#if he did its absolutely imperceptible little stick trip

[ratatatastic]

did swaggy get tripped up by skinner

edmonton oilers @ florida panthers game 1 | 6.8.24

[ancientbooshartifacts]

Get Inside You, Boy

Author: Culumacilinte

Year: 2008

Rating: R

Pairing: Howard/Spirit of Jazz

Asleep in his bed, Howard Moon shifted fitfully, rolling onto his side and bunching up his pillow under his head.  His lips moved imperceptibly, muttering nonsense syllables.  In the cold moonlight filtering through the window, a sheen of sweat glimmered on his forehead, making damp curls stick to the skin.

A voice sifted through his dreams, interrupting a particularly pleasant image of Mrs. Gideon sorting bookmarks while Howard looked on with a fond smile.

Howard Moon…

He whimpered a little and his knees drew themselves up to his chest, his slumbering brain focussing harder on the image of Mrs. Gideon.

Wake up, boy!  I’s talkin’ to you.

Mrs. Gideon looked around, the lines of a frown twisting her smooth, creamy brow.  ‘Howard?  Did you hear that?’

Dream-Howard shook his head nervously and adjusted his monocle.  ‘That’s nothing, Mrs. Gideon; nothing to worry your head about.’

Mrs. Gideon gave him a brilliant smile, laying a hand on his arm.  ‘Oh, you are so kind to me, Howard.  How is your novel coming, by the way?  The first draft was absolutely riveting!’

Her approval and recognition, even when it was nothing more than a dream, sent a glow to Howard’s heart and his face broadened in a dazzling grin.  Both grin and glow died, however, the instant the voice spoke again.

Shut up, girlie!  The voice was more insistent now, and was beginning to sound decidedly irritated.  This boyo’s mine.  Wake up, Howard Moon; get your fine ass outta them dreams and listen t’me!

Beneath his sheets, Howard trembled, clutching his comforter tight around him, his brow contorted in pig-headed persistence that he stay asleep.  The Howard in his dream trembled too, but he had nothing to clutch to him, and so instead put a comforting hand on Mrs. Gideon’s shoulder, trying his best to look manly and confident, a proper son of Leeds.  She, however, seemed not to have heard the voice at all and continued blissfully sorting her bookmarks.

‘Go away!’  Howard hissed, ‘Leave me alone!  I was having a good dream!’

The invisible voice chuckled cruelly.  Leave you alone, boy?  That ain’t never gonna happen.  You’s mine, baby, and when I call, you’s gonna answer me.  Y’ain’t got no choice.

Fists clenched at Howard’s sides, and he stared determinedly down at the ground.  ‘I have a choice, sir!  I am Howard Moon, Man of Action!  They call me Monsoon Moon; I’m a maverick!  You try and tell me what to do, and I’ll come at you like a skipping rope!  Like a-’

But the voice cut him off.

Mmm, yeah, you’s a maverick, peachy-face; but what kinda maverick, Howard Moon?  You know the answer.

Howard’s face fell; there was no denying it now, and both he and the owner of the invisible voice knew it.  ‘Jazz Maverick,’ He muttered, defeated.  The voice cackled exultantly.

That’s right!  You’s the Jazz Maverick, Howard Moon, and when the Spirit o’ Jazz tells you to wake up, you damn well wake!

The last word was almost a shout; or as close to a shout as the raspy voice of the Spirit of Jazz ever got, and Howard shot up in his bed with a yell.  It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, but when they did… there was nothing.  Just darkness, and a square of blue rippling across the bedsheets where the moonlight came in.  He sagged against the headboard and closed his eyes, exhaling a quavering sigh of relief.

‘Thank god,’ he muttered into his chest.

‘Who ya thanking there, boy?  God?  He ain’t got nothin’ t’do with it.’

‘Augh!’

Howard’s eyes snapped open.  There at the foot of the bed stood the Spirit of Jazz, legs crossed and arms out in that familiar, overly-dramatic pose, white suit and top hat almost luminous in the darkness.  His eyes glowed red against the cool darkness of Howard’s room.  Howard was swamped with a sensation of complete and utter horror, any relief he had felt at seeing the room empty lost in an instant.  A prickle of goose bumps broke out on the skin of his forearms.

‘Missed me, have you boy?  Been a long time since I visited you.’

Howard trembled.  ‘What are you doing here?’  He asked quietly, ‘Haven’t you already troubled me enough?’

The Spirit of Jazz laughed raucously, baring disturbingly black teeth.  ‘Enough, sweetness?’  He echoed, ‘I ain’t never had enough, Howard!  And I been robbed o’ your fine self for so many years, after all...’

‘What do you want?’

He had begun to pull himself together, Howard.  At least, his voice shook less, and the look in his eyes was calmer, but inside, he was trembling like a tiny little girl from Leeds, albeit a tiny little girl with a moustache.  The Spirit of Jazz sneered at him, strangely pink tongue running over those black teeth.  He’d been inside Howard Moon; he knew this man, and he could practically taste his fear.  He could taste it, and he found himself to be particularly partial to the flavour.  He leered at Howard.

‘You knows what I wants, boy!  Surely y’ain’t that stupid.’

‘Oh, god...’  Howard’s voice was nothing more than a whimper, several pitches higher than any grown man’s ought to be, and he shrieked and screwed his eyes tightly shut as the Spirit of Jazz swooped down upon him.

‘Don’t kill me, please!’ He sobbed, ‘I’ve got so much to give!  I’ve- I’ve-’ But nothing happened, and feeling a slight sense of anticlimax, he unscrewed the left eye slightly.  He fairly leapt at the sight that met him, however; the Jazz Spirit was kneeling on the bed, straddling Howard’s legs laid out in front of him, arms propped up on either side of Howard’ torso, skeletal face scant inches from his.  At the moment, he was looking decidedly disappointed.

‘Don’t be an idiot,’ He said, voice- for once- devoid of delighted mockery.  He took a moment, and then seemed to regain his steam, exhaling a harsh rasp of a laugh against Howard’s skin.  ‘I wants you, boy!  I wants to get inside you, wear you like a soft lady’s glove.’

That tongue flickered obscenely against his teeth, and red eyes went wide and mad.

