dmkwrites

[dmkwrites]

cherished

Bloodweave, 625 words, cw none

Just a little musing on why Astarion might tell Gale not to use the crown

Power. You longed for it even as a mortal, in the way those born into privilege often do, as though it were your right to hold the fate of the lesser in the palm of your hand. And so the world seemed to agree with you, your rise through the courts almost a matter of course, until it didn’t, until the Gur reminded you that the only true power resides at the tip of a blade, until your will was crushed mercilessly beneath Cazador’s heel.

For two long centuries, you cowered helpless in the dark, your body not your own, your speech not your own, even your smile not your own. All that you could lay claim to was the endless, gnawing hunger that Cazador would never let you sate, and the burning hatred for him that ate away at your heart. At first you prayed, and when that failed you dreamed, letting your tortured mind float away. The night Cazador carved his infernal script into your skin, you dreamed of flaying him alive and leaving his living corpse to burn in the sun, over and over, until even that fantasy lost all meaning.

Power. That was all you thought of when you met the wizard, chosen of Mystra, archmage of Waterdeep. To have that wrapped around your pinky, you wouldn’t have to fear Cazador, or Gur, or anything. There was a familiar longing in his deep brown eyes, a gnawing emptiness desperate to be filled, a hunger begging to be sated. It would be easy, you thought then, the pattern well worn, the dance you knew off by heart.

And then, as you did two hundred years ago, you stumbled.

It wasn’t the rejection that phased you, though it stung more than you let on. You’d succeeded at more stubborn targets before (don’t think about him don’t remember his name and his sweet shy face not now) and it was just a matter of waiting. He wanted you, after all, you could smell it on him, and he would be all the easier to snare the longer he held himself back. The orb could be managed, you were sure, and if not, well, having a bomb to rival the runepowder tales of old in your back pocket was useful in itself, anyway. And yet, it was the rejection, in a way, the disarming of your usual toolkit, that lead to your downfall. Because eventually, your mask slipped.

It was small, at first. Everyone had grown used to your barbs but you held back with Gale, all honeyed words and light, suggestive touches. But one night, you slipped up, tired, hungry, you made some sarcastic remark you can barely even remember, now. And Gale laughed, and insulted you back, and in spite of yourself, you laughed, too. And suddenly, it wasn’t about the Netheril, or the Absolute, or Mystra, and though even now you cannot admit it, it never truly was. It was about that longing in his eyes that echoed yours, not the vampiric hunger but the emptiness that had eaten away from you before you even knew the name Cazador Szarr. When Gale laughed with you, for a moment, you didn’t feel empty anymore.

Power. That’s what Gale offers you now, your hands clasped tightly in his as he pleads for you to join him. It’s everything you’ve dreamed of, it’s safety, it’s revenge, it’s your right. But as the stars of Elysium dance around you, all you can think of is barbed words around the campfire, of his head resting on your shoulder, the way he smiled when he told you his real name, of wanting to kiss him so badly it ached.

Power. It’s all you ever longed for, until it wasn’t.

[dmkwrites]

beneath the sussur blooms (BG3, Bloodweave)

Rating: R Summary: Astarion takes Gale for a night beneath the sussur tree, and Gale watches Astarion come into bloom AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56453053

It always started the same way, Gale lounging on a chaise or puttering around in Lenore’s laboratory when Astarion would sidle up beside him like a ghost and mutter “Let’s get out of here, love.”

He would take Gale’s hand and lead him out of the tower, now shining like a jewel in the Underdark thanks to the Ironhands’ brilliant repairs. In the early days they would go out the front, past the arcane turrets that Astarion would thump with a closed fist to get a rise out of Gale, weaving around the clumps of torchstalk and timmask until he found a spot he was satisfied with. Lately, though, Astarion would take him to the little garden out back, and he would push Gale to the ground beneath the sussur tree as he began to kiss his throat.

Sometimes Astarion fed on Gale then, but most often he wouldn’t. The first time, after the orb, Astarion had gripped Gale’s shoulders so hard he’d left ten little fingertip bruises, and he’d shook as he pulled himself away. “Gods,” Astarion had whispered, Gale’s blood still dripping from his lips, “I never imagined you’d taste so perfect.” Gale had wondered how much self-control it had taken Astarion to stop, and what he would have even done if he couldn’t. He should have been afraid, perhaps, but he wasn’t.

Today, Astarion refrained, contenting himself with the scent of Gale’s blood thrumming benearg the skin of his neck, with the taste of Gale’s sweat. He straddled Gale’s hips and began to untie his robes, slow and deliberate, his fingers intimately familiar with every knot and clasp. Gale put his hands on Astarion’s thighs, desperate to feel the dizzying suppleness of Astarion’s skin beneath his clothes, but waiting, waiting.

Astarion smiled and moved his mouth to whisper in Gale’s ear. “If you don’t take my clothes off right now, I shall simply go mad,” he said, always said. Gale greedily accepted the invitation, slipping Astarion’s shirt effortlessly over his head. Gale’s hands felt heavy and clumsy so near the sussur blooms, but this he could do, this he could do with his eyes closed. His fingers danced their way down Astarion’s chest, to the lacing on his trousers, and then Astarion was naked and perfect on top of him, pressing himself against Gale, his pale skin almost glowing in the dim light.

Usually at this point they did a little verbal dance, Astarion grinning like a cheshire cat, “What shall we do now?” and Gale grinning back, “This was your idea, what did you have in mind?” but today, Astarion surprised Gale. “I want you inside me,” he said, the most direct he’d ever been since the first night, when it had all been for show. “Right now.”

Gale, feeling like his heart was about to burst out of his chest, could only nod. Astarion smiled and kissed him furiously, making Gale laugh as it always did, easing the uncertainty, the did you mean it? Astarion looked at him the way he looked at him in bed every morning, when Gale cracked his eyes open stealthily to catch that soft expression before Astarion hid it away.

After a final, lingering kiss Astarion fetched a vial of oil from the pocket of his trousers. He uncorked it and poured it over Gale, rubbing it over his chest, stomach, finally grasping Gale’s cock in his oil-slicked hands. Gale moaned and felt himself harden under Astarion’s nimble fingers. Astarion grinned widely and started kissing Gale’s neck again, and this time Gale could feel his teeth grazing softly on his skin. He didn’t say anything.

Eventually Astarion pulled away, and still straddling Gale’s hips he guided Gale’s cock inside him. Gale groaned, and Astarion let out the pleased little laugh that drove him mad. “Ready?” he asked, and “Whenever you are,” is what he tried to quip, but “please” was all that came out, and Astarion was grinning broadly now as he began to rock on top of him. This part of the dance Gale was familiar with, and he let Astarion lead as always, thrusting his hips in time when he sped up. Gale couldn’t get enough of watching him like this, his hips grinding with wild abandon, his head thrown back. The first time they were together Astarion’s eyes had been on him constantly, everything calculated, rehearsed. But in this moment, Astarion was only thinking about Astarion.

Well, that won’t do, Gale thought to himself. With one hand he sat himself up and leaned forward to kiss Astarion, deep and long. Astarion jumped, startled, but as the fingers that soon twined tightly in Gale’s hair told him, not unpleasantly so. He pulled Gale closer, his tongue hot in Gale’s mouth, tasting. Gale’s free hand moved slowly, carefully, up Astarion’s thigh, then between his legs, started to stroke him, gently, then firmly, and he felt Astarion quiver against him.

“Wait,” Astarion gasped, pulling back, his fingers gripping Gale’s hair so hard it stung, “I’m going to—"

“Yes, that’s the point,” Gale replied, a laugh dancing at the edges of his mouth. “Don’t worry about me.”

Astarion searched Gale’s face for a moment (why so unsure, even now) and then smiled and nodded, and Gale began to stroke him again. Astarion pressed his forehead against Gale’s and finally allowed himself to let go, soft whimpers turning to low, throaty moans. Gale’s free hand moved to Astarion’s chin, to tilt his face back up and kiss him, devouring those moans, and then he kissed his jaw, his cheek, his ear, his neck, a love letter to his favorite parts of Astarion, which was everything, everything about him.

At last but all too soon Astarion came with a shiver and collapsed against Gale, clinging to him and breathing hard. Gale stroked his back slowly, waiting for him to catch his breath. As he nestled into Gale’s shoulder, he eyed Gale’s throat hungrily.

Gale ran his fingers through Astarion’s hair. “You can… if you want…”

Astarion shook his head and gripped Gale tightly. “No, I can’t,” he whispered shakily into Gale’s neck before leaning backward, pulling Gale to the ground with him. “So let’s finish before I try.”

Gale twined his fingers together with Astarion’s and kissed him softly on the forehead before he began to move, slowly at first and then faster. Astarion wrapped his arms and legs around Gale, savouring the closeness. He had played this part with a hundred men before, but only with Gale had he ever taken any kind of joy in it, only Gale’s warm bulk moving rhythmically on top of him had felt anything other than odious.

