#gawd he was so scrambling to hold it together here

[sharonisthebettercarter]

"then real polite like, tell 'em ya gotta take a fat shit"

BILLYYYYYYYYYYY--

[ladyartemesia]

TEASER: Kim Seokjin and the Mean Omega

Pairing: Nerd Alpha Kim Seokjin x Popular Omega Reader

Genre: A/B/O • Enemies to Lovers • (Sorta) College AU • Best Friend's Brother AU (Who is surprised? No one?)

Teaser Word Count: 3.6K

Teaser Warnings: A/B/O sexual dynamics • suggestive content

Rating: Explicit (18+) (Teaser is PG-13)

Summary: In the modern world, alphas are almost unheard of so why even bother learning about them? After all, as a spoiled (but reasonably kind-hearted) omega who is used to getting whatever she wants, you have better things to do. However, when unexpected circumstances throw you in the path of (extremely) nerdy and (probably?) shy Kim Seokjin, you're shocked to discover that he won't be wrapped around your little finger as easily as all the rest. Bringing that infuriating geek to his knees quickly becomes your personal mission in life... But it turns out that Kim Seokjin is not what he appears to be and the mean omega who eats beta boys for breakfast is about to get way more than she bargained for...

Author’s Note: This story would not be here without the love, support and friendship of my incredible support system. You talk with me, you laugh with me, you listen when I’m crying, and you read my chaotic drafts when I am ready to pull my hair out of my head in frustration. I love you all. @ppersonna @xjoonchildx @untaemedqueen @lemonjoonah. ALSO thank you to each and every one of you who encouraged me to post this story. This fic is dedicated to all of you as a token of my love and appreciation. Your support keeps me writing. Never doubt that for a second.

“...due to discriminatory anti-alpha policies in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century, alphas were nearly eliminated from the general population…”

You heaved a weary sigh and rolled your shoulders—stretching the buttons of your high-end Oxford shirt to their limit. The beta sophomore to your right whined audibly and you smirked.

“...despite efforts to restore the genetic balance of designations, alphas currently comprise less than one percent of the population…”

Your back arched slightly as you crossed your legs, letting the absurdly short hem of your skirt ride up even higher. The poor boy you were tormenting shifted miserably in his seat.

How was he supposed to focus on a Human Biology and Designation Studies lecture when the living breathing embodiment of every sweaty undergrad’s fantasies was twisting her fingers in her hair and wrapping her pretty pink tongue around a strawberry lollipop right there in the middle of class?

“...unlike betas and omegas, alphas possess enhanced strength and the ability to compel other designations with their voice. Unmated alphas especially were often baselessly feared and distrusted...”

You knew exactly how you affected boys like him. You were a shameless tease who relished their attention and the power it brought you. Who needed drugs when driving a man mad with desire was a rush more potent than any high?

“...and that’s all for today so please read pages 450-466 in the text over break and remember to turn in your essay on scent and consent in intimacy—”

That poor sophomore looked like he had finally worked up the courage to speak to you, but you were already out the door and tearing down the hall toward your beautiful (and entirely platonic) counterpart, Kim Taehyung.

“Do you think Professor Moore is unaware that class is over at 3:25 or is he just torturing us for science?”

Taehyung shrugged, falling into step beside you with practiced ease.

“I mean I would torture you for free so it’s hard to say.”

The corner of your mouth quirked up at his characteristic dry humor, but the irritation at being held in that sweltering lecture hall for an extra ten minutes had frayed your temper.

“It’s the last class before spring break, I’m sure he was on some sort of twisted power trip.” You dug around in your purse for some chapstick, ignoring Tae’s amused snorting, “Alphas barely exist anymore and none of us are likely to meet one. Why bother learning what they can do?”

Taehyung tilted his head in amusement.

“You might be surprised.”

The final party before the beginning of spring break was always a laid back affair.

Many people had already caught planes to their various destinations, but your flight was scheduled for early tomorrow morning—leaving you with some time to kill.

Taehyung pressed his newest experimental concoction into your hand within minutes of entering the house (a surprisingly neat bachelor pad owned by two seniors, Jung Hoseok and Min Yoongi) and then darted back to the kitchen to craft more questionable alcohol potions like a deranged party warlock.

You had just found a comfortable place on the couch and were contemplating whether sampling your best friend’s mad scientist elixir would be worth the probable damage to your body when—

“H-Hello...”

It was that sophomore from your Designations Studies class. What was his name again? Jungwoo? Jinwook?

“Jungkook,” you smiled, delighted to have remembered before it became awkward. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

You motioned to the empty cushion next to you and the man in question scrambled over like he’d won the lottery.

“I—I know we don’t know each other well, but I noticed you were absent during Professor Moore’s lecture on intimacy and scent consent so I—” he blushed deeply, “I wrote the essay for you—and I brought a copy on my flash drive if-if you want it.”

Your heart melted immediately.

“Oh my gosh Jungkook, that is so sweet of you!”

Your gaze darted over his muscular form and thick brown curls.

Sweet indeed.

“I don’t want to miss out on the learning though,” you pouted, placing a hand on his tattooed bicep. “Can you explain it to me?”

Jungkook nodded vigorously even as his wide eyes fell to where your fingers were sliding slowly over his chest.

Scent consent was a pretty basic and universally known concept, but you really were touched by the handsome sophomore's consideration.

Why not give him (and yourself) a little reward?

“Um so basically if two people are involved in...intimate activities—”

You leaned forward to nip his ear lightly and he whimpered.

“Like this?” you asked innocently.

“Y-Yes. Like that.” He gulped. “In an intimate situation consent or refusal can be smelled. The scent of refusal or reluctance in intimacy is strong, unmistakable, and has a high chemical potency.”

“Is that so?” you drawled, sliding over onto his lap. Jungkook’s eyes rolled back into his head and you bit back a grin.

He was adorable.

“Uh-huh—it—oh my gawd,” (you were nibbling on his ear again) “it can immediately block sexual arousal and performance in the other partner. Meaning, if consent is not present, then it becomes difficult or—ahh” (his voice began to waver under your continued attention) “—or even impossible to continue with intimate acts.”

Your hand slid up to his cheek, bringing him closer till your lips were almost touching.

“Then what does it mean if I’m still so turned on right now?”

“It means,” Jungkook shuddered—nearly delirious with your scent, “that I really really want you.”

Across the room, Park Jimin chuckled as he watched you seduce his enthusiastic friend.

Jeon Jungkook was such a sweet kid.

Hopefully he wouldn’t get too attached.

“Wow... Some people are genuinely born blessed I suppose.”

Jimin turned to see Jung Hoseok eyeing the dimly lit corner where you and the eager young sophomore were exploring each other.

It was a rather...provocative spectacle. Not quite raunchy (you weren’t truly an exhibitionist)—just insanely sexy.

Jimin’s gaze lingered on the smooth curve of your thigh where Jeon Jungkook was currently holding on for dear life.

Lucky bastard.

“Ah you know how she is,” he sighed. “That boy isn’t going to get any farther than anyone else.”

It was relatively common knowledge that you liked to mess around but rarely—if ever— fully hooked up with anyone.

Jimin asked you about it once during a drunken game of truth or dare and you had just shrugged, mumbling something along the lines of avoiding STDs (which—to be fair—was at least part of your motivation), but the truth was a little more complicated than that.

In terms of experience, you weren’t a virgin, but... you hadn’t actually had sex in years.

You loved the chase, the foreplay, the build-up—the game of cat-and-mouse between two people who were attracted to one another.

But the final consummation was always so…

Wildly unfulfilling.

Every encounter left you frustrated. Empty.

Grumpy—even.

So you stopped bothering with it all together. (That was what sex toys were for after all.)

At the end of the day you were perfectly content being labeled a tease—it meant that people tended to know what they were (or rather weren’t) getting into when they rolled the dice with you.

Besides…it hadn’t even put a dent in your throng of admirers.

You were sunny, spoiled, indulgent, almost universally adored—

And you loved every minute of it.

“You know…” Hoseok took a long sip of his drink. “I always thought she would end up with Taehyung, but it’s been three years.”

Like you, Kim Taehyung was a trust fund brat and it was only natural that two beautiful and absurdly privileged people would gravitate to one another. You met at a freshman pledge party and had been an inseparable (and formidable) dynamic duo ever since.

The undisputed king and queen of campus.

Yes—maybe the two of you were a little self-absorbed at times, but it was hardly your fault that people tended to instinctively cater to the force of your combined looks, wealth, and charisma.

And it didn’t hurt that neither of you were ever intentionally cruel or unkind.

Just... habitually thoughtless.

(Though not when it came to each other. If anything your friendship was one area where you were both a little more human.)

Jimin shook his head.

“Nah that’s never gonna happen.” He tapped his nose. “They’re scent-crossed.”

Hoseok’s eyes widened.

“Really?”

Scent-crossed pairs didn’t smell sexually attractive to each other.

Like. At all.

No matter how physically or visually appealing an individual might be, it would be near impossible to form a sexual or romantic attachment to them if you were scent-crossed. Alphas, betas, and omegas were all subject to their noses first and foremost in the realm of attraction.

You and Taehyung smelled like comfort and home to one another...

But you were more turned on by a crisp cup of apple juice than you were his scent and the feeling was quite mutual.

He might as well have been your actual brother.

“That explains so much.” Hoseok snorted as he watched a drunken Taehyung do a flying leap on top of both you and Jungkook.

“Why is sunlight so offensive?” you croaked, dragging yourself and your luggage toward the boarding ramp next to an equally miserable Taehyung.

“The next time I book a flight before 9 AM, please shoot me,” he grunted.

Your parents were celebrating their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary with a month-long European cruise so your best friend had graciously invited you to spend two glorious weeks of spring vacation at his family estate.

The invitation had actually come as somewhat of a surprise because—for all your closeness—Taehyung was uncharacteristically tight-lipped about his family.

Not that he was deliberately withholding information per se… It was just that he never really brought them up beyond an occasional passing comment.

The one time you did ask him about them directly he sighed and said—

“We’re very close, but… I suppose we’ve just gotten used to being very private.”

There was clearly more to the story, but you were confident that Tae would share it if and when he was ready.

“My parents are in Seoul opening a new branch of the company. They took my little sister with them and my older brother has his own house so it will be just us.” He snuggled deeper into the first class seat directly next to yours. “We’ll hang out by the pool and chill during the day, then hit up some of the new clubs or whatever at night.”

“So… No one from your family will be there?”

Perhaps the invitation was not so surprising after all.

“Nope. Just you and me and thirty acres of ocean front property.”

You grinned.

“Perfect.”

“Whose room is that?”

The two of you were lugging your bags down the main hall of Taehyung’s expansive mansion when a strange hint of...something caught you right by the nose.

Your friend turned to find you frozen and staring curiously at a familiar door near the balcony.

His eyes widened, but you were too preoccupied to notice his momentary concern.

“That’s just Jin’s room.”

A firm hand wrapped around your wrist and dragged you away, but your eyes stayed glued to the source of the mysterious scent until you were around the corner and out of sight.

Your suite for the next two weeks was right across the hall from Taehyung’s. There was a whirlpool, a full bath, a balcony, and an ocean view that would rival the cover spread of any travel magazine.

Tae headed for the shower (to ‘wash the airplane off’) immediately after showing you the room and you were thinking of doing the same except…

Your mind kept going back to that door and the hint of scent you detected.

There was something… different about it.

It was faint—and far from fresh (which made sense considering that one of the few things you did know about Kim Seokjin was that he hadn’t lived in this house for years).

But still…

The need to smell it again pressed insistently at the back of your mind.

Suddenly the sound of Taehyung singing raunchy lyrics in the shower carried over through the walls and you found your feet moving almost of their own accord.

What Tae doesn’t know won’t hurt him, you rationalized, making your way down the hall toward Jin’s door. Besides—it’s not as if I’m going to steal anything…

You just needed to find that scent again.

By the time your fingers closed over the knob every one of your nerves was strangely—acutely—alert but nothing could have prepared you for what was waiting behind the door.

Oh. My. Gosh.

“What a colossal nerd.”

The room was covered floor to ceiling in Nintendo memorabilia.

Bright primary colors assaulted your eyes from all directions in the form of action figures, posters, pillows, and every other conceivable merch variety known to man.

In the center of the suite stood a large king-sized bed covered in a custom black couture toile-style Mario-verse bed set (that looked every bit as expensive as it was geeky) and a mountain of high quality Nintendo character plush toys.

Everything was simultaneously luxe and nostalgic—a rare combination of sophisticated aesthetic balance and childlike indulgence.

And the scent was there.

It was faint and covered under layers of cleaner and air fresheners, but still lingering just below the surface—too weak for you to get a really good whiff, yet potent enough to torment you.

You moved forward unconsciously toward the strongest source of the hypnotic smell—the strangely inviting expanse of Kim Seokjin’s mattress.

Suddenly the urge to climb—no crawl—across the bed itself and roll around in it like a kitten in catnip gripped you out of nowhere.

“What the hell?” you muttered, rubbing absently over the mating gland at the base of your neck.

Something very odd was going on with your body.

Your restless gaze zeroed in on one of the stuffed toys piled atop his pillows. It was a cute little mushroom man your brain recognized as a Mario character named ‘Toad’.

Take it.

Your mouth dropped open in shock.

You need it.

“Am I going insane?” you wondered aloud.

You have to take it.

Muscles in your hand began to twitch involuntarily. You bit your lip.

Bring it back with you.

Several minutes later a freshly washed Taehyung wandered over to your room and found you sitting perfectly still on your bed while staring off into space.

His head tilted in curious concern.

“Everything ok?”

You started a bit at the sound of his voice, but recovered quickly.

“Never better!” you chirped—almost too brightly. “Let’s go get some dinner, I’m starving.”

Then you grabbed his hand and pulled him down the hall toward the kitchen—shutting the door before he could catch a glimpse of his brother’s stuffed Toad doll stashed underneath your pillow

“...a critical water main rupture in the city’s New Market district early this morning has forced several residents out of their homes as flood water swelled up to nearly two feet. The governor declared a state of emergency and ordered hotels around the city to accommodate the displaced citizens. Crews are still clearing the water and assessing damages. We expect—

“Hey!” you shouted through a mouthful of cereal, after Your best friend switched off the television, “I was watching that!”

“And what you should be doing is getting ready for the pool.” Tae snatched your cereal bowl and dragged you by your shirt collar toward the stairs. “It is the first morning of our vacation. I’m not trying to waste any time. Now go.” He shoved you forward, smacking your ass for good measure.

You swatted back at him half-heartedly as jogged back up to the room where you enjoyed a surprisingly restful sleep last night.

Kim Seokjin’s door glared at you accusingly as you shuffled past—unable to let you forget that you had kidnapped it’s little mushroom man in an unexplained fit of kleptomania, but that was a problem for your future self.

The you of right now was going to zen out in the Kim family's premium glass-enclosed indoor pool (it was still a little chilly for the outdoor pool) with her best friend and bask in the simple joys of good company and no responsibility.

...Or not.

A few minutes later you bounced into the living room wearing a simple black tankini with a cute floral cover only to find Taehyung on the phone with his head in his hands.

“Yes, sir. I understand… I...I know this is my responsibility...”

That didn’t sound good.

After a few more tense moments, Tae hung up and collapsed backward into the couch with a heavy sigh.

“That water main break you heard about on TV this morning was the last straw between the province and its current contractor. They called an emergency meeting for new bids.”

Your heart dropped as you sank down beside him.

“Your dad wants you to go...doesn’t he.”

Taehyung nodded miserably.

“He can’t leave the Seoul opening on such short notice and managing government construction contracts is part of what I’ve been training for. This could be huge for our company.”

“Well...why doesn’t your brother go?”

“Jin is the brains behind most of our patented gaming and tech innovations. He wouldn’t even know where to begin with this sort of thing. Besides,” his lips quirked up in a rueful grin, “my brother doesn’t have the patience to stroke entitled geriatric egos for hours on end—which is likely what I’m going to have to do.”

The two of you headed back to Taehyung’s room where you helped him pack some suits and toiletries for his trip.

Naturally you were disappointed but...this was a great opportunity for your best friend to prove himself in his chosen field and you both knew it. In fact, he was already starting to brighten a bit.

“The meeting is about a hundred miles north of here. My dad’s secretary already handled the flight and hotel room.” His eyes darted around the suite to see if he was forgetting anything.

It was clear he was nervous, though you were sure he didn’t need to be. Kim Taehyung was a trust fund brat, but he was also talented and deeply passionate about his family’s company.

Someday this would be the norm. The two of you were stealing time in college, determined to live a little before the expectations of your powerful families transferred fully onto your shoulders.

It was becoming more and more clear, however, that your carefree time was slowly running out.

Mother had already spoken to you about potential marriage alliances and your father expected you to intern with his Vice President this summer just as your elder sister had...

Taehyung’s voice suddenly interrupted your bittersweet introspection and you couldn’t help but smile at how grown-up he looked in his suit and briefcase ensemble.

Everything was going to change, but not quite yet.

“They estimate negotiations should take around a week or so…” He walked over and pulled you into a tight hug. “There should still be some vacation left for us when I get back.”

“Hurry back then,” you mumbled grumpily into his chest and he chuckled.

“I will.”

Taehyung had been gone for less than twenty minutes when you decided that the best use of your time would be to eat more snacks.

