#hatigave

he didn't want to be here. he wanted to be back at his house in boston, nursing his post concussion headaches in peace. the light still pricked at his eyes, only making his headache worse. but he'd spent three days in the emergency room, the hospital in pittsburgh not having any open rooms for him and making do the best they could. he was probably rude to them, he couldn't really remember that first night very well, after pittsburgh's defensemen had laid him out on the ice. and after that first night his brain had still been foggy, struggling to translate russian thoughts to english words. ilya had not been a good patient, he was sure. but the nurses and doctors had been kind, so he had made a rather large donation to the hospital. which the hospital directors and mhl had used for publicity. which meant he had to attend their party. his party?

' do you want to know secret? ' he asked, because he was standing next to the nurse who had been the kindest to him, keeping him company during her lunch breaks. ' i hate these parties. '

"i vaguely remember you coming through the window - and then my flat exploding. you do realise you could have simply used the key you stole months ago? it would have been much cleaner." THE FACT THAT JAMES IS ABLE TO STRING A SENTENCE TOGETHER FEELS LIKE A BLOODY MIRACLE , ALL THINGS CONSIDERED. he gingerly swings his legs over the bed , taking in his surroundings. a safe house of some sort - rather expensive looking ( not that he's surprised - raoul preferred the finer things in life ).

He is not above begging. They both know this by now. Perhaps he pretends to be stoic, unmoved, even indifferent about most things. But when it comes to James Norrington, the man who decided to take a chance on him, Silver is weak. There is also something about hearing that voice of authority. The commands that send pleasant shivers down his spine. He has played with the idea, whispered things in his husband's ear about fantasies and just how fucking hot it would be to have him use that commanding voice in the bedroom.

Which is why he is on his knees between James' legs. He looks at him through his lashes, bites his bottom lip in anticipation. Christ, the man is handsome. His sharp features, those eyes. Dark like the ocean, but with a hint of light in them. He is built like a statue, muscles and flesh, but with a softness that had surprised Silver.

His cheek brushes against the inner thigh before him, he is so close. Both are still clothed, much to Silver frustration, but he supposes patience is a virtue. And so, he shall be patient for his husband, for now.

"I like you like this. Perhaps you should take me with you the next time you must go"

There’s been no shortage of bad luck in Anne’s life over the past almost-year. She’d managed to fall pregnant, be entrusted to the care of strangers interested only in what was in her belly, lose the baby, miss Jack’s last visit to port, and now she’s been found out mid-afternoon the day after she’d stowed aboard another ship. If she didn’t know any better, she might’ve started thinking she was cursed.

She isn’t surprised that the men who’ve found her only speak in Spanish. (She’d stowed aboard in fucking Havana, in the heart of Spanish Cuba: English is less common than wealth in these waters.) What surprised her was how quickly she was found. They had been less than a full day at sea and she in particular had been wedged behind an assortment of crates in the bowels of the hold. If that was a regular check, this is the tightest ship Anne’s ever been aboard, the fucking navy’s own included. If that wasn’t a regular check, though, there’s more to fear than well-trained sailors on this ship.

For the time being, the sailors—pirates or merchants to guess by their clothes—have made the halfway fatal error of leaving her alone. Tied to a chair in the locked captain’s quarters, perhaps, but alone. And halfway to making a break for it; as soon as she gets this coil around her thumb and down, she’ll have a free hand and then, oh!, then she’ll be dangerous. Able to get free and get armed, maybe even get into a position from which to surprise them. Anne presses through the screaming pain her body’s in—the birth hadn’t gone well for anyone, truth be told—by imagining the look on the louder one’s face when she gets her hands on him.

Attempts to escape and fantasies of revenge alike shrivel up and die in the sudden light flooding the doorway. Anne sets her face into a snarl and prepares to bark like the mad bitch she is at the best opportunity. Even sweating and pale, even with dark bags beneath her eyes and fever hues in her cheeks, Anne knows how she looks: striking. The one word she’s heard everyone use for her. Striking, with her long auburn hair and unnervingly pale green eyes. Striking, taller even than most men she met and twice as mean. Striking, with her hand balled into a fist and slamming into the first person within arm’s length. And that’s even without her signature hat and long coat, both of which sit in front of her on the desk, alongside her rapier and two of her four smaller blades. (Her pistols, alas, had been a casualty of escape from the Villa.)

Stripped of hat and pistol, there’s clearly truth to what Anne’s said since the first day she saw it: the woodcarving accompanying her wanted poster could be any redhead with a hat and pistol. How the artist had avoided any other identifying measure should be a complete mystery—but answers for itself an inch below the face, where an equally generic-looking bosom is presented naked to the viewer.

@hatigave sent : ❛ well, i do feel better now that you're here. ❜ for terrion from vicki

THERE'S A SHARP INTAKE OF BREATH AS THE GUARD JOINS VICTORIA IN THE COURTYARD. He cannot imagine the adjustment she is currently having to make ; a palace filled to the brim with strangers - an Emperor that barely left his rooms these days , his son seemingly falling further within himself. THE ATMOSPHERE WAS TENSE ; yet something in the air was cloying too. Perhaps it was the anticipation of a wedding hanging over all of them. Or ; a storm of some kind was coming.

"My apologies , my Lady - the Crown Prince had need of me." He settles on the bench beside her ; his gloomy mood threatening to lift. IT SEEMED IT WAS NEAR IMPOSSIBLE TO REMAIN UPSET , WHEN AROUND HER. Terrion could not quite put his finger on it.

lazy  sun  rays  sprawled  and yawned, casting their golden glow through  gridded  windows.  just  above  them,  illuminated,  particles of dust  danced  within  the  air.  he  had  stretched  right  by  gil's  side,  observing  warm  blond  strands  of  hair  basking in the sun's affectionate touch.  this long friday afternoon, an  entire  body,  patterned  by  the  windows,  an interplay of light  and  dark,  caesar  had  turned  a  connoisseur  of  all  that  was  beautiful.  his  herbology  class  had  ended  earlier than expected,  and  he  assumed  the  same  kindness  had  befallen  professor  mcgonagall  ⸺ why else would gil have sat down by the sunlit windows in the common room?

now,  sprawled  across  caesar's  disheveled  bed,  unmade  from  the  early  morning  rise    (  the  upper  bunk  bed,  their  feet  playfully dangling  down  below    )    a giggle caught in his throat,  but lips couldn't help in blooming a smile.    "  that's  a  really  good  story,  "    caesar  managed  to  say  between  the  too-fast  heartbeat,  the  highs  and  lows  all  felt  at  once.    their proximity was intimate,  bodies  brushing  into  each  other  and  caesar  risked  the  prickling  feeling  in  his  own  hand,  setting  it  right  by  the  back  of  the  other.  FRICTION sparked,  igniting a dance within that sent his heart  into a frenzy.  he  stared  up  at  the  star-patterned  ceiling.  paintings  of  another  era,  kissed  by  the  sun.    "  you  should  do  more  of  that,  you  know  .  .  .    one  day  you  could  be  a famous writer.  "    torn  away,  returning  to  the  way  the  sun  kissed  not  the  ceiling,  not  the  walls,  BUT  GIL.  a lovely  feeling  stirring  inside  him.    "  and  i  will  be  the  star  reporter  telling  your  story,  of  course.    "