네버런드

181022 Namjoon’s Tweet

real soon..

real soon…

[Photo] 1. tokyo.wav 2. seoul (prod. HONNE).wav 3. moonchild.wav 4. badbye (with eAeon).wav 5. eogeut.wav (T/N: means to pass by, miss, be out of joint, be off, to go against) 6. pass by (with NELL).wav 7. forever rain.wav

“Do you have a problem pretending to be my boyfriend?” the villain asked, lips pressed against the protagonist’s ear. “You did say you’d be fine with it. You seem a little…flustered.”

The protagonist’s heart drummed in his ears. He had said he’d be fine. He was a filthy liar, it seemed. It was definitely a problem. Just not the appropriate sort of problem at all. More like the being this close to his boss sent a shiver down his spine and raised goosebumps on his skin kind of problem. More like the don’t inhale the scent of his cologne too closely or pay too much attention to the exquisitely tailored cut of his suit kind of problem. More like the completely and hopelessly flustered sort of problem. 

“It’s absolutely not a problem, sir.”

“Keiran.” The villain corrected, gently enough. 

“Keiran.” He had spent far too many times imagining his boss’ name on his lips, but it was always boss, or sir. Never just his name. It suddenly felt far too intimate to call him that when they were close enough that he could feel the heat radiating from his skin. 

“Now pay attention,” the villain said. “Tell me what you see.” 

The villain pressed a kiss just below his ear, one arm wrapped warm around his waist, holding him close. 

It was an easy distraction. People skimmed over them in disgust of public displays of affection, discounted them as not paying attention, not a threat, let dates and eye candy be dragged into places where bodyguards would be far more closely examined. Unfortunately, the downside of it being an easy distraction was that it was highly distracting.

The room was a wash of colour and life, that still seemed somehow pale compared to the feeling of the villain’s mouth dotting further kisses against his throat. He did his best to force himself to focus and not be completely pitiful. He was a professional, god damn it. His eyes found the woman in the black dress. 

“Target’s at the bar,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Black dress, designed to blend in, she’s talking with some guy. Don’t think it’s our man though.” A crowded club was an easy place to trade something - easy to slip in and out of, to hide among the bustle, to pass along information or small items among the crush of bodies. 

“Very good.” 

He must have been imagining the purr in the villain’s voice, but his skin felt entirely too hot all the same. He shifted on his seat and kept his eyes on the room. 

“Agents?” the villain murmured against his ear. 

“Couple. Trying to be discreet. Failing.” His voice came out a tad too rough and he cleared his throat. “Twelve O Clock and three-three-” His thoughts narrowed down to the lazy drag of the villain’s thumb caressing his skin beneath his shirt, just above his hip. 

“Liar,” the villain said. “You can’t even think straight.” He didn’t sound angry. If anything, he sounded amused, appreciative. 

His eyes shot to his boss, heart pounding in his chest. “…you knew. How long have you known?” 

“You blush every time I get close to you,” the villain said. 

“I do not!” 

The villain’s other hand came up to stroke his cheek. His burning cheek. The villain raised a brow. 

He looked down, mouth gone completely dry. He opened his mouth to find some other defense, or perhaps to apologize and-

The villain’s hand dipped to caress his parted lower lip, catching the words before they could even form, warning or teasing and he really didn’t know anymore. “I really think we need to start having a conversation about your lies, Dominic.” The villain’s voice was perfectly steady, light, velvet. “I was hoping you would bring if up yourself with this little encouragement of mine, but apparently not and you know how I feel about lies. If it wasn’t currently so very adorable I’d be quite angry with you. Imagine if I hadn’t noticed. Imagine if I did, in fact, need you to pay attention for me.”

“I’m-”

The villain tapped his tongue. 

He shut up. 

“Come now,” the villain said. “We’ve been working together for five years . We’re not teenagers. When I ask you if there is a problem, I do in fact expect you to answer me honestly. It’s not a trick question. So tell me the problem.” 

“You know.”

“I’d like to hear you say it.” 

Sadist. 

“I…that is to say you…there’s this…” Oh for god’s sake. “You know I like you. A lot. Like I love you a lot. But I’ll get over it- or, I will fix the problem anyway, I always do. You know I always do. We’ve just been quite busy lately so I haven’t er - haven’t really had any time to…distract myself. I’ll get over it.”

The silence stretched. 

He eventually glanced up simply because he couldn’t bear it. 

The villain’s gaze was dark and piercing, and his attention dizzyingly undivided.“You just told me that you love me and that you’re planning to fuck someone else in the same breath.” 

He blinked. “Yes sir.” 

“Upstairs,” the villain said. “Now.” 

If you write one short story a week, it’s guaranteed improvement. Short stories can be anywhere from 1,000 to 30,000 words, but for the sake of sanity, the stories I write will be under 10,000 with a cap of around 7,500. Here’s some ideas!

1. Write entirely in second person. Someone is instructing your character to do something they’ll regret.

2. Write a first person story from the point of view of an inanimate object.

3. Write about a character trapped in the body of a kid about to start kindergarten.

4. Write about a high schooler trying to run away from a dangerous situation.

5. Write about a witch trying to find her lost familiar.

6. Write about a detective who uses questionable methods but always gets the right answer.

7. Write about a marching band who decided to block traffic for one whole day. Why?

8. Write about a character from the future. They aren’t trying to save anyone, they just want to live in a better time.

9. Write about a character with depression who’s desperate to help their friend, who suffers from the same thing.

10. Write about a middle school student going on their first date.

11. Write about a student who was trying to work at a coffee shop when a super villain attacks. Superpowers weren’t supposed to be real.

12. Pick a meme song and write a story based on it.

13. Look at your favorite old emo music and select the angstiest lyric you can find. Go wild.

14. Write with one oddly specific color in mind. Lavender. Fuschia. Carolina blue.

15. Write a story from the villain’s point of view, at the final battle.

16. Write about a character who plays music at a street corner and what they witness.

17. Write about a student who falls asleep in class and wakes up in a sterilized room.

18. Write about an elementary school ‘breakup’ between two fifth graders.

19. Write about two people who live in an RV and travel the country. They hate each other.

20. Write about a person who can talk to food. How do they eat?

21. Write about someone who breaks animals out of zoos.

22. Write about someone who can jump into books, and why they stay in normal life.

23. Write about someone who can’t go a week without almost dying, and what happens when they have their first quiet week.

24. Write a high school scenario that you heard about through gossip, or a scenario you overheard in real life or from a job. Dramatize it.

25. Write about a werecat who takes pleasure in being endlessly pampered by humans.

26. Write about a superhero who’s only power is making anything last forever. Their phone never breaks, and their toilet paper never runs out. Neither does their ammunition.

27. Write about two twins, one who’s a superhero and one who’s a super villain.

28. Write about a thief who hangs out with rich people but never steals their stuff.

29. Write about someone who can fly, but is too scared of heights to have ever tried it.

30. Write about a friendship about to break apart after ten years. Why?

31. Write about a sentient city, and how it helps out travelers and lost tourists.

32. Write about children running an actual rat race for fun.

33. Write from a zombie’s point of view of the zombie apocalypse.

34. Write about the skeleton inside you. It’s completely sentient. Watch out.

35. Write about a boy who has actually weaponized Axe, and sells it to people as a replacement pepper spray.

36. Write about a villain who can manipulate ice. They stab people and the weapon melts, leaving no fingerprints. How do you stop them?