The last thing you expected when you skipped merrily into the kitchen was to find it occupied by a shaggy-haired homeless man in glasses.

Your first instinct was to scream which caused the homeless man to drop the apple he was biting right onto the floor where it rolled around for a small eternity before coming to rest at his ankles.

Your second instinct was to grab a butcher’s cleaver from the nearby knife block and wave it chaotically at the intruder while shouting something along the lines of—

“You’ve made a huge mistake! My boyfriend is the biggest, meanest mafia boss in Seoul! Leave now and he might let you live!”

The homeless man continued to stare at you with a mixture of confusion and shock, but made no move to run away in terror like you were hoping.

So you tried again.

“Didn’t you hear what I said?! The last man who touched me drinks his steak through a straw now! Do the smart thing and leave before my boyfriend comes down those stairs and it’s too late!”

Infuriatingly, the homeless man was still not fleeing for his life and frankly you were starting to get frustrated. You drew in a deep cleansing breath and were prepared to issue another grandiose threat when he finally spoke.

“I’m sorry, miss. I... think there’s been some sort of mistake. Who is your boyfriend?”

There was no rational explanation for what came out of your mouth next, but it rolled off your tongue so smoothly and you didn’t even flinch.

“Kim Seokjin.”

For the first time in your entire exchange, the intruder looked truly alarmed.

Now that’s more like it.

“You’ve heard of him I see. He’s a dangerous man and my body belongs to him.” You slammed the cleaver down onto the countertop with a (hopefully) menacing slash. “Kim Seokjin doesn’t like when other men put their hands on what belongs to him.”

There was a long, unpardonably tense moment of silence…Then the stranger slowly reached forward and picked up a mobile phone from the table in front of him.

His eyes remained locked with yours as he pressed a quick series of buttons, brought the phone to his ear, waited a few seconds and said—

“Taehyung… Would you mind telling me why there is a half-naked, knife-wielding omega in our kitchen claiming to be my girlfriend?”

Hello! Please comment on this post if you would like to be added to the taglist!

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[clawsandblood]

1: Barbed Wire

 link to ao3

link to the intro chapter on Tumblr

warning for misgendering

---

The pub was more of a hole in the wall than a proper place, but the beer was cheap and not total piss, something that Borna and Steven greatly appreciated. It was in the old industrial district, a series of factories from the 80s standing practically nextdoor, abandoned and surrounded with a rusted fence. There was little people in this part, save for the patrons of the pub and the few individuals hurrying to their cheap apartments after a long shift at work.

“If he doesn’t run away after seeing this place then he might be cool,” Borna said, unprompted.

“Do you think he won’t like it here?”

Borna shrugged. “He does look like the kind of guy who shits his pants after seeing one bloody steak.”

“Why would he look at bloody steaks in a pub?”

“Nevermind.”

They were walking down the street, Steven dressed up in his usual attire, but with extra bling of jewelry and eyeliner, Borna trudging along, still in his shorts.

“Fuck me,” Borna said, squinting at the people standing around the entrance of the pub. “Is that him?”

Standing a bit away from the other people, there was Dorian, smoking anxiously.

Steven’s face split into a grin and he hurried to his side. “Dorian!” he exclaimed. “Great to see you, man!” He gave Dorian a friendly pat on the back that nearly knocked the man’s cigarette out of his hands.

“Hi,” Borna said.

Dorian offered them both a smile, looking more alive and confident than he did earlier in the morning. “So this is one of the so-called good places?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Steven shrugged. “Look, it’s cheap, and it’s not bad,” he said. “More than could be said for most bars around here.”

Dorian huffed out a laugh and stubbed out his cigarette. “Then let’s give it a try,” he said and they headed inside.

---

They found a small table pushed into the corner or the room and sat there with their beers. The table was sticky from previous patrons, the air inside the pub was stuffy, but the beer was cold and almost good.

 “Anyway, I was waiting at the bus stop when this guy approaches me and asks me for a lighter,” Borna said, his voice a smooth drawl, “and I had to pull out an earbud, but I didn’t pause the music, and then he goes      Oh my gawd, is that fuckin’ Maiden?”     He emphasized the american accent on the last bit, blurting it out in a fashion typical to Steven.

Dorian laughed, no longer looking one cigarette away from death.

“But it worked!” Steven protested, his face flushing. “What would you do without me, your trusty guide around America-”

“You get lost almost more than I do,” Borna cut in. “And your beloved roommate,” Steven finished stubbornly.

“So you two live together?” Dorian inquired.

Steven nodded. “Rent too expensive otherwise.”

Dorian nodded. “Honestly if I didn’t get lucky with the job I’d probably need to share too.”

“And what exactly is your job?” Borna asked.

“Oh,” Dorian hesitated. “I’m a cashier at this specialty store…”

“Weed or a sex shop?” Borna bluntly asked.

Dorian’s face turned red. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “At least there’s always money in it.”

“Or is it both?” Steven mused.

A sharp grunt interrupted him.

Borna turned around in his chair, glaring furiously. Behind him stood a man, tall and stocky, with a long beard and even longer hair. He was grinning at Borna, seemingly unaware of the animosity rolling off of the man.

“Kej češ?” Borna demanded.

Dorian looked at Steven who just shrugged.

Borna and the stranger exchanged some more words, Borna sounding more and more heated, but the other man seemed unfazed.

“Borna,” Steven gently said once Borna’s voice reached an almost animalistic growl.

“Stay out of it,” Borna replied curtly. Then the stranger said a remark that made Borna drink the rest of his beer in one go, sharply get up and stare the man down.

Steven swore under his breath and got up too. “Come on, Borna,” he quietly said. “Leave it for some other time.”

“If I’ve got anything to do with it there won’t be any other time,” Borna muttered.

“Borna,” Steven pleaded, tentatively placing a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s just go.”

Borna shrugged Steven’s hand off his shoulder, not breaking eye contact with the stranger.

“We’re leaving,” he finally said.

Steven sighed in relief and quickly fished out his wallet, placing a few bills on the table and started ushering Dorian and Borna out. The latter didn’t stop glaring at the grinning stranger until they were out.

“Okay,” Dorian said as they stepped a bit away from the pub entrance. “Care to tell me what was all that about?”

Borna huffed out a breath. “He’s someone I know from-” He paused. “From before.”

Dorian lit a cigarette. “And what does that mean?”

Borna glanced at the few people loitering around the entrance of the pub and walked off, closer to the fence that sectioned off the abandoned industrial area.

“The thing is,” he said after they were safely out of earshot of anyone else, “I’m trans and he knows me from before I transitioned and moved here.”

“Ah,” Dorian said.

Steven’s face paled. “Fucking bastard,” he muttered.

“Yeah,” Borna agreed. “Never thought I’d see him again, last time I’ve heard about him he was still in Europe.”

“That sucks, man,” Dorian said and took a long drag from his cigarette. “I don’t know what I’d do if I met one of those people from my past.”

Borna and Steven shot him inquisitive looks. “Your past?” Steven asked.

Dorian nodded, blowing out smoke. “I’m also trans.”

Borna barked out a surprised laugh and exchanged looks with Steven.

“That makes us three,” Steven happily concluded.

Dorian blinked a few times. “You too?”

“Yeah.”

Dorian leaned back on the fencepost, laughing.

Borna smiled, earlier mood all but forgotten. He watched Dorian take one last drag from his cigarette before stubbing it out. “We should drink to that,” he commented.

“Yeah,” Steven firmly said. “I know a place.”

“Of course you do,” Dorian muttered, making Borna snort. His amusement was cut short by the sound of now familiar voice from over the street.

“Oh, shit,” Steven swore. He put an arm around Borna’s shoulders, trying to steer him down the street, but Borna shrugged him off, choosing to stare down the approaching stranger.

“Aw, don’t look at me like that,” the man said after seeing the looks on Steven’s and Dorian’s faces. “I just wanted to say hi to an old friend.”

“We were never friends,” Borna said, voice steely. “You just pestered me at every concert and festival.”

The man rolled his eyes good-naturedly and turned towards Steven and Dorian. “She’s exaggerating, I was just-”

Borna then decked him, fist landing perfectly on his jaw, and sending him sprawling back. A friend that was standing a bit back caught him and then swung at Borna, who narrowly dodged the strike. He staggered back for a step, back pressing against the wire fence. Steven and Dorian lunged to drag the men apart, but got kicked and shoved out of the way. Borna snarled and threw himself at the man he punched, but got countered with a swift kick. His body hit the old fence, which finally gave out underneath his body with a loud screech of bending metal.

“You bitch,” the man spat and tried to get on top of Borna, fists raised, but Borna scrambled backwards, out of his reach. He flailed, a hand catching in the barbed wire from the top of the fence.

Steven and Dorian held back the man’s friend and Borna pulled down the barbed wire, slowly getting up. He wound the wire around his fist, eyes on his opponent.

“Are we really going to continue this?” Borna asked, voice a low growl. A drop of blood trickled down and fell from where he was gripping the barbed wire.

The man and his friend stilled. “It’s not worth it,” the man finally muttered and they backed off.

Dorian, Steven and Borna watched them go and relaxed their stances only when they disappeared behind a street corner.

“Fuck,” Borna swore quietly. He tried to let go of the barbed wire, but it stuck to his clothes.

“Shit, dude, are you okay?” Steven asked and hurried to help him get disentangled from the wire.

“Do you have the tetanus shot?” Dorian asked, eyeing the rust on the wire.

Borna paled. “It’s been a while,” he admitted.

“I can call a taxi to the hospital,” Dorian offered, already pulling out his phone.

“No, no,” Borna hastily said.

Dorian looked at him.

“I don’t have insurance,” Borna admitted. “I don’t think I can afford to go to the hospital.”

“We can figure something out, come on,” Steven said quietly, but Borna shook his head stubbornly.

Dorian sighed. “You can at least come to my place to clean up, I live pretty close,” he offered.

Borna nodded. “Thank you,” he said. He was finally disentangled from the barbed wire and he stepped over the fence back on the street. His hand was now covered in blood and his hoodie had visible small tears in it, parts of it dirtied with blood.

---

It took them about ten minutes to come to a quiet neighbourhood, small apartment blocks with crumbling facades lining the streets. Dorian’s flat was on the top floor of one of the indistinguishable buildings, a small and old place, but well-kept. He steered Borna to the bathroom where he pulled out a first aid kit.

Steven took the disinfectant that Dorian dug out of the kit and carefully cleaned Borna’s cuts. Dorian hovered awkwardly, resigning himself to sit on the edge of the bathtub, holding the supplies for Steven.

Borna glared at the wall behind Steven, showing no sign of feeling the sting of the disinfectant.

“That was really fucking hardcore,” Dorian commented.

Borna grunted in a response.

“But please don’t do it again,” Steven added. “Or get a tetanus shot first.”

Dorian sighed, leaning on the wall thoughtfully. Steven quietly finished cleaning Borna’s hand and looked at Dorian.

“Where do I put this?” he asked, holding up the empty disinfectant container.

“Uh, there’s a trash can in the kitchen,” Dorian said. “First door on the right.”

Steven nodded in acknowledgement and got up, leaving the bathroom.

“Can I see?” Dorian asked after a beat.

Borna nodded and showed him his hand. Dorian gently held it, making sure to avoid the cuts, examining it.

“I just wish I could do more,” Borna said, barely audible.

Dorian’s eyes flicked up, an unreadable expression. “Like what?” he asked. His oice was level and quiet, unnaturally so.

Borna shrugged. “I dunno. Grab the asshole and throw him around properly. Make him regret it.”

Dorian nodded. He held Borna’s arm, raising it.

“You really want it?” he asked.

Borna shot him a wary look. “Yeah.”

“Okay,” Dorian said casually, smiling sharply and then bit down.

“Fuck!” Borna yelled, tearing his arm away from Dorian. “Are you fucking insane?”

Steven noisily ran up to the bathroom doors. “What’s going on?”

Borna clutched his hand to his chest. “He fucking bit me!”

“Kinky,” Steven said automatically. Then he stared at Borna’s hand. “Wait, what?”

“Yeah!”

Steven kept looking between Borna’s newly bloody hand and Dorian awkwardly wiping the side of his mouth.

“We’re leaving,” he finally said, pulling Borna out by his shirt.

Dorian nodded. “Come see me in a few days,” he weakly called after them.

“I don’t think we will,” Steven bit back and they left the flat.

Dorian shakily brushed his hair out of his face and dug out his cigarette pack, lighting one. He opened the tiny bathroom window and took a long drag, shaking off the ashes into the toilet.

[counttotwenty]

TWW Fantasy Season 8:17 Like Being Pecked to Death by a Duck (Act 4)

Act 4

Interior-Sam’s office

Wednesday

Midnight

“This looks really good,” Sam praised as he perused the final copy of Bram’s water standards bill. “Great

work.”

“Thanks,” Bram said with a sigh of relief. “I’m glad it’s done. Maybe now I can go back to working at my

desk.”

“Are you gonna disappear every time you get a chance to play point man on a project,” Sam teased. “Because that could become a problem.”

“No, it’ll be easier after this,” the younger man said resolutely. “This was my first time so I wanted to be

sure it was perfect.”

“Where have you been hiding anyway,” Sam asked as he tucked the papers back into their folder.

“I found this room downstairs with a couple of couches and desk. Nice and quiet. Out of the way. No one

bothers you there.”

Sam smiled wistfully. “Is that still there?”

Bram completely missed Sam’s familiarity with the room. “Yep. It’s a great place to get some work done.”

“I’ll bet,” Sam smiled.

“Speaking of which, I better go down there and clean up my notes and empty coffee cups. I’ll be back in a

few minutes.”

Sam was lost in memories of another administration and time spent in the room in the basement as Bram turned around and left his office.

CUT TO:

Interior-Hallway Outside the Basement Room

Bram made his way towards the room he had been working in for the last week, still basking in the glow of Sam’s approval and praying Josh felt the same way. He opened the door, unaware of all that had gone on there during the Bartlet administration, and entered. He fumbled for the light switch and all of the sudden the room was awash in light.

And movement.

“What the hell???”

It took a minute for his mind to process the sight he saw before him. There…on the couch…the very couch

he had been sitting on not twenty minutes ago, were Otto and Lou. They were…..

“OH MY GAWD!!!” Bram screeched as the Communications Director and her Deputy scrambled to grab their clothes.

“Bram..wait…” Otto grabbed a pair of pants, realized they weren’t his and tossed them at Lou.

“OH MY GAWD!!!”

“Seriously. Stop screaming.” Lou crouched behind the couch trying to hide from Bram’s view.

“OH MY GAWD!!”

“BRAM!”

“OH MY GAWD!!!”

Before either Lou or Otto could get themselves dressed, Bram fled in horror.

CUT TO:

Interior-Oval Office

“I’m exercising my walk in privileges,” Helen said as she entered the room and closed the door behind her. “Ronna said you weren’t busy.”

“I’m always busy,” Matt took mock offense. “I’m a very important man.”

“So you say.” Helen rolled her eyes as she crossed the room and plopped herself down in Matt’s lap.

“I’m trying to get through some of these briefing memos Josh left for me while I wait for word on what

happened in Kazakhstan.”

“So you’ll be late?”

“I’m sorry, honey. We’re at such a critical juncture right now that something like this could plunge

everything back into chaos. I just feel like I need to be here.”

“I understand,” Helen straightened his collar and gave him a quick peck on the lips.

“But I’ll be punished later,” Matt guessed.

“Much later. First you have to pay for mocking my Christmas display.”

Matt gulped.

“In fact, assuming this Kazakhstan thing gets straightened out before 7:30 am eastern tomorrow,

Ronna is gonna clear a little room in your schedule so you can accompany Matt Lauer and me as we take a tour and I show him the lights.”

“He-len,” Matt whined, stretching her name out as far as he could.

“Don’t whine,” Helen checked his face for lipstick. “It won’t work.”

“I’ll just tell Ronna…”

“Don’t even try,” she warned.

“Isn’t there something else I can do? Some other penance I can pay?”

“There are lots more things for you to do. But then again you have lots to atone for.”

“Like?”

“When my sister called to tell me Kelly was getting engaged this Christmas I had to listen to her tell me

how sweet the proposal was going to be and didn’t I wish I’d gotten that instead of an over the phone

proposal.”

Matt dropped his head. “I’ll be up as soon as I can.”

“Great. I’ll start working on a list of things for you to do.”

CUT TO:

Interior-Lester’s Office

Bram barreled through the door without knocking, throwing both Lester and Annabeth for a loop.

“OH GAWD, OH GAWD, OH GAWD,” he repeated over and over. “OH GAWD.”

“What?? What happened,” Lester asked, trying not to panic.

“OH GAWD,” Bram repeated.

“What’s going on,” Annabeth said crossing the room and grabbing Bram by the arm.

“It’s…I can’t…It’s just….OH GAWD!”

Bram crossed the room and dropped down on Lester’s couch.

“Bram! Get a hold of yourself. What in the Hell is going on? Is it Kazakhstan? Is the news bad,” Lester

demanded.

Bram took a deep breath and began waving his arms. “No, no no it’s nothing like that.”

“You had me scared,” Annabeth placed on hand on her chest and handed him a bottle of water with the other.

“It’s worse. Much worse,” Bram said, his eyes wide and desperate.

“What? Are we being attacked? Has there been some natural disaster? What on earth is happening?”

