Petty Jealousy — Pirate, Neia, Rafael & Vallen

Light sailed across the open sky like trails of salt in the current's wake. Sunlight seemed heavy, lazy, almost tangible, as if all it'd take was for you to reach out and grab it.

You do just that, gloved hand lifting up, but when you close your fingers, not even air remains.

"You look like you need this."

A soft tap on your shoulder has you lowering your eyes from the splendid sunset to a rugged face with skin like leather, but the honest smile on it makes it easy to smile back. The sailor hands you a cup filled to the brim with rum, yellow and dense and dirt cheap.

"Do I?" you ask, but accept it.

The man lifts his own mug. "If you're gonna be clutching at nothing, sweetheart, might as well be drunk as an excuse."

You laugh, then, heartily, the sound losing itself in the chaos of the celebration around you. Men and women of the sea share the spoils of a distant raid, washing away the blood in their hands with enormous amounts of alcohol.

You take a sip. It's just as bitter and sharp as you knew it'd be, scorching a trail of fire down your throat. "Delicious," you say.

The sailor's own laugh is rough, like gravel over an open wound. "Tastes like piss," he says, "but does the job."

You answer, the conversation flowing effortlessly, both your voices mingling with the thundering bass of a big drum being played at the beach. No one hears you.

But someone is watching you.

The Pirate King looks on from not too far away. He was pulled away by his quartermaster to learn that there were more than just rats skittering around the stores of his ship.

Someone is stealing supplies.

His lips upturned in a smirk that showed all his teeth, but he kept himself in check. He won’t boil over now, not with his peach waiting for him. He'll enjoy tonight with you and deal with it tomorrow.

That was until he stepped onto the dock and saw a sea turtle handing you a cup. The Pirate paused and, slowly, every movement precise, leaned against the nearest keg. Black eyes watch you, as dark as the powder he puts in his cannons. They watch you accept the drink, and then they watch you tilt your head back and giggle.

The smirk returns.

The setting light lingers on your hair and the soft curve of your neck. You're wearing one of his shirts, crossed at your stomach, with his belt holding it all in place. He gave you his hat as well, but you declined, saying it slipped into your eyes.

A pretty visage. A perfect image.

Ruined by the barnacle clinging to you.

With a fluid, nonchalant push, he slinks away from the keg and stalks towards you. A whiskey bottle dangles from his fingers, but his palms want to clutch something sharper. But then again, the Pirate thinks, as he rounds on you two, a bottle can always be made to be sharper — just perfect to pry a barnacle away.

★

The second glass is all but gone, as is your sense of balance. You haven't eaten yet, and the rum is strong enough to loosen you, making your head light and your smiles more generous. The sailor accompanies you, making easy talk as you wait for your pirate.

In the back of your mind, you wonder how much longer he'll take. You suddenly miss the feeling of his large hand on your hip, always there whenever you are surrounded by others. You're about to look around for him, searching for long dark hair and an ever-present smirk, but the sailor grabs your attention again.

"Here," he says, tipping a small cask towards your cup, "you can 'ave the last—"

A hand closes over the rim.

“It's like you're begging me to break your fingers.”

You turn around, recognizing that voice anywhere. The Pirate's dark silhouette looms behind you, his broad shoulders straining against the sharp cut of his coat. A hand wraps around your opposite hip, but he doesn't look at you.

His dark eyes are fixed on your drinking companion, a tilted smirk adorning his lips. You don't notice, then, the dangerous glint in his gaze. "For insulting my guest like this. Cheap liquor isn't meant for her tongue." The Pirate pries the glass from your hand and tosses the remaining rum to the ground.

He then tilts the whiskey bottle into your cup, pouring in a deep, rich, golden-brown liquor instead. "Drink this, peach," he says, his voice softening as he murmurs in your ear. "Got it just for you."

"Do you mean you stole it?" you quip, but, just like before, you accept it.

The sailor speaks, then. "Didn't hav' anything else to give the missus, captain." He eyes the whiskey. "You don't go 'round sharing the likes o’ that."

You feel the Pirate's fingers twitch on your hip, but outwardly, he simply chuckles darkly. "First, you offend my hospitality, and now you're dabbling with mutiny? Tell me," he says, amused and casual but always with a promise underneath the words. "Ever wondered what walking the plank feels like?"

The sailor drains his cup. "No need," he says. "Walked it twice." Then, turns around and walks away.

You laugh at the stunned silence he leaves behind. It's rare that the Pirate's men aren't intimidated by his presence alone. "He was keeping me company," you inform, turning around to lean against your pirate's chest. He's broad and warm, and his hand steadies you as the world slightly tilts. "You were gone for too long."

The Pirate was staring at the sailor's back, but slowly, he dragged his eyes down to you. "Missed me that much, did you?" he murmurs lowly with that teasing edge in his voice that, typically, would have you firing back.

But right now, you just smile, taking a small sip of the whiskey. It's exceptionally smooth. The Pirate drinks, too, straight from the bottle, his eyes never straying from your face.

He lowers the bottle, his gaze turning unreadable. You don't pay it any mind, thought, content with swaying gently against him. Your free hand traces circles on his back, feeling the hard muscles beneath the clothes.

The hand at your hip rises until it hugs the curve of your waist. "You work fast," you hear the Pirate say, the words cryptic, but before you can ask what he means, calloused fingers tilt your chin back, and a hungry mouth descends on you.

