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kayparker20 · 3 years

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Sakura Haruno + Fishing pole + Hokage Mountain

I'm very sorry it took me so long, I was struggling to figure out how the hell I was going to make a fishing pole work. It made it fun though!

Credit to my boyfriend for the original idea, I was vocalizing my issue with coming up with something and he just thought for two seconds and the base of this plot came flying out of him and I couldn't have laughed harder or been more thankful!

This is just funny and doesn't desire a rating

“Don’t you ever get tired of being in the background?” Ino droned on.

Sakura smiled. “Oh, the background? Maybe in the big picture, but certainly not here. I make them pay for all the trouble they cause me.”

Ino raised an eyebrow. “That almost sounded kinky, but it’s coming from you so it can’t be.”

She shrugged. “For example, Kakashi failed to come to his medical exam we’re supposed to have after every mission, after promising me he would go.” She rests her chin in the palm of her hand and giggled lightly. “I’m the only one he trusts with his house key to keep Mr. Ukki alive when he goes on long term missions. Let’s see how long it will take him to realize volume four of Icha Icha is missing from his shelves.”

She casually pulls the book from her side pouch. “And it gets even better. You see, he’ll notice in minutes when he goes to put away volume three upon his return in,” She peeks up at the sky, gauging the time by the sun. “I’d say roughly 20 minutes. Which means, it’s time for me go.”

She sat at the edge of Hokage mountain, right in between her master’s bangs, fitting perfectly into the center part. She currently held a fishing pole and was tying up a bright pink book at the end of the line. She wrapped the line around the book so many times, being sure it would be secure from falling. She mourned that it may have creases on the cover later on, but it served him right.

Maybe if he ought to take care of himself just as well as he takes care of his books.

After tying creating a couple loops, trying them together and creating yet another knot, she tested it. After deciding it was sturdy and wouldn’t break, she reeled in the access line, and swung it over the cliff.

“Should be any minute now….” She mumbled to herself. “How could anyone miss the bright pink, especially with that sharingan.”

“And just what do you think you’re doing…?”

She smirked. Of course, the tone sounded indifferent. However, when she took a glance, she could see every bit of tension in the legendary man’s body.

“I’ll have to try this next time you’re late, seems casting out an Icha Icha books gets you to show up in no time.”

“You’re going to crease it!” He took a step forward.

She let go of the release to let the line unwind more, letting the book dangle an extra 10 feet lower before she grasped it again to stop it. “I seem to remember you making a promise.”

“I went!”

She grimaced at him. “You do remember I work there, right? And have access to all the charts? Especially to my teammates as our medic. You know what was missing, two hours after you checking with Lady Tsunade?”

He raised a hand to scratch the back of his neck. “Maaah, Sakura-chan, you know I hate hospitals. I had been looking for you to let you check me over.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Nice try, but you were looking for this.” She swung the pole, letting the book float through the above Tsunade’s nose.

She heard him wince as he stared intently at his book.

She smirked before turning her body and reeling it in, and casting it towards him. Books don’t have the best aerodynamics, but the bounded papers got there on a rough path. It landed a few steps away from him on the ground. “Go ahead, grab it!”

He eyed her before taking a step.

As soon as he had lead forward, she reeled in a bit.

He glared at her. “You know I could move way faster than you can reel that pole.” He stated dryly.

“If you don’t humor me, I’m going to tell Anko you have a crush on her.” Sakura whipped right back at him. “If you cared as much about your well-being as you do about this book, you wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place.” She huffed before reeling it in more.

He looked at her, debating if dealing with Anko believing he was smitten for her was worth just grabbing his book and making a run for it. He knew someone, somewhere would see such a humiliating sight, Copy Ninja Kakashi, brought to his knees by his giggling medic and a fishing pole with porn on it’s line.

He decided he’d never get rid of Anko, and could restore whatever damage comes to his reputation with the argument that it was that or deal with chakra strength fists. Everyone knew of Team 7’s weird dynamics, especially the one where the hot-headed medic beat the shit of them for being idiots and healed them ten minutes later.

He also liked being able to say she’s never even tried to beat him to pulp, rather that she forces him to take care of himself.

And in this moment, he realized it would only get worse if he continued to skip his wellness checks after missions.

He heaved a sigh and took a step forward and made a feeble attempt to grab his book at the sound of her cackling with delight.

#naruto fanfiction #kayparkerwrites #ask game #kakashi hatake #icha icha #sakura haruno #friendship #prompt: fishing pole #prompt: hokage mountain

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shewhowillnotbenamed1 · 4 years

Text

Bound

With the tail-end of the storm approaching, the ship had cut her way through the last of tremulous waters. The crewmen finally began to dwindle, with some of their number gone below deck to their quarters to relax and rest. Tell tales. Take drink.

Except for Wayne

He was the Captain and inheritor of the impressive vessel, The Aquamarine. Reentering the Captain's Quarters with a wrist behind him, he bowed, bent low to the desk. By the withering candle light, he reexamined the map that he had used to plot their course. He poured over his graphs and charts, and all the while recalculating the length of the journey, whether they could recover any lost time.

Not once had he stared at the edge of the room toward the mast. It was a cruel reminder that he had merely prolonged the imminent.

The muted sound of the boat creaking and the churn of choppy water was but a faint backdrop. A quill drawn up to scratch ink into worn pages broke through a moment of silence. And it seemed to break her.

"Please..."

There she sat in his chambers, a maiden, with wrists knotted behind her back, holding her fast to the mizzenmast. The girl spoke so softly under the shadow of breath, like a whisper of a last attempt. Her hooded head dipped down so low, she feared that he had forgotten her, but he hadn't. Oh, how he wished he would - wished he could.

The Captain's eyes locked in on her immediately. "Please." The word fell again from full lips like a prayer and his body flinched, turning ever so slightly toward the source. Slowly but surely, she was reeling him in. Wayne tried his best not to think about the myriad of methods he had at his disposal to make her say that word.

But he longed to hear it again.

Ardently.

And again.

Softer. Louder. Harder.

Again.

Sweet staccato - in tandem with each of their heartbeats.

He blinked brilliant sea foam colored eyes, rapidly in an attempt to sift away the dangerous thoughts, to wash them away like a turning tide would carry in a newborn turtle to the sanctity of the sea's embrace. To join its brothers. Never again to see its mother, so much of that was true of himself.

The true parallel was the perseverance, he did what he had to survive. And that included tying up loose ends.

"It's been hours..." Her voice was barely audible but held weight, as that of wavering waters, depths unfathomable. "The ship sailed through the turmoil..." Wayne wondered briefly if the squall had shaken her. Made her feel even more helpless. Tied up in his quarters with the boat rearing and rocking through turbulent sea. Alone and powerless. "You promised upon your return that you would...tell me my fate."

Had he?

Suddenly, Wayne craved the whiskey he saved for occasions or the occasional situation where he'd had to make a particularly tough call. Did one such as this constitute? Surely he had to have a drink or at least something to numb himself with. Why wouldn't he need a buffer or a filter to cloak himself, when to be in her presence was to grab hold of the ship's wheel, round it an about face and venture back into the maelstrom?

"I've made no such promises..." Captain Wayne smooth creases from his papers. "I have yet to reach a verdict regarding your fate. And until I do so, you will remain in my quarters. Silently." He included.

Captain Wayne traced his map with a finger and made a notation. Four. They would arrive in four nights. He'd relay this to his first mate Jon in the morning and then, the crew. This storm had slowed them, but they would dock in a few days if the ship remained on course with no interference. His lip curled. No external interference.

