This is my fourth month doing this, and honestly it's so much fun. I love going back at the end of the month and remembering all the amazing work I've read. I love getting to hopefully help promote writers. I love seeing for myself how much I'm reading and from who. I hope you all keep enjoying this as well.
The list:
In order I reblogged, not order written
Multiple writing from the same author are listed together
(but I tried to read from as many different authors as I could this month)
Must have a Read More
Writers: Please put word counts, thanks!
Previous Monthly Lists | Fic Rec Tag | My Masterlist
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@jawllines
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summary: challengers are arising as life on the ship continues. not only that, but all kinds of tension is building between you and harry. good and bad... and something that feels forbidden to even entertain in your minds eye.
warnings: swearing, tension, fluff, sexual mentions, talks of violence, harry being so so fine, mentions of kidnapping, one bed trope.
a/n: i cannot believe how long this took me to write, Iâm praying I can do part three in half the time. thank you for your patience my loves<3
âââ
There are plenty of moments you are left wondering how in control of your life you actually are.
If you truly have any power at allâ because sometimes it feels like everything is spinning relentlessly out of your grasp.
Well, especially under your current circumstances. Since your last 4 days have been spent as someone elseâs prisoner.
Which, you couldnât have predicted would lead you into the bathroom of your own captor and being left to bathe with his own personal collection of things.
Being in there was a shock enough as it is because⊠of course youâd noticed how well-groomed he appeared. But to see that he actually had things like soap and hair washâŠ
Another stereotype you presumed, was that pirates were horrendous when it came to maintaining a sense of personal hygiene. But it was another thing you were evidently incorrect about when it came to Harry. And seemingly the rest of his crew as well.
As you washed off in the shower, scrubbing away the collected dirt, dust and sweat off of your body, you felt almost like a new person.
It felt inexplicably good to use soap again, which is a luxury you took for granted much too often back home. But finally getting rid of all the residue on your skin was an amazing feeling. Including washing away the salt from your ocean dip a few days ago. Which was stuck in the crevices and creases of your skin, like it was slowly dehydrating you from the outside in.
So you took probably longer than you should in his shower⊠but it didnât seem as time ticked on that he was in his room or at the bathroom door.
Not even when you eventually stepped out from the water, drying yourself off with a rag-like towel. Looking at yourself in the mirror, taking in your frame, and how the skin under your eyes is a tad less sunken in after a long shower.
Maybe it was from stress, or lack of sleep. But either way, you rubbed your fingers underneath them. Attempting to smooth out the remaining darkness there, as if that would work.
Settling on the fact what was left of them was only temporary, you decide to just get into the clothes Harry had given you. Pretending it doesnât weird you out as you slide his black shirt over your body.
It was far from tight on you, and the fabric probably couldâve swallowed you up as it clung to you. And as you pulled the soft pants up, they were equally as big.
You gazed in the mirror again, looking at how his clothes fit you. Struggling to envision him in such simplistic clothing.
Suddenly, his body filling out the once baggy pants and shirt is taking up the confines of your mind. They certainly would fit him properly. And likely hug the muscle built on his chest... you have to swat the mental image away, before it conjures into something more.
So immediately, you jump to distract yourself. Eyes roaming around the bathroom until they lock onto the cabinet beneath the bathroom bench.
Your hands don't hesitate, coming to the cupboards to open them, pulling the handles so they unlatch.
Itâs sadly sparse inside. Almost entirely empty despite a few miscellaneous items. A hair comb, a dagger sheath and a⊠sewing kit? You frown at the sewing kit, unable to imagine him doing anything as delicate and time consuming as hand sewing.
However, he does wear intricate outfits. He seemingly prizes them, actually. So, it seems fitting that if wear and tear got to them, he'd be keen to fix them. That's the conclusion you're going to go with anyway.
But regardless, in the small wooden confines, there is nothing you can steal for your own benefit. You think of shutting it, but in the silence something urges you to open the small plastic box anyways.
You drop onto your knees, sliding the container to the edge of the shelving, and hooking your fingers into the latches and pulling the lid upwards.
There are several little threading needlesâ even clothing pinsâ placed among regular cotton thread in an array of colours. But thereâs also multiple wads of fishing line, which immediately makes you wonder why it's in there. Trying to pinpoint what kind of clothing needs fishing line as a stitching.
Youâre about to pull it out, but conveniently, thereâs a rattle outside of the door. One that indicates someone is coming into his quarters. You hold back a frustrated sigh, suddenly wishing you had of taken a shorter shower.
Your body kicks into quick movement, hurrying to click his sewing box shut and put it back where it was in the first place. Pushing hard on the latches that now suddenly donât want to cooperate with your haste.
Itâs silent outside of the footsteps that trail to the bathroom door, making you wince as the latch on the cupboard echoes a tiny clack as itâs shut.
The feet stop at the door, and your breath is held from where youâre kneeling. Not sure if youâre hoping for Harry or not.
âY/N?â His voice calls with a rap on the door, âyâdecent?â
âIââ you slowly rise from the floor, cringing at the creak of the boards beneath your feet as you stand.
âYea⊠yep.â
The lock jingles and the door swings open, revealing Harryâ who looks no different to how he did almost an hour ago. Black blouse, black pants. Nothing had changed.