Lester’s stress level shot through the roof.

Bram continued to mutter to himself in what sounded like foreign tongues as he rocked back and forth.

“This is ridiculous. I’m going to talk to Josh,” Lester said, moving towards the door.

“No, wait. Don’t get Josh involved.” Bram tried to unsuccessfully to stand. Annabeth rubbed his shoulders

as he collapsed back onto the couch.

“If it’s something this big shouldn’t Josh know?”

“No,” Bram screamed. “We can’t tell Josh.”

“You’ve got two choices. Tell me right now or I’m going to Josh.” Lester said anxiously.

“OK,” Bram tried to compose himself. “Downstairs, in the basement, I’ve been working there because it’s

quiet.”

“Right,” Annabeth said as soothingly as she possibly could.

“Well…I finished the report…so I went down to clean up my workspace and I saw…I saw…”

“WHAT?” Lester and Annabeth asked in unison.

“Otto and Lou.”

“Otto and Lou,” Annabeth asked. “What about Otto and Lou?”

“They were…..together. Naked. Naked together,” Bram started whimpering.

Before he could say anything more a very disheveled looking Otto and Lou entered the office. Bram pulled Annabeth in front of him like a human shield and buried his head in her back.

“I can explain,” Lou said as Lester and Annabeth smirked at her and Bram continued hiding.

CUT TO:

Interior-Oval Office

“Thanks for getting us that information, Mr. President.” Matt sat at his desk talking on the

speakerphone to the President of Kazakhstan while Sam and Josh stood on the other side listening. “Please let us know if we can be of any assistance.”

“I certainly will.” The voice on the phone replied.

“I’ll talk to you soon, Sir.”

“Good evening Mr. President.”

Matt disconnected the call and sighed with relief. “A gas leak.”

“Thank heavens,” Sam said.

“I’ll call the Russian and Chinese Ambassadors to give them to good news.” Matt clapped his hands together.

“Before I forget, Ron called,” Josh said. “They identified the white powder.”

“Really?” Matt asked. “What was it?”

“Tide,” Josh smirked.

“Tide? Like the laundry detergent?” Matt was incredulous.

“Exactly. Turns out the return address on the envelope was real and when the police went to question the

"suspect” they found a little old lady who likes to write her grandchildren while she’s doing her laundry.“

"But why was it passing through the White House mail sub station….oh no…I’m not sure I want you to

answer that.”

Sam gave up trying to keep a straight face and decided to concentrate on hiding his laughter behind his hand.

Josh tried valiantly to school his features but failed. “It was addressed to a White House employee.”

Matt closed his eyes. “Which one?”

“Bram Howard,” Josh replied.

The President winced. “And the police rousted his grandmother?”

“I’m afraid so,” Josh replied. “Don’t worry, I’m on it.”

“And with that,” Matt shook his head, “I’m gonna head up to the Residence. I think Helen is in the mood to

punish me.”

Both Josh and Sam tried to hide their smiles.

“Not in the good way, boys. Not in the good way.”

CUT TO:

Interior-Hallway

“We’re three wins for three today,” Josh said as he rubbed his eyes tiredly.

“That doesn’t happen very often,” Sam smiled.

“Just often enough to keep us from fleeing the building in despair.” Josh slapped Sam on the back.

“Arnie Vinick and Humphries have patched things up?”

“They’re having a joint press conference tomorrow at noon. By the time the press is done with Kazakhstan and the anthrax scare his little blunder will barely be a blip on the radar.”

“That’s good. You know why, don’t you?”

“Because Humphries really is a crotchety old coot,” Josh guessed.

“Exactly.”

“You’re very wise.”

“And that’s why you need to listen to me on this proposal thing. Seriously, Josh, Donna is the kind of

woman who can appreciate the magic and the wonder of nature. Make sure that’s part of the proposal.”

They reached the door to Lester’s office and could hear chaos and yelling inside.

CUT TO:

Interior-Lester’s office

Continuous

“What in the Hell is going on in here,” Josh thundered as he and Sam entered Lester’s office. “Is that about Bram’s grandmother?”

Bram’s head shot out from behind Annabeth. “What about my grandmother?”

At that moment it crossed Josh’s mind that Ron may not have had a chance to talk to the younger man yet. “It’s nothing serious. Just a procedural matter. Make sure you stop at the Secret Service office before you leave tonight, and tell Margaret you need five minutes with me first thing in the morning.”

The room fell silent and all eyes were on the Chief of Staff. Except for Bram’s. He had returned his face to

the safety of Annabeth’s back.

“It’s nothing,” Lou said as Lester and Annabeth tried not to laugh and Otto tried to wipe the smirk off his

face.

“What happened to you?” Josh demanded. “You look like you just came out of a wind tunnel.” He turned to Otto. “And what are you smiling about?”

“Listen, Josh…” Lou started.

“No, you listen. All of you. I don’t care what’s going on in here. I just know that I want it all worked out

before staff tomorrow morning. The explosion in Kazakhstan was a gas leak. The anthrax was laundry

detergent. Lester, let the press know everything is under control.”

“Will do,” Lester said as he straightened his tie and headed to the pressroom to brief, actually happier to

face the tired and cranky press than to stay in the insanity that had descended upon his office.

“Thanks for helping out today, Annabeth,” Josh said. “I really appreciate it.”

“No problem, Josh.”

“As for the rest of you-it’s been a long day. Get to bed.”

As Josh and Sam left the room they couldn’t see Annabeth’s smirk or Lou and Otto’s mouths hanging open and the definitely couldn’t hear Bram whimpering into Annabeth’s back.

CUT TO:

Interior-Josh and Donna’s bedroom

Thursday

1:15AM

“Hey,” Donna said sleepily as Josh slipped into bed beside her. “You’re home.”

He was barely between the sheets before she molded herself to his body, snuggling into him as deeply as

she could. He immediately felt the stress of the day begin to ebb. She never failed to have that effect on

him.

“Yeah, I’m home,” he said softly.

“Everything ok,” she asked without opening her eyes.

He sifted his fingers through her hair and smiled. “Everything’s fine.”

“The explosion?”

“Just a gas leak.”

“The white powder?”

He kissed the top of her head. “Laundry detergent.”

That got her attention. She raised herself up on one elbow and looked at him. “Laundry detergent?”

“Yes. And that’s not the half of it.”

“Do tell,” she said as she settled her head back onto his chest and ran her hand softly across his stomach.

“The letter they found the powder in was addressed to Bram.”

“No!”

“Yes. Turns out his grandmother prefers Tide and likes to write letters to her grandchildren while she’s

doing the laundry.”

“Does everyone know?” Donna giggled.

“Not yet. But they will.”

“Poor guy is never gonna live this one down.” Donna planted a soft kiss on his chest.

“Probably not.”

“Everything ok with Arnie Vinick? I know I shouldn’t but I can’t help laughing every time I hear the tape

of him saying crotchety old coot.”

Josh pulled her more snugly against his side and sighed a contented sigh.

“I know the feeling. So how was your day? Everything ready for Matt Lauer’s visit?”

“I think so. I’ll do one last walk through when I get in in the morning but I’m pretty sure everything is

ready.”

“Anything else interesting happen today?”

“My parents called.”

“Really? What did they want?”

“I’m not sure. I think they got worried when they heard about the white powder. They left a message on

my voicemail and when I called them back they were kind of evasive. I don’t think they wanted to admit

they’d overreacted.”

“They were just worried,” Josh grinned, glad she couldn’t see his face.

“I know. Remember how I told you Helen’s sister and her family were gonna be at the White House for

Christmas?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well it turns out her niece’s boyfriend is coming along and he’s planning to propose on Christmas Eve.

Isn’t that sweet?”

“Yeah.” Josh had to bite his tongue to avoid getting down on his knees and begging Donna to marry him on the spot.

“Poor guy. His first trip to the White House and a proposal on top of that.”

“It’s a lot. That’s for sure.”

As Donna continued talking animatedly about Helen’s niece’s proposal and the White House Christmas

decorations and Matt Lauer Josh smiled broadly. He had the perfect woman and the perfect ring. Now all he needed was to figure out how to propose.

The End.

[svtbiasrekt]

NewParent!Vernon

oh mah gawd this is such a late request i am so sorry anon i hope you love it tho :’) Under keep reading since its long af

New parent!Vernon

Oh boy our boi Vernon’s gonna become a dad

You and your husband Vernon were pretty shook when you both found out you were expecting

But it wasn’t a bad shook oh no of course not

It was a super happy shook

Like vernon’s eyes widened but he had the biggest grin plastered on his handsome face

“OMG Y/N I’M GONNA BE A DAD!!!”

“Yes honey you will be a dad” you said as you playfully rolled your eyes lol

Vernon was super enthusiastic so as soon as he finished calling his family and seventeen to deliver the news he wanted to start on the nursery

You and Vernon agreed on painting the nursery a pastel baby yellow color since it was gender neutral since you didn’t know the baby’s gender yet plus it was a nice color

Soon you found out you’d be having a daughter!

And boy was hansol enthusiastic

“I’M GONNA HAVE A LITTLE GIRL!!”

You could tell he might end up spoiling her

Sigh

But aren’t dads supposed to spoil their little girls?

You’re due date was approaching very quickly

You were basically 8 ½ months long when Vernon FINALLY decided to start constructing the crib

And boy was he struggling

You were in the other room when you heard a hushed “oh shit” followed by a crashing noise https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MUUUI5EvylY (skip to 3:40)

You chuckled and walked (waddled) to the nursery

And there you saw a collapsed crip with a defeated Hansol next to it

“Do you need help lol?” you asked.

“YES but no i don’t want you to wear yourself out” said Vernon

Aww he’s so sweet

“Don’t worry Y/n i’ll finish this soon”

15 minutes later you heard the same hushed “oh shit” followed by a crashing noise

Oh god Vernon

Eventually he ended up calling Seungkwan to help

Seungkwan was probably the most excited out of seventeen for your new bundle of joy

As soon as Vernon told him the news he literally SCREAMED

Like the other members almost went deaf

Seungkwan even teared up a little since he was sooo happy

So anyway Boo was now at your house and was super happy cause the one and only uncle boo will have credit for helping make the crib

He asked questions like if you and vernon were ready or not and stuff

“Hell no!” laughed Vernon

This boi was pretty nervous as your due date approached

But you assured him he’ll be a good father

He still doubted himself tho :\

After like two hours of more hushed “oh shits” and sassy outbursts at the “problematic crib” the crib was finally built

“Y/N THE CRIB IS DONE!” yelled Vernon

“Yeah after like two million years ughh” whined Seungkwan

You only chuckled tho at the two bffs

Once Seungkwan left hansol became all serious

You were like what’s up?

“I couldn’t even build a crib how will I be a good father!!” asked Vernon sadly

..what

Damn he was nervous

“Hansol just because you can’t build a crib doesn’t mean you’ll be a bad father! you‘ll be the most caring and loving dad i know it.”

“You really think so?” he asked

“Of course”

“Thanksss” he said as he rested his head on your shoulder and wrapped his arms around you

Aww

He was being a lil softie

Anyway your due date came along

Both of you were super nervous but excited too

And all that nervousness and excitement for nothing

You never went into labor!

“SHES LATE” you whined overdramatically

“MY GOD BABY GIRL YOU HAD US WAITING FOR NOTHIN” whined Vernon

“We might as well go to bed” you told your hubby

“Yeah i guess so” he said as he climbed into bed

As soon as you were about to get into bed you felt your water break

ARE YOU SERIOUS

RIGHT IN FRONT OF MY BED (SALAD)

“Oh mah gawd MY WATER BROKE!” you screamed

“AHHH” screamed Vernon

“Uhhh HOSPITAL?? NOW??” you yelled. You didnt mean to sound harsh tho but you were quite in labor and in need of a hospital so

Vernon scrambled to help you into the car and made sure to drive carefully to the hospital

As you were driving you remembered the hospital bad

“Hansol… you packed the hospital bag right?”

“I THINK”

Ok this boi seemed more nervous than you the hospital bag can wait

Anyways

You make it to the hospital and the pain has gotten wayyyy worse

But despite all your screaming

And death grip on vernon

He still stayed with you for 9 fucking hours of labor

As soon as you heard your baby girl cry you saw Vernon’s face relax

And you of course cried at the sound of your baby

Vernon’s eyes were filled with wonder though as he saw and heard her daughter take her first breathes

He then looked over at you overwhelmed

All he could do was mouth ‘thank you’

And then tears flooded out from his eyes as he broke out into a smile as the doctor came forward to hand you your daughter

My god was she perfect

She had your hair color and eyes

She had hansol’s nose, smile, and eyebrows

She was so cute omg

You stared at her for a while and remembered vernon probably wanted to meet his daughter too

So you carefully handed her over to him

The same guy who thought he’d be a bad father remembered to carefully hold up her head and cradled her ever so gently

You’d say he’s got this fatherhood thing all right so far.

And omg vernon was so cute with her

Like he started a whole fucking conversation with her omg

“Hi baby girl! I’m your daddy and that’s your mommy! We’re at this place called the hospital…” and so on

All while more tears streamed down his face

And when she gripped his finger with her tiny hand

It was so precious but kind of hilarious

He made this sob-like kind of noise? It was hard to describe tbh but you giggled

You two were still not quite sure what to name her

Vernon suggested that her middle name could be his mother’s name (cause you know how much he loves his mom it’s so precious)

Btw his mom’s name is Melody

And you agreed with that idea she was a nice lady and obviously Vernon loves her a lot and Melody is a nice name

“Since i picked out her middle name you can choose her first name” said Vernon with a sincere smile as he pat your little baby’s head

That was so sweet omg

You decided to name your daughter D/n because (insert reasoning)

Soon Vernon’s family arrived and were thrilled to meet D/n

His mom really liked her middle name too haha

Your family came as well

Then of course Seventeen came to visit as well!

Seungkwan in particular, however, came in BAWLING

“SHE’S SO PRECIOUS!” he whisper yelled

All of seventeen wished you both congratulations

They were so sweet and already loved D/n

The8, being the artsy photographer he is, offered to take a family photo for you two

And of course you two said yes

And my god that was such a sweet photo

The members who were already parents were like “welcome to the club bro” to vernon

He was officially part of the parent line!

Anyway you two finally got to take D/n home

You “Checked In” to the home together as a family for the first time

“I check innnnn, Chwe house” sang Vernon oh god

You just rolled your eyes playfully at him he was so goofy

It was late like past dinner time and you and Vernon already ate that hospital food which you were tired of

D/n on the other hand was wide awake

You were surprised tho you thought she would be asleep by then but nope

So you and hansol decided to give D/n a tour of the house

Vernon pretended to be the tour guide while you held D/n and followed him

“And over here is the toilet, which you’ll have to learn to use someday” said Vernon

“And finally this is your place D/n” he said motioning toward the yellow nursery

D/n was obviously too young to process all of this so she just kind of stared and squirmed

You noticed Vernon kept staring at his daughter in adoration

“Hansol?”

“Yeah” he didn’t take his eyes off her

“Wanna hold her?” you asked extending your arms toward him

“YES i mean yeah sure!”

He held her carefully and just couldn’t stop smiling omg

D/n let out a tiny yawn so you instructed Vernon to carefully place her in the crib he spent so much time working on

“But i don’t ever wanna let go of her!” whispered Hansol

I mean who could blame him

D/n was such a cute baby

But cute babies need sleep

After explaining that to him he reluctantly placed her in the crib and she fell fast asleep

You both proud parents awwed at your beautiful daughter

“C’mon Hansol lets go to bed”

You two went to sleep

Compared to other babies D/n wasn’t that bad

She only cried like twice during the night

And that was usually for feedings or diaper changes

And you and Hansol bolted out of bed to see what was wrong

You two decided that you would be in charge of feedings and Vernon would be on diaper duty

Within the first week D/n went through so many diapers and bottles omg

Also within that first week you and Hansol were so tired

It was hard raising a newborn and being first time parents

But you two worked really well with one another

When hansol had to go back to work he made sure to ask the ceo if he could leave a little earlier to check up on you and D/n

Ceo said yes thankfully!!

So when hansol would come home early you’d get an opportunity to shower and catch up on sleep while he watched D/n

“Y/n! I’m back!” he’d yell enthusiastically

You were on the couch feeding D/n who ate a lot

“Hi Hansol!” you smiled tiredly

“Lemme take over from here” he said as you passed D/n and her bottle to him

“Thank you so much honey” you smiled and kissed his cheek

“No problem!” he grinned and continued to feed D/n

You went to go shower quickly since its hard to shower when you have a newborn

Meanwhile Vernon decided to talk to his daughter

“So D/n, guess what happened at work today?”

D/n just stared at him with curious eyes

“Uncle Boo thought he could rap my super quick verse in our newest song, but he failed SO BADLY hahahaha”

He just kind of went on talking to her like she was any other person

Even tho she couldn’t understand what he was saying since she was just a week old

“Also D/n, if you have a favorite parent by now, i hope it’s your mom, because she does sooo much here for us”

By this time you had heard what he just said since you just finished showering

“She would be going to work too like me, but she’s staying home to take care of you cause she loves you so much! So don’t give her too much trouble, ok?”

