#(This one has full ? shirring in the back too which Helps A Lot)

[koushirouizumi]

{Today [2/14] I Had Cake.}

img by @koushirouizumi (featuring Me) [hidden] + A La Carte Tea Time J.S.K. + Parents' (home-made) Cake

{DO NOT Copy} {DO NOT re-post} {DO NOT re-purpose without Permission!}

[lichdolly]

hi eden! i just stumbled on your blog when looking at lolita tags. i've always been interested in lolita fashion but i was worried it'd be harder to get into lolita if i'm in plus sizes, since japanese clothing is usually smaller. where do you normally shop for your coords? do you have any advice for someone in plus sizes looking to start getting into lolita? and how much does your average coord cost? tysm in advance!! 💖

Oh hi!! I’m glad you liked my coords enough to ask me this ;w;

My first and foremost tip for a plus size lolita is this: know your measurements. Know them in centimeters and inches. Know if you tend to fluctuate. Memorize them, write them down, put them in your notepad app on your phone, just anything so you’ll have what you need on hand!

Most of my closet is Angelic Pretty, surprisingly enough. Most new back-shirred AP will go up to about 112cm in the bust! And AP buttons are super easy to move down the strap a little bit for some more wiggle room! Some of my older jsks are much smaller of course, but lolita has become a lot more accommodating even since I started the fashion about five years ago. Baby, the Stars Shine Bright releases lots of pieces with full shirring, like their popular Shirring Princess jsk. Some back-shirred items from BABY and AatP are very busty-lolita friendly as well as having adjustable straps.

Metamorphose Temps de Fille recently started releasing a plus size line, and a plus plus size line; same adorable prints and designs, but larger sizing! Meta is pretty famous for having very accommodating “standard size” pieces; their back shirring is very forgiving on most cuts and they often release full shirring skirts too. Maxicimam (MAM) has their Maxicimam Lovely line, which is their plus size lolita friendly collection! But big burando isn’t everything; there are plenty of amazing Taobao shops from Chinese ateliers who will custom size for you! Superbuy is an awesome shopping service, with extremely helpful employees! They’ve helped me extensively with custom sizing blouses and petticoats.

As for pricing, this one is a little tricky because I get most of my items second-hand. For my full NWT order from MAM was around 300 dollars for an OP, headdress, and a pair of bloomers. I personally think that’s a fair price for an almost full coordinate. But I’ve spent 350 dollars on one piece too….? On the other hand, I bought my Sweet Ribbon Strawberry JSK 50.00 USD, Strawberry-Chan pochette for 25.00 USD, and the matching canotier for 10.00 USD.

My biggest tip though is… don’t give up! Being a plus size lolita can be frustrating. It can feel like you don’t belong when you see a lot of slim, petite bodies in the fashion. But we belong here too, just like slim wearers, average sized wearers, and every size, shape, gender, belongs here. Don’t be scared to play with styles. You don’t have to post every coord. Not every coord will turn out like you thought it would, and that’s okay. Just live your life. You’re not here to please anyone but yourself. Coording, time, and polite concrit from peers and friends will have you becoming a wonderful lolita-in-the-making in no time 💕 Best of luck to you, anon!

[sleeplessincairo]

[ dating bucky barnes would include: ]

warnings: a somewhat vague sexual outline and a few cusses

///

Him walking around with a notebook everywhere. Bucky got the idea from Steve when he saw him writing new things to his modern day to-do-list, so Bucky decided to do the same except fill his notebook up with his old memories instead; anything he could remember from his life before being The Winter Soldier. At first, there were only a few pages filled but as his life starting to include domestic and mundane-as well as a healthy��environment-activities, he started having spontaneous and soon-to-be-frequent flashbacks that, later on, contributed to dozens of notebooks filled with not The Winter Soldier, not Prisoner #56898, not White-Wolf, but James Buchanan Barnes.

You never mentioned the notebook to Bucky nor asked to read it-Bucky was a private person, and you understood and respected that-but you still started carrying a pen with you, just in case he ever needed one.

At first, the notebook(s) was/were filled with solely memories of his past-No matter how insignificant. Whether it was that time the toilet got clogged in his shabby little apartment and had to stay with Steve and Sarah Rogers for a week because he couldn't afford a plumber or that time he lost his shoe in bar brawl and some swanky chrome-dome gave him a few bucks to buy some shoes and a sock without a hole in it. He wrote everything his mind could clearly grasp. But as the two of you got closer, he started filling it with memories he had with/of you because-even if he would never admit it-you made him feel right at home.

You may or may not have stolen his dog tags from the Smithsonian museum just as a reminder that even after all the pain, despair, manipulation, and torture he still managed to be the good person he was all those years ago. He was still James Barnes, local heartthrob that volunteered at the soup kitchen during his free time, that fought a war and lost an arm during the process, that dreamt of flying cars and a future without all fights and wars, that had a soft spot for a certain trouble-attracting boy whose heart was too big for his body.

“Jesus doll, I didn’t know I was dating a thief.” “Oh James, I thought you’d already realized that when I stole your heart from right under your nose.”

Bucky’s not big on talking or directly verbally professing his love, but that’s okay; His eyes tell you everything. There was always something about Bucky’s eyes that were so mesmerizing, so captivating, you could instantly tell how he was feeling. Before you, his eyes resembled a pale arctic blue that were as cold as glaciers-His eyes were hollowed and empty, scratched raw from any emotion but your growing presence thawed them out, they warmed through the cold exterior of what was once The Winter Soldier and reminded you that the hottest fires burn blue.

He does, however, reference quite a few interesting slang choices from the 40′s, which is his own little way of demonstrating verbal affection, ranging from calling you ‘Doll’ & ‘Sweetheart’ to calling you ‘The Cat’s Meow’ & ‘Butter and Egg Fly’

He’s never been very invested in hygiene. It never really was something important for him since he was in the Army and BO was a pretty normal thing, and then he became The Winter Soldier and HYDRA never exactly gave him a bathtub-Not that he was in the right mindset to to care about it anyway-So you usually have to remind him to shower everyday-Not that you mind, it would usually end with the both of you showering together and you having the opportunity to wash his hair yourself.

Soon enough, Bucky gets real invested in hygiene, he starts reading about self-care routines, exfoliating, conditioning, and gets completely hooked. Secretly, he does it because he likes the routine, something mundane and fixed to do to keep him busy.

You’re the only one that gets to call him James. Something about the way you say it warms his heart, he’d focus completely on the way your mouth moves as you say it-It reminded him of the way his mother would say his full name before busting his chops about coming home all dirty but then later ruffling his thick hair and offering a plate of strawberry jam sandwhiches, or how the word was always lurking in the dark corners of his mind like the silhouette of a ghost he couldn’t seem to recognize until you brought it to life.

Him always reaching out for your hand when he feels out-of-place, outside, or honestly just all the time because it helps him feel secure and grounded.

Steve third wheeling the both of you all the time. No seriously, literally all the time. He spends more time in the apartment you and Bucky share more than his own to the point where you and Bucky wonder if he actually has one. 

Steve has a key to your place-Even though, the both of you never gave him a key in the first place-and has a habit of interrupting the both of you or walking in on the worst possible moments.

“Hey guys, what are ya doi-Oh...Sorry I didn't know-Buck, you don't need to throw-Jesus, okay, okay I’m going.”

“Who the hell does it look like I’m doing, Steve.”

Bucky being very insecure about his arm, he even refuses to touch you with that arm-Subconsciously, he’s afraid he’ll accidentally hurt you. At first, he only ever wears long-sleeved shirts and a glove even on the hottest days as if he’d somehow forget that there was a metallic limb under all the cotton, but slowly like molasses he starts accepting it. He starts wearing open finger gloves, then discarding the gloves, then wearing 3-quarter sleeves, then short-sleeved shirts, then sleeveless shirts, then finally feeling comfortable enough to take off his shirt in front of you which leads to a night filled with discarded clothing, the sounds of soft murmurs and reassurances, the rolling of each other’s names off each other tongues like a prayer, and the rustling of the blanket against the delicate movement of your intertwined bodies skin-on-skin, skin-on-metal as the both of you unravel thread by thread in each other’s arms.

Truth is, you love his metal arm, you love the way it’s cool against your warm cheek on hot summer nights, you love the splashes of light that kiss it every morning making it sparkle, you love the soft and soothing whirring noises it lets out breaking the silence in your room, you love it because it’s a part of him and God knows how much you love everything about this man.

Despite being the assassin that killed JFK, managed to get away with it, and mind boggle conspiracists for decades he’s a bit clumsy. He has a habit of accidentally breaking things and later on, not telling you about it.

"James Buchanan Barnes, I thought I developed super strength-and even asked Stark to do some tests on me, but apparently you just happened to forget to mention and explain why the fuck doors are falling off their hinges!"

Losing sleep with Bucky. He tends to have very frequent and graphic nightmares which leads to various panic attacks and the inability to sleep, and you're more than happy to stay up with him and comfort him. Sometimes you’d talk while he listened and watched the way your lips moved or the way the pony tail you had gone to bed with loosened and hundreds of strands escaped the grasp of the hair band or the way a yawn would escape your lips and your hand would momentarily rise to cover your mouth but get lazy halfway, other times you’d lay in each other’s arms in complete silence while you traced patterns on his chest and trail kisses across his skin.

You being his anchor. You holding him tightly and assuring him that he’s okay, that you're here, that you're real, that he’s out, that he’s safe, and many other tender 3-worded sentences uttered over and over again like a mantra until he’s murmuring them back into your chest. 

Sometimes, when he has really bad nightmares and panic attacks you grab his notebook and start reading the memories out loud while you lay his head on your lap and run your hand through his hair in a calming manner until he calms down. It soon becomes a regular thing where you read him a memory before he goes to bed like a bedtime story.

Bucky Barnes is a man who was tortured and tormented for years, a man whose life was ripped right from his very arms along with his very own arm, a man who has gone through a long and unforgettable journey where he has learned to cope, grow, accept, and embrace himself and now he’s made it his mission to encourage and help others to do the same, whether they're struggling with their sexuality, amputation, mental illness, gender, or general self-acceptance.

You educated him about women’s rights because things are a lot different then in the 1940s; women are no longer obligated to get married, cater to a man’s every whim, have children, and other traditional gender roles. At first, Bucky’s very confused and doesn't understand why feminism is so important-I mean, lets face it, Bucky was raised in a traditional society and was later on manipulated to being a bloodthirsty assassin and now suddenly, he can think on his own and his life has turned completely upside down from thinking his own thoughts without HYDRA around to thinking past social constructs and norms so its normal for him to be a bit weary. However, you're there to explain thoroughly about how unjust society still is and how women may have won a few battles but still have a war to fight in a society where they are hyper-sexualized, mistreated, and controlled, and Bucky immediately thinks of Peggy Carter and how the men used to catcall her, how they raked her body with inappropriate stares, how she was ignored and seen as a pretty face, and then he finally understands. 

Dozens of articles about mysterious beatings of assaulters around New York.

His metal arm is decorated with dozens of pins, magnets, and stickers of all the movements he supports. Oh man, you should see him during Women’s marches and Pride fairs, considering all the black he usually wears seeing him dressed in bright colors or a pink shirt that says ‘On Wednesdays, we destroy the patriarchy’. It’s a sight that truly belongs in the history books.

Bucky breaking hold of the toxic masculinity he was subjected to in the 1940s and advocating for men to be able to display their God-given emotions freely, to not feel obligated to put on a tough guy front, to telling boys its okay to cry, to feel, to act, to wear, and to be whomever they please to be. 

Bucky visiting youth centers and giving advice and support to the kids there. Every kid he meets reminds him of Steve, whether its in their stubbornness, taste for trouble, lostness, or the glimmer of potential he sees in every single one of them. He remembers every single name of the teenager he meets and later on, uses them as a mantra whenever he’s undergoing a panic or anxiety attack as well as use SHIELD’s equipment to check up on them every once in a while.

Bucky going to children’s hospitals every week to cheer up the little kids there. He ends up being quite the inspiration and their ‘Favorite Superhero’ for the kids with amputations there and they end up being one of the very few people who are allowed to touch his metal arm. Something about the way their eyes shine with hope and their hands melt at the feeling of the metal warms his heart and his insecurities.

[everythingshawnmendes]

A Heart’s Memory (Teacher!Shawn Mendes x Reader)

A/N: I read something like this in a Harry Styles fic, I really don’t remember from where though. If you are the writer and want this removed, with all due respect contact me, I am in no way shape or form trying to plagiarize.

Summary: Shawn is an elementary school teacher and has a son with his wife who unfortunately died during childbirth. Y/N has a daughter the age of his son and they go to school together. Little does she know her kid’s teacher is her first love from school.

5k+ words

tag @xmanorianx @shawnsassymendes

Inspired from this: 

“Can you ever stop loving someone?

You never stop loving. Once you love someone, honestly, truly, you will never be able to un-love them. At that time your old love will not feel so strong, but it is a heart, and it will never let you forget something that ever made you happy.”

Shawn sat back and admired his newly decorated classroom. It was August 30th, the day before school would start again. He taught the 2nd grade, the grade his son Thomas was in.

Teaching elementary school made Shawn so incredibly happy. He loved kids, and what he loved even more than them was his role of leading them through the beginning of their lives and making sure each one of his students was happy. Childhood was really a crucial part to anybody’s happiness and life, and he wanted to make sure every child felt like home in his classroom. He decorated the room with plants, planning on assigning one to each student so they can water it and let it grow. In the corner, he put blankets and bean bags for naptime, because the lucky 7-year-olds he taught were granted a nap time twice a week after lunch. He also purchased new games, books and coloring sheets for downtime. He also hoped to get a pet fish or hamster, so they can look after it together, but he would have to check out the dynamic of the group before that. One year, his class and he had a goldfish and it was truly a part of their class; another year, they had a betta fish and the students completely neglected it and Shawn had to be the one feeding it everyday.

He also put posters across the walls, bright colorful ones to mask the dull white that surrounded the room. He checked out his class list. He was very happy, since from a special request, most of his students from 1st grade that he taught last year will have been moved to his class so they can do 2 years together. He wasn’t one to choose favourites but there was this girl that was best friends with his son Thomas, that he absolutely adored. Witty, comical and yet very understanding, Rose was for sure one of his most prized students.

He checked the cabinets to make sure there were cookies and cups. The first day of school always ended with a teacher-parent meeting. He was never really nervous for those, since he knew that he was a good teacher, and everybody else seemed to think so too.

Shawn closed his classroom door, waved goodbye to his colleagues and went to the school yard where he left Thomas. The end of summer breeze was certainly there, but he was warm enough in his thin button up shirt. 

“Hey buddy, we’re leaving!” He ran up to his son, who was sliding down a slide that was Shawn’s height.

“Daddy I don’t wanna go! Rose is here.”

“Oh hey, Rose, didn’t see ya there!” Shawn waved at the smiling girl behind his son.

“Hi Mr. Mendes! Is Tommy gonna be in our class this year?” She asked, two (your hair color) French braids falling down on her shoulders.

“No unfortunately. Rules say it wouldn’t be fair if a kid had their parent as a teacher.” Shawn made an exaggerated pouty sad face.

“No!”

“It’s okay Rose, we will see each other at recess. And lunch. And second recess.” Thomas said affirmatively.

The two slid down the slide to join Shawn on the pebbled ground.

“Wait a minute.” Shawn frowned. “Rose, how’d you get here?”

“I Apparated, duh.” She said, making Shawn chuckle. The saying sounded vaguely familiar, but he just brushed it off, assuming he just watched Harry Potter too many times. “My babysitter drove me.” She pointed at a car in the parking lot, in which sat a woman on the phone.

“My bad. So will I be seeing your parents tomorrow?” He asked her.

“Hmm… I think my mommy will come!”

“Alright cool! I’ve never met her actually.”

“She’s the best. I’m cooler of course, but shh don’t tell her I said that.” She smiled even wide, her smile making Shawn melt.

The three walked to the parking lot, Shawn racing them to the fence and letting them win, feigning being out of breath.

“Beat ya!” Tommy shouted as he watched his dad stagger up to him, clutching his chest.

“Yes, you did! My man.” Shawn exclaimed, picking his son up and twirling him in the air.

They both waved goodbye to Rose and got on the road. They didn’t live very far, only a couple minutes away. It was a neighbourhood school after all, none of the students living over twenty minutes away.

On the way home, Thomas told Shawn a story about a game he played, but Shawn zoned out a bit.

He thought about what Rose said about her mother saying, which lead him to think about Thomas’ mom.

He got married to her and had Thomas, but unfortunately, she passed away from a mishap during her C-section. They were both so young. He pushed the thoughts away from his mind. It was very hard to get over at first, but he had quite a distraction since Thomas was still to be taken care of. They were quite happy, Shawn remembered. But she was gone, and it had been way too long, and the memory of her became very foggy. He wished Thomas could grow up with a mother, because even though he gave his son everything, all of his love, a child deserves a mother’s too.

“And then BOOM! Thomas the train crashed into the station!”

Shawn snapped out of his trail of thoughts and grinned at his son through the mirror.

“You’re kidding!” Shawn exclaimed.

“Nope.” Thomas said, before looking out the window, the TV episode clearly replaying in his head.

Shawn shook his head, smiling and pulled up to the driveway.

“Alright buddy, what do you want for dinner?” He ruffled his son’s head as they took off their shoes in the entrance, Shawn picking up a bunch of toys left astray.

Thomas pondered a while, as if this decision was as important as choosing a wife.

“Lasagna!”

“I think we can make that happen. Wanna help me?”

“Okay!”

+

Y/N turned her key in the doorknob and opened the door.

“Mommy!” Rose came running down the stairs to hug her mother.

“Rosie, hi darling.” Y/N kneeled down to hug her daughter tightly.

Y/N was a full-time single mother and worked her ass off everyday. She was a private optometrist, having her own clinic. Her hours usually extended from 9-6, which is still pretty late as Rose finishes school at 3. Y/N was a terrific mother, and Rose was the center of her world. She knew when to be soft, when to be harsh, what to teach and how to teach it. The only thing was she worked, to give Rose and her the most comfortable life possible.

Y/N got pregnant with Rose the last year of optometry school by her then-boyfriend. He left them and ever since then, Y/N had been on her own. She was definitely not as strong as she made her look, but Rose was her drive in life. Ever since then, she had worked so that she could be where she was today.

She lived in a comfortable home, not too big since they were only two, plus their cat. Rose had a babysitter from 3-5, as Y/N could almost never make it to pick Rose up when school ended.

When Rose was even younger, and Y/N’s clinic had only started and she had to work longer hours, Y/N would often bring Rose to her work. Now though, they had a much nicer schedule. Y/N’s clinic was popular enough for her to hire another optometrist to work the evening.

“Hi Sam, thanks so much.” Y/N hugged the babysitter goodbye. “So, what were you up to today?” She said, taking off her blazer and going to pull out a dinner out the fridge that she had prepped during the weekend.

“Can you come to the parent-teacher conference tomorrow after school? I wanna you to meet my teacher.”

“Wait, are you gonna have your last year’s, the one you absolutely adore?”

“Yeah! Mr. Mendes!”

“Hmm. Okay love, I’ll try.”

+

Shawn dressed up a tiny tad fancy for the first school day. It was elementary school after all, the dress code was very very flexible, but he wanted to make a good impression on the parents. He had a weird feeling in his stomach as if someone he knew was going to be there and he wanted to look his best, but he shook it of as nerves. He opted for a cool printed blue shirt and added a jacket on top. 

His day had been amazing, his students rushed in when the eight ’o’clock bell rang. They took their seats, and they played games, then designed their own name cards to stick on their desks. Shawn had lunch in the teacher’s lounge and chatted with the school secretary Amanda, a cute blonde he went out with once. The afternoon, he taught his students how to play chess and discussed on the subject of getting a pet, which was warmly welcomed.

“Can we get a dog?” A boy asked.

“How are we gonna keep a dog in a school?” Rose giggled. “We need an animal that won’t run around everywhere and won’t mind being in a cage at night when we’re not here!”

Shawn nodded.

“Wait, but don’t be sad Ollie.” Rose whispered to the boy who suggested the dog idea. “The dog was a really good idea. I actually really want one too, but my mommy doesn’t wanna.”

The day ended, and Shawn and the kids cleaned the class for the parents. The ones whose parents couldn’t come went home, and those who stayed colored on the paper cups their parents would drink coffee from later.

Thomas came from the other class to join his dad. He was sitting with Rose who was fast at work, decorating her cup with flowers. Her mom loved flowers.

A couple parents started walking in, greeting Shawn and then sat by their children. When only one or two chairs were empty, Shawn decided to start. He opened his mouth to greet the socializing parents but was interrupted by a woman’s voice by the door.

“Hi, is this- hey Rose!” Y/N said, spotting her daughter.