Howard drew back- or rather, he tried to, but found that the headboard of his bed was rather in the way.  He continued trying anyway.  ‘If you don’t mind, sir,’ he said weakly, ‘I’d really rather prefer it if you didn’t.  Um, that is, there’s a lot of things need doing at the zoo tomorrow, and I need to get my sleep...’

He trailed off weakly, and the Spirit of Jazz shook his head at him, seeming almost rueful.

‘Pathetic,’ he muttered, ‘You’s a jazz boy, Howard Moon, and you’s worried about workin’ at some dumbass zoo?   Y’see why I’s here?  You needs remindin’ ‘bout who you is, boy.’

A panic was blossoming in Howard’s chest now, but he tried to pull himself up regardless.  ‘Perhaps you could hoodwink me when I was a young man, sir, but Howard Moon is a man of action!  I’ll not be taken in that easily.  I-’ he stumbled somewhat, ‘I suggest you make your exit now, sir; you’ll be finding nothing you want here.’

The Spirit of Jazz chuckled again, and his grin was dark and cruel.  ‘Ahh, now see- that’s your problem, boy.  You thinks you’s gots a choice in the matter.’

And before Howard could react- could object or say anything- the Jazz Spirit surged forward and crushed his black lips to Howard’s in a brutal kiss.  

Howard let out a muffled cry, and the Spirit of Jazz disappeared against his lips, leaving nothing more than a lingering taste of ash and the wail of trumpets in his head.  Then, in the darkness, Howard’s eyes flamed red.

His whole body relaxed, suddenly warm and heavy with the feeling of good Louisiana whiskey, and a voice spoke inside his head.

There now, ain’t that better, boy?  You’s mine, you’s always been mine, and you likes it.

Howard nodded dreamily as his body slid back down to lie flat, one knee bent lazily.  He stared at the ceiling with crimson eyes, and one hand slipped down over the faint convexity of his belly, then up again to toy with a nipple though the fabric of his shirt.  He sighed faintly, ‘Yes...’ whispering out in the heavy air, and his voice was tinged with a raspy, Cajun twang.

You wants me, doncha boy?  Wants me all up in you?  A chuckle, It’s your lucky day, sweet cheeks.

The smell of dead cigarettes and cheap booze consumed Howard’s mind, the scent of the dirt and grime of a hundred people’s lives, accented inexplicably with the chemical tang of lemon cleaner.  He recognised that smell- the smell of The Blue Aubergine way back when, when Howard was a jazz legend in Yorkshire.  He had a guitar in his hands and his fingers were flying at incredible speeds, the incredible sounds of his jazz stylings carrying to the darkest corners of the pub.  The crowd was going wild, loving him, and he was their master-

Just like that, boy...

His hand gripped harder at his chest, fingers digging bruisingly hard into the scant muscle of his pectoral, and he groaned deep in his throat, his other hand tracing with maddening slowness down into his boxers.   A breathless laugh, exultant and rapturous, tripped from his lips as a hand stroked down the length of his half-hard prick.  Had it been Howard, he would have got things over with quickly and quietly, but this was the Spirit of Jazz, and he was a sadistic bastard.  He wanted to hear Howard moan, to see him arch up against the touch of his own hand, to want until he could stand it no longer.

And so he was slow, and in Howard’s head, a wild improvised trumpet solo built to incredible heights.

That’s right!  That there’s the power o’ jazz, Howard Moon.  Gets inside ya, gets under your skin, makes ya tingly.   Don’t nothin’ else make you feel like that, do it?  I knows you, boy; you wants me.  I’s jazz, and jazz is your lifeblood, ain’t it? You’s beggin’ me for it, baby.

Howard moaned, biting down hard on his lip as the hand snuck lower, cupping hotly at his bollocks, heavy in his hand, and further still to stroke over the tight ring of muscle there.  A shudder traversed its way up his spine, and the voice of the Spirit of Jazz cooed in his ear.

Oh-ho!  Y’likes that... So you’s that kinda man, hmm, Howard Moon?  Y’likes bein’ told what t’do, do ya?

In some far corner of his mind, Howard Moon tried desperately to reassert himself, pulling with all the strength in his Yorkshire bones.  He was a man of action, he told himself squarely.  A man of means and influence, the kind of man others looked up to; not someone who enjoyed taking orders from anyone, much less a Cajun freak in blackface!

That finger was still there though, rubbing back and forth in the crease of his arse, and when it pushed itself in, just past that first barrier, all his resistance crumbled.  He whimpered, straining against the feeling of his own finger inside himself, cool and strange and not nearly there enough.

Y’want me to fuck you, peachy face?  That what you want?

‘G-god, yes!  Please, yes...’

The Spirit of Jazz said nothing more, just laughed cruelly inside Howard’s head, on and on, ringing in the jazz club as the double bass thrummed in the background and the saxophone soared bluesily above the crowd.

The hand scrabbled on the bedside table for where Howard knew the lotion was, and then one finger, two, three were inside him, and Howard’s mouth went wide and slack, his eyes glazed with pleasure.  The angle was awkward, but Howard’s breath stuttered in his chest nonetheless when the Spirit of Jazz curled his fingers tight inside Howard, stretching places deep inside him.  When the other hand left off toying with his scant chest hair and slid down to slick itself over his cock, he fairly moaned, his hips bowing off the mattress into the touch of that hand- his, and yet somehow not at all.

The hand pumped, and the fingers inside him fucked Howard mercilessly, curling and stretching, his whole body pretzellling to try and get them deeper, harder.  But it wasn’t enough, it wasn’t good enough, and the Spirit of Jazz growled through Howard’s throat, working him faster.

Oh, yeah… the voice purred against Howard’s ear, That’s what you likes, ain’t it?  Ya likes to be fucked hard, Howard Moon, like a little bitch.

Howard groaned desperately.  ‘I- no, I-’

Say that so’s I can hear it, bitch!

‘Please!’ He choked out, arching frantically against the Jazz Spirit’s touch.  He couldn’t bring himself to say anymore, but the Spirit of Jazz felt it in his body, saw it in his mind, and he ran an invisible tongue across invisible teeth, leering invisibly at Howard.