"I will..." The maiden conceded reluctantly. "Only if I may ask you this, so that I may prepare myself... What should I expect in these circumstances...?"

"I have said - you will wait," Wayne replied tersely. "Do as I ask." But that command sounded weaker than the last, to both of their ears. His resistance was dwindling, almost as if she were a mermaid or a siren seducing him, inducing him into action with a spell to make him serve her and bind him to her for all time. Though she sat bound before him.

And why?

She walked upon two legs with nary a tail nor fins in sight, how was that she in her cloak and white dress had awakened something in him he previously believed to be dormant?

Wayne had seen the finest things that this life had to offer. Treasures beyond measure. The seas, the skies, jewels, and the fairer sex - he had seen, but never indulged, never been tempted to stray. To allow any of these countless vices to corrupt him would cloud his judgment.

None had managed to rouse him like she, stringing along his soul and wringing up his beliefs.

And how?

Between her two hands, were they not tied?

"You..." She tried again. "Appear to be a reasonable man. More than fair." The woman licked her lips.

No.

His temple pulsed, an accusing finger jabbed in her direction. "You speak of fairness? Everything you've shown me is in complete opposition." He scoffed. "You stand to disregard this ship and my position, with your very existence - unsanctioned presence - aboard my vessel."

The maiden appeared to pale even further, but she continued. "Perhaps, I can make my case to you properly... Explain -"

"Captain," he interjected, needlessly. "That is captain, to you maiden." He peered over his pages at her body, mostly obscured in the sparsely lit room. "You may not be a member of my crew, but this is still my ship. And on my ship, you will address me by the appropriate title."

"Am I to stay here all night - bound...?" Her thighs turned in the loose fabric of her dress. And Captain Wayne found he had to glance away. "Captain," she added.

"Yes." Wayne's quill pierced the paper in his frustration. He cursed under his breath. "You are to remain here if I so command it."

"Then, I am to be treated as your enemy?" She blinked in realization. The woman drew her knees up. "And once you've turned me out, you'll cast me off? Or...flog me?"

Oh.

Captain Wayne's jaw twitched at the last in ways that flogging had never previously prompted. His consciousness betrayed him. The ripple expanding inside him incited such distracting warmth. But how was he to know that such suggestions would only bring about visions of a pale body, bare, bucking and bound to the mast, a moaning mess before him with a leather flogger in hand. Her hair askew, skin deliciously rouge and ripe while she begged for more.

This maiden was violating his vessel, he was fully in the right to flog her...

But.

"What you are remains to be seen... But you're hardly as innocent as you claim." He cleared his throat. "I should have you locked in a cell down below like the prisoner you are." Wayne didn't have to turn to her to know the defiant sparks he had felt had started to fall from her. Yet, he did not go to her. "But as I have not, do not test me."

"So then, in a manner of speaking, you have decided..." She mumbled low. "What am I if I am to remain here in your chambers like this? Your personal prisoner?"

Thoughts of a personal prisoner in his private quarters elicited Wayne's mouth to water again. Why did her words titillate him so?

The girl shifted, ropes groaned as they squeezed upon the smooth red wood of the mast. "Surely you cannot keep me," she murmured quietly.

He rolled up the map at last. "Are you willing to take that chance?"

For a time she was silent, as if that thought hadn't been meant for his ears.

"I would prefer to come to an agreement rather than to come to that, Captain."

"Hmm." Rising from the desk, he took a heavy step, as he pondered. "Prisoner or not, you have nothing to offer. Not materially nor strategically." She wasn't trained to be a seafarer, it was true. "You could serve to be no more than a liability to me."

"That's not true -" The woman insisted. "This is a misunderstanding..."

"If it is a misunderstanding, explain your presence aboard my ship? Is it an accident perhaps because you were caught?" The captain lashed quickly, glaring sharply in her direction.

"No..." She breathed. "You are correct... I boarded without permission and unbeknownst to you - I stowed away." The girl hung her head. "But, please allow me let me stay."

"You confess to being a stowaway, and you would like to be permitted to stay?" Captain Wayne asked, incredulously.

"Yes. Please." Her voice quivered and he could bet her lips did in turn. "If I may, I would like to stay."

She sounded like a woman on the verge. Why would she beg to stay on a strange vessel after her confession? A prison aboard a pirate ship was preferable to other options? But it was suspicious. Was she a mere interloper or did she have mutinous aims? Or worse, did she seek to end him?

The faint cruel smirk faltered.

"I'll bet you'd like me to let my guard down... Is it because you wish to do me in?" Her head shot up and her eyes were widened. The Captain continued callously. "Is that it? Have I figured you out?"

Looking at the crumpled form bent before the mast, it was difficult to think such a thing was true. But so thought the men fooled by sirens into believing they were lovers, before their bodies were crushed and ripped apart by rocks and waves.

Suddenly, the woman glanced over at him, unblinking, the whites of her eyes glowing. "Just as you wouldn't hurt me... I have no intention of hurting you..."

Without warning, a deafening crack gave way to a residual flash of lightning. The remnants of the storm cried out into the sky for vengeance to all that had escaped its wrath. She yelped in shock, as he was suddenly right behind her. "I'm one of the most lethal Pirate Captains of the age. I may have spared you, but you have no idea what I would do." A strained gasp escaped when he whispered into her smooth neck. The waves of hair fell to one side under her hood. "But you. You're perhaps worse than I, you're not blameless," He said darkly. "So I'll ask you again... You hid yourself on my vessel, in attempts to what - to kill me? Did someone send you?"

The maiden's breath hitched in her throat. "So hardened by the life of a pirate that you assume the worst of anyone... I've told you, I wouldn't - I could never." She sounded innocent. "Please." Her head angled toward him, her eyes had grown wide and wet, and her voice aching, as though the thought of doing him harm caused her pain. Even though he'd been the one that had her strewn up in his room and surely she was in worse pain, with her wrists raw and red. "You know I would never."

"Why should I believe a single utterance from your lips, when you have shown me little more than deceit?" A finger reached down and parted her lips with their rough textured tip. The silkiness, he had been compelled to touch. "How am I not to think these are not the lips of a traitor, when only one with traitorous aims would hide themselves as a stowaway aboard my ship?"

"Then, I'll have to show you... To make you see..." The maiden's tone was downcast, but only on Wayne's behalf. After all, he was a man who had seen such atrocities that he had grown desensitized. He could never easily believe in another, even if they had no malicious intent. One could swear she leaned into his touch, even brushed his digit ever so gently with the cupid's bow. "I am not."

Wayne withdrew his finger from her warmth to stand before her, somehow waiting for her to show him, to prove it. When she lifted her hooded head, he felt the strength in the gaze she placed upon him; it was parallel to the pressure on the ocean floor. Shameless eyes, she took him in with the most undeniably, desperate need. Those dark eyes of hers traced stroke after stroke into him, the deep tan skin turned darker by the unfiltered sun's rays, though under those eyes Wayne's body had never felt more ablaze.

Oh how he wanted her to look at him, to burn through him with the intensity of her stare like the scorching sun bleaching the wood of the top most deck. More than he had ever wanted anything in his life, he wanted to hold her and for her to look at him as she did. More than he had ever wanted anyone to look at him.