Shawn turned around and his insides came to a halt.

By the door stood a woman who looked no different than any other woman, that yet stood out to Shawn as if she was the only one he has ever seen. With soft (your hair color) hair that lay delicately on her shoulders, she had a smile that Shawn had seen too many times. Y/N, his first love from university. Her voice had not changed one bit, still honey-like smooth, and bird-song like melodic. She laughed when Rose ran up to her, and Shawn’s heart felt a pang. He hadn’t heard that laugh in over a decade, and yet the sound of it entering his eardrums again brought everything back and triggered a series of memories. Shawn ogled her. God, she was beautiful. She wore simple high-waisted work pants matched with black heels. Shawn smiled weakly, remembering something she once told him about loving loose pants, because it felt like she wasn’t wearing any. He was surprised to see her in heels though, because in university she absolutely swore off them. Well, things must’ve changed since they last saw each other, Shawn thought. Yes, things have changed. But the fluttering sensation his heart used to make around her did not fade away.

Y/N stood back up, placed a strand of her hair back and scanned the room for the teacher she had heard so much of. Her gaze laid on Shawn and she swallowed. Her university best friend turned lover looked ethereal to her right now. He looked exactly the same, and completely different. He was a man now, no longer a student boy; and yet all of his features were familiar. The brown of his eyes, the soft brown curl of hair that always fell in front of his eyes.

Shawn swore at himself internally. Of course, Y/N was Rose’s mother. Rose was the reincarnation of her, and all her mannerisms, her quirks. They had the same hair color, the same eyebrow shape, the same sense of humor, the same curiosity. He wanted to kick himself for not having realized the uncanny similarities. He gathered everything he had in him and approached her.

“Hi.” Y/N said, looking up at him. She chuckled. “Sorry I’m late, I wish I could just Apparate haha. I should’ve known it was you Rose was talking about when she spoke of a certain Mr. Mendes who loved to play guitar and had a mini Canada flag in his pencil holder.”

“And I should’ve known you were Rose’s mom. She’s just like you, it’s unreal.” Shawn said. He couldn’t help but glance down at her lips, and see they remained just as blossom-like, pink as they once were.

“Well, I’ll go take a seat. Maybe we can catch up after?” Y/N said hopefully.

“Of course.”

Y/N walked to Rose’s desk and sat down on her tiny chair, pulling her daughter onto her lap happily.

Shawn cleared his throat, suddenly way more nervous about this than he was twenty minutes ago. He proceeded to welcome everyone warmly, and talked about himself a bit, then his plan for the year, as well as some fun field trips he would like to take the kids on if the school decides to fund them.

In brief, Shawn thought the parents had taken a good liking to him. As they left one by one, he was greeted by handshakes and smiles. He saw Y/N in the corner of his eye looking around the classroom carefully. He knew she wanted to hang back and talk to him, and he was happy she did.

Thomas and Rose were in his little game corner, already cracking open the brand-new Monopoly game Shawn bought yesterday.

“I love what you did to the classroom.” Y/N turned around to Shawn, as he leaned back on a desk.

“Thanks, it’s really nothing. Just thought it’d be more pleasant to learn in a colorful class, you know?”

Y/N smiled at him, eyeing him. Finally, she said:

“I just can’t believe we bumped into each other like this again. How long has it been?” She asked almost breathlessly, as if amazed by the lapse of time that has passed.

“At least 8 years.” Shawn answered back incredulously. Y/N took a seat on the desk beside him, crossing her ankles.

“Damn.”

“So what have you been up to? How’d you have Rose?” There were so many questions Shawn had. They had gone from being inseparable to complete strangers, and a part of him wanted to make up that time. A part of him remembered her way too clearly now.

“Well. Since university, I’ve gone to optometry school. Got pregnant with Rose during my last year. When I graduated, her dad left us, so I worked my ass off to try to get my name out in the market. Worked for a couple clinics, before opening my own. And now I’m here!”

“I’m sorry about Rose’s father. Do you still have contact with him?” Shawn asked subtly.

“No, um we haven’t spoken since he left.” Y/N looked down, before looking back up at him. “And you? Thomas is a great kid.”

“Haha thank you. Um I’m widowed actually.”

“Oh shit, I’m so sorry.” Y/N put a hand on his arm.

“No no, it’s okay. It was a long time ago, I’m over it. But she was cool, you would’ve liked her.”

“Man, we’ve just got the best luck huh?” Y/N chuckled lightly, nudging his elbow playfully.

Shawn laughed with her, reddening slightly at the contact.

Y/N watched their two kids play.

“Rose loves Thomas, you know. Every day she’ll come home with some story about some shenanigan she pulled with him. He takes after you.”

“Thank you. And Rose is an absolute delight to teach.” “Really?” “Yeah.” “That’s great.”

They sat there for a while, just looking at each other and talking about nothing.

Everything had changed and yet, their conversation felt as if they had never lost contact with each other.

“Well, look at the time. I better get going, don’t want Rose to go to bed late and be sleepy for her second day of school!” Y/N stood up.

For a second, Shawn debated whether he should hug her goodbye or not. Who was he kidding, he couldn’t, they were good as strangers now. And that hurt him to think that.

“’Course. And don’t you worry about that, there’s a scheduled naptime for the kids tomorrow after lunch.” He smiled.

Y/N rolled her eyes.

“So lucky! I could’ve done with some scheduled naps when we were at school.”

Shawn chuckled. A vague image of Y/N laying on top of him, in nothing but underwear and a flannel, fast asleep, flashed across his mind.

“Rosie! We gotta get going hun.”

“I’m- I’m not even ti-i-ired.” She yawned. Y/N kissed her cheek laughing.

“Sure, you aren’t. Bye Thomas! It was really nice seeing you again, Shawn.” She waved.

“As for me. Oh! Will you come to the end of summer barbecue? I’m grilling.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’ll look out for it in the school newsletter?”

Shawn would’ve given her his number, but nodded.

“Rose’s mommy is pretty.” Thomas said, once the two girls were out of earshot.

Shawn laughed.

“She is.”

+

The rest of the week passed very quickly. Although Y/N and Shawn didn’t see each other, they were all they thought about.

Y/N sat at her desk, fiddling with her glasses. Why did she feel all jittery at the thought of Shawn? Her mind wandered about, thinking of how nice he looked. He was always cute, when they were in university he was already very good-looking. But now? Oh my fucking lord. He was a man. Y/N shook her head and shrugged her shoulders, feeling herself get all warm.

She stood up, checked the clock and walked over to her next patient.

“Hi, how are you?” She smiled cheerily to the squinty-eyed old man in clear need of glasses.

Shawn sat at his own desk, eyes skimming over some exam sheets. The kids were currently playing (2nd grade was definitely a tough year) and he decided to take this time to try to sort out which examinations would be appropriate to give his students in the near future.

His eyes stayed unfocused on the text before him though. Instead, images of Y/N flowed through his mind. Man, he hadn’t seen her in years. She was beautiful when they were together in university, but now. God. She still had that youth glow and shine to her, but everything seemed to have matured, grown sharper. She was a woman now. He smiled to himself. He was really proud of her.

“What if, Shawn, what if I don’t make it?”

Shawn looked down at her, who was laying on his lap. He continued running his fingers through her hair, but turned the TV down.

“What do you mean, not make it?”

“You know. What if I fail at like, life? What if I don’t finish this degree, and then like become a secretary?

“Listen. You are the brightest person I know, Y/N. Seriously. You’re so fucking smart, sometimes I just look at you and go «What the fuck?»”

Y/N smiled, and Shawn’s hand stroked her cheek.

“Thanks.” Y/N kissed his hand.

Boy, have they come a long way. Shawn went pink, thinking about what happened after that little conversation they had. How Y/N trailed kisses a little further up his arm, then to his neck; Shawn shifted in his seat and focused on what was in front of him.

“Mr. Mendes, can I go to the bathroom?”

+

Friday rolled around the corner in a flash and before he knew it, he was out in the school yard holding a ladder still while Amanda attached big helium balloons onto the huge banner that said, “Welcome back to school”. He watched Rose and Thomas fast at work in the sandbox, constructing what weirdly looked like a temple.

“Enjoying the view?” Amanda teased.

Shawn looked back at her.

“Wha-oh um. Haha.” He frowned to himself.

“So, why didn’t you call me this week?” She said, hopping off the ladder.

“Oh um.” Shawn scratched the back of his neck. “Thomas, was sick.”

“Oh no!” She looked over his shoulder to see Thomas running full speed toward them.

“Yeha, he made um a fast recovery.” Shawn reddened. He turned around. “Hey buddy!”

“Hi daddy. I’m hungry, when are we eating?”

“Uuum.” Shawn checked his watch. It was 4:30. “Can you wait another half hour?”

Thomas nodded. Rose appeared at his side.

“Hi Mr. Mendes!”

“Hi Rose! Your mom thinking about swinging by?”

“Yeah I think so!”

And with that, the two kids ran off to help themselves to lemonade at the drink table that Amanda had unnoticeably went to go help out at. Shawn cleared his throat and took the ladder back to the storage room.

What the hell was Y/N doing to him? He didn’t expect them to get back together anything, so why was he getting so nervous and excited each time the prospect of seeing her came about? He glanced at himself in the mirror. Somewhere deep down wanted Y/N to look at him though. He wanted to catch her staring, so he can see her cute blush. And with that, he unbuttoned a button on his grey shirt. 

+

Y/N threw her purse over her shoulder and fumbled in it for her keys.

“Bye Gina!” She waved at her assistant, who lowered her glasses.

“You’re out early.”

Y/N leaned over the counter, smiling.

“Gotta go to my daughter’s school barbecue thing.”

“Ooh nice! You’re going to get tipsy on the free sangria for the parents, huh?”

“Maybe.” Y/N drummed her fingers on the desktop happily before walking out into the parking lot and hopping into her car.

Getting into her house, she ran up the stairs to her closet. Picking out an outfit she hadn’t worn since she became a mother, she looked at herself in the mirror.

Then sighed. What in the world was she doing? She was wearing a body suit with cut outs at her waist and shorts that Katy Perry sang about in “California Girls”.

“I’m way too fucking old for this.” She muttered to herself, taking off the ridiculous outfit.

Why was she so preoccupied about how she looked? She never gave a shit about her appearance. Hell, most of her life was spent in sweatpants, although that still attracted men’s attention..

It was Shawn. The back of her mind wanted to look good for him, wanted to see his gaze linger a little bit on her..

She checked her phone, 4:30. Slipping a simple black maxi dress on, she made her way to the school. 

Man, she felt like a teenager again.

+

It was a very pleasant evening. The air was warm, and a calm breeze carried it to wrap it around everyone’s shoulders like a cozy blanket. The sky was still sunny, but everyone knew that soon the sun would be setting much sooner. It was a quarter past five, and Shawn stood at the grills along with the gym teacher and were working on burger patties, hotdogs, corn and vegetable skewers (Shawn knew those would be untouched, but maybe he could bribe the children to eat them with dessert.)

Y/N had arrived fifteen minutes before they got the grills started and chatted merrily with Shawn. It only took them those few minutes to warm up and shake the formalities away. If anyone saw them now, they would indeed believe that they were once best friends in university. Not lovers though, because the two tried their best to keep their eyes to themselves.

But it was so hard to. Shawn forgot how good Y/N looked in dresses. And the one she was wearing highlighted every part of her, but flowed in the wind so she looked effortlessly beautiful. It was always like that with her. She never really had to try and Shawn would find her mesmerising.

And Y/N couldn’t really stop the pinkening of her cheeks. They laughed, teased each other slightly (friendly banter you know, nothing more), occasionally bumped shoulders.

Now, Adam the gym teacher had gone to chat with the other adults and Y/N stood beside Shawn, cooking her half of the grill.

“You know I hate the stereotype that only men can barbecue. Like, do you know what bomb-ass chefs women are?” Y/N said, flipping nimbly the corn on the cob to leave pretty, checkered black but not burnt sear marks.

“So are we not going to address that lonely sausage on the ground you dropped?” Shawn rose his eyebrow at her, clicking his tongs.

“I was distracted! Too busy fake-laughing at your terrible dad joke.”

“Suure. That laugh was genuine.”

Y/N eyed the drinks table, which did not go unnoticed by Shawn.

“Wondering if there’s some spiked punch over there for the parents and teachers?”

“Ooh, you read my mind, Mendes.”

“See you’re still a booze fanatic.”

“Hey, alcohol is a mom’s best friend. In moderation of course.”

As if on cue, Rose and Thomas came up to them with their ketchup smeared paper plates.

Y/N looked at the two children. Shawn watched her expression, one of pure adoration. He remembered once being on the receiving end of that look.

“What’s up guys?” Y/N chirped.

“Can we have dessert?” Rose beamed.

“Did you have a bit of veggies?” Y/N raised her eyebrows.

Rose looked up at the sky, shuffling her feet.

“Yes.” Thomas said.

“Gimme your plates, both of you, ya naughty kids.” Y/N teased, putting a vegetable skewer on each of their plates.

To Shawn’s surprise, Thomas ate it along with Rose. Normally, he had to hide it in dishes like smoothies or blend it into homemade pasta dough, so that his son would get his daily dose of vegetables.

Then, the two ran off to help themselves to sweets at another table.

“Well, I think all the kids have eaten. We can probably start now.” Shawn said, waving at the parents.

“Mhmm, I’ve been eyeing everything since the start of this thing.” Y/N said, helping herself to a hotdog and corn. “Ketchup?” She said, holding up the bottle.

“Oh yeah, thank you.” Shawn said, holding his plate to her so she can apply ketchup on his burger.

Y/N slipped the lid open, a bit of the condiment slipping onto her finger, then added a nice layer of it onto Shawn’s food. Closing the lid with her middle unstained finger, she set it down and sucked her index clean.

Shawn felt warm once again, vague memories of what her mouth can do crossing his mind.

They loaded their plates and went to take a seat at a picnic table where sat the principal, the secretary Amanda and a couple other parents.

They sat beside each other, chatting casually with the others. Their elbows touched lightly every so often, whether it was when they were using their knives and forks, or when Y/N would move her arm to tuck her hair behind her ear, or when they both rested their elbows on the table to listen to the conversation and Y/N’s right would coincidentally touch Shawn’s left.

“Ooh, I completely forgot about the drinks table. Want anything?” Y/N said gently, getting up.

“Yes please, thanks!” Shawn watched her walk away.

He was about to half-shout to her that he wanted a margarita, but seeing her pick up the jug with limes, he trusted that she knew his favourite summer drink.

“So, Shawn I never got that phone call back from you.” Amanda leaned closer to him.

“Oh, I’m so sorry! When are you free, we can go to dinner.” Damn Shawn and his polite Canadian self. But once again, he didn’t know why he was closing himself off to her. She was perfectly okay, nice, pretty.

“I’m free tomorrow night.” She said.

“Cool, I’ll pick you up at 8.” Shawn smiled, his jaw slightly uncomfortable at the not-so-genuine smile he gave. He told himself he was being stupid though, and that whatever tiny, miniscule feeling he had with Y/N was just surprise of having found each other again.

Y/N came back, setting a cup beside his plate.

“Welcome.”

“Thanks.” Shawn chuckled, clinking his cup to hers in cheers before they both downed the contents.

“So, Y/N. It’s so nice seeing you here, you’re like never around school.” Amanda said.

“Oh well, I have a lot of patients, but I try my best.” Y/N answered politely.

“What is you do again?” Amanda said, voice bright.

“I’m an optometrist.” Y/N responded. “And you?”

“I really like your dress, seems expensive.” Amanda complimented, disregarding Y/N’s question back to her.

Y/N laughed. “No no, I got this at Walmart actually. It was on sale, they actually have cool stuff.” She answered.

Amanda didn’t completely hide her distaste. Shawn breathed out, looking around for a way to end this weird one-way passive-aggressive exchange. Lucky for him, and Y/N, Rose came up to her mom, hugging her.

Y/N gladly pulled her up on her lap, and wrapped her arms around her little middle.

“Hi Rosie.” She said, bouncing her slightly on her thigh.

“Rose here, is a model student.” The principal turned around from his conversation once he spotted her.

Y/N looked positively gleeful.

“Ooh, are you Rosie?” She turned her head to look down at her daughter, kissing her temple. Shawn’s heart felt warm, his brain making an “aww” feeling.

“Maybe.” Rose giggled.

Y/N held onto one of her little hands, as the other one reached around her mother’s plate for any food.

“Uh uh uh no, you cannot drink this.” Y/N said, pulling Rose’s arm back.

“Why?” Rose pouted.

“Because I don’t think you will like it.” Y/N laughed.

“But-but how will I know if I never try?”

Y/N looked at her daughter.

“Okay, stick your tongue in, see if you like taste for yourself.”

Rose stuck the tip of her tongue in the liquid, and immediately pulled back, frowning.

“Ew!” She said, making the whole table laugh.

“Told ya.” Y/N said, squeezing her daughter’s side.

“I would personally never feed my kid alcohol.” Amanda whispered to Shawn, and his laughter died down. He glanced sideways at Y/N who thankfully did not hear because she was too enamored with her child on her lap.

“Well, she had like a quarter of a lick, it won’t do anything.” Shawn pointed out.

+

Four drinks later for Y/N, and one for Shawn; they found themselves in a heated soccer match against their two children. Y/N had kicked off her sandals and was running barefoot, her dress flowing behind her. Thomas had the ball and was blocking her, who was making exaggerated arm movements to make him laugh.

Shawn was covering Rose, who was desperately trying to get to her teammate.

“Pass it!” Rose cried. “Thomas, we can lose to my mom! She’s the worst at soccer.”

Shawn laughed and looked at her, and she took this opportunity to escape and go join Thomas.

“Shit.” Shawn whispered to himself. He jogged up to what seemed like a leg wrestling match, with Rose and Thomas desperately hogging the ball and Y/N wiggling her leg in between them to try and take it away while unable to contain her laughter.

“Shawn come help me!” Y/N said through tears of laughter. If it hadn’t been for the drinks, she still would be in this state. She was a child at heart and had fun in anything.

Thomas had gotten a hold on the ball and began running toward Y/N and Shawn’s empty net. Rose was tugging on the back of her mom’s dress and seized Shawn. The three tumbled forward, knocking Thomas too in the process; all wheezing of laughter. Y/N rolled off Shawn giggling, Thomas picking himself up and dusting off the front of his shirt.

Shawn gave Y/N a hand up and admired her flushed skin.

Thomas stifled a yawn.

“I think it’s time to go home, huh buddy?” Shawn said, giving his son a piggy back ride.

“It’s probably Rose’s bedtime too.” Y/N said, taking Rose’s reaching hand.

“Hey, are you sure you can drive?” Shawn looked over at her.

“Yes..” Y/N giggled.

“You lightweight.” Shawn poked at her.

“Am not! But I can do with a lift.”

This did not go unnoticed by Rose.

“Can we have a sleepover?!” She asked.

“Please?” Thomas pleaded.

“I don’t want to be a bother, Shawn-“

“It’ll be my absolute pleasure. I have an extra bedroom and I think I still have a pair of Rose’s pyjamas in the laundry basket from the last time they hung out I think.”

“Okay then! You sure though, that we won’t be any trouble?” Y/N’s voice turned serious.

“I promise Y/N, you would never be a bother.” Shawn looked into her eyes.

Suddenly the cooling night air turned hot again.

+

Thomas and Rose were both in his bedroom on the floor in sleeping bags, and were playing a board game. Y/N and Shawn didn’t mind too much because they knew they would probably fall asleep very soon anyway so they let them stay up a little longer.

Y/N had changed into one of Shawn’s sweatpants and t-shirts  and was cozied up on the couch with blankets. The pants were a bit loose on her, but she tightened the waist the best she could and the t-shirt looked unbelievingly good on her.

Shawn handed her a mug of tea and joined her on the sofa.

They flicked through old photo albums and reminisced.

“What really happened to us?” Y/N asked him, head resting on the back of the couch.

“Honestly, now that I think of it, I don’t even remember. We just got so busy.”

“Well, I’m happy we bumped into each other again. You were one of the people I got along with the best.” Y/N smiled.

Ten minutes later, sat Shawn with Y/N asleep on the other end of the couch, wishing his night tomorrow could be just another cozy one with Y/N with full of meaningful yet fun conversation and tea, instead of a dinner with Amanda.

Part 2

[ponyregrets]

Accidental Sex Prompt: "You seem to think that oral won't feel good and I intend to prove you wrong" sex for bellarke obvs

AO3!

Bellamy does not understand how he gets into these conversations.