Whatever you says.

The hand worked him harder, the other twisting inside him, and Howard’s vision fuzzed out for a moment from the sheer pleasure of it, his back arching.  He was so close, almost there, almost… there-

The trumpet solo rang out over the crowd, spiralling madly upward, twisting and turning in midair before finally, insanely, hitting a triple high C.  There was a hush, and the throng stared; for several slow-motion moments, the note hovered still, high and pure and utterly uncorrupted.

And then Howard collapsed onto his back, mouth wide open and gasping for breath, two lines of white painted across his stomach.  The Spirit of Jazz materialised beside the bed, leering down at him, his suit utterly pristine, hat still firmly in place.  Exhausted, Howard shook his head, looking away, trying to ignore the presence beside him, but the Jazz Spirit cackled into the night air and settled himself on the edge of the bed, almost daintily.

‘You liked that, boy?’

Howard didn’t answer, and instead pulled the blanket over himself, suddenly extremely conscious of his own nakedness.  It was cold in his room, colder than he could ever remember it being.

The Spirit of Jazz crowed with delighted laughter.  ‘Oh-ho!  And now’s the time for the psychological torment, hey?  Oh, baby, you’s a good time, Howard Moon.’

‘Go away,’ Howard muttered into his blankets.  It was too late for him to recover any measure of dignity, but he would not further prolong his torment.  He would not play along with whatever sick game the Spirit was playing.  That laugh scraped over his skin, though, a harsh rasp in the darkness, and Howard could feel the unnatural burn of his eyes.

‘I’s always here, boy!  I’ll go away, sure thing- I gots other things t’do- but I’s inside your head, Howard Moon.  Every time you listen to one o’ them old jazz LPs you loves so much, every time you falls asleep… I’m a-gonna be there, just waitin’ for you.’

‘Please leave; I can’t deal with this right now.  I have… things to think about.’

The Spirit of Jazz let out a bark of laughter.  ‘Ha!  Sure that’s what you gots t’do.  I’ll leave, sugar, but you ain’t seen the last o’ me; you sure’s hell ain’t.’

There was a sound like the last, futile flicker of a dying candle, and when Howard turned over in his bed, the Spirit of Jazz was gone.  He couldn’t sleep though, not even now, in the warm, comforting emptiness of his room.  Howard knew it was true, what he’d said, and inside his head, the Spirit of Jazz laughed and laughed and laughed.

[mollymauk-teafleak]

The Seal Lullaby

In small, isolated, tight knit towns, people tend to talk. And in this town, they talk most about the strange couple that live down in the cottage by the sea. They talk about how they just turned up out of the blue one day, they wonder if they'll ever stop having children, they wonder what it is about them that makes them feel so...odd.

My Selkie AU fic! Thanks so much for all the excitement and support over this, it’s really turning into something I’m proud of and I can’t wait to show you guys it. New chapter every Thursday and comments are really really appreciated. Here it is on Ao3 if that’s more your thing and so many thanks to my phenomenal beta readers @minky-for-short @sassy-laffy @purearcticfire

-

Eliza Schuyler had always been a girl who had one foot in some other world.

She was a ‘daydreamer’. She was always ‘away with the fairies’. She was ‘never quite there’. The ‘lights were on but no one was home’.

There were a lot of ways to say it, most of them dripping with honey sweet condescension that making the obstinately gentle phrases feel a little off, more like thinly disguised insults than anything else. They were muttered to Catherine Schuyler by friends and book club members and distant relatives in just enough of a low voice to make it plain that they didn’t want Eliza to hear but didn’t care that she absolutely could. To make it obvious that they were pointing out a serious flaw but in a delicate way that the girl should really be grateful for.

Eliza was never fooled. She knew exactly what they were saying; that she was strange, weird, an anomaly. That the way she went wandering on long, lonely, meandering walks for hours was unusual. That the way she could sit perfectly still and placid, like some eerily glass like lake, perfectly content inside her own head, made her odd. That the way she devoted herself more to the worlds between the pages of books than the one she physically occupied made her seem disjointed and distant.

But she couldn’t have cared less than if the musty, oddly dressed figures in the antique paintings scattered through the Schuyler mansion had begun wittering about her behind their hands. Eliza knew that this world, this life where everything her parents did had to be carefully calculated and considered for how it would ripple through the political and social circles they swam in, it just wasn’t where she belonged. Her older sister Angelica, one of the few people who understood and appreciated Eliza, apparent flaws and all, had learned to adapt. She found that she could easily navigate the complicated maze that was a life at the centre of the New York political scene, she was born to cut her path through the city with her wit and her charm and her brains. Even Peggy, her younger sister, was warming to it, she liked a life of risk and challenge and god, was the life of a Schuyler a challenge. But Eliza had learned very early on that she wasn’t supposed to be here. She preferred things clear, honest, genuine. She liked to know where she stood and know exactly who she was, she liked softness and calm and clean air. And none of that was here. Here things had to change a hundred times a second, the ground was always shifting underneath everyone’s feet.

Of course, Eliza made her peace with it, she’d had to or spend the rest of her life dissatisfied and she hated any kind of confrontation, it was so unnecessary. But there had always been a part of her that had felt like it was waiting. Though for what, she wasn’t quite sure. For something, for the world she was supposed to be in to come and find her.

She’d almost given up, as her twentieth birthday came to pounce on her and her parents started making noises about settling down, about finding a partner, finding a career. Internships and apprenticeships, whatever the hell ‘networking events’ were, battlegrounds and arenas to find a job that involved a glass panelled office and a mahogany desk and spreadsheets and market research, a husband that involved painfully polite dinners, loaded comments over breakfast and very quiet, formulaic sex. Eliza saw all of this coming and began to panic, seeing no way out before it all came crashing down on her head and drowned her. Her something still hadn’t found her; her lifeline was nowhere in sight.

And then, on an otherwise decidedly unspectacular day, it found her.

Or rather, she stumbled upon it. Nearly tripped over it, as a matter of fact.

