One for the Road — Part Two (Patreon)

He's hanging onto the water-worn railing as the massive bulk of his ship oscillates beneath his feet.

The ocean is furious, and it has no problem letting the world know. Waves as high as mountains crash like boulders against the hull and roll from under trying its mightiest to sink them to its depths. The ocean is more than enraged: it is hungry.

"Watch out!" The Pirate King shouts as another hit makes the ship sway sideways. The floor tilts as the starboard side rises and rises.... and keeps on rising. "Hang on!"

Gravity pulls you to the left, and he hears you scream as you begin to drag towards the ocean's awaiting maw. Not this one, old friend. With clenched teeth, The Pirate grabs your forearm and hauls you towards him. You onto him desperately, clawing at his drenched shirt as he cages you against his chest. "Got you," he mutters beside your ear, lips tearing into a smirk.

The floor is almost vertical; he sees his men dangling from ropes and clutching the masts, shouting pleas of mercy to the angry sky. The ship halts... and then, with a violent smash, settles back down.

Water jets twenty feet high, slashing the deck of the ship like furious whips, as sharp as the sharpest knife. "Ah!" you scream when one hits you both, hiding your face against his chest.

The Pirate throws his head back, black hair drenched, shirt half torn, holding you with one hand as the other acts as an anchor to you both, and laughs. Lightning strikes from above, and its resounding thunder eats away his voice, devouring it within the unstoppable force of nature.

The Pirate has never seen anything more beautiful.

The ship sways violently again. He hears the cranking of wood and the rasp of his cannons hauling up the hull. Your nails dig into his back, and the Pirate holds you tighter. "By the gods!" you yell, lifting your face from his chest. "We— we're going to die."

He looks down at you. "Not today, peach," he assures you. He doesn't know what his face looks like, but at your expression, the Pirate guesses he must look as wild as he feels.

"You're mad," you whisper, staring bewildered at him.

"Just a little," he rasps and takes a step forward. You move with him, stepping back until your back is flushed against the rail. He puts his arms on both sides of you, serving as protection. The ship launches again, up this time, and you both levitate in the air for half a second before you slam back down. "But you're not going to die. Enjoy this."

An anguished cry pierces through the storm.

You look around frantically. He laughs. "They're fine."

"How do you know?" you ask, looping both arms around his neck. The Pirate can feel your breasts pressing against his chest, your drenched shirt practically making you naked, and his smirk widens even more.

"I just know," he answers. He looks at the sea, the water is almost as black as his eyes. The waves seem to rise higher and higher.

"No, I mean," you begin but are interrupted by a crash. You squeeze him, hand on the back of his neck, as the floor stabilizes again. "I mean, how do you know we won't die? The ship is practically falling apart."

It's not, he knows. The wood may be creaking, but the more experienced sailors know that it's not at risk of breaking. Not yet, anyway. "This isn't the day I'm meant to die. And as long as I live, peach, you're not going anywhere."

He smiles down at you. "So, don't worry. You're safe."

You shake your head the slightest bit, your lips parted in utter disbelief. "You really are mad," you say. "But I'm even worse because I believe you."

Your hands squeeze him past the point of pain as another gush washes over you both. "I trust you," you say, almost as if you're trying to convince yourself. He feels you tremble and hears the fear in your voice. "I trust you."

The sea is his oldest mistress, the one he comes back to again and again. It's the one he serves for none other has given him more. But, at this moment, the Pirate has no eyes for her; he's caught by you.

The Pirate grabs your chin, tilts your face up, and kisses you. You inhale in surprise, and then in shock as the floor jerks once again, but he's got you. He holds you as his lips meet yours, and his tongue plunders in, and the Pirate kisses you like the wild wind, the rolling waves, and the hailing rain.

He kisses you on the bow of his ship, in the eye of a storm. Lightning above, and lightning too, crackling in his veins.

- - -

"Like this," Neia says, adjusting the hold on the thick handle of her greatsword.

You mimic her, but the specter doesn't seem satisfied. "No," she gruffs. And then, impossibly quick for her hulking form, she spins around and slams her sword against your training one. The wooden stick flies out of your hands, soaring through the air before it crashes pathetically on the sand. "See? You had no grip."

You stare at her. "Bloody hell, Neia, you could have just said it."

"Less effective," she says, bending down to grab the other practice sword. "In a real battle, your opponent isn't going to tell you shit. They'll just murder you."