You felt your heart melt omg

Because

AWW HANSOL WAS SO SWEET

And hormones too oh god

You cried a lil but you won’t admit it

So you went to bed in peace and made sure to thank your wonderful husband for his kind words

Man Hansol is such a sweet father and husband you were so thankful

[tilltheendwilliwrite]

Rise Up*

Chapter Five

Previous Chapter

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader  |  Word Count: 6539   Warnings: Swearing, Smut NSFW 18+

Song: I Walk the Line by Halsey

The air in your lungs rushed out when you slammed back first into the mat. Laying there, momentarily stunned, you sucked air, desperate to get some wind back.

Once you could breathe again, you smacked the flat of your hand down on the ground beside you and snarled, “Damn it!”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’ve improved a lot since we started.” Holding down his hand, Matt waited to help you up.

“Not enough,” you sighed, slapping your palm to his.

It had been a month since you’d started training with Matt and in that time you’d been able to master the art of seeing without seeing in your daily life. It was growing easier every day to walk the hallways of the compound without walking into something.

While he’d taught you to use a cane, you decided to keep it for missions when you wanted to appear like the average blind person. Everyone who worked for the Avengers was already aware of your abilities as a Valkyrie, and simply assumed your enhanced senses were the reason you could maneuver the compound so easily.

You could tune in or out the noise far easier than before, though you still found it difficult to distinguish individual conversations in a large group of people.

Scent and taste were coming along as well, Matt getting Tony to bring in a variety of items for you to learn and memorize. By the end of the day you were usually both mentally and physically exhausted from his vigorous and intense training regime. You both relished and hated the challenge. Learning the new things you needed to were fun and stimulating, but the simple things you'd always taken for granted, the ease with which you'd fought, or aimed a weapon, was now so much harder.

It felt like days of old when you’d first learned to fight under Tove’s tutelage. Your mother had not pulled her punches either, sending you to your back over and over again until you learned all she had to teach you.

“Hey,” Matt grasped you by the elbows once you were back on your feet. “The only reason I got your feet out from under you is that you became distracted.”

“I know, I know.”

“He’ll be back this afternoon.”

“I know,” you sighed.

“And you talked to him this morning. Everything went fine.”

Your forehead connected with Matt’s chest. After a month of nearly living in each other’s pocket he knew you almost as well as Steve. Add in the fact you were constantly in contact with each other, holding on to his arm, sharing food, hands moving together over braille as he helped you learn, it had been easy to slip into a close friendship with the man who once called himself Daredevil.

It was like gaining a brother. Wanda said it had been the same with her and Pietro. You just knew each other, got each other, so when he talked about Steve, he did so because he knew what you were going through.

“I know it did.”

Steve, Bucky, and Sam had left on a mission three days ago. He'd fought against going, knowing how painful it was for you to watch him leave, put himself in danger without you to watch his back, but they needed the power the two super soldiers brought to the team.

It was a hostage situation, high valued targets, in which a small team of agents were needed. Bucky had sworn he, Sam, and Natasha could handle it, but when the Intel had come through it was glaringly evident they needed Steve for the job. He and Bucky had the necessary strength and stealth, while Sam had the tech.

Steve had waffled right up to the moment you’d smacked him in the abs and told him to go. Yes, you needed him, but he also had a job to do. 

It had hurt like hell when he'd left, but you'd held it together, kissed him goodbye, and made it back to your room before you allowed the wave of panic and fear to overwhelm you. It had done little good hiding how difficult his leaving had been as Steve had called, wanting to know what had happened. Even at a distance he'd felt the hard jerk and lurch of your heart.  

Stroking your hair, Matt murmured, “Why don’t we call it early today?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, you’re kind of worthless.”

“Hey!”

He chuckled as you pulled away. “Kidding, kidding.”

Throwing a half-hearted punch at his head, you shook yours. “Have you talked to Elektra?”

He ducked even as he sighed. “Briefly.”

“I'm sorry, Matty.”

The rift caused between them by Matt’s decision to come to your aid had you feeling a little guilty. They had been done with all their defenders of justice bullshit - as Elektra put it - and shouldn’t be getting themselves involved.

But Matt was Matt. Getting the call from Steve, a man he admired for his principles, had set Matt at odds with his girl. Now they were barely speaking, and when they did it never went well.

“Hey, not your fault.” He shook his head as he stripped off his mask.

Even now, he still used it. Said it was like slipping into a different persona. He channelled his abilities better when he allowed himself to be Daredevil once again.

“It kind of is,” you muttered, tugging off your blindfold. “You'd gotten out of all this only to be pulled back in because of me.”

His hand came down on your shoulder. “I chose to come — my choice. I…” he hesitated, then sighed. “I… miss it.”

“Yeah?”

He heaved out another heavy breath. “Yeah. It made me… weirdly happy. Helping people. Taking down corruption. Doing some good with these… abilities,” he looked down, flexed his hands. “Made me feel…”

“Complete,” you finished for him and got a nod. “I get that.”

“I know you do. I can see it every time you're with Steve.”

“So if defending and shit makes you happy, do it.”

“I would, but I'm dead,” he chuckled. The sound, however, was hollow without mirth.

“You don't have to stay dead if you don't want to, Matt. Stories can be spread. Miracles can occur. We're pretty good at that here. Make a story up about amnesia, you've only just regained your memory. We can bring you back if you want to come back.”

“I miss Foggy. Karen, too,” he murmured, more to himself than you. “I don't know.”

“I know you love Elektra, but is being with her worth being miserable in everything else? You tried to hang up your horns once and look what happened.”

“Since when did you become the sage in this relationship?” he quipped, done with the conversation.

“Just… think about it, Matty.”

***

You were in the shower washing away the sweat and grime from your session with Matt when you heard it. There was a jet incoming.

Your heart leapt and “Sjelevenn,” whispered from your lips.

But of course when you tried to rush through the rest of your shower your hands grew clumsy, knocking the bottles to the floor. Swearing softly, you listened to the sounds of engines growing steadily closer as you scrambled to put everything to rights.

Finishing in record time, you leapt from the shower, threw a towel around yourself, another around your head and raced out the bathroom door.

The closet was no longer a challenge thanks to the girls and Matt. Bra and underwear went on without a hitch, leggings stuck to your wet skin and were sworn at as you forced them up your legs with a wild shimmy. Grabbing a thick sweater from the dresser, you struggled into it, knocking free the towel from your head, and found the tag scratching your throat. Ripping it off as you listened to the jet land, you whipped it around, threw it back on, slammed your feet into running shoes and darted out the door.

The race down the hallway was a giddy one. People darted to get out of your way. Some laughed, others catcalled giving you the gears, all of them knew exactly where you were headed.

You couldn’t care less. All you knew was you needed to get to the hanger, to Steve. The wash of red in your mind had you darting in and around people when they didn’t move fast enough.

This too made you giddy, a little giggly, because of how nice it was to have a semblance of sight back. No, it wasn’t what had once been, but in some aspects, it was better. The map in your head of the people and the building was just so much more now. You didn’t have to see what was around the corner with your eyes because you already knew what was there.

At the doors to the hanger, you slowed, pushed them open, getting a bead on the room. There were far too many people in it for your liking. Quinjets sat wingtip to wingtip; equipment scattered around. It was like a damn obstacle course between you and the jet which smelled of heat and fuel, oil and sky.

The hiss of the ramp coming down had your head turning.

Boots on metal. The whir of Bucky’s arm. Sam’s wonderful laugh made you smile, but it was the sound of familiar steps and the singing song of Steve’s shield which had you moving forward.

But gawd! There were so many people!

Why the hell did they land on the far side of the hanger?

You charted the most direct route to take you to Steve. Three steps saw you to the ladder of the nearest quinjet. Once you were standing on its roof, you took off at a run, leaping effortlessly to the wing of the next jet, up over its roof and down the other side.

Flipping off the wing, you landed in a clear section of floor and raced on. You darted around the tail of another jet. A mechanical lift with a large metal beam hung in your way. Pushing hard, you slid beneath it on your knees, and were up and running again within seconds.

The herd of people between you and Steve kept growing, all wanting to congratulate the returning heroes on their successful mission, but you were having none of it.

“Clear a fucking path!” you bellowed.

It was like the red sea parted before you. Everyone turned, took a step back, yanking other people out of the way when you headed for them at a dead run.

You grinned wide when Bucky chuckled and stepped into your path, his metal arm outstretched. Laughing, you didn’t bother to slow down but sped up. When you got closer, you rounded into a cartwheel, pushed off in a handspring which saw you landing feet first on Bucky’s arm.

“Easy, doll face!” he barked, bracing beneath your weight, but you were already launching yourself at Steve standing with Tony and Sam.

“Steve!” squealed from your lips.

“Jesus!” he yelled, arms coming up in the nick of time when you slammed full force into his chest.

Your legs went around his waist and clamped tight. Thrusting your hands into his hair, you sealed your lips to his in a kiss which took his breath and sent him stumbling backwards.

“I… missed… you… so… much!” you said between kisses.

With his shield magnetized to his arm his hand easily delved into your hair, the heavy glove of his suit catching and tugging on your locks in a surprisingly pleasant way. Hidden mostly from view by the large singing shield, you nipped and bit at his lips. His tongue slid its way into your mouth, tasting and twisting with yours before pulling you back by the hair to catch his breath.

“Baby, it’s only been three days,” he said, but his lips brushed over yours again as soon as the words were out.

“Three days without you!” Diving back in, you ate at his mouth, sucking and biting at his tongue, his other hand squeezing your ass when a disgruntled huff came from the far side of the shield.

“Get a fucking room,” Bucky teased.

“We have a debriefing to get to, Cap,” Sam chuckled.

Hefting you higher, Steve walked away. “It can wait.”

“Excellent decision, Captain,” you purred against his ear.

“She’s thoroughly corrupted him,” Tony snickered. “I love it.”

“He’s whipped,” Sam said.

“Pussy whipped,” agreed Bucky.

“Fuck you, jerk,” Steve grumbled, making you chuckle.

“They're all jealous,” you whispered in Steve’s ear, grinning at the men though it was likely only Bucky who could hear you.

Catcalls and whistling followed the two of you through the hanger, but it neither slowed Steve down nor stopped you from attacking his throat above the collar of his uniform. Together you slammed through the hanger doors into the main compound. The clanging sound of Steve’s shield hitting them echoed loudly.

You couldn’t have cared less.

The scent of Steve saturated every particle of air you breathed in. The taste of him was on your tongue. His suit was hard beneath your hands, but his hair and skin were soft. The scruff of three day’s growth of beard abraded your chin and cheek when you took your teeth to his jaw.

“Baby,” he moaned softly, “least wait till we get to the room.”

“Don’t wanna,” you murmured, nipping at his ear. “Missed you. Need to touch you.”

He hissed at the sting. “We’d get there faster if you’d let me concentrate.”

“Am I distracting you, Captain?” Crooning against his ear, you rolled your body into his in an act which had you plastering your fronts together.

“Yes!” he growled, tugging at your hair.

Laughing, you wiggled in his hold. “I know an even faster way of getting where we need to go.”

“Oh?”

You knew his brow would be arched. It always was with that cocky tone. “Yeah. Let me down, and I’ll show you.”

The spasm of his hand on your ass showed his reluctance before he let you go.

Dropping to your feet, you let your hands slide over his chest, figuring out which suit he had on. Not the stealth suit, not your favourite, but the next best. The one with the defined red and white abdomen, similar to the stealth one you adored with its design but in his traditional colours. The shoulder harness for his shield was a combination of smooth leather and cool metal when you slipped your fingers underneath it and gave a tug.

When he leaned down, you smiled slyly, pressed up on your toes and kissed him till his entire body softened before pulling away. Humming your pleasure, you licked your lips to catch the taste of him again, dragged your fingertips down over his Kevlar encased abdominals to his belt. “You want to get there fast, Captain?”

“Yeah,” he said, voice strained.

Looking up at him, you smiled seductively, peering up through your lashes, using your new senses to see the flush on his cheeks, the sweat on his brow, the way he swallowed. You could smell the heat on him, the lust growing. It made you feel powerful to know he was so thoroughly yours in that instant you likely could have dragged him into the supply closet and had him out of his suit in under a minute, but you were only just getting started.

Three days felt like three years. You weren’t letting him out of your bed until you’d touched every inch of skin and knew without a shadow of a doubt he was unharmed.

Shifting a little, aware of the people trying so hard not to watch the two of you and this public display of affection, you moved with lightning speed, a quickness you had yet to exhibit from your Valkyrie powers to any one but Matt, and took Steve’s feet out from under him.

“Catch me if you can, Cap!” Laughing loudly, you darted away.

“(Y/N)!” he bellowed. “You’d best run!”

Continuing to giggle, you pulled out all your tricks, running like a gazelle, all speed and grace and lightness of step. You sought ahead, making sure not to run into anyone.

The heavy booted feet of Steve coming after you pounded in time with your heartbeat. Where once he would have been on you in strides, now, to the Captain’s apparent surprise, he had to work to keep up. When his hearty chuckle sounded behind you, you only grinned wider.

The turn to the living quarters was coming up. Instead of slowing, you made the turn at a dead run, leaping at the last second to push off the wall and keep going.

“One side, Vis!” you laughed joyously, sliding around the android. “Watch out for Steve!” you warned just as the thump of a body hitting something solid and the sharp grunt of your sjelevenn informed you the Captain had not made the same grace-filled turn you had.

“Captain?” Vision questioned, staring at the stumbling man.

“I’m good. Damn, she’s fast!” Steve chuckled, causing the ringing sound of your laughter to wash out when you jogged to a stop before your shared door.

Grinning his direction, you pushed it open and sauntered inside.

“Is this… sprint through the compound part of (Y/N)’s training with Murdock?” Vision asked.

“Something like that,” Steve said, striding quickly toward the open door.

“Would she require assistance with the next one?”

“Vis,” Wanda called out, and you could hear the smile in her voice. “Come. I will explain the nature of what this all meant.”

You could still hear Vision muttering about the strangeness of people when Steve’s presence filled the doorway. Stripping your sweater over your head, you let it drop from your hand as you backed away, heading for the bedroom.

A rumble like a hungry animal escaped Steve’s chest when the door shut and the lock engaged. “That was pretty damn impressive, doll face,” he said. The sound of the electromagnets disengaging preceded his shield going quiet when it settled on the sofa.

“Getting easier every day,” you said, smiling as you shimmied out of your leggings.

“Fuck, baby…” he moaned, his eyes feeling hot on your skin when they roamed over you. “You went up the wall and…”

“And?” you asked, stepping slowly backward in only your underwear as he advanced.

“My blood rushed south. Should have made that turn. Ran straight into the wall instead.”

Bursting out laughing, you stopped when your calves made contact with the bed. “And here I though a little chase would be less distracting.”

“You thought watching you run, enticing me to chase you, knowing it would end up with you naked under me screaming my name, would be less distracting?”

“Alright, maybe not, but it did get us to this point so much faster.”

“Can I expect such a welcome every time I have to go away?”

“Only when you go without me.” Which, if you had your way, would be never again.

“Well… that sucks.”

Surprised, you laid your hands on his chest when he stopped before you. “What? Why?”

His gentle hands, now devoid of gloves cupped your face. “Because I don’t plan on going anywhere without you ever again.”

“Steve,” you whispered as your heart turned over.

“God you’re gorgeous, baby,” he murmured, his lips brushing yours.

Fumbling with his belt, you got it undone and let it hit the floor. “You know, this is the first time I’ve ever gotten to participate in getting you out of this suit.” Using the tips of your sensitive fingers, you passed them over his chest and abs. “Alright, how do you get in and out of this thing?” There wasn’t a buckle, zipper, or fastener to be found until you let your fingers drift down to cup the very firm length between his thighs. “Nice to see they at least made this easily accessible.”

“Is that an invitation to have you with the suit on?” he asked, his smile wide when he pressed his lips to your throat and drew them slowly down, teeth nipping into your skin.

“I would say yes, but it stinks.” You didn’t mind the sweat so much, but the scent of gunpowder, blood, and some kind of grease was becoming overpowering. “What the hell did you slide through?”

“Mechanic's shop,” he muttered, leading your hands around to the back of his suit. “Lots of oil. There’s a flap of Kevlar velcroed down, under it is a zipper. Hit the latch for the shield harness first.”

“And just why were you sliding through the oil and grunge of a mechanic’s shop?”

“Ugh…” he hesitated.

Pressing the harness release, you pulled it from his back and let it fall to join his belt. While he toed off his boots, you dragged the zipper down. “Steven?”

“There may have been a… a rocket launcher…”

“Steven!”

“It was a small one, and the shield took the impact. I just kind of… skidded… a little.”

Shoving the suit forward, you let him strip it down his arms so your forehead could connect with his back. Beneath the suit he had on a tight, compression top and similar briefs, both damp with sweat, but you paid it no mind. You’d never known sweaty man could smell good until Steve, until Helgi, but the scent of your sjelevenn was like home and never repulsed you.

“Hey, darlin’,” he murmured, rubbing the arms you’d wrapped around him. “I’m fine. You know I’ve taken a lot worse than a dirty slide through some old building.”

“I lost you… twice on the battlefield. Twice, Steve. Don’t make light of something like this.”

“Sweetheart,” he sighed, turning around to, again, take your face in his hands. The suit hung around his waist, rubbing against your bare skin in a not necessarily unpleasant way. “I’ve been doing this a long time. I know what I can and can’t take.”