Eliza had been going crazy cooped up inside the beach house. So, when the storm finally passed on and some weak sunlight began filtering through the thick, cloying grey clouds and the wind calmed from a furious howl to a vaguely irritated murmur, the instant the weather got over its days long tantrum, she was out of the door. Driven to the brink of insanity having no power, trapped between four walls with her parents constantly needling at her how she really should be attending Mrs Washington’s party next week, it would be useful for her, very beneficial; drowning them out by wishing with all her heart that Angelica hadn’t left on her honeymoon three days ago and Peggy hadn’t wriggled free of the family’s yearly beach vacation with pleas that her finals were coming up. As soon as the storm died down, she kicked back her bedcovers, pulled on some ratty old jeans and a threadbare brown wool jumper, her ever faithful scuffed, clunky boots and ran outside before either of her parents could snag her with a pointed remark. She didn’t even bring a coat, she wanted to feel the cold mist of the morning and the slight wind against her skin.

Eliza felt all her troubles begin to dissipate to some far corner of her mind, almost as soon as her boots began to crunch the dark, pebbly sand and the shore came into view. Everything was grey and cool and a little damp and that was exactly what she loved about it. The landscape looked as if it had been painted by some melancholic artist and Eliza could empathise with them. This was where she wanted to be right now, somewhere that made her shiver and squint a little and just feel a little more alive than she’d felt in a while, alone with the waves sighing against the shore and the breeze gossiping quietly as it ran through the long grasses.

And it was when Eliza was just wandering in blissful aimlessness on that freeing morning, on the beach that was quietly steeling back down after a storm, that she nearly tripped over the rest of her future.

She’d been nudging away all the pieces of driftwood that littered the shoreline to make herself a path, wanting to stick as close to the water as possible so it lapped at the base of her shoes. And some of the bigger scraps, the ones that maybe had once been part of a building, maybe someone’s home or a mighty ship, they required a bit of a kick to send them back into the waves and on their way to another shore. So Eliza made a bit of a game of daydreaming where these slabs of aged, salt worn driftwood may have come from and once been in another life as she nudged each one out of her way. It was a lot of fun actually…

Until one of the pieces of driftwood yelped when she kicked it.

There was simply no other response to that than to scream loud enough that it echoed all along the foggy beach and to pitch backwards onto the soggy sand. Which is what Eliza did, falling back on her butt and scrambling away, her dark eyes wide and terrified, anticipating some attack from the creature from the black lagoon. They’d find the careworn boots her mother had always hated on the beach that night and that’s all they’d have of her to bury…

But it wasn’t a monster. At least she didn’t think so.

The shadow she’d just unceremoniously kicked rolled, unfurled and sat up. It was a boy. A young man except…even in the first second she looked at him, in the mist, there was a second where she refused to believe he was even human at all, he looked like something from another reality in a way that was imperceptible but so obvious it was like the difference between up and down. And then the mist cleared as the young man began to hack and cough and wheeze, sounding terrifyingly sick and very normal. Eliza gasped and saw him clearly for what he was, a muscular but lithe man of what must be exactly her age if not very close, amber skin dappled with droplets of water, long dark hair plastered to his head almost all the way down to his shoulders, sharp features, long nose, high forehead and the most intense eyes she’d ever seen. It was those eyes that convinced her that the brief moment of unreality hadn’t just been a dream, that for a split second he really had appeared to her as something unknowable even in the oldest, dustiest, most worn tomes of myth and legend. But now all he was just a scared, cold, shivering young man, looking at her with as much fear and awe as must be in her eyes too. Like she was something odd and strange.

She also realised in that moment that he was completely naked. And making no effort to hide that fact. In the split second before she went bright red and made a point of fixing her eyes on his face, she noted that the hair that ran across his chest and muscled midriff and down to…other places was as dark as the hair on his head. The hair that was forming along his jaw into what would eventually become a goatee once he matured a little, tipped completely from adolescence into adulthood.

Eliza blinked slowly, the stunned silence between them stretching on and on until eventually she just squeaked, “I’m sorry I kicked you.” It seemed like the most appropriate thing to say at the time.

The young man blinked back, almost like he was mimicking her movements. He didn’t speak.

“I…were you swimming? It’s kind of cold out…” Eliza tried, wincing a little at her own awkwardness.

That seemed to get some response, there was recognition in those pitch-dark eyes and Eliza found that once she looked into them it was almost impossible to look away again. He nodded, a surprisingly assured nod for a guy that was butt naked and soaked on a freezing cold beach.

“Well, you’re brave,” Eliza commented, slipping into her habit of talking plainly and directly, whatever the situation, “Swimming right after a storm.”

Another response, that word storm seemed to shake something in him. Bad memories it seemed like, he looked suddenly cowed and afraid.

Eliza felt a dart of sympathy, “Did you…did you get caught in the storm?”

Of course, he’d been lying here amongst the driftwood, just like he himself was some of the flotsam and jetsam that the ferocious weather had displaced and kicked around for its own amusement. There was another, slightly sadder nod of confirmation.

She had made up her mind. Eliza was one of those rare people whose immediate response to anything was unflinching kindness and she wasn’t about to leave this poor guy naked and clearly borderline hypothermic. She got up, dusted the sand off the seat of her jeans and offered him her hand.

“Come on, you look like you need a hot drink and a blanket. I’ve even got some clothes you can wear, I think.”

He looked at her open palm with a mix of apprehension and curiosity for a long time.

“I’m not going to hurt you, I promise,” Eliza bit her lower lip, “I won’t even tell my parents, you don’t have to worry about them. You can trust me.”

He fixed his dark eyes on her- the ones that Eliza’s mind had decided looked like the blackest sea glass- and he nodded again. He did trust her, she could read it on his face.

As he took her hand and used it to haul himself up on shaky legs, as his unnaturally icy cold skin met her unusually warm skin, it was like a spark passed through them. A small but undeniable charge that made both sets of eyes open wide and both jaws drop slightly and both hearts beat a little faster. Neither of them could put a name to it, to the feeling that suddenly flooded both of their chests, but they were both so aware of it that it was as if it coloured the world. Like they could suddenly hear even the soft rustlings of the kelp way below the waves, see the individual particles of dust carried on the wind, smell the delicate scent of the tiny but hearty flowers that grew in the sea grass. Everything was suddenly more. That was the only way it could be rationalised.