Or, rather, he doesn't understand how these conversations are happening around him, because he's not actually supposed to be involved. He's just hanging out, minding his own business, when Clarke is on the phone. Which happens surprisingly often, honestly. He thought that people in their generation weren't supposed to be into phone calls, but Clarke has an actual schedule set up where to phone her out-of-town college friends so they can discuss their lives, and Bellamy ends up listening in and occasionally offering his own commentary because he can't not, okay? He is very bad at keeping his mouth shut, and Clarke never seems to mind, so, really, it's fine.

But it does mean he hears a lot about how terrible her friend Harper's current boyfriend is, and how Monroe's periods really shouldn't be that painful and she should probably see a doctor, and how many dick pics women on dating apps get. None of which bothers him, of course, but he does sometimes feel like he's eavesdropping even though everyone involved knows about it. And he still feels a little weird offering his his opinions on how, no, this Murphy guy is not going to change and Harper should dump his ass, but Maya's boyfriend is probably just kind of absent-minded and seems like he'll respond well to feedback, if she think he's worth the effort.

Which is how he ends up in a conversation about cunnilingus.

"Hey, wait, no," Clarke is saying. She's talking Maya through yet another boyfriend thing, and he can't help finding it a little funny that she's somehow the relationship expert in the group. They've been living together for a year and she hasn't been on a single date that whole time. "Just because I'm bisexual doesn't mean I'm an expert. Honestly, I've never done it before, I always thought it would be weird." When Bellamy raises his eyebrows, she says, "Oral."

"What kind of oral?" he asks.

"Any kind. Well, okay, I blew this guy in high school because it was high school and everyone just sort of expected you to give head, but nothing since then. I have a pretty strong gag reflex."

"If her boyfriend is saying she has to suck his dick, she should definitely dump him," he says.

"No, that's not it. He's eating her out and apparently bad at it. Of course I'm telling him!" she adds, to Maya. "Maybe he has some insight. If you want to get eaten out, you should get eaten out. I don't have to think it would be fun."

"Wait," he says, distracted from Maya's issue by her phrasing. "You're not just saying you've never eaten anyone out. No one's ever eaten you out either?"

"And based on what Maya's saying, I don't want anyone to."

"Okay, whatever, we're going to deal with that in a minute. Give me the phone."

It's maybe a little weird how many times he's talked Maya through crises given he has never actually met her, but all Clarke's friends seem to have just accepted him as their long-distance Cool Big Brother, or something like that. They recognize he's both knowledgeable and helpful, on top of being unable to keep his mouth shut, and confide in him accordingly.

So Bellamy listens as Maya describes Jasper's actually technique--which includes something he called the clit nibble, which, fuck no--until he can't actually take it anymore.

"Okay," he tells her. "Look, if he doesn't know what he's doing, he shouldn't try to be fancy, okay? Is he good with his hands?"

"Yeah," says Maya. "He usually doesn't try to get me off with his hands but he'll, um--finger me when we're getting ready? Is this weird for you?" she adds.

"Kind of, but I figure it's a public service. If you want me to just talk to him directly instead--"

She laughs. "No, that's okay. I can just give him the highlights."

"Your call." He drums his fingers on Clarke's leg, absent. "Whatever he's doing with his fingers, he should keep doing it. Just add suction, basically. And tongue. Teeth are--jesus, yeah, teeth shouldn't get involved. And if you want he can switch it up, so, like--fingers on your clit, tongue inside you. It really depends on what you're into. But most girls I've met really like oral when it's done right, so it's worth seeing if you like, you know, the basics. And then once you've got those down, he can try to get fancier. And seriously, if something feels bad tell him when he's doing it. It's a lot easier to remember, and then he won't think you liked it and do it more and suddenly you have a kink that isn't actually a kink for you."

Maya laughs. "Yeah, that sounds bad. Thanks for--he's a great guy, just--more enthusiastic than experienced, I guess. Not that I can talk."

"Hey, it's fine," he says. "I don't mind. Always glad to do a PSA about cunnilingus. And you can tell your boyfriend to call me if he needs any more help."

"Yeah, that conversation wouldn't be awkward at all," says Maya, dry. "Hey, Jasper, I was just telling Clarke's hot roommate whom I've never met all about our sex life, he has feedback for you."

"If he doesn't get feedback he's never going to learn," he says. "You want Clarke back?"

"I think we're good. Bye, Clarke!"

"She says bye," he tells Clarke, who's just been sitting next to him on the couch, listening with a fond smile on her face.

"Bye, Maya."

"Everyone says bye," he reports. "Good luck with Jasper."

"Thanks. I appreciate it."

He disconnects the call and thinks, for a second, about changing the subject. It's not like it's a big deal that Clarke's never had anyone go down on her. It's not as if she seems upset about it, and if she's not upset about it, he shouldn't be either.

But, well--she's definitely missing out.

"Seriously, never?" he asks.

"You're acting like I have this incredibly active sex life," Clarke points out. "It's not like anyone's ever said, hey, you should let me go down on you and I told them not to. It was just pretty easy to do other stuff. No one ever offered and I never made it a point to ask."

"Yeah, but--why not?"

"Someone's tongue inside me just seems--weird. Like, what's their tongue doing in me?"

"So--fingers, dicks, vibrators, dildos. All of those can go inside you, but you draw the line at tongues?"

"Okay, you're overstating it a little. I'm not drawing a hard line against it, just--it's not a big turn on for me. I don't think it sounds very appealing."

He'd like to say he really puts some thought into it, weighs the pros and cons, thinks through all the implications of hooking up with his roommate, who is bright and brilliant and gorgeous and already his favorite person in a way that means it is probably unwise to get any more attached to her.

But, really, he's too indignant to really put much by way of coherent thought into it. Clarke thinks oral doesn't sound appealing, and she's clearly missing out.

So he nudges her with his elbow. "Hey, you should let me go down on you."

She laughs, but it's not the kind of laugh that really means something is funny, more just one of those laughs that comes from not having any other response. "What?"

He shrugs. "I'm just saying, it's worth a try, right? Not to brag, but--I got some good feedback about how to do it from this one girl, and since then I've gotten nothing but praise, so I think I'm pretty good."

This laugh is amusement. "Do you have oral sex references, Bellamy?"

"I could probably find some if you want, I'm still Facebook friends with Gina, she'd probably--" He makes to get his phone, and she tugs his arm, shaking her head with another laugh.

"You know this isn't a problem, right? Not having had oral sex isn't damaging my life."

"Yeah, but--it's good. I'm really sure. And if it's not and everyone else is lying to me, I should find out before I torture any more girls with it, right? I know you'll tell me if it's secretly awful and no one wants to tell me. But I'm pretty sure that's not it."

She worries her lip, and he just watches her. He hadn't realized how much he wanted her to say yes, but--he really does. "What would you do?" she finally asks. "If I said yes. What's the plan?"

He knows her well enough to read her tone, and when he shifts a little closer, she turns into him, encouraging. "Obviously, I'm not going to start right away," he says, letting his eyes sweep over her. She's wearing pajamas and her hair's in a messy bun and she's basically the most beautiful girl in the world, as far as he's concerned. "I guess it depends on what you want. I like to start with kissing. I like kissing. And then--" He wets his lips, practically tasting it. "Depends on where you like being touched, I guess. I want you to be so wet for me when I'm finally ready to--"

She cuts him off with firm kiss, sliding into his lap and pressing her mouth against his, hot and greedy, and he anchors his hands on her hips, keeping her there. Her lips are a little chapped, like always, because he has to remind her to use chapstick when she's busy, but it's honestly kind of nice. It's so easy to tell whom he's kissing.

"So, you're okay with that plan?" he murmurs against her lips, letting his fingers slide under the hem of her shirt.

"You're really convincing," she says.

He lifts her off his lap a little, just enough that he can push her onto her back on the couch, settling one thigh between her legs. When he licks her lips, she opens for him, whimpering a little as he takes full control. He lets his hand slide into her hair, tilting her head back so he can slide his mouth down her neck.

"You never told me where you like being touched."

"Everywhere," she says, and he laughs and nips her neck gently, not enough to mark, just to make her shiver and arch against his leg. "There's good."

"If you don't tell me anything else I'm just going to play with your breasts."

"Yeah?"

"I assume I'm not the first person to tell you that your breasts are fucking perfect."

"You haven't even seen them yet."

He slides his hands back under her shirt. "No, I haven't. Can I?"

She bites her lip, which is kind of stupidly hot at the best of times and fucking cataclysmic right now, pushes him up just enough that she can tug the shirt over her head. She's wearing a pink bra with some lacy patterning on it, which he only has a second to appreciate before she unhooks it and slides it off, and then, well--breasts.

He leans down to press a kiss to the swell of the right one, the flesh warm and perfect under his lips.

"Absolutely perfect," he murmurs, and she laughs.

"Thanks. I was--oh," she gasps, as he lets his mouth close around her nipple. He sucks it gently, swirls his tongue, around it, tries not to grind his dick too obviously against her. Just because it's fucking hot for him doesn't mean it's about him.

"See," he murmurs, grinning. "Imagine that, but--" He slides his hand down between her legs, under her pajamas but over her underwear, letting his fingers rub over her clit. "Here."

"Fuck, Bellamy."

"Yeah," he says, nipping her gently. "I'm going to fuck you. I can't believe no one's ever done this before, jesus. I'm going to make you feel so good."

"If I didn't know you, I'd say you were all talk," she teases, sliding her hand into his hair and tugging gently. "You should check if I'm wet enough. I feel wet enough."

He slides his mouth over to her left breast. "But I haven't even touched this one yet," he teases, and she groans.

"You don't have to be that thorough."

"I really do."

She's basically humping his leg by the time he decides to slide down her body, tugging her pajamas and underwear off with one firm tug. Laid out before him, naked and wet, she's absolutely gorgeous, and he can't quite believe he actually gets to have sex with her.

There are probably going to be consequences to this, but he's having trouble caring right now.

He gives her a gentle push, guiding her a little farther back so he has room to settle between her legs. He can smell her arousal, can practically taste her already, but he makes himself slide his fingers inside her first, trying not to come just from how easily they glide in. She's so fucking ready for him.

"Oh fuck," she breathes, and then he leans down, presses a kiss to her clit, and then flicks his tongue against it, savoring the way she gasps, "Oh fuck," again.

When he sucks, her whole body tightens around him, the first hot wave of arousal coming strong, and that's all he needs. He starts to go in earnest, stroking up inside her while he works her clit with his mouth, hot and hard and relentless. He wants her first orgasm to come quickly so he can draw the second one out, to get a feel for what she likes and how to make it better for her.

As he hoped, it doesn't take long. She's gasping and arching against his fingers, whimpering in desperation for release. He keeps the pressure up on her clit and works his fingers, and the orgasm that crashes through her is hard and hot, but not nearly enough for him.

He slows his fingers but doesn't stop as she comes down, presses random kisses against her thigh as her fingers gradually relax in his hair.

"Holy shit," she breathes.

"And you haven't even had my tongue inside you yet," he says.

She flops back on the couch, boneless. "You know, I'm just going to stop arguing and let you do whatever I want."

"That's all it took? I should have eaten you out last year."

"You really should have," she agrees, and there's something in her voice that makes his breath catch, but--he can ask about it later.

He's got work to do.

*

He comes humping the couch somewhere between her second and third orgasm. He's never eaten anyone out for so long, but Clarke keeps coming, making all these hot, desperate noises, and he doesn't know how to stop until she finally pushes him away after something like her fifth orgasm.

"I don't think it's physically possible for me to come again."

"That was the idea, yeah," he says. Part of him wants to kiss her, but he doesn't know if that's still allowed.

She solves the problem for him, twining her hand in his hair and pulling him back to her mouth. His face is a sticky mess, but she doesn't seem to mind, licking the taste of herself out of his mouth with slow, lazy ease. He settles back on top of her, tries not to get his hopes up too high, but--it was so good. They could be so good.

Her hand creeps down his chest. "What about you?"

He laughs, feeling himself flush a little. "Came in my jeans like a fifteen-year-old."

Thankfully, she looks delighted. "Really?"

"You're so fucking hot, Clarke," he murmurs. "I could get off just listening to you."

It feels like a little too much honesty, maybe, but she bites the corner of her mouth on her smile. "That's not that much fun for me. Not when you could get off fucking me instead."

"I could?"

"Don't get me wrong, the oral was amazing, I'm definitely into it, but--that's not all I want, Bellamy."

He catches her mouth for another kiss, warm and soft, settling in to enjoy it. "As long as I convinced you oral's fun."

"Completely," she says. "But I still don't want anyone else's tongue in me. I hope that's okay."

He laughs, tugs her in close. "Yeah. I was thinking the same thing."

[dreamin-of-somewhere-else]

You Got Out

Characters: Sam x oldest Winchester, Dean, John.

Words: 2500

[Light swearing]

A/N: I wrote this in one sitting. Crazy. Anyways, this idea was provided to me by a nonnie, so thanks for that. 

Also, if you want any music to listen to, here’s a song that I like to listen to while I write. It’s pretty much instrumental, but it gets me emotional anyways haha. You - Petit Biscuit.

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The relief hit you like a truck. Or a train. Or whatever. It doesn’t matter.

The relief envelopes you like an emotional but warm blanket. It fills you up from inside. Radiates from you. Touches and colors your everything.

You lose your breath. The paper you’re holding onto is slightly trembling because you are.

This is it; the paper you're holding onto. The sweet escape. Sam’s sweet escape. Sam’s safety reassured in printed words. The ticket to his new life. The ticket out of yours.

You just stand there for a while. Quiet, letting the relief and all the thoughts that comes with it wash over you. You wait until they collect themselves. Until they make sense. And then finally, you look up and see Sam.

Your baby brother is standing before you. Sweet little Sammy. That’s not so little anymore. And you let proudness over him overtake you and blend in with the relief.

He’s watching you with round eyes. Round, hazel, puppy dog eyes — as you call the expression. He looks so vulnerable and small, even though he’s quite a lot larger than you in size — stronger, faster, and all. Like he’s both a few years younger and a few feet shorter. You’ve seen that look quite a few times before. But you’ve never gotten used to it, not to how soulful his eyes looked. They could melt you in an instant. And Sam knows it. But this isn’t one of those moments. In this moment, he’s vulnerable, and scared and he just wants you to support him, to give him reassurance. That’s all he’s hoping for.

You put him out of his misery by finally speaking up.

”Sam,” you begin, your voice trembling slightly. ”This is amazing.”

Your eyes sting as you look at him, you can feel them filling with tears.

”Dammit.” You whisper before quietly chuckling a little bit, wiping your tears that are about to leave your wet eyes.

But when you really look at Sam, you see that his eyes are tear-filled as well. He emits gratitude.  

”Thank you.” He speaks sincerely and your heart clutches by the fact that he even has to say that.

”So, what?” John roars, his words cutting through the tension of the room. ”You’re leaving this family? You don’t care about us, son?”

Sam winces by the power in your father’s voice. By the anger glistening in his dark eyes. Dean looks down at his feet. You swallow nervously as your chest aches.

While Sam stares at Dad, and then finally at Dean — his big brother — you can practically see how his world is coming crashing down. He looks so helpless, and sad, and angry and just crushed. Defeated. Betrayed. And all you want is to wipe that away from his face. Because when Sam’s world is coming crashing down, yours are too. Because Sam is your world. He and Dean both. It’s always been like that. And now, when they are on opposite sides, standing for two different ideas, views of life even — it’s hard. Who do you help?

”Dad…” You try to interject, stepping forward. He just waves you off, all focus on his youngest, the 18-year old in the room.

”You’re abandoning us, Sam.” He spits through gritted teeth. ”After everything we’ve done for you? You should be grateful, you useless little piece of —”

”Dad!” You cut him off harshly. You stare at him, feeling anger rise within you. You try to nail his gaze, but he refuses to look at you.

”No, you know what?” Sam starts, and you know he’s about to speak back at John. And that never ends well. ”I am grateful. But I just want to go to school. In what world is there anything wrong with that? Huh? A normal dad would be proud!”

”This is your life Sam! Hunting! You have a responsibility. This is your duty, boy!” John argues, one hand clenched into a fist, the other one pointing threateningly at Sam.

You throw Sam a warning glance, as to tell him not to provoke your father even more. But he does.

”That’s where you’re wrong, Dad.” Sam slightly shakes his head as he clenches his jaw. ”I’m not — we’re not — your little soldiers. Hunting is what you want. It’s you that dragged us into that. But this life is mine, and I can do whatever the hell I want with it.”

You momentarily peel your eyes away from Sam and Dad, searching for support in Dean. But your other little brother only meets your eyes for a second until he looks away. Dean has paled remarkably, there’s not even a trace of his characteristic freckles. He’s obviously in misery, seeing his family coming undone just like it is right now. You just wish he would do something about it, even though you at the same time understood why he didn’t. Dean’s always been the one who trusted John the most. And now he doesn’t know what to do.

So, you take matters into your own hands. Just as Dad take a step closer to Sam, about to start another verbal attack, you step in between them.

”Dad, calm down for god’s sake!” You yell at him, voice surprisingly stable. You stare up at him, glance hard and cold. ”Stop right there.”

”No, (Y/N), back off. This is between me and your brother.” John speaks with a warning tone. It sends chills down your back but you do your best to ignore them.

”No.” You instantly defy him.

Before your dad can retort, Sam speaks up again. He doesn’t like being benched, no, this was his fight. His riot.

”I’m done.” He states in a forced calmness. You can tell he’s nailing Dad with his stare over your head. ”I’m leaving.”

From behind Dad, Dean looks up, hurt expression over his features as he watches Sam pick up his duffle bag from the floor.

John himself takes this as a queue. He quickly steps forward, trying to get to Sam. It all goes so fast, but you try your best to keep him away from your youngest brother, who stares at his father with round eyes. Dean steps in and hold John back, which ultimately is what keeps him from getting to Sam.

Sam stares at Dean who holds John back with a fist full of his jacket in both hands. His green eyes are wide and emotional, and you can tell that he doesn’t want Sam to go. Sam finally rips his gaze away and stare at John, until he decides that he doesn’t want to look at the man anymore. Then he looks at you.

You look up at him — all meanwhile you’re still helping Dean hold John back — and slowly nod, once. Do you, Sam. Go ahead and do what you want.

Sam slowly nods back, then he turns to the door. But John isn’t finished.

”If you walk out that door, boy, don’t you ever come back!” He roars at him, and he means it.

Sam stops and looks at his father. And he looks even more defeated than before. This was it. The final nail in the coffin, one last hurtful thing Dad threw at him. And then he lurches around, opens the door, and runs out into the night.

You watch him go and your heart clenches. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. This is the worst possible outcome, in fact. Sam had provoked Dad, but he should have never thrown him out like that.

You turn to John in anger. By now Dean has released his grip slightly, as the argument was over and John had won. Or, well, there weren’t any winners, but John had gotten in the last strike.

”What the hell, Dad!” You exclaim in anger, and then you push him back, hard. He stumbles back. ”What the hell have you done, you bastard!” You simply can’t contain yourself.

Your dad is taken back, but he counters fast. Before you know it, your whole head is thrown to the side, and there’s a white, hot, pain across your cheek.

He had hit you. You clutch your cheek as you blink slowly, surprised.

”Dad!” Dean yells, to your surprise, as he grabs ahold at John, who’s blinded by rage.

But you don’t stay to hear the rest. Instead, you turn to your own duffle bag, which’s luckily only a couple of feet away from you, and rip up a piece of fabric. And then, you take off, just like Sam had done.

Outside, you train your eyes in the dark, trying to spot Sam. You do — there’s a tall silhouette hurriedly walking across the parking lot of the motel, reaching the further corner of it.

You instantly start running towards him. You actually feel a bit dizzy and wobbly, probably from John’s blow, but you push on. You have to reach Sam.

”Sam!” You howl, catching his attention. He turns around at stops walking.

You slow down when you’re close enough and come to a stop. Now you’re standing a few feet away from him.

”I’m sorry,” you say, as gently as you can. ”Damn it, I’m really sorry, Sammy.”

Sam nods, and you can see that he’s trying to keep his emotions under check. He fails, and tears pour over — which he angrily wipes away with the back of his hand.

”’Not your fault.” He finally mutters, as he keeps staring out into the forest surrounding the parking lot and motel. You know why he does that, because if he looks at you, he is going to full on cry.

It’s quiet for a moment, and then you remember the piece of fabric in your hand. It’s a Stanford sweatshirt. You had gotten it as a present to him after he told you the news — which was two nights ago. Huh, feels like an eternity ago.

”Sam.” You state, and he’s forced to look at you. When he does, you hold up the shirt, and take a step forward. ”I got this for you.”

Sam’s face lights up in awe once the shirt was placed in his hands, and he inspects it. And, just like that, he once again looks a lot younger. ”T-thank you.”

”No problem.” You smile.

Although Sam’s eyes are still on the shirt, so he doesn’t see. Instead, his finger is tracing the red, block letters. ”Wait, how much did it cost?”

”Don’t worry about that.” You reassure him.