37. Write about a student who decides to do anything except study before exams, and ends up bungee jumping and skydiving the day of.

38. Write about an invisible hitchhiker. They travel the country for free, by climbing into people’s cars at gas stations.

39. Write about a child who lives inside an amusement park, but never gets noticed. Another kid sees her. It’s the first time she’s been seen.

40. Write about a weredog touring a city in human form and trying their absolute hardest not to pee on the poles.

41. Write about a student who goes cold turkey on coffee the week before final exams.

42. Write about a pet turkey on Thanksgiving. They’re horrified.

43. Write about your phone, which is sentient. It finally decides to notify you in hopes you stop watching the exact same vine compilation at 2 in the morning every day.

44. Write about a girl who lives in the woods—30 minutes away from a huge city.

45. Write about someone trying to steal a giant monument, such as the giant peach in South Carolina or the world’s largest rubber band ball.

46. Write about cartoon characters suddenly faced with realistic risks from their actions.

47. Write about a warlock whose curse backfired on them—on their job interview at a respectable company.

48. Write about the sentient Chuck E Cheese costume that lives at the store, and whether it truly loves children.

49. Write about a dead forest, and the arsonist who caused it that visits every week.

50. Write about a couple that meets after they get in a street fight over a dropped twenty dollar bill. They’re actually perfect for each other.

51. Write about a genie trapped in a bottle of Axe.

First Part Here.Second Part Here.

“You look troubled. Are you still working?”

The King whipped around at the familiar voice, rising to hisfeet. His desk chair clattered to the floor.“Lorcan.” His heart flipped in hischest all over again.

Lorcan slipped off his window-sill and into his bedroom asAren stared at him, wide-eyed and dry-mouthed.

“I wonder,” the King said, chest tight, “that I botherhaving dungeons or throwing you into them when it apparently does nothing tohold you.  No wonder the threat of themnever concerned you.”

“The dungeons were more for public show,”Lorcan replied witha shrug. “I still have some connections. I wanted to see you.”

“You could have askedto see me. I wouldn’t have denied you an audience.”

“That would have been public,” Lorcan said. “And I didn’tcome to see my King. Are you alright?” He strode across the bedroom, as smoothand careless as ever. Or maybe not careless. Maybe Lorcan only ever lookedcareless, as he catalogued the world around him and Aren too. “I know this mustbe difficult for you.”

“Am I alright?”Aren repeated. The anger, which had been simmering for the last three days,simmered dangerously close to the surface. “You were the one in chains!” DidLorcan even care about that? It had been unbearable for Aren to even witness.

“Shh,” Lorcan said. “Keep your voice down, no one can know I’mhere.”

Aren swallowed and leaned down topick his chair up. It was late in the night, late enough that silence had settledthick on the palace. His bedroom was dim, lit only by the soft lamplight on hisdesk, illuminating the papers and reports he’d been working on. His jawclenched.

Lorcan sighed. His hand curledaround Aren’s wrist. “I’m sorry, okay?” he said. “I know I asked a lot of you. Thank you fortrusting me.”

It had been three days since they’dseen each other. Three days where Aren had chewed himself into knots over what he’d learned.

Lorcan was a spy.

Lorcan had been his father’s spy.

“I can’t pretend I understand,”Aren said, proud that he managed to keep his voice steady. “I’m getting theimpression that there’s a lot I haven’t been told.”

He could feel the warm press ofLorcan’s fingers around his wrist like a fire brand, as if he had more nerveendings in his body for that small brush  skin contact than he did for the for the restof his body combined.

“My father…” Aren watched Lorcan’shand around his wrist. “His death…”

“I don’t know.”

Whenever a King died, there wasalways some consideration however small to the possibility of foul play. Thistime, the general decree had been certain of natural causes.

If Lorcan’s cover had suddenlygone to shit, though, he wasn’t quite so certain anymore. And an ex-operative…noone threatened a King’s spy unless they were no longer working for the good ofthe Kingdom.

“Just…continue as you have beenfor now.” Lorcan’s voice was low, his head tipped up near Aren’s again. “If itwas a hostile takeover, they would have killed you. Be careful.”

Aren’s stomach jolted. He waswell aware of the dangers of his position, but it was different hearing it inLorcan’s mouth.

“You didn’t say anything aboutthis before.” That stung. It prickled angry beneath Aren’s skin because ifLorcan actually thought his father might have been murdered, how could he notsay anything?

“I didn’t have information. I’vebeen away from court too long.”

“In disgrace, you’ll have toleave again. No King keeps disgraced thieves at court.”

It was like getting punched inthe face. Even if he knew it, even it had been all he could think about inthree days, there it was. He trusted Lorcan’s plan – or at the very least hetrusted Lorcan. But Lorcan would have to leave. Who would there be for him totrust in court then?  He wanted to begLorcan to stay. To be by his side where he belonged.

“At least you came to say goodbyethis time,” he muttered. “That is why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Lorcan said. “I’m sorry.”

Lorcan never said sorry. It madeit worse – it made it real.

The one thing he’d asked ofLorcan was that he would stay.Lorcan had all but promised he would.

It was childish to cling to that,and Aren hated himself for it. He hated himself for caring so much. He was theKing, yet when it came to Lorcan it felt like he commanded nothing. He waspowerless.

“You’ll be safe now,” he said.That had to be what mattered. “I’ll arrange some land for you on thesouthernmost corner. No one will use your connection with me against you.Return only when you think it’s safe.”

He pulled his wrist free andturned away, loathing the prickly upset clenching tight in his throat. Hisfather would have been more composed. A proper King would have been more composed. Hewasn’t sure he could bear for Lorcan to see the expression on his face rightnow, knowing that he’d probably still leave and it wouldn’t make a damndifference. He could order Lorcan to stay, but…

But he didn’t want to have toorder him and Lorcan had never listened to his orders anyway.

Lorcan seized his arm, twistinghim around and pressing him up against the desk. “Hey.” His voice sharpened,eyes blazing. “That’s not what this is. It’s not me that I’m trying to protect,you must know that.”

“I believe your intention,” Arensaid. “I need someone I could trust by my side. If you think you’d betray me to myenemies when pressed, or if you think you would be used against me, then that’swhat you think. You’re not actually my prisoner, Lorcan. You’re free to go.”

He was rather proud that hemanaged to keep his voice steady.

“It’s not just what I think - you respond impulsively when I’m in trouble.” Lorcan studied his face, as if the words didn’t make Aren burn up. “It won’tbe forever, just until the dust settles and I’ve taken care of other…problems.I’ll come back.”

“You don’t need to explainyourself to me.” You never have before.

“Aren…” Lorcan waited for him to turn his headback, the normal smirk absent from his lips.

Then Lorcan craned up on his toesand kissed him.

Aren’s mind went completely blankof everything else, breath catching in his throat. His hand rose instinctivelyto cup the nape of Lorcan’s neck. His heart slammed in his chest. His stomachswooped.