She throws the sword. It comes soaring right at your nose at an incredible speed. "Ow," you grunt as you catch it just before it breaks your nose bridge. You throw her a glare as pain radiates from your wrist, but it doesn't seem to be very effective. "I know that. But this isn't a real battle, and I'd rather not have my bones broken in the first lesson."

You asked for her help because while you're deadly with a bow, your close-quarters combat could use some improvement. You have your trusty knife tucked in your boot for emergencies, but it won't serve you against a charging swordsman.

"Again," Neia commands, taking a powerful step closer to you.

You're starting to think, however, that you may have asked the wrong person.

"And don't fuck it up this time."

"You're a great teacher, did you know?" you snark, but do as she says. Slowly, you hold the sword higher and put your left hand beneath the right. Shooting out your elbows, you bend your knees and straighten your back. "How's this?"

Neia looks you up and down. "Wider," she says, kicking your boot.

You spread your feet wide and immediately feel more stable. "Now?"

"A little lower," Neia says, and suddenly, her hands close on your waist. You bite back a gasp of surprise as she pulls you down. Once again, you feel your stance get sturdier. "Hmm."

Neia hums behind you. You silently pray she doesn't feel the shiver that crawls down your back. "I think you're good," she declares, stepping away.

You also hope she doesn't see the flash of disappointment in your eyes. "Alright," you say and shake yourself. You need to get your head straight. "I'm ready."

"I'll say when you're ready."

You roll your eyes. It's hard to remember how infuriating this woman is when her breath is bathing your neck, but luckily, she’s quick to remind you. Neia walks in front of you, stops, and looks you up and down again. "Swing left."

You do.

"Now right and watch that foot."

You do, taking care to swing your foot alongside the movement, keeping your core stabilized.

Neia hums again. This time, with approval. "Seems good."

You smile radiantly. "It does? Do you— Ah!"

Neia launches forward. You barely have time to lift your sword and block her strike before it cuts your head in half. Your poor wooden sword is no match for the sharpened steel of hers, but as it successfully intercepts the attack, you realize she’s holding back.

You stare at her between your crossed weapons, your chest heaving.... and Neia smiles. "Now, that's something," she says, her scar twisting her lip up.

A beat.

And you laugh in disbelief. "I did it."

"Feeling like calling me a bad teacher again?"

"I did it!" you shout. Your arms are sore and your legs heavy from the intense training session, but you leap as if you weigh like a feather. The practice sword falls to the ground as you grab onto Neia's shoulders and kiss her cheek.

Neia's brows pinch together. She tilts her head, yellow eyes piercing into you. "What was that for?"

"A thanks," you say, beaming still. It was the first time you managed not to be "killed" when Neia attacked. You bend down and pick up your sword. "Let's do it again, shall we?"

Neia's scowl deepens. She watches you, unmoving, and, normally, that stare would freeze the water in your blood, but you're too happy to be wary. "Neia? C'mon."

Finally, the specter rouses. She starts walking, her great sword dragging its broken tip on the ground, and you raise yours in preparation. She's close, and she'll launch at any second. You exhale, hardening your muscles in preparation. She'll—

Neia does launch, but she ignores your sword to loop her arm tight around your waist. "What?" you let out as she pulls you up, lifting your feet off the ground and crashing you to her chest, and before you can ask her what kind of technique this is, Neia bends her neck down and lays her lips over yours.

You're frozen as she kisses you. It's gentler than you imagined and softer too. You can feel the hard ridge of her scar as you kiss her back, and then you shiver when her tongue sweeps down your bottom lip. You open your mouth to the silent request, and Neia deepens the kiss.

You forget where you are and what you're supposed to be doing. You don't know how long you kiss, but when Neia finally breaks away, the world seems to be spinning.

"If you're gonna thank me," Neia murmurs, "then thank me properly, sweetling."

She lets go of you, and you almost fall to the ground. You stare speechless as she gets into a fighting position. "Again," Neia commands. After a beat, you obey.

Vowing to yourself that you'll thank her after every successful block.

- - -

Lance bursts out a surprised laugh. "You cannot mean it."

"I do!" you swear, pulling on his arm. "They're set up on the Silver Square."

"A whole group of them?" Lance asks, and while there's still laughter in his voice, you hear the doubt mixed within.

You look over your shoulder, and urgency starts to tug at you. "Yes," you say, pulling on him harder. Why is it so hard to get his ass off the floor? "Just come on, Lace, you hardhead. I don’t want you to miss it.”

Your bard gives one last chuckle, but finally, on your pull, he goes along and leaps to his feet. He's wearing his sleeveless vest, the copper clashing with the red of his pants, and his blue hair is matched by his right sock — the left is a bright shade of green. Not for the first time, nor the last, you wonder what is his process for picking out his outfits.