”(Y/N), we both know that we don’t have a lot of—” He looks up at you and his voice just sort of dies out.

You furrow your eyebrows, and then you realize what it is. What you didn’t notice, was that when you moved closer to Sam, light from the streetlight of the parking lot fell onto your face, and revealed the red mark on your cheek.

One of Sam hands lets go of the sweatshirt, and reaches up to your cheek, his fingertips barely touch you. ”Did he hit you again?”

You slowly nod, but that’s not important.

”Sam,” you say as you see how his hazel eyes — that in this lightning look chocolate brown — glimmer dangerously. ”Doesn’t matter. I’ll handle it.”

Sam scoff and looks away again. He clutches the sweatshirt tighter in his hands, you see his knuckles whitening. Then he looks at you again.

”Come with me to Stanford. Please?” He pleads. He’s desperate for company, he’s never been on his own before. He wants his trusted and beloved big sister to come with. You, the one that’s always been there for him. ”Dean can come with too.” He adds for further persuasion. He wants his best friends with him and his dad alone.

The offer is tempting, you got to admit. But eventually, you shake you head.

”Why?” Sam asks, and he looks a little bit hurt.

”I’ve gotta stay here, Sam. Take care of Dean and Dad. Make sure they don’t do anything stupid, you know the drill.”

Sam stares at his feet.

”This is your dream, Sam. Me? I’m only good for this, hunting. Go live your life, you deserve it.”

Your little brother is about to object, but you give him a hard look.

”You got out, Sammy. Take the opportunity.”

”Fine.” He ultimately says, speaking quietly. He nods, and then he meets your eyes again.

”And… and don’t worry about Dean and Dad. They’re just hurt. They’ll get over it.” You reassure him, reaching out and taking his bigger hand. ”Otherwise, I’ll make them.”

Through the dark you — for a second — see dimples and white teeth flashing as Sam laughs a little bit.

”Now.” You begin. ”I want you to go and concur Stanford, okay? Show ’em what you got for me.” You try to lighten the mood.

Sam smiles and nods. ”Yeah. I’ll try.”

”Good Sammy-boy.”

Then you step forward and hug him. He wraps his long arms around you, and hides his face in your hair, bending his neck. You gently pat his back.

”I’ll miss you.” He mumbles into your ear. His words are raw, sincere and sad.

”It’s okay. It’s not like we’ll never see each other again. I’ll call. And, if I have time in-between hunts, I’ll most likely stop by. Expect me to.” A grin tugs at the corners of your lips.

”Hope you do.” Sam looks at you with a trace of the infamous puppy eyes.

It’s quiet for a moment, and you just kind of looked at Sam. Taking in his features. Because who knows how he’ll look when you see him the next time. Maybe he would have cut his hair? Bulked up? Gotten tattoos? Grown a beard? Gotten even taller? Piercings? Or maybe he’ll just look the same.

”Please don’t get yourself killed while I’m gone.” Sam’s words bring you back to the moment. He looks at you, scared. Now also full on sporting the puppy dog eyes. ”I don’t want to get a c-call saying—” His voice is too strangled to continue.

”You won’t.” You promise. ”I’ll be careful. We’ll all be safe, okay?”

Sam nods.

”I’m proud of you Sam. You’ve gotten so far. Who knew you would get into Stanford, squirt.” You smile at him.

He chuckles, blushing slightly. ”Thank you.”

”Now, get moving. Get your ass over there, and make me even more proud. If that’s possible.”

”Yeah. Okay.” Sam agrees. ”Oh, and tell Dean I’ll miss him too, would you?”

You nod. ”Of course.”

Then you reach up, standing on your tippy toes, and give Sam a quick peck on his cheek. Then you ruffle his hair while you’re at it. And then, you grab him by the shoulders and turn him around, giving him a slight push in the right direction. He starts walking that way with a chuckle.

He casts a final look over his shoulder, smiling lovingly. You smile back. And then you just stand there, watching him go.

The relief comes back and settles in your chest, providing a certain warmth. And you know this is right. Sam got out. He’ll be fine. He’ll be safe. He’ll be happy. And you couldn’t be more happy for him.

Tags: @daughters-and-winsisters​ @evyiione @samanddeanshotsis @darkestgrungeuniverse @fabulouslycassie @delessapeace-blog @mariairwin666 @1amluke @saveprettydays @cookee50 @yoursmilemakesmeloveyou @infamati--et--obliterati  @stillcooli0 @sammysbeanie @jamric

[qqueenofhades]

The Dark Horizon: Chapter XL

summary:  AU. The Caribbean, 1715: Royal Navy Lieutenant Killian Jones and his brother, Captain Liam Jones, have just arrived to help pacify the notorious “pirates’ republic” of New Providence. But they have dangerous allies, deadly enemies, and no idea what they’re getting into when they agree to hunt the pirate ship Blackbird and the mysterious Captain Swan. OUAT/Black Sails. rating: M status: WIP available: FF.net and AO3 previous: chapter XXXIX notes: Happiest of happy birthdays to my dearest @prairiepirate, the Flynn to my Lucy and #1 fan of this story. I wasn’t sure whether to post this now, as it and 41 are essentially the two-part series finale, but it’s your birthday. Hence, you get the longest chapter of this monstrosity to date. Welp.

The stretch of coast chosen for the pirates’ moot was the same that had hosted the last one, where Flint, Vane, Blackbeard, and Hook had battled it out for supremacy of the fleet and the right to sail to Antigua to save Sam – a particular and painful irony that nobody could forget. Emma certainly had not. She was aware of the discussion washing over her, Killian’s fingers linked through hers and her head on his shoulder, and the general idea that she should pull herself together and contribute something constructive to the conversation, but she was still reeling. She had told Flint just the other night that there was something to return to, something to fight for, that he could not give in and he had to find some reason to keep trying, and now she was struggling as hard as she could, not at all in her natural instinct or belief, to do the same herself. God, it was so much. Liam, Regina, Henry, Geneva, Will, and Miranda already, and now Sam. When was it going to be enough? Did the world want Killian next? Her? What was the point of surviving the battle, of making it to the other side, if there was nothing left when it was over? She had known this was a possibility, when she chose to stay behind and fight: that despite her best efforts, she could still lose everything and everyone. But all the rationalization and experience and long-worn practice did not make this any easier. This one hurt down to her bones, and there was no way to evade it or shut it down or bottle it up, her usual method of keeping the world away from her heart. She just had to sit here, and face it.

On her other side, Flint was all but a statue, motionless and wordless, but as the disagreements continued, he finally rose to his feet with a jerk, causing heads to turn and a sudden silence to fall. “It’s simple,” he said. “Rogers wants all the Spanish gold back, or he’ll kill Rackham, Madi, the rest of the pirates imprisoned in Nassau, and everyone else he bloody can. There’s no compromise or negotiation with a man like that. That is no possibility.”

“So what do we do?” Anne glared at him. “Let Jack die?”

“No.” Flint’s mouth twisted viciously. “We call Rogers’ bluff. Force his hand.”

“That sounds a fuckin’ lot like letting Jack die.” Anne stood up as well, as Vane shifted his weight behind her, an unspoken warning. “Or did you mean something else?”

“Aye.” Flint was too far gone to actually smile in any remotely recognizable way, but he bared his teeth and pulled his lips back. “The Spanish can’t fault Rogers for not returning their treasure if he’s seen to be ignominiously and utterly defeated in trying to retrieve it, can they? Then when they don’t get it back, they can either choose to proceed to a war – a war in which they will have the slimmest of pretexts, no money to fight it, a number of better things to be doing, and an awareness that they cannot measurably gain anything from it except the principle of the thing – or they can be forced to swallow their pride and take the loss. Think of it. We can do that. We can force both these fucking empires, Spanish and English alike, to play by our rules. The gold is our last leverage, our last gamble. We can’t give it up under any circumstances.”

Vane, who had clearly been prepared for Flint to suggest that they hand it over just because it belonged to him, was instead caught on the hop. “And how the fuck do we pull that off?”

“We tried bluffing Rogers with it once.” Killian spoke for the first time as well, voice raw and rusty, as he let go of Emma’s hand and moved to face his counterparts. “We all saw what happened then. You’re suggesting that we actively bait them into another world war.”

Flint shrugged, his grin more vengeful and savage than ever. “Only if they insist on it.”

The moot exchanged wary looks. But as nobody else had yet put forward a viable proposal, they were obliged to let Flint continue to hold the floor (or, strictly speaking, sand). “Here is what we do,” he went on. “We put the gold aboard the Walrus. We leak information to Rogers letting him know that it has been moved, and give him enough time to get aboard a ship and come after us. One on one – he’ll think it is a worthwhile risk. He’ll pursue us out to sea. We’ll malinger, make him think we’re running damaged, get him overconfident, and keep him away from here as long as we can. Then turn, make a stand, and settle it. He only has Navy sixth-raters to choose from, none of them run more than twenty guns. The Walrus can overmatch any of those in a head-on firefight, and I know the area much better than Rogers does. We’ll sink him, cache the treasure, and return here.”

“Right,” Vane said. “Because I’m sure to agree to any plan that involves putting my gold on your ship and letting you sail away with it, with your word you’ll be back.”

“In the meantime,” Flint continued, as if Vane had not spoken, “the Jolie and the Ranger will take on the remaining forces on Nassau. We need the Jolie’s guns for any storming of the harbor or sustained fight, and as our. . . friend pointed out, he has recently had stunning success in running the blockade. The Ranger can get in ahead as a light strike force, rescue Rackham and Madi, and the Jolie can deliver the main body of the troops. With Rogers gone, the defense of Nassau Town will be a deputized, haphazard affair. Take the fort, and we have the victory. Its guns can bombard any of the Navy ships in the harbor, and I will take Rogers alive in order for him to agree to and sign any terms of surrender we decide to impose. With a defeat as comprehensive as that, and especially if Gold is arrested for treason at the same time, Great Britain won’t dare lift a finger in the Bahamas for another ten years at least. So, then. That’s how we win the fucking battle and the war together, once and for all. Clear?”

It was quiet enough to hear crickets shirring in the trees, the rustle of the night breeze, the crackle of the fire and the crash of the waves. Nobody could argue with this proposal in the tactical sense, as Flint’s ruthless genius in such matters was rarely questioned, but the amount of insanity, skill, and luck it would take to pull off was almost unthinkable – especially when, to say the least, the latter quality had been in vanishingly short supply recently. Finally, it was Killian who was left to raise the first of numerous questions. “What troops, exactly, am I supposed to land on the beach with the Jolie? The Maroons? I can take on most of Vane’s men if the Ranger is meant to slip in first as a small vanguard, but that’s just spreading our numbers around, not increasing them. Whatever we can muster, that is no guaranteed victory. Even assuming Rogers does follow you out to sea, he’ll leave the fort crawling with soldiers. He knows its value just as much as we do.”

“You’re the one with the ex-Navy men,” Flint said flatly. “They’re the only ones who have any bloody idea of discipline and cohesion and ability to match against trained and drilled redcoats, not just a bunch of hairy shrieking bastards rushing ashore and spoiling for a brawl. So just – ”

“’Scuse me,” Vane interrupted. “Can we go back to the fucking part where you’re putting my gold on the Walrus and sailing off with it?”

“Therefore,” Flint said to Killian, “since Rackham is gone, I assume you will take up your post as captain of the Jolie again, and command them accordingly. As for the Maroons – ”

“I make the decisions for us, while Madi is a prisoner.” Lancelot did not speak loudly, but his force and authority was unquestioned. “Not you.”

Flint looked as if he was about to bark back, but Emma got to her feet and put a hand on his arm, standing between him and Killian as an extra bulwark against anything going sideways. More, that is. It felt pitiable and hollow and pointless just now, but she had to keep trying, or crumble entirely. “You’re right,” she said, addressing Lancelot. “What do you mean to do?”

“Captain Bellamy and I were attempting, as you recall, to recruit slaves from the interior plantations.” Lancelot nodded in acknowledgment of the difficulty that it must be to hear the name spoken aloud. “Nor did we have much success. But tragic as these circumstances are, there is still the possibility that some good can come of them. All their brothers, men who had families on my island, who served on the Whydah, are dead. This loss is not only yours. It is not only Sam. Maroon children have lost fathers. Maroon wives have lost husbands. John Julian, one of the two survivors, is full-blooded West Indian and will be sold into slavery, if he doesn’t hang for piracy. All these men served on Bellamy’s crew, and Bellamy himself was the only pirate we knew that we could trust. I will not ask the slaves to rise up in your name, Captain Flint. I will ask them in the memory of our own. Perhaps they thought they could not afford to fight before, that there were others who would do it. Those others have been lost with Sam. They can decide how they wish to honor their deaths, of course, but that choice seems clear to me.”

“So you would – ”

“I would lead the Maroons to Nassau from the far side of the island,” Lancelot said. “Move fast and in secret. Gather every willing man from the plantations en route, everyone who wishes to recompense the sacrifice of their brothers on the Whydah. That way, we can split our attack. You hit them from the front, via the harbor, with the Jolie and Ranger. We hit them from the rear, and with a force that is their worst nightmare. Madi would want me to do no less. She would not agree to give up the war, the chance of breaking their chains, simply for her personal benefit.”

Silver shifted restlessly. “Nor do I think she would accept being left in Rogers’ clutches.”

Lancelot smiled wryly. “You greatly underestimate her if you think she’ll ever sit quietly and agree to anything he foists on her. We know Rogers fears a slave uprising, and he will try to leverage her to forestall one. Our compatriot here – ” he nodded at Vane – “will try to rescue her as well as Rackham. But if our positions were reversed, I have no doubt that she would order the exact same course of action.”

Silver did not seem entirely approving of this, as it was clear that he had unexpectedly developed a soft spot for the Maroon princess (such as seemed the best way to call her), but he did not offer another objection. Meanwhile, it was clear that Vane was not about to settle for being blown off for the third time in a row. “Anyone still about to tell me why I agree to this?”

“Because you have to, mate.” Killian turned to him, regarding him frankly. “You know the fort the best, you were the one who succeeded in breaking the siege last time, and if I am not very much mistaken, you would do anything to get ashore and come personally to grips with Eleanor Guthrie, after she’s sold all of us out and taken up with Woodes bloody Rogers instead. As well, it’s your cash and your man in Rogers’ hands. We need you to take the Ranger into the attack on the harbor and Nassau Town, and that leaves only the Jolie and the Walrus as options to store the rest of the treasure. As Flint said, we need the Jolie’s guns and the Navy experience of her men for any direct assault on the English, and she’s not the fastest of our cohort. That would have been the Whydah, but we. . . don’t have her anymore. If we are wagering on luring Rogers out to sea and into a fight among the unmarked shores and channels and shoals, we need the fastest ship remaining apart from the Ranger, with the man who knows the area best. That’s the Walrus, and that’s Flint. He’s already said he’s not giving up your gold to the bastards under any circumstances, and for once, I think he’s bloody telling the truth.”

It was difficult to say whether Vane or Flint were more taken aback by this defense of the latter’s strategy, even as its drawbacks remained plainly apparent. Vane considered Killian for a long moment, blue eyes intent as burning coals, and then, still more unexpectedly, he said, “Fine. I’ll agree to it. But I’m not trusting Flint alone. I want you to ensure it.”

“What?” It was Killian’s turn to be taken aback. “You want me to go with him? I need to command the Jolie, and would you – I know you and Flint have your differences, to say the bloody least, but is it Captain Hook you’d trust any more?”

“I’m not trusting Captain Hook.” Vane continued to stare at him challengingly. “It’s Killian Jones the slave I’d put my faith in. Or am I wrong?”

Killian remained at a loss for words, even as Emma thought of Vane’s own origins, his undying hatred for men who would hold others in bondage, no matter their creed or color or created justification. This was, if nothing else, the one thing that Charles Vane and Killian Jones could see absolutely eye-to-eye on, especially as the subject of slaves rising from subjugation remained such a crucial part of the rest of their plans. Indeed, they continued to stand there, looking at each other, until Vane said, “Whoever you name to go along with Flint, that is who I will hold responsible for its success, and the return of my prize. Whoever you trust, I will as well. Whoever fails you fails me, and the consequences will be as they deserve.”

Killian opened and shut his mouth. He looked as if he was about to demand renegotiation of this condition, even knowing that he had no diplomatic leg left to stand on if he did, but just then, Emma spoke up. “I’ll go with Flint.”

Killian shot her an aghast look. “Swan. Wait.”

“I’ll go with Flint,” Emma repeated. “Nobody could question my importance to you, or think that you had anything less than the ultimate investment in my safe return. I know the area as well as Flint does, or better, because I spent plenty of time in it with the Blackbird. I made my living finding the places where the Royal Navy couldn’t follow me, and I can scout out somewhere to stash the gold. And Flint and I, we. . .” Her throat felt thick. “I began as a pirate with him. Maybe I end a pirate with him too.”

She couldn’t tell what expression crossed Flint’s face at that, if it was pride or grief or something else, as he looked away too quickly. Killian clearly did not want to consent to them being separated at any price, as it was all too likely that they would never see each other again. As he was still fishing for words, a new voice spoke. “Emma. You can’t go with him. None of you can.”

Emma turned just in time to see Billy Bones step out of the crowd, grim and defiant-looking, as he faced them down. “Don’t any of you hear yourselves? Once more agreeing to follow Flint into some lunatic plan, the darkest abysses of his mind, with only his word that it has any chance of success? Nobody else sees the arrogance of discussing the terms of surrender we might offer to Rogers, when he’s the one who has his boot on our necks? This involves baiting the Spanish and English like rival roosters in a fight – if there’s another war, it won’t just destroy them, it will destroy us too! Burn the world down, just for Flint’s private grief? It never ends. We’ve followed him from one hell to another. Jamaica, the mutiny there – I stopped that for you, Captain, you’re fucking welcome – then to Charlestown, to murder, to sacking, to storms, to doldrums, to captivity with the Maroons, and now this. I’ve had enough. Any man on the Walrus who feels the same is welcome to stand up now and join me. And Emma, it wasn’t Flint who saved you and gave you the first chance to join our world. It was me. You owe that all to me, not him. He would have butchered you like the rest. He likely still would. I’ve waited all this time, I’m not waiting any longer. Open your eyes. See what he really is.”

A murmur circulated through the crowd at these words, as Billy remained planted like a colossus in the sand, arms folded, staring at Emma. Her friend, the man she had trusted with Charlie and Henry’s safety, so often fought alongside, counted a valuable and steadfast ally. Heart already raw and bleeding from Miranda and Sam, she did not think she could bear to face this betrayal too. “Billy, don’t. Not now, we don’t have a choice, we – ”

“We don’t have a choice? Except to follow Flint’s plan, of course? How do we keep fucking ending up in situations where that is the only choice?” Billy looked around scathingly, as a few rumbles of support began to rise. “When this one inevitably blows up in our faces, what will the next excuse be after that, and the next? Anyone who wants to sail off with Flint on some doomed wild goose chase is welcome to it. Anyone who wants to fight with me as a free man, to overthrow all the tyrants here and not merely the ones in red coats, stand up. Stand up.”

“Billy.” Killian took a step toward him. “Billy, mate, don’t you think this could – ”

“I don’t want to hurt you, Jones.” Billy laid a hand on the blunderbuss slung across his chest. “But if you defend Flint one more time, if any one of you do, then – ”

“What?” Flint seemed almost about to laugh. “You’ll shoot them? Kill anyone who stands in your way, and then claim you’re a better man than me?”

“The only man I want to hurt here is you.” Billy’s gaze remained locked malevolently on his. “If that is what it takes to stop this sick bloody game from continuing to eternity.”

“Billy,” Silver began. “Come now, don’t – ”

“Are you siding with him now? You? When we agreed that he would get all of us killed?”

“Yes,” Silver said, simply and without pretention. “Yes, I am.”

Billy wheeled in a circle, as if appealing for any remaining man of sense to make themselves known to him on the instant. He stopped to once more stare at Emma, seemingly waiting for her to realize her error, apologize, and cross the sand to stand with him, but as much as it further battered her fragile soul to do, she did not move. “I’m sorry,” she said, barely above a whisper. “I’m staying with Flint.”

Billy flinched. Again he said, “You don’t owe him anything.”

“Maybe not.” Emma tilted her chin back to look at him. “I’m still staying.”

Bereft of the two highest-profile converts to his cause he had expected in Silver and Emma, and with a competing current of angry muttering starting to rise at the danger he was putting their last chance of striking back at Rogers in, Billy was – for the moment, and with the clear implication that he would entertain interested applicants later and in more privacy – forced to back down. But the air remained heavy and ugly, lines sharply drawn between various factions of the Walrus’ crew, and with the alliance and the strategy as tenuous as it was, this did not bode well at all for their chances of actually pulling it off. Nor could they idle a few days and see if tensions cooled down, as Rogers had set a twenty-four-hour deadline, and after a very unpleasant silence, Killian cleared his throat. “We need to get the gold moved from the Jolie to the Walrus.”