It was only a brief kiss. Itstill stole all of the air in Aren’s lungs.

He stared.

Lorcan smirked at him then,however gently. “I’ll come back,” he said. “Ari.”

Aren’s head still reeled aroundthe kiss, the warm puff of Lorcan’s breath against his mouth, the lean strengthof him pressed compact against his body. His grip tightened.

“I-You should leave tonight,” hesaid. “I’ll make an official announcement tomorrow; give you a decoy for yourtravels. You’ll need money.”

Lorcan kissed him again.

Aren’s thoughts trailed off, andhe made a soft sound against Lorcan’s mouth, drawing him closer.  He kissed him with an eager, gracelessdesperation.

He’d only just got Lorcan back. Therewas supposed to be time, for him feeling like this and Lorcan pretending thatit wasn’t obvious. But there wasn’t time. There was an hour, at best, maybetwo. Whatever connections Lorcan apparently had in the castle, a world awayfrom Aren’s knowledge.

He didn’t know spy Lorcan. Hedidn’t know this.

“There,” Lorcan whispered, strokinghis cheek. “Now you know I have to come back, so we can finish this. Otherwiseit’s just too sad and awkward. I don’t do sad and awkward.”

Aren snorted. He knew that.

Lorcan kissed him once more, likehe didn’t know how to stop now that he’d started. “Shout if you need me. Even a world away, I’llbe listening.”

Aren shoved him to the bed..How could he not, when Lorcan had to go and say things like that? How could he not, when it was the only certainty he had?

“Shut up and stop being overdramatic, before I start to think you’re enjoying this. We’re finishing it now,” he said. “Anything else is just tempting fate. King’s orders.” 

He’d come back. Lorcan would come back. He had to. 

Lorcan plucked the crown off his head and set it aside… 

Continuation of this verse.

“What’s this?” Lorcan stared at the trinket in the King’s handas if the golden snake bracelet might come alive and bite. He didn’treach out a hand to take it. 

“It’s from the treasury.” The King kept his voice even with much practice and his gazelocked on his old friend. “It was estimated to be worth about £8K last timemy family had it valued. Take it.”

Lorcan’s eyes darted uneasily up to his face, his jawtightening. 

He pressed it into Lorcan’s hand. “Take it.” 

“Do you think it will look beautiful on me?” Lorcan tried to tease. “Will I be the prettiest man at the ball?” 

The King didn’t laugh. “You didn’t have to steal from me,” he said quietly, shoving past the attempt. “If you’re introuble, you could have always asked. You could have let me helpyou. I want to help.” 

Lorcan tried to shove the bracelet back in his hand next.

The King’s eyes flashed,despite his very best efforts to keep his pounding heart and hurts undercontrol. “Perhaps you just prefer robbing me? Is that it?” 

Lorcan looked down at his feet. “I-No. No, of course not. Are you going to call your guards?”

“I would prefer to deal with this matter privately.” Even for Lorcan’s bad habits, this was something else and it wasn’t like him.

Lorcan glanced at him with a heartbreaking sort of wariness,shoulders tensed, cheeks hot, before glancing at the door.

If Aren let him bolt, he suspected he’d never see Lorcan again. His stomach twisted. He shifted his stance, ready to lunge if he had to, and watched Lorcan shift in turn. 

“Don’t run,” he said softly. “Talk to me. Do you needmoney, is that it?” Was that why Lorcan came back? He didn’t even want to think that. 

Lorcan took a step towards the door, cagey as a cornered animal. 

Tallerin height and stronger in frame, he caught Lorcan by the front of his shirt andshoved him into the bedroom wall. Quick-footed Lorcan may be, and more than adept in a street fight, but Aren had grown up on the training fields and Lorcan would never actually hurt him. He wouldn’t be outmatched that easily. 

Lorcan inhaled sharply, hand flying to a knife. He caught himself, not actually drawing it as he stared back at the King. 

 “Tellme,” Aren pressed. “Do not run.”

“I don’t have to tell you just because you command it, sire,” Lorcan growled. “And I certainly don’t have to because you offered me treasure.”

“It wasn’t bribery.” Aren could feel his temperature rising, his blood beginning to boil, however much he’d wanted to handle this as coolly and diplomatically as his father might have done. “But don’t you dare pretend something isn’t wrong here. I’ve let this lie for too long and now you’ve robbed my treasury. You are a lot of things, Lorcan, but a traitor and a thief isn’t one of them. Stop evading.”

The bracelet lay discarded on the floor.  

Lorcan swallowed. For a second, his expression flickered to something younger and more recognizable, before the barriers slammed up again and he seemed to come to a decision. “You’re the King-”

“-You’ve never cared for my position before-”

“-If you think I’m a thief, you should arrest me-”

“-I’m not going to arrest you-”

“-By law, you have to arrest me, King-”

Aren slammed his hand over Lorcan’s mouth in a really quite unkingly manner, and was glad no one else was in his private chamber’s to see it. They were both breathing hard. Aren sighed. “As your oldest friend, and your sovereign, for the love of everything stop being so stubborn and let me help you. Stop trying to irritate me off the subject.” 

Lorcan’s fingers curled warm around Aren’s wrists, but he held otherwise still. His expression didn’t change. 

The King’s eyes narrowed, studying his face, thinking over his words and Lorcan’s insistence at being arrested. He remembered how late Lorcan had been for his coronation, his delays, how he’d just vanished without so much as a polite goodbye and had a habit of vanishing still.

Lorcan stared back at him. 

Aren was abruptly aware of just how close they were standing, one of his hands planted on Lorcan’s shoulder, the other pressed over his mouth, practically chest to chest. He dropped one hand so Lorcan could speak, twining his grip securely in the front of Lorcan’s shirt, not daring to release him. 

“Why does it suddenly matter to you that I’m the King?” 

“I don’t care,” Lorcan said, oh so softly. “But there are plenty of other people who do, and not all of them are quite as friendly as I am. You are obvious in your feelings, Ari. People notice.” 

Obvious in his feelings. A jolt ran through him. The King swallowed, face feeling a little hot. Even if he knew Lorcan didn’t mean it like that. 

“I don’t care if you’re a walking scandal,” he replied. “You have always been loyal to me. Is that why you’re doing this?” He didn’t understand. “Do you want me to publicly renounce you?”

The lack of response was a yes. The yes was like getting punched in the stomach. Aren’s face fell. 

“You said it yourself,” Lorcan muttered, “I can’t get in trouble in a prison cell.”

“What trouble have you got yourself into?” He caught Lorcan’s chin in one hand when the infuriating bastard looked away again. 

Lorcan’s gaze snapped to him again, eyes wide. Aren considered that a victory of sorts. He’d take what he could get. 

“Next time,” Lorcan said. “I’ll let the guards catch me.” 

Aren felt like snarling. His grip tightened. “They won’t do anything to you. They’ll bring you to me.”

“You won’t be able to pretend I didn’t do anything wrong though in front of them though, will you?” 

“I’m not pretending you haven’t done anything wrong now. I simply don’t find throwing you in the dungeons to be practical solution to the matter.”  

