your reaction caused a heartfelt laugh from him.

“would you allow me, for the second time, to share the rest of my life with you?” he lightheartedly asked, the corner of his lips tugged upward like a lovesick fool.

“no.” you turned down with no hesitation, crossing your arm over your chest hastily.

jade let out a chuckle and stood up, quickly planting a kiss on top of your head dotingly before taking your hand in his so he could put back the ring in its rightful place.

“i said no, didn’t i?” you huffed, turning away from him. despite your stubbornness, jade still looked at you fondly, knowing well that you weren’t actually upset… kind of.

“my sincerest apologies, my dear. i merely wanted to relive that special memory of ours.” he explained, pertaining to the night he first proposed.

“yeah, but you could’ve done it without stealing my ring!” you exasperated. “i thought i lost it.” you wailed.

jade started to feel a little bit bad but his amusement was winning over him like usual. “a ring isn’t the only thing that symbolizes our lov— mhmp.” he was quickly cut off when you shoved a piece of bread that you got god knows where into his mouth, his eyes widened in surprise with your stunt.

jade simply watched you stifle a giggle, trying to maintain a stern face.

“enough.” your attempt to threaten him came out in a jest. and with that, you walked away with a flushed face, your heart wanting to leap out of your chest. you were already embarrassed enough, you didn’t want him to gauge out any more reaction from you.

a/n: first of all, why would you even make the mistake of marrying this dude /j

anyway, this didn’t turn out that well i think (it’s almost 2am, i’ll just double check later). but i got the idea when i was absentmindedly playing with my ring and i was like “aha! i could write a jade scenario with this!”

#¡! ❞ belle writes #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #jade leech #jade leech x reader #jade leech fluff #twisted wonderland fluff #twst fluff #twisted wonderland imagines #twisted wonderland scenarios #twst #twst imagines #octavinelle #octavinelle x reader #jade leech scenario #jade leech imagines #jade leech x yn #jade leech x mc

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writer-darling · 1 year

Text

Eat Your Young

Rating: E - EXPLICIT (18+ MINORS DNI)

Pairing: Ezra (Prospect, 2018) x F!Reader

Warnings: There’s so much here. I’m definitely missing stuff. Nothing super descriptive for Reader but they are described as having hair. Pre-established relationship. Sexual tension out the wahzoo. Somnophilia (but with a previous discussion about it mentioned). Mentions of food and eating but nothing descriptive. Alotta horniness. Domestic fluff-ish. Banter. Flirting. A couple POV switches. A little bit of body insecurity. Body worship. Undressing. Feral Ezra. Lemme say it again: FERAL. EZRA. If there are any that I missed, please inbox me to let me know and I will add them in :)

Word Count: 4.1k

Summary!: Listen. I have no excuses for this so I’ll just say: it’s Ezra and new Hozier music, you know damn well what you’re signing up for.

******

You’re never one to toot your own horn but damn if the kitchen doesn’t smell amazing. You’re in the middle of cooking up a large dinner for you and Ezra and you’re beyond excited to finish. This will be your first date night in weeks. Thankfully his next prospecting gig isn’t until early next week so you two have at least a couple more days before the bitter sweetness settles in and you’re left here at home to miss him, so you want to make the most of it. And on the list of things to do before he goes is this date night.

Originally, the plans had been very different. Just yesterday you both were talking about spending the day out together. An early rise to the local Farmer’s Market, followed by brunch at your favorite café spot, spending a few hours at the bookstore (you regularly enjoyed picking out a couple books to read together while he’s away on gigs; two copies of each of course), dinner at your favorite restaurant, then ending the night with a good movie. However, a sudden cold front had put a stop to all that. It arrived overnight seemingly, along with the rain that had just picked up an hour or so ago. Luckily, you’d gotten all the grocery shopping done ahead of time and had spent all day prepping everything you needed to make a combination of your favorite foods into a satisfying evening meal. You’re humming quietly under your breath as you dice up some carrots for the vegetable medley, unaware of Ezra watching you from the kitchen entryway behind you.

He’d been watching you for a while now, unable to tear his eyes away from the grace and confidence you exude as you moved from station to station in the kitchen. It’s like a waltz only you know the rhythm to, and it makes his entire body heat up so quickly he feels like he’s burning from the inside out.

You always looked gorgeous to him, obviously, but something about you doing something as simple as cooking an elaborate dinner for him, for you both, makes his mouth water. Not to mention the special attention you’d taken for this date night, from the cooking to your appearance. You’d both dressed up just for this and he couldn’t help it as he eyed you appreciatively at the fact. He was more than glad for this damned storm, not because he didn’t enjoy being out with you. He truly did, it was always one of his favorite days to see you smiling in the sun beside him. But now, in the privacy of your home, he doesn’t have to hide one bit of his careful attention out of courtesy for the public around him. Here, in your shared place of residence, he can enjoy the sight of your figure brazenly. He can revel in the sight of you as much as he likes.

“Woah,” You let out a gasp of surprise as he latches onto you suddenly, the warm expanse of his body pressing firmly against your own, his knuckles coming to rest on either side of you on the counter, strong arms caging you. One of his hands moves to twist your hair to your right side, exposing the skin of your left side to him.

“Sincerest of apologies, sweetheart but the vision of you enjoying the peace of domesticity has me particularly feral at the moment.” His voice is low against the shell of your ear, and he accentuates the sentiment by grabbing your hips between his large hands, pulling you into him. Breathless by his actions, you let out a surprised and quiet laugh, tilting your head back slightly against his shoulder. He takes advantage of the movement, his lips dancing along the flesh of your shoulder to the dip in your collar bone. You lean away from him, despite every fiber of your being protesting the action.

“It’s okay, just took me by surprise, is all.” He grabs your left arm and extends it out, following your skin down from the soft spot under your ear, along your shoulder, your elbow, all the way to your knuckles, peppering kisses the entire time,

“How about we skip the main entrée and get straight to the dessert then?” He suggests, raising an eyebrow at you as he cradles your fist in both of his hands. He kisses your knuckles gently.

“Oh no, love, we are not rushing through this. We haven’t had a proper dinner date in months and I did not spend over four hours in the kitchen just for you to ignore this food.” You warn, turning yourself to face him fully. Your voice is calm and stern, but not angry. In fact, you find it cute that he’s impatient. He pouts and drops your hand but still doesn’t let you go, instead placing his hands on your hips once more and rubbing gentle circles with his thumbs against your hip bones.

“Not even if I promise you three rounds, dearest?” He asks. You shake your head adamantly, even though the excitement that sparks down your spine is already agreeing to his offer.

“Nope. And it better be four considering how long I spent at the grocery store.” His eyes widen and you see the excited glint in them but you continue on before he can speak, “Now go wash up, I’m just waiting on the side dishes.” You say, putting your hands on his chest and giving him a gentle push.

“Ok, alright, honey. Let’s get this surely delectable meal over with so I can satiate a much more powerful hunger of mine.” He looks up at you through his lashes and your skin immediately grows heated, so you drop your eyes from the intensity of his stare.

“Ezra, go.” You say, unable to hide your own grin at his antics. He lifts his palms up in silent surrender and turns on his heels to head towards the bathroom. Meanwhile you exhale and walk over to the kitchen sink to wash your own hands, wondering just how much trouble awaits you with him tonight.

When he exits the bathroom, his mood has lightened. He’s smiling as he takes the spatula from you just as you’re about to dig into the main entrée to serve him.

“Nuh-uh, go sit, sweetheart and I’ll serve dinner. You’ve been on your feet long enough.” He says just as you’re about to protest. You smile at him in gratitude and nod, your poor ankles exhausted. He beams back and kisses your hair before turning his attention to the food and plates awaiting.

You sit at the table patiently, taking the time to finally smell the food properly. Your stomach grumbles in response to the symphony of smells. You close your eyes for a moment, pleased and anticipating the meal, but open them when you hear Ezra’s approaching footsteps. Sure enough, he’s carrying both plates of food in his hands.

He sets yours down in front of you and you thank him. The smell of it all again hits your nose, stronger now that it’s closer in proximity and your mouth waters. Before you dig in, he clears his throat loudly, drawing your attention to him across the table.

“Feed it to me?” He drawls in his most sugary tone, giving you the sweetest of puppy dog looks through his mahogany eyes. All a ruse you see through easily. You know it’s just his excuse to have you near him again. Still, you nod and stand, walking over to the chair closest to him and bringing your plate and wine glass along with you. You place everything down on his right side, sitting in the chair perpendicular to him. He’s unsatisfied with the distance still between you and grabs the edge of the seat from underneath, pulling you closer. You smile at him and he grins in response, kissing your cheek. His facial hair tickles as he pulls away, leaning back into his seat with a satisfied exhale. “That’s better.”

“What do you wanna try first?” You ask, changing the subject and focusing instead on the plate before you.

“Whatever you please, dearest.” He bats his lashes at you and you roll your eyes at his feigned innocence. You decide to play his game, smiling and pretending to mull over the choices presented on the plate. You exaggeratedly pretend to inspect each option, even leaning forward in your chair slightly to get a better look. You know you’re taking too long when his leg begins to bounce rhythmically under the table but he doesn’t voice his impatience. You grab a forkful of food and bring it to him, but it almost falls at the last minute, that is until you catch it with your other hand.

You offer it to him with a smile and he grins, grabbing your wrist. His pointer and middle finger lay on your pulse point as he brings your outstretched arm to him. He parts his lips and takes the food into his mouth, making a show of chewing and swallowing it. When you try to pull your hand away to feed him more, he slightly tightens his grip. Unprompted, he brings your fingers into his mouth. He locks eyes with you as he sucks the digits slowly, the softness of his tongue teasing them gently. You’re staring at him dumbfounded, your jaw dropping open to gape at his actions. Hell, you couldn’t look away if you tried. After one last lick, he lets you go, and leans away with another wink your way and a quiet hum. The spell is broken when he looks away for a moment and your throat is dry when you try to speak. You grab his wine glass instead of yours as your focus wavers and take a sip to replace the heat in your abdomen.

“Hungry, are we, love?” You ask when your bravery’s returned to you. He chuckles and nods, his gaze fixated on you.

“Starvin’, darlin’.” He replies, his grin devilish and you smile politely back. That doesn’t deter him from trying again. “...Though we still have time to end the meal here.” You give him a long look and he backtracks. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, dearest, I just think we have some more pressin' matters to attend to is all.” His apologetic eyes are sincere but you still don’t give, shaking your head.

“Not until we finish our food.” You say, grabbing a purposefully overfilled forkful of food and shoving it into your mouth. He watches amused, and grabs your free hand in his.