You feel suddenly vulnerable standing in his clothes in front of him, and you have to force yourself not to wring your hands at the bottom of his long shirt.
âMm, nice to see you actually showered, âstead of tryinâ to break out.â He comments, nonchalantly stepping in through the door. Eyes scanning you in his clothes.
As he steps closer, the only difference you notice is the red bruising around his knuckles, on the hand hung down by his waist.
âOh, I tried.â You mused, attempting to push confidence in your toneâ adverting your gaze away from his bruised hand.
He hums, still staring at your frame, âTo no avail, I see.â
âI suppose not.â You remarked, to which he shrugs. His body language is casual, but youâre still unconvinced that everything is normal.
Now you're staring at him, trying to decipher what the fuck is happening right now. Given the fact nothing about this seems planned.
âBut I am confused...â You prompt, and to it, he cocks an eyebrow.
He steps forward, âGo on.â
âWhat exactly have you done in the last hour?â It comes from your mouth as an accusation. One that draws out a rash laugh from him pink mouth.
âWhy is it you assume Iâve done something?â He's awfully close to you now, and it highlights the features on his face. Ones you're desperately trying to pay no attention to. But it's much harder to ignore the fall of his hair over green eyes when its up close.
âBecause that just seems the most likely.â You stated. Walking to brush past himâshoulder passing his chest with a light touchâ the bathroom feeling far too cramped for the two of you. And the air around you had suddenly gone hot with tension on your end.
You make your way out into his quarters, making use of your need for distance, and deciding to inspect the room while you could.
Harry turns on his heel, watching as you now suddenly walk around his bedroom like it was your birth right. Hands trailing over frames on the wall, and picking up random objects heâd strewn on the floor.
He sighs at this, part of him wanting to stop you from snooping around his place, but heâs also undeniably curious at your mannerisms while looking around. The way your eyebrows pull down into a frown as you pick up an array of things. Including odd ones, like a bag of dried out barnacles, and whetstones block he uses to sharpen his blades with.
âI bought ya up here tâshower. Because unlike many, I have a hygiene standard, darlinâ.â He says, and you turn from where you were touching the cover of his unmade bed. Fingertips noting the softness of it. He sleeps here⊠your brain announces as though itâs unfathomable to imagine him at rest in his own bed. Which was tucked into the corner of the all-wood room, three circular windows running beside its edge.
Looking at his hand again, finally getting the courage to bring it up.
âAnd your knuckles are swelling up. All bruised. They werenât like that earlier.â
He smirks, completely bypassing your question, âlooking at my hands, ay? Didnât pick you to be that kind of girl.â
You sneer at his stupid tease, irritated at his arrogance.
âJust seemed all rather impromptu, and now youâre back here with bruised up fists that you didnât have earlier.â You challenge, after walking slowly away from his bed.
âYou donât stop until you get an answer yâlike. Is that right, princess?â He scoffs.
But he knows youâre brilliant at reading someone, tragically so. And itâs obvious youâre not as stupid as he wishes. Because he watches as your eyes narrow, clear that you know heâs dodging your questions for a reason.
âAnd you donât give answers unless it suits you best, I take, captain?â
To that, he chuckles, and decides to prove you right, walking over to grab your wrist with the unscathed hand.
âMâclothes are a bit big on youâŠâ he comments, partially using it as an excuse to drag his eyes down your body again. Completely changing the subject.
âTomorrow, weâre pulling into port, weâll buy some stuff that actually fits you.â Despite being the one to decide this, there's a pang of disappointment in his chest at you getting out of his oversized clothes. He ignores it. The hand that's becoming all too familiar to your wrist is leading you out of his quarters, and your eyes dart to take in the room a final time. Hoping to commit it to memory.
âThatâs a bit doting. Are you going to take me with you, or is that a far fetched wish?â You drawl, already figuring youâll be locked away while they roam about. Buying you clothes while you sit prisoner.
You should probably just be grateful for the fact he is willing to spend gold on you, given the circumstances. But who would you be kidding if you tried to portray that right now. âThanks for buying me clothes while I sat locked up in your jail cell!â He would audibly cackle if you said that.
He chuckles at your bitter sounding tone, âIâd bet youâd be rather upset if we went into town without you.â
You scowl at him, having to bite your tongue as to not say anything rash, choosing not to respond at all.
Heâs taken you outside of his room, and locked his door with the small ring of keys he keeps on him. Beginning a slow walk along the corridors of the ship, seemingly in no hurry at all. He pulls your arm to rest firmly between his elbow and ribcage as you stroll the halls, as though youâre on some kind of leisurely walk.
To your silent annoyance, he rolls his eyes with amusement, knowing you'll hold quite the grudge if he doesn't take you out when the ships docks at Sintir. âIâll think about it, dove.â
The two of you walk in quiet for a minute. Clacking of shoes against decking echoes through the hallways below deck. You get lost in thought, until his voice quickly coaxes you out it.
âWeâre stopping for two nights.â He suddenly clarifies for you, âAfter we buy you some suitable clothes, maybe you can come into town after dark.â
Youâre skeptical of his offer, given that itâs not a guarantee. But youâre desperate to just get off this ship for a bit. Not even in an attempt to escape, you know that wouldnât work even if you tried. Purely to be on land again, and around people who arenât felons at sea.