Lorcan’s grip tightened on him in turn. “Drop this.” 

“Don’t give orders to your King.” 

Lorcan looked so very tired that it ached in Aren’s chest. “I am sorry,” Lorcan said. “I feel I only add to your troubles. You have enough worries without carrying mine. Crown’s not getting any lighter, is it?” 

“As I said, I am both your friend and your sovereign. Carrying your troubles is what I’m here for.”

“I still think tossing me in a cell would be the better option.” 

“Then it’s just as well that I don’t have to listen to you.” 

Lorcan huffed, his tight grip easing. He swore quietly under his breath before cupping the nape of Aren’s neck to draw him in even closer. Close enough that their lips brushed. “I was a spy for your father.” 

Aren’s stomach dropped out. All of the words dried out in his mouth. 

Lorcan squeezed the back of his neck. “I was on a mission for him when I left, and then he died and everything went to shit.”

“If you’re joking-”

“No.” 

Aren’s entire world tipped on its axis and spun dizzying. “Was I…”

Lorcan’s nails dug into his skin. “You were never part of my mission and I never spoke to the King about you. You know perfectly well that he didn’t approve of us. He would have sent me away if I wasn’t so useful.”

Aren shook his head, numbly. Of course, Kings had spies, he knew that. He was a King. He wasn’t stupid. Everyone had their sources of information. He’d just never thought Lorcan might be one of them, with his jokes and his Lorcan-ness. 

He forced himself to focus beyond the ringing in his ears. “And the trouble?” 

“An ex-operative. He knows who I am - what I am, and I really can’t be having anyone find out about that.” Lorcan’s voice was quiet, barely above a breath. “He asked for the money in order to keep his mouth shut. It was an easy way to kill two birds with one stone.” 

“…and the reason you want me to toss you into a dungeon cell?”

“Do you have any idea how easy it would be for me to spy on you, Aren? Do you know how many people want a report on the King? They are not the kind to take ‘no’ as a reasonable answer. Removing myself out of the equation was the easier option. The King - I mean, your father - agreed. It was one of the reasons I began to work predominantly out of court when I was old enough to be able to do so.” 

Aren’s grip was more or less useless now, slack and stunned. Lorcan examined him closely. 

“I thought a crime would force you to distance yourself, at least for some proper amount of time. I thought you’d be angry. Betrayed. I forgot to account for you being - well, you.” Lorcan looked him up and down, something like a smile on his lips. “You weren’t going to drop it, were you? You never do when you think I’m in trouble and it draws attention. I’m only telling you this now so you leave it.”

How could he possibly leave this? How could he possibly leave Lorcan alone with this? 

The King released a breath, leaned in, and pressed a kiss to Lorcan’s mouth. Then he raised his voice, unable to look at him. “Guards!”

“I have to say,” came a voice, “the crown looks prettier on you than it did on your father.”

The Prince - The King - whipped around, composed expression slamming up - he’d recognize that voice anywhere. “Lorcan.” His heart flipped in his chest. He touched a hand to the still unfamiliar weight of the crown upon his head, and resisted the urge to slide it off under Lorcan’s scrutiny. “How did you get in?”

Lorcan was sitting on a chair in the corner of the King’s room, looking like he’d been there for a while. “Polite greeting for an old friend, that. How did you get in. I guess they won’t be calling you King Charming.” Lorcan rolled out his neck, studying him. “And it amazes me that you are still asking me that question.”

“I didn’t mean-” It had been an ungracious greeting. It had been a very long day. It had been a very long week. “Are you well?” He tried to ask, more formally. “You’ve been - you went.” Formal rarely worked when he was faced with Lorcan, especially now. He didn’t want some polite greeting, some polite answer, some polite face now. He wanted to grab Lorcan around the collar and shake him for vanishing like that, he wanted to grab him by the collar and never let go off the slippery bastard again.

“I wouldn’t miss your coronation night,” Lorcan said more softly. “Sorry I‘m late.”

The King resisted the urge to swallow. His mouth had gone dry. He did end up lifting the crown off his head, cradling the thick gold in his hands. It still didn’t quite feel like it belonged to him. It felt like it should rest on his father’s head still, like it had always done, dignified and sure. The King felt sure of very little. 

He glanced up at Lorcan again, from across the room. His old friend looked tired too, worn more thin around the edges than when they last saw each other. He hadn’t stood up yet. 

Of course, that could just be Lorcan who had never felt the proper need to stand and bow his head in the presence of royal blood. However…

He set the crown down on the bedside table and moved closer, not entirely convinced the other boy - the other man, for they were not children anymore now were they? - wasn’t some hallucination brought about by sleeplessness and the sweet wines offered liberally during the coronation ball. He touched a hand to Lorcan’s cheek. 

Lorcan’s steel-grey eyes closed. 

His features were more defined beneath the King’s hand now, cheeks hollowed out from the softness of childhood. So many other parts of him were exactly the same, as if the months had only made him more Lorcan than he’d ever been. He was there. He was really there.

“Where have you been?” Aren asked. 

“I am sorry about your father.” 

“Lorcan.” This time, it was a growl. 

A smirk, not particularly amused, flickered across Lorcan’s artful mouth. He opened his eyes - serious enough, for once, given the topic. “I was delayed and you are the King. I cannot go into it.” 

“I am the King,” Aren returned, “I command you to go into it.”

Lorcan raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “You are an intelligent man and you know of the sorts of company I sometimes keep. I am sure you don’t need me to me to elaborate on the particular definition of ‘delayed’ in this context.”

Right. Different sides of the law now, weren’t they? Still. An old and familiar combination of frustration and concern, particular to Lorcan and his antics, welled in his chest. 

They studied each other for a moment, before Aren blew out  breath. “Are you hurt?” he asked. 

“I am healed.” 

The King allowed it, mostly because knowing Lorcan that was the only answer he was going to get. He’d find a way to look over him later. He shook his head and dropped his hand, moving over to pour two drinks from his personal collection. “I could have you thrown in the dungeons, you know,” he said. “Somewhere I could keep an eye on you and keep you out of trouble.” 

“You’d have to catch me first. I feel that would be undignified for you.” Lorcan’s eyes gleamed. “We both know you’d end up in cuffs again.”

Aren snorted at that particular memory and came back over.

Lorcan accepted the drink and clinked their glasses together. “Long live.” 

“Long live,” he mumured. He took a sip and watched Lorcan knock his drink back. He couldn’t stop watching him. It was a familiar sight, an old sight, that, from simpler times. Kings should not be friends with roguish scandals, he knew that, and yet it was perhaps utterly beyond him to send his oldest friend away when he’d only just got him back. “You are changed. You look-” His gaze roved over Lorcan’s features again, along a scar on his eyebrow that hadn’t been there last they saw each other, but along the strength of him too.

He was a smaller, slimmer man than the King was, as fair as the royal bloodline was dark, and yet the slimness was less fragile now than it used to seem. It was more like the compact ferocity of a panther, or some other slinking predator hidden in plain sight. 

“I look-?” 

Handsome. “Well,” Aren said. “All things considering.”   

“And you have a crown. How is it?”