“Not even if I beg? I know you like it when I beg, sweet thing.” He says, once again kissing your knuckles. He then turns your hand over in his hold to lay kisses on your palm too. You bite back a smile and shake your head like a child, swallowing your dinner. He waits for you to speak,

“Nice try.” He sighs and leans back.

“Ok, honey I get it. You’re truly stickin’ to your guns this time.”

“Yes I am. Now eat; the sooner you finish your plate, the sooner we get to dessert.” He brightens up at your use of his earlier wording. He nods, complacent for now, and digs in.

“Are you excited for the upcoming gig?” You ask as you use your fork to cut up another bite of food. He nods, pensively behind his own mouthful.

“Yeah, I think I am. I’m joinin’ up with the Passerine crew, should only be about five or six cycles before I’m home once more.” He says.

“Almost a week? That’s not too bad.” You say, though it does worry you. Shorter trips meant less likely pay and prospecting was already a hit-or-miss career at best. Plus, in your opinion, no amount of money was worth being a prospector. It was dangerous, unstable work. But, it’s what he’s naturally great at, for better or worse. He lets out a soft hum of agreement, taking a bite from his dinner roll next.

“It’s shorter than we’re used to, but the pay is good, dearest. There’s money to be made trackin’ down those aurelac gems on Katoon.” He reassures. You nod, relieved and smile at him, taking another sip of wine.

“As long as you come back to me, the pay doesn’t matter.” You say, sadness already blooming in your chest. It’s like he feels it too because he looks over at you, his gaze softening.

“I’ll be back before you know it, darlin’. Just try not to miss me too much, yeah?” He says. You smile, your eyes getting a little misty but you blink the tears away, not wanting to dampen the mood.

“No promises.”

Throughout the rest of the meal, his heated gaze makes its way over to you continuously. But, he behaves and does as you request, eating plenty of his meal and almost finishing it. You’re both down to the last few bites when he sighs and leans back, patting his abdomen with a satisfied smile.

“That was delicious, dearest.” He says, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

“You’re just saying that to get us out of the dining room, love.” You say. He laughs and nods, both of you taking a sip of wine at the same time.

“While I will not deny my urgency to get you underneath me, I truly did enjoy this wonderful array of delicious food and the labor that was put into it. Thank you, sweetheart.” He says, kissing your cheek again. You beam at his proud gaze. You give it a moment and he sheepishly grins before continuing on, “Now can we please leave the dining room?” You laugh now and nod, standing up and offering your arms out to him as you’re about to make your way to the bedroom. He grins and follows suit, but turns you to face forward, towards the living room instead. He places his hands over your eyes and gently nudges you forward with a tap. You stumble for only a step before allowing him to guide you.

“You’ve got a surprise for me?” You ask, your curiosity piqued as.

“Don’t I always?” Your hearing zeroes in on how his voice has deepened and there’s that familiar heat from earlier making a comeback both in your torso and all over your skin. “Close your eyes for a moment while I set up. No peakin’.” You do as he says and he removes his hands from you. The warmth of his body is gone a second later and your ears pick up on the sound of his footsteps moving away from you. There’s a bit more commotion that you can’t make quite out but an all-too-familiar roar makes you smile. “Ok, open your eyes.”

As you suspected, the fireplace is on and roaring, but your eyes then fall to the space a few feet from it. He’s moved the coffee table out of the way, and placed an array of large, fluffy blankets and giant pillows right under the sofa. The pillows create a sort of semi-circle around the blankets as a border. Your eyes go back to him and he’s standing near the fireplace with a hopeful smile in his button down and slacks. You adore the way the flames splay shadows and golden light on his profile, accentuating his natural beauty tenfold. The image is cozy, warm, and blissfully domestic.

“Ya like it?” He asks. You nod, smiling back at him.

“It’s perfect.” He’s pleased by your response and walks over. He kisses you again, this time his movements calmer, gentler. You pull him closer, hooking your pointer fingers into his beltloops and he smiles against your mouth, his hands cradling your face. When he pulls away, he looks you over, his brown eyes as warm as the heat from the fireplace.

“Take your clothes off.” The dip in his voice makes another shiver shoot down your spine and you nod, cotton-mouthed. He walks away from you, towards the pillows.

“What about you?” You ask, your fingers already fumbling with the buttons on your clothing. Your fingers are clumsy in their haste but you keep your eyes on him anyway as he sits down, leaning back against the pillows with his arms behind his head.

“Me? Oh, I’m just fine with sittin’ back to watch, darlin’ and please don’t rush.” You give him another long look and stop moving, placing your hands on your hips.

“Shut up and come help me out of this before I go back to the kitchen.” He chuckles and does as you say, getting on his knees and crawling over to you. The rest of the buttons begin at your navel and he takes over, undoing them with a nimble swiftness that can only come from years of prospecting. When the garment is completely unbuttoned, you both smile and you shimmy it off of your shoulders, tossing it away from you. That leaves you in your bra and underwear and he drinks in the sight, splaying his hands on your abdomen. You hold your head high, despite the familiar flush of insecurity that always overtakes you in these moments.

Now you reach over for him but he shakes his head, moving his hands from you to undo the buttons of his own shirt. The golden skin of his chest is a welcomed sight as he peels off the button down, throwing it in the same corner of your own clothes and your hands immediately touch him, smiling at the way he shudders in response. Now it’s your turn to kneel down to his eyeline on the blanket. He smiles and you kiss him again, allowing him to guide you and lay down. As you attempt to pull him closer, he pauses, disconnecting from the kiss.

“Oh no, we’re just getting started dearest. I recall you mentioning four rounds?” He asks, grinning. You raise an eyebrow and sit up. He falls back against the pillows as you push him down, moving to straddle him.

“Oh you were serious, then?” He nods enthusiastically and you laugh at his enthusiasm. “Good, because I recall you saying something about begging.”

It shouldn’t be this simple. The way he’s able to pull your subconscious from the realm of sleep. To a space that’s in-between complete oblivious dreamland and full awakening. It’s not fair. And yet, it gets him absolutely ravenous for you. Something he still doesn’t fully comprehend. His hunger should be satiated, he should be satisfied. But the heat churning in his gut tells him it's quite the opposite. As you stir again, he turns, his eyes adjusting to your figure in the dark.

It started when you suddenly spoke in the middle of the night, your voice just the faintest whisper in the darkness of the room. The flames had long since gone out, now almost fully dead embers as you two had fallen asleep after your night of passion. He was a light sleeper, always, but especially from his years of dangerous labor. So when he had heard you speak, he was awoken instantly, zeroing in all of his attention to you. After all, sometimes you would quietly mumble whenever you were experiencing some sort of nightmare and he was the one to save you from its depths when he pulled you into him.

And at first, that’s what he thought this was. Your words were unintelligible, but there was something in your expression, a restlessness he had witnessed only hours before, but just as he had been preparing to bring you closer in, things changed. His entire body froze in place as you whimpered softly, before whispering his name, the clearest thing out of your mouth yet. It was so soft, a longing sigh that you relished in as you turned your face towards him. Just that had him feral again. And his arousal only grew in size when he watched as you moved your hips from under the sheets in a steady, languid roll.

You were dreaming about him. About his complete devotion to you. He knew it. He shamelessly watched as you worked yourself up, moving slightly faster and faster, your breath ragged. It isn’t until you’re just on the precipice of completion that he moves, touching your cheek with his knuckles. He knows you well. As long as he doesn’t shake you, you’ll stay asleep, but you’ll answer him. You’ll answer his questions honestly. He doesn’t know why but he’s experienced it before. So, he does just that.

“Sweetheart,”

“Hmm?” Your quiet reply, and your hips slowly stop their movement, as if your subconscious mind can only focus on one thing at once.

“Are you dreaming about me?” He keeps his voice very quiet, not wanting to completely pull you from your slumber yet.

“Mm… Mm-hmm.” You nod, your breathing still completely even. Meanwhile, his heart is racing in his chest and the room grows hotter with every second.

“Was it a wet dream?” He asks, and it sounds embarrassingly childish out loud, but your affirming hum cuts through that. “Want me to do something about it?” He asks. Another affirming hum.

It’s not like you both hadn’t spoken about it before. In fact, you’d both had an extensive conversation about this particular fantasy of yours. He knew it had been embarrassing for you to admit it at first, but after much reassurance from him, you had confirmed his suspicions. You had quickly admitted that it had been a sort of wish list idea for him to wake you up one night or hell even early morning with his mouth and he had secretly been insanely pleased with the idea, tucking it away for future reference. And he could plainly see that now, right now, was the perfect moment to fulfill this desire.

He moves down, trailing featherlight kisses over every bit of your skin he can make out in the dark. He uses his hands to gently and slowly work your thighs open. Settling himself in between your knees, he nips at your inner thighs. You’re stirring into consciousness now and the moment your eyes open and his name is a quiet question leaving your mouth, he dives in. The surprised gasp that leaves you makes his heart swell with pride as he eat you out like its the first time, the last time. He uses his palms to push your thighs further apart as your hands latch into his hair, a loud moan greeting his ears next. Your eyes can only flick down to watch for a moment, your mind struggling to keep up with all the new sensations, before they shut again as he uses his fingers along with his mouth to make you scream. But you can feel the heat of his gaze on you, and you meet his eyes with your own in the dark. As he flattens his tongue, giving longer deeper strokes while increasing the tempo of his fingers, your body arches off of the blanket. He pulls his fingers away just to move your legs to rest over his shoulders before placing them again right where they belong. Your moans grow louder and more urgent as the new angle allows him to keep you in place.

He slowly increases the rhythm, letting you adjust to the paces he’s setting with ease and guiding you with each increase. He’s not rushing this; he wants you to enjoy it for as long as possible. When your climax hits you, it does so in a rush that makes your head spin. He stimulates you through it, lessening his intensity but letting you chase the high, moaning along with you. Eventually, he slows the movement of his mouth, not wanting to hurt you. Your eyes open after a moment and they find him again. He’s still watching you, even as he finally tears his fingers and mouth away. You’re both breathing hard as he crawls back up to you, licking the rest of you from his lips and fingers like he didn’t get enough the first two times. You open your arms for him and he hugs you immediately, both of your breaths evening out.

“That’s it. No more outside dates.” You whisper and that makes both of you laugh in the darkness. He kisses your hair, then nibbles the skin of your neck, his voice a soft rumble in your ear.

“Attagirl.”

******

I sent @kayleezra a text that said - and I quote -, "Ezra and Hozier are a match made in fanfic heaven and I could write a million stories for Ezra and never tire," So there ya go. Also the fact that I'm getting way too comfortable writing smut is so wild to me. Nothing wrong with writing it, I just can't help but cringe internally every time I do it (and yet I still continue to do it).