After Gale finished he stayed curled protectively over Astarion, their foreheads pressed together and breathing heavily in sync. Honestly, this was Gale’s favorite part of it all, the closeness, the scent of himself on Astarion’s body, and Astarion’s fingers tangled tightly in Gale’s hair, holding him there. For all the wonders he could conjure on the astral plane, nothing truly compared to this.

Finally Astarion released his grip, and Gale gently rolled to lay beside him, getting a rock in his back for his trouble. Astarion lay with his eyes closed and a smile on his face, oblivious. We have a perfectly lovely bed indoors Gale almost said, the complaint on the tip of his tongue. Then he remembered a windowless room draped in silk, and how Astarion had barely even acknowledged the rotting corpse of the young girl at his feet. Gale bit back his gentle barb and instead brushed back Astarion’s hair, shining under the light of the sussur tree.

Astarion opened one eye. “You’re making it worse.”

“What worse?”

“My hair, you’re making it worse.”

“Oh.” Gale smiled and furiously tousled Astarion’s hair now, making him bat Gale’s hand away. They fought playfully for awhile, laughing, one of the rare moments Gale thought he could see glimpses of the mortal Astarion once was. But maybe that wasn’t it, maybe this was just the immortal Astarion was becoming.

Astarion was on top of Gale again, grinning wolfishly, and then they were kissing, deep and slow, like Astarion wanted to devour him whole. Gale shivered, and Astarion pulled away, frowning, a tension in him that hadn’t been there a moment before.

“I suppose you’re cold,” Astarion said, casting his gaze away. “I always forget. Perhaps we should go back inside.”

Gale shook his head and pulled Astarion into a tight embrace. “No,” he said, feeling Astarion relax, melt into his arms, just like he had the very first time. “This is wonderful. This is perfect.”

[dmkwrites]

Ephemeral

Pairing: Durge/Gale

Warning: character death

Summary: Sometimes the sweetest moments are the most fleeting.

Introduction

The voice that drifts from the swirling vortex stirs something in you, something that threatens the voices within. KILL KILL KILL they tell you, as they’ve been telling you all day, relentless. You’ve resisted until now, but the weight is bearing heavy on you, and it’s loud, so loud, louder than you’ve ever heard it.

Does it know, somehow, where this path will lead? Does it dig around desperately in your head like a wounded animal? Does it recognize something?

You pull at the hand, and the wizard who appears smiles in a way that feels familiar.

The Urge wails.

Change in the Weather

After the events of That Night, the night you lost control, you were sure none of them would trust you again, and him with the fire in his voice least of all.

For some reason, you cannot abide that.

It’s agonizingly slow, like taming a stray cat, Gale keeping his distance and watching you from the corner of his vision, the way you watch him but completely different.

Then, one day, you are wounded, and he holds out his hand to you like he did on that first day, when he was nothing but trust, and you know you’ve won.

 

Seeking Solace

Gale stumbles into your tent, sooner than you thought, too soon after the last one. He is doubled over and breathing heavy, and at once you are frantically pawing through your backpack, you swear you had something stashed away for this, you swear.

Gale falls to his knees and he grips weakly at your robes. “Please… anything…”

Frantic, you take his hands. “The robes, use the robes,” you tell him, and he shakes his head, and you squeeze now, hard, too hard, “Bhaal take you to the depths of hell Gale, use the robes.”

He relents, and you wonder. Bhaal?

Breakfast

You love waking up early and watching him cook breakfast. No matter what the previous day wrought, you can count on him to be up with the sun, stoking the campfire, making the best of whatever abandoned scraps you dug out of a barrel outside town. His hands are practiced, which surprised you at first, somehow. Perhaps in those months alone in his tower, this simple daily task had brought him some comfort, some normalcy. You are desperate to know but afraid to ask.

“You know,” Gale calls out, “You could help instead of spying on me from your bedroll.”

Fork in the road

It would be so easy to give in. You’ve fought so long, so hard, and you don’t even know why. Everything inside you wants to slip back into the red darkness, and the Urge is a roar in your ears now, and killing all the goblins and cultists hasn’t quenched it a drop. It’s eating you from the inside out.

Then the Butler leads you to Gale, give his ultimatum. You watch Gale’s chest rise and fall, and you realize that from the moment you took that hand, there was only one path left before you.

You shake Gale awake.

Love

The Urge is screaming at you, a pounding in your skull, worse than you can ever remember it being

but not the first time no not the first time but this time is worse this time it knows

and Gale is looking at you expectantly, and there is fear and longing and hope in his eyes

kill him now wring his neck before it’s too late we must not let it happen again we

“I’m in love with you, too.”

Gale smiles, and with all your will you manage to smile back. And then the voice is gone, for now.

Forgotten

When you hold Gale, sometimes you go somewhere else. It feels like falling in a dream, like the world disappears from under you, and then Gale is no longer in your arms, but someone else is, someone who makes the Urge whine and thrash in the same way.

Was I sweet once?

Did I love once?

There is a name, scratching around in the back of your head like a trapped insect. You will not remember it until it’s too late.

Eternity

Gale’s eyes are pleading and his hands are shaking with emotion. “Don’t you understand? We could have eternity amongst the stars, you and I, no pain, no fear, nothing but us.”

The dark part of you sings, imagining a Faerun under your wicked rule after Gale’s inevitable fall. But there is another image, from the dark recesses of your broken self, of the Crown balanced delicately on metal-clad fingers, and of a promise just like this one. “You and I, Slayer. Together.”

You close the book and take Gale’s trembling hands. “I’ve had enough of men of ambition,” you say.

Rebirth

Stepping out of the temple for the first time in your new life, everything hurts. The sun in your eyes is blinding, the wind on your scales is agony, like salt in a fresh wound.

“How does it feel?” Gale asks as he takes your hand in his. You look at him, and it’s like you’re seeing him for the first time, no Urge, no sick fantasies bursting from the dark place in your heart. For the first time, you look at Gale, and all you feel is love.

You squeeze Gale’s hand. “Wonderful,” you say, and you mean it.

The True You

You twine your fingers with Gale’s as you lay together in the grass, the cloak you’d loving spread beneath you now bunched up in the small of his back. “How long since you been with another like this?” you ask.

“A long time,” Gale admits, sounding almost embarrassed. “Even before Mystra.”

You stroke Gale’s hair with your free hand, the real Gale, whose first touch transformed you irreversibly. “You felt you had to wow them,” you say. “And now?”

Gale’s face, still sweaty and flushed, buries into your chest. You feel a smile there. “I was wowed,” he says, “Truly.”

Dreamer

“You’ll love Waterdeep,” Gale says. “And Tara, I’m sure. I think she’ll like you. I hope so, anyway, or we might have a problem.”

“Who said I wanted to go to Waterdeep?”

“Well, we could live in the Bhaal temple,” Gale pivots quickly. “I could starts a book club. But I do insist on getting rid of at least half the skulls, it’s far too much.”

You laugh, and it is light and free and beautiful, for perhaps the first time. “Waterdeep it is then, I can’t possibly keep up with a book club.”

Shattered

You’ve made it to the brain stem, bloody and broken but alive. The final push is ahead, and for the first time in your life, you are truly afraid.

Gale takes your hands. “Don’t worry,” he says. “It’ll be over soon.”

He is smiling, but there is a hitch in his voice, and suddenly you know, “Believe in me,” you say, desperate, “in us.”

Gale gently cups your face. “I do believe in us,” he says softly. “We’ll meet again, my love.”

And then he is gone. Or rather, you are gone.

Your scream is drowned out by the explosion.

Acceptance

It is Rolan who takes you in after everything ends, lets you malaise among the books Gale loved for weeks and weeks and weeks. You are left adrift in a sea of apathy, the bright  future you’d only just glimpsed already gone. You eat the food Lia brings and when your body grows weary you sleep a fitful sleep, but you do little else until the day you finally descend into the archives.

Rolan is waiting for you. He hands you a key. “Good luck,” is all he says.

You clutch the key in your fist. You don’t need luck.

[dmkwrites]

like a moth yearning for a candle flame

Pairing: Drow!Tav/Astarion (gender neutral) Warnings: vague sexytimes 900 words

You and Astarion spend an afternoon by the river

You’re washing your clothes in the river when you hear him behind you, footsteps soft as a whisper and yet you still notice, lately.

“Don’t stop on my account,” Astarion says, the moment of hesitation giving you away, or perhaps the racing of your heart, thrumming like the strings of a lute. “I’m quite enjoying the view, after all.”

You lay your trousers to dry on a nearby rock. “You could help,” you say.

Astarion laughs, and he’s already beside you, his bare feet in the running water. “You don’t know me at all, do you?” he says. “Besides, that would just have you back in your clothes faster, and we can’t have that, can we?”

“I’ll keep them off as long as you like if you help.”