“My name is Alexander.”

It took Eliza a moment to realise he had even spoken. But who else could that voice have come from; that voice that was lyrical and a little sharp with an accent that came from a place Eliza had never seen but also, somehow, knew she could never go to.

“Oh. I’m…I’m Eliza,” she answered, her own voice sounding shaky and breathy and unsure in comparison.

But the light that came on in his eyes when she said it. Alexander looked like he had never heard anything so beautiful.

The fact that he wasn’t fully human was so obvious that Eliza’s brain somehow just accepted it with no fuss. It was clear as day in the way he walked, like Bambi on ice, like the concept of getting around on two skinny legs was completely foreign to him. In the way, he kept touching his arms and running his hands through his hair and poking his stomach like he didn’t fully get that they belonged to him. The way he looked surprise at the sound of his own voice, like it startled him.

So there was something about him, that much was clear. What he was could wait, Eliza had the patience to just file that away until more immediate problems could be addressed. Like how exactly she was going to smuggle a very undressed Alexander into the Schuyler beach house, get him a shower and clothes and a hot meal without either her mother or father seeing. Because this was something she absolutely did not want to have to explain. Not just because she had no idea how but also because she felt a kind of possessiveness over him. This was what she had been waiting for, the confirmation that she wasn’t a freak or wired incorrectly, that she’d simply been in the wrong place up until now. Her parents had had their chance to understand, they’d refused. So Alex was hers and no one else’s. Plus, who know what they’d do with him, who they’d hand him over to. Eliza was not letting go of him, no way. She’d promised to take care of him.

Fortunately, her parents were still asleep, with it only being around seven in the morning so as long as they were quiet she should be able to sneak him into her room without too much trouble, he’d be safe there until…until she figured out where to go from there.

Except for one thing. Alex didn’t seem to really do quiet.

As soon as they walked through the door, those eyes snapped so wide until they took up most of his face, his jaw going slack with such childlike wonder it was a little startling. He was suddenly seized with a compulsion to touch everything like all of this was completely new to him. This didn’t combine well with his uncertain, clumsy movements; by the time Eliza had managed to herd him into the kitchen, he’d nearly knocked over the television, the ceramic vase, the side table.

The kitchen was even worse, the young man was like a hurricane. Eliza turned her back once to get a mug to make a hot drink and in seconds he’d knocked over a whole tray of cutlery as he’d tried to reach the vase of flowers on the windowsill. By some miracle, there was no movement from upstairs.

“Dude!” she hissed, pushing on his back to move him away from the carnage, trying to decide if she was more bemused or exasperated, “You’re going to wake up my parents!”

“Oh!” Alex only seemed to brighten at that, turning quickly so Eliza suddenly found her palms pressed to his damp chest. So much so she could feel the muscles rippling underneath his skin like living stone. She retracted her hands, fast.

“So, you live with your pod?” he chirruped as she waved him over to stand by the counter.

“My…my pod?” Eliza blinked in confusion, pausing as she went to hurry to the laundry room to fetch him a towel.

“Yeah,” Alex nodded, apparently not seeing her puzzlement, “How many of you are there? Are they all like you? You said your parents, do you have brothers and sisters too?”

She was a little taken aback, he asked questions with the rapid pace and animated curiosity of a small child at a museum, “Oh. You mean my family?”

Alex shrugged, “I guess.”

“Well, it’s only me and Mama and Papa here right now,” Eliza answered, busying herself with foraging in the laundry pile for the biggest towel she could find for him, “But I do have sisters. Two of them.”

“Wow, really?”

Eliza jumped a mile, in the blink of an eye Alex had somehow crossed the distance between them to stand right behind her. Apparently, personal space was another thing he just didn’t do.  

“Um…yes,” Eliza hurriedly passed him the towel, biting back a slightly exasperated sigh as he looked at it in confusion for a few heartbeats before swinging it around his shoulders, looking to her for approval. She showed him how to tie it off around his waist.

“That’s really lucky,” there was a very obvious wistful note to Alex’s voice as he trotted at her heels back to the kitchen, like he was eager to see whatever oddities she had to show him next.

Eliza looked at him as she got him down a can of soup from the pantry. Soup would help warm him up, he was still so bitterly cold she was starting to worry.

“Do you not live with your family?” she asked delicately.

He shook his head, looking a little morose, “No. It was always just my mother and me so after she died I was just on my own.”

He looked so small and lonely in that moment, Eliza was struck with a sudden urge to hold him. Fortunately, she caught it and pulled it back before she could look like a complete weirdo.

“I’m so sorry,” she said instead, meaning it.

“Fisherman got her,” Alex looked down at his bare feet, avoiding her gaze for the first time since they’d met, “They were after me, wanted my pelt but she…she put herself in between them so I could get away.”

Eliza’s jaw opened and closed a few times. That was an awful lot of information to just offer up to a stranger. And not a lot of it made sense. There were certainly more than a few words that hit her ear wrong, that jarred in the context. But they could wait.

So, what she did was she reached over and took his hand, squeezing it tight and firm in just a kind of ‘I’m here, you’re not alone’ gesture. Eliza was a firm believer that there wasn’t much such a gesture couldn’t solve.

It certainly seemed to work for Alex. Though startled at first, like consoling touch had become a little foreign to him, she soon felt his long fingers wrap around hers in turn and the raincloud that had settled over his face lifted a little.

It had gone entirely by the time Eliza had him wrapped up in one of her father’s roomier sweaters, it hung off his slim frame like a flag on a windless day, sat cross legged up on the counter top with a bowl of chicken soup in his hands that he was devouring like it was the first food he’d seen in days. As soon as he’d gotten past staring at himself in the silvered surface of the spoon in fits of delighted giggles, he’d fallen on the soup like he was ravenous; it had only been two minutes and the bowl was nearly empty. Eliza sat opposite him, watching him with a calm, curious eye, trying to start sifting through some of the things about him that made no sense.

She wasn’t having much luck.

“Here, you try!” Alex was holding out the bowl to her again, he’d done that more than a few times. Despite his obvious hunger, he was determined to share with her, “It’s so good, it’s amazing!”