Tag List: @pedrocentric @luz-introvertida @castleamc @moralesfish @klara-luise18 @supernaturalgirl89 @december-gal1 @pbeatriz @castleamcc @hillarymurray4 @supernaturalgirl @supernaturalgirl20 @sherala007 @littlemisspascal @practicalghost @donnaa @scorpio-marionette @kayleezra @amandanik23 @maxpbxtch97 @lowlights @shadesofnerdlygrace @harriedandharassed @carefulnowprincess @amneris21 @horton-hears-a-honk @xdaddysprincessxx @trickstersp8 @mswarriorbabe80 (hope it’s ok that I’m tagging you all!)

Links!

Join the Tag List here

Ao3 link here

TikTok here

Ezra Playlist here

#pedro pascal #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal x female reader #pedro pascal fanfiction #ezra prospect #prospect 2018 #ezra x you #ezra x female reader #ezra x reader #ezra prospect fanfiction #crossposted on ao3 #writer darling #Spotify

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fivepointpalettes · 10 months

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Would you explain a little bit about how you create a palette? I really like yours and wonder if there’s a technique you would share, or if you just have a “good eye.” Thanks

Aww, thank you! :) My sincerest apologies, I have never been particularly good at explaining my ways, but I nonetheless hope this makes sense!

In terms of how I, personally, do it, I think the key to making good palettes is to keep expanding your visual library. Inspiration can be found anywhere - and this applies to any creative concept - when you're out in public (or anywhere else), make note of any colour that catches your eye, what context does it appear in, and for lack of a better phrase, what feelings does it invoke in you (if it does any at all) - or under what circumstances did you notice it? Perhaps you feel more drawn towards specific shades at different times. Look at pretty pictures, local plants, graffiti, store displays, advertisements, people's clothes, anything. Paying attention to such things can really help you build up colour associations of your own. If you do it for a while, eventually you stop having to think about it and start picking up on them subconsciously. Try to recreate them from memory, see what sticks. I wholeheartedly believe anyone can make good (and good is subjective! Every colour is someone out there's most favourite one!) palettes (even if you occasionally have to subject yourself to colour-based pavlovian conditioning to feel it)!

For palettes based on words or abstract concepts, I tend to have a general idea for the colours I want to use for a particular palette - sometimes more detailed (i.e. "this concept would be best conveyed through deeper shades, and should include beige and gold"), sometimes more general (i.e. "this palette should be bright") - before I start making it, and develop it further as I work on it. For palettes based on songs, I first listen to it once in order to develop the general idea, then read and analyse the lyrics if available, do a little research on any potential meaning behind the song, and then listen on repeat until I feel satisfied with my work on it.

Of course, the longer you do it, the more "natural" it becomes for you, too. There is a number of palettes I've made in the past which I would have done differently now due to different experiences, and sometimes the best way to gain that experience is to simply… do? Fake it till you make it, perhaps, but it's always better to do something badly than to not do it at all. And always remember that if you're not feeling it today, you can come back to fix it later.

On a final note, you really should not do this to yourself, but I, personally, feel the most in tune with my colour associations quite late at night, when I'm barely awake, so I often find myself staying up overtime, and that's why sometimes you can find me posting at 3 in the morning. That's when I tend to come up with my favourite palette titles, too! 🤭

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gentlebeardsbarngrill · 3 months

Text

Repository News

It has come to my attention that a google drive that was linked in my Repo contained art, gifs, images, videos etc that had not been shared with permission of the original artists. I want to sincerely apologize to anyone who this affected.

Many of you know I ALWAYS ask for permission before I post anything to the repo, and in this case I was provided a google drive by someone I had thought had confirmed that permission was given for all it's contents.

This is not an excuse. I take full responsibility for this and I am so very sorry because I should have done my due diligence and researched further to make sure that it was, in fact, the case.

I have removed the google drive from the repo, and replaced the link that has been posted around with gifs I have verified that I have permission to post.

In addition, I have alerted the SaveOFMDCrew to the problem and we're actively looking to take down anyone's work we find. If there are any specific use cases the creators want to hurry our attention to they're welcome to share any direct links they have to expedite the process. Otherwise we'll remove them as we come across them in our rechecking.

My deepest and sincerest apologies for acting on misinformation, this will not happen again.

PS: If you do have items that you want to share and allow people to use, you are welcome to reach out to me directly and I will personally ensure they are added and credited properly.

#saveofmd #save ofmd #adoptourcrew

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dogmetaph0r · 3 months

Text

SIC ‘EM

Chapter 2: Speak

A/N: So sorry y'all, I promised Fia's POV a while back but this chapter was literally longer than Ch 1 by SEVERAL pages by the time I got there, so I figured I'd split it up a bit. There's like no Fia in this one, my sincerest apologies. This one's a very big exciting chunk of content though, I prommy! Side note, this one was posted relatively quickly after the last one only because I'd already had the biggest portion of it done, so I can't promise a consistent posting schedule. Also, I think I'm gonna start adding song recs based on what I listen to while writing each chapter just to give you guys a PB-esque soundtrack for your montage moments, which will be updated over time just like the main playlist. Enjoyyy!

Pairings: M!OC x F!OC, M!OC x Tommy Shelby

Warnings: descriptions of violence, mental health issues, animal abuse/injury, internalized homophobia, one (1) singular antiquated homophobic slur

Soundtrack: De Selby (Part 2) - Hozier // The Distance - Cake // D Is for Dangerous - Arctic Monkeys

Summary: As the Grand National approaches, Sam reflects on the time he's spent as the Blinders' spy. New friends are made and old grudges resurface as the Aintree heist progresses. Before the race can begin, a few bumps in the road raise a frightening question: who else has a stake in their game?

It was surprisingly easy to find employment at Aintree Racecourse. Sam had a sneaking suspicion that it had something to do with the mysterious disappearance of their in-house farrier, but he knew better than to question Tommy or Paul about the face he was seeing in the papers. In any case, with the rate Aintree was paying him for work in and around the stables he had no motivation to go around blowing his own cover. For the first time since they’d run away, he and Fia had begun to accumulate enough money to do more than just survive. By the end of the summer, he reasoned, they would have enough money that Fia could take care of the baby without having to work herself into the ground on the side.

But of course nothing came without a price. Every few days, he left the racecourse only to find Paul waiting for him just outside the gates, arms crossed as though Sam had somehow already disappointed him. He was difficult to please when it came to discussing business; none of Sam’s observations were ever helpful and no amount of detail was ever enough. For the first week or two, the feedback was crushing. It was bad enough that he had to work with the Peaky Blinders to make it through the year, but to be completely shit at it? Humiliating.

Over many weeks of this routine, though, Paul had eventually started to warm up to him, seeing him as less of an inconvenience to his day and more of a fellow collaborator of the Peaky Blinders. He was a grumpy middle-aged man, not much of a talker, but with a pint or two in him he began to loosen up enough to share a few words about his own life. It had become their routine. Both of them would meet up outside of Aintree after Sam had left the stables, and from there they’d make their way to the Queen’s Arms for a drink and something to eat. They’d make small talk about work and football (Paul was particularly passionate about Liverpool, and had nearly gone into cardiac arrest when Sam shyly expressed his preference for Manchester City), but Paul’s favorite topic hands-down was family. Sam was more than happy to let him dominate the conversation in these cases.

“You know,” he rumbled around a mouthful of shepherd’s pie roughly a week before the Grand National, “I’ve got a wife and kids meself. Second wife, actually.”

“Oh, yeah?” Sam was only half listening, distracted by the storm clouds gathering on the other side of the thick, distorted windowpane to his right. Would the vardo hold up? It had been over a month since he’d last patched the roof, and that was only because the cold had shrunk the old wood, revealing little cracks and signs of wear along the frame. Since then it had rained a handful of times, but by the tetchiness this afternoon of the horses stabled early for the race, this storm would be harsh. He wondered if he ought to head home early, see to his own horses’ hooves and make sure they weren’t at risk of any infection-bearing cracks–

“...and yeah, they ain’t all that bright, but they’re me own boys so I’ve no choice but to love ‘em, thick skulls and all.” Paul chuckled at his own anecdote, rubbing his red stubbled chin with one hand.

Guilt lurched at the bottom of Sam’s stomach for ignoring his friend (acquaintance? colleague?) so readily. Paul was nice enough now that he and Sam had begun to establish a rapport, and it was clear that he didn’t have too many friends of his own. Lost most in the Great War, he’d told him grimly. The Somme. Sam didn’t have to ask to know that the pain of loss haunted Paul in those strange gaps between words, the times when Sam had let the silence sit between them. Perhaps that was why he was so eager to fill the space with beer. Sam had never been the type of boy to make many friends as a child, and had a habit of hiding behind his father’s legs around strangers. The Great War had forced him just far enough out of his shell to bond with his fellow soldiers, but many either died or had to return home to different countries. Well-practiced in being alone, Sam had not minded as much as he thought he ought to.

“You look tired, lad.”

The comment startled Sam out of his head. He blinked owlishly at Paul before realizing exactly what it was that he had said, which made him avert his eyes and prod his fork around the modest serving of pie that he’d hardly eaten. “Guess so,” he muttered, shrugging. “It’s been a lot of work, s’all. Not that that’s a bad thing.”

Paul grunted his agreement. “Tommy asks a lot of us, don’t he? Never seems to come around here for himself.”

“Oh, I dunno.” Sam gazed out the window again at the racecourse. “He’s probably just trying to keep things running in Birmingham, is all. Must be tiring.”

Except Sam knew how tiring it was. He’d seen it firsthand. Tommy had come to visit his camp several times over the course of the past month, just to check in and gather information directly on Aintree and its key players. As validating as it felt to have Tommy himself care about the fine details that Paul hadn’t needed, it had been irritating, at first– why couldn’t he leave Sam be and let Paul give him the salient details? Hadn’t he anything better to do back in sooty, stinking Birmingham that didn’t involve bothering him? It seemed like every time he visited, he seemed more worn than the last. The commute couldn’t be helping him. He’d stayed overnight before, the work week being so exhausting that Sam feared he might fall asleep behind the wheel of that noisy automobile of his. As much as Sam hadn’t liked Tommy, he wasn’t a monster. He knew when to insist that Tommy consider his own wellbeing. Fia’d offered him the bed in the vardo out of strained politeness, but he preferred the tent every time. Just feels right to see the stars, he’d said. He didn’t see them as well in Birmingham, apparently. Too much smog.

After about the third of these visits, it became strangely… nice to have Tommy as a guest. He was a good conversationalist, a man of few but carefully chosen words. He was also very polite and apologetic about his visits, and as grating as it was to put up with Tommy’s newfound high-class mask, it was refreshing to have someone treat him as a respectable peer rather than a blue-collar nobody. Better yet, after Tommy had stayed a while, Sam could physically see the charade fall when the night air finally reached that part of his spirit that longed to roam. The north did him well, it seemed.