“Tempting.” Astarion’s hand is on your bare thigh. You always thought a vampire’s touch would be cold, the icy touch of the grave, but Astarion’s hands are hot, burning. “But I think you’ll keep them off whether I help or not.”

He’s right, of course. You ache for him, and you have from the moment he held that knife to your throat. Something in you recognized something in him. A fear, a hunger. A yearning.

You put your hand on Astarion’s, and he is on you, straddling your lap, and the way he presses his body desperately against yours tells you more than he would ever dare. He slips out of his clothes and his whole body is on fire. You offer him your neck and he descends on you like a hungry wolf, his desire never abating no matter how many times he’s drunk from you. Sometimes you’re sure he’d drain you dry if he could. Sometimes you worry you’d let him.

You make love until the sun is low in the sky, and when it’s over you leave Astarion basking in the fading, golden light, his arms tucked up under his head and a grin on his face, and you make your way back to the river to wash off the dirt and the sweat and the blood. The cold water makes you shiver, and your heart finally begins to slow down. When you feel Astarion’s hand on the small of your back, you quell the part of you that wants to push him back to the ground, to feel that white hot skin against your own again and again and again, and instead you thrust your grime-caked shirt into his hands, and you go back to the riverbank.

“The hag was right,” Astarion complains as he follows behind you, “You are drier than old shit.”

“Old shit in the noonday sun,” you correct him. You pick up his clothes and start gently scrubbing, and he begrudgingly sits down beside you and does the same. You sit like that for a while, Astarion cursing under his breath the whole time. The shirt will be worse by the time he’s finished, but at least it won’t stink.

“Damned the laundry,” he says, “I always hated the blasted laundry the most, and Cazador knew it too, he’d have me do it and then beat me for fucking it up.”

“I don’t mind if you fuck it up, it’s only a shirt.”

Astarion rolls his eyes at you, but secretly he’s pleased. “You must miss having your servants in the Underdark do all of this for you.”

Your soft smile falters. “Not really.”

Astarion casts his eyes down. “Stupid,” he mutters, “I didn’t think… of course you wouldn’t be up here in the first place if you were one of those drow, you were probably even worse off than--”

“No, you were right,” you interrupt. “I came from a powerful Lothsworn house, of course I had servants.  Slaves. Riches. Lovers. Power. I had everything one could dream of, and if I didn’t have it I could get it with the snap of my fingers.” It all comes spilling out of you, finally, an endless torrent, the secret you’ve been hiding, out in the open. “Everything Cazador had you pretend to be, I was.”

Astarion throws your shirt onto the muddy riverbank. “Then why would you leave?!” he yells. From the look on his face, the outburst startles even himself. But you, you are not surprised.

You pick up the shirt and quietly dip it back into the river. You planned for this, to tell him about the corruption, the lies, the fear, your desperate escape to freedom. But instead you ask, “Do you know why I accepted you, when you finally told me what you were? Why I didn’t cast you out?”

Astarion leans back, sulking but still listening, at least, always appeased by the subject of himself. “You wanted me,” he says.

You can’t help but laugh, the answer is so perfectly expected. Astarion glowers at you. “You’re beautiful,” you tell him, “but that’s not enough, is it? You know that.”

“Then what?”

You look at him, and as he holds your gaze you will him to see you, to really see you, just this once, and you tell him your final truth. “Because I know what it’s like to live in the darkness while longing for the sun.”

Astarion doesn’t look away for a long, long moment. He doesn’t say he loves you, not yet. But he doesn’t have to.

[dmkwrites]

Umbra (Aylin x Isobel)

Warnings: naked ladies cuddling?

Summary: just a little musing on Aylin's imprisonment, 300 words

The question lingered between them, unasked, unanswered, though Aylin could see it in Isobel’s eyes. “How?” it whispered in the dark, “How did he lure you to the Shadowfell?”

Aylin could not lie to Isobel, could not lie to anyone, it wasn’t in her nature. But she could avoid that question, hanging sickly between them like a foul miasma, ignore Isobel’s pleading gaze, because surely she already knew, didn’t she? Isobel refused to give voice to the ache that plagued her because she knew.

“I can help,” Balthazar had said, his honeyed words dripping with bitter poison. “I can bring her back, if only you lend me your strength.”

An aasimar should know better. A paladin should know better. Aylin, sick with grief though she was, should have known better, should have known not to trust that snake. But Aylin ignored the unease in her broken heart. Aylin followed Balthazar into the belly of the temple, to the shimmer pool to the Shadowfell. Aylin, a black gaping hole in her where Isobel had been, stepped into the accursed runes herself.

“Are you all right?” Isobel asked. He naked body pressed against Aylin’s in the dark, warm, soft, alive. Alive alive alive. Would Ketheric have ever caught the eye of Myrkul, Aylin wondered, if she had not allowed her grief to bring her to folly? Would this body still be cold beneath the ground, not but bones and maggots? Was one hundred years worth it?

Aylin caressed Isobel’s cheek. “Yes,” was all she said. And somehow, Isobel knew.

Shar was the goddess of loss. But all that was Shar’s was Selune’s as well. From that unending darkness could be born the most splendid light.

[dmkwrites]

White Wedding

The gang all goes to Alma Bonnet’s wedding. It goes about as well as one could hope.

Blackbonnet with some other stuff

5500ish words

It was the afternoon before Alma Bonnet’s wedding, and she was near giddy with excitement. By this time tomorrow, I’ll be Mrs. Robert Jones, she thought to herself as she flitted from room to room, checking on her dress, the food, her dress again, the dining hall, the flowers, her dress again, as though it might have got up and walked off somewhere. Tomorrow night, Mr. Robert Jones would be ripping that dress—

Don’t go down that road right now, Alma, she chided herself. There’ll be plenty of time for that tomorrow. And the next day. The next morning. And afternoon. And again after tea, of course. And—

Alma screamed into a pillow and then went to go check on the food again, her cheeks flushed.

Mary watched her daughter ducking in and out of rooms like a madwoman, then turned to Doug. “I don’t recall being this worked up when I got married.”

“To be fair,” Doug said lightly, “You very much did not wish to be married in the first place.”

“True,” Mary conceded. “Come to think of it, I did used to spend hours picking out my clothes the night before my painting lessons.”

Doug blushed, but also looked incredibly pleased.

Just then, as Alma was rushing by yet again, there was a knock at the door. Alma screamed, making her parents jump and causing the cook to crush a whole egg into the cake batter. Alma flung open the door, and screamed again. “Robert!”

“Alma!” Robert replied in cheeky falsetto. “My darling, you look like you’re about to need a fainting couch. Sit down a moment.” He took her hand and lead her to the settee.

“What are you doing here?” Alma asked. In the kitchen, the cook had got about halfway through fishing out bits of shell before giving up entirely. “It’s bad luck to see me before the wedding.”

“The day before? Surely it starts after midnight.” Robert sat down next to her, and their knees touched, and Alma thought she might explode. “Anyway, a little bird told me there was a ship in the harbour with a rather exotic looking crew, and my mind immediately went to your seafaring Uncle. Jeff, wasn’t it? You said you invited him.”

“Yes, I did,” Alma said, enraptured by the cut of his jacket over his broad shoulders. “Yes, old uncle Jeff.”

Mary and Doug exchanged a look. “Jeff?” Mary asked, raising a brow. “You… he does know the truth about… uncle Jeff, doesn’t he? You told him?”

“What? Oh!” Alma laughed. “Goodness, yes, I completely forgot.” She took Robert’s hand and beamed at him. She loved the feeling of his broad hands in hers. Mrs. Robert Jones. “Uncle Jeff is Blackbeard.”

Robert laughed. Doug and Mary laughed. Alma laughed. Robert abruptly stopped laughing. “Alma, you’re not serious? Blackbeard was hanged years ago, you know.”

Alma snorted with laughter. “Yes, and my father really was mauled by a wildcat and crushed by a falling piano. Don’t be so naive, Robert.”

Robert drew back his hands and put them stiffly on his knees. “Your father is alive?”

“Well,” said Doug, “This is going about as well as expected.”

***

“Oh!” Stede exclaimed. “You shaved it off already.”

Edward rubbed his chin. “Practice run. Haven’t done it in awhile, worried I might do a hack job.”

Stede gave him a peck on the cheek. “Has been a long time since I saw your chin, come to think of it,” he said. Edward frowned and pulled Stede down for a proper kiss, and Stede giggled.

“Do you prefer the shave?”

“No, you know I’m very fond of your beard,” Stede said. “But it’s kind of fun once in awhile. Jeff the seafaring accountant is quite the fox, you know.”

“Oh?” Ed—or rather, Jeff—strode forward, the heels of his boots thudding authoritatively on the wooden boards. Stede backed into the wall, and Ed leaned over him. “Well hello there, Mr. Bonnet. My ears are burning.”