Wrapping your hand at the back of his neck, you pulled him down until his forehead pressed to yours. Taking one of his hands from your face, you brought it to rest over the wildly beating heart in your chest. “Listen to this, Steve. Feel what it was like when I lost you as Sváfa.”

Returning to that time in your memory, you gasped at the sharp pain when it washed through you. Even though he stood right in front of you, flesh and blood and whole, the pain was as fresh as if it had just happened.

“They didn’t think it possible to die of a broken heart,” you whispered when he shuddered, the strange bond between you filling him with your feelings on the matter, “but I did. I did… twice.”

“Sweetheart… I’m sorry,” he whispered, kissing you softly. Jaw, cheeks, chin, he placed tender kisses all over your face, finally drifting back to your lips where he kissed you breathless.

The small tilt of his head and parted lips met yours, encouraging your mouth open with gentle persistence so his tongue could rub the edge of your teeth. The tip of his tongue caught the end of yours, teased and slipped around it, sending tingles down your spine and a moan washing from your throat.

Noses brushed together. Hearts beat as one.

You nipped into his lip, sucked it into your mouth, pulling on it with small tugs until he echoed the sound you’d made. A heady moan of wanton desire rumbled from his throat.

Shoving at his suit, you forced the heavy material down his legs, never breaking from the kiss. It landed at his feet where he stepped on it, turning the legs inside out to get the thing off as your hands dragged the hem of his top up, revealing his sculpted abs and chest.

Forced to break the kiss, you lifted the shirt over his head, Steve assisting, jerking it from his arms as your hands fell frantically to his shorts.  Dropping to your knees, you practically tore the fabric down his legs, freeing his cock in one fell swoop, where it bobbed, brushing against your cheek.

Turning your head, you licked the shaft right back to the tip, wrapped your lips around his crown and sank deep, mouth meeting your hand without hesitation, causing every muscle in Steve’s body to jerk with the sensation.

“Fuck!” he barked, sinking his hands into your hair. “Shit, fuck… baby!”

Drawing back, you smirked when you pulled away. “Something wrong?”

“Nope, not a damn thing.” He wheezed a little, the excitement of having you swallow him so suddenly palatable on the air.

“You sure? Wouldn’t want to stress that old heart of yours.”

His hands tugged at your hair. “Not a chance.”

The tip of his cock nudged your lips. Licking the end, you opened wide, letting him slide back into the heated depths of your mouth. Sucking hard, you hollowed your cheeks, pulling on him with every thrust of his hips.

“So good...” he murmured, fingers carding and stroking through your hair. “Damn you’re good at that. Don’t stop, darlin'. Don’t stop. Fuck I missed you.”

Humming a chuckle, you looked up toward his face.

His hand landed lightly on your cheek, his thumb caressing the high arch of bone. “Look at me with those eyes. Just like that, (Y/N). They’re so beautiful, baby. They match your heart now. They show your incredible soul.”

A blush filled your cheeks, one of pleasure at hearing his praise. Running your hands up and down his thighs, you sucked and licked and ran the lightest caress of teeth over the  ridges and veins of his cock. It stretched your jaw a little, but the sounds of his pleasure, the way his body heated beneath your touch, the quiver and quake of his muscles kept you going.

Grunts of pleasure replaced his words of praise until he pulled quickly away, panting heavily. “Not like that. Not yet. I want you.” His hands went beneath your arms, lifting you easily to your feet where he brought you in, flesh to flesh, to seal his mouth to yours in a kiss which once would have left bruises.

Now you returned it with the same amount of vigour. Deft fingers easily snapped open the clasp of your bra, pinning it in place between you with how tight he held you. The ridge of his hard cock pressed into your thigh making you whimper in need. “Steve, please.”

Stepping back, he swept your bra down your arms, took you by the waist, turned, and threw you back on the bed where you giggled as you landed. A knee pressed between yours. Hands returned to your waist to the band of your underwear which were swiftly jerked down your legs.

Warm, callused fingers closed around your ankles and drew them apart, lifting them up and back while you leaned on your elbows. A smile played with your lips. The intensity with which he stared at you, heated gaze dragging over your flesh, felt like fingers on your skin. “See something you like, Captain?”

“Min vakre skjoldpike.”

The words seemed to walk the length of your spine, shiver through your veins and settle deep in your heart. “Sjelevenn,” you moaned, letting your head fall back when those hard, strong hands skimmed down your calves, the back of your thighs, and under to cup your ass and drag you closer.

“Look how wet you are,” he murmured. The fingers of his right hand sent shivers through you as they made their way over to your core and slipped along your moist lips. He rubbed slow circles, playing with your clit, delving down to collect more of your slick and spread it around.

“God, Steve…” Arching up, you let your leg settle on his shoulder while the other fell open on the bed.

He leaned forward, his big body causing yours to flex with your leg over his shoulder. His tongue swept over your breast. Lips latched around your nipple and tugged just as his fingers slipped inside of you, pressing out against your walls in a scissoring motion which sent shocks of pleasure through your core.  

“Jeg trenger deg inne i meg, min kjærlighet,” poured from your lips.

“Baby,” Steve moaned against your skin. “You know what that does to me.”

“I know,” you sighed, arching against his lips.

“Tell me?” His mouth skimmed up your throat to suck against your pulse.

“I need you inside me, my love.” Turning your face, you sank into his kiss.

He shifted over you, his body pressing yours back into the bed, stretching you into a near split when his big palm held your thigh down. “How badly do you need me?” he asked, rubbing his tip into your heat.

“So bad, Stevie. I missed you, I need you, I want you,” you murmured, wrapping your hands around his neck.

“Yeah? How much do you want me?”

You smiled at his teasing. Stretched out as you were, you couldn’t even rock up against him. “As much as you want me.”

“That’s right, baby,” he purred. With a slow thrust, he sank deep, letting you feel every inch of him as he stretched your walls and filled you up.

“Fuck… you’re so damn big!”

He chuckled even as his muscles quivered with strain. “I’m already yours, darlin', no need to stroke my ego.”

“Shut up, sjelevenn.”

He continued to chuckle when he started to move. Long, slow glides of his thick cock through your already quivering walls.

“Fuck that feels so good, Stevie,” you moaned, sliding your hands down his back and dragging your nails up.

His face tucked into your throat, nipped and sucked beneath your ear. The roughness of his palms caused your skin to tingle when he stroked them over your thighs. His beard scratched your jaw, the sensation rushing straight to your core. The hand holding your thigh to the bed shifted, drew your leg up around his waist. He sank deeper, bottoming out, sending you reeling when the bliss flooded your core.

“Jeg elsker måten du elsker meg på!”

The rumble of excitement slipped from his throat, setting his chest vibrating against yours. “Tell me.”

Cupping his face, you brought his mouth down. Kissing him softly, small pecks which matched the flex of his hips, you whispered against his mouth, “I love the way you make love to me.”

“Baby,” he sighed, running his nose along your jawline.  “Jeg elsker deg.”

“I love you, too, Stevie.” Stroking his cheek, you let your leg slide from his shoulder to his elbow.

He shifted enough to allow you leg fall to his waist, then lowered himself down, stretched himself over you, pressing you firmly into the bed where he took his hands over your sides.

Burying your hands in his hair, you whimpered when he went still.  

His hips held yours down. His body both restraining and comforting. “I missed you. It was only three days, but I missed you. I missed the softness of your skin against mine and the way you sleep on my chest at night. I missed the scent of your hair. I missed these eyes,” he murmured, placing a gentle touch to your cheek. “I missed your smile and your laugh.” He pressed a kiss to the hollow of your throat. “I missed the smell of your skin, especially right here.” He lifted up enough to rub his nose between your breasts.

“Steve,” you sighed softly, heart full with his tenderness.

“It was three days, but it felt like three weeks.” He linked your hands together, stretching them up over your head. “I want to spend three days right here,” he crooned, flexing his hips and driving himself deeper.

“Fuck, Steve!”

“I am, sweetheart.” His mouth fell to your throat as short thrust started again. He was so deep, and so big, and so hard, it took very little movement on his part to send you spiraling.

Clenching your hands in his, you held on, unable to do anything but ride the wave of slowly building pleasure twisting in your belly. The short strokes saw his ridge catching on your sweet spot over and over and over. His lips pulled and sucked at your throat, leaving what you were sure would be a dark hickey. It would last a few hours before disappearing, aided by your healing abilities, but while it marked your skin, you would wear it proudly.

Heated skin, growing slick with sweat, moved together in an age-old dance of passion. Your body grew taut, your muscles shaking, your soft cries growing in volume as you reached for the heights. Each thrust took you up higher. Drove you on to reach for more when the spiraling coil in your belly finally gave with a snap, flooding your core with ecstasy, leaving you in a state of blissed-out moaning.

Panting, his heart beating hard against you, Steve rested his forehead on yours and rode out the clenching, clamping grip of your walls. Once the wave of your orgasm had slowed, he pulled away.

“Min vakre skjoldpike,” he whispered placing kisses on your face and chest as his hands went to your hips. “Let go with your legs, baby.”

Letting them drop to the bed, you giggled when you found yourself flipped to your belly. “Ooh, kinky.”

Sinking back between your legs, Steve settled himself at your entrance and dropped a half dozen kisses on your spine. “You would know,” he chuckled. Thrusting hard, he buried himself back in your body making you gasp in shocked pleasure.

“Fuck,” you moaned, turning your face to the mattress to stifle your voice.

Steve’s fingers threaded into your hair, closed in a fist and lifted your head. “Don’t, baby doll. I want to hear your voice.” The surging of his hips intensified, driving deep, thrusting directly into your g-spot.

Clenching your fists in the bedding, you nearly howled in pleasure. The weight of Steve against your spine kept you from moving. Completely at his mercy, you gave yourself over to his care, soaking in the scent that was uniquely Steve, wallowing in the way he knew you so well he could play your body like an instrument.

The tug at your hair with each downward thrust of his hips had you releasing a high pitched whine. He let go only to wrap that big hand around your throat, holding you gently so he could run his lips and teeth over your ear. “Missed this, too, doll face. Missed the way your body responds. Missed the way you moan my name. Missed the way you come on my cock.”

His words sent a clutch to your core, clamping down on him as the heat in your belly grew again.

“Just like that, baby. Want to feel you come on my cock. Squeeze it and milk it as only you can. Min vakre skjoldpike, jeg elsker deg.”

When he called you his shield maiden and told you he loved you, you could no longer fight the fire growing inside you, didn’t want to, and screamed out, “Steve!” when his teeth sank into your shoulder. Drowning in his scent, the pounding of his heart was all you could hear over the roaring of your blood in your ears.

You cried out again when the inferno which had been slowly growing raged into life, bursting outwards in streaks of pleasure through all your limbs. Your walls locked down around him, squeezing a shocked grunt from Steve.

Only a few hard thrusts more saw him swelling inside you, stretching your already tight channel, sending you into another round of moaning, screaming pleasure when he emptied himself out and let his head fall between your shoulder blades.

Slumping down, you gasped for air in tandem beneath your heavy as hell sjelevenn. Not that you would ever complain. The weight of him made you feel safe, and, in a way, powerful to have taken down this giant of a man with nothing more than a look and a shimmy out of your clothes.

He shifted enough to roll you both to your sides, spooning up against you with a sigh of contentment. “That was some welcome home, doll.” Big hands traced patterns on your torso, one coming up to gently knead a breast.

“It was fun,” you sighed, enjoying the small sparks and little whips of pleasure his hand on your breast was providing. Rolling over, you let your legs tangle and settled against his chest. When his fingers began running up and down your spine, you slowly took yours over his pecs and abs. “We should play tag more often.”

“Only if it ends with you naked,” he chuckled, kissing your forehead.

Rubbing your nose against his heart, you smiled. “I’m pretty sure that could be arranged.”

“You’re getting real good at the whole seeing without seeing thing.”

“Still can’t quite get a handle on it in a fight,” you sighed, a little sad. “Matt put me on my ass today.”

Steve drew you closer. “You’re gonna get there, (Y/N). I know you will.”

Heaving a sigh, you nodded. “I know. I just wish it was faster. I haven’t felt this… amateurish in a very long time. And we haven't even started on weapons yet, just hand to hand.”

He brushed the hair from your cheek. “It’s a whole new ballgame, doll. It’s gonna take time. Have patience.”

“I don’t wanna,” you pouted, scratching at his chest.

Laughing, he caught the fingers of your right hand and brought them to his lips. “Where're your claws, pretty kitty?”

“Took it off when I had my shower. Left it in the bathroom when you landed.”

“You were in that much of a hurry, hm?”

Laughing, you rolled him to his back and straddled his abs. “Well, I may have been missing you a little.”

“Only a little?”

Smirking, you leaned closer till your breasts brushed over his chest, causing a pleased hum to rumble in his throat. “Maybe more than a little.”

You were just about to kiss him, Steve’s hands massaging your ass, getting ready for round two when you felt it. A hum of static in the air. Your groan turned swiftly into a growl of annoyance.

“What? What is it?” Steve had long since stopped second guessing what you knew in advance of him.

“The bifröst is opening.” Sighing, you flopped down on top of Steve like a limp noodle.

His arms immediately went around you. “I won’t let them bully you.”

“Steve…”

“No.”

Sighing, you tucked your face against his throat. “It’s been a month.”

“Not long enough.”

“Thor did apologize before he went home. He didn’t mean to upset me.”

“Loki didn’t.”

There was a distinct note of annoyance in Steve’s voice. “And he won’t. It’s Loki.” An apology from Loki would be a long time in coming. He would rather make a peace offering, a grand gesture, than every say he was sorry.

“I don’t like how they tried to guilt you into returning to Asgard.”

“You made that perfectly clear.”

“Hm. I hope so,” he huffed.

Kissing his jaw, you made to sit up only to find yourself stuck. “Let me up, Steve.”

“Three days.”

You could hear the pout in his voice, feel it through his touch. “I know, sjelevenn.”

“Stay.”

“If it’s Loki, he’ll come looking for me.”

Steve rolled you beneath him. “Then he’ll learn to wait.”

“He’s not good with waiting,” you snickered.

“He’ll learn.”

When the length of Steve’s erection nudged insistently at your thigh, you smiled. “Yeah, I guess he will.”

Next Chapter

[yanceyrenee-blog]

Drunk Sex SamCait fanfic

"Okay boys and girls. That is it. Three days off. Have fun. Don't do anything I wouldn't do." Matt announces. First block. First season in tank and everyone needs a good break after twelve hour days. " What won't you do so we have guidelines?" Sam inquires with a grin. Matt grins back " Go have fun. You have earned it." " So want to get some drinks?" Sam asks Cait as they leave the set. " I am Irish Sam. I am always up for a drink." She is only telling the partial truth. She hopes to get him drunk and take advantage of him. This thing between him, the heat hadn't dissipated. It had increased. She intended to do something about it before they return to work. " So where would you like to go?" he asks her. " Can we just get some whiskey and stay in. I am done in." He arches his eyes at her. " So, your place or mine?" It is a bit of a joke. Their trailers are combined. There is a wall that seperates them but it is basically the same trailer. " Mine. You go get the party supplies. I will make sure my place is clean." " Yes ma'am." She goes home not just to make sure her place is clean but to clean up herself. She showers quickly and redresses in a long night shirt and nothing elsa. She brushes her curles out and brushes her teeth. She laughs at herself. She plans on drinking. Her teeth, her mouth won't stay clean. His eyes get big when he sees her. " Well you look comfortable." " I am. Come in and let's get drunk. We have earned it." " That we have." He carry's in both Scottish and Irish whiskey. And soda to cut it with. " Good man." she says when she sees it. " Us Scots have that in common with you Irish. We know how to drink." Sam says. He plays bartender and pures them each a shot. " To the end of block one." she says holding the shot glass up. " Slainte." he clicks glasses with her. They drowned them. " To Herself and her wonderful book that brought us together." Sam says. " Cheers." she says with a grin and drowns it. " Why don't you get comfortable Sam?" He is dressed in jeans and a t-shirt and was comfortable. But he likes how she is thinking. " What do you have in mind?" " Let's start with the shirt and go from there." " To to ah crips Sam I can't think." The had went through all the Irish whiskey. He knows they need to get some food in them. He is feeling drunk and she weighs a lot less. Even factoring in the Irish she needed food to cut some of the alcohol. " To taking a break and eating something." he completes it. They click the glasses and drown the last of the first bottle. " I have something you can eat." There is no doubt what she means and his penis jumps. " Food Cait. We need food." " You no fun. Are no fun." " You are so drunk." he says with a laugh. " That...was....the...goal." " Aye. Food." " Ay ay capion. Caption." They stumble into her kitchen and dance around each other attempting to cook. " Simple Cait. I don't think I am up to...." but he can't continue. She reachs out and graps his crotch. " I think you can get up. With some assis. Assistance." " Crips Cait." She wraps her arms around him and kisses him. Her mouth is hungry and desperate and taste like whiskey. His kisses her back with equal desperation his arms roaming over her back and down her legs. She pulls away and says, "Food. I want to be able to finish without passing out." " Food? Oh right." He is dizzy and isn't sure ot is from the kiss or if he is drunker than he thought. They manage to scramble eggs and make toast. They laugh and stumble as they make their way back to the living room. " Let me....ah.....feed you." Sam says. " Can you?" she says as he attempts to get a bite on the fork. " Maybe." he narrows his eyes concentrating and finally is able to get a full fork to her mouth. "My turn." They, with lots of giggling and spilled food manage to eat must of what is fixed. " You said you would feed me." she slurs out when they are done." " Are you still hungry? Maybe we can.." But he gets no further as she falls down on her knees and starts to undo his pants. " Cait.." She giggles and slips him out and takes him in her mouth. He throws his head back and groans. She is to drunk to keep a rythmn. But drunk enough to be completely inhibited. She sucks and nibbles. She takes his balls in her hands and kneeds them. He tries to get her up. He wants to...oh God he wants to taste her. He wants to fill her. But she was stronger then she seems and will not be moved. He tries to hold out. He really does. But he had wanted her since he had seen her. He arches back and comes hard. "Cait." he says when he can speak," I wanted...I want to ..come here." She stumbles up and he pulls of her nightshirt. His hand goes to her breasts and his lips to hers. She hums in his mouth pushing closer to him as his hungry hands work her breasts. " I have wanted your hands there for ...ah gawd...forever." " How about my mouth?" he asks as he trails his lips down her throat. He stops and sucks and nibbles at her neck. " Ah yes. Mouth too." He moves down and claims the first one while working his way down her belly. " Good so good! Ah jezzzzus Sam." She arches under his hands his mouth. " Open your legs Cait. I want...I need....you." He is also to drunk to be elegant. But it doesn't take much. She is primed. Within minutes of his mouth reaching her honeypot, she was coming in and against his mouth. He was hard as a rock again and slipped up her body and slips himself inside her. He starts to move and they fall off the couch. The drunk and relaxed to be hurt he just keeps moving. She is just as drunk and relaxed and has no problem with this arrangement. " Faster Sam. I want need to be taken hard." He speeds up and she wraps her legs around him to hold him in place. She tries to match his strokes but is to drunk to. But he gets her off with a few deep strokes. " Sam.....oh f**k Sam." " Cait baby you feel...oh gawd...you feel." " Let me drive." They roll awkwardly over laughing and giggling. The roll into the couch and bump their heads neither notice. He slips out and she manages to get on top. She gets him inside her and begins to move. " Ride em' cowgirl." she yells out. He chuckles and tightens his hands over her waist. He lets her play until she comes again. He then pulls her hips in closer and takes over the rythmn. He comes with a gasp and deep groan a few minutes later.