Wave after wave of drunken heat crashed over him as she took him inch by inch. The salt water whipped waves of dark hair, aqua green eyes. The leather strings of his tunic that lay unlaced with the front falling open to reveal the planes of a broad, muscular chest. The tanned flesh was a stunning contrast to the white fabric, with the rolled up sleeves revealing scars set upon the rich skin. The snug fit brown leather trousers did little to disguise that he longed for the chance to drink her in and then drink her down until he was drowning in her.

It was dangerous to have her on board this ship.

All caution fell away when compulsion drew him nearer, called his breath to brush her cheek. And she inched upward as several bristles of stubble scratched her neck. Her eyelids fluttered and the entirety of her being almost reverberated. And he heard a tiny note of a noise scale up the back of her throat. One of pleasure.

He closed his eyes and savored the song from the siren's lips. That illustrious sound of music, it was far better than he had mused. At once, he had to clear his senses, to distance himself from her. He stood by the door. His hand pressed into the wood wall, catching his breath.

But at last she spoke. Her voice was raspy, though in it was a concession. "Whatever punishment you ultimately decide - I will accept. And... I do not fault you for it."

No adequate explanation or reasoning and he longed to do whatever she asked. Baseless, he wanted to believe her.

Suddenly, Wayne sought to go against everything he stood for.

He took long strides over to where she sat with his leather boots creaking on the surface of the wood floor. A shadow fell over her, it grew until the maiden gasped. She sat up sharply, feeling the ends of her ropes loosened from around the wooden mast. She stood, slowly and shakily and searched for her former captor. As quick as the turn of tides, he had materialized by the windows whose shapes carved out a wide view of the endless blue reflecting the stars and moon.

"Did you just - free me?" Her wrists were still wrapped, but no longer tied to the mast. The maiden massaged her hands, they were finally regaining feeling. "Why...?"

"No more questions." Wayne said urgently, his back to her. "Come here, into the light."

"The light?"

"You wanted me to see you, to believe you..." Captain Wayne repeated.

"Yes," The maiden lingered by the pole, shaking her head slowly. "Do you...?"

"That remains to be seen..." He said cryptically. "But, I gave you an order... I wish to see you...properly."

The maiden had gazed upon him for a time and arrived at an answer. What would happen if he did the same?

"Oh..." Her cheeks tinted with rouge. But she sounded almost eager. "Yes, Captain."

Was it an eagerness to be close to him?

Upon her approach, he seized the ends of the rope in one hand, to take her in and to take in the white dress under her cloak. The long sleeves, the lacing of the corset secured the tight bodice to her tiny waist in ways that made him thirst as though he'd swallowed several gallons of saltwater. At last, he removed her hood and angled her chin to examine the unnaturally pale skin, almost in violent opposition to the thick tresses, they were jet black, located at the other end of the spectrum. With fast fingers, he brushed the hair away. The soft skin smoothed onto her sharp cheekbones. He settled upon the eyes carved into the marble.

They were blue-violets and lavenders. Perhaps, purples and magentas. Inconceivably, sapphire, amethyst, and ruby. All manner of flowers, hues, stones were fused together in fire to paint vibrant colors and brilliance he had never seen. The treasures and cosmos abound in those orbs alone shouldn't have been allowed to take shape. The ripples throughout him thought otherwise, his body pulled toward her, aura reaching out through the rope, the tethers were a link bridging the physical over to the subliminal, finally manifesting in his breath reaching out beyond his body to feel her.

Yes.

All that he thought he once knew was threatened, this maiden had turned the tides and now it was he who was captive.

A woman like her couldn't exist - shouldn't exist.

How, if her presence alone could rise up and give shape to feelings of which he hadn't spoken the names. And if he had known of their existence, he thought them to be myths. But how were they fancies, if there were a mythical creature standing before him?

Who or what was she?

The maiden bit her lip, still gazing up at him through the curtain of her dark lashes, as they stood together in the light twice forged from silver light of moonbeams and fire from whittled down candles. Her eyes were half-lidded, as they drew to close. And his grip on the rope slackened, the captain tilted downward to her until his mouth hovered within an inch of her own. Her chest started to rise and fall faster in the low neckline - crests of waves - pushed up by the corset and Wayne needed her, so much already, he knew she had breached through the hull of him.

"Captain, you wished to see me, privately?" Wayne glanced twice around the deck, ensuring there were no onlookers, before he feathered Raven's palm, twining their fingers and pulling her through the door to his quarters. An excited blush rose on her face, but her expression remained neutral as she awaited his orders.

Whatever was between them, there was still the matter of what to do with her. The crew had a code, it mandated she had to be punished, but if not made useful in some manner. A captain and his crew mates had to see to that. There was a stowaway onboard that claimed she wanted to stay and he had to be impartial. Or at least attempt to do so.

"I see, you're settling in, but your place here is not set." He frowned. "You would like freedom and free passage aboard my ship. And in exchange what will you offer me?" The captain folded his arms. "I found you with no personal effects on you. Nothing of value. You have nothing to barter, a fact of which we are both aware." It would have been laughable to some to negotiate terms with a stowaway, but Wayne was willing to hear her.

Raven's eyes sparked with that defiant, daring he had come to know from her. "I may not breathe the ins and outs of seafaring life into my bones or blood, as you pirates do, but there are things I do know..." She paused. "You think I have nothing of value, but..."

"But?" Wayne paused and turned to her fully.

"I... have myself."

"You?" He cocked his head. It was undeniable that his interest had been peaked. He wet his lips. "Elaborate... I would like to understand your terms properly."

"Surely, it should suffice... If you claim me... If I'm yours..." Her heart began to pound flippantly. "The Captain's woman..."

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dogbearinggifts · 5 years

Text

Beauty in the Mundane, Chapter One: To the Wolves

Umbrella Academy

Author’s Note: This is chapter one of an AU answering this petition from @scotty-the-t-rex calling for Hazel and Agnes to go back in time and adopt the Hargreeves kids. If this is the first time you’re seeing it on your dash, you can read the prologue here.

The whole fic is also available on AO3.

Oh, and if you’re interested, the song I took the chapter title from is by Anberlin. I don’t know if I’ll use song titles and/or lyrics for every chapter, but I liked it for this one.

**********

Day four of surveillance wore on toward a conclusion without a single broken law on Sir Reginald’s part.

This was to be expected, Agnes had told him. Reginald wasn’t quite a hermit, but only an actual hermit would dare call him social. Hazel was still a bit fuzzy on which laws applied where and when and to what extent, but he figured any evidence gathered whilst spying through the windows of that mansion would come down on his head, rather than Reginald’s. An act witnessed in a public area, though—that was fair game.

He only needed Reginald to cooperate.

Hazel took a bite of coffeecake. It wasn’t near as good as Agnes’ donuts, but neither dared approach Griddy’s—Hazel because he had been a stranger to Agnes when they met, Agnes because crossing paths with your younger self had to create one hell of a paradox. “Think I’ve probably crossed my own timeline before,” he’d explained, “but the Commission always sent me someplace I wouldn’t run into myself.”

He’d been on a few stakeouts, though with the Commission’s emphasis on finishing a job before most folks could finish tying their shoes, he was still a bit vague on proper procedures for operations that lasted more than a few hours. Moving their base from one side of the Academy to the other hadn’t been a bit of strategic brilliance so much as an act of necessity; when a building took up an entire city block, it was impossible to tell when your target might slip out through the back door.

“I’ve got some beef jerky in the back, if you want that next.”

Hazel smiled. He still wasn’t certain if bringing Agnes along was a good idea, tactically speaking, but her pleasant company kept his more unwelcome thoughts at bay. “I’m good, thanks.”