“Jeff,” Stede said, “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but if my lover Blackbeard catches us in such a compromising position…”

“Blackbeard? Phhff.” Jeff scoffed as he toyed with Stede’s hair. “I’m not afraid of some washed up old seadog.”

“He is NOT washed up!” Stede exclaimed hotly, and Jeff—Ed?—leaned in closer and kissed him hard, pressing their bodies together. It was a full minute before he let Stede come up for air. “Well,” Stede said, feeling faint, “Now I’m not sure which of you I’m rooting for.”

“As long as it’s one of us that’s good enough,” Edward said, and he leaned in again.

“Captains!” Lucius said, bursting through the door. “Augh!” He spun around. “I didn’t see anything!”

“Lucius!” Stede instinctively covered himself, though he was in fact fully dressed, and fully… well. Edward stayed where he was, pinning Stede against the wall, which did make it a bit difficult to converse, but both Stede and Lucius were used to that. “I’ve told you, you don’t need to call us captains, you’re a passenger today.”

“Okay, then why did you make me organize your library though?”

“That was voluntary, and anyway, none of the rest of the crew can read, who else can I get to do it? Don’t be a nitpicking Nelly, Lucius.”

Lucius rolled his eyes. “Well, Stede—“

Stede made a face. “Oh, I’m not sure I like that. Maybe we will just go with captain for now, yeah?”

“Captain—”

“You can call me captain as well,” Edward said. “If he’s captain I want to be captain.”

“Captains—“

“By the way Lucius, I’ve been meaning to ask, how did you manage to retire, anyway?” Stede wiggled out of Edward’s embrace, to which he gave a pout before retreating to his favorite chair by the window. “I mean, I paid well, but not THAT well. You were very hush-hush about it when you left.”

Lucius perked up. “Actually wanted to talk to you about that. Well, I was going to wait until we were on dry land in case Captain Ed wanted to toss me overboard again, but you both seem to be in,” Lucius paused and raised a brow, “exceedingly good moods, so I suppose it’s relatively safe.” He drew a small paperback novel out of his breast pocket and handed it over. Edward popped out of his seat to come look. “I’m a novelist!” Lucius beamed. “A saucy one! It’s an absolute smash hit!”

“The Captain and I. Sounds steamy!” Stede flipped through a few pages. “Using your pirate life as a bit of an inspiration, eh?”

“You could say that,” Lucius said.

Edward’s eyes darted across the page. “That’s the first time you and I met.”

Stede frowned. “What?”

“Right there,” Edward jabbed his finger at the page. “The fearsome pirate king sat at the injured captain’s bedside day and night, smoking his pipe and gazing at his prone form with his smoldering desire barely hidden, that’s me, I did that. I mean, I guess it was pretty smoldering, yeah.”

Stede flipped forward several chapters, to a page where the spine was nearly worn through.

“Hey!” Edward exclaimed, “That one’s the first time we fucked!”

“Ed!”

“Made love,” Edward corrected himself.

“No! I mean… Lucius!! This is—“ Stede caught himself yelling and instead lowered his tone to a very dramatic stage whisper, “This is actually the first time we made love! Verbatim! Were you listening!?”

“Oh yeah, obviously,” Lucius answered, “you can hear everything that happens in here from the galley, you know. Pete and I went down there for some alone time and we were treated to QUITE the show.”

Edward kept flipping through the book. “Gosh, this sure takes you back, doesn’t it Stede?”

“We can walk down memory lane later!”

Lucius held out a rather largish sack of coin. “I did bring your cut, naturally. For the inspiration.”

Edward snatched the sack without looking up from the page. “Feels a bit light.”

“Based on what!?”

“Based on the cashmere scarf you’ve upgraded to,” Edward said, flipping the page.

Lucius made a face. “I just have poor financial management skills, thanks very much.”

Stede had retired to Edward’s chair, hiding himself behind the backrest. “Ed, would you put the book down already? You need a primer on that right at this moment?”

“No, I remember every moment of that night,” Edward said, and Stede grinned a giddy grin in spite of himself, “but it’s nice to read about. Quite poetic actually.” He held the book open by the chair and Stede peeked over the back. “Look at this bit here, that’s downright lovely.”

Stede read a few lines and sat up straighter. “Oh, that’s actually rather tasteful.”

Lucius laughed. “Yeah, the lonely noblewomen demographic eats that nonsense up like candy. You two are disgustingly cute, it makes me a bit nauseous honestly.”

“I suppose since it’s already published… wait a moment.” Stede frowned. “Lucius, what did you come in here for to begin with? This?”

“Oh! No!” Lucius gestured to the deck. “Alma is out there and she is crying like anything. Absolute drama queen.”

***

“The wedding’s off!” Alma cried. “He’s left me! What am I to do?”

“There, there, darling,” Stede said, holding his arms open to his distraught daughter. She walked right past him and instead buried her tear-stained face in Edward’s chest. Stede couldn’t blame her; it was an exceedingly comforting chest to sob into. He settled for awkwardly patting her back. “What’s all this about the wedding? There must be some misunderstanding.”

Alma sobbed harder, then suddenly stopped and looked up angrily at Edward. “It’s your fault!” she cried, jabbing her finger in Edward’s face.

“Me? What did I do?” Edward asked, just as Stede sighed and said “What’s he done now?”

Alma beat her fists against Edward’s chest with surprising force. “I told him your were Blackbeard and father hadn’t been mauled by a wildcat and he just up and left! It’s all your fault! If you hadn’t got a stupid crush Stede would have just died at sea years ago and I could just be normal instead of having three dads to deal with!”

Edward looked at Stede. “She called me dad!”

“Yes, I heard!”

Alma made an unintelligible cry of rage and frustration, and rushed by Stede’s outstretched arms again to cry into Lucius’ shoulder. He rubbed her back. “Oh Alma,” he said, “You were doomed never to be normal.” She cried harder. “But that’s fine! You know I’m brilliant at breakups.”

“Why did you tell him today of all days?” Stede asked. “His nerves must be shot.”

“You only come to visit every year or two, it’s not exactly at the forefront of my mind, is it? I have my own life, you know.”

“That’s a good point.” Stede walked over and ruffled Alma’s hair the way he used to when she was a girl. His little girl. “Now listen," he said, quietly but firmly, “there’s not going to be any breakup. It’s just a case of wedding jitters is all. Ed and I will sort it right out. Alright?”

Alma sniffed and wiped her snotty nose on the back of her hand. “Thank you,” she said.

***

It was early evening when Stede knocked on Robert Jones’ door. Robert came from a family of merchants, and with the death of his mother several years earlier, he had moved in to the rooms about the trading office while his father stayed in their family home and got progressively drunker. Stede admired the building, modest but obviously well-crafted, with a lovely view of the harbour.

“Not bad,” Lucius said. “Could use a woman’s touch.”

“Good,” Stede said, “Keep that in mind, we can use that.”

“Do you have a plan?”

“No,” Stede admitted, “But these things usually work themselves out.”

There was the slow thud of footsteps coming down the stairs, and a tired voice, “Alma, I really can’t…”

“Hello!” Stede said cheerily. “May we come in? Important business afoot, you know. Well, I’m sure you’ve heard.”

Robert looked around in confusion. His eyes were red and his hair terribly askew. Stede reflexively reached out and smoothed it down, which confused the poor man even more. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

“No, but I know you! Your reputation precedes you, sir. I’m Mr. East, and this,” Stede gestured behind him towards Edward, “Is Mr. India.”

“Who is?”

Stede turned around. Edward was gone. “Lucius! Where’s E—where’s Mr. India?”

Lucius shrugged. “Went off for a piss maybe? I’m not his keeper, am I?”

Stede forced a grin. “Ah, that scallywag! Well, go fetch him, then!”

“I thought I was just a pass—“

“Lucius!”

Lucius sighed and trudged off to wrangle Edward.

Robert was getting quite suspicious now. “Mr. East and Mr. India? As in, the East India Company?”

“Oh good! You’ve heard of us. May I come in?” And Stede barged past Robert and up the stairs.

The rooms above we done up in dark mahogany and teak and sumptuous fabrics to rival his own chambers on the Revenge. Stede’s eyes were nearly popping out of their sockets. Alma had landed a whopper. “How lovely…” he said, awestruck, and then, catching himself, “Sure could use a woman’s touch though! Bit of lightness, yeah?”

Robert smiled a thin little smile and pointed at a needlepoint pillow on the chaise, done up in garish pink hearts and and ghastly skulls. Stede choked back a laugh. Oh, Alma.

“I suppose I’ll have to give that back, though,” Robert sighed. “I don’t need the reminder.”

“Oh?” Stede squeaked, “Trouble in paradise?”

“You could say that.” Robert sat down on the chaise and picked up the pillow, tracing the little hearts and skulls lovingly with his fingertips. “She… kept a big secret from me. A couple. I’m not sure I can move past it. It would be an absolute scandal if anyone found out.”