You wonder, also, how, even though it shouldn't, he makes it work every time.

"Let us go see this mystical group, shall we?" Lance says, bowing slightly to offer his elbow.

You smile as you take it. "I know you don't believe me," you say, starting to guide him out of the door.

Lance clicks his tongue. "You cannot prove that."

"I don't need to, Lance. I know you."

He doesn't answer. You're walking down a reddish-brown brick street with short, squat houses on either side and potted plants brightening the corners. The air is silent, and even as you strain your hearing, you can't hear the crowd that you know is on the other side of the right row of buildings. No matter. You'll get there soon enough. You start to hasten your step, pulling Lance along...

When, suddenly, his hand slips to your waist, and his chest presses into your back. "Do you now, mercenary?" he murmurs behind your ear. His lips brush your earlobe, and you can tell that he smiles.

His hand presses you closer, and heat bursts all over your face. For just a moment, a single heartbeat, you forget what it is you want to show him. "Do you believe that you do?" he asks, his smile widening against your skin.

You inhale. And snap out of it. "Lance, you fool," you whisper just as lowly, turning around in his arms so you can face him. His grey eyes shine, and you rarely see him smiling the way that he is: sincere with a hint of smugness. You adore it. "I do. And because I do, I know you'll love this."

You turn away, slipping past his embrace, and grab his upper arm with a firm grip. "So, be ready to eat your suspicions, bard."

He laughs from behind but dutifully follows in your footsteps. You're nearing the end of the street, and now you hear it. A low murmur of voices at the edge of your hearing. Lance tilts his head, brows pulling together, and you know he hears it too. He looks at you, and opens his mouth—

But a strong, boisterous voice burst through the air. "Stand back! Stand back you fiend, or I shall cut off your God-cursed head!"

A collective chorus of gasps follows soon after, and then shouts of excitement at the distinct sound of metal clashing. Lance slowly closes his mouth. "... come," he says, and now it's him who drags you forward.

You laugh as he pulls your arm, feeling his fingers squeezing with excitement. Lance and you round the corner, and the Silver Square opens before you, but while it's usually wide and empty, now it has a wooden stage dominating the middle and a crowd of people gathered at the front.

"Devil!" a knight yells, his armor made of hardened cardboard. He brandishes a sword made of wood, clashing against a spear with a dull head. "I will banish you from the white realm of God!"

The spear is held by a man dressed as a devil. His costume is all red, and his hood has two horns. His feet are adorned by some type of hooves, and red paper hangs from his pants to make the illusion of fur. "Hahaha!" He laughs theatrically. "Your God can't help you now."

The crowd gasps again. "Blasphemy!" a woman shouts in anger. "Kill the abomination!"

Lance stops.

You're on the periphery of the crowd, not quite within, but close enough that you can see the extras working in the background. A woman with her face painted all in green pretends to be a bush, while another with a blue flowy dress waves its long sleeves to make it seem like the wind.

Lance stares at the stage with his mouth hanging open. You can't help but smile at his shock. "See?" you whisper, pressing close to loop your hands around his arm. "I told you."

"That you did," he answers, not taking his eyes off the play.

The knight brandishes his sword high, but the battle pauses long enough for him to declare. "I, Bartholomeus the 3rd, will extinguish this evil and protect the legacy of the Lord."

The crowd cheers when he strikes the devil. Lance's lips spread in a wide smile. "As soon as I saw them, I had to come get you," you say, putting your head on his shoulder to watch the play too. "I knew you'd love it. This has you painted all over."

Once again, Lance is quiet for a while. He moves his arm behind you, tucking you closer to his side, but doesn't speak. You watch the fierce battle until the devil inevitably falls dead on the ground. The knight, bloodied and sweaty, turns victorious towards the crowd.

"... you thought of me."

You look at Lance. He's staring at you with an inscrutable expression. "Well, yes," you say. Of course, you did.

Your bard smiles, then. It's a small, sad smile, but before you can contest it, he’s tilting your chin, and blue hair fills your vision when he leans over to kiss you.

The kiss is short and shallow, but it has a weight to it that, as happens so often with Lance, you cannot name.

"Gratias tibi," he whispers beside your ear. Lance straightens up and grabs your hand. "Now, let us move closer. I can hear music but can see no band. They must be hiding in some nook."

You're dazed, but go where he leads, slipping past the crowd towards the stage. His fingers wrapped in yours. Firm and warm.