She settled back in her seat, though she quickly sat forward again. “Oh!”

He followed her gaze down an alley between the Academy and a neighboring business, caught the same flash of movement she did. His hand rested on the ignition.

No adults lived in that household, not yet. According to what Agnes had read, a robot mother and a monkey butler resided on the premises; but given Sir Reginald’s fondness for privacy, the only grown man who could be stepping out of a side door was the billionaire himself.

A balaclava covered his hair, and a grey overcoat covered him down to his knees. Dress slacks ended in polished loafers. He didn’t bow his head as he exited, didn’t glance over his shoulder or hesitate before sliding behind the wheel and pulling the door closed. The knot in Hazel’s stomach tightened.

“Looks like he’s not expecting a tail,” Hazel said. “You remember the plan?”

Agnes nodded, retrieving a small notepad and pen from the glove compartment. A quick glance showed him a few mock interview questions. Posing as reporters would likely earn more bluster than answers, but if they were caught, the lie would do. “Which one should I ask first—the one about the mustache-sclupting contest, or the one about Colonel Sanders?”

Hazel watched as Sir Reginald’s car chugged to the end of the alleyway, paused, and turned right without signaling. This might not be their chance, but it was a big enough oddity to merit further investigation.

“Whichever one you think’ll make him madder.”

He eased the car down the alley and turned right.

********

Following a target through city traffic was always easier than following one through the countryside, for obvious reasons, but that was no guarantee of secrecy. For every three targets who drove on entirely oblivious, there was one whose continual glances in the mirror revealed more than they were meant to see.

Reginald kept to the speed limit, sometimes dipping a mile or two below. He took no side streets, made no U-turns and slowed the second a light turned yellow. Aside from an apparent allergy to using his blinker, his turns were neither sudden nor sharp. Were this an ordinary job, Hazel might have found the target’s obliviousness heartening, even amusing, but as Reginald turned off the main road and down a side street, Hazel only felt sick.

He might not do anything worth calling the police over. Hazel knew that. He probably paid someone else to buy his groceries and it was too late in the day to try and renew his driver’s license, but there were other errands that could have lured him from his home. Reginald might be on his way to do any number of perfectly legal things, and then Hazel and Agnes could leave to plot their next move.

City traffic thinned as high-rises and glass-walled office buildings gave way to townhouses and fourplexes scattered among the sort of crackerbox homes that had been popular six or seven decades prior. Reginald slowed, and when he turned left at a stop sign, Hazel crept through the intersection at a speed that might have made Cha-Cha slap him upside the head and ask if he’d forgotten where to find the gas pedal.

“He went past the last stop sign,” Agnes said, craning her neck to see out his window. Hazel had seen it happen, but still welcomed her confirmation. “And the—oh no, he’s going right.”

“You know what’s up there?”

She frowned in thought, a frown that deepened after a second or two. “I—I think it’s a cemetery.”

“Can I get to it from here, or do I have to take the same street he did?”

“Keep going straight until the next sign, then turn left. Should take you right to it.”

He increased his speed. Inside of a minute, a green hill sprouting grey and black slabs of stone filled his vision, but he was more interested in Reginald’s car, parked along the curb mere feet from the entrance. A flash of movement signaled the man himself striding through the wrought-iron gates, quickly taken out of sight by the winding road.

Hazel pulled into a spot on the opposite side of the cemetery, one shielded from view by hills and a few overgrown trees, stepped into the evening chill without a word. Agnes closed her door quietly, and they both noted the payphone outside a gas station catty-corner from where they stood.

Agnes caught his gaze, and he held it a moment.

If all went according to plan, they were about to change the timeline.

He’d known it from the beginning, been cognizant of that fact since he turned her heartbreak into a suggestion. But all those hours watching the Academy, all that time waiting for the man to show his face and charting a strategy—it all had kept the true scope of what he was planning to do at bay. Now there was nothing between it and him. Nothing to keep the thought from crashing down on him like an entire wall of crumbling brick. Only Agnes, slipping her hand in his, kept him from ducking back into the car and heading to the opposite side of town.

Part of him said to pull away, leave both hands free for whatever confrontation might ensue if Reginald turned out to be more observant than he let on. Another part said it would add to the illusion. Just a couple strolling through a graveyard on a cold autumn evening, on their way to visit family or a friend, keeping to the grass because the grass was more pleasant. Nothing unusual, nothing to worry about.

Reginald’s figure came into view, and Agnes dropped his hand. She might as well have dropped the rope tethering his life preserver to the boat.

A monument stood by, one of those melodramatic statues depicting an angel in grief with names and dates and a host of other information engraved below. It wasn’t the best concealment Hazel had ever used, and it was less than he would have liked, but he didn’t see anything better.

Reginald’s footsteps fell silent as he stepped off the path and brushed through the grass, stopping at the sort of mausoleum Hazel imagined a guy like him might insist upon as the site of his own burial. A key opened the door, but he didn’t step inside, choosing instead to speak inaudibly into the darkness. Hazel watched a second, then cocked a brow.

“He usually yell at dead guys like that?”

“No.” Her voice carried the same confusion he felt. “I mean, not that I know of—he could. He does have a son who—”

Her words ended in a gasp, cut short by a hand to her mouth.

“Oh my god. I—he—oh my god.”

Hazel remained standing as she sank to the grass. He’d known the guy was twisted; Agnes had relayed a few accounts from Vanya’s book, stressing that the girl was excluded from much of what went on and likely didn’t know the half of what her siblings had gone through. What she had seen, what she had known, was more than enough to convince him getting those kids out from under his thumb might be enough to avert the apocalypse after all. Locking a kid who could see ghosts in a mausoleum seemed right up his alley.

It still didn’t explain why.

Klaus—the older Klaus, the junkie—he wasn’t the only one to break in the dark. Not everyone could hold it together through beatings and stranglings, but leave them alone with their thoughts, alone to wonder what was next, alone to recall the pain and terror and families they might never see again? There wasn’t a kink in the world that could save you from that.

But that was the realm of torture, and torture was a tool. Find somebody with information locked up in their head, attack their defenses long enough, and those defenses would crumble. An eight-year-old boy couldn’t possibly hold secrets so valuable his own parent would lock him away.

Whatever speech Reginald had planned was not a long one. He turned away, locked the door, and retraced his steps. Hazel watched, waiting for him to look his way, waiting for some signal that he ought to duck further out of sight, but Reginald didn’t so much as slow his pace.

Hazel pushed questions aside. The why wasn’t near as important as the what.

He fished a quarter from one pocket and crouched in the grass beside Agnes. “Go to the payphone and call the police. I’ll wait here and make sure Reggie doesn’t come back.”

Her fingers wrapped around the quarter, but she didn’t pluck it from his grasp. “You’re not going to let him out?”

Her tone and the look in her eyes were enough to give him pause. “The police’ll do that.”

“And what’ll he do? Just wait in there with the ghosts?”

He’s lasted this long sprang to mind, but Hazel didn’t dare voice that thought. “Look, if I mess with their crime scene—”

“It’s not a crime scene, Hazel, they know who did it. Or they will.”

“I didn’t bring my tools with me.”

“It’s a mausoleum, not a bank.”

There were more counterpoints, more arguments, but the guilt coiling in his middle was nowhere near welcome. He sighed. “I’ll pick the lock.”

She took the quarter and got to her feet. He stood with her, watching as she retreated toward the gas station. After a few yards, she halted, saw him still beside the monument, and pressed her lips together, waving her hand in a shooing motion.