Flint shot him a bleak look, as if to ask if it was really a wise idea to put the treasure on his ship when half his crew might mutiny before the night was out – Billy couldn’t be the only one feeling that it was more than time to take their chances away from Flint’s maelstrom of catastrophes, just the only one brave enough to say it out loud. Since Flint had skated on perpetually thin ice in regard to his men’s loyalty for months now, this might be the watershed moment. Killian himself was far too versed in the difficulty of holding command, and the temptation of following anyone who promised a quick solution, to think that Billy would not have any takers. If worse came to worse, the Walrus could run with a skeleton crew, but that reduced their already razor-thin margin of error to zero. And if the defectors caused further trouble on their way out the door, that was not even guaranteeing that they got the chance to try.

Still. The alternative was to sit on their hands and waste precious time, and acting afraid of Billy would strengthen his position, if he saw that he could force them to reconsider. So, while Vane prowled in the background just to keep everyone suitably on edge and also to be sure that none of it was accidentally mislaid, the treasure was unloaded from the Jolie’s hold, rowed over to the Walrus, and secured belowdecks. If Vane had his way, Emma would have gone aboard with it at the same time, but Anne stepped over and said something in a quiet but forceful undertone. The end result was that Vane agreed, with rather bad grace, that Emma could spend the night on the Jolie with Killian, and join the Walrus at first light tomorrow.

When they were finally alone in the cabin, Emma felt something close to unreality sweep over her. That they should be back where it had all started, where she had been the pirate captain held by the Jones brothers aboard HMS Imperator, and that how it ended, if it ended, rested on the scale of the gamble they had to take tomorrow, after everything else they had already lost. She had to be strong again, she had to, and yet just now, in the darkness, in the quiet, in feeling everything she had pushed away for her own sanity, it was too much. She pressed a hand to her mouth, and went slowly to her knees, sobbing so hard that she did not make a sound.

In a flash, Killian was next to her, pulling her into his arms, hand on the back of her head and hook against her waist, holding her fiercely as they hit the floor together. He buried his face in her hair, his own breathing not sounding terribly steady, as both of them shook and shook as if they could not stop. He rocked her, kissing her cheek and her ear, as he lay down on the moonlit boards and she curled up next to him, head on his chest, their fingers linking. They said nothing for the longest time. Then Emma whispered, voice breaking, “I can’t believe Sam’s gone.”

“Me too, love.” She felt his throat move as he swallowed hard, trying to keep himself together. “The one consolation I have is that none of the bastards killed him. None of them defeated him, none of them ever did. He. . . he’s at rest in the sea now. At peace. I know I’d like to lie there too, if it came to that.”

“No.” Emma’s fingers clenched hard on his shirt. “Killian, no, I can’t. I can’t lose you. I couldn’t go on by myself, I’d. . .”

“Promise me.” He kept stroking her hair. “If, God bloody forbid, I die tomorrow, you still have to find Geneva and Henry. You have to keep living. Please.”

The words were locked in Emma’s throat. She wanted to ask him to do the same if she was the one who did not make it, not to give into Hook again, not to avenge himself on whoever might kill her – the odds being extremely good at the moment that if anyone, it would be Rogers. It seemed as if the only solace either of them would have, if one should die, was that the other would go on – yet for the surviving half, it would be the worst of all punishments. To go back to being alone, when before they knew each other, that had been their natural and preferred state. To have felt such pure and perfect connection and completion, the breath of each other’s souls, to be fashioned of the very same stardust, and then lose it – neither of them could endure. No one could. And yet, if it came to it, to honor the other’s final request, they would have to.

“There’s also the other possibility,” Killian said at length, when she did not answer. “We could both survive. We could return to each other. I know it seems bloody unlikely, but. . . we could. If we do, Emma, I. . . I don’t want to waste it. And I don’t think Sam would want us to.”

Emma laughed shakily, thinking of how colorfully and unambiguously Sam had told them to sort out their nonsense and be brave enough to get together. “No. I don’t think he would.”

“So.” Killian took a steadying breath. “I’ve thought of this for a long time, but I’ve never done it, because I’ve always been too bloody afraid for one reason or another. Or thought you’d change your mind, or that I simply don’t deserve it. I still might not, I don’t know. But if we do come through this, if there’s any day after this one when we see each other again – ”

“Killian.” Emma sat upright, pulling him with her, their foreheads touching. “Are you asking me to marry you?”

“I – ” He coughed, looking down at their entwined hands. “I didn’t want to presume, but – ”

Emma cut him off by kissing him, long and thoroughly, until they were breathless when they pulled apart. She brushed her nose against his, then leaned back to look at him. “Ask me.”

He looked briefly about to question, one more time, if she was sure. But a faint, fragile smile crossed his lips, almost despite himself, as he took her hand in his, and she reached out to grip his hook with the other. “Emma Swan,” he said softly. “Will you marry me?”

“Yes.” Her own smile was trembling, her tears both of unbearable joy and searing heartbreak, as she felt almost guilty for allowing herself any kind of happiness in this darkness – and yet if nothing else, being absolutely sure that Sam would categorically refuse to let them deny it to themselves on his account. “Yes, I will.”

Killian kissed her again, slower and longer, as they got up and walked backwards to the bed, climbing onto it together, as Emma unclicked the hook from its brace and pulled his arms around her neck. They shifted together as she straddled him, cupping his head in her hands, tracing the corner of his lips with her thumb, their mouths open and soft and searching. She was not healed entirely, and nor was he. But that seemed so poignantly, terribly fitting that Emma felt her heart twist almost sweetly at the realization. They were cracked and scarred and deeply worn from all the damage they had taken, the battles they had fought through, the loved ones they had lost, and the knowledge that there may yet be one ultimate price left to pay. Yet there was still their own choice to be made, their own small flame of hope and bravery to keep burning, if they could just love each other enough, one more time. Emma’s old instinct in the face of pain was, as ever, to wall herself away, just as Killian’s was to give into Hook. Yet if anything was going to come of this, if they were going to celebrate Sam’s life and grieve his death in any way that truly mattered, both of them had to do better. Had to rise above.

They remained moving slowly, almost in a dream, as they undressed, as Emma undid the buckles for Killian’s brace and slid it off his shoulders, until they were only in their skins. Touched each other gently and thoroughly, trying to smooth  away the shattered edges and the broken pieces. Settled among the pillows, the Jolie rocking at anchor beneath them, as Killian slid as carefully into her as if she was made of glass. Emma caught her breath, bracing herself with her hands on his shoulders, more worried about hurting him than she was for any pain of her own. They remained there for a seemingly eternal moment, completed, at peace, home. Home.

Finally, just as lightly and gently, Killian began to move, riding up into her as Emma’s hair fell loose around her shoulders. Neither of them could fail to be reminded of their first coupling, late at night in Miranda’s spare bedroom, when Emma had walked in and Killian could have pretended to be asleep. But he had not, he did not, and so they had come together, and they had made their daughter and their future and their time. However little. However much.

Emma gulped and gasped when they lost themselves in each other’s flesh, leaning forward onto Killian’s chest as he wrapped his arms around her back, holding her close, his breath against her cheek, their mouths finding their way for another musing kiss. At last she rolled off, settling next to him, pressed against his side as he pulled out the quilt and shook it out to cover them both. She settled her head into the hollow of his shoulder, knuckling the tears out of her eyes. She felt shaken to her bones, laid bare in every imaginable sense of the word. She wanted to weep and never stop, she wanted to be at rest in the sea herself. Wanted to blow on the wind, to rise like the morning star, to fall like the evening. It felt too much for one heart and one body to bear.

And yet. She was not alone, and no matter what, she would not be again. They were too inextricably united for that, in some simple, transcendent truth. As if she said that she loved Killian only because there was no other word for it, and that was the closest she could come to explaining such a more-than-mortal feeling. And here, now, just as much they had done on that first night together, no matter if this then might be the very last, they slept.

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

They were woken by the sound of shouting. Feet pounded outside, the ship’s bell clanged, and as Emma rolled over, willing with all her might for the morning not to have come just yet, there was a loud and harried rapping on the cabin door, which then burst open. “Captain. Captain!”

Killian stirred with a start, sitting up as Emma pulled the sheet around her chest. “What?”

“The men spotted a Navy frigate, less than a bell off. Dunno how Rogers got the information already, but he did. He’s coming after us, the Walrus has to be away immediately if she’s got any chance of outrunning him. He’s got the wind and the faster ship. Swan has to get over to Flint right now.”

Emma’s stomach turned an unpleasant flip. There was no way to be sure how Rogers had acquired the knowledge of the gold’s new location so dangerously ahead of schedule, but then, he had his own spies crawling over the island and was likely impatient for any hint as to whether or not the terms would be fulfilled. She pushed away the momentary, terrible suspicion that had occurred to her, and vaulted out of bed, dressing as fast as she could, as Killian did the same. The two of them hurried on deck together, to the men gathered at the railing with the spyglass and pointing at the white sails of the approaching vessel, as Killian gave terse orders for their own canvas to be raised and evasive action taken – after all, they needed to be sure that Rogers would chase the Walrus, not the Jolie. There was a boat waiting to ferry Emma to the former, and Killian helped her over the side, the trembling in his fingers making it clear how afraid he was to let her go. “Bloody hell, Emma. Be safe.”

“You too.” Emma looked up at him, their gazes locking, even as she heard the whistle and splash that meant Rogers had ordered his gunners to start trying the range. “Killian, I – I love you. Please. Please come back to me.”

“Christ.” His arms were around her, their mouths finding each other’s once and then again in a fevered, frantic goodbye kiss, as she wrapped both arms around his shoulders and for a brief, timeless moment, there was nothing in all of existence but the two of them. “I love you too, Emma. I love you always. Come back. Come back.”

In answer, Emma cupped his face and kissed him one more time, even as she felt the urgent tug on her boot that meant they had to go now. She could taste the salt of his tears or her own on her lips as she pressed his hand to her heart, kissed his fingers as he did the same with her, closing them over her palm as if to keep it caught there like a small bird in a cage. Then – it felt like tearing herself in half, like handing Geneva away to Regina, but almost worse – she pulled back and hung on as the boat launched, they shot down the Jolie, and hit the water. She could see Killian growing smaller and smaller as the men pulled the oars, his gaze never leaving her face even as the Jolie fell away behind. It seemed branded on Emma’s soul, unshakable, unforgettable. As if the world could and very well might end this very minute, but her memory of this moment, this parting, would endure into the darkness.

The Walrus was already moving when they reached it, and it took Emma a few tries to catch hold of the rope thrown down to her; it kept slipping out of the boat from the force of their wake. But she finally grabbed it, the wet hemp abrading her hands, threatening to wipe away the sensation of Killian’s last kiss, and braced herself as she was hauled up the side, somersaulting onto the deck. To her great surprise, she recognized the hauler: none other than Macintosh, who must have finally decided to join Flint’s crew permanently after his various stops following the destruction of the Blackbird. He gave her a hand to her feet. “Good to see ye again, Cap’n.”

Emma startled both of them further by hugging him, briefly and fiercely. “Where’s Merida?”

“Insisted on goin’ back to the Jolie for the attack on Nassau. Wants to fight redcoats personally, the daft wee lassie.” Macintosh managed a smile. “She wouldna listen to me when I told her it was foolish. Your man will look after her then, eh?”

“I’m sure he will.” Emma straightened up, then ducked again reflexively as a shot fell short – but not that short – of their aft quarters. “Jesus, Rogers is still gaining?”

“Aye, he’s cock-first up our arses, the perverted bugger.” Macintosh’s lips went thin. “Be bloody curious to know just who so happened to pass the information to him that the gold was moved, and gave him the jump on us, right as we were tryin’ to get a head start. Someone, say, who was at the moot last night. Heard all our plans, and was the one to publicly challenge them. And, it also so happens, isn’t here any more.”

Emma stared at him, a terrible cold feeling creeping over her, even more so since this aligned all too well with her earlier unworthy moment of suspicion. “You can’t be suggesting that Billy sold us out to Rogers?”

“Can I no?” Macintosh looked at her grimly. “I ken ye are – were, at least – friends with the man. But I’ve been on the Walrus, and ye havena. I’ve seen it brewin’. Last night was only the inevitable outcome. Billy’s come to hate Flint more and more, even considerin’ his torture by that sick bastard Hume – the torture we rescued him from, the bleedin’ ingrate. If he thought he could leverage something from Rogers, why not come to him with this prime piece of intelligence and give them both a shot at endin’ Flint? Enemy of my enemy is my friend. Billy’s probably justified it to himself. Got it all worked out. If Flint is captured and hanged, he canna do any more damage, and Rogers might be convinced to spare the other prisoners, if he has Flint to make an example of. Ye have to admit it’s neat. Bloody clever. Get the Navy to exact Billy’s revenge for him, take Flint down once and for all, and all the men whose lives he might save would be grateful to him. Even Woodes fuckin’ Rogers owes him a favor. Diabolical.”

Emma couldn’t answer. Macintosh’s theory struck a sickening note of truth on every chord, and she could see for herself that Billy was not among the men scuttling across the Walrus’ deck and loading the guns. If Rogers kept closing the gap, this would come to a shootout long before they could get him out to open water and have any chance of gutting him on a rock or reef or sandbar, as well as give the others any time to fight in Nassau without his interference. She remained frozen a moment longer, then whirled on her heel. “Take the wheel. You used to handle the Blackbird on these chases with the Navy. You can keep us just ahead.”

“Last one we outran like this was the Valiant.” Macintosh raised a skeptical eyebrow. “That was a sixth-rater too, but the Blackbird was faster and shallower on the draft. I’ll do me best, but – ”

“Whatever you have to do.” Emma pushed away the irony of the fact that the Valiant had been commanded by Captain Colter, Regina’s first love, and that had been the genesis of the other woman’s grudge against her. Any number of things seemed to be coming ominously full circle. “It’s likely far too much to hope for another convenient storm, but we can pray.”

Considering the circumstances of Sam’s death, that abruptly caught in her throat, as if she should be very careful what she wished for, and she bit her tongue, wishing she could take it back. Too late. For his part, Macintosh raised the other eyebrow, as if to say that praying for a miracle might indeed be their only option, but he went for the helm, and Emma for the cabin. Flint and Silver were inside, poring over the charts and having some sort of spirited disagreement, but they looked up at her entrance. “Well?” Flint said. “Any ideas how to scrape off the son of a bitch?”

“Working on it.” Emma had to catch her balance as the floor tilted sharply. Evidently, Macintosh was taking to heart her advice to try any inventive maneuver he could think of. “We have to get Rogers out of range, but we can’t lose him entirely. We need to keep him thinking he’s just about to catch us, stretch out the pursuit.”

Flint and Silver exchanged a look. Another whistle and splash echoed outside the window. Then Silver said, “If there’s anything we can afford to send overboard – extra cargo, supplies, ballast – the lighter we can get, the faster we can – ”

“In that case,” Flint said. “There’s a fucking obvious candidate, isn’t there?”

Emma and Silver stared at him blankly, until the latter got it first. “What? No. No, you can’t be suggesting that we throw the Spanish treasure into the sea. Bloody hell, this entire gambit was designed to avoid having to give it back! You said yourself we couldn’t even think of – ”

“We aren’t giving it back, are we?” Flint looked blackly amused. “There are twelve chests of solid gold and silver bullion, gems, ingots, and other precious items in our hold. Even one contains more money than we are likely to have need of in a lifetime. Dumping the rest would take off close to a ton of weight. Rogers is welcome to call off the chase and dive overboard, if he thinks he can get them. But he can’t stop us from doing it, from denying it to him outright, forcing his hand. No one can.”

“Are you mad?” Silver looked as if he supposed he didn’t need to ask the question, but did nonetheless. “Ask the men to just throw all these unfathomable riches into the deep? And have you even thought what – ”

“I’m the safeguard for that gold,” Emma broke in. “If it gets lost, if it doesn’t come back for any reason, Vane will – I don’t know what he’ll do to me, but it won’t be good. That’s why I had to come along in the first place. There has to be another – ”

“Rogers will kill Madi,” Silver interrupted, the two of them talking over each other. “And Rackham and the others, but he’ll bloody kill her and – ”

“Not if he doesn’t make it back to Nassau.” Flint seemed entirely unmoved by their chorus of condemnation. “Either of you have a better idea for lightening our load?”

“Vane will – ”

“Vane’s not the only one who might just have to lose something – some things – bloody dear to him.” Flint’s face was dead white, his eyes like hollow tunnels. “The sea took Sam away from us, Emma. Why is it that it can’t take Vane’s gold too? For fucking certain he doesn’t actually love any other person. He might have loved Eleanor once, aye, but she’s betrayed us. Why does he get to keep anything else? Why do any of us?”

“James.” Emma reached for his hand, but he jerked it back. “You know Sam wouldn’t want – ”

“We don’t know what Sam would want, do we?” Flint’s voice was close to a roar. “Because he’s dead! Because he’s dead, and so is Miranda, and likely the rest of us anyway, so what does it matter if we get rid of the gold or not? Besides, Sam himself reminded us that he was no angel, that he was as fully capable of wishing death and destruction on his enemies as any of us! He was the one who refused any notion of a pardon, of ever giving up this life, and I bloody wish I had listened to him! If I had, if I had never even thought of Charlestown and Ashe and that there was any fucking chance of it, this would never have happened! Miranda and Sam might still be alive. But they’re not. They’re not!”

Emma opened and shut her mouth, heartsick, as Flint once more snatched away from her. Silver looked mildly stunned but still stubborn, as there was another, closer-sounding boom past the hull. It was clear that if they weren’t going to take his suggestion to ditch the treasure, something else had to give, and both of them had a sensation of Flint as an inferno burning at full and devouring blast, consuming all light and air and collapsing down and down into a void. In that moment, Emma almost wondered if Billy was right, and approaching even a man as dangerous as Woodes Rogers was a necessary risk to stop Flint before he incinerated the entire world. But Rogers was no better, would calmly eradicate everyone she cared about in the name of law and order and the triumph of civilization, and the moment of truth was upon her. Agree with Flint, and order the treasure – most of it, at any rate – thrown overboard, or oppose him, and –

Just then, a new set of guns thundered fairly near at hand, and the Walrus rocked and skewed – but Emma didn’t think that they had been hit, or that the volley had been aimed at them. She, Flint, and Silver spun to stare at each other, and then – dilemma briefly forgotten in their haste – they spilled out of the cabin and onto the deck, awash in acrid gunsmoke, shouting men, and splinters from where one of Rogers’ shots had clipped them. But it wasn’t Rogers who commanded their attention. That would be the newly arrived ship that had just opened fire, sailing on a direct intercept between the Walrus and the pursuing Navy frigate, and which everyone recognized at once. The one and only Queen Anne’s Revenge. Bloody hell.

“Blackbeard?” Flint said incredulously, voicing the general sentiment. “Jesus Christ. I thought he was sacking Antigua?”

“He was going to try.” Emma spoke tersely, gaze never wavering, as she wasn’t sure if this apparently opportune materialization was all that opportune or not. Blackbeard had wanted to sack Antigua very much, yes, but he had also made no secret of his desire to destroy the Windsor, his old ship, in recompense for the crimes of Captain George King, and gave exactly none of a well-polished shit that David Nolan was now in command of her instead. If Blackbeard was in the neighborhood, that most likely meant either that he was chasing or had already taken and sunk the Windsor, and that Nolan might never have made it to Antigua with the charges and evidence of Gold’s treason. If so, everything that Sam, Killian, and Emma had done to identify and expose Gold’s illicit association with the Star Chamber went for nothing, and they had lost their last and best chance to take him down. Nothing. Nothing.

At that, something close to madness took hold of Emma. She clutched the rail, determined not to buckle under to the brief and wild impulse to order the Walrus to turn her guns on the Revenge. There was no proof, and any number of things could have happened instead. At least the unexpected advent of another well-armed enemy was giving the Navy frigate serious second thoughts about continuing the pursuit – which was not actually a good thing, since that was their entire strategy – and peering through the spyglass, Emma thought she could spot Rogers shouting at someone on the forecastle. She clicked it closed, a reckless fury burning through her, and turned to Macintosh. “Go below,” she ordered. “Get one of the treasure chests, and bring it up here. I want Rogers to see it.”