“Heavy.” 

Lorcan laughed and got to his feet, head cocking to the side. He reached up a hand boldly to touch the King’s cheek in turn. Even so small, so insignificant a contact sent a shiver down his spine. 

As a King, as a Prince, he was well used to touch. Servants to hand him garments and smooth down his uniform, to clip on his armour with deft hands, and healers to examine him. Yet for all that there was an absence to the casual contact such as this, done for no purpose except for the touch itself. 

“You’ll do just fine, Ari,” he said. “You’ve had plenty of experience with unruly subjects.”

“Mm. Maybe one day you’ll even do what I tell you to.”

“And what would you tell me to do, my king?” Somehow, impossibly, ‘my king’ didn’t sound solemn on Lorcan’s lips. It sounded playful. It sounded light, in a way that Aren never believed the word ‘King’ could be. There was a kingdom full of duty in that word. 

“Stay.” 

Lorcan blinked. The smirk softened on his mouth, even as his gaze sharpened in his scrutiny. “As if you could get rid of me that easily. Of course I’ll be around.” 

The King wanted to believe that. He needed to believe that. 

Lorcan set down his empty glass and cupped his other cheek, cradling his jaw. “That was such a waste of your coronation gift command, so you know.”

Aren rolled his eyes, seeing as there was no one but Lorcan was there to judge him, smiling. “That was your coronation gift? You following an order?”

“Once in a lifetime opportunity. I can’t have your head getting too swollen, the crown wouldn’t look as pretty on you then.” 

Lord, he’d missed the bastard. Lord this week. 

He grabbed him by the shirt and drew him close, arm wrapping around him.

Lorcan exhaled a breath in surprise, before laughing quietly again. 

I am continuing the story here, because the other thread was getting quite long! Here’s to you who requested. Hope you enjoy it :) I resisted a ridiculous title like “Love and Leviathans” so be proud of me…

It had been a long time since Adrian had last set foot on land, and it felt even longer still.

His heart thumped in his chest.

He could feel Demarion’s gaze burning into the side of his face as the pirate port drew closer.

Life aboard the Leviathan had changed again with one less secret between them – and with this one mystery where, at least, they were not entirely on opposing sides.

“Can’t we force it open?” he’d asked. Since learning about Demarion’s scars, he’d been more curious about than he’d ever been, and he’d been curious before. His memories of his mother were foggy and limited things, so much so that he’d sometimes fared he’d dreamed them up.

But the locket was real. Even now, it hung warm around his throat.

“Forcing it open it may ruin whatever it holds,” Demarion had said. If I could, I would have done that already, he didn’t say, but Adrian heard it all the same.

The port drew closer to them still, greeting them with bright lights and the scent of spices and sweet foods and all those human traces which the sea scrubbed away in a salty breeze.

Adrian released a shaky breath, torn between longing and fear and yet more curiosity. These were not his waters, not the regulated harbours that he was used to. He would find few friendly faces here.

“Can I trust you enough to leave your ankles untied?” Demarion asked, quietly, coming up to his side. “I imagine you would feel ill at ease with so little movement here, should you need to defend yourself.”

Adrian swallowed. “Will I need to defend myself?” He kept his voice as light as he could, and kept his eyes fixed on the horizon.

“Don’t worry.” He could hear the smirk in Demarion’s tone in reply. “I’ll protect you.”  His hand squeezed the back of Adrian’s neck in a way that had come to feel horrifyingly reassuring.  

Adrian turned to shoot him a dark look, spurred even more by his nerves, the tips of his ears aflame all over again. “I don’t need you to protect me! If I did you wouldn’t keep me tied up.”

“I keep you tied up for aesthetic purposes.” Demarion’s smirk broadened.

“Yeah? Well, then, I’d hate to be a liability to you in a fight. I’m not sure dead is really my aesthetic so any chance you’ll untie my hands too?”

Demarion laughed. “Mm. No chance.” Still, after a moment, his laugh faded as did his smirk.  His gaze turned to the horizon. “I do recommend you stay close to me, Adrian. It will not serve you well to wander too far here – there are plenty who would not hesitate to turn a pretty profit off a handsome young Navy Captain.”

Adrian’s stomach rolled. He was reminded again why he didn’t like pirates. A thought struck in shortly after, and he looked at Demarion again. “…you’re taking me with you?”

“We have business.”

Adrian blinked at him, but as maddeningly as ever didn’t receive any further explanation.

Demarion dragged him down the gangplank some thirty minutes later with a grip like iron, pausing to exchange some quick words with his crew about what price they absolutely should not go under on the wares they’d robbed off Adrian’s ship. Then he was off, hand less reassuring and now more controlling on the back of Adrian’s neck as he steered him through the crowds.

They attracted attention. Rather, Demarion did. People parted minutely as he stalked down the streets. No one seemed to feel the need to overtly question Adrian being hauled cuffed through port though, and he wasn’t entirely certain how he felt like that.

“Are you planning to tell me where you’re taking me?” he asked. He wondered if he should be nervous. A tight knot had started to form in the pit of his belly, uneasy. He considered running but the thought of being utterly outnumbered and cuffed alone in the middle of a pirate port without so much as a familiar face put him even more at unease still. “Because, you know, now would be a great time to mention it.”

“An associate of mine, who trades in unusual items. She has a great deal of knowledge in antiquities. I suggest you keep your mouth shut for once in your life.”

Demarion swerved them into a small side street, cobbled and bright with silks, and rapped on a door before promptly shoving Adrian inside. “Elandra,” he called out, “I’ve got something for you.”

Adrian’s stomach lurched proper. He took a half step back, uncertainly, but there was nowhere to escape with Demarion’s arm curled around him.

A woman appeared out of the backroom, not seeming surprised that Demarion had just barged in. She was middle-aged, with dark hair pinned up with a dozen different writing quills and pens. She had a cruel mouth and clever eyes, pale as the sea on a wintry day. A knife rested in one hand.  

The room around them was stuffed full of trinkets and treasures to an even greater collection and oddity than Demarion’s quarters.

“…a pretty boy.” Her voice flattened. “You’ll want three doors down.”

Demarion didn’t seem afraid.

Adrian wanted to protest that he wasn’t a boy. He was twenty six for crying out loud, and Demarion surely couldn’t be more than thirty. That wasn’t the point. “What do you mean you’ve got something for her?” he hissed. “I’m not a gift for your – “ Gift wouldn’t be the word. Sold. Surely he wouldn’t sell the locket? He didn’t need Adrian here for that. Then why were they there?

Demarion huffed a laugh and shoved Adrian into a seat. “Easy now, don’t hurt yourself. I prefer to keep my handsome Navy Captain entirely to myself.” His arms slid around Adrian from behind, deftly unbuttoning his shirt as Adrian spluttered and wondered at how Demarion had left him playing confused catch up again.

Would it really have been that hard for him to tell Adrian the angle before he started playing it?

The locket.

Of course it was about the locket, but why here and now and her?

Elandra’s gaze fixed on it, before snapping to Demarion. Her eyes were wide and afraid. The next second they were cool enough that Adrian wondered if he’d imagined it.  