“I’m okay,” she smiled softly as she gently pressed the bowl back towards him, finding his insistence sweet, “I made it for you.”

That seemed to satisfy him for now, he went back to eating with as much gusto as before.

“Alexander?” Eliza piped up after a few more moments of oddly companionable silence.

His dark eyes flickered upwards, fixing on hers with no embarrassment or flinching away.

“Eliza!” he seemed to enjoy just saying her name, he was taking every opportunity to do so. In his accent, his strange sharp tone that only made Eliza want to hear more of it, her name had a beauty to it that even her low self-esteem couldn’t deny.

“Where did you come from?” she decided just to be straightforward.

“Oh, from the sea,” he answered easily, nodding his head and wiping his mouth on the sweater’s sleeve, “I wander around a lot, started off up near Scotland but then I kept going further south because, y’know, without a pod I wasn’t doing so well with the cold and all that?”

Eliza didn’t know, she didn’t know at all, but she nodded all the same. This kid sure loved to talk, once he opened his mouth it was clear in his voice there were no plans to stop.

“But then there was that storm, did you see it! Flung me all over the place, I thought I was going to die. I got caught right in the middle of it, I didn’t even have time to brace myself. I was so scared, blacked out, then the next thing I knew, I had your boot in my ribs!”

Eliza bit her lower lip, “I’m still sorry about that. I thought you were driftwood.”

“Oh, it’s fine!” Alex honestly couldn’t look much happier about that fact, “I’m glad you did. No one’s ever been as nice to me as you. And I’ve never spent any time as a human before, it’s cool. Weird though, how do you stay up on just two feet? And I’m freezing, there’s no fur anywhere! Expect down here I guess, small mercies…”

Eliza’s breath caught in her throat, “W-wait, so…so if you’re not human…then what are you?”

For her, that question was a heavy weight, something loaded and tense and crackling. But he answered it like she’d just asked him what his favourite colour was.

“Oh, I’m a selkie?” he shrugs, “Sure, I guess you didn’t recognise me without the pelt, huh?”

That word had an edge of familiarity to it, like she’d read it somewhere in a story book before, a long time ago back when such ideas had enough magic to make them seem like possibilities. But it had no place here, here in reality, here on the cusp of adulthood?

“A…selkie?” she tried to get her mouth around the word and fumbled.

Alex nodded, “Yes. The seal people. A skin changer.”

“Oh,” Eliza wasn’t sure what to say to that. Because of course it was the truth, that wasn’t what she was finding problematic, that wasn’t the pill that got stuck in her throat. The problem was what to do about it.

“Except now I’ve lost my skin,” Alex sighed, putting the bowl down and running both hands through his salt stiff hair in distress. He looked like someone who’d just had a horrible realisation and was now spiralling, like some awful thought had just pounced on him and sunk it’s claws in, “I let go of it in the storm and now I don’t know where it is. And I can’t go back to the sea without it.”

Eliza fixed on this, this sounded like something logical that can be easily fixed. A problem with a clear and cut solution, unlike what to do with the fact that there were apparently creatures that could switch from seals to humans as easily as shrugging off a coat.

“If you just let go of it, it will probably have followed the same path,” she patted Alex’s knee reassuringly, “It can’t be too far away. I’ll help you find it.”

Physical touch seemed to relax him, he started to settle as soon as her warm palm rested on him. The temperature difference between them was still very obvious. It was slowly dawning on her that maybe Alex just ran a little colder.

“Maybe not today,” her mouth twisted worriedly, looking at the clock on the wall, “You might need to lay low today.”

Alex tilted his head, trying to follow her gaze, mimic her movements like he was taking all his cues from her.

“You look exhausted,” Eliza nodded, “Are you okay with just sleeping in my room while I fib my parents off as much as I can? I know it’s not ideal, I’m sorry, I’ll come up and see you every chance I get but I can’t have them finding you. As soon as it gets dark and they go to bed, we’ll go look for your…your skin.”

The implicit trust in his eyes was disarming, borderline terrifying. Like he’d follow her to the ends of the earth without too much questioning. Eliza had to look away after a few beats of it, close to being overwhelmed just by that honesty. She just couldn’t face it.

Any more than she could face the fact that, if asked, she was starting to feel like she’d follow him too.

[winterbaby89]

The Red Dress Affair

Summary: Emma and Killian have been dating for a little while, and Emma is tired of waiting for Killian to make the next move so she plans a little sultry surprise. 

A/N: So, this is my first foray into actually publishing my CS FF’s, please let me know what you think. :) Emma is a bail-bonds woman, but Neal was never a thing in this verse. This is an ‘M’ rated adventure.

Special shout out to the absolutely lovely @ilovemesomekillianjones for volunteering for beta duties on this adventure. Also to @seriouslyhooked for being a fantastic friend and cheerleader through this process. Thank you ladies.

**Special thank you to the ever lovely @hollyethecurious​ for making this lovely art to go with my birthday reblogs. This was the first ever fic I published, so I thought it only fair to start the reblogs with this one. I hope you all enjoy.** 

Also available on : ao3  and  ffnet

Emma Swan chuckles to herself as she hears the final tumbler of the lock click into place allowing the door to swing open with a turn of the handle. Never once did she ever think she would break into Killian Jones' house (mansion more like), the Killian Jones, World's Sexiest Man (three years running), Forbes Playboy and Wonder Child, youngest self-made CEO, of the world's largest shipping corporation.

"You'd think wonder boy would have better security ..." she mutters to herself as she closes the kitchen access door behind her. Emma wends her way through the sprawling house, from the kitchen where she came in, to the opposite side where she knows his home office is located. She’s wearing her favorite skintight red 'perp' catching dress, and matching red four inch heels.

She can't even deny to herself anymore, that she has been looking forward to this surprise since she came up with it last week. She met Killian at a fundraiser for the local organization helping battered women and orphaned kids, several weeks back (the weekend before Christmas), and they just clicked from minute one. Before the night was through they had exchanged numbers and he'd procured her agreement for a date on New Year's Eve. Ever since that first date, Emma was becoming more and more convinced that 2017 was going to be her best year yet. They’d seen each other at least once a week ever since. Killian has been a perfect gentleman much to her complete frustration, hence tonight's plans to push him into moving forward. She has never been with a man that took things this slow. And she's finally fed up with waiting for him to initiate the next step. So as a woman of action, she's going to surprise him and nudge Killian into finally taking her to bed, Valentine's day plans be damned.