So you soften your frown a bit, going quiet for a few moments. You decide to try the hopeless approach, no matter how weak your faith is in it. But maybe you'll get some pity from the man beside you, âI miss the towns, and being on solid earth, thatâs all. It's all I've ever known.â
You were already embarrassed at how the helpless tone sounded on your voice. Maybe because is wasn't genuine, but either way, internally you gagged a little.
He laughs abruptly at your words, almost shocked that you attempted to persuade him with that.
âNo need to pull the damsel in distress card.â Heâd shook his head, smiling wide with humor at your expense, âMy decision is impartial to a poor attempt at manipulation.â
âItâs not manipulation!â You turn to snap at him, dropping the meek mannerisms just as quickly as you put them on.
âOh but it is, darling.â He bumps your shoulder with his own, turning a corner that reveals another set of stairs, âyâbad as any other pirate. Outside of the shitty lying.â
You shake your head, huffing out air from your nose as he leads you up them. The annoying thing is that he's right. However you still fight to prove your point.
âCan you blame me? I just want to go into a town and do something normal. Have a little stability amongst this shit show!â Your grumble made him chuckle, as it seemed to always do. Like as if he could not take a word you say seriously, even if he tried.
âI suppose I canât fault you for it.â He hums, pushing a hatch open after unlinking your arms. He went through it first so he could help you up. Hands steadying you once your feet come in contact with the floor. Because suddenly, youâre on the bow of the ship. The afternoon sun out and warm on your skin as the waves are calmly lapping over themselves.
You momentarily forget that youâre pissed off with him. All you can focus on is the fresh air and golden sun.
His eyes take in your deep inhalation, and the way you look so relieved to be outside. Understandable given the fact you spent 2 days locked in a tiny room.
A feeling he canât name stirs in his chest. And the voice in the back of his head is suddenly encouraging taking you into Sintir while the ships docked there.
âItâs⊠nice out.â You exhale, your gaze veering to him momentarily as you speak. His green eyes are locked onto yours, and you quickly make to slide your attention back out on the blue water.
Which is easy to look at, since it doesnât technically end. Just melts into the equally blue horizon where the sky meets the sea.
âIt almost always is, up this far north.â He nods, pushing the sudden emotion away. âIt wonât stay that way once we leave the port. Thereâs a storm well in due this week.â
You mentally file away that youâre up north, but a part of you gets anxious with the idea of being out while thereâs a storm.
On land, you always enjoyed them. They brought a sense of serenity to you. The thunder and rain sometimes came so loud in Kelna it drowned out everything going on in your life. Temporarily, of course, however it was nice while it lasted. But on water was a different story. Youâd heard theyâre rocky rides, treacherous even. That ships often enter a storm, and don't come out the other side.
âDonât look sâworried.â He comments at your suddenly terrified energy, he places a palm on your back to usher you forwards.
âJust that I really donât want to die out here.â You sigh, not denying the fear since itâs clearly that obvious.
You walk willingly wherever heâs decided to take you, sharing a short wave to the man up by the ships wheel. He had messy head of hair, one that you imagined when it was windy, would blow all over the place.
âHave faith in us, Y/N. Weâve weathered many storms jusâ fine.â
âOi, H,â the scruffy pirate you just waved at calls down to his captain, as he tracks down the stairs with you. Going from the steering deck to the main deck.
Harry tilts his head over his shoulder, pausing on the stairs where you both stand, indicating heâs listening with a nod. You briefly trail your eyes over his side profile. The curve of his nose, and the cut of his jaw.
But his crewmate barely gets a couple words out before heâs interrupted shortly after, âHow did ya go wiââ
âFine, Liam.â Abruptly, Harry cuts in. Not rudely, but curtly.
The man on the wheel, who now has a name to youâ Liamâ alternates his gaze between the two of you suddenly. Like heâs dawning upon why he just got interrupted.
âAh, I see.â He nods, quickly busying himself with what he was doing beforehand.
Harry continues walking you down a set off stairs, back down to main deck.
âIâm going to assume that was about earlier, and has something to do with why you dragged me out of my cell.â You say, attempting indifference.
âYouâd assume right.â He nods, but you wait for him to say something moreâ which he doesnât.
You sigh in frustration, âI'll also take that's why I'm still up here, and not locked back up."
You're trying to gauge yet again how much of his actions are kindness, and how much of them are out of an attempt to gain something.
"Not why you're out here, 'm tryna give ya a bit of sun." He brings you to a stop at the far left of the main deck, smirking as he talks, "I've got to patch up a old sail, incase we need it. No better place to do it but out here."
He pays no mind to you as he kneels down to a storage unit a few feet away from you in the floor, unlatching it, and hauling out a huge canvas sail it. The sheet crinkles as he carries it out, and dumps it on the wooden deck.
You frown, wondering if he's the only one on the ship who can do any sort of needlework... because it seems like the only reasonable option as to why he's doing it himself. So you ask, "Why exactly are you doing it?"
He laughs, striding back over to pull a much larger sewing kit from the bottom of the storage space, and also sheet of spare canvas.
You're still standing as you try to conjure up an answer that doesn't sound unbelievably stupid. But he is cross-legged, pulling the damaged side of the sail over his muscular thighs.
"Because..." You pause, still unsure how to phrase it as you stare at him. You're looking at his side profile again, and it's lit by the overhead sun.