It was strange, then, that Paul hadn’t seen him so much. Perhaps he was tired of life in the city and just needed a break in the countryside, and Paul was just too far into town to justify the extra few miles. Perhaps– and Sam puffed up with pride at the possibility –his observations weren’t mostly useless, and Tommy preferred to go to the source when the weekly telegram didn’t say enough. Sam and Tommy would talk for long hours when he visited, not just about business but about their lives in general. Something about the topics he spoke about kept his attention far more than Paul did, bless him, and perhaps it was the same for Tommy. Maybe Sam’s curiosity stemmed from their similar upbringing, Tommy being born on a narrowboat and Sam learning how to ride a horse practically as soon as he could walk. They had that interest in common, at least. There had been more than one lighthearted argument over the best way to check the condition of an auction colt’s gut or the ideal feed for a work horse versus a race horse.

Or maybe Sam was just fascinated by the way he spoke, smooth and low with such a quietly commanding presence. He had a brilliant mind, that was for sure. In the late hours, after sharing a meal (Tommy had supplied gamefowl from his own sprawling property more than once, to Fia’s delight but Sam’s slight embarrassment as the supposed breadwinner) they would sit around the fire with whiskey. Fia would retire early, tired as she was from mending garments in nearby Lowton. Conversation without her then usually drifted to those darker topics that Sam liked to keep from troubling her with: war and loss and struggle. Success, sometimes, at a steep price. It didn’t matter so much what exactly their conversations were about; Sam had enough space in his head to ruminate on his fears plenty on his own. What really intrigued him was hearing Tommy talk, that strange Birmingham accent lilting his vowels in a repetitive up-down cadence. He didn’t know why it was so charming, other than the fact that it was so novel.

One such night, after Sam had made the executive decision for Tommy to not wrestle with the winding back roads when the sun had long gone down, Tommy broke their usual pattern of conversation to make an observation: “You don’t have anywhere for the winter, do you, Samuel?”

The question jarred him. In all their time discussing their shared pasts, Tommy had never shown interest in what happened to him past the end of their agreement. “I guess not, no,” he muttered, a hand coming up to rub the back of his neck as he took a moment to gaze up at the night sky. “Figured I’d try my luck in Liverpool.”

Tommy nodded, silent for a moment. Sam had thought that was the end of the conversation when a second question startled him out of his anxious planning. “You could come to Arrow House in Warwickshire.” He took a puff of his cigarette, leaning against the wheel of the vardo at his back to follow Sam’s gaze. “We have plenty of land there. Esme’ll be glad to come visit her sister and the new baby for a season. If it snows, we have more guest rooms than we know what to do with.”

Sam blinked in shock for a second before recovering with a scoff. “What, that big mansion too lonely without a pack of us travelers takin’ up on your lawn?” A clear deflection. The generosity grated on him as much as it warmed something in his chest.

Tommy had just tilted his head, smiling. “Something like that.” He passed his flask of whiskey– the good stuff –back to Sam. “Consider it. My Grace wouldn’t mind. I mean, you’re family, after all. And I know what you’re thinking, so I’ll tell it to you straight now.” He looked back at Sam, sky blue eyes considerably softer with the liquor in his system. “I’d be happy to have you there, Samuel.”

What a strange feeling, to be wanted anywhere.

Paul hummed contemplatively, breaking him from his thoughts. “He’s a mysterious one, ain’t he?”

“Sure is.” Sam took a gulp from his pint, shoveling down a chunk of the pie for good measure. No use in letting a good meal go to waste, especially one that Paul had treated him to since Sam had, according to him, looked about ready to keel over. “Can never guess what he’s gonna say next.”

“By the way,” Paul mirrored a swig of his own beer, wiping the foam off his upper lip with the sleeve of his shirt. “I wanted to ask you something.”

Sam raised a brow, gesturing with his head for Paul to continue.

Paul glanced around at the few other patrons before leaning in, elbows on the sticky table. “A few of the lads down at the Swan and Gosling have been talking about the betting, an’ I want in on the action. Any clue where Tommy’s favor is gonna go? He usually tells the boys where to lay the smart bet.”

That drew a slight chuckle out of Sam. For all his stone-faced gruffness, Paul was just as prone to games of chance as any of them. “Wish I could tell you for certain,” he said, shaking his head. “Could go many ways. Reigning champion is Senator, but there’s also Pride-o’-Coventry, Grands Honneurs… and the newcomer,” he punctuated the revelation with a point of his finger, “Little Tsarina. She’s sound, I tell you. Her jockey’s starting to get noticed. She’ll likely be the favorite after the Grand National, so you’d better make your large bets early in her career with the rising odds she’s at. I can’t speak for Tommy, but that’s who I’d pick.”

Paul snorted. “That’s just like you, betting on the underdog.”

Sam shook his head, smiling. “What can I say? You stick around the stables long enough, you hear all sorts of things.”

“Cheers to that.”

The morning of the Grand National, Tommy startled awake with the scent of wet earth stuck in his nostrils and the sound of shovels grating at his ears. Not for the first time, he guiltily longed for the days of opium hazes and the lingering headaches the mornings after to keep his mind away from those dark corners. Tommy was no stranger to hiding the tremor that lingered in his hands, nor unskilled at explaining away the sweat beading on his brow. Just anticipation. Just the weather. Just a cold. Despite this, the bumpy ride from Birmingham to Aintree in the oversized delivery vehicle– borrowed from Uncle Charlie, who got it from lord-knows-where –did nothing to quell the queasiness rising in his stomach. This day had been planned and examined from every angle, each possible obstacle picked apart in at least five different ways. It would be perfect, he had told himself a dozen times over. It had to be.

Tommy had chosen a handful of skilled Blinders from various backgrounds to make this all go right. Ed and Albert, a double act, were skilled at sleight of hand. Common pickpockets as children, but made snipers by war, the friends were both sly and disciplined. They would be lookouts, giving signals before the race and stealing licenses when the real fun started. Jim Casey on the other hand was a bit of a simpleton, but he could take a hit and return it twice as hard without hesitation. He would be their muscle, and could be relied upon to take on the biggest threats. Harry Short, his last name being more of a bad pun than anything documented, had contracted influenza as a child and hadn’t grown very tall. That was saying something for the average height in Birmingham, but it had left him just small enough to fit into crawl spaces and tunnels. If it came down to it, Harry could get the jump on just about anyone. Richard “Ol’ Timer” Mooney was older, starting to reach his twilight years of being a Blinder as the last of Arthur Sr.’s generation, but he had an unassuming enough appearance that would make him the perfect getaway driver. With his brothers included, it was a bit of a ragtag team to bring all the way from Birmingham, but it was one that he could rely on to adapt quickly and carefully without taking their main seat of power away from home.

And then, of course, Tommy couldn’t have done it without Paul Knight. The Somme veteran was their main contact in the north, and while he wasn’t a Blinder directly, he was invaluable to the effort. He was discreet, tight-lipped, and hesitant to trust just anyone. He gave succinct details to Tommy via coded telegram and did his damnedest to make coordinating this heist easy. It was only fair, he reckoned, that Paul be included day-of in order to reap the benefits and prove himself in action. He knew the racecourse inside and out from the perspective of a frequent gambler, and while he didn’t have the sort of undercover expertise that would make him a veteran of the operation, he was a valuable man to have onsite. Besides, the extra muscle couldn’t hurt, and Tommy knew just from looking at the man that he was no stranger to a fistfight.

The head of the pack, whether he knew it or not, was Samuel. Everything hinged on his observations, from the schedule of the police officers making their rounds to the daily staff whose workplace gossip could prove invaluable. With Paul’s careful coaching, the man had become a more-than-proficient spy. Tommy’s own visits up north only reaffirmed this– late night conversations with Sam, while enjoyable in their own right, had settled his anxieties about his newest recruit’s ability to be trusted. Sam was candid and unguarded, perhaps to a fault if he’d been entrusted with any information beyond what was absolutely essential for him to know. He cared about this operation going well because he cared about Florence-Maria and his unborn child. That, in Tommy’s eyes, was enough to know that Sam would see it through.

So when he and John began to butt heads in the bright, sunny morning just fifteen minutes before Sam was due at the stables, it came as more than a bit of a shock. Hadn’t Sam voiced his concerns about being drawn into violence just a few days ago? Hadn’t he reassured him that he would be protected?

“—And if you so much as open your divvy mouth again about my family, so help me I’ll knock your lights clean out, lad.”

“Family? Mate, your da’s a looney and your mom’s all but fucked off. You’ve got fuckin’ stones to be talking about the Lees like you’re anything close to kin, just because you’re fucking the—“

“Better watch the next fuckin’ words out of your mouth, city boy—“

“Hey. Enough,” Tommy commanded, placing himself between his brother and his newest ally. John was red-faced and scowling, and despite Sam’s ever-present pallor, he wasn’t far behind with the sharpness of his own spectral glare. Tommy felt more like an undersized referee at the weigh-in before a brutal boxing match than the leader of an organized crime operation, a feeling that did not bode well for the cohesion within their little cohort. Tommy prayed to any higher power that might hear him that John knew well enough to keep his mouth shut. Sam’s cooperation, skittish as he was, depended on it.

“Tommy,” John pleaded like a boy twenty years younger, gesturing towards Sam with a broad, sweeping gesture. “He’s been provoking me the whole way here.”

“Was not,” Sam replied, equally petulant. “‘S like the moment you all picked me up from my camp, he’s been breathing down my neck. Jus’ telling him where to shove it.”

Tommy’s quick reflexes intercepted John’s sudden advance with a firm shove, while a sidelong glare admonished Sam’s attitude without having to speak a word. Sam wilted under it, ducking his head like a scolded pup.

“Right, neither of you are getting a fair cut of the pay if this keeps up.” Tommy patted John’s chest roughly, both a comfort and a warning. “Save it for the bookies, eh?”

The threat of losing out quelled their argument for the time being, but Tommy would be a fool if he thought that it was all over and done. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see both men seethe as they parted, silently arguing through glares from their distance across the semicircle of men awaiting their instructions.

Arthur was the last to join them from within the black automobile, huffing and snorting with the back of his hand pressed under his nose. Right, of course. As much as he’d wanted Arthur to stay clear-headed and sober for such a high-stakes operation, it wasn’t something he’d specifically prohibited. Snow focused Arthur’s will just as much as it clouded his judgment. When wielded well, he was a one-man army in a fight. When misdirected… well, there was a reason why Tommy had a small fund set up for the mothers and sons of the men who had crossed Arthur at the wrong time. The tremor in Tommy’s hands made lighting his cigarette more difficult than it should’ve been, but that first rush of nicotine was a balm for his scattered mind.