As she's approaching his home office, she emerges from her thoughts long enough to realize something is off. Suddenly on alert, and really wishing she had thought to bring her gun Emma sidles down the hallway as quietly as she can, sticking to the shadows as much as possible. That's when she hears it, a door rattling in its frame with muttered cursing in a distinctly feminine voice. As it would so happen, it is coming from just around the corner, down the hall squarely in front of Killian's locked office door. Emma continues her stealthy approach, not making so much as a sound until she is just behind, but out of arm’s reach of the woman.

''And who are you?'' That startles the woman badly enough to make an awkward jumping spin while clutching her heart.

''I am Ellie Carmichael with TMZ. Who are you?''

''You see … I'm not going to tell you that. What are you doing in Mr. Jones' house?''

''Well, I am intending to get an interview with him this evening, I am a journalist at TMZ.'' Ellie says her title and place of employment with as much pomp and haughtiness as she can muster, probably trying to impress her (it's not working, in fact she now thinks less of her).

''Is that right? You see from where I'm standing, it looks like you're trying to break into his office, so you can ambush him, or what have you.''

''I was not!'' Neither woman is fooled by that bold faced lie.

''Here's the thing Ellie. It was Ellie wasn't it?'' Ellie nods and Emma continues on. ''How about you leave here before Mr. Jones arrives and the cops have to be called to come and collect you for breaking and entering, trespassing, and harassment. I assure you, whatever story or angle you are trying to run with, ambushing Mr. Jones in his own home is not worth a criminal record. So, how about I see you to the front door, no harm no foul, and you don't ever try this again?''

Ellie looks like she just might actually agree with her when they are both startled by a voice from just down the hall.

''Ladies?'' Killian sounds immensely confused and curious, matching the quizzical look on his face when they both turn to look at him.

''Oh! Mr. Jones, you're home already. I was just about to see this unwanted visitor out, I was trying to take care of it before you got here, so as not to bother you with it. Apologies.'' Emma notices the moment Killian really looks at her, and notices what she's wearing. He does a very good job of keeping the plethora of emotions from showing on his face, but he is not able to hide the pure unadulterated want in his eyes.

''Ah. I see, well then by all means please continue. But do come by my office before you leave. Understood?''

''Yes sir, I shall be there shortly.'' Since Killian had announced his presence Ellie has been struck silent, but apparently with her imminent departure approaching she has decided she needs to speak up and plead her case. Before Killian can even take two steps she speaks up.

''Please Mr. Jones, if I could just have a few moments of your time. I am Ellie Carmichael with TMZ, I was hoping to get an interview for a piece I am writing on you.''

Killian seems temporarily frozen to the spot, tilting his head as he processes everything she has just spewed out at him. ''I'm sorry? You broke into my home. To, waylay me into giving you an interview for your gossip magazine? Did I mishear you?''

''No sir. But we're not a gossip magazine.''

''Yes, yes you are. And this is NOT how you go about trying to get an interview, you go through the appropriate channels and contacts. Now please get out of my house, and never come back, unless you wish for me to call the cops.'' Killian turns his back on Ellie, unlocks his office door, and slips inside, shutting the door without another word. Ellie hangs her head at Killian's departure.

''Now, Ellie. Do you want me to escort you out, or do you want to take a trip down town and find out what it is like to be booked?''

Sighing despondently at Emma's words, Ellie nods almost imperceptibly. ''I guess I will take my leave, and hope he will give me the chance to do that interview later.''

''That's the smart decision.'' Emma starts walking Ellie to the front of the house.

''By the way, how are you involved in all of this? Nobody's heard about him having a female head of security. Does he make you dress like that?''

''Ellie, this is not the time nor the place. All you need to know, is that Mr. Jones does not make me dress like this, I am on my way to a date after this.''

''Oh.''

''Now. Please if you want an interview get in touch with his PR Director, because if you try another stunt like this, it will end with you in cuffs in the back of a cop car.''  Emma holds open the front door for Ellie, who walks out without another word, and continues to watch until Ellie is securely on the other side of the security fence. Once Emma has the front door shut and secured behind her she starts making her way back to Killian's office. Emma offers a quick knock on the closed office door, pushing the door open when she hears Killian's response of, come in. Firmly closing the door and discreetly locking it behind her, Emma takes in Killian sitting at his large mahogany desk at the far end of the room. Killian looks up at the small click of the lock falling into place.

''So, want to tell me what that was all about Swan?'' He doesn't sound angry so much as confused as to what he walked into a few minutes ago.

''How much did you hear?''

''I came in about the point where you were saying it's not worth a criminal record. No harm no foul, huh?''

Emma blushes a bit at his continued scrutiny.

''Okay. Well for starters, that was my attempt at getting the crazy person out of your house. Oh, by the way, you should probably look into better security, since as I count it that was two separate women that were able to break into your house undetected, just tonight. Also, breaking in was my plan to surprise you. That was before getting waylaid by discovering the too curious for her own good reporter.'' She strides over to sit on the corner of his desk as she is talking, watching Killian's eyes roam over her body unabashedly, now that they no longer have an audience.

“And what were these nefarious plans of yours, which required an outfit such as this darling?’’

“I was going to try and corrupt you, so I could have my wicked wicked way with you. Is it working?’’

“Possibly, possibly, and what arguments did you prepare to win your case?’’

“Well, I thought I’d start by telling you that I don’t have anything on under my dress.’’ Emma gives a satisfied smirk at the tortured groan Killian let’s out at learning that juicy tidbit. Sliding off the desk to land on her knees between his splayed legs, she continues, “Then, if that wasn’t enough I thought I’d persuade you by doing this …’’ She’d been discreetly sliding down the zipper on his pants as she talked, and took him in hand as she reached the end of her sentence, earning another groan from Killian as reward for her actions.