The lock was nothing fancy, nothing too complex. A simple pick and a little finesse would get him through in a matter of seconds. Hazel could see the process laid out in his mind as though in a how-to guide, or that handbook he hadn’t touched since training. Everything else, everything that came after, was as clear as a mud puddle subjected to a thousand splashing feet.

Hazel reached into his pocket, brushed aside the coins he’d collected on his travels, and found the lock picks. They weren’t anything fancy, just a set of picks gathered in a case similar to a Swiss Army knife, but they did the job when the job didn’t have to look too professional.

Light faded from the sky as twilight became evening, but Hazel could have found the necessary pick even in the dark. Once he had it, he set to work.

The lock clicked open. Once it did, once Hazel’s eyes adjusted to the dimness, he couldn’t have spoken had he wanted to.

Klaus Hargreeves was a far cry from the junkie who’d stolen his briefcase. He was small at this age, with a slight build and curly hair. A blazer covered a starched white shirt and argyle sweater vest, but knee-legnth shorts, similar to those Five had worn, were his only shield against the cold floor.

He should have been the one to call the police. Agnes. Agnes would’ve been better suited to this, would’ve had the kid calm inside of a minute and ushered him out with no trace of tears. One of those police officers allegedly on their way would have known what to do. Grab any bystander off the street and chances were ten to one that they would know what to do better than he could ever guess. Chances were ninety-nine to one that they would improve the situation, rather than making it ten times worse.

But Agnes was gone, the police weren’t yet en route, and Hazel was alone.

“Hi.” That seemed as good a place to start as any. “Whatcha doing in here?”

Klaus drew a shaking breath, but only a few choked sounds came out. He’d folded himself up against the wall, as if making himself smaller might fool whatever terrors lurked, and he made no attempt to move—though he did shrink back as Hazel took a few steps forward.

It should’ve been a paramedic walking toward this kid. A paramedic or some minimum-wage employee manning the gas station across the street. Someone who didn’t have a small army of ghosts trailing behind and no idea how to fix a person instead of breaking them.

He couldn’t do anything about the ghosts, but perhaps he could make himself a little less intimidating. Hazel knelt, suppressing a wince as pain shot through his knees. A name. Maybe a name would help. “I’m Hazel. What’s your name?”

There was another long gasp that shuddered like a dying engine before Klaus spoke. “Klaus.”

“All right, Klaus.” Hazel shifted, and the scant light illuminated fresh tears on Klaus’ cheeks. “What do you say we get you outta here?”

Klaus didn’t move. His gaze flitted from Hazel to the air beyond. As far as Hazel knew, ghosts couldn’t open doors; and he’d never seen one, but surely there had to be some indicator separating them from the living. But as Hazel watched, Klaus’ eyes didn’t flit back and forth the way they might have from one ghost to another. His gaze remained steady on the door, as if trying to determine whether it had opened at all or if that hint of rescue was simply a figment of imagination.

Jesus, how long had he been in there?

Hazel bent his fingers slightly, as if inviting him to move closer. “C’mon. Let’s get you out of here.”

Klaus shifted. Both arms remained wrapped around his knees, but one loosened.

“S’okay. We’re gonna get you out.”

One arm let go and then the other. He shifted onto hands and knees, reached out to meet Hazel’s outstretched hand.

Klaus’ cold hand brushed Hazel’s for only a second before clinging to it and, before Hazel could fully process what was happening, Klaus had his arms wrapped around Hazel’s neck, so all he could do was pull himself upright as Klaus buried his face in Hazel’s shoulder.

Hazel got to his feet, balancing Klaus’ weight as best he could. His wrist screamed in protest, but he couldn’t set the kid down. Not now, and it was only a few steps to the door.

Those few steps weren’t over quick enough. Hazel’s vision of setting Klaus down gently and sinking onto the grass died when Klaus kept hanging on, so he sank awkwardly to his knees. Once Klaus’ feet touched the ground, he slackened his grip. Cold air chilled the tears on his suit jacket almost instantly.

Hazel expected the relief, but not the mingling guilt that came with it.

“You okay?”

It was a stupid question, but Klaus nodded despite another shuddering breath heralding more tears. Not knowing what else to do, Hazel put a hand on his shoulder.

Maybe he shouldn’t have been surprised that Klaus leaned in, or when he threw his arms around Hazel’s shoulders. The torment he’d escaped hadn’t been the most brutal in the world, but given what he could see, it wasn’t something Hazel would’ve wished on anybody, either. Of course he’d be a little fragile after. Of course he’d cling to whoever was near.

It still took a few seconds to return the embrace as Klaus sobbed into his shoulder.

********

By the time red and blue lights split the darkening sky, Klaus had polished off most of the sandwich Agnes had purchased and was working on emptying the water bottle. In defiance of Hazel’s prediction, he sat closer to him than to Agnes. Unsure of what else to do, Hazel wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

“Sorry if I messed up your crime scene,” Hazel told the first officer to come within earshot. “Wasn’t sure how long the kid had been in there.”

“I would’ve done the same thing.” The officer crouched down, and a tag bearing the name S. GUTIERREZ came into view. He gave Klaus a gentle smile. “Glad you made it outta there.”

Klaus looked down at the water bottle in his hands.

“What were you doing in that mausoleum, anyway?” The officer’s tone wasn’t quite jocular, but it was lighter than Hazel expected. “Those things aren’t safe for kids.”

Klaus swallowed.

“It’s okay,” Gutierrez said. “You’re not in trouble.”

It was a minute before Klaus spoke, and when he did, his voice was only a decibel or two above a whisper. “My dad.”

“Your dad put you there?”

Klaus nodded.

“Why’d he do that?”

Seconds turned to minutes, and Klaus did not answer. He swiped at his eyes with his sleeve.

“It’s okay,” Gutierrez said again. Another few seconds passed. “What’s your name?”

“Klaus.”

“What’s your last name?”

“Ha—Hargreeves.”

“Who’s your dad?”

Agnes put an arm around Klaus and pulled him close, letting the tears come. It was a few minutes before they ebbed.

Gutierrez’s smile faltered. It had never been joyful, never been full of true mirth, but it was a good deal sadder now. “We’ll save the other questions for later. How ‘bout we get you over to the paramedics, make sure you’re not hurt?”

Klaus should have looked up at Agnes, or even Gutierrez; but when he raised his head, his silent plea was turned only on Hazel. “Can…can they come with me?”

“I don’t see why not.”

Hazel tried to catch Agnes’ eye long enough to give a tilt of the head back toward the car, but she’d already gotten to her feet, giving Klaus a hand up. Great.

He cast a glance toward the flashing lights, squinted past in search of any people armed with cameras, tape recorders, and questions ready to fire, but saw no one. Just squad cars and an ambulance. No sign of Reginald’s car, either. No reason he could see to leave in a hurry, but that could change at any moment. The number of corrections agents exposed by reporters wasn’t high, and those stories had never gone anywhere of note, but it had happened to them. It could happen to him. The chances of it happening went up exponentially with each minute he stayed at Klaus’ side.

Cold fingers wrapped around his. Hazel knew, before he even looked down, that Klaus had taken his hand. He looked anyway.

Fear was still all over his face, but not the sort Hazel had seen again and again. Not the desperation of a target with no more options, confronted with an end that had come too soon. There was some relief in that look, Hazel could tell, but something else, something he’d killed all too often.

Hope.