“Alright, men,” his voice rang out, calling the rabble to attention. “You have your assignments, so I won’t waste your time. Few reminders,” he pointed at three men– Harry, Albert, and Ed. “You lot are doing a lot of heavy lifting today. Keep your eyes on the hired security, and keep your ears open for the coppers. John, Jim, and Paul, keep the guns to a minimum. Mooney, be ready to move at a moment’s notice. The goal is quick, quiet, and quit the scene. All the heat oughta be on Sam and Arthur in the bar tent. Yeah?”

John and Jim nodded, Jim elbowing his partners for the day with an exaggerated grin on his face. John wasn’t much a fan of big Jim and his tendency to lose focus after too much talking, but even he couldn’t restrain a smile at the idea that the three of them would be the heavy artillery. Paul couldn’t care less about the glory of a fist fight, but he gave Tommy a stiff, reassuring nod as he cracked the thick knuckles of all nine of his remaining fingers.

“Samuel, remember that your signal is coming from Harry. Anyone that’s not him means it’s meant for me. You’ll meet me under the grandstand to go over any changes this morning, but he’ll keep an eye out for you regardless in case I don’t make it there.” He reached out and patted Arthur’s shoulder, practically vibrating out of his skin as he was already. “And Arthur? I’m trusting you to make a scene, not a mess. No actual boxing with Samuel, eh? Just the song and dance of it. You’re the actor of us Shelbys.”

Arthur honed in on him like a hawk, pupils dilated but unmoving. Good, not too lost in the snow, then. He nodded frantically, an equally confident, broad grin crossing his face behind the spread of his mustache. “Song and dance, Tom, right.”

Sam looked a little queasy at the prospect of an unsupervised Arthur controlling himself while off his gourd. He looked to Tommy for support, but his objections were interrupted with Arthur’s booming voice.

“Naw, it’ll be alright, Sammy-boy. Y’know, me and you go back! You won’t remember, but I minded you, I did, back at Appleby in ‘99.” He laughed, rocking back on his heels like an old man lost in reverie. “Taught you to cuss while your pop was working with the ‘orses!”

With the rumbling chuckles that rose up through the small crowd of men, Sam smirked a bit, some of the nerves visibly leaking from him as his mind worked quickly to find a quip of his own. “And here I thought I learned the concept of doin’ fuckall from Danny Lee and Mack Boswell.”

Arthur laughed uproariously, throwing a lean arm around Sam’s shoulders. “Aw, we’re gonna have a time, lil’ Lovell.”

Sam shook his head fondly. “Song and dance, Arthur. Song and dance.”

Half an hour after Sam was kitted up and beginning his watchful lap of the grounds, the first round of early bird racegoers began to filter through the gates in an array of colorful silks and feathers. The thrumming of Tommy’s pulse beneath his skin urged him to go, but he needed to be patient. They couldn’t enter too early and make their faces known among the sparse crowd, especially with a group as large as theirs.

When the band started up and the crowd truly began to pour in, Tommy thumbed through a stack of brightly decorated entrance tickets. “Ed and Albert, you go on ahead,” he said, handing them each one of the little paper slips. “Bet on Tsarina today. Samuel tells me she’s the right pick. We’ve got inside eyes on the odds, boys.”

The two friends cheered, taking off with excitement towards their biggest pay day of the year. Harry was sent next with instructions to keep to the shadows and be on the lookout for weak points in the security. Mooney and John took their tickets a few minutes later, John grumbling under his breath about Sam and where he can shove his odds. That left him, Arthur, and Paul to bring up the rear.

“We ready, boys?” Arthur cracked his knuckles and stretched his tight jaw, eyes flashing with feverish eagerness.

Tommy took a moment to breathe, forcing his heartbeat to slow and ignoring the sweat prickling the back of his neck, cooling uncomfortably in the light breeze. It would be fine. It would be fine. It was an unseasonably good morning, dry and cloudless. Count the horses, count the men, count the color red in each racegoer’s dress or tie. His latest cigarette burned nearly to his lips before he let it fall to the ground, crushing out the ember with the flat of one polished shoe. Say a prayer, Thomas. Hail Mary full of grace, in the bleak midwinter, in the bleak midwinter, in the bleak midwinter.

“Ready, Arthur. Let’s give ‘em hell.”

Little Tsarina weaved in her stall, speckled nose twitching and shuddering as her grey head bobbed up and down, left and right, round and round. Sam was transfixed by the paleness of her large sclera, whale-eyed and bloodshot with anxiety. Her mouth, flecked with foamy spit, held tense in resolute resistance against the pain seizing her front right leg. She held it just barely aloft, the tip of her hoof grazing the hay beneath her.

“She’s been like this at least since the morning,” the jockey, George something-or-other, worried his lip between his teeth, shifting on his feet in much the same rhythm as his horse. “She’s never thrown a shoe before. Couldn’t find it, neither. And look,” he reached over the box and pointed at her hoof, “the way she’s holding it. Something’s wrong, but I can’t see it.”

Sam felt for the poor young man. He couldn’t have been older than nineteen, still pockmarked and pimple-spotted like an adolescent. While his older peers had gone off to war, it was clear that the boy didn’t have the years or temperament to him. Yet according to the papers, he was a prodigy on the horse. He would be a legend, soon enough. Or, at least, could’ve been. It was clear that if Little Tsarina rode today there would be no undoing her lameness. One jump could ruin her, if she even worked up the nerve.

But still… to look into the boy’s eyes and tell him no off the bat would be agony. Perhaps worse than if he’d just let him lose on his own, but Sam would never have done such a thing to such a beautiful animal. “I’ll take a look,” he sighed, resigned. “But I’ll make you no promises, yeah?”

George looked about ready to weep with relief. “Oh, please do!” He swept a hand over his shock of red hair, watching intently as Sam unlatched the lower half of the stall door.

The first thing Sam noticed was the little patch of blood beneath her hoof as she shifted away from him, still crimson and wet. This was something more serious than a loose shoe on race day.

“Hello, love,” he gentled, lowering his voice to a murmur. “Might I have a look? Yeah?”

In a person, the look Little Tsarina shot him could only be described as withering. But with no capacity for human expression, she had no clearer way to convey her message of fuck right off, mate than to point her ears back and huff warningly. Sam approached her with caution, taking a slice of dried apple out of his pocket and offering her some, which she reluctantly sniffed at, having not eaten since the night before to protect her gut. Her defiance was admirable, something that was obnoxious and ill-bred in Meska but proud and stately in a winning horse such as her. Careful not to startle her, Sam took some time to pat her neck and cheeks as she chewed, slowly moving his hands in broader circles so as not to startle her when he reached for her bad leg.

Despite her earlier hesitance, she seemed glad to no longer support her weight on a bleeding hoof, allowing Sam to hold her between his apron-clad knees as she tensed against the pain once more. From this angle, the damage was clear: a missing shoe, with one remaining nail driven far enough into the hoof to have gone way past the start of the quick. On any typical day, Sam might’ve considered this a bad accident. But this was no typical day, and she was no typical horse. And this nail, he noted, was decidedly not hers.

“How long ago was she last shod?” He asked over his shoulder, lightly brushing some of the dirt and hay away from the injury.

“Not long at all, sir. A week at most.” George peered over the side of the box stall, bushy brows knit together in concern.

Sam hummed, inspecting the edge of her hoof. “And she was shod with a broad shoe? Meant for steeplechase?”

“Yeah, I always give her some time to adjust ‘coz it’s heavy,” the boy stammered, wringing his hands.

Sam let her hoof down carefully, so as not to cause Little Tsarina any more pain than she was already in. From just outside the stall, he grabbed his roll of tools, tucking them under his arm before reentering. The mare eyed the bundle cautiously as he sifted through the variety of clippers, hammers, and pliers before he settled on a buffer and a long-handled crease nail puller. Drawing her hoof between his knees once again, Sam wasted no time in prying the stuck nail from within the poor horse’s foot. The buffer slid over the manicured hoof, coming to a halt right at the head of the nail, where he carefully dug it underneath and began to pry it upwards. Predictably, she wrenched her leg forward with a grumble, nearly unseating Sam if it weren’t for the strength of his thighs and the friction of his boots against the flooring. Dropping the buffer behind him (sloppy tool handling, he could hear his father’s disapproving tsk in the back of his mind), he reached for the puller just within reach. Just one good tug, one good pull and the nail would be free. Slowly, as slowly as he could, he clamped around the nail, slippery with the fresh blood bubbling through the hair-thin crack running across the bottom of her hoof. And pulled. And pulled.

“Sir?” The boy spoke up, concern raising his pitch as Little Tsarina began to complain.

The nail popped free, lubricated with the bubbling stream of blood and fluid dripping thickly from the wound. With one hand, he pulled cotton and gauze from his back pocket, packing and wrapping her foot before gently letting the poor girl rest.

Sam grabbed his tools and straightened his strained spine, letting out the breath he’d been holding. “You’re a talented rider, George. Very talented, and with a very good horse.”

George blinked, eyes blown wide. “Uh, thank you… sir?”

Sam met his eyes tiredly. “You wanna know how I know?”

George nodded, and gasped a bit when the bloody nail was thrown at his feet: too long for a thoroughbred, especially one with Little Tsarina’s build, and too lightweight to be used with a heavy shoe.

“Because someone has it out for you.”

George went pale as a sheet, scrambling to pick the nail up from the floor and look it over. “This isn’t the right size…”

“And she didn’t throw that shoe. Someone threw it for her.” Sam stroked Little Tsarina’s neck apologetically, grabbing his tool roll and latching the stall door behind him. “I’m sorry, George. She won’t be racing today. Call the veterinarian over, ask for her to be seen, and pray it’s not gone into the bone.”

George looked on the verge of tears. A yawning pit ached in Sam’s chest, because he knew the pain of seeing his horse suffer, but no amount of sympathy could fix the situation.

“But… I don’t understand?” George hurried after him, casting quick looks back over his shoulder at his horse. “I- I haven’t done anythin’ to anyone, and we’ve only just made it this far…”

Sam eyed the clock atop the grandstand, stomach leaping when he saw the time. He whipped around, grabbing George by the shoulders so that he quieted down, eye-to-eye with Sam’s cold stare. “Listen to me, lad. It doesn’t matter how good you are, or how new. There are people out there– listen,” he shook George lightly to interrupt the quiver of his lip. “There are people out there who see other people as a means to an end. And it’s nothing personal. Right? They’re just looking out for themselves.” In his periphery, he could make out Paul’s hulking silhouette, lurking by the fence near the track entrance. “It’s… it’s just business.”