He glances your way, essentially looking up at you from where he's positioned on the floor. He finishes your sentence for you, "'Cause I'm a captain? And why would I do something productive for myself and my crew when I could make someone below me do it?"
"Well... basically."
"You're going tâfind out very quickly the dynamic between me ân my crew." he pulls open the sewing box, filled with larger needles, and thick thread.
"I may be their Captain, but weâre all like brothers. I see them as that, not as my workers. They are my team, and we help out whenever and wherever we can." He states, sounding completely sincere, "And, I'm the only one that can actually hand sew things, so here we are."
"Here we are..." you parrot quietly, almost finding it endearing the way he talks about his crew mates.
Delicately, heâs threading up a needle and starting to take it through the sail and its new panel, lined up over the relatively large tear. His hands are steady, hair fallen over his eyes as he concentrated on starting the stitch. You stare at the dark bruising over his knuckles, and you swear that wasnât as deep a shade earlier.
Without thought, you slowly sink to the ground, back resting against the side of the boat, not waiting long before you start to ask him more questions.
âWhatever happened to put that large of a hole in your sail?â Youâd quizzed.
He knew it wouldnât take long before you started to pry him with more of your wonders, âA cannonball.â
Your face canât hide the shock, because of how casually he answered you. Your lips were parted in surprise at his response when he glanced over to you. A smirk over his mouth, popping a dimple on his cheek.
âJusâ a run in with another ship.â He mused, âThey tore a hole in our sail, and we tore a hole into the side of their boat.â
You almost sputter a laugh, of course he has to brag about not having lost that altercation.
âI hope you have a winning streak under your belt.â You shake your head, smiling a little.
âWhy? Because Iâm carryinâ such precious cargo.â Alluding to you with a charming cadence to his voice.
Youâre stretched out in the sun as he watches you, and you almost look happy. If he didnât know any better. But maybe you are a little. Circumstantially, youâre probably far from it. But in this moment, you look calm in a way he hasnât seen before.
âObviously. And all this would be for nothing if I go down with your ship and you donât get your gold.â
âTragic really, after putting up with yâthrough all this. Including jumpin' off m'own ship.â He teases.
âItâs been like, 5 days. I cant have been that annoying outside of the jumping thing.â You canât tell if youâre offended at his jabs like you should be. You wish you fully were, but the banter is almost pleasing to have with him. It gives you something to laugh at. And also gives you an excuse to be insolent with him.
âMm, if only yâknewâŠâ he sighs in faux exhaustion, a tiny laugh escaping through his façade.
The way the ship cruised through the waves was inexplicably calming to experience up here. With the sun and the warm around surrounding you.
His hands were weaving the needle through the material, itâs mesmerising to watch. Heâs definitely skilled at it, since it has hardly taken him long to get one side sewed on.
âYou look quite content over there.â He comments, not looking up from where he was.
The observation stuns you a little, because of how true it was.
âI⊠itâs hard not to be after being in a tiny wooden room for 2 days straight.â You answer, but it doesnât feel like the only reason why.
âY'know,â he begins, âI excepted someone like you to have the worst set of sea sickness, and to be constantly terrified, but you've seemingly proved me wrong.â
âHave you underestimated me?â
âPossibly.â He remarks. And you donât answer him again.
You're struck with the realisation that you actually donât hate being above deck. Or really on the shipâ outside of the reasons to why youâre on it. You think you might have underestimated yourself.
Like a reel of film, your mind flashes through images of a life like this. Outside of the damn cell at the bottom of the boat.
One where you spend your days free on the water. Both free in regards to your imprisonment hereâ but also from your life and looming responsibilities at home.
You envision yourself suddenly in the most pirate-like attire, standing up on those huge masts like they do in fictions sold at the bookstoreâ the odd one that would romanticise the life of piracy instead of completely defacing it.
It hits you like a slap in the face. One that stings and burns on the side of your cheek, lingering for days after it initially impacted.
You have to forcibly squeeze your eyes closed, because there is no room to have feelings like that in your already muddled brain.
Harry speaks up from where you forgot he was sitting, âWhat exactly is Kelna like?â
âPrison.â You blurt, hand almost coming to slap over your own mouth in surprise.
Your head is in disarray, and that somehow slipped its way out. Because all the sudden, you realise you almost felt more trapped in your own home than you honestly do here.
You tried to escape this ship out of fear that you would be killedâ or sent somewhere worseâ but when that element is removed from the equation, youâre certain anything is better than Kelna.
âIm kiddingââ you hurriedly spew out, but his head is turned to frown at you, âitâs nice⊠itâs great. Very lovely people and we have⊠yea. Itâs great.â
Of course, you love your family. Some of them. Your younger brother and older brother, your younger sister. But outside of your siblings, there were few people to love.
âSound like yâtrying to convince yourself more than me.â
You guess you kind of were in a sense. And a part of you wanted to just say how much you never wanted to go back, if that were an option. You only ever told your older brother Poe about how desperate you were to get away from the court. One person. One soul out of this whole world of them knows.
Only Poe knows how terrified you were that Mishaâ Kelna's infamous prophetâ would come to the podium to speak the most misconstrued riddle, that supposedly announced you were to take the crown. Your own stomach churns at the concept.