[unsettlingshortstories]

The Open Boat

Stephen Crane (1897)

I

   NONE of them knew the color of the sky. Their eyes glanced level, and were fastened upon the waves that swept toward them. These waves were of the hue of slate, save for the tops, which were of foaming white, and all of the men knew the colors of the sea. The horizon narrowed and widened, and dipped and rose, and at all times its edge was jagged with waves that seemed thrust up in points like rocks.

  Many a man ought to have a bath-tub larger than the boat which here rode upon the sea. These waves were most wrongfully and barbarously abrupt and tall, and each froth-top was a problem in small boat navigation.

  The cook squatted in the bottom and looked with both eyes at the six inches of gunwale which separated him from the ocean. His sleeves were rolled over his fat forearms, and the two flaps of his unbuttoned vest dangled as he bent to bail out the boat. Often he said: "Gawd! That was a narrow clip." As he remarked it he invariably gazed eastward over the broken sea.

  The oiler, steering with one of the two oars in the boat, sometimes raised himself suddenly to keep clear of water that swirled in over the stern. It was a thin little oar and it seemed often ready to snap.

  The correspondent, pulling at the other oar, watched the waves and wondered why he was there.

  The injured captain, lying in the bow, was at this time buried in that profound dejection and indifference which comes, temporarily at least, to even the bravest and most enduring when, willy nilly, the firm fails, the army loses, the ship goes down. The mind of the master of a vessel is rooted deep in the timbers of her, though he command for a day or a decade, and this captain had on him the stern impression of a scene in the grays of dawn of seven turned faces, and later a stump of a top-mast with a white ball on it that slashed to and fro at the waves, went low and lower, and down. Thereafter there was something strange in his voice. Although steady, it was deep with mourning, and of a quality beyond oration or tears.

  "Keep'er a little more south, Billie," said he.

  "'A little more south,' sir," said the oiler in the stern.

  A seat in this boat was not unlike a seat upon a bucking broncho, and, by the same token, a broncho is not much smaller. The craft pranced and reared, and plunged like an animal. As each wave came, and she rose for it, she seemed like a horse making at a fence outrageously high. The manner of her scramble over these walls of water is a mystic thing, and, moreover, at the top of them were ordinarily these problems in white water, the foam racing down from the summit of each wave, requiring a new leap, and a leap from the air. Then, after scornfully bumping a crest, she would slide, and race, and splash down a long incline and arrive bobbing and nodding in front of the next menace.

  A singular disadvantage of the sea lies in the fact that after successfully surmounting one wave you discover that there is another behind it just as important and just as nervously anxious to do something effective in the way of swamping boats. In a ten-foot dingey one can get an idea of the resources of the sea in the line of waves that is not probable to the average experience, which is never at sea in a dingey. As each slaty wall of water approached, it shut all else from the view of the men in the boat, and it was not difficult to imagine that this particular wave was the final outburst of the ocean, the last effort of the grim water. There was a terrible grace in the move of the waves, and they came in silence, save for the snarling of the crests.

  In the wan light, the faces of the men must have been gray. Their eyes must have glinted in strange ways as they gazed steadily astern. Viewed from a balcony, the whole thing would doubtlessly have been weirdly picturesque. But the men in the boat had no time to see it, and if they had had leisure there were other things to occupy their minds. The sun swung steadily up the sky, and they knew it was broad day because the color of the sea changed from slate to emerald-green, streaked with amber lights, and the foam was like tumbling snow. The process of the breaking day was unknown to them. They were aware only of this effect upon the color of the waves that rolled toward them.

  In disjointed sentences the cook and the correspondent argued as to the difference between a life-saving station and a house of refuge. The cook had said: "There's a house of refuge just north of the Mosquito Inlet Light, and as soon as they see us, they'll come off in their boat and pick us up."

  "As soon as who see us?" said the correspondent.

  "The crew," said the cook.

  "Houses of refuge don't have crews," said the correspondent. "As I understand them, they are only places where clothes and grub are stored for the benefit of shipwrecked people. They don't carry crews."

  "Oh, yes, they do," said the cook.

  "No, they don't," said the correspondent.

  "Well, we're not there yet, anyhow," said the oiler, in the stern.

  "Well," said the cook, "perhaps it's not a house of refuge that I'm thinking of as being near Mosquito Inlet Light. Perhaps it's a life-saving station."

  "We're not there yet," said the oiler, in the stern.

II.

  As the boat bounced from the top of each wave, the wind tore through the hair of the hatless men, and as the craft plopped her stern down again the spray slashed past them. The crest of each of these waves was a hill, from the top of which the men surveyed, for a moment, a broad tumultuous expanse; shining and wind-riven. It was probably splendid. It was probably glorious, this play of the free sea, wild with lights of emerald and white and amber.

  "Bully good thing it's an on-shore wind," said the cook. "If not, where would we be? Wouldn't have a show."

  "That's right," said the correspondent.

  The busy oiler nodded his assent.

  Then the captain, in the bow, chuckled in a way that expressed humor, contempt, tragedy, all in one. "Do you think we've got much of a show, now, boys?" said he.

  Whereupon the three were silent, save for a trifle of hemming and hawing. To express any particular optimism at this time they felt to be childish and stupid, but they all doubtless possessed this sense of the situation in their mind. A young man thinks doggedly at such times. On the other hand, the ethics of their condition was decidedly against any open suggestion of hopelessness. So they were silent.

  "Oh, well," said the captain, soothing his children, "we'll get ashore all right."

  But there was that in his tone which made them think, so the oiler quoth: "Yes! If this wind holds!"

  The cook was bailing: "Yes! If we don't catch hell in the surf."

  Canton flannel gulls flew near and far. Sometimes they sat down on the sea, near patches of brown sea-weed that rolled over the waves with a movement like carpets on line in a gale. The birds sat comfortably in groups, and they were envied by some in the dingey, for the wrath of the sea was no more to them than it was to a covey of prairie chickens a thousand miles inland. Often they came very close and stared at the men with black bead-like eyes. At these times they were uncanny and sinister in their unblinking scrutiny, and the men hooted angrily at them, telling them to be gone. One came, and evidently decided to alight on the top of the captain's head. The bird flew parallel to the boat and did not circle, but made short sidelong jumps in the air in chicken-fashion. His black eyes were wistfully fixed upon the captain's head. "Ugly brute," said the oiler to the bird. "You look as if you were made with a jack-knife." The cook and the correspondent swore darkly at the creature. The captain naturally wished to knock it away with the end of the heavy painter, but he did not dare do it, because anything resembling an emphatic gesture would have capsized this freighted boat, and so with his open hand, the captain gently and carefully waved the gull away. After it had been discouraged from the pursuit the captain breathed easier on account of his hair, and others breathed easier because the bird struck their minds at this time as being somehow grewsome and ominous.

  In the meantime the oiler and the correspondent rowed. And also they rowed.

  They sat together in the same seat, and each rowed an oar. Then the oiler took both oars; then the correspondent took both oars; then the oiler; then the correspondent. They rowed and they rowed. The very ticklish part of the business was when the time came for the reclining one in the stern to take his turn at the oars. By the very last star of truth, it is easier to steal eggs from under a hen than it was to change seats in the dingey. First the man in the stern slid his hand along the thwart and moved with care, as if he were of Sevres. Then the man in the rowing seat slid his hand along the other thwart. It was all done with the most extraordinary care. As the two sidled past each other, the whole party kept watchful eyes on the coming wave, and the captain cried: "Look out now! Steady there!"

  The brown mats of sea-weed that appeared from time to time were like islands, bits of earth. They were travelling, apparently, neither one way nor the other. They were, to all intents stationary. They informed the men in the boat that it was making progress slowly toward the land.

  The captain, rearing cautiously in the bow, after the dingey soared on a great swell, said that he had seen the lighthouse at Mosquito Inlet. Presently the cook remarked that he had seen it. The correspondent was at the oars, then, and for some reason he too wished to look at the lighthouse, but his back was toward the far shore and the waves were important, and for some time he could not seize an opportunity to turn his head. But at last there came a wave more gentle than the others, and when at the crest of it he swiftly scoured the western horizon.

  "See it?" said the captain.

  "No," said the correspondent, slowly, "I didn't see anything."

  "Look again," said the captain. He pointed. "It's exactly in that direction."

  At the top of another wave, the correspondent did as he was bid, and this time his eyes chanced on a small still thing on the edge of the swaying horizon. It was precisely like the point of a pin. It took an anxious eye to find a lighthouse so tiny.

  "Think we'll make it, captain?"

  "If this wind holds and the boat don't swamp, we can't do much else," said the captain.

  The little boat, lifted by each towering sea, and splashed viciously by the crests, made progress that in the absence of sea-weed was not apparent to those in her. She seemed just a wee thing wallowing, miraculously, top-up, at the mercy of five oceans. Occasionally, a great spread of water, like white flames, swarmed into her.

  "Bail her, cook," said the captain, serenely.

  "All right, captain," said the cheerful cook.

III

   IT would be difficult to describe the subtle brotherhood of men that was here established on the seas. No one said that it was so. No one mentioned it. But it dwelt in the boat, and each man felt it warm him. They were a captain, an oiler, a cook, and a correspondent, and they were friends, friends in a more curiously iron-bound degree than may be common. The hurt captain, lying against the water-jar in the bow, spoke always in a low voice and calmly, but he could never command a more ready and swiftly obedient crew than the motley three of the dingey. It was more than a mere recognition of what was best for the common safety. There was surely in it a quality that was personal and heartfelt. And after this devotion to the commander of the boat there was this comradeship that the correspondent, for instance, who had been taught to be cynical of men, knew even at the time was the best experience of his life. But no one said that it was so. No one mentioned it.

  "I wish we had a sail," remarked the captain. "We might try my overcoat on the end of an oar and give you two boys a chance to rest." So the cook and the correspondent held the mast and spread wide the overcoat. The oiler steered, and the little boat made good way with her new rig. Sometimes the oiler had to scull sharply to keep a sea from breaking into the boat, but otherwise sailing was a success.

  Meanwhile the light-house had been growing slowly larger. It had now almost assumed color, and appeared like a little gray shadow on the sky. The man at the oars could not be prevented from turning his head rather often to try for a glimpse of this little gray shadow.

  At last, from the top of each wave the men in the tossing boat could see land. Even as the light-house was an upright shadow on the sky, this land seemed but a long black shadow on the sea. It certainly was thinner than paper. "We must be about opposite New Smyrna," said the cook, who had coasted this shore often in schooners. "Captain, by the way, I believe they abandoned that life-saving station there about a year ago."

  "Did they?" said the captain.

  The wind slowly died away. The cook and the correspondent were not now obliged to slave in order to hold high the oar. But the waves continued their old impetuous swooping at the dingey, and the little craft, no longer under way, struggled woundily over them. The oiler or the correspondent took the oars again.

  Shipwrecks are apropos of nothing. If men could only train for them and have them occur when the men had reached pink condition, there would be less drowning at sea. Of the four in the dingey none had slept any time worth mentioning for two days and two nights previous to embarking in the dingey, and in the excitement of clambering about the deck of a foundering ship they had also forgotten to eat heartily.

  For these reasons, and for others, neither the oiler nor the correspondent was fond of rowing at this time. The correspondent wondered ingenuously how in the name of all that was sane could there be people who thought it amusing to row a boat. It was not an amusement; it was a diabolical punishment, and even a genius of mental aberrations could never conclude that it was anything but a horror to the muscles and a crime against the back. He mentioned to the boat in general how the amusement of rowing struck him, and the weary-faced oiler smiled in full sympathy. Previously to the foundering, by the way, the oiler had worked double-watch in the engine-room of the ship.

  "Take her easy, now, boys," said the captain. "Don't spend yourselves. If we have to run a surf you'll need all your strength, because we'll sure have to swim for it. Take your time."

  Slowly the land arose from the sea. From a black line it became a line of black and a line of white, trees, and sand. Finally, the captain said that he could make out a house on the shore. "That's the house of refuge, sure," said the cook. "They'll see us before long, and come out after us."

  The distant light-house reared high. "The keeper ought to be able to make us out now, if he's looking through a glass," said the captain. "He'll notify the life-saving people."

  "None of those other boats could have got ashore to give word of the wreck," said the oiler, in a low voice. "Else the life-boat would be out hunting us."

  Slowly and beautifully the land loomed out of the sea. The wind came again. It had veered from the northeast to the southeast. Finally, a new sound struck the ears of the men in the boat. It was the low thunder of the surf on the shore. "We'll never be able to make the light-house now," said the captain. "Swing her head a little more north, Billie," said the captain.

  "'A little more north,' sir," said the oiler.

  Whereupon the little boat turned her nose once more down the wind, and all but the oarsman watched the shore grow. Under the influence of this expansion doubt and direful apprehension was leaving the minds of the men. The management of the boat was still most absorbing, but it could not prevent a quiet cheerfulness. In an hour, perhaps, they would be ashore.

  Their back-bones had become thoroughly used to balancing in the boat and they now rode this wild colt of a dingey like circus men. The correspondent thought that he had been drenched to the skin, but happening to feel in the top pocket of his coat, he found therein eight cigars. Four of them were soaked with sea-water; four were perfectly scatheless. After a search, somebody produced three dry matches, and thereupon the four waifs rode in their little boat, and with an assurance of an impending rescue shining in their eyes, puffed at the big cigars and judged well and ill of all men. Everybody took a drink of water.

IV

  "COOK," remarked the captain, "there don't seem to be any signs of life about your house of refuge."

  "No," replied the cook. "Funny they don't see us!"

  A broad stretch of lowly coast lay before the eyes of the men. It was of low dunes topped with dark vegetation. The roar of the surf was plain, and sometimes they could see the white lip of a wave as it spun up the beach. A tiny house was blocked out black upon the sky. Southward, the slim light-house lifted its little gray length.

  Tide, wind, and waves were swinging the dingey northward. "Funny they don't see us," said the men.

  The surf's roar was here dulled, but its tone was, nevertheless, thunderous and mighty. As the boat swam over the great rollers, the men sat listening to this roar. "We'll swamp sure," said everybody.

  It is fair to say here that there was not a life-saving station within twenty miles in either direction, but the men did not know this fact and in consequence they made dark and opprobrious remarks concerning the eyesight of the nation's life-savers. Four scowling men sat in the dingey and surpassed records in the invention of epithets.

  "Funny they don't see us."

  The light-heartedness of a former time had completely faded. To their sharpened minds it was easy to conjure pictures of all kinds of incompetency and blindness and indeed, cowardice. There was the shore of the populous land, and it was bitter and bitter to them that from it came no sign.

  "Well," said the captain, ultimately, "I suppose we'll have to make a try for ourselves. If we stay out here too long, we'll none of us have strength left to swim after the boat swamps."

  And so the oiler, who was at the oars, turned the boat straight for the shore. There was a sudden tightening of muscles. There was some thinking.

  "If we don't all get ashore -- " said the captain. "If we don't all get ashore, I suppose you fellows know where to send news of my finish?"