Demarion’s hand splayed on his now bare chest, one hand resting on Adrian’s heart, holding him still and pressed flush where he couldn’t presumably get in too much trouble.  

“Where did you get that locket, boy?” she asked quietly.

She had a look on her face just slightly like Demarion had dragged a viper into her house. He supposed anything that ended up with vicious scars on someone’s chest wasn’t nice but his mother…

He didn’t want bad answers for the only solid token he had on her.

He said nothing.

“So you recognize it?” Demarion stroked his calloused fingers over the chain. “I thought it might be an item of interest to you. Antique. Solid gold. Exquisite craftsmanship.”

Adrian realized abruptly that, whoever she was and however well Demarion did or did not know her, she knew nothing about the scars on Demarion’s skin.

Her fingers flexed around her blade. She stayed silent for a moment, seeming to weigh up her words. “I don’t know where you picked that up,” she said, eventually, “and I don’t know what exactly you’re playing at, but I suggest you stop.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

She seemed to weigh something up in her head, leaning against the opposite table. “Because sometimes there are people in the world who even you shouldn’t steal from. That locket is branded property. You don’t want it in your hands when it doesn’t belong to you.”

“How excitingly ominous,” Demarion purred. “Am I cursed? Tell me I’m cursed now. You know I love a good bit of cursed treasure for my reputation.”

Her voice sharpened, knife-edged, cold enough to make arctic waters seem warm. “Don’t mock me when I’m helping you, you little shit.”  

“I suppose you’re going to offer to take it off my hands, next?”

Branded property. Adrian’s ears rang, his mind flashing nauseously to the raised white lines carved deep into Demarion’s skin

“Actually, I was going to suggest you slit the boy’s throat and toss him and that locket to the bottom of the ocean.” Elandra’s voice made artic waters seem warm.

Adrian jolted. The uneasy feeling was back full force. He shifted in Demarion’s hold, and the pirate’s grip tightened viciously.

“If you’re so worried, tell me who it belongs to.” Demarion flashed Elandra a smile. “I can return it.”

“It belongs to the king of the sea.”

“Seas don’t have kings, or masters. If they did it would be me.”

In other circumstances, Adrian might have snorted at that reply. He still didn’t know why Demarion had brought him along for this – unless it was some strange courtesy due to the fact it was his locket. But that didn’t seem like Demarion’s style.

More to the point, his head reeled around sea kings and heirlooms. Why would he ever have a sea king’s heirloom? And, if he did, why would Demarion have the scars as if he were some marked heirloom too?

Unless it wasn’t an heirloom at all? He had no proof, really. Only his mother’s word and she couldn’t have seen a pretty locket and told him a pretty tale. It would explain the lack of key. It could all just be a lie.

“Don’t turn this into a fight, pirate.” Elandra shifted her stance. “You’re on land now, you won’t win.”

The silence stretched for a moment, taut and electric. Then Demarion hauled Adrian up out of the chair again, and buttoned up his shirt. The locket slipped hidden beneath it. Their eyes met. Demarion’s was as fierce as they had been when he fished Adrian from out of the ocean.

“We’ll be going then,” Demarion said, still watching Adrian for a beat, before he tossed a small pouch of coins on the table and towed him out in front of him again.

The night air was humid as the door slammed shut behind them.

“Slave markers,” Adrian whispered. “You’re-“

“Hush, hush, Captain.” Demarion pressed a hand over his mouth, muffling the rest of the comment. He pressed Adrian and his bound hands back into the wall, into shadow. “Our rat is about to run.”

The plan clicked. You could have told me. He shot Demarion a reproachful look. Damn it, he knew he was a prisoner, but –

But what? Adrian’s stare flittered to Demarion’s covered chest and back up to his face.

“You are very expressive,” the pirate captain said. “Lying is not your skillset and I don’t want her attention on you.”

Adrian still wasn’t happy. He frowned at Demarion, but fell silent though, mostly as a reward to try and encourage further honesty in future. He fell silent and trying not to think about how close they were pressed together again, and the fact that they were at port, with all the sounds of a small thriving port sweeping over them.

I am not very expressive. 

“Adrian,” Demarion murmured. “You’re doing it at me right now.” 

Then know I will bite you. 

Demarion rolled his eyes, but dropped his hand. “So feisty…”

Elandra hurried out the building some ten minutes later, a scarf drawn over her head.

She was a difficult woman to follow, weaving in and out of the great crowds of people, slipping in and out of shadows just the same.

Adrian was struck, abruptly, by the largeness of land. Port was a dizzying swirl of colour and scent and sound, ever shifting. The sea could appear vast and endless at times, indeed it was often described as just that, but a ship was tightly contained. There were only ever so many places one could go. Even on a large ship, it wouldn’t take more than a few minutes of effort to cross one side to another.

Here, on land, one could walk for days.

Don’t turn this into a fight, pirate. You’re on land now, you won’t win.

Adrian’s heart pounded. Could they be sure she wasn’t leading them into a trap? Expecting them to follow?

She knew this port. Demarion did too, perhaps, but not like her – his eyes locked on her with a fixed intent that Adrian had grown used to seeing directed at anyone else but himself. It made him feel oddly ungrounded. For all the busyness of being Captain, Adrian was used to his gaze meeting Demarion’s when he looked at the pirate, more often than not.

Adrian stayed close.

It would be easy to fall back, now that Demarion’s attention had slipped the most it ever had. It might be Adrian’s chance at escape. Commandeer another ship. Flee. Head back to his Navy. Tell the Admiral all that had happened.

His curiosity held him tighter than the cuffs or Demarion’s hand on his bicep did.

Elandra led them then down another alley. Possibly she was trying to shake them off, having realized that she was being followed. She walked faster than ever before. Adrian stumbled a little, unused to cobbled streets, unbalanced by his restraints.

They turned a corner.

A knife narrowly missed Adrian’s throat.

He hissed out a breath, jolting back. His hands jerked for a weapon only for the cuffs to catch at his wrists again. He would have shot Demarion a look if he dared take his eyes off the knife.

Demarion drew his sword, stepping between Adrian and the direction of the blade.

Adrian whipped around at a sound behind him, pressing his back against Demarion’s. “Uh…”

More figures slipped out of the shadows from behind them. Circling. Surrounding. He hadn’t even heard them come up, beneath the bustle of the city. There was sound everywhere, beyond the roar of waves and the predictable creaks of a well-known ship.

He scanned them, assessing, weighing up his opportunities and best gambling chances.

“I told you to stop this, Demarion,” Elandra called. “You should have listened to me.”

“You knew I’d follow you,” Demarion said. His muscles were tensed against Adrian.

“You never listen to anyone,” she replied.

Who were all of these people? Some scheme that she’d set up? Or had she managed to get a message out before they even began following? It couldn’t be simply be bad luck.

Adrian counted two figures in front of him. There would be more on Demarion’s side – including at least one person capable of hurtling a knife wicked fast through the air.

“You’re not going to try and kill me, El,” Demarion said. “You’d lose too much business.”

“Give us the boy.”

“I’m afraid the pretty Captain is not for sale.”

“I’m afraid we’re not looking to buy,” came another voice. “We’ll be taking him off your hands one way or another.”