But revealing that to Harry felt like giving away a vulnerable piece of yourself. He doesn't deserve to be the second person you entrust with something so pressing for you. Which you remind yourself that you swore not to lay an ounce of trust in this manâs hands. That your impartialness to a separate life here is due to your life at home. And that freedom on this ship is unlikely.
âIâm notâŠâ you breathe out in defeat. Trying desperately to steer clear of the subject, because its easy to drag you into a pit of ever-welling anxiety.
However, he can sense your complete shift in energy. This is your first time really talking about home. And it seems like you have more than bitterness to it. He expected a whimsical answer. One that showed your longing for return, or that you even valued part of being in a court. But he got nothing of the sorts.
It slips from his soft mouth before he can stop it, âAre you not safe at home?â
Heâs completely disregarded his sewing venture, and has turned to look right at you. His features have softened, and he looks genuinely a little concerned. But you brush it off for deceit. Of course he would want to know something like that. Want to pick away at your seams until all the sudden you're unraveling in the palm of his hands, tearing your whole village down with it.
âYes!â You jump to clear that up. Secondly feeling like he's almost babying you.
âProbably safer there than I am here.â You bark, but itâs hardly true if you really think about it. Attempts on a royals life are always a threat, and itâs happened to your family members before. Which transcends into a whole other story, equally as painful for you as anything else at home.
His brows pull into a frown. He realises heâs struck something sensitive here. The topic seems to make you recoil completely. Your body language has changed, just like that. Straight from relaxed to on edge.
âI feel like there's a pretty equal risk." He provides, picking back up the threaded needle. Seeing what more he can coax out of you.
"Iâ" you cut yourself off.
"I am fine." Your tone is conclusive.
"Is that why you always sneak out of your royal residence in the middle of the night?" He pushes, a sarcastic lilt to his deep voice.
"That isn't any of your business!" You groan, "I'm not asking why it is you're a felon at sea, or your tragic past life that's lead you here, am I?"
"But you probably wonder..." he smirks, impartial to your jab.
"I don't, you ass!" You state defiantly.
"I'm just trying to gauge how much you actually like your homeland."
You scoff in disbelief, "Oh, piss off. You just want something to hold over me."
It's clear to him something much deeper is going on than what he initially thought. But its also evident that you are far from interested in talking about it now. So, he files away what information and suspicion he had, and finally allows the subject to change.
"Whatever princess... y'getting mouthy, and I've gathered that usually doesn't end well for either of us." he rolls his eyes in amusement, "You'll have to to tell me what kind of clothes you like, so I know what I'm in for."
"It only doesn't end well because you're so goddamn pushy." You huff.
"This is why you ended up locked in a cell for two days." his tone is airy, considering the topic, "Also, best of y'to recall I'm the one who decides whether or not ya coming off the ship tomorrow."
You hold back your bitter quip at his reminder, but not the deep sigh from your lungs. You feel stressed. Overwhelmed even. Which is the only good thing about your tiny room below deck, its stable. You know what you get down there. Yourself, and no personal questions that leave you reeling.
He finishes his double stitch in silence. Thinking of you, and wondering what exactly your perception of your home life is. In a long answerâ not the short and guarded ones he's currently receiving.
You sit, still in the sun, but feeling significantly more riled up than earlier. That's when Harry stands from his work, and your eyes dart to the patch that's now one with the sail. Intricately sewed in place, with a clearly detail-oriented eye.
"An' she's done." He nods proudly, talking to himself as he picks the complete task up from where it was spread on the deck. Carrying it back into where it came fromâ along with the closed sewing kit. Laying it folded in the floor compartment and latching it closed.
His hands brush themselves off along his black pants. They admittedly fit him perfectly. Nipped in at his sculpted waist, and outlining his likely firm thighs.
His green eyes slanted down to you, as if he could feel your own gaze burning into his tanned skin. He smirks, a dimple popping out on his cheek as he looked at you.
He was trouble.
He looked at you like you were a game to be played. A challenge to be conquered. And somehow you met him right at that very level. You wanted to prove something to himâ and the thing is, you don't even know what.
Its not something you can reverse, or take back. It's already long started, the second you pushed back from his demands when you first met.
His legs that you were just studying stride over to where you sit. He towers over you, examining you with a silent and smug smile.
"A corset, perhaps?" He proclaimed without context, and your face twists in confusion.
"Although, I've heard they are very hard to get on and off a woman." It clicks in your brain he's currently talking about you. Imagining you in the likes of a corset.
It's like he was pondering it aloud just for his own sick enjoyment, because he keeps going as your expression quickly bleeds into a scowl.
"And, there is no doubt in my mind you'd drive your own elbow into my stomach before you let me help lace you into a corset. Or out of it." His voice has dropped an octave, and his chocolatey hair has fallen over his forehead again. For such a heinous topic, he has the face of an angel. Maybe a fallen one... but an angel nonetheless.
"You would be correct." You confirm, "And I spend enough time in corsets at home. God forbid I wear one when theres no need for it."
He suddenly juts a hand out for you to take, which you stare at for an awfully long time, analysing the dark marks over his knuckles. Eventually settling to let him help you stand. It pulls you up effortlessly despite its visibly injury, and you feel the rough parts of his large hand as it cups yours.
"Espcially if im going to be laying around in a cell, whats the point in that?"
He still has grip on your hand, "Oh, dove, y'not going back down there for a little bit."
Your gaze narrows immediately. And you ask the first question and only question that makes sense in your mind.