  They then briefly exchanged some addresses and admonitions. As for the reflections of the men, there was a great deal of rage in them. Perchance they might be formulated thus: "If I am going to be drowned -- if I am going to be drowned -- if I am going to be drowned, why, in the name of the seven mad gods who rule the sea, was I allowed to come thus far and contemplate sand and trees? Was I brought here merely to have my nose dragged away as I was about to nibble the sacred cheese of life? It is preposterous. If this old ninny-woman, Fate, cannot do better than this, she should be deprived of the management of men's fortunes. She is an old hen who knows not her intention. If she has decided to drown me, why did she not do it in the beginning and save me all this trouble. The whole affair is absurd. . . .But, no, she cannot mean to drown me. She dare not drown me. She cannot drown me. Not after all this work." Afterward the man might have had an impulse to shake his fist at the clouds: "Just you drown me, now, and then hear what I call you!"

  The billows that came at this time were more formidable. They seemed always just about to break and roll over the little boat in a turmoil of foam. There was a preparatory and long growl in the speech of them. No mind unused to the sea would have concluded that the dingey could ascend these sheer heights in time. The shore was still afar. The oiler was a wily surfman. "Boys," he said, swiftly, "she won't live three minutes more and we're too far out to swim. Shall I take her to sea again, captain?"

  "Yes! Go ahead!" said the captain.

  This oiler, by a series of quick miracles, and fast and steady oarsmanship, turned the boat in the middle of the surf and took her safely to sea again.

  There was a considerable silence as the boat bumped over the furrowed sea to deeper water. Then somebody in gloom spoke. "Well, anyhow, they must have seen us from the shore by now."

  The gulls went in slanting flight up the wind toward the gray desolate east. A squall, marked by dingy clouds, and clouds brick-red, like smoke from a burning building, appeared from the southeast.

  "What do you think of those life-saving people? Ain't they peaches?"

  "Funny they haven't seen us."

  "Maybe they think we're out here for sport! Maybe they think we're fishin'. Maybe they think we're damned fools."

  It was a long afternoon. A changed tide tried to force them southward, but wind and wave said northward. Far ahead, where coast-line, sea, and sky formed their mighty angle, there were little dots which seemed to indicate a city on the shore.

  "St. Augustine?"

  The captain shook his head. "Too near Mosquito Inlet."

  And the oiler rowed, and then the correspondent rowed. Then the oiler rowed. It was a weary business. The human back can become the seat of more aches and pains than are registered in books for the composite anatomy of a regiment. It is a limited area, but it can become the theatre of innumerable muscular conflicts, tangles, wrenches, knots, and other comforts.

  "Did you ever like to row, Billie?" asked the correspondent.

  "No," said the oiler. "Hang it."

  When one exchanged the rowing-seat for a place in the bottom of the boat, he suffered a bodily depression that caused him to be careless of everything save an obligation to wiggle one finger. There was cold sea-water swashing to and fro in the boat, and he lay in it. His head, pillowed on a thwart, was within an inch of the swirl of a wave crest, and sometimes a particularly obstreperous sea came in-board and drenched him once more. But these matters did not annoy him. It is almost certain that if the boat had capsized he would have tumbled comfortably out upon the ocean as if he felt sure it was a great soft mattress.

  "Look! There's a man on the shore!"

  "Where?"

  "There! See 'im? See 'im?"

  "Yes, sure! He's walking along."

  "Now he's stopped. Look! He's facing us!"

  "He's waving at us!"

  "So he is! By thunder!"

  "Ah, now, we're all right! Now we're all right! There'll be a boat out here for us in half an hour."

  "He's going on. He's running. He's going up to that house there."

  The remote beach seemed lower than the sea, and it required a searching glance to discern the little black figure. The captain saw a floating stick and they rowed to it. A bath-towel was by some weird chance in the boat, and, tying this on the stick, the captain waved it. The oarsman did not dare turn his head, so he was obliged to ask questions.

  "What's he doing now?"

  "He's standing still again. He's looking, I think. . . . There he goes again. Toward the house. . . . Now he's stopped again."

  "Is he waving at us?"

  "No, not now! he was, though."

  "Look! There comes another man!"

  "He's running."

  "Look at him go, would you."

  "Why, he's on a bicycle. Now he's met the other man. They're both waving at us. Look!"

  "There comes something up the beach."

  "What the devil is that thing?"

  "Why, it looks like a boat."

  "Why, certainly it's a boat."

  "No, it's on wheels."

  "Yes, so it is. Well, that must be the life-boat. They drag them along shore on a wagon."

  "That's the life-boat, sure."

  "No, by -- -- , it's -- it's an omnibus."

  "I tell you it's a life-boat."

  "It is not! It's an omnibus. I can see it plain. See? One of these big hotel omnibuses."

  "By thunder, you're right. It's an omnibus, sure as fate. What do you suppose they are doing with an omnibus? Maybe they are going around collecting the life-crew, hey?"

  "That's it, likely. Look! There's a fellow waving a little black flag. He's standing on the steps of the omnibus. There come those other two fellows. Now they're all talking together. Look at the fellow with the flag. Maybe he ain't waving it."

  "That ain't a flag, is it? That's his coat. Why, certainly, that's his coat."

  "So it is. It's his coat. He's taken it off and is waving it around his head. But would you look at him swing it."

  "Oh, say, there isn't any life-saving station there. That's just a winter resort hotel omnibus that has brought over some of the boarders to see us drown."

  "What's that idiot with the coat mean? What's he signaling, anyhow?"

  "It looks as if he were trying to tell us to go north. There must be a life-saving station up there."

  "No! He thinks we're fishing. Just giving us a merry hand. See? Ah, there, Willie."

  "Well, I wish I could make something out of those signals. What do you suppose he means?"

  "He don't mean anything. He's just playing."

  "Well, if he'd just signal us to try the surf again, or to go to sea and wait, or go north, or go south, or go to hell -- there would be some reason in it. But look at him. He just stands there and keeps his coat revolving like a wheel. The ass!"

  "There come more people."

  "Now there's quite a mob. Look! Isn't that a boat?"

  "Where? Oh, I see where you mean. No, that's no boat."

  "That fellow is still waving his coat."

  "He must think we like to see him do that. Why don't he quit it. It don't mean anything."

  "I don't know. I think he is trying to make us go north. It must be that there's a life-saving station there somewhere."

  "Say, he ain't tired yet. Look at 'im wave."

  "Wonder how long he can keep that up. He's been revolving his coat ever since he caught sight of us. He's an idiot. Why aren't they getting men to bring a boat out. A fishing boat -- one of those big yawls -- could come out here all right. Why don't he do something?"

  "Oh, it's all right, now."

  "They'll have a boat out here for us in less than no time, now that they've seen us."

  A faint yellow tone came into the sky over the low land. The shadows on the sea slowly deepened. The wind bore coldness with it, and the men began to shiver.

  "Holy smoke!" said one, allowing his voice to express his impious mood, "if we keep on monkeying out here! If we've got to flounder out here all night!"

  "Oh, we'll never have to stay here all night! Don't you worry. They've seen us now, and it won't be long before they'll come chasing out after us."

  The shore grew dusky. The man waving a coat blended gradually into this gloom, and it swallowed in the same manner the omnibus and the group of people. The spray, when it dashed uproariously over the side, made the voyagers shrink and swear like men who were being branded.

  "I'd like to catch the chump who waved the coat. I feel like soaking him one, just for luck."

  "Why? What did he do?"

  "Oh, nothing, but then he seemed so damned cheerful."

  In the meantime the oiler rowed, and then the correspondent rowed, and then the oiler rowed. Gray-faced and bowed forward, they mechanically, turn by turn, plied the leaden oars. The form of the light-house had vanished from the southern horizon, but finally a pale star appeared, just lifting from the sea. The streaked saffron in the west passed before the all-merging darkness, and the sea to the east was black. The land had vanished, and was expressed only by the low and drear thunder of the surf.

  "If I am going to be drowned -- if I am going to be drowned -- if I am going to be drowned, why, in the name of the seven mad gods, who rule the sea, was I allowed to come thus far and contemplate sand and trees? Was I brought here merely to have my nose dragged away as I was about to nibble the sacred cheese of life?"

  The patient captain, drooped over the water-jar, was sometimes obliged to speak to the oarsman.

  "Keep her head up! Keep her head up!"

  "'Keep her head up,' sir." The voices were weary and low.

  This was surely a quiet evening. All save the oarsman lay heavily and listlessly in the boat's bottom. As for him, his eyes were just capable of noting the tall black waves that swept forward in a most sinister silence, save for an occasional subdued growl of a crest.

  The cook's head was on a thwart, and he looked without interest at the water under his nose. He was deep in other scenes. Finally he spoke. "Billie," he murmured, dreamfully, "what kind of pie do you like best?"

V

  "PIE," said the oiler and the correspondent, agitatedly. "Don't talk about those things, blast you!"

  "Well," said the cook, "I was just thinking about ham sandwiches, and --"

  A night on the sea in an open boat is a long night. As darkness settled finally, the shine of the light, lifting from the sea in the south, changed to full gold. On the northern horizon a new light appeared, a small bluish gleam on the edge of the waters. These two lights were the furniture of the world. Otherwise there was nothing but waves.

  Two men huddled in the stern, and distances were so magnificent in the dingey that the rower was enabled to keep his feet partly warmed by thrusting them under his companions. Their legs indeed extended far under the rowing-seat until they touched the feet of the captain forward. Sometimes, despite the efforts of the tired oarsman, a wave came piling into the boat, an icy wave of the night, and the chilling water soaked them anew. They would twist their bodies for a moment and groan, and sleep the dead sleep once more, while the water in the boat gurgled about them as the craft rocked.

  The plan of the oiler and the correspondent was for one to row until he lost the ability, and then arouse the other from his sea-water couch in the bottom of the boat.

  The oiler plied the oars until his head drooped forward, and the overpowering sleep blinded him. And he rowed yet afterward. Then he touched a man in the bottom of the boat, and called his name. "Will you spell me for a little while?" he said, meekly.

  "Sure, Billie," said the correspondent, awakening and dragging himself to a sitting position. They exchanged places carefully, and the oiler, cuddling down to the sea-water at the cook's side, seemed to go to sleep instantly.

  The particular violence of the sea had ceased. The waves came without snarling. The obligation of the man at the oars was to keep the boat headed so that the tilt of the rollers would not capsize her, and to preserve her from filling when the crests rushed past. The black waves were silent and hard to be seen in the darkness. Often one was almost upon the boat before the oarsman was aware.

  In a low voice the correspondent addressed the captain. He was not sure that the captain was awake, although this iron man seemed to be always awake. "Captain, shall I keep her making for that light north, sir?"

  The same steady voice answered him. "Yes. Keep it about two points off the port bow."

  The cook had tied a life-belt around himself in order to get even the warmth which this clumsy cork contrivance could donate, and he seemed almost stove-like when a rower, whose teeth invariably chattered wildly as soon as he ceased his labor, dropped down to sleep.

  The correspondent, as he rowed, looked down at the two men sleeping under foot. The cook's arm was around the oiler's shoulders, and, with their fragmentary clothing and haggard faces, they were the babes of the sea, a grotesque rendering of the old babes in the wood.

  Later he must have grown stupid at his work, for suddenly there was a growling of water, and a crest came with a roar and a swash into the boat, and it was a wonder that it did not set the cook afloat in his life-belt. The cook continued to sleep, but the oiler sat up, blinking his eyes and shaking with the new cold.

  "Oh, I'm awful sorry, Billie," said the correspondent, contritely.

  "That's all right, old boy," said the oiler, and lay down again and was asleep.

  Presently it seemed that even the captain dozed, and the correspondent thought that he was the one man afloat on all the oceans. The wind had a voice as it came over the waves, and it was sadder than the end.

  There was a long, loud swishing astern of the boat, and a gleaming trail of phosphorescence, like blue flame, was furrowed on the black waters. It might have been made by a monstrous knife.

  Then there came a stillness, while the correspondent breathed with the open mouth and looked at the sea.

  Suddenly there was another swish and another long flash of bluish light, and this time it was alongside the boat, and might almost have been reached with an oar. The correspondent saw an enormous fin speed like a shadow through the water, hurling the crystalline spray and leaving the long glowing trail.

  The correspondent looked over his shoulder at the captain. His face was hidden, and he seemed to be asleep. He looked at the babes of the sea. They certainly were asleep. So, being bereft of sympathy, he leaned a little way to one side and swore softly into the sea.

  But the thing did not then leave the vicinity of the boat. Ahead or astern, on one side or the other, at intervals long or short, fled the long sparkling streak, and there was to be heard the whiroo of the dark fin. The speed and power of the thing was greatly to be admired. It cut the water like a gigantic and keen projectile.

  The presence of this biding thing did not affect the man with the same horror that it would if he had been a picnicker. He simply looked at the sea dully and swore in an undertone.

  Nevertheless, it is true that he did not wish to be alone with the thing. He wished one of his companions to awaken by chance and keep him company with it. But the captain hung motionless over the water-jar and the oiler and the cook in the bottom of the boat were plunged in slumber.

VI

  "IF I am going to be drowned -- if I am going to be drowned -- if I am going to be drowned, why, in the name of the seven mad gods, who rule the sea, was I allowed to come thus far and contemplate sand and trees?"

  During this dismal night, it may be remarked that a man would conclude that it was really the intention of the seven mad gods to drown him, despite the abominable injustice of it. For it was certainly an abominable injustice to drown a man who had worked so hard, so hard. The man felt it would be a crime most unnatural. Other people had drowned at sea since galleys swarmed with painted sails, but still --

  When it occurs to a man that nature does not regard him as important, and that she feels she would not maim the universe by disposing of him, he at first wishes to throw bricks at the temple, and he hates deeply the fact that there are no bricks and no temples. Any visible expression of nature would surely be pelleted with his jeers.

  Then, if there be no tangible thing to hoot he feels, perhaps, the desire to confront a personification and indulge in pleas, bowed to one knee, and with hands supplicant, saying: "Yes, but I love myself."

  A high cold star on a winter's night is the word he feels that she says to him. Thereafter he knows the pathos of his situation.

  The men in the dingey had not discussed these matters, but each had, no doubt, reflected upon them in silence and according to his mind. There was seldom any expression upon their faces save the general one of complete weariness. Speech was devoted to the business of the boat.

  To chime the notes of his emotion, a verse mysteriously entered the correspondent's head. He had even forgotten that he had forgotten this verse, but it suddenly was in his mind.

A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers, There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears; But a comrade stood beside him, and he took that comrade's hand And he said: "I shall never see my own, my native land."

  In his childhood, the correspondent had been made acquainted with the fact that a soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers, but he had never regarded the fact as important. Myriads of his school-fellows had informed him of the soldier's plight, but the dinning had naturally ended by making him perfectly indifferent. He had never considered it his affair that a soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers, nor had it appeared to him as a matter for sorrow. It was less to him than breaking of a pencil's point.

  Now, however, it quaintly came to him as a human, living thing. It was no longer merely a picture of a few throes in the breast of a poet, meanwhile drinking tea and warming his feet at the grate; it was an actuality -- stern, mournful, and fine.

  The correspondent plainly saw the soldier. He lay on the sand with his feet out straight and still. While his pale left hand was upon his chest in an attempt to thwart the going of his life, the blood came between his fingers. In the far Algerian distance, a city of low square forms was set against a sky that was faint with the last sunset hues. The correspondent, plying the oars and dreaming of the slow and slower movements of the lips of the soldier, was moved by a profound and perfectly impersonal comprehension. He was sorry for the soldier of the Legion who lay dying in Algiers.

  The thing which had followed the boat and waited had evidently grown bored at the delay. There was no longer to be heard the slash of the cut-water, and there was no longer the flame of the long trail. The light in the north still glimmered, but it was apparently no nearer to the boat. Sometimes the boom of the surf rang in the correspondent's ears, and he turned the craft seaward then and rowed harder. Southward, someone had evidently built a watch-fire on the beach. It was too low and too far to be seen, but it made a shimmering, roseate reflection upon the bluff back of it, and this could be discerned from the boat. The wind came stronger, and sometimes a wave suddenly raged out like a mountain-cat and there was to be seen the sheen and sparkle of a broken crest.

  The captain, in the bow, moved on his water-jar and sat erect. "Pretty long night," he observed to the correspondent. He looked at the shore. "Those life-saving people take their time."

  "Did you see that shark playing around?"

  "Yes, I saw him. He was a big fellow, all right."

  "Wish I had known you were awake."

  Later the correspondent spoke into the bottom of the boat.

  "Billie!" There was a slow and gradual disentanglement. "Billie, will you spell me?"

  "Sure," said the oiler.

  As soon as the correspondent touched the cold comfortable sea-water in the bottom of the boat, and had huddled close to the cook's life-belt he was deep in sleep, despite the fact that his teeth played all the popular airs. This sleep was so good to him that it was but a moment before he heard a voice call his name in a tone that demonstrated the last stages of exhaustion. "Will you spell me?"

  "Sure, Billie."

  The light in the north had mysteriously vanished, but the correspondent took his course from the wide-awake captain.

  Later in the night they took the boat farther out to sea, and the captain directed the cook to take one oar at the stern and keep the boat facing the seas. He was to call out if he should hear the thunder of the surf. This plan enabled the oiler and the correspondent to get respite together. "We'll give those boys a chance to get into shape again," said the captain. They curled down and, after a few preliminary chatterings and trembles, slept once more the dead sleep. Neither knew they had bequeathed to the cook the company of another shark, or perhaps the same shark.