“Scandal? What fun!” Stede said, and he sat down next to him. “Come on now, you strike me as the sort of fellow who can appreciate a bit of notoriety, eh? Spices things up!”

“I guess.” Robert clutched the pillow against his chest and slumped sideways. “I don’t know.”

“Maybe… it’s not the scandal? Maybe it’s the secrets?”

Robert peeked up at him. “Perhaps… it’s the secrets. They’re some big secrets. I thought we shared everything.”

Stede nodded sagely. “Why do you suppose she chose not to share this particular secret, then?”

“Well, if it were anyone else, I would think they were ashamed, but since it’s Alma…” Robert looked into the middle distance, pondering, “…honestly, she probably just forgot.”

Stede laughed heartily. “Yes, that does sound like Alma. I mean!” Stede panicked. “Alma is a lovely name, but does lend an air of… well, you know.”

Robert smiled a little, and sat back up, his shoulders held a little straighter. He had a dimple, in only one cheek, when he smiled. Charming. Alma really had done well. “You must be Mr. Bonnet,” he said. “I’m pleased to see you were not indeed mauled to death by a wildcat.”

“Actually, it was the piano that did me in! The wildcat was just for the drama.”

“Wasn’t a piano dramatic enough?”

Stede shrugged. “You only die once, you know.” Robert actually laughed at that one, a hearty laugh from his gut. Stede smiled warmly at him. “You also only live one life, you know. Mary told me that, and it’s always stayed with me.”

“So,” a voice came from the doorway, “What life do you want lad?”

“Absolutely I want to marry Alma,” Robert said, “Like, so so much. She’s amazing. Do you know she made this herself?” He thrust the pillow into Stede’s face.

Edward walked over, Lucius close behind. “Look at that, she used the design I sent her!”

“Where were you?” Stede hissed.

“Nowhere,” Edward said.

Stede turned to Lucius. “Where was he?”

“Oh, I can’t tell you,” Lucius replied, “It’s too good.”

Robert stood up and brushed his wrinkled jacket flat. “Terribly sorry for the state of things,” he said, gesturing to a half-eaten pound cake sitting on the side table next to a piled of damp handkerchiefs. “You must be Mr. Bonnet’s crew, then.” He held out his hand. “Robert Jones, pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Lucius Spriggs.”

Edward griped Robert’s hand with such force it shocked him. “Blackbeard,” he said.

Robert nodded, and immediately started hyperventilating.

Edward rolled his eyes and looked at Lucius. “Why does everyone react like that?”

Lucius rolled his eyes right back. “Introduce yourself as Edward instead of Blackbeard then, yeah? You’re obviously doing it on purpose.”

Robert cleared his throat and tried his damnedest to act cool, and failed. “I thought you’d… uh… have a beard? Is it like an irony thing?”

“Blackbeard has a beard,” Edward said, then tapped his head. “Jeff does not have a beard.”

“I know it sounds stupid,” Lucius admitted, “but it honestly is that simple. Most people are idiots.”

“…is your finger made of wood?”

Stede stood up and started slicing into the poundcake with a strained smile. “Rob, you wouldn’t happen to have some tea would you?

***

The three passed a very pleasant afternoon. Stede told Robert flowery tales of their recent adventures in the Chinese seas, Robert playfully chided Edward for plundering his father ships a full six times, and Lucius ate the entire remaining poundcake slathered with marmalade. It was going to go straight to his thighs, but he rather liked his thighs, so that was fine by him. Finally, once Edward had drunk through Robert’s entire sugar bowl, they took their leave.

Robert felt a kind of lightness in his chest. Everything he’d thought about pirates had been wrong. Being the Gentleman Pirate’s son-in-law might not be so bad. He was just like his dear Alma, after all. And Blackbeard had been nothing like the stories. He was downright lovely, in fact.

Edward shook Robert’s hand vigorously at the door. “Wonderful to meet you, just fab, I’m so looking forward to the wedding. Alma will be so pleased, so pleased indeed.”

Lucius breezed past with a “Bye,” a little too ashamed to thank him for the tea he’d absolutely demolished.

Edward went last, and he paused at the door while Stede went ahead, and he turned back to Robert. Robert suddenly felt uneasy. It was like a switch had gone off. In that instant, he had no doubt in his mind he was actually meeting Blackbeard for the first time.

“If you break Alma’s heart,” Edward said, softly, in the kind of voice that knows it commands a room, “I’ll pull your guts out by your nose and string you up in the town square. For fun.”

Robert went pale.

“You understand me, boy?”

Robert swallowed and nodded slowly.

“Say it, then.”

“I understand you, sir,” he squeaked.

Edward nodded, then strode back to Robert and clapped him on the shoulder with a wide grin. “Welcome to the family, son!”

***

“Where were you, really?” Stede asked when Edward caught up with them.

“Just now?” Edward replied, and he thumbed back at Robert’s place. “Just having a bit of a laugh with old Rob.”

“Not that,” Stede said. “Earlier, you disappeared all of a sudden. Where did you go?”

Edward pushed on ahead. “Was I gone?”

Stede frowned.

***

Edward squinted at the clouds at sunset and proclaimed the next day would be clear and sunny, and so it was, a perfect spring day with a refreshing breeze blowing in from the east. The crew and passengers of the Revenge made their way to the church, the only time some of them would step foot in one in their lives. Lucius was dressed in a modest but stylish tailored jacket and incongruously ostentatious cravat. Edward was dressed like a doll in all Stede’s fanciest dress, though the little flowers twined in his hair were his own doing. The rest of the crew were outfitted in a combination of Stede’s odds and ends and their own least threadbare clothing.

Stede, in disguise as “Jeff’s” servant, was wearing plain brown linen borrowed from Doug, and a pair of spectacles that made him rather dizzy. He trudged along next to the lying, no good, conniving Edward, and pouted.

“What’s the matter with you?” Edward asked. “Too underdressed? Do you want to borrow my pocket square?”

“You know what was really the issue with Robert and Alma?” Stede said, refusing to look at him, “It was the LYING. LYING ruins relationships. One shouldn’t LIE to their partner. Breeds nothing but trouble. Don’t you agree, Lucius?”

“Don’t bring me into this please.”

Mary waved at the bunch from the door to the church. “You’re late, you’ll all have to sit at the back. Except Jeff, of course we saved you a seat at the front.”

Stede sighed, but made to sit in the back pew.

“Mary, dear,” said Edward, loudly, for the rest of the church to hear, “Can’t we squeeze old Easton here into the front with me? I don’t want to trouble you, but I’ve got a flareup of the old gout, you know. All those Chinese delicacies. Goes straight to the toe.”

Mary smiled knowingly. “Oh, I’m certain we could make some room. He can have Louis’ place, he’s away at school.”

Edward looked back at Stede and winked. Stupid sexy wink, Stede thought, but he also thought of seeing Alma from the front pew, and he scurried to Edward’s side. He offered him his arm to lean on, to keep up the charade, and Edward took it, closing the gap between them, close enough for Stede to smell lavender soap as the walked together down the aisle. He breathed in deeply.

They took their seats without incident, and the ceremony began.

Alma was resplendent in her mother’s veil and a dress adorned with yards of French lace, plundered from a trading vessel several years prior and set aside by dear uncle Jeff for just this occasion. Once the ceremony started, Stede noticed the dress quivering slightly, and wondered if it was nerves, but then realized she was tapping her foot impatiently as the vicar droned on.

“I don’t get all this god stuff,” Edward muttered, “What’s he got to do with love anyway?”

“Well, I think it’s nice,” Stede whispered tersely, though he very much agreed. He’d almost fallen asleep at his own wedding, and only managed to stay awake because he’d also felt like vomiting the whole time. Alma and Robert exchanged rings, and Alma was beaming, and Robert’s hands were shaking as he tried to slip the ring on Alma’s finger. Stede remembered Mary’s sullen look, and his own shaking hands.

Suddenly Edward’s hand was on his, and Stede realized his own hands were shaking now, and he didn’t know why.

The vicar joined Alma and Robert’s hands together. “Those whom God has joined together let no one put asunder,” he cried, with much more dramatic flair than expected. There was a loud sob from the back of the church, and half the guests turned around to look.

Black Pete was attempting to comfort a blubbering Lucius. “He always cries at weddings,” he said apologetically.

***

Jeff stood up after the ceremony and invited all the guests who wished to join them on the Revenge to celebrate and “indulge in a taste of the orient,” which was code for get wasted on rice wine and century eggs. Most of the guests happily obliged, and the odd procession wound its way down to the docks and on to the ship. Stede tossed away his glasses and went straight for his hidden cache of brandy.

Edward watched, quietly.

***

Some time later, as the Swede was singing an aria in tribute to the newlyweds to a confused but enraptured crowd, Stede stumbled up to Mary and Doug and sat heavily on a nearby barrel. “Was there a brothel by the docks? And how long does it take to go to a brothel, anyway?”