"Who else is down there?"
"Someone who deserves to be left in the room with the cuff holders on the wall. Attached to them."
Your stomach sinks a little, recalling him saying thats sectioned off for people who have done truly bad things. Seems like it would explain his battered up knuckles perfectly.
But with the closest thing youâve gotten to an answer all day, youâre quick to mentally move onto what the effects you the most.
"Where am i gonna..."
He says with a completely unfazed expression, "With me."
âWith you?â
âThatâs what I said, no?â He raises his brows, âunless youâd rather be down there with him. Who weâd then certainly have to kill once he knows youâre here.â
âChrist.â A wave of shock rocks through you at his vulgar wording, âcan you put me nowhere else?â
âNo.â He states, starting to walk with your hand gripped in his, âitâs just for the night. Donât worry sâmuch.â
âDonât worry? You just told me you would have to kill a man if I chose to stay away from you.â
Youâre glaring at him as he holds open a door for youâ one that leads to another kitchen roomâ despite youâre bitter look, heâs unbothered entirely.
âLetâs get you something to eat. Allow ya to process the fact youâre stuck with me for a night.â
âââ
Your night was significantly different to all the others youâd had on the ship this past week.
The evening had come on relatively quick. Youâd sat above deck after he fed you some fruit, and watched the sun set as his crew gathered to share a pint.
You observed their dynamics, and the way a few men got themselves silly on one too many beers. Stumbling all over the deck.
Harry stayed closer to sober thoughâa bit tipsy, but nothing drasticâ and as evening bleed into night, many of the boys had turned in for bed around midnight.
His blonde crew mate had shouted out for you to come down and have a pint, but you laughed it off. His drunken plea seeming far out of line considering the circumstances.
Not long after most of them had left, Harry came up to where you sat. You were perched atop a step on the stairs, and you know heâd been watching you. Making sureâ as you stayed a fair distance awayâ that you didnât disappear.
His hand had gestured out to you again as he had apparently come to collect you. You stood without itâs help, and he snorted a bitter laugh.
âYou're infuriating, you know? Unbelievably so. And I feel it all the way in my stomach.â The lilt in his voice is intoxicating. He sounds like he disdains you, yet is addicted to the feeling all at the same time.
Heâs standing the step below yours, and once you had fully straightened out, you were slightly above him. It almost gave you an added boost of confidence, âRight in here?â
Your hand reached out to breach the minimal distance, brushing your pointer and middle finger against where the skin of his stomach is.
His hand grabbed around your wrist, staring at youâ he pressed your palm flat against his chestâ you could feel the warmth of his skin beneath the sheer black blouse he was still in.
His bruised knuckles are pressed over yours. The dark spots a mosaic of blacks and bluesâ you wonder how bad it would hurt if you pressed down on them. Just out of spite, of course.
âRight there.â He affirmed.
âToo bad you have to room with me tonight.â You sigh in mock sympathy.
He looks like heâs about to say something else, when he bites his tongue and does his usual thingâ tugging you along wherever he plans to go.
His leftover mates say goodnight as he walks pastâ all of them regarding you as well, surprisingly.
Youâre lead to his quarters as youâd suspected, and youâre now faced with the situation of how this is going to all pan out.
Once inside the dark room, he lights a wall candle with a matchâ that he pulled from god knows whereâ casting the space in a golden glow.
He is quick to then shed the black material thatâs covering his chest over himself without hesitation. Your gaze skates along the muscled skin of his back. Littered in black ink and scars that immediately piqued your curiosity. Ones that you undeniably want to trace over, and enquire how exactly they got there. Which feels like an odd thought to be entertaining considering how much you push to hate him.
His hands unlatch his belt, still adorning all its weapons. And he walks to the foot of his bed, laying it atop the cover.
âWould I be correct to assume Iâm taking the floor?â You put forward, and his head turns over his shoulder.
âThat oneâs up tâyou. Unless youâre that desperate to get away from me.â He drawls, the alcohol making him a tad drowsy now that the buzz has worn off.
A part of you begs to be stubborn. To say no. But the other half of you in rioting to lay down on a mattress for the first time in almost a week. Because you couldnât physically sleep another night on the hard wooden floor.
You breathe outward, walking over in silence as you climb beneath his sheets without warrant.
He tries to ignores it, but a small smile breaks out over his lips before he can stop it. So he turns swiftly around, unzipping his black pants and shedding them off his long legs.
âWhat exactly are you doing?â You shrilly ask, palms ready to shield your eyes if he decides to strip the only remaining fabric below his laurel-adorning hips.
âYouâre not sleeping naked next to me.â Certainty riddles your tone, and there is no way youâll budge on it.
But to your statement he laughs, âMânot naked.â
âNot far off it either.â You murmur, observing as he walks over to the candle he not long lit and blows it out.
The room falls into darkness, all you can hear are the plodding of his feet on the wood floor.
Once heâs next to the bed, you hear his voice, âYouâre on my side, by the way. Sâbudge up.â
You scoot over without words, and feel the mattress sink as his weight comes onto it.
âBetter than the floor, no?â He asks quietly, and you can feel the heat radiating from his body.
âUndecided.â You whisper. âComfier I suppose.â
His breath is quiet and consistent as you both fall quiet. Youâre certain he falls asleep before you, because youâre awake for a while. Staring at the ceiling wondering how you got here yet again.