Adrian never imagined he’d want to be Demarion’s prisoner. Yet. He twisted his wrists in the cuffs, turning his head slightly to glance over Demarion’s shoulder.

He counted one, two, three, four including Elandra.

He’d faced worst odds, but always at sea. With his crew. Not with a pirate who he didn’t trust or know, on unfamiliar and too still terrain.

He released a breath.

Six against two.

“Please don’t kill me!”

Adrian hadn’t begged once in the last month. He hadn’t begged when Demarion had him whipped bloody on the deck, or on that first night when the humiliation and the uncertainty burned sick like swallowing too much sea water. He hadn’t begged that first day, bound on his knees before the most notorious Pirate Captain on the seas, outnumbered and expecting death.

His voice now was hoarse and small and shaky.

Demarion froze.

Adrian could feel that intent gaze on him now, taking him to pieces.

“I’m not even with him,” Adrian said. “He – he took me prisoner – he left my ship to shatter –“ He laughed, a strangled and frantic sound. “Don’t kill me for him.”

“Adrian—”

“—See now, you’re better off just handing him over, pirate. He doesn’t want you. And I’m sure you’d like to do business in this port again too.”

Adrian met Demarion’s gaze for the flicker of a heartbeat.

Demarion’s fingers flexed on his arm, rough and possessive, before he let go.

Adrian edged around him, dry mouthed, and stepped out of the shadow of the alleyway towards the figures gathered around them.

For all the bustle of port, this part was empty. Or at the very least anyone still in their house was making a concentrated effort to not look out of their windows, or simply didn’t care to.

Adrian’s breath settled even and steady. His gaze flitted over the figures, mapping them out around him. He felt the cold tightness of the chains around his wrists and wondered how a man with slave markings, even a pirate, could bear to keep someone in shackles.

“Thank you,” he gabbled. “Oh my god, thank you. I have money – information –“

Elendra’s hand reached out to him with a greedy sort of terror, her eyes as cold as they had been at her house.  He was just another unusual trinket to collect, wasn’t he? Only this time he was property too dangerous to steal. Something to be returned to owner as if he even knew what that meant.

He resisted the urge to touch his mother’s locket warm around his neck.

Her hand closed around his arm, reeling him in the rest of the way into the circle of armed men.

Their hands rested on weapons, their stares seared straight through him.

Adrian glanced at Demarion.

Demarion was flint for all his time at sea, his gaze ever-waiting for a spark to turn it to flame. At least when he looked back at Adrian.

Demarion drew a weapon, drew their attention to him,

The men turned to the Pirate Captain.

Elandra’s hands twitched to throw another knife.

Adrian lashed out.

He seized a blade from Elandra’s belt and smashed his elbow into her throat. He barely heard her wheeze over the roar of blood in his ears but felt her recoil. He dodged the slash of her knife and swiped at the man next to him – focused. Get the wrist, or the throat, or the back of the knee. Incapacitate them from action fast.

The man dropped with a bellow.

Adrian met Elandra’s knives in a whirl, stumbling back on the too steady land.

The knife clattered out of his hand. Too predictable, too slow, off-balanced by the cuffs.

A smile whipped across her face – the first true one he’d seen.

Adrian pounced for the back of one of the other men, hooking his chained wrists tight around his throat so the metal pulled back to pin the larger man against him. He rammed them both, other man first, into Elandra and her wicked quick knives. She stumbled back at the force.

The man writhed in his hold, gasping like a hooked fish.

The man slammed him backwards, crushing Adrian backwards.

Adrian groaned, pain throbbing up his spine. The taste of blood flooded copper in his mouth.

Adrian began to draw back, only for the man to seize hold of the cuffs to keep him in place, unable to dodge and spin, exposing Adrian’s back. He swore. Glanced over his shoulder at number four coming at him.

Demarion hurtled into the battle in a blur of deadly movement.

Adrian snapped his focus back on the man in his arms, squeezing his grip tighter, constricting.

The man struggled harder, ramming him into another wall, snarling.

Adrian’s head spun.

Demarion drove his sword into the man’s stomach. His face was inches from Adrian’s, both of their breathing hard and ragged. There was blood on Demarion’s cheek and his eyes were wild.

Demarion Strand. Adrian remembered the tales.

The man’s snarl turned to a cry as Demarion’s knife twisted, the pirate’s eyes still on Adrian, before he stepped back.

Adrian unhooked his aching arms and stumbled back from the man as he crumpled in a heap on the floor between them, blood spilling across the stones.

There was no sign of Elandra anywhere.

The only remaining figures were on the floor.

Adrian swore under his breath. “She’s gone.” She could be anywhere – they had nothing but bruises! He moved to scour the remaining for any sign of life.

Demarion caught his arm.

Adrian shoved down the adrenaline instinct to attack, jaw clenching, muscles tensed.

“Are you hurt?” Demarion asked, studying him.

“No more than you. We got lucky.”

“That wasn’t luck,” Demarion smirked. “That was you.”

Adrian didn’t quite know what to say to that, but he weighed it up as he scanned the bodies on the floor. None of them were moving.

“You really are a beautiful fighter,” Demarion murmured.

Adrian swallowed, and pulled his arm away from the warm press of Demarion’s fingers. “You should have bloody uncuffed me then.”

***

They found their way limping back to the ship, alert for the possibility of a future attack, stiff with disappointment and questions. Or, at least, Adrian was. Who knew about Demarion.

Why had the pirate even brought him along? Obviously, he hadn’t brought his crew because none of them knew about the scars on his chest. But why Adrian? He doubted it was the courtesy of it being his locket. Adrian would have suggested next that the pirate wanted something to trade if everything went to hell, but Demarion’s reaction suggested otherwise.

So what had he expected to find following Elandra? Not an ambush.

“You wanted to see the look on my face,” Adrian said, quietly, strangely stung. His stupid expressive face. He was means to an end, but in what stupid second had he ever thought otherwise? Adrian was a prisoner. Heat of battle or not. “Well, sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t recognize any of them.”

“Mm. They didn’t recognize you either.” Demarion didn’t apologise.

Adrian wanted to slap him.

You led me into a fight blind and didn’t have the decency to uncuff me. But what had he expected? And Demarion hadn’t expected the fight. He should have expected it, perhaps, but that was a different matter.

The Leviathan loomed familiar on the harbour and Adrian came to a stop. Was he really going to just walk back onto the ship where he was a prisoner? He was curious, yes, and Demarion was a puzzle piece towards answers, but…

Demarion stopped too, studying his expression. “You’re angry.”

“Maybe I just don’t know how someone with marks like yours gets off keeping someone prisoner.”

His adrenaline had drained cold and tired and irritable. His fingers flexed in the useless cuffs.

“We’re not doing this now,” Demarion said, warning.

Adrian snorted. “That’s convenient. Are we ever doing it? I suppose we don’t have to as far as you’re concerned.” He jangled the cuffs.

Demarion’s expression was annoyingly blank, not betraying even the smallest flicker or nuance that Adrian had grown so used to finding. “It’s idiotic to stay in the open. You gave us the element of surprise, Adrian. We won’t have that again.”