There were reasons for it, reasons Hazel couldn’t yet name. Not through the guilt and trepidation choking off thought or the unknowns peering at him from behind that mausoleum door. There was a plan—there had to be a plan—but it refused to surface through the questions crowding his mind, and the sheer scope of what he didn’t know left him breathless. He didn’t know what he’d do if a flock of reporters descended on the cemetery or the police asked for a fingerprint or Reginald’s car came around the corner.

He only knew he couldn’t leave.

************

Author’s Note: I do suspect Reginald locked Klaus in the mausoleum a) more than once and b) when he was a lot younger than 13. I will explain my theory as to why Klaus specified that he was 13 when it happened for one corn chip.

Prologue

Chapter Two

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alexandralyman · 6 years

Text

bedtime stories (beyond the horizon)

I missed my original posting date but it’s still October and this is my contribution for @cscocktoberfest! Another extra scene in the BtH-verse, where Princess Emma finds a very interesting (cough*dirty*cough) book on the shelf in the captain’s quarters and has some questions about some unfamiliar words that Killian is all too happy to answer ; )

Also on ff.net here

"Killian?"

"Aye, love?" he answered without looking up, grease pencil in hand as he marked a port on the map in front of him and measured the distance from their current position, doing sums in his head and somewhat distracted by a particularly tricky bit of calculation.

"What does it mean when a randy young lad is secretly polishing his knob?"

"It means...what?"

The figures he'd painstakingly laboured over for the better part of an hour all flew out of his mind and her words lodged there instead while his head jerked up and he met Emma's curious gaze across the cabin. She was sitting in her chair with a book in hand, skirts spilling over the sides and her ankles crossed, tucked away demurely underneath the seat and looking the very picture of a well-bred lady.

"After spying on the chambermaid in her bath, the randy young lad retires to his master's empty study to polish his knob with renewed vigour. I'm guessing from the context that the author did not mean the knob on the door? And when he finishes, he gives a loud groan that almost rouses the whole household and hides the evidence in a handkerchief. The evidence of what?"

Killian blinked at that, the pencil going as limp in his hand as presumably the randy young lad's knob did when he was done, slack-jawed and feeling that he probably bore more than a passing resemblance to a startled codfish at the moment. When he finally managed to find his voice it came out much higher than normal as he squeaked out, "What on earth are you reading?"

Emma held up the volume, it was slim, cloth-bound, a bit worn around the edges and entirely unassuming in appearance with no title visible on the cover or spine. She frequently read in the evenings while he updated the logbook or plotted out the ship's course for the following day, plucking one of his books from the shelves to occupy herself with as he worked. They were a jumbled lot collected piecemeal over the years, sailing lore, dry texts on navel regulations that he no longer followed but kept around for reasons he didn't think about too closely, old legends, tales, histories of lands he'd visited (and plundered, usually) and novels. He supposed Emma had chosen a novel, since he certainly didn't remember Uniform Code of the Royal Navy, Fifth Edition or Krakens, Great Squids and Whales: Hunting and Butchering Techniques to include any randy young lads polishing their knobs among the instructions for tying a cravat in the correct knot for an officer or detailing the best method for harvesting whale blubber.

"So what does it mean?" she repeated.

"It means…" Killian realized he had started to make the corresponding motion with his hand and he felt his cheeks colour, suddenly feeling more like a young lad himself than a man of almost thirty who was well-versed in the many pleasures of the flesh, both with a companion and without. Princess Emma was looking at him expectantly, obviously waiting for his answer. Sweet, gently-reared Princess Emma, unfamiliar with the more bawdy terms tossed about with ease in disreputable company like pirates and their usual bedmates of tavern wenches and ladies of the night. He tried to phrase it in as delicate a manner as he could, he was a pirate now but he had been a gentleman once.

"It's when a lad, or a man, um, er...gratifies himself by hand, to satisfy his lust when he doesn't have the company of a lass."

She glanced back down at the book and went, "Ah. I see." in a tone he couldn't decipher. Then she flipped the page and squinted, running a finger over something on the paper.

"There's illustrations."

Killian was up and across the room in a heartbeat, snatching the book from her hands and feeling his eyebrows rise nearly to his hair when he took his own look. There was an illustration of the scene in question that left no ambiguity as to just what type of knob the young man was polishing, although the anatomy was greatly exaggerated. It was nearly as long as the lad's thigh, for one. He recalled the first time he'd seen such a drawing, on a crude pamphlet passed around below deck and sniggered over by leering crewmen when he was just a lad who had barely sprouted whiskers and how scandalized he'd been at the sight of it when it was thrust into his hands with a knowing look by a soot-stained gunner. Scandalized...and titillated, by the smudged image of a woman with her skirts hiked to her waist and her blouse undone.

Emma was gazing up at him, her hands folded loosely in her lap and her cheeks tinged pink even in the yellow glow from the lantern. Killian glanced from the illustration in the innocuous-looking book to her face, meeting his eyes square on with one delicate blonde brow faintly arched. Perhaps princesses and pirates were not so different in some respects and she was also feeling that warmth pooling low in her belly, desire sparked by the unfamiliar words and deeds depicted in pen and ink. Somewhat unfamiliar at least, she was now rather well acquainted with his own "knob" and the thought of just how well acquainted she was with it sent a sharp throb right through his groin.

"He recalled the maid's Bountiful breasts, brown and Bonny and the very Sight of them floating atop the bathwater had nearly caused his Lust to spill right in his breeches as he crouched unseen in his Hidey-Hole behind the wall. Oh, to cup the Bouncing pair of them free of her Shift and Stays, heavy, round and full as a Wineskin, and to then Suckle upon such tender, Womanly flesh would be a Dream."

The rosy flush on her cheeks only grew deeper while he read aloud, her own breasts rising and falling against the lace-trimmed neckline of her gown in a manner that kindled Killian's lust to a burning flame. Firm, yet soft, like a ripe peach, an unimaginable luxury at sea, he could easily unlace her gown and take one in his mouth, or order the copper tub to be filled and watch at his leisure while she bathed, openly though, not hidden away in a cupboard, he was the captain, master of the ship and not a voyeuristic boot black like the lad in the story, polishing himself instead of his lordship's boots. Both were appealing prospects, but he had another idea.

"Shall we read the rest of this rather provocative tale together, Princess? So I might….clarify any other sections that you require?"

He held out his free hand and after a moment's hesitation Emma nodded and accepted it, letting him pull her to her feet. Killian brushed a kiss across the back of her knuckles and gave her a cheeky wink, gentleman and scoundrel in one (and hers, his love was the prize she had taken for her own even as he'd stolen her away) and led her to his chair instead. It was wide enough for him to sit back comfortably and settle Emma on his lap, round arse nestled between his leather-clad thighs and his arm snaking around her waist to pull her back to his chest while he rested his chin on her shoulder and opened the novel back to the page he'd been reading from.

"Now," he said, clearing his throat and forgetting about his maps and charts entirely. "Where were we?"