“You’re spiraling,” Mary said, sipping her drink.

“I’m not!” Stede replied, eyeing Edward across the deck. “I’m barely… I’m barely even going in circles!”

Mary turned to Doug. “He’s spiraling.”

“You don’t have to tell me.”

***

“You married Spanish Jackie!?”

“Yeah,” Frenchie beamed. “It’s great! We fuck now and then, and when she dies I get half of everything.”

Jim frowned, tapping the tip of their knife against the table. “Why half? Doesn’t she have like twenty-five husbands now?”

“Yeah, but I’m her favorite!” Oluwande and Jim exchanged a look. Frenchie’s face slowly fell as he came to a realization. He slumped forward and put his head in his hands. “I own half a pyramid, don’t I?”

Jim howled with laughter and Oluwande patted Frenchie’s arm. “Sorry mate.”

“I mean, the sex is still great, so.”

***

“A toast to dear Buttons!” Wee John cried.

Roach sniffled. “He’s with Carl now, it’s what he’d want.”

“To Carl!” the Swede yelled, raising a bottle.

Buttons coughed and rolled over.

“Oh, never mind,” said Wee John.

***

“How are the kids?” Stede asked, his words hardly slurred. He wasn’t spiraling.

“The orphans?” Jim shrugged. “Fine, I guess. Alive. Eating all Nana’s oranges.”

Stede nodded. “Alive, yes! Fab! A good thing to be! Any luck finding them some parents, then?”

Jim gave Stede a quizzical look. “Why the hell would I do that?”

Stede’s smiled wavered in confusion. “Isn’t… isn’t that the point of an orphanage? If you’re not trying to find them homes, don’t you just… have children?”

“Shut up,” Jim said, and stormed off to get another drink.

“Don’t mind them,” Oluwande said, “they’re in denial about the whole being a parent thing. Sorry about that.” He pulled his chair up next to Stede. “I, however, embrace it wholeheartedly.” And he proceeded to gush about his daughters for a full half an hour, and Stede ate up every moment.

***

Pete sidled up to Lucius. “So… you still have the finger.”

“Shut up.” Lucius grabbed Pete by his shirtfront and began to pull him down the nearby corridor to the galley. “You’d better be leaving with me this time or I’ll really never speak to you again.”

“Yes sir.”

***

Alma turned to Robert. “Having any regrets joining this motley crew?”

Robert smiled. “You know, your ‘uncle’ threatened to string me up by my own guts if I hurt you.”

Alma smiled wryly. “That sounds like him.”

Robert took Alma’s hand and rang his thumb across her wedding ring. Her heart sped up, like it had the first time he took her hand, helping her out of her carriage. “Do you know what I thought about that, Alma Jones?”

“Fuck me, I guess I have to go through with it now?”

“No.” Robert turned his gaze back out to the party, where Edward was drinking Doug under the table. “It made me think, Good Lord, if Alma can wrap the fearsome Blackbeard around her little finger like that, what chance did I ever stand after all?”

Alma laughed. She stood up and tugged at Robert’s arm, shooting him a coy look in the lamp light. “Let’s get out of here,” she said.

***

“Let’s get out of here,” Edward said.

Stede looked up from his drink. “What? Why? Mary and I were catching up.”

Mary waved her hand. “It’s fine, it looks like I’ve got to help Doug stumble home before he passes right out.” She slammed back the rest of her rum, and Stede thought again how much more fun it was to be her friend than her husband. She wavered across the deck and kicked Doug lightly in the ribs before helping him to his feet.

“Come on,” Edward said, and Stede followed, because what else was there to do?

The pair made their way across the docks and up a nearby hill, a place Stede had often come to watch the ships passing in and out of the harbour in his old life. The Revenge danced and bobbed with laughter and music and lamplight. Edward set about starting a fire while Stede watched him, admiring the skillful way he arranged the kindling. Stede never got tired of watching him, honestly. Everything he did was fascinating. The version of him who’d sat on this hill dreaming fifteen years ago would have never have imagined this. Could never.

“You’re mad at me,” Edward said, lighting a match.

Stede snapped out of his thoughts. “Right! Yes!” he said, remembering he had been upset with Ed earlier, and then immediately, “I mean, no! Of course not! What are you talking about?” as he remembered that he hadn’t wanted to let him know that he was mad.

Edward added a few more branches to the fire and looked at Stede over the flames, the smoke wisping about his face, and Stede’s chest ached. Edward came around and sat next to him, and Stede leaned against his shoulder, and completely forgot what he’d been upset about.

Edward reached into the pouch at his waist and took out a small box. “I got this for you,” he said. “Yesterday. That’s why I was gone.”

“Oh?” Stede said in embarrassed falsetto, feeling an absolute fool. “Were you gone?”

“You literally asked me about it. About four times.”

“Ah, that.” Stede said sheepishly. He took the box. “Thank you. I should have trusted you.”

Edward shrugged. “You get all weird when we come here,” he said. “Not your usual weird, mind. Different kind of weird.” He put his arm around Stede shoulder. “You’re not that guy anymore, you know? That bloke got mauled by a tiger.”

“Jaguar,” Stede laughed. “Or was it an ocelot? Some wild cat. Very cool death, anyway, I have to say. Mary said the boys in town talked about it for months at the pub…”

“Open the box.”

“Right, right.” Stede fumbled the little box open, and then gasped. Inside was a gold ring, beautifully fashioned to resemble two hands clasping.

“I know it’s not as fine as most of the rings you have,” Edward said. He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks, and cursed the absence of his beard. “Apparently they don’t keep the fancy things in stock at the shop, stupid business model if you ask me. But I dunno, I kind of liked this one.”

Stede’s eyes went wide. “You BOUGHT this? At a store?? With money???”

“With the money from Lucius.” Edward frowned. “Shouldn’t I have? I thought you’d be mad if I just robbed him…”

“No, no.” There were tears in Stede’s eyes as he took the ring out. “It’s beautiful. I love it.”

Edward smiled, relieved, and he took the ring from Stede’s trembling hand and put it on his ring finger. “I don’t know about before god or any of that nonsense,” he said, looking Stede in the eyes, “But I swear to you, Stede Bonnet, I will never leave your side so long as there’s still breath in my body, and beyond.”

“Oh my.” Stede shook out his damp, balled-up handkerchief and wiped his tears. “You’re going to haunt me, then? Is that supposed to be romantic?”

“A little, don’t you think? It’s a bit romantic I reckon.”

“It’s awful, just wait for me in… wherever. Hell, I suppose.” Stede laughed. “Come to think of it, perhaps it would be better to be a pair of ghost pirates. Anyway,” and he laughed again, “This is so silly, but I actually have something I wanted to give you as well. I suppose now is as good a time as any.” He fished a small brown paper packet out of his breast pocket and handed it to Edward, his hand still shaking.

Edward raised his eyebrows and unwrapped the small packet. Inside was a gold ring set with a giant ruby surrounded by diamonds. It sparkled in the firelight like nothing Edward had ever seen. “You bought this for me?” he asked, awestruck.

“Of course not!” Stede exclaimed. Then he leaned in with that conspiratorial grin of his, and whispered, “I stole it off a corpse!”

“No!”

“Yes! That raid we did last month where all those idiot Frenchmen died of scurvy, you remember. I’d been looking for a ring for ages and when I set eyes on that I knew it was perfect for you.”

Edward laughed. “You’re the only one who would see something like this and think of me.”

Stede wasn’t laughing now. He took the ring and slipped it on Edward’s finger. “I’ve told you time and time again,” he said quietly, “you wear fine things well.”

They sat like that, hand in hand by the fireside, for a few minutes, the kind of silence where you didn’t need to say anything at all.

“Aren’t you going to say a vow, though?”

“Oh, right!” Stede panicked. “I… um… I’ll haunt you as well!”

Shit. That wasn’t right. But Edward was laughing, and then Edward was kissing him, and that had never once lost its shine, so Stede supposed it was fine anyway. He cupped Ed’s face, stroking at the rough stubble, his heart as full as it had ever been.

“I love you, Mr. Edward Bonnet.”

“I love you, Mr. Stede Teach.”

Just as the two leaned in to kiss, there was a loud sob from behind a stand of trees. Stede looked up, brow furrowed. “Lucius?!”

“I’m sorry!!” Lucius peeked his head out, tears streaming down his face. “I told you I always cry at weddings!”

[dmkwrites]

fruit from the winter garden

Even in the harshest conditions, something beautiful can grow.

Ed/Stede, ~1000 words

The day Edward first tasted an orange was the best day of his life.

His mother had smuggled it out of the rubbish bin, bruised and slightly misshapen, and when she cut through the rough skin Edward marveled at the smell of it, summery and warm. His mother smiled when she gave it to him, one of the rare ones, like they were sharing a secret. When he bit into it, the juice burst into his mouth, sweet and tangy and unlike anything he’d ever tasted before.