  As the boat caroused on the waves, spray occasionally bumped over the side and gave them a fresh soaking, but this had no power to break their repose. The ominous slash of the wind and the water affected them as it would have affected mummies.

  "Boys," said the cook, with the notes of every reluctance in his voice, "she's drifted in pretty close. I guess one of you had better take her to sea again." The correspondent, aroused, heard the crash of the toppled crests.

  As he was rowing, the captain gave him some whiskey and water, and this steadied the chills out of him. "If I ever get ashore and anybody shows me even a photograph of an oar -- "

  At last there was a short conversation.

  "Billie. . . . Billie, will you spell me?"

  "Sure," said the oiler.

VII

  WHEN the correspondent again opened his eyes, the sea and the sky were each of the gray hue of the dawning. Later, carmine and gold was painted upon the waters. The morning appeared finally, in its splendor with a sky of pure blue, and the sunlight flamed on the tips of the waves.

  On the distant dunes were set many little black cottages, and a tall white wind-mill reared above them. No man, nor dog, nor bicycle appeared on the beach. The cottages might have formed a deserted village.

  The voyagers scanned the shore. A conference was held in the boat. "Well," said the captain, "if no help is coming, we might better try a run through the surf right away. If we stay out here much longer we will be too weak to do anything for ourselves at all." The others silently acquiesced in this reasoning. The boat was headed for the beach. The correspondent wondered if none ever ascended the tall wind-tower, and if then they never looked seaward. This tower was a giant, standing with its back to the plight of the ants. It represented in a degree, to the correspondent, the serenity of nature amid the struggles of the individual -- nature in the wind, and nature in the vision of men. She did not seem cruel to him, nor beneficent, nor treacherous, nor wise. But she was indifferent, flatly indifferent. It is, perhaps, plausible that a man in this situation, impressed with the unconcern of the universe, should see the innumerable flaws of his life and have them taste wickedly in his mind and wish for another chance. A distinction between right and wrong seems absurdly clear to him, then, in this new ignorance of the grave-edge, and he understands that if he were given another opportunity he would mend his conduct and his words, and be better and brighter during an introduction, or at a tea.

  "Now, boys," said the captain, "she is going to swamp sure. All we can do is to work her in as far as possible, and then when she swamps, pile out and scramble for the beach. Keep cool now and don't jump until she swamps sure."

  The oiler took the oars. Over his shoulders he scanned the surf. "Captain," he said, "I think I'd better bring her about, and keep her head-on to the seas and back her in."

  "All right, Billie," said the captain. "Back her in." The oiler swung the boat then and, seated in the stern, the cook and the correspondent were obliged to look over their shoulders to contemplate the lonely and indifferent shore.

  The monstrous inshore rollers heaved the boat high until the men were again enabled to see the white sheets of water scudding up the slanted beach. "We won't get in very close," said the captain. Each time a man could wrest his attention from the rollers, he turned his glance toward the shore, and in the expression of the eyes during this contemplation there was a singular quality. The correspondent, observing the others, knew that they were not afraid, but the full meaning of their glances was shrouded.

  As for himself, he was too tired to grapple fundamentally with the fact. He tried to coerce his mind into thinking of it, but the mind was dominated at this time by the muscles, and the muscles said they did not care. It merely occurred to him that if he should drown it would be a shame.

  There were no hurried words, no pallor, no plain agitation. The men simply looked at the shore. "Now, remember to get well clear of the boat when you jump," said the captain.

  Seaward the crest of a roller suddenly fell with a thunderous crash, and the long white comber came roaring down upon the boat.

  "Steady now," said the captain. The men were silent. They turned their eyes from the shore to the comber and waited. The boat slid up the incline, leaped at the furious top, bounced over it, and swung down the long back of the waves. Some water had been shipped and the cook bailed it out.

  But the next crest crashed also. The tumbling boiling flood of white water caught the boat and whirled it almost perpendicular. Water swarmed in from all sides. The correspondent had his hands on the gunwale at this time, and when the water entered at that place he swiftly withdrew his fingers, as if he objected to wetting them.

  The little boat, drunken with this weight of water, reeled and snuggled deeper into the sea.

  "Bail her out, cook! Bail her out," said the captain.

  "All right, captain," said the cook.

  "Now, boys, the next one will do for us, sure," said the oiler. "Mind to jump clear of the boat."

  The third wave moved forward, huge, furious, implacable. It fairly swallowed the dingey, and almost simultaneously the men tumbled into the sea. A piece of life-belt had lain in the bottom of the boat, and as the correspondent went overboard he held this to his chest with his left hand.

  The January water was icy, and he reflected immediately that it was colder than he had expected to find it off the coast of Florida. This appeared to his dazed mind as a fact important enough to be noted at the time. The coldness of the water was sad; it was tragic. This fact was somehow mixed and confused with his opinion of his own situation that it seemed almost a proper reason for tears. The water was cold.

  When he came to the surface he was conscious of little but the noisy water. Afterward he saw his companions in the sea. The oiler was ahead in the race. He was swimming strongly and rapidly. Off to the correspondent's left, the cook's great white and corked back bulged out of the water, and in the rear the captain was hanging with his one good hand to the keel of the overturned dingey.

  There is a certain immovable quality to a shore, and the correspondent wondered at it amid the confusion of the sea.

  It seemed also very attractive, but the correspondent knew that it was a long journey, and he paddled leisurely. The piece of life-preserver lay under him, and sometimes he whirled down the incline of a wave as if he were on a hand-sled.

  But finally he arrived at a place in the sea where travel was beset with difficulty. He did not pause swimming to inquire what manner of current had caught him, but there his progress ceased. The shore was set before him like a bit of scenery on a stage, and he looked at it and understood with his eyes each detail of it.

  As the cook passed, much farther to the left, the captain was calling to him, "Turn over on your back, cook! Turn over on your back and use the oar."

  "All right, sir!" The cook turned on his back, and, paddling with an oar, went ahead as if he were a canoe.

  Presently the boat also passed to the left of the correspondent with the captain clinging with one hand to the keel. He would have appeared like a man raising himself to look over a board fence, if it were not for the extraordinary gymnastics of the boat. The correspondent marvelled that the captain could still hold to it.

  They passed on, nearer to shore -- the oiler, the cook, the captain -- and following them went the water-jar, bouncing gayly over the seas.

  The correspondent remained in the grip of this strange new enemy -- a current. The shore, with its white slope of sand and its green bluff, topped with little silent cottages, was spread like a picture before him. It was very near to him then, but he was impressed as one who in a gallery looks at a scene from Brittany or Algiers.

  He thought: "I am going to drown? Can it be possible? Can it be possible? Can it be possible?" Perhaps an individual must consider his own death to be the final phenomenon of nature.

  But later a wave perhaps whirled him out of this small deadly current, for he found suddenly that he could again make progress toward the shore. Later still, he was aware that the captain, clinging with one hand to the keel of the dingey, had his face turned away from the shore and toward him, and was calling his name. "Come to the boat! Come to the boat!"

  In his struggle to reach the captain and the boat, he reflected that when one gets properly wearied, drowning must really be a comfortable arrangement, a cessation of hostilities accompanied by a large degree of relief, and he was glad of it, for the main thing in his mind for some moments had been horror of the temporary agony. He did not wish to be hurt.

  Presently he saw a man running along the shore. He was undressing with most remarkable speed. Coat, trousers, shirt, everything flew magically off him.

  "Come to the boat," called the captain.

  "All right, captain." As the correspondent paddled, he saw the captain let himself down to bottom and leave the boat. Then the correspondent performed his one little marvel of the voyage. A large wave caught him and flung him with ease and supreme speed completely over the boat and far beyond it. It struck him even then as an event in gymnastics, and a true miracle of the sea. An overturned boat in the surf is not a plaything to a swimming man.

  The correspondent arrived in water that reached only to his waist, but his condition did not enable him to stand for more than a moment. Each wave knocked him into a heap, and the under-tow pulled at him.

  Then he saw the man who had been running and undressing, and undressing and running, come bounding into the water. He dragged ashore the cook, and then waded toward the captain, but the captain waved him away, and sent him to the correspondent. He was naked, naked as a tree in winter, but a halo was about his head, and he shone like a saint. He gave a strong pull, and a long drag, and a bully heave at the correspondent's hand. The correspondent, schooled in the minor formulae, said: "Thanks, old man." But suddenly the man cried: "What's that?" He pointed a swift finger. The correspondent said: "Go."

  In the shallows, face downward, lay the oiler. His forehead touched sand that was periodically, between each wave, clear of the sea.

  The correspondent did not know all that transpired afterward. When he achieved safe ground he fell, striking the sand with each particular part of his body. It was as if he had dropped from a roof, but the thud was grateful to him.

  It seems that instantly the beach was populated with men with blankets, clothes, and flasks, and women with coffee-pots and all the remedies sacred to their minds. The welcome of the land to the men from the sea was warm and generous, but a still and dripping shape was carried slowly up the beach, and the land's welcome for it could only be the different and sinister hospitality of the grave.

  When it came night, the white waves paced to and fro in the moonlight, and the wind brought the sound of the great sea's voice to the men on shore, and they felt that they could then be interpreters.

[artificialqueens]

When the Sun Comes up (Trixya) Ch. 2 - Imogen

“Miss you all the time, Tracy.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Me too.”

AN: Hi folks, here’s chapter two! It’s a little longer and a little late because of a little (a lot of) writers block but I hope you enjoy it. The nice comments on the first chapter melted my ice cold heart a little. Thank you thank you. 

Trixie checks the time again, his leg shaking impatiently. When he looks up Pearl is smirking at him. Jerk. His disinterest in the conversation happening must be obvious, but he can’t muster enough energy to have an opinion on wigs right now. 

The booth they’re in is almost full, table littered with half empty glasses and heavily picked at fries. The show finished a couple of hours ago and someone decided instead of picking up trade they should all bond or something. Trixie thinks privately that the tour most of them are leaving on together in a week is going to provide enough time for that, but he likes getting drunk after shows, and Katya’s coming to meet them, so.

“No, no,” Jinkx is saying, “I first met her in like 2006 and I was terrified. She asked me if I was sick because I looked so nervous. I told her I had a stomach flu even though I didn’t and she avoided me the whole rest of the night because she thought I was some contagious monster.” The group erupts into laughter and Trixie takes the moment to slide out of the booth and head to the bathroom.

Walking back he expertly dodges people carrying drinks back from the bar. Katya’s in his spot, gesturing wildly, the group captivated. They lock eyes when he’s almost there and Katya stops talking to jump up, closing the distance between them in a few steps

“Hey-” Trixie starts to say, but Katya slams into him with a hug. The breath knocks out of him in a laugh and he wraps Katya up in his arms.

“Nice to smell your wretched odour again.” Trixie murmurs.

“Go to hell every single day.” Katya retorts, a fond smile in his voice.

“I can’t help but notice I didn’t get that reception from you, miss Katya.” Ginger calls out. They laugh and Trixie flicks Ginger the finger over Katya’s shoulder.

“My friendship with you isn’t paying for my retirement, Ginge.” Katya calls back.

“You’re an idiot.” Trixie says affectionately, pushing Katya lightly away. He slides into the booth and pats the space next to him, Katya sits down, quickly snakes his arm around Trixie’s waist.

Trixie jolts at the pinch on his ribs, looks accusingly at Katya who just leans in to his ear and whispers all breathy, “I missed you” before moving his hands back to his drink. Trixie takes a deep sip of his own.

“Where’d you fly in from?” Pearl asks Katya.

“Minneapolis, darling.” Katya says in a mock posh accent, making a flippant gesture with his hand. Pearl sniggers.

“I have been meaning to get down there,” Trixie says, adopting the affect. Katya whacks his arm excitedly and he continues,  “I hear there’s a grand little place where you can get fur coats made of critically endangered animals.”

“God. You both cross the line from almost unbearable to fully unbearable when you’re together. You know that?” Pearl groans.

“Thank you very much!” Katya grins.

Trixie reaches for a fry, pops it in his mouth and listens as Aja talks about the weird packages that have been showing up at his apartment. The tightness in his chest is starting to fade. Maybe it’s the booze or maybe it’s the way Katya has a hold of his thigh and squeezes it every time he laughs. It could be the way Katya makes everyone else seem radiant just by being in the room with him. Regardless, it’s fading.

“How’s that guy… Ben? Was that his name?” Pearl asks across the table, a while later.

Everyone else is engrossed in conversation, Katya and Aja are avidly discussing the pro’s and con’s of natural deodorant products, Jinkx, Ginger and Naomi are all talking about something but from this side of the booth Trixie can’t hear.

He hesitates a moment, uncomfortably conscious of the fact that he’s not mentioned Ben to Katya yet. He’s only seen him a few times. It’s not weird.

“Ben is… nice. Good. He’s good.” Trixie says, scrambles for something else to talk about. It’s just because it’s new. He doesn’t want to go around talking about it yet. It might not even be anything yet. Pearl pulls a face.

“You doing the tour in the UK?” He asks, nervously fiddling with his straw.

Pearl nods, “Not the whole thing. Just the first six days.”

“Always knew you were a quitter. Fame was so right about you.” He teases.

“God. You’re such a bitch.” Pearl rolls his eyes.

“Can we get out of here?” Naomi asks suddenly over the din of conversation. “A club? I don’t know about all of you but I want to get laid, like, four hours ago.“ 

There’s a chorus of agreement.

"I'mma head to my hotel, girls.” Ginger says.

“Yeah, I’m going home too.” Trixie says. He looks sideways to Katya, but he’s still talking to Aja.

There’s a flurry as everyone grabs their phones and keys from the table and starts getting up. Trixie stands up and takes a few steps to get out of the way. He struggles with the zip on his jacket for a moment, dimly aware of people saying goodbyes and starting to move off.

The zip finally comes unstuck and he turns back to the booth but everyone’s gone. Arms crossed, Trixie makes his way to the exit, accidently bumping into a few people and muttering apologies that they can’t hear over the music. 

He breathes deeply when he makes it out onto the sidewalk, pulls out his phone to order a car home.

Something bumps against him as he’s looking at the screen. Flinching, he looks up.

“Thought you left.” Trixie says around a smile, his shoulders relaxing. Katya grins.

“I waited for you, Mama. Want to walk it? Crash with me?” Katya asks, pulling a cigarette out of his pack and already starting off in the direction of his apartment.

Trixie jogs a few steps to catch up.

The night becomes quieter and stiller as they put distance between themselves and the bar. Something about the sound of their footsteps echoing in the streets and Katya’s smoke in the clear air feels magic. Trixie follows it with his eyes, scans the sky for stars. In Wisconsin they felt so close.

“You ever miss home?” Trixie asks.

Katya is quiet for a bit, thinking. Trixie counts their steps, seven, eight, nine.

“I mostly miss feeling like I live somewhere.” He replies.

Trixie frowns.

“Was that too much?” Katya trills with a cackle. He breaks into a skip for a few steps, jumps and clicks his heels together.

“Serving Lord of the Dance realness.” Trixie laughs and clicks his tongue.

“Yes GAWD!” Katya calls. He puts his hands on his hips and starts some jumping and kicking that could be identified as Irish dancing. Maybe.

“I wish you were coming next week.” Trixie breathes when he’s stopped laughing and Katya’s slowed back into a walk. He reaches out and intertwines their fingers, Katya gives his hand a squeeze and hums.

“Miss you all the time, Tracy.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Me too.”

“Want to help me paint fans when we get home?” Katya asks, miming fanning himself with the other hand.

“Want to paint fans while I sleep?” Trixie counters.

Katya makes a high-pitched whining noise, yanking Trixie’s hand. He laughs.

“Oh my god. Oh my god. Okay.”

Katya paints and Trixie lays on the floor, head propped up by a pillow and leg’s stretched across Katya’s lap. Some tv show is playing quietly from a laptop and Trixie watches hazily as Katya paints eyeballs all over a fan, sticking glitter to the irises. His face is all concentrated and Trixie is kind of mesmerized by his hollow cheeks in the orange light coming from a lamp in the corner. His eyes drift out of focus, the sound of silk under a paintbrush soothing-

“Trix.” Katya is whispering, lightly rubbing his knees.

Trixie groans and his eyes flicker open.

“Come on.” Katya murmurs. He pulls him up, all gentle, and leads him to the bedroom. Trixie’s feet feel too heavy as he trails after him.

He crawls into the bed, eyes shut and waiting for Katya so he can cuddle him.

“Hey, Tracy?”

He makes an approximate affirmative noise low in his chest.

“Who’s Ben?”

Trixie’s eyes snap open, Katya’s silhouette outlined standing by the bed.

He falters for a second, confused.

“Why…”

Katya let’s out a quiet laugh.

“Sorry, I don’t know why I’m asking.” He says.

Trixie squeezes his eyes shut tight for a second. He’s not totally convinced by the light tone but also not convinced that Katya is asking what he’s asking. If it implies something. If it doesn’t. 

“He’s no one, Kat. Can you…” He trails off, motions his head to the bed in front of him.

Katya climbs in, weight dipping the mattress and pushing them together. Trixie holds him, sleepily, messily, like he’s something precious. In the morning he has meetings, Katya has a flight, but that plain and fond feeling of holding, of being held; it lingers.