It wasn't just the one story, the book contained several short tales all of a similar nature. After the lusty young lad spied on the entire household in various states of en déshabillé, (the cook, the laundress, the butler, the cook and the butler, and finally, his master and mistress in their splendid bedchamber) the setting changed to a bucolic farm in the countryside where the farmer's daughter held secret assignations in the hayloft with the village farrier (who wielded his own fleshy tool as deftly as his hammer and heartily plowed the daughter's ripe and eager field, seeding it deep) and then to a story of a dashing masked highwayman who waylaid a highborn lady on a deserted road and found himself drawn to much more than just her fine jewels (imagining a different sort of pearl necklace around her creamy throat) while they traded remarks laden with innuendo and circled around their growing attraction. Killian continued to read aloud, pausing as he went to explain the various euphemisms. Like knob and tool, a lot of them were other words to describe a man's cock, and his strained even more against the confines of his leathers every time Emma shifted in his lap, turning her head so that his beard brushed the curve of her jaw while he spoke low into her ear and murmured words not fit for a lady (quim, tits, swive, member) rolling his tongue around them the way he wanted to roll his tongue around her hidden pearl and feel her writhe from the pleasure he could draw with his own intimate tales writ upon her skin. In the book, the handsome highwayman bowed to his intrigued captive and proclaimed himself to be, "A Linguist most Cunning, should your Ladyship wish for a demonstration of my Prowess, you have only to ask."

"Ah," Killian said, tapping a ringed finger against the page. "Now what you see here is an old play on words, for cunnalingus is term for when a man kisses a woman not on the mouth, but somewhat, ahem, lower down. So when he calls himself a cunning linguist and offers to demonstrate, he is, in fact proposing that he-"

"Kisses her...quim?" Emma finished.

The book fell shut as a shudder ripped through him and he answered in a rough voice, "Aye."

"And is there a word like that for when a woman...kisses...a man on his...cock?"

Killian could think of many words to describe the act she meant, the act he was now picturing much more vividly in his head than any woodcut, but he chose the one that matched as neat as the sun and the moon.

"Fellatio."

Emma made a 'hmm" noise low in her throat that only served to remind him even more of how it felt to be fellated by her, golden hair tangled in his fingers and all eloquence lost to the sheer bliss of her mouth, sliding over his cock and taking him past those pink lips, matching his thrusts with the bob of her head until the sensations completely overwhelmed him, warm and wet and perfect.

"The royal tutors never taught me those words," Emma mused. "This has been very educational indeed, Captain. Shall we continue?"

He left the book on the table when he lifted her up, carrying her the few steps to the bunk with her arms around his neck and her fingers toying with the hair at his nape.

"I think we'll continue with a more practical exercise now, Princess. If you're amenable, that is. After all, there's only so much one can glean from a book. Direct, hands-on experience is always best."

His sure hands made short work of her gown, leaving her in nothing but stockings and shift while she worked the little jet buttons on his waistcoat. It came off and she rested her fingers on his belt, just above the obvious bulge in his trousers. Emma glanced at it and then up at him, curiosity creasing her lovely face. "Do you ever do that? Er, polish your knob, I mean. Like the boy in the book?"

The question made him pause for a moment. He had, in fact, touched himself several times to thoughts of her after taking her hostage from her own ship, though he'd never stooped so low as to spy on her unaware in the brig or during the times when she bathed in his quarters, before he'd bedded her and pledged his ship and his sword into her service. He was still that much of a gentleman, at least. But the query reminded him suddenly of his own youth, when he would have traded what little he had for even a glimpse of a comely lass in nought but her skin and stole away from his duties to darkened corners whenever he could to stick his hand down his trousers and relieve that ache of unsatisfied lust.

"Aye," he said with a nod. "As a young lad, when I had some spare time and could find a bit of privacy, I would. Not the easiest thing to obtain aboard even a galleon, alas. And hardly satisfying, to have to tuck myself away again and quickly return to swabbing the deck or pumping the bilges before I was missed."

He peeled the shirt from his shoulders and let the belt drop to the floor in a heavy thump of leather, not missing the way Emma was eyeing his bare chest and feeling a surge of masculine pride at the way her gaze darkened with desire. He was no lowly cabin boy or underfed deckhand anymore, he had pillaged and plundered his way across the realm and his name was spoken with fear and awe in the dockside taverns and pubs, Captain Killian Jones, master of the Jolly Roger, the finest vessel to sail the seven seas. He didn't have to make do with a bawdy drawing or chase after a serving wench, an actual princess lounged on his bed in an utterly scandalous state of undress and she was more beautiful to him than any jewel, more valuable than any prize. Emma reached for his necklace and pulled him to her by the chain, falling back against the pillows as he braced himself above her on one arm. Her other hand slipped under the waist of his leathers to graze across the wiry hairs until she found her prize, where he was hard and aching and pride quickly gave way to need while his hips jerked and he twitched in her grasp, hot and firm and eager.

"Like this?" Emma asked, tongue poking out from between her teeth as she stroked him up and down. In one pump he swelled that last little bit, fully erect and the fearsome pirate was completely at the princess's tender mercy. Killian rutted shamelessly into her hand, closing the gap between them to cover her lips with his. The book had mainly described the baser acts and there was no ode to the pleasures of kissing on the mouth as there was to the many joys of fellatio and cunnalingus both. But it was somehow more intimate to share breath itself with his lover, to sweetly nip at her bottom lip until it was as red as a ripe cherry and to taste the wine she'd drunk at dinner still lingering on her tongue while he palmed her full breast through the thin silk and rocked his hips steadily into her touch. A quick study his princess was, she'd learned exactly how he liked the be stroked and polished and he was forced to still her movements with a hand on her wrist before he utterly embarrassed himself and spilled too soon.

"Have you ever gratified yourself, my darling?"

While he was more than ready to gratify the both of them with his cock aching to find the welcoming harbour between her thighs, Killian was curious. He'd lived almost his whole life among randy sailors, he knew men did, and do so as often as they could in most cases. But a highborn lady like his princess? He would had assumed no, it was completely absurd, but that was before he met Emma.

She didn't answer immediately, not with words at least, looking down with her lashes demurely touching her cheeks and finally giving a shy little nod that made his belly flip and his voice drop to a throaty growl.

"Show me."

Her stockings were tied with ribbon garters just above her knees, revealed as the shift was slowly hitched up. The little bows did something to him, he wanted to untie them with his teeth and suck a mark into her flesh, leave love bites all over her inner thighs and make her fall apart with his tongue, but he was completely transfixed by the sight of her slim hand, inching higher and higher up her leg. The pink of her cheeks was nothing compared to the dark rose of her cunny, exposed to his avid gaze when she spread her legs fully and already glistening in the lamplight. Her fingers twitched, hesitated, but at his encouraging nod they finally slid through the damp cleft with a touch that was soft and delicate, barely making contact for several torturous, slow passes until Emma finally reached the nub at the top and began to rub and circle it with firmer strokes. Killian felt an answering throb in his groin, a faint echo of the growing pleasure he could see in the catch of her lip between her teeth and the rock of her hips up into her exploring hand.

"Does it feel good, Princess?"

"Yes."

She looked at him with a heavy-lidded gaze while her hand continued to work between her thighs and he couldn't stop himself from wrapping his fingers around his shaft, pumping it in time to the movement and swiping his thumb over the swollen head whenever she touched her own sweet spot and a shudder rippled under her skin.

"Does it feel as good as when I touch you?" he asked, voice hoarse with desire.

Emma shook her head, golden hair spilling over the pillow. "No...it feels, it feels good, but when you touch me, when you're...inside me...it...it feels, it feels like nothing else ever has. I never want you to stop."

"Never," Killian promised, a dark chuckle escaping him. "You're my treasure now, my love, and I'll never stop. I could have you every night and never tire of your velvet quim, so snug and perfect around my cock when you wrap your legs around me and take me all the way to the hilt. I dreamt of it from the day you set foot on my ship, taking you to bed and touching you all over, these perfect breasts, your shapely arse, kissing your mouth and all along your white throat, down to part your thighs and sup to my heart's content on your sweetness."