With that, he turned and marched on towards the meeting point under the stands with long strides. His hands were shaking, clammy and smelling faintly of coppery horse blood. Rubbing them on his apron didn’t help, nor did undoing the belt and wrenching the leather covers from his legs and hands. They flopped uselessly to the ground alongside his Aintree-issued tools with a dull thud, the thud of metal and leather, the thud of something solid. The smell of copper grew stronger, his throat closing tighter, not now not now not now–

“Mate! What the fuck?” Paul’s smoke-roughened voice stopped Sam in his tracks before he could crash into the man headlong. “You dead-set on fuckin’ everyone over today? We’re nearly ten minutes behind.”

Sam nodded wordlessly, mouth opening as if to speak but with no words to follow. What… what was he meant to be doing? All he could smell was mud, blood, infection–

“C’mon, then! Let’s stop playing bloody doctor and get a move on.”

Shaky as he was, Sam’s long strides only just kept him a pace behind Paul as they pushed their way through the steadily growing swarm of racegoers milling around, placing their bets with the first wave of bookies: some legitimate, dressed in pricy suits and chomping on Spanish cigars as they blustered through their pitches, and some Scuttlers weaving their way through the crowds with stolen licenses and forged papers. These didn’t look like a challenge to Sam, mostly youths under the age of twenty who would sheepishly turn over their place at Aintree when faced with a credible threat to call their mothers. Tommy wouldn’t be worried about them, if he was any sort of racketeer worth his salt. The real challenge would be these gentleman bookies, the ones well-used to making great deals of money on the Grand National. They were the types to have police protection far stronger than your average razor gangster. If Sam were to hazard a guess, these were the men Tommy was really targeting.

Paul dragged him by the elbow to a shadowy space behind the grandstand, shoving him roughly against the brick with a hand gripping his shirt front. “Care to explain why the fuck,” he hissed through clenched teeth, so close to Sam’s face that the sharp consonants flecked his cheek with tobacco-scented spit, “you’re going around talking to the jockeys? Eh? You wanna get found out or something?”

Sam shook his head, breath short from the impact. “Just doing my job. The horse–”

“You have got to watch with who you speak to, Sam, anyone could be–”

“Paul,” a familiar deep voice rang out, “that’s enough.” Tommy patted the large man’s shoulder firmly as he approached from one of the festival tents, the warning clear. Paul stepped back, grumbling under his breath but keeping that menacing glare on Sam.

Tommy gave him a once over, dusting a stray speck of dirt from the collar of Sam’s shirt. With his hand this close, he could smell gunpowder and clean leather from Tommy’s glove. Had there been a fight already? Or was he just always acquainted with the trigger of a gun? He wasn’t sure which answer he preferred more, given Tommy’s proximity to his jumping pulse.

“You doing alright, Samuel? Things going well?” His voice was still just as low, but softer. Like the way Sam spoke to the racehorse he’d just treated.

He nodded, taking a shaky breath. His back hurt from the way Paul had slammed him against the masonry, but that was nothing compared to the tightness lingering from that moment of panic in the stables. Only the worst kind of person would treat an animal like that, and there was no doubt in his mind that someone who’d harm a gentle horse to skew the odds would stop at nothing when it came to other people.

“There’s proper bad men here, Tom,” Sam’s voice dropped to a hiss.

Tommy huffed something close to a laugh. “We’re proper bad men, mate.”

Sam shook his head vehemently. “Worse than crooked cops and sham bookies. Screwing the race, laming horses… it smells rotten.”

A frown creased Tommy’s brow. “Laming horses?”

“Little Tsarina. The mare I told you about. Fuck, she was only just old enough to race. Just a little one.”

Tommy cursed, pacing a few steps away with his hands on his hips as he nodded to himself. He approached Paul, giving him an order too quiet for Sam to hear over the raucous laughter of a gaggle of young ladies having a few too many drinks nearby. Paul looked back and forth between Tommy and Sam, a hint of confusion crossing his face, but nodded and lumbered away towards the Blinders lurking near the track.

Tommy returned to him, expression tight with anger. “What else, Samuel? What did you see?”

Sam stammered through a retelling of his lap around the racecourse, from the cop he’d seen rubbing a bump of Tokyo over his gums in the men’s restroom to the well-paid bookies and their stores of cash. As he was describing the squirrely appearance of a nervous young woman arguing with her man over something about a purse, one of the Blinders– Ed, not Harry like he’d been told to expect –crossed into their line of sight and gave the signal: a pebble kicked at the wall by their feet. He was early. Too early for it to be a miscalculation. Tommy and Sam looked back to each other, the older man’s blue eyes filled with uncharacteristic worry.

“You ought to grab something to drink before they play the first call,” Tommy said, slowly and deliberately. The implication was clear: The bar fight has to get started. Now.

As Sam pushed through the flamboyantly dressed crowd to reach the entrance to the bar tent, he noted a trio of Blinders led by Arthur purposefully making their way towards an unassumingly-dressed older man standing by the other side of the grandstand. But if Arthur won’t be there to start the brawl, Sam thought, then who–

He barely had time to think through the options before the answer was presented to him. Of-fucking-course. Armed with a cheeky smirk, John stood casually leaning against the bar with a glass of whiskey in his hand. Looking right at him.

Sam knew immediately where this was headed, but he had his orders. He had promised Tommy that this was something he could do.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Sam grumbled, sidling up to the bar next to John and flagging the bartender down for a pint.

“Aw, likewise, mate,” John sneered, tossing down the last gulp of liquor.

“Thought we were told to stick to beers today?” “Yeah, well,” he sniffed, swiping his nose with his thumb. “Rules are different for the men who can handle themselves out here.”

Sam didn’t dignify that with a response, sliding his payment to the bartender and taking a swig of cheap, foamy beer. John noticed, which only made him grin wider.

“You smell godawful, mate,” he remarked, as casually as one might remark on the weather at an event like this. “Blood and horse shit. Had a nice morning?”

“Oh, yeah, real nice,” he muttered into his pint. Where the hell did this guy get off?

“Yeah,” he laughed, “figured as much. Though it’s not like that’s much of a change for you, is it, with all the arse-kissing you do for every fucker with a wallet you meet? You probably can’t even smell yourself.”

An angry flush came to the tips of Sam’s ears, despite trying as he did to restrain himself from giving in to any sort of reaction.

“It’s a wonder your wife can tolerate it. Or… wait, then again, she’s still not your wife, is she?”

Sam couldn’t help himself at that point. He swung around, nose-to-nose with John’s self-satisfied gloat, puffing himself up so that he towered over the smaller man. “The fuck are you trying to say, mate? If you’ve got a problem with me, then take it up with me. For the last fuckin’ time, leave my girl out of it.”

John snorted a laugh, his breath reeking of whiskey. “A problem with you? Fuck, mate, you have no idea what you’ve done, have you? Just for starters, you’re makin’ my wife miserable, not knowing what’s happening with her baby sister. Spirited away by the raving mad son of raving mad Henry Lovell with no warning. You have any idea what that’s done to her?” By then he and John were chest-to-chest, staring one another down like boxers in the ring as John hissed and spat. “And, come to find out from Danny, you’ve knocked the poor girl up? And you have the bloody nerve to ask me what my issue is? My issue is that you’ve no right to even speak to Florence-Maria when her Uncle Ephraim is lyin’ cold in a grave with no justice for what your nutter father’s done! You may have fooled Tommy with that pathetic hangdog face of yours, but I know what right bastards you and your kin are, Sam.”

Sam shoved him. John stumbled heavily into the stool behind him, practically knocking a large man off his seat.

When he regained his footing, John let out a raucous laugh. “Fuck! Well, Tom wanted a fight, didn’t he?” John shook his arms, bringing his hands up into a defensive position. “Might as well make it count. Hit me, Sam. Go on ahead. Fucking try me.”

A murmur had begun to rumble through the crowd, prim ladies drawing their handbags closer to themselves and gentlemen scoffing at the rowdy display. Sam knew he had to act fast, or their faces would be remembered.

“Well? What’re you waiting for? Or are you too much of a nancy to–”

He saw red. Sam’s fist landed square on John’s left cheek, sending him reeling back again into the big man, who by this point was more than bothered by the whole display. John took only a moment to recover, shaking the stars from his sight before rebutting with a swift strike of his own, catching Sam in the bridge of the nose. He felt something pop before a thick, sludgy bleed oozed over his upper lip. The chain reaction as Sam caught himself on the bar was immediate: his elbow knocked a gentleman’s glass of gin onto his tailored trousers, who’d assumed based on the large man’s quick cut into the middle of the disruption that it was his doing. Sam stumbled out of the way before he could get caught in the crossfire, allowing the two men to square off in their own miscommunicated fashion. As they did so, John lunged again, missing and bumping into a table with a young couple. That man stood, obviously having something to prove in front of his lady, and began to march towards John. The Shelby brother, thinking quickly, grabbed the remainder of Sam’s beer and splashed it carelessly on another nearby man, who accosted the blustering youth he’d assumed to be the culprit. Their resulting scuffle disturbed an entire table full of well-dressed and thoroughly drunk Americans, and before long the tent erupted in an all-out brawl. Exactly as planned. Fucking animals, the lot of them, Sam thought as he took in the chaos, all that posturing for nothing. Across the impromptu battleground, Sam locked eyes with a victoriously grinning John.

It didn’t take long for them to meet in the middle again, Sam refusing to let the other man have the last word. His next punch was aimed at John’s gut, doubling him over with a grunt before John caught him around the middle and slammed him against a tent pole. The force and the sudden searing pain in his chest crushed the breath out of him once more, but he managed a few solid hits around John’s head before the other man relented. He staggered back, John panting heavily and Sam struggling around rattling wheezes. John was bleeding from a spot on his brow where Sam had nailed a particularly nasty hit, and Sam’s nose was beginning to leak all the way down his neck and into the collar of his shirt. They looked a mess, all split knuckles and dirty clothes. He nearly spared the time to laugh incredulously about the situation, dreading the fussing-over he’d get at home and the inevitable lecture on maturity and self-control. Before he could dwell on it, John went after him with another wide swing. A swift dodge sent the man’s fist careening into the wood pole behind him, forcing a yelp out of him. Sam spun around, attempting to grab at John’s waistcoat and yank him off balance, but a pink silk purse laying abandoned in the alcohol-soaked earth below caught itself around his shoe and sent them both tumbling to the ground. John took advantage of the situation when Sam choked out a pained gasp, landing atop of him and delivering blow after blow, most missing and hitting the dirt, but several catching him on the cheek, the chin, the jaw. Sam flailed below him, catching him equally well in the mouth, the nose, the forehead.