But eventually, the tiredness youâve been feeling for the last couple days catches up on you, and it lulls you into a deep sleep. Unbroken from any uncomfortable surfaces or loud noises. Just peace.
Peace until you stir for the first time in the morning.
When soft light is shining through the circular windows, and you realise how truly warm you are. All the edges of your consciousness are blurred and hazy with your sleep induced state. You nestle into what you thought was the mattress, but register somewhere in your head that your body is pressed against someone.
And after that, itâs confirmed when they move. A slight roll, and a warm heavy arm that drapes over your waist, tugging you closer.
Your eyes dart open, and are met with the sideways view of a swallow on a collarbone. It stops you dead in your tracks. Because slowly you realise your plastered to someone's side. Harry's side. Legs thrown over his hips, head nestled into his neck.
You're frozen for a moment. Because he smells so nice. But alarm bells are sounding in your head. Too close to the enemy, they riot.
The rigidness of your body stirs him again, rolling him further into you. Legs intertwined, and the bridge of your nose bumping against the curve of his throat. Now he's truly swallowing up all your senses. His scent is genuinely intoxicating. Salty, just as you'd imagine a pirate would smellâ of the ocean and all that lies beneath it. But it has a woodsy tone to it, deep and masculine. One you wonder how he just naturally carries.
His tattoos are gorgeous up close, chest chiseled and dusted with soft dark hairs. You use the finger thatâs between your body and his to brush gently over the butterfly on his stomach. Tracing the details, despite how wrong it feels. In your moments of timid admiration, you donât realise his eyes have opened. Green and glazed over with sleep, it takes him a solid minute to register what he's watching you do.
An intake of breathe, and his gravelly voice pressed out the only thing he can even think of saying, âgâmorning.â
Physically, you flinch. Startled at his sudden consciousness. Finger withdrawing from its tender movements, your heart pounding.
âIâ hello.â You whisper, unsure how long heâs been awake.
He stretches, which in turn scoots his body down the bed, leaving you face to face with him. A pink tongue juts out over his lipsâ wetting them.
âI shouldâve established a no-cuddle policy.â You state, eyes wandering the plains of his face.
To this, his morning voice rumbles a laugh, âare you trying to blame me for this? âCause youâre on mâside, touching up my chest, dove.â
You turn your head over your shoulder, glancing to the gap from where you originally feel asleep and where you are now. Red flushed over your face, It does look incriminating on your end.
A guilty sigh falls from your lips before you purse them together. Not having an explanation for how you ended up like this.
âSâokay.â His voice was so deep, and it sunk into your ears. Almost drawing a shiver out of you. It was attractive.
You canât tell if that observation is coming only from the fact you have just spent a night curled into his chest. But itâs all you can think about.
âDidnât mean to.â You say, the closest you were coming to an apology.
âMmm, I bet.â He murmurs, his hand leaving from where it was on your waist and going to comb through his hair.
Perfectly tousled from sleep, he brushed through it with his fingers. You take the opportunity now that his hand has left your waist, to sit up, averting your eyes from the way his touch glides through his soft hair.
You look out the window, and immediately youâre shocked. You see land. Not even that far away.
âOh.â
âWhat?â
âThereâs landâŠâ
âAh,â he also props himself up with his elbows, âso there is.â
âBest we get ready.â He shrugs his bare shoulders, and you quickly jolt your head this way.
We?
Heâs far from shy as he threw the covers off himself, with the daylight streaming through the windows, his whole body was on display.
You wondered if he realised the kind of body he had on him. Because undeniably, seeing him in just boxers makes your throat bob.
âDo you say we because you intend on taking me off the ship?â You ask, a silent plea behind your words.
âTonight.â He states, glances back to see the palpable excitement spread over your face.
You rush out of bed, a sudden burst of energy at his confirmation. He is shocked as suddenly your arms collide with his bare waist.
âThank you. Thank you.â You really are grateful, and youâre so desperate to get off this boat for a bit.
His lips part in surprise, âthatâs⊠yâwelcome?â
You hold him longer than you should, a part of you a little ashamed at your lack of self discipline. Because you should be able to contain yourself. You eventually pull yourself from him, smiling in a way he hasnât seen before.
âWeâre probably gonna dock in⊠20 minutes? Weâll be gone for most of the day. Iâll come back and get you at evening.â
It sounded like a long time to wait. But you are sure you could do it. So you nod, enthusiastically.
You go and sit yourself on the edge of his bed, wondering where youâre going to end upâ what the town will be like, where youâll goâ all while watching Harry go through his closet for an outfit.
It reminded you almost of how a royal would dress, particularly about what came out and what would go with what.
He stands with his back to you, still just in boxers. He has a nice ass.
You mentally scold yourself, yet unable to look away from him as he pulls a maroon pair of pants over his hips. Theyâre left unzipped as he gets a off-white linen shirt to tuck into them. However the shirt was left almost entirely unbuttoned. And his cross necklace sits between his pecs that are on full display.
He belts his weaponry around his waist, taking it off the wall from where they were hung. Odd of him to leave them so in the open, when you couldâve stabbed him in the night while he slept.
âAre you leaving me in here?â You ask, watching as he collects a few last minute things from around his room.