He moved to kneel on the bed, between her spread legs and ducked down to kiss her, one hand braced to hold his weight and the other snaking down to grasp her wrist. "Don't stop," he warned, while she panted with her impending release and moaned quietly into his mouth. Killian placed his hand on top of her own and together they continued to stroke her towards the peak, when he sensed she was just about to fall over the edge as her free hand grasped his shoulder and her nails dug into his skin he abruptly thrust two fingers inside, curling them upwards and feeling her squeeze around them with a soft cry falling from her kiss-swollen lips. No buxom bathing beauty, nubile farmer's daughter or haughty duchess could compare to his swan princess, bright-eyed and pliant in his arms. They kissed with unhurried languor, his erection had not abated but the night was still young, there was no need for haste. It was worth it to delay his satisfaction to watch hers, as the lad in the book had watched the maid in her bath. Emma's nails trailed pleasantly through his chest hair and toyed with the charms on his necklace, thumbing over the skull and dagger.

"Does it feel as good as when I touch you?"

Her hand drifted down and brushed his flat stomach, the muscles quivering under the contact.

"Definitely not," Killian breathed, head tipping back a bit and his eyes closing. She drew nonsense patterns with her nails, moving lower down, a gentle caress that was so unlike whenever he felt the need to gratify himself and took his cock in hand. Her hand was much smaller, lacked the calluses formed from years of raising sails and playing out rope, and yet it had had him completely at her mercy from the moment he had first lifted it to his lips and brushed a kiss across the back of her knuckles.

"I wouldn't describe it as a knob, though," she said, sounding somewhat displeased by the term.

A ripple of mirth ran through him at that. "No?"

"Knob implies something rather squat, like a doorknob. Perhaps some men are shaped in such a manner, but you are most certainly not."

Killian had lived almost his whole life in the close quarters of ships populated almost entirely by men. Privacy was a luxury he'd not known until he became an officer, he'd seen plenty of sailors stripped down to the skin and more male appendages than he could count. Princess Emma had no such basis for comparison, and wouldn't, if he had any say in the matter.

"Is there another word you would prefer then?" he asked, propping a hand under his head and angling his hips back so that his groin was on full display for her. "Since 'knob' obviously displeases you, and we can't have that. Member? Tool?"

She shook her head with each one, thoughtfully eyeing the part of his anatomy in question. Never had a woman taken such time to peruse him so closely before the bedding, measuring him with thumb and index finger, examining his length and girth.

"Larger than I expected," she murmured, which made him smile (and feel more than a little satisfied to have exceeded her expectations thus). "I didn't see at first how it could possibly fit...and so warm to the touch. Not cold and blunt as a tool."

So he wasn't the village farrier come to plow the farmer's daughter. Just as well, straw itched something fierce. Emma traced along the shape of him with the pads of her fingers, still engrossed in her task. Killian didn't care how she decided to refer to his cock, she could call it his pecker, his phallus, his mast, anything she wanted so long as she kept doing that.

"But a fair amount of heft, when I handle it like this."

The "handling" made his eyes roll back and he thrust helplessly into her grip. "You can handle it whenever you please," he moaned, rolling them in the bunk so that he was on top. "Whatever you wish to call it, Princess."

Killian spread her thighs open with his knee and rested between them, feeling her hand guide him across that last bit of distance. He slid in with almost no resistance, just the voluptuous sensation of being wrapped in silken heat, a balls deep dive into waters uncharted to all but him. There was no word for this moment, no way to describe the feeling that seized him from head to toe as he started to move. All eloquence fled, there was only the slide of his body inside hers, the slick push and pull of the quickfire rhythm that matched the beat of his heart under where her palms lay braced on his bare chest, not to push him away, never that, but to welcome him home and home again. Whoever he was, Killian Jones, sailor, pirate, captain, he was hers, nameless in her arms, her lover, joined as they were in the most intimate of ways. The light from the lantern was am amber spill over their entwined limbs, turning her skin to honey that he tasted with his tongue, chasing her pulse as it fluttered in the hollow of her throat, rolling a pert nipple between his fingers when she arched up against him. The lines and edges were blurred in a haze of passion that left him unable to tell where he ended and she began. His downward strokes were matched by the upward tilt of her hips, a delicious drag of his rigid flesh along her inner walls that started to increase in pace as he felt the familiar tingle of impending release. Killian kissed a line down her throat and buried his face in her neck while Emma clutched at his arse, pulling him even closer with her thighs tightening around his hips. All the ways there was to describe the act that he'd ever heard from sniggering sailors, crude boasts of bedding, swiving, rogering, coupling, and the only one that came to mind now as he spilled with a groan and groped for her hand, lacing their fingers tight against the mattress, was lovemaking.

"Do you think they had a happy ending?"

The question pulled him from the lazy afterglow where they lay on the rumpled and well-used bed with Emma's head pillowed on his shoulder, still fully nude save for the single stocking that had somehow managed to cling to her leg throughout their exertions. The other was draped half on and half off the bunk while her shift lay in a tangled heap on the floor with his discarded trousers and he had no idea what she was talking about.

"Who, love?"

"The highwayman and the lady in the book. It was my favourite of all the tales and we didn't finish it. Do you think they had a happy ending?"

Killian stared up at the ceiling and felt his chest rise with a breath as he considered how to answer. He was certain that there had been a happy ending in the story of the dashing highwayman and the spirited noblewoman he waylaid on a deserted road, but not the kind that Emma probably meant….

"Do you think they did?" he asked carefully, tilting his head to look at her. He realized suddenly that perhaps there was some...similarities, in their situations, having waylaid his own noblewoman on the high seas and stolen her jewels, even though he had given them back (eventually). But the book Emma had found on his shelf was meant for titillation, fodder for a wank, a bawdy laugh and nothing more, and he very much doubted that there was any real happily ever after to be found in its salacious tales.

Her bare shoulder lifted in a shrug. "I don't know. We could read it tomorrow, and see for certain."

He could hear the note of hesitation in her voice and he tightened the arm he had wrapped around her while her hand spread flat on his chest, over his heart, the sea diamond resting on her finger. Gave her back her jewels and then some.

"They did," he said firmly, running his fingers over hers. "They ran off together and had all sorts of grand adventures, and they had a very happy ending."

Emma let out a pleased murmur, nose pressed to his neck. "Even though he threatened to pierce her with his dirk?" she mumbled.

"Darling, sure you know that was simply another witticism and that he wasn't actually referring to a knife."

Her hand drifted lower, resting just above where he was spent and soft against his belly. "Another word for this, then? Is that what I should call it? Your dirk? Or perhaps something a bit more...lengthy."

Killian felt his cock begin to stir as her voice turned sultry, the siren song of such words on her lips luring him in again.

"A dagger?" he offered.

"Mmm, too pointy. Not a rapier style of blade, more like a….cutlass, or your sabre. It's even curved just a tiny bit too."

Her lips curved in a smile that made his heart skip a beat even as he thought ruefully that their next sparring session was sure to result in some dreadfully tight leathers.

"More than the barest prick, I imagine."

The noblewoman of the tale had retorted to the highwayman's "threat" with a disdainful comment that she was sure to feel only the barest prick from his dirk. Killian laughed, taking Emma's hand and guiding it back down, down, down...

"Oh I think you're well aware, Princess, that when I jab you with my sword, you'll feel it."

#cs fic #cs ff #my fic #cscocktoberfest #cs smut

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