He goggled at her, as did Silver, both of them clearly wondering if Flint’s insanity was contagious, but after a moment, he snapped his mouth shut, spun on his heel, and vanished into the hold, having corralled a nearby crewman to help. They returned in short order with one of the heavy chests, lugging it between them with muttered Scots oaths on Macintosh’s part, boosting it up onto the hatch cover. With a shot across the bow to make sure Rogers was paying attention (and for that matter, Blackbeard) Flint chinked open the lock with a few brutal blows and let the gleam of gold catch the sun, thus to ensure that if Rogers had any thoughts about calling off the chase, it would be an exceedingly costly decision, literally. A murmur spread across the Walrus at the sight of it, and all at once, there was no more fire from the Navy frigate – Rogers would clearly not risk hitting them and sinking it. Now he had to do what they wanted him to: chase them and recapture it with a hand-to-hand boarding party, rather than long-range gunfire. And if he was not prepared to take that risk, he’d just have to watch it sail away.

With that, Flint slammed the lid shut, looped the broken lock back in and jammed it into place, and divided a very deliberate look among the crowd, as if to ask who else wanted to question his strategy now. The fact that it had been, strictly speaking, Emma’s idea to bring up the treasure was insignificant, and Flint was not about to waste time over it. Especially not when once more, he had the advantage.

While Rogers was thus briefly in confusion about what to do, the Walrus and the Revenge began to stretch the distance, finally getting clear of even the long nines, and when the frigate was a small shape on the horizon, they drew close in hopes of a parlay. They did not have to wait long, as that glimpse of Spanish treasure had also alerted Blackbeard to the fact that there was a profitable opportunity which he should do something about. “Well?” he said, as soon as they were face to face. “How much of the haul do you have?”

“Who says we have the haul at all?” Flint, of course, was not nearly about to let slip such a literally valuable piece of information. “And even if so, what the fuck makes you think you get to have anything to do with it? We knew exactly what we were doing, before you waltzed into the middle of it and nearly ruined everything. So piss off wherever you were going, and – ”

“The Navy was shooting at you, mate.” Blackbeard raised a bushy eyebrow. “Getting them off your arse would normally rate some thanks.”

“The Navy was supposed to be shooting at us, you – ”

“Captain Thatch,” Emma broke in, before this could get any further out of hand. Rogers still had the wind, was still making up distance, and they had only fifteen minutes or so before they would have to move again. “What did you do in Antigua? Did you attack the Windsor, or Captain David Nolan? He had extremely important intelligence on Robert Gold, if you stopped him from – ”

“And since when do we count on the Navy to serve as our scurrying page boys?” Blackbeard was unmoved. “But as it happens, the reason I’m back around here is because I’ve been chasing the Windsor, yes. In the meantime, I’ve had a few modest successes against the merchant shipping in the Leewards, and the Navy frigates in the Jamaican corridor. This war is being fought on other fronts than Nassau alone, you know.”

“Modest,” Emma repeated, suspecting either that Blackbeard’s definition of the word was vastly different from the usual, or he was deliberately underselling his accomplishments for negotiation purposes. “Is the Windsor returning this way, then? Did she make it to Antigua the first time?” There existed the unpleasant – indeed, the unpleasantly plausible – possibility that David had arrived, delivered his infelicitous intelligence, and been snapped up like a fat robin with a worm, as Gold must have realized that his letter had been stolen and made immediate plans to cover his tracks. If so, David could be moldering in an Antiguan gaol-cell – possibly the same one they had put Sam in, just for that extra irony – and command of the Windsor reassigned to a loyal man who would be certain to follow orders, and put the powerful third-rater properly to work in the war effort. After the Navy had already lost the Imperator, they would be especially keen to avoid further egg on their faces, and the problem of another sixty guns either in the pirates’ hands or at least not actively thwarting them, by ensuring that the same did not befall the Windsor. If so, they could not tell Blackbeard to refrain from sinking her (whether or not this would make a difference anyway) if what had always been a flimsy gambit had finally fallen through.

“Well?” Emma pressed. “Did she?”

Blackbeard shrugged. “Fucked if I know. I can tell you, nothing I’ve heard makes it sound as if that bastard Gold has been anywhere close to overthrown. In any event, since it wears on your maidenly scruples to do so, and because I can see our present conundrum as much as you, I’ll make you a deal. Half that treasure, and I’ll take that Navy ship down for you. Give you time to do whatever you want with the rest of it, and make it back to Nassau. Shorten the odds a bit for whichever of your lot you’ve left back there – Bellamy or Rackham or Hook, I presume. Or – ”

“That’s not just any bloody Navy ship,” Flint said, icily as a frozen lake. “That’s Woodes Rogers. Governor Woodes Rogers.”

“Even better then, eh? I sink him, the war’s all but over. Take him prisoner, that is, and sink his ship, but there you have it. Or did you not care for the thought of sharing your glory? Wanted it to be your achievement alone?” Blackbeard’s eyes were sharp in his ruddy, windburned face. “He can’t match the Revenge. I run forty guns, he has at most twenty. By the way, where’s Charles? You heard anything of him?”

“Back in Nassau, actually. He and Hook are leading that attack. And for that matter, trying to rescue Jack Rackham from the English.”

“Calico Jack, the chinless wonder?” Blackbeard snorted. “I’ve never understood why a man like Charles kept that one around. Of all of us that could be kidnapped, I’d say he’s the best option we could have chosen.”

“It’s complicated,” Emma said, glancing nervously sidelong at Rogers’ ship. Under ten minutes until they very much needed to keep going, sooner if they wanted a decent head start, and she turned to Flint. “This is already hard enough for us, no need to make it harder. If we can get Blackbeard to take out Rogers for half the treasure, that’s not a terrible bargain. Hide the rest of it, make it back to Nassau, help Killian and Vane. If all goes well, we recapture the island, and have all the bargaining position with both Spain and England we could ask for.”

Flint gazed at her bleakly, as if to ask what in their recent history made her think that such a fortuitous outcome was remotely possible, but after a moment, he jerked his head once. He and Blackbeard could not formally shake on the deal, as they were still aboard their respective ships, but they spat in their palms and held them up as signal of agreement. Then a dozen burly members of the Revenge’s crew swung across to the Walrus and disappeared into the hold, as Blackbeard was evidently not about to perform this service on credit. It took long enough to set Emma’s nerves on edge – Rogers’ ship was now close enough that if it had been a usual fight, he would have started firing again, and it was still slightly perplexing that he wasn’t. But the Revenge men finally reappeared, heaved six chests of the Spanish treasure onto the deck of their own ship with pulleys, ropes, thumps and crashes, and clambered back over. Rogers himself must have surely witnessed this transaction, and must also be wondering why in creation the pirates were stopping to juggle treasure loads on the very precipice of a pitched battle. But hopefully he would also think that that was all of it, and he could conveniently recapture it if and when he took the Revenge. Or –

Still, though. At this close vantage, something looked strange about the Navy frigate – Emma caught a glimpse of the gilted lettering on the bow and the carved figurehead, and saw that its name was HMS Rose. There weren’t any men visible on the deck, the sails were loose and slacking, and smoke was rising from the hatch covers. The braces were out of the capstan, and the deck was in general disarray. They stared at it, less than a thousand yards away and drifting slightly, as Flint could be observed wondering if he had just paid far too much for a service that was about to be accomplished essentially for free. (Easier when it was his biggest rival’s money, but still.) “Explosion in the powder magazine?” he guessed, glancing at Emma. “That could have disabled her like that, but – ”

“We didn’t hear any explosion.” Emma felt something strange and cold on the back of her neck. “James, come on, we need to go. Right now.”

Blackbeard looked over at them from the deck of the Revenge. “Go on, Flint,” he called. “I think my lads and I can handle this just fine. Still, might be some mop-up work later, if that interests you. Or you can sit back and watch how to do this properly.”

“Come on.” Emma pulled on Flint’s arm. “Now!”

With a final stare between the Revenge and the Rose, Flint spun around, barked at the helmsman to pull them away, and ordered the others up the shrouds to loose full canvas. The wind caught them abruptly, pushing them hard across the water, the half-ton reduction in their weight certainly noticeable. Flint himself remained where he was, clearly chafing at first being bilked and then all but gift-wrapping such a legendary triumph for Blackbeard. When this story got told and retold, it would surely feature a perilous chasing-down and duel to the death, rather than all but strolling aboard unopposed. And yet, something was still not sitting quite right with Emma. This wounded-fawn act, if that was what it was. After their last encounter with Rogers, nothing could be ruled out, and all she wanted was distance between them and that ship.

A small sandbar island, and then another, soon appeared and had to be navigated around, which also had the effect of cutting off the line of sight behind them to the Revenge and the Rose. There still had been no sound of cannons, the echo of which carried very well over water, so whatever was going on, it was not an ordinary battle. When the two ships had vanished altogether in the white glare of sea and sky, Silver was the one to turn to Flint and Emma. “Very well, that worked far better than I imagine any of us anticipated. Now find us somewhere to stash the rest of it, and let’s get the fuck back to Nassau.”

Emma could detect a certain personal edge in Silver’s eagerness to return, which she of course shared with her desire to return to Killian as soon as possible. So she ducked back into the cabin with Flint and pulled out one of the older charts, feeling a pang of loss for the Blackbird and its wealth of information on such secret bogs and byways. After extensive consultation, they finally determined that there might be a possibility that lay north by northeast from here, one of the caches used in Captain Henry Avery’s day, a rugged spit well out in the Atlantic with the foreboding name of Skeleton Island. The exact coordinates were rather (and most likely for such a place, deliberately) murky, but this was the sort of thing that Emma had made her name on. She fetched Macintosh to have a look, he agreed that he could likely hack it if they took at least a rough heading, and they struck out.

They sailed for the rest of the day and well into the night. The mood aboard the Walrus was still tense, as well as increasingly angry as the news of Billy’s apparent betrayal spread, and there was a certain proprietary feeling that they had given away enough of the treasure now, thanks, especially if it was going to result in Blackbeard getting to obnoxiously gloat every time he saw them. Silver would have been pacing if he had two good legs, and it was clear that this was already taking much longer than he wanted. For her part, Emma tried to settle down in the stuffy cabin, but rest was very far away, especially with the shadowed shape of Flint sitting at the table by the dim light of a lantern and drinking his way steadily through a bottle of rum. Once or twice, Emma heard something that sounded almost like a muffled sob, but it was so quiet that it was impossible to be sure, and she knew that Flint was too raw to tolerate any more attempts at comfort. So she merely lay there, pretending to sleep.

At some point, this must have finally turned into real sleep, because she woke with a start in pearly-grey predawn light. Flint was gone, and she rolled over stiffly, swinging her legs over the side, pulling on her boots, and knotting her tangled hair off her neck. The air was so steamy that it felt like a Turkish bathhouse, sticking her clothes to her as if she had been caught in a downpour and billowing through the cabin and across the deck as she stepped outside. The Walrus was cutting a track through otherwise mirror-glass water, and she could hear a faint, raucous chorus of birds. Not just gulls. Birds meant land, which meant –

Emma climbed up into the forecastle, and felt her breath catch. For a fabled pirate haunt of yesteryear, Skeleton Island – as it plainly was – did look the part. They were entering a narrow mouth that cut between two lofty, steep-sided bluffs, summits obscured in the thick mist and the shore rocks sharp enough to tear out their hull if they were not quite careful about navigation. According to the sketchy description in the logs, this channel led a considerable distance inland to the deepwater lagoon at the center, one of the two “eyes” of the skull that gave the island its name. This eye was surrounded by thick jungle on three sides, leading up to a formidable labyrinth of waterfalls, caves, and other opportune places for an adventurous swashbuckler to deposit a secret cache. There were also several legends to the effect that this island had swallowed said swashbucklers along with their stash, which Emma put firmly out of her head.

That reminded her, however, that there was still the ticklish question of who was going to know the location of this one. She would have to, as she was the person entrusted to convey it back to Vane (notwithstanding the small fact that they had given half of it to Blackbeard – but Vane and Blackbeard were partners, more or less, so this was not the worst choice of alternative custodians). Whoever buried it would have to know as well, and somehow avoid becoming a target for their peers who would be after them to cough it up. Flint was not liable to agree to be left out of the reckoning, nor was Silver. And considering the service they had done, the Walrus’ crew were not likely to forego a generous commission for themselves. With Billy’s accusations that they only ever did anything as it pleased Flint still close at hand, they by no means would have been forgotten, especially when half a dozen chests of a lot of money were involved.

Just then, a hand on her back startled the living daylights out of her, and she whirled around, biting a yelp, to see Flint looking down at her. “I’ve been thinking,” he said quietly, after a glance to ensure that they were alone apart from Macintosh, drowsing at the wheel at the other end of the ship. “I don’t think you should know the location of the treasure stash.”

Considering that she had of course just been thinking about that exact topic, Emma briefly wondered if Flint had developed the capacity to read minds, which did not seem out of the question. “What? No. I have to. Do you think Vane is going to take your word for it alone as to wherever it ends up hidden? I’m the – ”

“The guarantor, yes,” Flint completed, sounding as if he had been anticipating this argument. “As for that, the plan has already changed once, and I don’t doubt it will change again before this is through. But Emma, think about it. As long as you know the location, you will never be safe. Half of these poxy halfwits will take it into their heads to threaten you or hunt you down until you give them the bearings, and probably force you along to ensure their accuracy. It’s doubtful whether you would survive such a venture or not, and I’d wager the latter. If you want any hope of leaving this life behind for good, if you ever want the past to stay where it belongs and not haunt you for the rest of your days, you’d prefer to remain safely ignorant.”

Emma stared up at him. She couldn’t deny that this argument made a certain amount of morbid sense, but she was far too well acquainted with Flint to think that it came without a heaping helping of ulterior motives. “Is that what you really want? To protect me?”

He regarded her coolly. “Is that so unbelievable?”

Emma supposed that all things considered, it might not be, as she had been the one encouraging him to remember that he had others left to live for. Still, just as with the Rose’s apparent desertion and destruction, there was something niggling her. “But you’ll still know the spot?”

“I have nothing left to lose.” Flint said it almost simply, matter-of-factly. “You do.”

Emma held his gaze for a long moment, wishing that she could put aside that last qualm, do for him as she had urged him to do with her, and trust him unconditionally. Miranda had, and Flint surely loved Miranda more than enough to make Emma at least reasonably certain that that forbearance and protection extended to her. But now, at the end, after everything, she couldn’t quite get all the way, cross that final bridge. Agree, but with her eyes wide open.

“Fine,” she said. “I won’t know it.”

Flint paused, then nodded. He descended the forecastle and crossed the deck, then took over on the wheel from Macintosh, who was clearly hankering for the chance to go below and fall into his hammock. Emma herself made for the cabin in search of food, if Flint had any and not just rum, then jumped as the door shut with a clunk behind her and she turned to confront her second unexpected audience of the morning. “So,” John Silver enquired. “What did he say to you?”

“Excuse me?” Emma eyed him warily. “Do I have to tell you?”

“I suppose not.” Silver smiled, but without his usual flippant edge, and it never reached his eyes. “But it might be useful if you did. You and I are more on the same side of things than you and Flint, Emma. We both want to get back to Nassau, and soon. Flint. . . doesn’t.”

“What? So you’re trying to feel me out for the possibility of – I don’t know, what exactly are you proposing?” Emma’s tone was cool. “Willing to stand with Flint at the moot when Billy was challenging him, but now that the chips are down, you’re having second thoughts?”

“Just hear me out.” Silver hobbled nearer, seating himself heavily in the chair. “Believe me, I am not a monster. I am not unsympathetic to Captain Flint’s losses. But you and I can both see that he’s at the end of his rope, and does not particularly care what happens either to him or any of us. You and I want to get back to Nassau as soon as possible, to do it in some state that leaves us at least marginally prepared for a future, and for whatever fight it takes to achieve it.”

“This is about Madi.” Emma could honestly say that she had not expected that, not from someone as relentlessly self-interested as Silver. “You genuinely care for her, don’t you?”

Silver made a fist, then flattened it on the scarred wood of the tabletop, in a gesture reminiscent of Flint’s. “I don’t think she’s acceptable collateral damage, no. Even outside of her value to the Maroons and whatever slender chance we have of pulling this off. Flint, on the other hand, doesn’t care whether she lives or dies, or at least if he does, he’s hiding it spectacularly. He might care slightly more about Hook, but only slightly, and if Vane tripped on a molehole and broke his neck tomorrow, you know he’d shed no tears. He has nothing left holding him to Nassau personally, and you and I both know that Flint’s fight is always personal. He’ll be happy to stay out here for days, even weeks, if that was what it took to outsmart Rogers and consolidate his advantage with the treasure. We can’t afford it.”

“So?” The same as she had with Flint, Emma could see the sense on the face of this, but had to probe carefully for whatever else was running beneath the surface. “What are you asking me to do?”

Silver looked at her directly. “Nothing, right now. Only to think whether you’ll choose Hook, or your loyalty to Mrs. Barlow’s memory. I know you cared about her, and about Flint by extension. But if it comes to a decision between returning to Nassau and saving Hook’s life, or staying here and possibly letting him die, I think I know which one you’ll pick.”

“And what? He’s your friend, is that what you’re going to say? Your father held him and Liam in bondage, he – ”

“That was my father’s crime.” Silver’s voice was very cool. “Not mine. Both of you seem determined to hold a grudge against me for wanting away from everything I used to be with all my heart, the same as the Jones boys. As if I somehow did them an eternal wrong by not jeopardizing my own escape with theirs – what the fuck was I supposed to do? I was a child too. And Liam killed my father and his crew anyway, so if I’d stayed, I would have drowned with them. It doesn’t matter. We’ve all ended up here. If I’m being honest, Flint’s my friend far more than Hook is, and yet I don’t have any illusions about what he is capable of. I don’t want to ask you to decide between Hook and Miranda, but I also don’t want you to think that it might not come down to that. And in that case, only one of them is alive to thank you for it.”

Emma had no response for that, for Silver’s quiet but undeniable anger, at the knowledge that he could very well be right. They remained staring at each other across the table, the weird misty shadows shifting in the morning haze, as the Walrus continued to sail down the channel into the depths of this fey place. “We’ll get back to Nassau,” she said at last, aware that she had promised one thing to Flint and now had to promise another to Silver, but seeing no other path in either case. “We’ll save Madi and Killian. I just don’t want that to involve sacrificing Flint.”

“I don’t either. For what it’s worth.” Silver ran a hand over his scruffy dark beard, looking tired. “But I’m not entirely sure that he’ll give us a choice.”

Emma opened her mouth, was interrupted by a shout from outside, and peering through the cabin window, could see that they appeared to have reached their destination. She hesitated, then gave Silver a hand to his feet, and they emerged with the rest of the crew to take a good look at the eye of the skull. There was a narrow strip of beach that could serve for a landing spot, and the lagoon water was almost completely calm, the rich color of a priceless sapphire. “Take a sounding,” Flint ordered. “I want to know how deep it is.”

The line was retrieved and thrown overboard, then finally drawn back up with the result that it was at least sixty fathoms, and they had run out of rope before being able to know for certain. There were places in the Caribbean known as blue holes, where the bottom fell out of the ocean among surrounding shallower water, and it seemed that they were currently afloat directly above one of them, which meant they could not put down anchor in the traditional fashion. This would not be much of a problem, as they could hardly drift far, but still would require vigilance to make sure that they didn’t get too friendly with the sharp coral spines closer in. God, this place was desolate. Presumably other pirates had been here in the past, but there was no hint of them at all, that the Walrus’ crew was anything other than the very first human beings to lay eyes on it, and it was giving Emma the shivers. She would have wanted the hell out of here, now, even without the incentive of assuring Killian’s safety and success back in Nassau. She devoutly hoped that Flint was not planning to linger.

Whatever he was planning, at any rate, was (as usual) unclear. He calmly divided the crew into six teams, each to find a separate location to hide a chest, which was – Emma had to admit – a solid strategy. Each man was thus clued in on one, would therefore not feel the need to shake down the rest of the crew for information on a share, and could consider himself integral to the overall effort. Since they did not want to be tramping through unfamiliar and potentially dangerous jungle while slowed down with heavy loads, they would run their scouting mission first, find their spot, and then return to get their trunk. Indeed, this solution was so uncharacteristically democratic that Emma had to wonder – especially when Flint announced that he would be staying behind to keep an eye on the Walrus. All that effort to convince her to forego knowing the treasure’s location, and he wasn’t going to accompany at least one of the teams to find a hiding place? Emma was not particularly keen to do it herself, especially considering how much she already disliked this hellhole, but she almost wondered if she should. If nothing else, because it might startle Flint into showing his hand. Might.

Silver, however, noted at once that he was no good at long and physically taxing slogs on one leg, would also stay behind, and Emma knew that he had detected some potential mischief he wanted to keep an eye on. That decided her on the same, as she wasn’t sure it was a wise idea to leave Flint and Silver alone with no supervision, and after some further haggling, the six teams started going ashore. As she watched them clamber out of the ship’s boat and start up the sand toward the impenetrable trees, the chill clutched Emma’s spine more ferociously than ever. “James,” she said in an undertone. “I don’t want to be wrong for trusting you.”