âSâlong as you donât trash the place.â
You think about teasing him, but decide not to risk it. You piss him off, then youâll likely get put somewhere without anything to snoop around. And also miss out on getting off the ship tonight.
So you just nod. And at that, heâs satisfied.
âWell, mâoff then. Donât do anything stupid, Princess.â He raises his brows, face serious until it breaks into a small smile.
âI wonât.â You lie, because how are you meant to guarantee that.
He walks out, and obviously locks you in. You wait an hour, until youâve been docked for a while before you start to dig around his room.
Not forgetting to take some time looking out the window to figure out where the hell you are in the world. Nothing was geographically giving it away, but once you saw a small fishing cart on the pier, you read Sintir fishery.
Sintir is so far away from your homeland, you let out an audible gasp when you read it. Thereâs no fucking way, youâd thought.
But as you walk away from the window, you register that it has technically been a week since youâd been taken.
You ponder it as you start to go through his things. You feel like some kind of home invader. Rummaging through a trunk under his bed, raiding draws, and flicking through his racks of clothes. Digging into pockets as though you were waiting to happen upon something of value.
It turned out to be the smartest places you looked, because in a thick raincoat, you fucking found it.
A key. One he has to have forgotten about, since thereâs no way in the world heâs left you in here without being certain thereâs no way to get out.
You ran to the door of his room, and held your breath as the sharp metal got pushed into the lock by your eager hands.
You turned it, jostling it a bit. And it clicked.
Quietly, you reach for the handle, gently pulling it down and breathing out as the door unlatches.
Thereâs no time to wait as you slink outside. Clicking it shut, and slowly trying to recall your way back down to the chambers.
Every noise has you on edge, and youâre terrified to get caught. Waiting to turn a corner and one of his crew mates to be there, catching you in the act. But itâs not enough to stop you. You may have made a few wrong turns, but you end up in a hallway that jogs your memory.
You make your way down the stairs to the cells, unable to keep your footsteps entirely quiet. Itâs without warning you realise the space down there is in fact still occupied by someone⊠just like youâd initially feared.
Youâre met with a guttural groan, and suddenly your anxiety nearly triples. Itâs masculineâ and when you reach the bottom of the stairs, still out of view from the cell doorâ you can confirm it when the voice echoes out from the dim room.
âLet me out, you⊠you fuckinâ bastards.â Whoever it is sounds exhausted, like theyâve been teetering on the edges of life or death for hours.
When you donât reply he lets out a wet and chesty cough as he continues, âI donât care about thaâ whore no more! The princess means nothing to me.â
Your heart is racing at the mention of yourself, and the man sounds like heâs dying. Itâs certain in your mind now this manâs face was probably what caused the bruising on Harrys fist.
A heavy bang comes from his cell, sounding like metal cuffs being slammed against a wall.
His speech turns to slur as you slowly back yourself back up the stairs. Curiosity always kills the cat, you think. And you wished youâd stayed in Harryâs room.
âOr jusâ kill me already!â He begs, tone shaking with exhausted rage, âalready beat me to a pulp after I called that royal a good fânothing slut. Sâcmon!â
That was your cue to leave, and as you break off into a near run down the halls, youâre shaking the whole time.
Yet somehow, despite what anyone wouldâve expected, you made it back to Captains quarters without a single run in. Not a soul knows you found a key.
You slide down the relocked door once youâre inside, and pant with not only the physical exertion, but the anxiety you just put yourself under.
It takes a fair while before you can move again, but your hands skate along the floorboards beneath you, tracing the wood grains to calm down.
Rising, you go back to his closet to put the small key back exactly where you found it. Not taking chances in trying to harbour it for yourself.
The room is deafeningly quiet, it forces your mind to hear the likely dying manâs words on repeat. And wonder if Harry really punched the man because he called you a slutâŠ
The only person that knows is him.
He only knows that the second that sack of shit opened his mouth and said the only thing youâd be good for is âa quick fuck and some goldâ he absolutely lost it.
He only knows the feeling of pure, red-hot anger that took over him until he slammed the side of his fist into the slimy manâs face. More than once. Heâs not sure how many times, until it was bloody, and until his knuckles already had a bruise festering below the skinâ darkening by the minute.
And god, can he not stop thinking about how it made him feel. It was all consuming. It solidified that you were not going back down into the cells. He would rather have you in his own bed than within a 5 metre radius of that scum.
So as he walks through the town, splitting off from his crew to go by you clothes, he realises that youâre making more of an impression on him than he thought.
And while he piles up half a wardrobe for you, not even worrying about how much itâll all add up to, he clocks just how⊠infatuated heâs possibly become with you.
Just how heâs suddenly ended up in this position. Where he hates you, yet wants to protect youâ and even sometimes dote on you.
Godâ Itâs dangerous.
That feeling that lingers when he thinks about you. Both a good and a bad one.
You were dangerous for him⊠and heâs still trying to decide how much, and in what way. But the biggest thing, is heâs worried for when he finds out.
Whether itâs going to be when you stab him in the backâ either metaphorically or physicallyâ or when you trace your delicate touch over his bare chest, so gently his mental resolve cracks along with the walls guarding his heart.
His conclusion as he checks out with a plethora of clothes for you, youâre either going to kill him, or heâs going to end up killing for you.
Oh, and that heâs certain he wants to kiss you. But thatâs a whole other thing he has to mentally unpack.