- - -

Rafael scoffs.

"That's low hangin' fruit."

Your face scrunches up, and he fights back a smile at the outrage in your expression. "It's not," you argue. You slam your elbow on the table and lift a finger in the air. You almost stick it inside his nose. "It's pretty high damn fruit. It's the highest fruit you've seen in your miserable life. Higher than high. It's fucking tall."

Rafael leans back, making sure to give a disgusted look at your finger before the bastard drags his eyes up to yours. "I already knew your standards are low," he says and curls one side of his mouth in another sneer. Rafael likes to think he has perfected the expression. "But I never guessed it was this damn low."

He's rewarded by your frown. You're slightly tipsy so it's easier to ruffle your feathers. Your eyes aren't as sharp as usual – your gaze is unfocused and your lips part just a little bit, and Rafael thinks you look the perfect picture of an idiot.

He also thinks you look damn good, but Rafael is quick to push the thought away.

"Not gonna defend yourself?" he asks at your silence, giving you another one of his perfect sneers. "Given up already?"

You shake your head, and your gaze focuses. With narrowed eyes, you lean over the table to wag your finger right beneath his nose. "I know what you're doing," you say, then, tapping your finger against his cheek. "And it's not gonna work."

Rafael tries to sneer again, but his own body betrays him because he's pretty sure he's smiling instead. Oh, well, no worries. He'll just make it condescending. "I think it's already workin', sweetheart."

Your eyes widen, and Rafael lets out an internal laugh of victory. He's won this round. The bastard leans on his chair with a smug smile and rests an elbow on the back. "Your turn to buy the next round," he says, shaking his empty mug at you. "And make it quick, will ya? My throat's all dry."

But you simply stare, and slowly, Rafael's smug smile dies. Your face morphs again, but while he expected to see anger or exasperation, maybe, if he's lucky, a little bit of begrudging respect, Rafael sees...

Something else. Something that has his fingers nervously jerking on the mug. You stare at him, your pupils wider than he remembers, but it's not because of shock. And then, you lean even closer, your hand sprawling on the table to sustain your weight. "What did you just say?" you whisper then, and Rafael has never heard your voice like this.

He's heard you furious. He's heard you amused. He's heard you annoyed and joyful and pissed drunk and cynical and melancholic. He's heard you in many different ways, but never like this.

This voice has a fire burning on his stomach, and the hair on his arms standing to attention. "What?" Rafael asks, and fucking hates the squeak in his voice. He clears his throat and tries again. "Whatcha mean?"

"What did you call me?" you say in that voice again.

Fucking hell. Rafael likes it. "I call you many things," he answers, trying to sound nonchalant. It's hard when you press even closer. Your face is right beside his, and he doesn't miss how your eyes are fixed on his lips. Lord in bloody heaven. He feels hot all of a sudden. Why the hell is he so hot? "Was it idiot?"

You drag your eyes to his. "Stop playing, Rafael," you say. The way you say his name has his lower stomach turning. "What did you call me?"

Your hand lands on his, and he hears you dragging your chair closer. Rafael can only look as you fill his sight. "Sweetheart," he mumbles. It was condescending. A bloody insult. You got that, right?

Your eyes flicker down to his lips again. Rafael feels the sudden urge to grab your jaw and—

"Say it again."

"What?" he barks.

But you just drag your hand up his arm and rest it on his chest. You've never bloody touched his chest. He fears you can feel his heart hammering pathetically against his ribs. "Call me that again."

Rafael stares at you. You stare right back.

"Raf—"

He grabs your jaw, pulls your face, and locks his lips with yours. Rafael swallows your gasp of surprise, closes his eyes tight, and focuses on kissing the fuckin' life out of you. His heart is so loud, he's sure you hear it, but he swallows his embarrassment too. You're not winning this one.

"I called ya sweetheart," Rafael says when you part and condemn him to hell, but he saw how you leaned to chase his lips. "There."

Slowly, you open your eyes. Rafael's hands curl underneath the table as you lock eyes with him. Your damn eyes. He's never seen more pretty bloody eyes. He's never been so foolishly infatuated by stupid, pretty eyes.

"Oh, Raf," you say, dragging your chair until it bumps against his. Rafael barely has the time to open his arms before you're crawling on his lap. He can't think as you sit down on him. He stops thinking; his whole mind is blank.

"Finally," you whisper, and grab his face, and Rafael forsakes all thought because you kiss him deep, wanting and eager, and he'll take it. He understands nothing, but he'll take it.