Flint raised a coppery eyebrow, as if to say that if she wanted to make that decision, he was surely no one to stop her. Then he threw an irritated glance at Silver, who had stationed himself pointedly nearby with the clear intention of clinging to him like a barnacle. “What? Think I’ll go up in a cloud of purple smoke and turn out to actually be Rogers if you look away?”

“No.” Silver didn’t budge. “But Miss Swan and I were both wondering why you would so easily give up your chance to choose the hiding spot for at least one of the chests. Nor has it escaped us that at the moment – with the crew all ashore, spread out, and the treasure still here on the Walrus – the only man who is currently in command of it is. . . you.”

Something flickered across Flint’s face at that, too obliquely to be sure what. All he said, however, was, “Then you can’t count very well. By my reckoning, there are three of us.”

“Two and one doesn’t always add up to three.” Silver continued to stare him down. “You know, this doesn’t have to be a drawn-out guessing game. You could just tell us what you’re doing.”

“Us?” Flint’s lip curled. “What, you think she’s on your side now?”

“I’m on my own side.” Emma’s heart was starting to pick up. “But I also want to know what you’re doing. You could just leave it this way. Let the men each stash one of the chests, we get out of here, we go back to Nassau. If Blackbeard managed to capture Rogers, we could even have a real chance. Please, James. Please. Don’t let this all be for nothing.”

Flint jerked slightly, but did not respond. It was left to Silver, staring at him in a kind of horrified fascination, to finally speak. “You have no intention of going back to Nassau, do you?” he said. “You never have, from the moment you somehow convinced Charles Vane to let you load his treasure onto your ship and sail away with it. If I am not much mistaken, you also have no intention of letting anyone else have it. That was why you insisted on finding out how deep it was here. It was your plan all along to dump it, not something you thought up on a whim about lightening our load. Keep one chest, the whereabouts of which only you would know, and throw the rest away, a final middle finger to the Spanish, the English, and Vane alike. And then. . . what? Jesus Christ, what? Suicide by mob? Enrage the crew so much when they discovered it that they would go ahead and finally kill you in some inventive fashion, what they’ve only barely been prevented from doing for so long? What?”

Once more, a muscle worked in Flint’s cheek. But he still said nothing.

“No.” Emma uttered the word almost by reflex, not wanting to believe it. “James, no. Everything that’s left for you, for us, for the war – ”

“Fuck the war.” Flint spoke at last, his voice sounding as rusty as if it had been torn out of him. “I was going to help end it anyway, by taking Rogers, before Edward fucking Thatch turned up and sent everything sideways. That was how I intended to go out. I killed Hume, I killed Ashe, I killed Hornigold, I brought the Maroons to Nassau, and lastly, I meant to capture Rogers and leave it to you to sort out what the fuck to do with him and the future you still somehow think is possible. I’ve done my part, and more than that. I’m finished. I’m through. I have nothing left to give, or lose, or hope for, or do. So don’t you dare fucking ask it of me.”

Emma almost cringed at the raw, lashing agony in his voice, the utter and complete emptiness on his face, as she took an involuntary step toward him. But he moved away from her, as even Silver seemed momentarily stymied. Then Emma said, “When you didn’t want me to go with the others to know the treasure’s location – what does it matter, if you were always intending to ditch it? What you said about protecting me – is – is that even what you meant?”

“Aye.” Flint’s green eyes resolved on her. “I wanted to protect you, and I wanted you to know the truth. Well then. You think I’m a liar. You both do. I won’t deny I’ve been so, in the past, and I’ve lived in my deceptions and my ghosts and my masks. This, though. This is the bloody truest thing I’ve ever done, and I don’t care if you can see it that way or not. The less you knew, Emma, about anything, the less you could be blamed for it. I never asked for you to come along on this. You volunteered. And Miranda loved you. This was not what I wanted.”

“Not what you wanted?” Emma wasn’t sure she entirely liked the sound of that. “You said earlier that the plan had changed. But it hasn’t, has it? You’re still doing what you meant to do all along. You haven’t stopped. But there’s time. It’s not irreversible. Yet.”

Flint simply looked back at her, as if asking if that was supposed to make a difference to him.

“You’d – what? Just suppose the crew would take it for granted that I didn’t know anything, when we’ve been working together this entire time?” Emma had thought she was more or less on top of whatever was going on, but she was realizing how much she wasn’t, and it felt like falling into the depths of the very blue hole that yawned beneath them. “You didn’t want me to be caught in the crossfire, but that wasn’t enough to change your mind about what you were doing. James, listen to me. Listen to me. Step down, let me take over as captain for the voyage back, and I won’t tell the crew about any of this. We’ll still have the gold, we’ll still have – ”

“I am not,” Flint said, quietly and lethally, “going back to Nassau.”

“Fine, then. Don’t. But let me get the Walrus and her men back. What did you mean to do, burn all of us on your funeral pyre?” Emma’s throat felt ashen, as she remembered Miranda using the exact same words to her back on Poseidon’s island, as they discussed the possibility of having to leave their men behind to build a new life elsewhere. But if it should be ultimately and terribly necessary, we should not be asked to sacrifice ourselves on their altars, to burn alive on their funeral pyres. If it is death in Nassau, or life in Boston, you know what we have the responsibility, the dignity, the right to choose.

Flint shrugged. “No, not necessarily. By my calculations, I’d be dead. What happened after that was your concern.”

“Jesus,” Silver said. “So you’d keep one chest, hide it – presumably while all the men were on shore and distracted – and then ensure that you quite literally took the secret to your grave. So what, subsequent generations could drive themselves mad knowing it was here somewhere, searching for Captain Flint’s lost treasure? I can’t deny it would be a fitting legacy for a man like you. But you can’t. Fuck, you can’t. Let Emma and I fix this, and you can still – ”

Flint’s eyes flicked between them. Then he reached down, grasped hold of his sword, and drew it, bringing the blade up as formally as if to the opening of a duel, awaiting the gauntlet to be thrown, the handkerchief dropped. “I don’t,” he repeated, “want to hurt either of you.”

Emma’s hand fell as if in a trance to the hilt of her own sword. Some volition not her own moved to pull it free, even as she thought of how it had begun – a fight on the deck of a ship when this very ship had attacked it, when she and Flint had been strangers and adversaries. She could not stand to think of the possibility that it might also be how it ended, especially now that they were friends and allies – or so at least, until now, she had thought. She knew she could never hurt him either and live with herself, but forced to make ready to defend herself. “James,” she said. “James. Please don’t make us do this. Miranda – Miranda would never – ”

Swords out, they circled each other, as Silver looked at Emma for a long moment, as if to say he had tried to warn her that it was going to come to this. He was, of course, terribly and bitterly correct, but there was no savor in it for either of them. Emma could not bring herself to be the first to strike at Flint, to cross the Rubicon once and for all, as she was utterly sure that this was the last thing either Miranda – or Sam – would have wanted. Flint, for his part, seemed to have the same hesitation, although she could not be exactly sure what his owed itself to. The edges of their blades touched, scraped, but did not quite clash. Emma wanted to throw the sword away, wanted to clutch at Flint, shake him, stop this slow-motion shipwreck somehow. But just then, Silver uttered a sharp noise of surprise which distracted both of them from the world’s most half-hearted fight, and they whirled to look. Then stared.

There was a ship visible at the far end of the lagoon, just emerging from the thick fog like a phantom. It was also immediately recognizable: the Queen Anne’s Revenge, somewhat the worse for wear but still afloat, and Flint and Emma squinted at it, too confused to immediately get back to the business of squaring off (and possibly relieved). “How the fuck did he get here?” Silver asked. “Aye, well, I suppose he has the same charts as us, he could have made a lucky guess as to where we were bound, but wasn’t he off to hunt the Windsor?”

“Yes,” Emma said slowly. “Yes, he was.”

“If he’s taken Rogers, though – ” Despite himself, a flaring hope flashed across Flint’s face, as if he could claim that he was done with the war all he wanted, but he still cared whether or not it was. As if even in his extremity and his uttermost end, that remaining tiny kernel of idealism and belief could not be completely crushed, somewhere deep inside him. Which was why it was somehow worse when the Revenge drew nearer, and nearer still, and something shifted inside Emma like the stroke of a pendulum. Swift and hard and inexorable.

“James,” she said. “Wait. Something is – ”

Flint wasn’t listening. He was looking up at the deck of the pirate ship as if still waiting for Blackbeard to appear, but he didn’t. Silver looked aghast, Emma had an absurd impulse to shout, to do something, anything else than seeing what she was seeing. As someone stepped up into the forecastle, but it wasn’t Blackbeard. As she knew at once that she had been right, she had been right all along, in her bad feeling about the Rose and all of it. Jesus.

“Good morning,” Woodes Rogers said, a fresh sword cut glistening on his scarred cheek and his sandy brown hair falling loose, half in his eyes. There were crimson stains on his jacket and his waistcoat was torn, but he looked savage, exultant, as he raised a sack for them to see, plunged a hand into it, and drew out the severed head of Captain Edward Thatch, its namesake black beard damp with blood and its eyes staring fixedly. “I was hoping we could talk.”

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

Killian’s face was streaked with soot, his ears still ringing with the thunder of cannons, his boots full of sand and his hand gone numb and blistered where it was clutched around his sword. The blasted pieces of boats littered the sand, along with the sprawled bodies of redcoats and pirates alike. It had been the devil of a fight to reach the beach, even with the assistance of the Jolie’s heavy guns, and thick smoke billowed over the harbor, two Navy frigates listing hard to port and the remaining garrison retreating into Nassau in a desperate attempt to hold the fort. As he regarded the scene, Killian could not help but be reminded of what he had done to Antigua and Jamaica, and he was not sure that this was, at the end of the day, quantifiably different. At least this time, he was more or less certain of the side he was fighting for, and why he was fighting, but this was still sheer and simple brutality, and not something for which he would ever easily excuse himself again.

A shout of his name turned his head, breaking him from his troubled reverie, and he turned to see Vane’s quartermaster, Edward England, hurrying down the sand toward him. England was the one who had met Killian, Emma, Jack, and Anne in Nassau the first time, informed them of Rogers’ arrival and the Act of Grace, and taken them to Vane, and Killian could not help but wonder if, considering his surname, he found this entire conflict nearly too ironic to be permitted. But putting that thought aside, Killian turned to the other man, pulling himself together. “Hey! Did Vane make it to the others? Rackham? Madi?”

“I’m not sure where Madi is. But they were moving Rackham out of Nassau, they had him in a carriage, Charles and Anne went after him on horseback.” England pulled out what looked like one of Jack’s ubiquitous calico neckerchiefs and rubbed his dirty face, which had the effect of spreading the grime rather than removing it. “There’s been bloody fighting at the fort, and we’re on our heels. I was sent to find you and see if you could bring your men as soon as possible.”

Killian glanced around at the beach. His men – the surviving ones, as the toll to get ashore had been heavy – were exhausted, sprawled out among the broken boards and piled bodies and the sandbags and smashed driftwood that the redcoats had tried to construct into a makeshift barricade. “I’m not sure they’re in fit state for another battle.”

“We need the fort,” England said urgently. “You’re their captain. Rouse them one more time.”

“Rogers is still gone, isn’t he?” Killian thought they would know if the governor was back, unless he returned across the backside of the island – for that matter, he bloody well hoped that Lancelot had been right about being able to raise the plantation slaves with the memory of their drowned brothers on the Whydah, because the English still had the decided advantage of numbers. They would remember that as soon as they recovered from the smart shock that the Jolie and the Ranger had given them, and without the slaves, the pirates would be pushed back off New Providence Island as quickly as they had taken it. If taking it was even what this could be called. They had a strip of beach and a valiant effort at the fort, and if Vane and Anne had gone by themselves to get Jack, there were any number of ways for that to go wrong.

“Aye, he’s gone.” England removed a canteen from his belt, took a slug, and tossed it to Killian, who fumbled the cork out and gulped the lukewarm water thirstily. “But he’ll have some sort of deputy in his place, and while they might not be as dangerous as him, they’ll know their business to a nicety. Indeed, this is the best chance we have, to take Nassau while Rogers is elsewhere. Come on. Get the bastards up. I’ll help.”

With the application of a lot of cudgeling, cajoling, coaxing, and coercing, Killian and England got the Jolie’s men more or less to their feet and in possession of their weapons, and as they climbed the bluff toward the fort, they might even pass for a threatening reinforcement. Killian’s own shoulders were shaking as he clawed his hook into the greenery, feeling a stab of pain from his stump and wishing, as he did every other minute, for two good hands. Once, his grip gave way completely, and it was only the quick snatch by England that saved him from a plunge of several dozen feet. “Thanks, mate,” Killian panted. “Wouldn’t have enjoyed that.”

“Didn’t think so.” England eyed him curiously. “Where’re you from? Originally?”

Killian was taken aback, but he thought he could catch the hint of an Irish brogue beneath the other man’s educated accent. “County Louth.” It stuck in his throat. “I. . . left there young.”

“Louth?” England looked still more surprised. “We’re all but neighbors, then. I’m a Leinster man myself, Kildare. I’m reckoning, then, you were baptized Catholic?”

Killian looked up sharply, as this could be a dangerous question even among pirates, who did not necessarily forget their old prejudices and mistrust even when they took up the black flag, but England’s tone was curious, not condemning. “Aye.”

“Sláinte.” England raised a cup in an imaginary toast. “You know, Jones. You’re not a bad sort. I could use a steady hand and a countryman at my side. You should come with me.”

“Come with you?” Killian turned to regard the prospect of the vine-covered bluff again, bracing himself to continue the ascent. “Were you going somewhere?”

“Aye. No matter what happens here, it’s plain that the English – and in all bloody likelihood, the Spanish, and whoever else – will never leave Nassau to its own devices again, or make the mistake of overlooking us. Any man with a taste for the pirate’s life will need to find it elsewhere. I thought of going to Africa, the Indias, Captain Avery’s old haunts, in a sea so broad and uncharted that even the bloody Navy can’t catch us. What do you say?”

“I. . .” Killian had to admit, the thought briefly tempted him. Take the Jolie, assuming the old girl survived this madness, and live free forever. Or at least a few years, which was the realistic estimate of how long forever was liable to be for a pirate anywhere. But even as he did, he knew he couldn’t accept. He wasn’t fighting to return to that life, wasn’t going to ask Emma to come with him for a refreshing spot of plundering and brigandage, and there was no question at all of leaving her behind. “It’s generous,  mate. But I can’t accept. Wherever my future is, it’s elsewhere.”

“You’re certain?” England grabbed another vine and checked warily overhead, but they were still concealed in the thick greenery. Another dozen feet or so, though, and they’d be sitting ducks for any soldiers with muskets on the ramparts of the fort. “You’re Captain Hook.”

Killian grimaced. “Aye. I’ll always be him, in a way. And yet, I no longer want to conjure him everywhere, to see his shadow on every doorstep I darken. Tell me, how does an Irish Catholic pirate named England carry that cruel joke?”

“By choosing it.” England smiled faintly. “I was born Edward Seegar, you know. I took the surname England when I turned pirate. Just so it would always be clear that England was the one fucking itself.”

Killian stared at him, then barked a startled but admiring laugh. “I see.”

“We all do that, you know.” England turned to look down at him. “Create our new selves, the names we want history to remember and to fear. Captain Flint, Long John Silver, Captain Hook, Blackbeard, Edward England, Black Sam Bellamy, Calico Jack Rackham – the only one of us who hasn’t taken something else to him, changed his name somehow, is Charles. He’s Charles Vane, pure and plain, no matter which life he lives, and that is how he’ll be remembered. The rest of us have our eye on the legends they’ll make of us, even if we pretend we don’t. You don’t get to decide who lives, who dies, and who tells your story, but you can be damn sure to try.”

Killian didn’t answer, as they were almost to the top and he was going to need all his breath and concentration for fighting. He chanced a glance below him to see that his men were still following, then swung out onto the mossy stone ledge just below the merlons of the fort wall. It was going to be a fiendishly undignified business clambering over without being shot, but there was no flat crack of musket fire from above, no sound at all.

Killian and England frowned at each other, crawled around to the place where the earthen berm met the stones of the wall, and managed to boost themselves over – then as the grisly sight within met their eyes, stopped dead. The tower was silent, except for the buzzing of the flies. There did not appear to be a man left alive, whether Army or pirate, in the entire fort. Whatever the battle had been, whichever side had won, it was impossible to tell. Either way, they were too late. Nothing but bodies everywhere.

England sucked in a breath and reflexively crossed himself, at which Killian did the same. As they stared around at the heaps of corpses, something else caught Killian’s eye, and he crossed the wall to climb up on one of the crenels. From this lofty perch, he could see nearly all of Nassau below, to all directions – and thus as well, the quite-familiar ship anchored in an inlet just west of the main harbor, Union Jack flapping merrily in the stern. HMS Windsor.

“Bloody hell.” He jerked his head at England, beckoning him to look. “That’s David Nolan’s ship. He was supposed to be in Antigua, I don’t know what he’s doing here now. He swore he wasn’t going to fight us, so either he betrayed us, or someone else took over and made that decision for him. Likely sailed up cool as you please while we were fighting to capture the harbor, and came in the side way, so we never saw a bloody thing. But who – ”

At that moment, they heard the measured tap of a cane in the shadows below, such an utterly incongruous sound that both of them spun to look. Killian had a sickening flash of presentiment an instant before the man emerged into the sun, and knew.

“Why, dearie,” Robert Gold said, as casually as if he had been waiting for this all along – and given the strategic importance of this place, the fact that everyone knew that to take Nassau, you had to take the fort, he might very well have been. Waiting at his leisure, admiring the destruction, coiled and waiting to strike his final blow. “With David Nolan the traitorous Navy captain and Charles Vane the troublesome pirate captain both in custody, Nassau preparing for a one-of-a-kind double hanging tomorrow, and your own execution soon to follow, I daresay you will find out quite promptly. After all, with Woodes Rogers gone, and with Nolan’s cowardly attempt to overthrow me obliging me to declare martial law across the whole of the West Indies, I had to set sail at once. Because with all that the case, it would seem that the true and greatest power here, over England, over the pirates’ republic, over the very world, is. . . me.”

[alternate-universe-scenarios]

Vogue

Title: Vogue

Pairing: You/Park Jinyoung

Word Count: 3,712 words

Genre: Smut

Rating: M+

AU: N/A (except being a stylist if that counts)

Synopsis: A case of coming in to work with bad symptoms and an hour to spare.

“You’re late.”

 Arms crossed, face stern, and a bad sense of fashion - what else could I have expected when I entered Park Jinyoung’s dressing room? I’m getting ready for a good reprimanding, knowing how Jinyoung tends to get on his “mother mode” and never letting me live for every mistake I do.

 “I overslept.” I answered nonchalantly as I threw my bag and my coat on the arm rest of the black leather couch.

 My eyes were still adjusting from the amount of light I’m being tortured with. Jinyoung’s vanity mirror was sometimes too much to bear but he told me he needed this much light because camera flashes are harsher and he needs to make sure his make-up covers his facial hair well-enough.

 “That’s the best excuse you can come up with? I’ve been here contemplating for a good thirty minutes on what to wear and you come in telling me that you just overslept?”

 “Come on Jinyoung, you're starting to sound like Bambam.” I replied knowing that telling him anything longer than that would only probe him to ask more questions when I really have no excuse for being lazy today.

 “Am I not that important to you now? Should I request for your replacement?”

 Ouch. Jinyoung’s sass and sarcasm does get to me at times but I should be used to it knowing that this is how he jokes around.

 “Not with what you’re wearing.” I spat back to which he wore a disgruntled expression in response.

 Seriously, what could be worse with a trench coat, ankle-length tan-colored slacks, and sneakers?

  Jinyoung considered lurking in Twitter to be a hobby. But behold, stalking his fans only yielded awareness, for it was during that one day he scrolled past a post making fun of his outfit (with about a thousand retweets) was also the day he swore he’d consult a proper stylist.

 Ever since I worked with him I knew his wardrobe needed a fix. Some ensembles and a thousand retweets about his new fashion later, he was so pleased that he requested for me to be his permanent stylist. That, and the fact that his previous stylists couldn’t manage to survive his critical thinking and his sharp tongue.

 Then again, on days when he wasn’t so composed, he’s completely indecisive and nags like there’s no tomorrow.

 “Well, this was supposed to be your job! You abandoned me when I needed you the most.”

 “Is that line really for me or are you practicing for a drama role?”

 Jinyoung scoffed. “Every time I tell you the truth you always think it’s for a drama.”

 “You’re the one who said acting is life.” I said with half-lidded eyes.

 Jinyoung was silent, lips pouting and eyes staring daggers into my soul.

 Yep, now I’m positive he loves me.