It was true. Maddening, but true.

He followed Demarion to the Captain’s quarters and hated himself for it just slightly. What a useless night.

Demarion slammed him up against the door when it shut, fingers wound tight in the front of Adrian’s shirt.

Adrian’s shirt caught. He shifted his knee to –

Demarion pressed closer, flattening against him, pinning his limbs in place with a ruthlessly intimate efficiency.

“You are going to stop referring to my scars in public where anyone can hear me. Do you understand?”

“No,” Adrian growled. “I don’t understand. I don’t understand any of this. You won’t tell me.”

They stared at each other for a beat, breathing as hard as if they’d just fought another battle.

“Look,” Adrian said. “I get that I’m just some Navy Captain prisoner you took, but whatever that all was has gone beyond that. Don’t you think? I thought-“ He didn’t know what he’d thought. He’d still been in cuffs this last week or so, but it had been different. He’d thought they were working together in some way. “You didn’t even uncuff me.”

“Considering what you can do in cuffs I believe that was quite wise. I’m sure the only reason you haven’t actually slit my throat yet is that you wouldn’t make it out of this port or off this ship alive if you did.”

Adrian abruptly hated him just as much as he had the first night. Maddening bastard.

He jolted against the grip and wondered why he’d ever missed the confined spaces of a ship.

“I don’t like it when you mention my scars in public,” Demarion said. “Especially not considering the reaction people have to just seeing the same pattern on a locket.”

Adrian stilled, staring at him. He hadn’t thought of that. Demarion had made such light of it the first time he had tried to question, outside of Elandra’s home. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t quite know what to say, or if it would make Demarion clam up. Baiting had often made him talk, but not…not Adrian suspected, ever about that. “You knew she would have that reaction.”

“No. I just knew that the mark signified branded property.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“You didn’t look at me like property.”

Adrian didn’t know why Demarion was telling him this now. There was probably some point or purpose or manipulation behind it. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t true, either. A sickening knot lodged in his stomach. If his mother’s locket carried a slaver’s mark…

“You’re going to surrender yourself to me completely by the time I’m done with you, and then beg me to still keep you.” Demarion murmured the words again, his hand sliding to the locket around Adrian’s throat. “I never heard you beg before today.”

“I wasn’t actually-“

“I know.”

Adrian’s brow furrowed.

“It’s what he said to me,” Demarion continued. His attention was still fixed on the locket.

“The king of the seas?”

“I didn’t presume to know his name at the time. I never have.”

“Did he…” Adrian didn’t want to ask. He had to ask. “Did he look like me?”

Demarion snorted. “No, pretty captain. Not like you.” It was a faint tease, some clutch at Demarion’s normal commentary, but it still somehow made Adrian smile.

He wondered, smile slipping, if Demarion had begged. Adrian couldn’t imagine the pirate captain he knew ever doing so. “Let me guess,” he said. “You wanted to see how I’d react if you said it to me.”

“I was curious.”

Adrian stayed silent for a moment, mulling it over, trying to organise his thoughts. “Did I satisfy your curiosity?”

“You only ever give me more questions, Adrian Murphy.” Demarion pulled back then, releasing him.

Adrian sagged against the wall.

A small silver key hit Adrian’s face. It clattered to the floor.

Adrian’s heart kicked in his chest, eyes widening. “You’re a man of honour. You tried to protect your man, and really despite all sense you saved my life today,” Demarion said softly. “So I’ll do you a trade. I’ll give you this key – and you get me that one. Deal?”

The key vanished again under Demarion’s boot.

Somehow, they’d been ambushed. 

Somehow, someone had expected them.

“You know,” the prince said, “many would consider chopping off your hands to be the rightful punishment for thievery. You wouldn’t be able to take what doesn’t belong to you then.”

The thief’s stomach lurched. 

The prince circled her slowly, stopping behind her back and leaning down to capture the tip of her glove and pull it away off her hand. First one, then the other. “Tell me, why do you take what doesn’t belong to you, thief?”

“Shouldn’t you know the answer to that, sire?” Contempt dripped from her tongue. “You take that what doesn’t belong to you all the time - it’s just in your case you dress it up fancy and call it tithes and taxes and Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori. You’re right. I should rob you off your hands.”

A smile flickered amused over the prince’s lips as he circled to stand in front of her again. “Ah, so you consider yourself a rebel, thief. A hero. A charming rogue, perhaps. You steal to help the poor and the downtrodden, redistributing the wealth of the rich to those who you consider more deserving of it. Is that it?” 

She said nothing, watching him warily. 

The prince reached out for her jacket next, shoving it down off her shoulders in a clink of stolen goods. His hand caressed along her skin, retreating with various purses of gold, a jewel, a necklace. The little thefts secreted away in the folds of her clothing. 

He let them fall to the floor of the cell with a disgusting carelessness, as if they were no more precious than pennies on the street. “Of course,” he continued, “one would assume that you would steal bread instead of bracelets if that was the case. But we all need to lie to ourselves sometimes, don’t we?” 

“Let’s not pretend you know anything about me.” 

What did stolen bread really fix? It was one piece of bread, and one servant would inevitably be hurt for the stealing of it even if it wasn’t their fault. Some cook would get in trouble. No, wealth brought bread. Wealth brought power to change things. Wealth made you something that this arrogant prince and his like would bother listening to. 

“Oh, I know everything about you,” the prince said. “You see, the items you steal require certain disguises to get close to, certain tricks, which reveal your skills and proclivities and turn. You’re obvious. The items you pick betray your heart.” 

“I see no reason why pretty things should be locked up for you alone to enjoy their beauty,” she replied, keeping her tone as neutral and light as she could. “You don’t even use what you have, you just accumulate more of it. I can see why they call you the Dragon Prince.”  

“I do consider myself quite the collector.” The prince reached out again, this time for her mask. “Although, I feel your judgment may be a little harsh. I get plenty of use and pleasure out of the treasures I keep. But you wouldn’t know anything about the pleasure of ownership, would you, thief?” 

She jerked her head away from the touch, heart slamming. 

His other hand shot out, seizing a tight fistful of her hair, holding her still. 

“You’ve never owned anything in your life, have you?” he asked, softly almost. His eyes weren’t soft. They were as cold as the jewels he hoarded. “But you’ve wanted to and oh, how you despise yourself for the wanting. And why not, when they wouldn’t even notice what was gone? They have so much. You have nothing. The people you love have nothing. You are, in fact, nothing.”

Her insides squeezed. Nothing. “Go to hell.” 

“Nothing is a very good thing for a thief to be,” he murmured. “It makes you hard to catch when there’s merely different masks for people to make grabs at.”

His hand rose again, and she could feel his finger on her cheek through the dark mask covering her face. 

Her head twitched without much use.  

He smiled. “Let’s see what you really are.” He pulled the mask away deftly, but didn’t toss it aside as he had his jewels. He didn’t look away from her face.

She swallowed hard, but jutted her chin up in defiance, glaring up at him. 

“Hello, nothing,” he said, velvet-voiced and admiring. “Don’t worry your sensibilities - I know just what to do with you, you won’t be going to waste.”

She had to get out of there.