A well-placed blow to the temple left Sam reeling, black spots dancing around his vision. The chaos around him muted for just a moment, fading into muffled complaints and a handful of shrieks that pierced through the fog clouding his senses. John must have realized at that point that he’d won, because the weight around his midsection disappeared and a vaguely John-shaped figure was offering him a hand up, urgently hurrying him on. The bar tent had descended into pandemonium, and they needed to run. In the not-too-far distance, he could hear police whistles and the shouts of men being apprehended. Sam, regaining his survival instinct, scrambled upright with John’s help (which irritated him to no end, despite the circumstances). John snatched his bladed hat from the ground behind him, throwing it back on his head as Sam untangled the muddy bag from his ankle. Shoving through the crowd, they staggered frantically towards the exit. By now, the Blinders would have given the signal across the racetrack to rush in and handle the scattered bookmakers and their personal security, thrown off-kilter by the chaos of the fight and left without the defense of the coppers. They were almost there. Just a few more meters and they’d be out of the tent, away from the fight and that much closer to safety. Just a few more steps, and he would–

Pop. Pop. Pop.

The unmistakable sound of gunshots nearly drove Sam back to the ground, if not for John’s strong grip on the back of his shirt and his own fist clutching the shoulder of John’s waistcoat. Wails of terror rang out around them, and Sam could swear that he tripped over someone’s leg as they lay motionless on the ground.

“Fucking run, you son of a bitch!” John shouted at him, practically dragging him along as they stumbled into the open festival field. To their left and right, coppers were pulling brawlers apart, shoving men to the dirt and subduing them with cuffs and batons. Through sheer luck and dogged pursuit of their getaway car, the two of them managed to avoid the clutches of the police, throwing themselves into the large loading space of the delivery car and hunkering down to avoid detection until the rest of the crew could return. The ache in Sam’s chest was staggering, outranked only by the sting-thud of the bullet he’d survived in Belgium.

Paul arrived soon after they did, sweating and red-faced as he hauled himself into the back of the van with a grunt and a handful of curses. Ed and Albert joined them soon enough with victorious whoops, and lazy-eyed Jim Casey lumbered in after them, wringing his bruised knuckles. Harry, the little one, hopped in with a bagful of cash, followed soon after by Arthur, who sat next to his younger brother and ruffled his hair, seeming not to notice the state that the two of them were in. Unsurprising, frankly, considering how blown his pupils still were and how rapidly his knee bounced. Mooney hopped into the drivers’ seat not long after, starting up the engine as Thomas Shelby finally found his place in the crowded back of the van.

So many bodies stinking of sweat and horse and cigarette and blood made him queasy, so Sam leaned his head against the cool wall of the automobile and lethargically watched Tommy gesture with his arms as he ran the numbers and got their story straight, a commanding presence even in his disheveled state. A few times, Tommy caught his eyes, and he could swear that there was a glimmer of pride in that gaze behind the steely King-of-Birmingham exterior. It sent a wave of relief washing through him, to know that he hadn’t fucked it up. That he’d done well. He blinked slowly a couple of times, the rocking and rumbling of the vehicle over countryside dirt roads luring him into meditative peace as it had when he was just a boy in his father’s caravan.

He hadn’t realized that he’d fallen asleep until there was a hand frantically batting his bruised cheek, forcing him upright. The car was stopped and empty, just him, Tommy, and Ed remaining.

“Well, good mornin’, princess,” Ed drawled, tipping his hat dramatically. “Thought you were a goner for a second there.”

Sam scoffed on principle, though he couldn’t deny that he certainly felt half-dead. The cotton filling his head made it difficult to blink his surroundings into focus, the light sharp and abrasive against his retinas. Ed playfully saluted Tommy and hopped out of the back of the car, leaving the two of them alone again.

“John did a number on you,” Tommy observed, sitting down against the back wall with him when he realized that Sam was in no rush to go anywhere.

“Sure did,” he grumbled, though his mouth felt like it was full of marbles. He flinched and tensed as the movement of his mouth and jaw sent a dull, throbbing pain up through his temples. “Hell of a right hook on your brother.”

“Hell of a right hook on you,” Tommy countered, grinning slightly. “John complained about his split lip the whole way out here.”

Sam hummed, a slight smirk twitching the corner of his mouth. Served the bastard right, after all. But Tommy’s reference to out here made him curious. “Where are we now?” Adjusting to the brightness of the late afternoon, he could make out a grove of trees and the sparkling surface of dark water.

Tommy followed his gaze to where the men were standing around in a loose circle, smoking and chatting. John sat on a rock by the river, pressing a whiskey-soaked rag to his forehead and as Arthur regaled him with a dramatic reenactment of his own brawl.

“We’re a few miles out of Tern Hill,” Tommy said. “The radiator’s leaking. I’ve sent Mooney and Albert out to find a phone, and hopefully Pol can send some men out here to get us.”

Fia will be worried. Shit, why are we in fucking Tern Hill? He was supposed to be in Haydock–

A broad palm pressed against his bruised sternum, pushing him back into a seated position. When did he try to get up?

“Easy, Samuel,” Tommy reassured, kneeling in front of him. “Easy. It’s okay, just slow down. We need to get you to a doctor, alright? Someone we trust not to rat you out. You aren’t looking well.”

Sam tried to take a deep breath, but his diaphragm hitched against Tommy’s hand when a sharp stab of pain ran through his torso, like his ribs were being squeezed in a vice. The attempt winded him. He gripped instinctually at the back of Tommy’s hand as he leaned his head back against the wall of the car, eyes clenched shut as his shallow, halting breaths evened out.

When he recovered, one eye cracked, Tommy’s typically stony, expressionless face was close to his own, brow tight with concern. “No offense, Tom,” Sam rasped, “but your brother might be the biggest arsehole I’ve ever met.”

Tommy sighed. “John should’ve controlled himself better. Grudges or not, he disobeyed orders and got someone hurt,” he said. “I sent Arthur to sniff out whoever had lamed that poor horse, instead. He was too fucked up to dial it down with you in the tent, and I’d hoped that John would be better. Besides, you seemed…upset. With that mare being your favorite, and all. Needed to right the wrongs. You deserved as much, for your hard work.” He looked sheepish, as though the slightest emotionally-based decision was shameful. A light flush spread over the bridge of Sam’s nose when he realized it was probably the most gallant thing anyone had ever done for him, and all because Sam had mentioned it in passing.

“I’m glad you did,” he said gently. “That was…” Kind? Righteous?

Fuck, please let it be just kind. Righteous. Respectable. Not something to think about later, with his eyes staring unblinkingly at the roof of the vardo and Fia’s long hair soft on his shoulder. A gentle, merciful, divine physical reminder of his shame, shame, shame.

Tommy gave him a weak smile, blinking a few times as his gaze drifted just slightly lower. Sam’s flush spread farther as he realized that he was still holding Tommy’s hand captive against his chest, pressed to his racing pulse. He released him as though the contact burned him, scooting with a wince so that he was better supported by the wall behind him.

The barriers went up very quickly in Tommy’s eyes. Sam had already learned this, and he found himself wishing he could force them down like the crumbling walls of Jericho. Every time he built them back up, that ache was worse. He didn’t want to dwell on why that could be.

“Well,” Tommy cleared his throat. “As soon as Pol can get people up this way, I’ll make sure they pass the message along to your… to Florence-Maria, and they’ll see that she makes it to Birmingham safely. But–” He raised his eyebrows raised and pointing a finger at him as though scolding Sam for chewing up his slippers or chasing the chickens, “–You’ll be seeing our doctor, eh?”

Sam nodded, rubbing a hand under his nose and frowning when it came away tacky with drying blood. He startled when Tommy reached out with his own handkerchief, wiping the blood from his chin.

“You didn’t walk,” Tommy muttered as he worked, gently rubbing at the oxidized blood streak smearing down his throat. Sam gulped against the pressure.

“What do you mean?”

“You said you’d walk if I switched things up on you,” he mused. “You didn’t.”

Sam had nothing to say to that. Perhaps it was just the fact that he was already in too deep, or that he’d already developed a habit of giving in to whatever Tommy thought was best. He had that effect on people, Sam noticed. If Tommy Shelby asked the Thames to flow the other direction, the river might just steer itself right around posthaste.

Instead of voicing this, Sam shrugged. “I have a little one on the way,” he said. “Can’t afford to give up with the kind of money you’re offering. Not now.”

Tommy, satisfied with the work he’d done to clean him up, stood up to his full height to withdraw a cigarette from the pack in his pocket. He rubbed the filter over his lips, a quirk reminiscent of the older boys he’d watched sneaking a forbidden smoke outside the schoolyard during his short stays in the cities. Did Tommy always smoke like that? Certainly a man like him could afford higher quality cigarettes, ones that wouldn’t stick to the inside of his mouth.

“I’ve got a son myself,” he told Sam, slightly muffled by the cigarette as he lit it. “Just two months old, now.”

Sam blinked. “I didn’t take you for a family man. Other than the present company, of course,” he added, nodding in the direction of John and Arthur, who were locked in a heated argument over the veracity of Arthur’s wild story. Tommy laughed at that. It was barely an exhale, but it nearly crinkled the corners of his eyes, so Sam took it as a victory. Serious as the plague, that one.

“A bit of a surprise, that I’ll admit. You and I aren’t too different in that regard.” He took a long drag of the cigarette, tapping the ash off with his finger. “I’m not married either, you know. Not yet. You could say Grace ran off with me.”

Sam raised his eyebrows at that, but didn’t comment on it. He figured that any commentary on the irony of his younger brother’s vitriol wouldn’t be appreciated right now. In any case, his head and jaw were beginning to throb, and all he really wanted was to go back to sleep and wait for the ache to go away. His shoulders slumped as the will to keep his eyes open bled out of him.

“Oi, eyes open, my friend,” Tommy nudged his outstretched leg with the side of his foot, jolting Sam back to consciousness. “Need to be able to tell us if something’s going sideways.”

“Other than my whole fucking body hurting?”

“You know what I mean.” Tommy shook his head fondly and turned to leave the back of the delivery van. “Shout if you’re dying, will you?”

Sam chuckled at the price of another hot stab of pain. “Don’t worry, you’ll hear me.”

#fic: sic em #oc: samuel lovell #oc: florence maria lee #peaky blinders #peaky blinders oc #peaky blinders fanfic #john sounds like a dick this chapter sorry. i love him. it will get better

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silverdune · 5 months

Text

..humbug | part three: the christmas of hereafter

"let me ask this: what do you want?"

minors dni. ageless blogs dni. blank blogs dni. you'll be blocked.

<- previous | ..humbug masterlist | next ->

character(s): joshua hong as the ghost of christmas future (ft. you as scrooge, jeon wonwoo as your ex, choi seungcheol, yoon jeonghan)

tags: portals, looking into the future, angst, hopefulness, hurt/comfort, alternate universe future, reader has emotions, banter, explicit language

word count: 2.1k

summary: joshua takes you on the last of the three journeys: christmas, 2024. he shows you what it could be like.. if you don't change something now.

a/n: this is up like.. two days later than i wanted it to be sjdjd so sorry! the epilogue should be up pretty soon.. i hope :') anyways, enjoy!