 It might sound as if we’re fighting but if it was me, I’d rather call it “mental stimulation” and for a bookworm like Park Jinyoung, I’m sure he enjoys the little debates we throw at each other.

 I savour the moments when I shut him up because I know he would think of something later on and use my blunder today repeatedly for revenge. This is nothing different from that ‘meat incident’ with Jackson and Bambam. I can just imagine him saying ‘remember the time when you were late for thirty minutes and I had to go out wearing my usual fashion thus making me the joke of social media?’ and I’m sure he’s not going to live this down until I fully make it up to him.

 I couldn’t keep my amusement when I stared at his outfit again. At least he knew he needed help on this subject and had the courage to admit it.

 “What is it with slacks that you love them so much?” I said as I turned to the clothing rack to rummage for a better concept – one that doesn’t involve pants that he fancied a lot.

 “It’s comfortable.” Jinyoung replied as he removed his trench coat to reveal a simple white shirt underneath, sleeves rolled up to expose his biceps which seemed to be getting toned recently.

 He threw the coat on a chair before he stretched his arms and rolled his head back, eyes closed. I discreetly watched him through the mirror trying to focus, but his flexed muscles and deep grunt were enough to turn me on so bad that I got caught staring.

 “What?” Jinyoung asked with a blank expression. “You’re zoning out.”

 I shook my head rather violently to get rid of the previous thoughts away.

 “No, you just…” I started. And it was a wrong start.

 You just mess me up so bad, damn it.

 Jinyoung tilts his head to the side anticipating my answer.

 “…dress miserably.” I answered quickly and then turned back to pushing metal hangers harshly to the side that it screeched against the rod of the clothes rack.

 “Wow, you’re in a sour mood today.”

 I stopped rummaging and sighed deeply. “Sorry. And sorry for being late and cranky, I’m about to have that monthly visitor I guess.”

 And this probably explains why Jinyoung looks extra inviting today.

  Being horny counts as a symptom, right?

 Jinyoung sits on the couch and crosses his legs. “Be thankful I understand well enough because I have two sisters.”

 “Thank you almighty Park Jinyoung.”

 Jinyoung smiled looking more pleased than he should be.

 Ha, how easy.

 “So what do you have today?”

 “Facebook live, photo shoot with Glamour, and a press conference.” He replied lazily without even batting an eyelash. “Dinner with Mark too, if you’d count that.”

 My attention was grabbed. Sure I had a crush on Mark but my crush on Jinyoung had been getting stronger recently. Seeing both of them together was worse – it’s like I had to choose between them when I don’t even have both of their attention…yet.

 “I would have asked you to come with us but considering you’re late today…” Jinyoung moved his head to the side to taunt me.

 Whew, that was fast. Look there it is: using my blunder as a convenient reprisal. He was well-aware I had a crush on Mark and that is such a big inconvenience, but no, I’m not going to beg and I can’t let myself get caught up in his little blackmail so I threw him the first set of his outfit to immediately change the topic.

 “That’s for both your Facebook live and photo shoot.”

 “How economical,” Jinyoung sassed while he examined his white jeans and striped shirt. “And shoes?”

 “You’re going barefoot.” I said before throwing him another set.  “That’s for press conference.”

 Jinyoung caught the dark blue suit and then I kicked a pair of white leather shoes which slid next to his feet.

 “Do I not get an outfit for dinner with Mark?” Jinyoung’s voice was full of jeer but I chose to ignore it.

 “No. You should get dressed, what time does your live come on?”

 “In an hour.”

 “Great.” I stated then plopped myself on the couch while Jinyoung barely saved his suit from getting crinkled.

 “Give me five minutes then I’ll get your hair and make-up done.” I said as I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples. I hate pre-menstrual syndromes.

 Jinyoung was quiet and it got me wondering because he’d usually make fun of me with a smartass remark by now. But when I opened my eyes, he was staring with a surprisingly concerned expression on that handsome face.

 I got so lost in my thoughts that I didn’t even notice I was looking at him directly in the eyes for a considerable amount of time.

 Jinyoung placed his clothes on the side before pulling on both of my arms to make me sit up straight. I groaned in protest but he silently just forced me to make my back face him.

 “What are you doing? I’ll get to work soon, OK? I just need---“

 I was cut off with when I felt his fingers working magic on the right spots on my shoulders and neck. I was silenced and let him knead my tense muscles, my head hanging and my mouth agape because it felt great that I let out a whimper accidentally.

 I heard Jinyoung laugh softly.

 “Are my hands that good?”

 Jinyoung’s tone was lower than I expected, his breath was nearer on my neck than it was supposed to be, and the slightest brush of his lips on my already heated skin made me shudder. His hands were luring me to an almost paralyzed state especially when he slid them down my back slowly and applied the slightest pressure down my waist.

  I was already a moaning mess.

 “I have an hour,” His whisper was directly on my ear. “How about we both let loose?”

 It came as the most immoral proposal coming from the most conservative and prudish man I knew. His fingers were already under my blouse and treading up my skin to reach for my bra.

 “Jinyoung…” It came as a murmur and then a gasp when he successfully unclipped the hook with one hand.

 His lips were latched on the crook of my neck as his hands travelled around my waist and reached up to massage my breasts. I sighed audibly when I felt Jinyoung’s tongue travel up the expanse of my neck. He shifts up and nibbles at my ear.

 I let out a breathy laugh. “I told you…you need to get dressed.”

 Jinyoung hummed indifferently, now focusing on a spot on my neck which I suspect would need some concealing later on.

 I removed his hands from my body and turned to him, grabbing his hair by a hand and pulling him towards me for a searing kiss. The Jo Malone perfume he had on was so intoxicating and it drove me mad, it only made me want more of him.

 His actions were rather hesitant and I’m guessing he got too carried away and now he couldn’t turn back.

 My lips were coaxing him and he responds rather gently as if to take in every single sensation. I took the initiative to plunge my tongue into his mouth and I sensed he was taken aback by my attempt on dominance that he pushed me to the couch so he could take control. I let him while I taste his mouth and he explored mine. He bites on my tongue and just like that I surrendered to him.

 My hands were busy pulling his shirt up, making sure that touch every new skin I get to expose. He kept his body hidden to himself for the longest time and now I have the privilege to bare all of it. To my relief, Jinyoung complied easily and detached himself from my lips momentarily to remove his shirt.

 I smirked as I ran a finger down his chest where there were a few stray hairs he didn’t dare to show to anyone. He caught my hand and pinned it down before bringing his lips back on mine.

Jinyoung started undoing my buttons while he moved back down my neck. Our breaths were both getting heavier. He made me sit up so he can completely remove the garments before pressing me back down and letting his mouth roam my body.

 My back shot up when he let his tongue slide down the valley of my breasts and I squeezed his arms hard when I felt his mouth enclose on a nipple. I screamed and Jinyoung was quick to put a hand on my mouth just in case someone knocks. He continues his ministrations, the tip of his tongue flicking on my sensitive bud while he pushes his fingers into my mouth, forcing me to wrap my lips around them.

 He moves up and replaces his fingers with his mouth and immediately sucked on my lower lip establishing dominance before I could even do so. My breaths got heavier as I felt Jinyoung becoming more aggressive. His hands travelled down and squeezed my breasts making me moan out his name louder.

 Before I even had a clearer idea of what was going on, Jinyoung was suddenly on my stomach, placing open-mouthed kisses everywhere he could reach. He was busy working on removing my skirt until I’m finally left with my last piece of clothing. He smirks in satisfaction and leans down to give me a rough kiss before he glided his hand down into my underwear to reach for my core.

 I was whimpering against his mouth, pushing his arms as if wanting him to stop but at the same time wanting him closer. I felt his finger rubbing down my slit, slow and then vigorous until I was wet enough. His tongue slithers back down to my breast at the same time he pushes a finger inside me.

 “Jinyoung!” I screamed, not being able to help it any longer.

 He shushed me by placing his lips back as he pulls his finger in and out of me. By the time he completely pulled his finger out I was breathless and I wonder if I could even take anymore of whatever he would do next.

 Jinyoung pulls on the band of my underwear down to leave me completely naked and marvels at the sight before he repositions himself and lies on his stomach.

 I caught a glimpse of his bulge through his pants but before I could even focus on it, his sinful mouth was already on the inside of my thighs, making its way up to the apex. My hands were gripping his hair tight, as he teased me, purposely avoiding where I wanted him the most. He fights my control and moves to the other side, sucking on a patch of skin that drove me even wilder.

 Jinyoung had me whining in protest and I heard a dark chuckle before I shrieked and immediately placed a hand on my mouth when he let his tongue swipe up my most sensitive spot. His mouth wasted no time on working full-on and I squirmed underneath him when the tip of his tongue hit a spot that had my hips snap up. He growled and dug his nails on my thighs to restrain me back down.

 I tried to suppress my cries but the moment Jinyoung’s tongue penetrated me, I lost it and yelled his name. He moves his head back and forth several times and I was going crazy to the point that I was thrashing on the couch. His mouth was audibly and unashamedly lapping up whatever I give him and before I was fully burnt out, he stopped and knelt back up.

 I was trying to focus with my already blurry vision only to see Jinyoung above me, running a finger over his lips consuming my remaining essence on his mouth.

 “40 minutes,” Jinyoung stated, the lust in his eyes not wavering a bit.

 I sat up and grabbed onto his belt, kneeling lower before him as I worked my mouth on his abdomen. Jinyoung throws his head back and lets out a moan when I palmed his hard on.

 “Get this hideous thing off of you.” I said as I pulled down his slacks. He laughs sarcastically but adjusted himself so he can get out of them.

 My lips were slowly gently nibbling him through his tight boxers before I ran my tongue on his obvious erection. Jinyoung’s fingers were entangled in my hair, pulling my head closer to his crotch. I listened to his silent plea and let his shaft free from restraint.

 My hands were shaking as I started to stroke him and Jinyoung must have noticed so he placed a hand on mine to steady me. He was hissing after a few pumps and his fingers were again playing with my lips.

 “Put that beautiful mouth to use,” He said and I looked up, faltering and trembling badly.

 My hand merely stays on his length, my mouth not anywhere near.

 “Do it.” He prods but I still don’t budge.

 His voice was then dangerously low and domineering. “Now.”

 I comply, tentatively opening my mouth to let him in and Jinyoung lets out a long moan. I moved my tongue in circles at the tip, getting a prelude of his taste, before engulfing him again. His grasp on my dark locks tightened as he pushed in slowly until his tip reached the back of my throat. I go with my pace as he guided my hand to stroke what my mouth couldn’t reach. Jinyoung was unyielding, trying his best not to budge but he could only hold on for so long.

  I tried to relax as he started ramming against my mouth, but then he moves faster and I groaned in disapproval, but the wavelength of my voice on his length only aroused him further. My eyes were starting to tear up a little but then Jinyoung pulled out harshly and I took the opportunity to catch my breath.

 He brings a hand to cup my chin and shoves his tongue into my mouth before letting me lie back and completely getting rid of his boxers.

 “20 minutes,” he said through ragged breaths as his knees pushed my legs wider in haste.

 Jinyoung clutches my hips and pulls me down so that my thighs were resting on his. He runs his fingers down his tongue before he pressed them against my core.

 “Still wet and ready for me,” He smirks and aligns himself.

 I bit the back of my hand when I felt Jinyoung’s length stretching me. My deep breaths resounded in the room and my body was completely flushed under him. The leather couch feels hotter against my back and is now slippery from sweat.

 Jinyoung leans in further, his arms on either side of my head as he started thrusting his hips back and forth. He gets deeper and harder with each thrust, not letting me adjust fully knowing that we are under time constraint. He swallows my screams through another burning kiss while my nails scratched down the pristine skin of his back.

 He started moving faster and I felt like my heart was going to burst out from my chest. My mind was going haywire and my body was completely under his command.

 Harder. Deeper. Faster. More. More. More.

 My hands held on the tense muscles of Jinyoung’s arms. His body was now damp with perspiration, his hair was a complete mess, and his face depicted nothing but ecstasy. I caressed his cheek and pulled him in for another kiss, locking him towards me by placing my arms around his neck.

 I gave in to total submission and I felt myself getting nearer to my climax.

 Jinyoung pulls back from the kiss and places his lips next to my ear. His voice was pure seduction as he moans my name again and again and again, chasing his end while making sure that I get mine in the process.

 I threw my head back as Jinyoung goes out of control, pounding against me while I cry in both pain and pleasure.

 “Jinyoung…” I managed to breathe out, placing a hand against his chest while my other hand was muffling my own screams.

 “Come,” Jinyoung ordered through gritted teeth. “Come for me, now.”

 As if he had full control of me ever since, my body obeyed him. My entire back arched as my walls tightened around his length and I let myself go, my body shaking violently beneath him.

 The bliss doubled as Jinyoung rides my high, his hands forming into fists on either side of my head. He goes faster and I felt like I was going to break, but suddenly he grunts and his body becomes stiff, muscles becoming just as rigid.

 It was then I felt his release hot inside me, mixing with my own. He stays still for a while before letting his weight collapse on me. I caught him with my arms and ran my hands through his already tousled hair.

 We laid there catching our breaths, not uttering a word and thinking about nothing.

 Three knocks on the door snapped both us back to reality.

 “Jinyoung, Facebook live in five.”  It was the voice of Jinyoung’s manager on the other side of the door.

 My eyes widened and I pushed Jinyoung away as hard I could. I forgot he was still inside me and I cringed when he was forced out. I grabbed a tissue from the side table and wiped up my thighs and between my legs.

 For a moment, we were both wordless, eyes never meeting and both of us were just focused on fixing ourselves trying to look as normal again as possible.

 Jinyoung’s dressing room now reeks of sex and sweat so I grabbed the dark bottle of Jo Malone and carelessly sprayed his perfume all around.

 “Hey, that’s expensive!” Jinyoung finally complains while he was in the middle of buttoning his white fitted jeans.

 “You’ll be able to afford another one!” I said as I forced his shirt down his torso before futilely fixing his hair with both of my hands.

 My thumb found its way in between my teeth as I looked at Jinyoung who’s a complete mess shaking my head in disapproval.

 “Your fans would love you no matter what look you have, right?”

 “What?” His face was void of emotion but it was slowly transitioning to apprehension.

 Another three knocks.

 “Jinyoung, get out here now!”

 I turned him around and pushed him towards the door.

 “Your concept is a ‘morning after’ look. No hair styling, no make-up, and no fancy clothes. Now go!”

 Jinyoung laughed in disbelief and then turned around and pulled on my waist to steal a deep kiss before proceeding to head out.

 --

 “You seem to have laid-back style today, Jinyoung. Would you tell us about your concept?” The interviewer inquired and Jinyoung faces the front camera of the phone.

 “The concept today is…” Jinyoung paused, shooting a look at me before finishing his sentence.

 “After sex.”

 My palm went straight to my forehead.

 Needless to say, thousands of comments were again on social media.

[biofunmy]

The Best-Dressed Windows and How to Get Them

Hanging curtains or shades can have a transformative effect on a room, adding warmth and style to a drab space or hiding unfortunate views out the window. You can even create the illusion that you have more space than you really do by exaggerating the appearance of ceiling height.

But figuring out which window treatment is right for your space can be tricky. What if there’s no room for curtains on either side of the French doors in your tiny apartment? What’s the best way to play up the lovely leaded glass in those prewar casement windows while keeping out the draft? How do you gracefully cover a bay window?

We asked interior designers to share their tricks for dressing up a range of window styles.

Casement Windows

With a mechanism that allows them to open out like doors — and let in lots of light and fresh air — “casement windows are really very versatile,” said Michelle Morgan Harrison, an interior designer in New Canaan, Conn.

If you have casement windows, she said, Roman shades are an option. She recommended mounting them at least six inches above the casing, so that when the shade is up it doesn’t block the light.

But “my recommendation is to go with draperies,” she added, “as you get the full view of the window when open.”

That’s what she did for a library in Greenwich, Conn., where she chose a linen from Osborne & Little in a blue-and-gray ombre, to complement the color of the walls. For the hardware, she used a clear Lucite rod with rings, brackets and end caps in polished nickel.

A general rule, she said, is to set the rods six inches above the frame for smaller windows; eight to 10 inches above for a double-width window; and up to a foot above for larger windows. You should also avoid pushing the drapery past the window casing, she noted, as “it looks better when the drapes cover the casing on each side and frame the window.”

If space is tight on either side of a window, Ms. Harrison suggested using a bracket that curves back to the wall, instead of a rod that ends in a finial. This allows for the drapes to be pushed back against the wall and to clear more of the window.

Bay Windows

With bay windows, your options are more limited: You could hang stationary curtains on either side of the bay and install a shade inside each window frame, or you could hang curtains on each individual window. But if there isn’t enough room for hardware, Roman shades are the way to go.

“An advantage of Roman shades is that you do not need to have decorative or functional hardware,” said Grant K. Gibson, an interior designer in San Francisco, who opted for flat-panel shades in white linen from Clarence House for a bedroom overlooking Buena Vista Park.

“We wanted the fabric to fade into the architectural details, and matched the fabric as close as possible to the already-finished white wall color,” said Mr. Gibson, who installed the shades on the outside of the molding to make sure they blocked out as much of the light as possible when closed. “Your eye would have too many places to look if there had been a color or pattern on the window treatments.”

Postwar Windows

What if your windows aren’t that interesting, as in many postwar apartments?

“Use floor-to-ceiling drapes, even if the window doesn’t go to the height of ceiling,” advised Alexis Alvarez, design director at Interior Marketing Group. “It will draw the eye up and make windows appear bigger and ceilings appear higher.”

To liven up the postwar windows in a Greenwich Village living room, Ms. Alvarez mounted the curtain rods above the moldings and beyond their width to create the illusion of higher ceilings and wider windows. “The light-and-airy, white-linen fabric blends seamlessly with the modern aesthetic of the room,” she said.

Glass Doors

Curtains that hang straight and just graze the floor tend to work well with sliding-glass doors.

“Generally you want to avoid blocking the doors in any way for function, and also for light coming into the space,” said Jess Cooney, a designer in Great Barrington, Mass., who dressed a sliding-glass door in an open kitchen with a simple rod and patterned fabric from Robert Allen. “The overall goal was to give the sliding door behind the draperies a more formal feel and to soften the space.”

Another benefit of drapes, she noted, is that they are good at absorbing sound: “Textiles help so much for acoustics, especially in a space with an open floor plan, where noise can easily echo and bounce around.”

If you are lucky enough to have a continuous stretch of windows or doors from one end of a room to the other, adding lightweight drapery panels between the doors or windows will help create the illusion of an unbroken expanse of glass.

In a Manhattan living room with three pairs of French doors opening onto Juliet balconies, the interior designer Alexa Hampton installed simple, pleated panels in an embroidered Cowtan & Tout fabric. Then, “we layered the panels with lacquered bamboo shades,” Ms. Hampton said, “and two-tone hardware with darkened-bronze poles and antique-brass rings and finials, for a collected look.”

Oddly Shaped Windows

What about round or arched windows?

If you want the window to stand out, choose a window dressing that’s the same color or pattern as the wall, so it blends in. That’s the effect the designer Martin Brudnizki was going for in a luxury suite at the Grand Hotel Stockholm, in Sweden, which has porthole-style windows. Mr. Brudnizki used the same fabric for the wall covering and the curtains, which made the window pop.

“We had to use a special technique for the curved window treatment, which included using a center-split, full-length curtain, which is manually operated using an Italian-cord pulley system,” he said. “The curtains are pinch-pleated to the top and fixed onto an arched runner. We also lined them with blackout material, to ensure guests can enjoy a peaceful night’s sleep, especially considering how light Swedish evenings can be.”

A Few Words About Fabric

No matter what type of window you’re dressing, be sure to choose fabric that has a nice draping quality, said Kevin Dumais, an interior designer in New York.

“Generally, lightweight fabrics such as linen-poly blends or wools work best, because they hang straight, they are durable and keep their shape over time,” Mr. Dumais said. “Linens woven with polyester or acrylic are terrific; the synthetic fibers help stop the linen from growing and wrinkling.

He added: “We are finding that fabric houses like Holland & Sherry and Creation Baumann are creating wonderful sheer fabrics made of Trevira or 100 percent polyester. We use these on projects with direct sunlight from south-facing windows, as the fiber content seems to resist fading and deterioration over time.”

Also, consider adding layers.

“People forget that a quantity of fabric literally softens hard materials when fabric meets up with glass,” Ms. Hampton said. “The softgoods not only help with acoustics in a space, but they act as a frame for the view outside.”

That’s something even a minimalist space could benefit from.

For one master bedroom, Ms. Hampton used silk window treatments with shirred valances and pleated side panels. “We stayed with a really neutral color palette,” she said, to keep the room elegant and clean-lined, “but decided to double up the tassel trim, to make the treatments even more lush.”

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