“In the colonies, these grow on trees outdoors,” his mother had said. “Anyone can have them, even ordinary people like us.” And indeed, unlike many of the stories she told him, that one turned out to be true. Edward would eat hundreds of oranges as he sailed the Caribbean, but none of them tasted of that one, of dreams, of happiness, of hope.

The day Edward murdered his father was the best day of his life.

He hadn’t planned to do it when he followed his father out the door that night. Even now, he doesn’t know why he did it that night, a night just like most of the others. Maybe he’d lost his mind. Maybe he’d just realized that he could actually pull it off.

The rope burned in his hands as his father thrashed, he can still remember the feel of it, the worn threads digging into his palms, the tension in his wrists, and the writhing of his father’s body against him, until suddenly it wasn’t, suddenly everything was gone, gone, over.

His mother never asked him where he’d been, and he never told her. Things were better, then worse, and then far better than they’d ever been, and they boiled orange peels on the stove and the whole room smelled of Caribbean summer.

The day Edward left England was the best day of his life.

It had been rough since his mother died. Edward had been kicked out of the servant’s quarters unceremoniously the day her body was carted away, with the clothes on his back and a little scrap of red silk in his breast pocket. God’s will, he supposed.

Edward survived, of course. He was good at that. But as the grey English winter gave way to grey English spring, he started to wonder what the point was. Pick pockets all day to earn enough to eat and maybe sleep in a proper bed, just to live another grey dreary day of pickpocketing. Why? He ought to just lie in the road and be done with it all.

Edward wandered the docks, and fingered the scrap of red silk, and he thought and he thought and he thought.

“You look troubled, lad,” a man said, sitting on a post near a raggedy looking ship in the harbour. He slowly peeled an orange. “Something on your mind?”

Edward looked at him long and hard. “I can read and write, and I killed a man,” he finally said. “And frankly, I don’t care if I live or die, as long as I don’t do either of them on English soil.”

The man with the orange smiled.

The day Edward led a munity was the best day of his life.

Oh, it hadn’t been particularly difficult. The captain was a bastard, and the crew were all superstitious idiots, it hadn’t been hard to rally them around the son of the devil himself, Edward Teach. All they’d needed was a little push. Edward was almost giddy with the thrill of it, the beautiful simplicity of it all. In time it would lose its shine, of course, but this time, the first time, adrenaline coursed through his veins and he felt a feeling he’d long forgotten.

The captain—well, former captain—was swearing and hexing upon Edward like a man himself possessed. Edward just laughed and shoved an orange in his mouth. “Never trust a man who doesn’t care if he lives or dies,” he said, and ordered Calico Jack to toss him over. His palms burned.

The day Edward was told to go suck eggs in hell was the best day of his life.

The tales had reached him of a dandy playing pirate in his waters, a joke, a laugh, a dead man walking. He hadn’t though much of it, there were upstart pirates all the time, and most of them were idiots, and most of them died. Then Izzy had come back from a supply run with a British officer and a lot of surprisingly cagey answers. Good old Fang, though, Fang spilled it. Hilarious. Astonishing. Intriguing. Go find him, he’d said, and not known why.

Go suck eggs in hell. Go suck eggs in hell. Good god. He really had to meet him now. Of course, meeting was a bit of a complicated endeavor, but nothing he couldn’t arrange at the cost of a few men whose names he’d already forgotten. Why not? What was the point anyway? Loot ships, drink, fuck, drink some more, loot another ship, toil away under the hot Caribbean sun, day after day.

“You’ve heard of me?” Stede Bonnet had said, and he smiled, a smile like they were sharing a secret.

The day Edward decided to stay on the Revenge was the best day of his life.

The books, the fireplace, the copper bath stocked with soaps and oils all smelling of flowers, the secret room of sumptuous fabrics, it was all the dream he dared not dream even when his hold overflowed with gold. He marveled at it, and he marveled at Stede, at the imagination, and always there was that smile, that conspiratorial smile that felt like it was just for him.

When Stede gave him back his clothes that night, he’d carefully cleaned and oiled the leather. Orange oil. It felt like smelling one for the first time.

The day Edward learned to dance was the best day of his life, his hand on the small of Stede’s back, adrenaline coursing through his veins, and a feeling he’d never felt before.

The day Edward visited St Augustine was the best day of his life. Sitting by the fire, talking with Stede like it was breathing, like Stede was air, walking through the orange grove he’d dreamed about and not even noticing them, not noticing anything else.

The day Edward gave up piracy was the best day of his life, because he finally remembered what it was to care about if someone lived or died.

The day Edward kissed Stede was the worst day of his life.

[dmkwrites]

uchuujin Big Bang Love, Juvenile A, Jun

They release you six months early for good behavior, and because the juvenile detention center is overcrowded. You're at low risk to re-offended, they tell you. You've been deemed rehabilitated, they tell you. You passed all the psych exams, they tell you. You smile at them with your mouth closed.

The first thing you do after stepping into the fresh air is go to a library and steal an old newspaper. You expected the headline splashed across the front page, but it's been hidden away in the crime section. There is a picture of the detention center, surrounded by mountains and rice fields and, beyond the edge of the frame, rich green forest. There is another picture, and you tear it out, and you rub it between your fingertips before putting it in your pocket.

You find an apartment in Shinjuku, and you bring dozens of men back there, looking for one with tattoos snaking down his back. Sometimes you think you can see one, in the heat of things, writhing and pulsating in the dark, but always the lights come on, and they throw some money on your nightstand, and it's over.

The headlines are splashed across the front page, and gruesome photos are leaked across imageboards faster than the police can remove them. You walk the streets of Shinjuku with a wary eye over your shoulder. 2-chome is a ghost town, and you're bored, and you're empty.

It's three in the afternoon when you see him, a boy in suspenders, eating sweet bread in the park, and you realize what has to be done.

You walk into a koban and confess, and everyone believes you, everyone wants to believe you. They never find the murder weapon, and there are records, alibis, but none of that matters. The trial is quick. Everyone wants to believe you. Everyone wants to see someone hang.

The wait is torturous, the long years marked by protests for and against you, but you stick to your story, and even when dead young men turn up in Osaka you stick to your story, and finally the day arrives. You step onto the platform, and they don't ask for your last words, they just put the bag over your head, and everything is dark. You see him then, finally, looking faded and worn like the scrap of newspaper hidden in your cell.

"I never wanted to make you crazy," he says.

"I was always crazy," you tell him, and the world disappears under your feet.

[dmkwrites]

fyi every time i see someone bitch about first-person pov i start passive-aggressively writing second-person pov fic

[dmkwrites]

Yes hello this is Character Protective Services we are taking custody of these characters and giving them the happy ending together that they deserve.

...

first pandect, cice

When you say "friends" he looks down at the floor, his shoulders slump and his hair falls down in his eyes in that way he doesn't realize is achingly beautiful. "Of course," he says with a sad smile on his lips, and suddenly some part of you wants to press him up against a wall and kiss it off of him. Where does that urge come from? When you're an animal everything is easy, but here, in the human world, the place you've only drifted in and out of, nothing makes sense.

The two of you have reached Ceasar's room, but he just stands there at the door, still staring down, thinking, always thinking, with his hair hanging beautifully in his eyes. "Did you want a kiss?" you ask him playfully, trying to lighten the mood, and his face goes bright red, and you can hear the thump of his heart ratchet up to a roar, or is that you, is that the sound of your own blood in your ears? You regret what you said. You regret a lot of the things you've said.

Ceasar pulls back his surprise and makes to laugh it off, but then he looks at you, into your eyes, and something changes. Does he see it there, the feeling you can't quite place, the thing that is instinct wrapped up in a contradiction? His hand rests on the door handle. "Yes," he says quietly. "That's exactly what I want."

You don't know how to respond, so you stand there dumbly in the middle of the hall. You can hear a group of girls pass nearby, giggling, and you can hear the faint buzz of someone's cell phone, and you can still hear that deafening roar in your ears. Ceasar is looking at you, and waiting. He waits, and he waits, and then he smiles that sad little smile, and he turns the handle of the door, and all at once you realize what you are losing. "Wait," you say, and you grab him by the wrist. His skin feels cool and smooth beneath your fingertips, and you know even before your lips meet that nothing will ever be the same.

[dmkwrites]

0200 Free!

Gou doesn't think Seijuro planned it like this, didn't have any intentions when he offered to walk her home, or when he'd lingered at her door, talking about nothing. It was only when she'd finally turned to go inside that he'd grabbed her arm and pulled her back.

Gou's looking into his eyes now, and he tells her something she already knew. She says nothing, but puts her hand against his chest, knowing she shouldn't. Seijuro places his hand over hers, and Gou wants nothing more in the world than to kiss him hard on the mouth, so she does.