“..N? N? Are you alright?”

You blink a few times, seeing nothing but a blur above you. Everything hurts and you're struggling to open your mouth to speak for a time. It's hard to place exactly where those words came from, but gradually, you come back around and open your eyes.

“Ugh..” You wince as you carefully sit up. It takes no time to work out that you fell on the floor upon your return back to the real world.

“Much less agonising, well done, Jeonghan,” teases Joshua, patting a vexed Jeonghan on the back with a smug grin on his face.

“Shut up, you,” Jeonghan rebuffs, before holding his hand out to help you off the ground. “Please accept my sincerest apologies, I have no idea what happened..” You mutter a thank you as you find your feet again.

Seungcheol speaks up, “I could tell you what happened. You flicked your wrist instead of gently bringing them back to the real world in the same way you left!”

Jeonghan pauses. “Oh, drat! I am so sorry! You know, I thought something felt off about this return..”

“So much for smooth sailing..” mumbles Joshua to Seungcheol.

“Will you stop?” Jeonghan fires back.

Joshua lifts his arms, “Hey, I didn't say anything..” He can't hide a smirk and Jeonghan is fighting every urge to shove him to the floor. With a final scowl, he turns back to you, assuring you're okay.

“Thanks, I promise I’m fine. Just a bit of a rough landing, that's all.” You look back at the box still sitting neatly on the floor. The lid has even been replaced. You pick it up and hear some rattling inside; the gift is back in the box. “Wow..” You place it just underneath the tree, exactly where it was before, then spin back around to face the three ghosts.

Joshua's eyes light up. “My turn!”

“Oh, I bet you were waiting for this, huh..” says Jeonghan, folding his arms.

“Of course I was!” answers Joshua, unaffected by the mockery in Jeonghan's tone. Jeonghan rolls his eyes at Seungcheol, who does nothing but shrug his shoulders. He doesn't like to get in between them.

“Wait-” you stutter out, holding up a hand. Everything has come rushing back to you and you find yourself collapsing onto the nearest sofa. “I need a minute.”

Joshua halts, one foot in mid-air, before placing it back on the ground. “Oh.. No worries, take your time,” he says, putting on a huge grin.

You rest your head in your hand; every single part of it is drumming against your palm. These journeys have both gone by in a flash and have lasted a century at the same time. The words that came out of Wonwoo’s mouth seem permanently drilled there to stay forever.

Seeing your expression, Joshua frowns and takes a seat beside you on the sofa. “While Jeonghan’s section is not my jurisdiction, I understand you’ve been told a great deal about how Wonwoo feels at this current moment.” You nod, remaining silent. “I can only hope that the journey I’ll take you on will provide the courage you need.”

That comment makes you glance up. “Courage? To do what?” You have zero comprehension of anything Joshua could potentially show you that could instil an emotion any different from what the previous two have, less of all courage.

Seungcheol clears his throat to deliberately grab Joshua’s attention. “Remember the rules, you are not to reveal anything that could sway the client’s heart one way or another.”

Jeonghan folds his arms and murmurs, “Quite literally rule one, what is he doing..?”

Joshua sighs, “This is not to sway the heart, but to merely be encouraging. N has been through quite the ringer experiencing what you two have shown them. The least I can do is try and pep them up before the last one.”

Your head is so remarkably groggy that it all goes in one ear and out the other. “Sure, just..” You stand up, slightly off-balance. “Let’s just get this over with.” Above all else, so you can put this whole debacle to bed and go to bed.

Joshua nods once with conviction. “Okay.” He, too, stands. “Could you please do me a favour, N?” You hum. “Could you please close your bedroom door.”

“Uh.. Okay?” You do as instructed then stand to the side. “Now what?”

“Stand back, please.” Joshua lifts his hand and points two fingers at the top of the door while you take a step back. He brings the hand down swiftly, causing a sharp whooshing sound. “Ah. Perfect.”

You stare at the door with your brows knitted. “Wait a minute-” You gesture towards it with your thumb. “Did you just-”

“Portal behind the door?” Jeonghan pipes up. “Yes.”

Your jaw drops and you put a good amount of distance between yourself and the door. “Holy sh-”

“I assure you it is entirely part of the process,” says Joshua. “Now,” he walks up to the door and grasps the handle, “please come and stand just here.” He indicates exactly where you should stand; you nervously tip-toe towards it, newly frightened of what’s going to happen and what’s going to be behind your own bedroom door. Joshua smiles with pride. “Excellent. Now.. Step through this door, if you wish to take a peek into your future..”

You pick up on how all three of them have had some defining introductory statement to the journey they would be taking you on. The theatrics are not lost on you but you keep that comment to yourself.

With a deep breath, you nod a few times. Joshua bows his head, then turns the handle, opening the door away from him to reveal smoke engulfing your bedroom.

Your hands fly to your mouth and a curt squeal escapes you.

“Do not worry, your bedroom is fine.” He holds out his hand. “Everything will be okay.”

Slowly, your hands fall to your side. You gulp and take one step forward, then two, then three. Somehow this is scarier than going into the box or even entering through the mirror. Gently, you take Joshua’s hand, and he leads you into the smoke.

Seungcheol sighs as the door closes behind you both. “What are we going to do with him?”

“Not much,” Jeonghan replies, “he will inevitably fight back.”

Seungcheol can’t help but agree with that.

When you open your eyes, the first thing that comes to mind is how this is the polar opposite of Seungcheol’s trip.

The area that surrounds you is covered in smoke, and you can only see a few metres in front of your face.

Joshua moves to stand beside you. “Pleased to see you again.” His voice has a distinct echo, and sounds the furthest away of the three. Your thoughts piece together on the direct correlation between the three ghosts and how they have depicted their outlook to you.

Seungcheol: shrouded in a wistful light, a faded haze that zeroed in on what you missed the most.

Jeonghan: feet firmly within the world you’re currently in, experiencing it just as anyone else would.

Joshua: unable to show you much more than the barest minimum, for fear of giving away too much.

You realise in that moment just how much power you hold in being put through such an experience. Any future scenario Joshua could show you will have a massive impact on how you perceive the now. It’s striking.

Joshua rests a hand on your shoulder. “Glance ahead, and I will show you one potential future.”

You do as requested, and gradually see a clear image form before you. It’s a little hard to make out initially, but after some time, it’s unmistakable.

It’s Christmas, again. There is a faint stretch of light and you can see snow falling. One person is standing outside a house, glancing up at the lights before sighing heavily.

You speak before you can think. “Wonwoo.” The name leaves you matter-of-factly.

“Yes.” Joshua says no more, allowing you to put the puzzle together yourself.

“This is 2024. It would’ve been two years since we broke it off..” That fact makes your stomach turn. How could time pass by that quickly?

“Yes. And what do you notice?” asks Joshua.

The answer was there before the image even fully materialised. “I’m not there.”

“..While I do not know the full ins and outs of what either Seungcheol or Jeonghan showed you, I do know this: you have harboured many feelings towards him, and those feelings still persist. Everything that has occurred in both your past and present have shaped this potential future. A future where.. neither of you have even talked about it.”

You don’t look away, and instead stare intently at the picture before you. It feels so stagnant; nothing has changed, nothing feels lighter, there’s no sense of closure. Much like Joshua has said, this is not a future where you’ve moved on without each other. It’s a future where you still haven’t even moved.

It seems so obvious, and yet you had your emotions tied up to the point it needed to be spelled out this way. You shake your head and chuckle despondently.

Joshua takes that as a sign to press on. He wraps the old image in smoke then reveals the next one.

This time, you see yourself.

It’s still the holidays, still 2024, and you are still as heavy-hearted as ever. You even detect some shades of bitterness in your attitude that weren’t there before.

In a probable future, you yourself have grown resentful due to extended lack of communication.

The most frustrating thing about all of this is that, by this time next year, you would recognise that had you spoken sooner, all of this would be avoided.

That’s when you realise: all of this can be avoided.

This doesn’t need to be the future you and Wonwoo have. You can change all of this, right now. You can take that first step, and you can alter the course of the next year of both of your lives.

Why am I so scared?

Joshua looks on as you watch yourself go about what you suppose would still be your daily routine. It seems you’d still be working at the same store, still working that stressful Christmas eve shift, and more than any year prior these emotions would be exacerbated by the stone on your back that you’ve been carrying all this time.

Joshua could tell you it doesn’t need to be this way, but he knows you’re aware already.

He takes the image away, leaving you both surrounded by smoke.

It’s the first time you’ve taken a breath since you got here.

“I don’t even know how to make the first move. I guess..” It takes a lot for you to admit. “I guess.. somewhere in the back of my mind, I’ve just been constantly waiting on him. I’ve been stubborn, and not said anything, hoping he would get the hint to come to me first. I suppose I thought, you know, he was the one that said anything in the first place so he had to be the one to continue the conversation..”

“I don’t think anyone would necessarily blame you for feeling that way. When the proverbial ball leaves your court, you are left unable to determine whether or not you should say something,” says Joshua. “Moreover, if you sense rejection or the cold shoulder from the other party, you are even less likely to want to take that step.”

“But at the end of the day, it has to come from both sides. I was feeling hurt, I should have made that clear to him. I was feeling ignored, I should have communicated that to him..” You exhale. “Things would have been cleared up much sooner. Even if we didn’t get back together, we wouldn’t have it looming over our heads after all this time.”

Joshua saunters over to you. “Let me ask this: what do you want?”

You stare at him. “What do I want? I want him back! I love him, he is so very important to me, it upsets me that after three years we just became strangers, like that!” You click your fingers for emphasis. “I don’t want this,” you vaguely gesture towards the smoke, indicating the images you’ve seen, “I don’t want that to be my future, his future, our future.. At this point..” Your heart grows tight in your chest. “I don’t care if we’re never in a relationship again. I just want him back in my life. The Wonwoo I know, the Wonwoo I became friends with before we even got into a relationship!” You brace your hands on your thighs, needing a breather after that avalanche. “I just want to talk to him again..��

Joshua almost beams. “I cannot contain my pride in you.”

“Wh-”

Joshua takes your hand as the smoke overrides all senses. A whirlpool sucks you in and in seconds flat, you are back in your living room with your bedroom door closed behind you.

“See, Jeonghan?” Joshua can’t help but quip. “That is how you do smooth sailing.”

taglist: @minhui896

× tristeetconfus (ave). do not repost. ×

#seventeen scenarios #seventeen imagines #joshua scenarios #joshua imagines #wonwoo scenarios #wonwoo imagines #words.(ave)#fic: humbug

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