‘’Emma …” He made her name sound like a prayer. One hand still gripped him, lightly stroking, giving him the option to make her stop if he truly didn’t want this, as her other hand deftly undid his belt and button.

Her core clenches at the thought of his size, she knew he’d be well equipped, but she hadn’t imagined he’d be this big. She rubs her legs together slightly, trying to maintain her composure and not jump him then and there. Soon enough, soon enough she’d get to feel the stretch of him filling her, but for the moment, Emma wants to taste him. She nudges his hips, trying to get him to lift up so she can pull his pants down to where she can easily reach him. Subconsciously she licks her lips as she props herself up where she won’t be too strained when she finally gets to taste him.

“Emma. You don’t need to do this, love.’’

“And if I said I wanted to? That it’s been difficult to concentrate on much else this last week? I won’t if you don’t want me to, but I can assure you it is something I very much want to do.’’

Killian’s hand lifts her chin so he can look her in the eyes to gauge her sincerity. Obviously seeing what he needs to, he pulls her up into a soul searing kiss that ends too quickly for her liking. “Then by all means, don’t let me stop you.’’ Killian threads his fingers through her hair, his eyes closing and head bowing back as she caresses him from root to tip. Finally taking him into her mouth, his size is generous enough she uses both hands and her mouth as she works him higher. Taking him deeper, allowing her throat muscles to swallow around the tip, his fingers tighten in her hair with the sensations. His breathing becomes shallower, his moans louder when she feels the gentle but firm tug on her hair.

“Emma, love you need to stop if you don’t want this to be over too quickly.’’ Ignoring Killian’s insistence for her to stop, Emma hums out her response around him while redoubling her efforts. A short moment later she tastes his release, swallowing down every last drop before releasing him with a soft ‘pop’. Emma grins up at his sated smile like the cat that ate the canary.

“Have no doubt love, I will pay you back for that.’’ Before she even realizes what it is he said Killian has her up on his desk, legs splayed with a clear view of her dripping quim at his eye level. “Looks to me like you enjoyed that as much as I did my love. I will enjoy this.’’ With no further preamble he leans her back on his desk, pulling her legs to where her ass is hanging just off the edge of the desk and her feet are perched on the arms of his chair. Killian pushes her dress up her hips as he leans in for his first taste of her, his mouth is hot on her, tongue pressing through her drenched lips from core to clit. He moans on her clit, doing deliciously wicked things to her body, and rocketing her ever closer to the proverbial cliff’s edge that she so desperately wants to jump off of. Killian’s continued euphoric moans along her clit has her tightening her fingers in his hair gasping his name as a warning and a prayer. His continued ministrations with his mouth and tongue, licking from slit to clit, and sucking on the sensitive bud has Emma finally plunging off the edge into an unequaled orgasm.

By time Emma finally comes back to her senses and sits up, she notices Killian smiling at her, but what really catches her attention is his erection standing at attention again. Licking her lips and clearing her throat Emma speaks up first. “I hope you weren’t thinking this was over yet sailor, I still have plans for you.’’

“Pray tell, Swan.’’

“I was always better at show than tell.’’ Easing her way off the desk she shimmies the rest of the way out of her dress. Killian is still sitting in his chair with his tie and vest already notably missing, and shirt undone. His eyes shamelessly roving over her now fully revealed body, and appreciating what he sees.

“Then by all means … show me.’’ He flashes her his classic playboy smirk. Emma saunters the foot to him putting a little more sway into her hips than would normally be present.

She climbs into his chair with him, placing her knees between his legs and the arms of the chair. Killian’s hand trails down her sides from her pert breasts to her hips, he anchors himself to her there, to help steady her as she slowly runs her still drenched folds across is silken steel shaft. After teasing the both of them a few moments more Emma starts lowering herself onto his cock, luxuriating in the slow burn as he slides into her tight sheath inch by delicious inch until he is completely buried in her to the hilt. Pausing to give them both a moment to adjust Emma leans forward to capture his lips in another kiss to trump all kisses, tasting herself a bit in this kiss with every demanding swipe of Killian’s tongue. Finally, Emma slowly starts to swivel in Killian’s lap, picking up speed, grinding on alternate thrusts. Her pace becomes erratic, breaking their kiss; panting heavily, Killian starts lifting his hips, meeting her thrust for thrust.

“Killian. Right there. I’m … I’m … OH GOD!’’

“Let go Emma, I’ll catch you. Come for me.’’

At his words Emma’s control snaps sending her into another earth shattering, mind blowing orgasm.

“That’s it love, that’s it.’’

Emma lets out a disgruntled whimper when she feels Killian shifting her to sit on his desk causing him to slip out of her momentarily.

His lips claim hers again, swallowing her gasp as he plunges back inside her, he can feel her walls still fluttering with aftershocks from her orgasm. His hips move with a wicked grind against her pelvic bone as he thrusts into her hard and fast. He can feel her legs shaking around him, her nails scratching his back as she approaches another peak. The pressure in his spine is building with his orgasm, trying to push it back, needing to feel her come around him one more time, before he gives in to his.

“Come for me, love. Let me see you fall apart again.’’ Killian feels her walls flutter and squeeze him with her orgasm and her legs tighten around him, holding him deep inside of her. With a grunt of her name he let’s Emma pull him into the perfect storm of pleasure along with her. He collapses down onto his forearms above her, both panting from their release, not willing to pull out just yet.

“So did that live up to your expectations my love?’’

Emma quietly giggles. “Makes me wonder, why did we wait so long to do this?”

Killian just chuckles, before going in for another soul searing kiss. “Misguided ideas of wanting to be a gentleman and court you properly? As wonderful as this was, how about we take this to bed my love?’’ 

“A bed sounds lovely.’’ Emma giggles again as Killian scoops her up into his arms and whisks her off to his bed for an evening neither will forget.

Tagging some of the lovlies who walked and talked me through this, as well as some I think might enjoy. Apologies if you didn’t want to be tagged.

@seriouslyhooked, @fergus80, @ilovemesomekillianjones, @icecubelotr44, @xhookswenchx, @flslp87, @jennjenn615, @totheendoftheworldortime @hollyethecurious @kmomof4