[dmkwrites]

0100 Free!

Makoto's toes curl up in the warm white sand. "I had a fight with him, once," he says, "a long time ago. He wouldn't talk to me for three days. I can't remember why, now."

The water laps gently around Rei's ankles. "What did you do?"

"After three days I stood in the middle of our class and started bawling. Then he took my hand, and I stopped." Makoto stands up, brushes the sand off his legs, and there's that sadness in his smile that he thinks no one notices. "People think he needs me," he says, "but he doesn't."

[dmkwrites]

0000 Free!

The water slowly drains away, and Haru feels his body sink until his back is pressed heavy against the bottom of the bathtub, his feet dangling over the sides. He lies there, for a time, and then he hears footsteps, and he knows it's Mako, because who else could it be?

"What's wrong?" Mako asks.

"Thinking," Haru tells him. He doesn't say anything else, because he doesn't have to.

The bathroom is quiet save for the distant sound of wind chimes. Mako takes Haru's hand. "He looks at you the same way," he says, and Haru knows he is lying.

[dmkwrites]

Man, remember drabbles, I am going to do those, I am going to do those every day for the next month. Get ready for a bunch of 100 word posts, folks.

[dmkwrites]

Neoteny Prince of Tennis, Kaidoh and Momoshiro

Kaidoh crawled into his closet, digging past the kotatsu and the old suitcase with the broken zipper and the takoyaki grill he'd only used twice in six years. Momo stood behind him, shifting uncertainly on his feet. "Can I help?" he asked. 

"I'm fine," Kaidoh said, or something like it, anyway. He tugged hard at the futon buried in the back and dislodged it with a crash that his neighbor was sure to passive-aggressively comment on in the morning. "You can use this," he said, tossing it on the empty patch of floor between the coffee table and the wall.

"What about you?" Momo asked, kicking at the edges of the futon to unroll it. "Where you gonna sleep?"

Kaidoh's mouth scrunched up and his brow wrinkled. "In my bed," he said, with a condescension that Momo deserved.

"Oh." Momo stood on top of the futon now, his eyes unfocused in that way they always were after a few beers. "You seem like a futon guy to me. You used to use one, right?"

Kaidoh remembered Momo sitting on his bedroom floor, playing video games, a million years ago. "I have a bed now," he said.

Momo sat cross-legged on the floor. "Well, you should stay here until I fall asleep."

"I'm not your babysitter."

"Please." Momo leaned over and grabbed Kaidoh by the ankles. "Please, please, please."

Kaidoh sighed, and Momo let go of him, and Kaidoh sat beside him with his knees drawn up. "You're such a child."

"Yes." Momo fell backwards onto the futon. "I'm lonely, I miss my son."

"And your wife?" Kaidoh asked dryly.

"Her too," Momo said. He pat the empty space beside himself and Kaidoh, after a moment's hesitation, lay down. "Her mother's not even sick, she does this all the time, it drives me crazy."

Momo's knee was touching Kaidoh's. He swallowed. "They'll be back in a couple of days."

"I know." Momo buried his head in Kaidoh's shoulder. A long time ago, his hair smelled like citrus from the wax he used, but now it smelled like the floral shampoo his wife picked out. Kaidoh breathed in, and he remembered sharing a bed at an away tournament in high school, how he hadn't been able to sleep and blew his first set.

"I worry about you, man," Momo said, and Kaidoh could smell the alcohol on his breath when he spoke. "You should find a girl and start a family, it changes you. You could use it."

Kaidoh remembered a cold night in September their first year of college, and how warm Momo's hands had felt. "I don't want to change," was all he said, and he felt a warm sigh on his neck.

"I know," Momo told him.

The two of them lay there quietly, until Momo's breathing became soft and steady, and then Kaidoh stood up and went to his bedroom. He shrugged off his suit jacket and pulled off his tie, and then he sat on his bed, and he cried.

[dmkwrites]

broken all the way down Free!, Haru/Rin

Haru arrives at Rin's dorm at ten twenty-three in the morning, thirty-seven minutes after the winter break assembly, twenty-nine minutes after their homeroom teacher let them leave, and three days, eleven hours, and six minutes after Rin had sent him a text asking him over. Haru's face is red with the cold, and his breathing is heavy. He leans his bike against the building, and he mashes Rin's buzzer with a mittened finger. When Haru's mother would ask him what he wanted for his birthday, Haru would always say, "I want to go swimming." Haru's dreams had never been bigger than that, until three days, eleven hours, and six minutes ago.

"Haru?" Rin's voice crackles over the speaker.

"Let me in," Haru replies, and he hears a buzz. He pulls open the door, and he walks up the stairs, two at a time. He kissed Rin in this stairwell six weeks ago, standing a step above him and tilting his chin gently upward. Rin had gripped his shoulders and Haru's heart was beating so fast his chest hurt. He first kissed Rin three months ago, on a hot afternoon in early September. They had been sitting on the edge of the pool, and Rin's hair had hung dark red and dripping in his eyes, and Haru couldn't take it anymore.

Haru knocks on Rin's door, two short raps. Rin answers with his hair tied back, like it was in the stairwell six weeks ago. "Someone might see us," he'd said then, his hands sliding down to Haru's waist. "Hey," he says now. Haru's head feels light and strange and his heart is pounding. Now his hand is on the back of Rin's head, and Rin's mouth is open against his. Haru has been waiting for this moment for three days, eleven hours, and nine minutes. Rin pulls him closer, and Haru shuts the door awkwardly behind himself.

"Haru," Rin mumbles against his mouth. He is pulling at Haru's shirt, and Haru tosses it aside. They're on the bed now, and Haru kneels over Rin. He has seen Rin undressed dozens of times, dripping wet in skintight swim trunks, but now, here, with the late morning sun coming in through the window and the flat, taut skin of Rin's stomach peeking out from under his t-shirt, everything feels different. Haru puts his fingers against Rin's skin and feels the muscles hard beneath, feels the deep rise and fall of his stomach as he breathes. Five years ago he laid awake in the dark and watched Rin sleeping in the futon next to him, the same rise and fall of his stomach, the same red hair in his eyes.

Rin's shirt is off now, and Haru leans down to kiss his collarbone. Rin is gripping his shoulder, and when Haru kisses him on the jaw Rin's fingertips leave little white marks on Haru's skin. Rin is crying. "Haru," he sobs, and he leans up, and his arms are around Haru's neck, and he cries and he says Haru's name over and over.

Haru's dreams had never been bigger than swimming, not until three and a half days ago, holding his cellphone against his forehead and smiling, six weeks ago with Rin's trembling hands on his shoulders, three months ago with his feet dangling in the warm water, five years ago in the dark on the cusp of something he didn't understand. He understood now.

Haru holds Rin close. He can feel the rise and fall of Rin's shoulders as he sobs. Haru looks through the gap in the curtain, and watches the snow begin to fall.

[dmkwrites]

fundamental Free!, HaruRin

It's late when Rin hears the soft tapping on his door. Nittori is fast asleep. Rin throws back his covers and quietly tiptoes across the room. He opens the door and sees Haru standing there, and he is not surprised.

"Did I wake you?" Haru asks in a soft voice that is not a whisper.

"I was on my phone," Rin tells him. "How did you get here?"

"Bike." Haru isn't looking at him, just staring at the floor. Rin wants to shake him by the shoulders. Rin wants to do a lot of things, but he doesn't. Haru walks into the room, to Rin's bed, and then he stops.

"Did you want to sleep here?"

Haru glances at Nittori. "Is it okay?"

Rin shrugs. "Who cares?" he says. His throat feels dry. He wonders where his water bottle is. Haru climbs into Rin's bed, and Rin follows him, and he wonders if he fell asleep hours ago, phone on his chest, drool on his pillow, the necklace he forgot to take off tugging at his throat and making it hard to breathe. Haru is turned away from him. Their backs press together. Rin doesn't know what to do.

"Why did you come?" Rin asks.

Haru shrugs, and Rin can feel it against his back. "I needed to see you," he says, not wanted but needed, and Rin wants to ask what that means, but he doesn't.

"Do you remember when we all fell asleep at the beach?" Rin asks instead. "We didn't wake up until the tide came in. I thought my mother would kill me."

"Your mother's nice," Haru said. "She brought me cake, once."

"She told me. She asked me what kind you like, as if I could remember."

"She brought me Mont Blanc," Haru said. "My favorite is Mont Blanc."

Rin can feel Haru breathing against him. "Why did you need to see me?"

"Because I love you," Haru says, and his voice is flat and quiet as usual, but Rin can feel his breathing speed up. "I love you so I found you."

Rin wants to answer, but he doesn't. He and Haru lay breathing side-by-side for a time, and then Rin hears Nittori stirring, and a sleepy, bleary voice asks him, "Senpai, why are you crying?"

Rin realizes he is wracked with sobs. Haru takes his hand, and he cries harder, and he does not answer.