You taste whiskey, smoke, and salt on his tongue, the combination making you dizzier than the strongest of drinks. The shock of it snaps you back from your stupor, but as his warm mouth dances over yours, you give yourself to it.

You don't realize how possessive it is, claiming you in front of all of his crew. Sending as clear a message as bloody knuckles would.

Just when you're breathless, the Pirate leans away to press kisses along your cheek, his teeth grazing the skin. "Finding yourself a mate as soon as my back is turned," he says, kissing down to your neck. You grab onto his shoulder when he mouths at the skin under your pulse. "Laughing all pretty."

His nose drags along your throat until sharp lips whisper by your ear. "As if you're not surrounded by starving sharks."

"What?" you say, swallowing a laugh. He's talking nonsense. "We're on land, you big doofus."

The Pirate's hum shoots down your spine. "Keep feigning ignorance, and I'll show you how well a pirate can tie a knot."

Your thoughts are as hazy as the dying sunlight, his kiss leaving you dazed and the drinks making you slow, but finally, you reach clarity. You push him away, blinking up at him. "You're jealous?"

He smirks. "I don't even know what that word means, peach."

But you feel the way he holds you tighter. "You are!" you say, eyes wide and voice breathless. "That wasn’t about the rum. You’re actually—"

Your following words are shut by his mouth again, nibbling at your bottom lip. You laugh into the kiss, letting him whisk you away from the celebration to his lone cabin, where the Pirate shows you precisely what he thought of you sharing drinks with another man besides himself.

★

You're spent, body tingling and cheeks flushed, munching on some fresh fruit, when suddenly, you lift your head from his shoulder. "Don't you dare do anything to him."

The Pirate lounges beside you, naked and glistening, smoking his pipe. "Hmm?"

You slap his chest. "That shipman. If you harm him—"

"I don't know who you're talking about."

"—I'll cut your manhood and feed it to the fish."

The Pirate cackles, smoke billowing out from his mouth. His little spitfire.

"Fine, peach. Not a hair on his ugly head."

You huff, satisfied, and continue eating. He watches you, grinning, and begins to realize what people mean by 'better halves.'

- - -

Neia sits back on her chair, yellow eyes tracking you.

She always liked, from the moment she met you, the way you moved. Light and smooth, like water washing down the drain, skipping on the balls of your feet as if you're always trying to escape the earth.

Neia moves like an earthquake, grounding and steady, utilizing the full weight and height of her body. But when she saw you fighting for the first time, the Dawnseeker stopped to appreciate the way you danced.

Right now, you're dancing too, gliding along the too many bodies in the tavern to get to the bar. Neia stares unabashedly, uncaring whether you catch her or not. You never shy away from her gaze. Neia likes that, too. She likes it too much, dangerously so.

But right now, she doesn't want to think about it. There's a warm bed on the floor above with her name on it, and tonight, for the first time in a while, she'll get to share it with you.

★

"Two bowls of stew, please," you say, putting a silver on the counter. People press you from all sides; the inn is much busier than you thought it'd be.

The barkeep takes the coin without a word and turns to the kitchen.

"Don't take it personally."

You look to the side to see a young woman leaning on the counter beside you. She's smiling, her cheeks flushed and forehead glistening. It only takes a look at her heaving chest to know she was dancing before.

You study her. "I might," you say at last, "if I knew what you're talking about."

The woman laughs. The sound is musical and free. The kind that gets her all the attention she wants, no doubt. "The barkeep," the woman clarifies, jutting her chin at him. "He's always like that. A man of few words."

You turn around, leaning your back on the railing. You think the conversation is done, but the woman looks at you expectantly. Reluctantly, you part your lips. "You're from around here," you say, not a question, but a statement. Might as well indulge her; there are so many people waiting that you're sure your order will take a while.

The woman steps closer. Her dark hair is tossed over one shoulder, and her dress, you notice, is just on the short side of decency. "Pretty much. I'm from a town along the road. Tortosa."

"Never heard of it."

"You wouldn't," she says, tapping painted nails against the wood. "We're small."

★

Slowly, Neia gets to her feet.

She towers above everyone, her black armor sucking in the light from the hovering lanterns. Her body is stiff from riding, and her muscles are sore from the road. Neia slowly rolls her shoulders before taking a step forward.

Eyes trained on the woman beside you, leaning into your space as if she owns it. As if she has any right to it.

Neia, the former Dawnseeker, pushes through the crowd.

★

"— but little trade."

You nod absently, shooting glances at the barkeep. He's filling an order of five mugs with all the speed of a sleeping Billy. The woman beside you hasn't stopped talking.

There's a pause in her tirade. You feel her eyes on you.

You look back at her and grunt.

She smiles. She does that a lot, too. "So, I come here frequently." The woman tilts her head, dark eyes appraising you. "And you? What brings you here?"

A large hand presses down onto the counter.

It's a prelude to the even larger body that squeezes between you. You hadn't realized how close the woman had gotten as Neia forcefully pulls you apart, her towering height nearly blocking the other from view.

"Inquisition business." You hear the low rumble of Neia's voice.

The woman's face changes.

It's incredible, really, the power of two simple words. The soft smile adorning her lips falls, along with all the colors in her cheeks. She stares up at Neia, and you can only imagine the dark expression staring back at her.

The merchant takes a stumbling step back, mouth opening and closing like a fish. "I—"

Neia leans forward, her reach easily conquering the distance. "And it seems to me that you're obstructing it."

"No!" It would have been a scream if she had any breath left in her. "No, I— I would never."

Neia is quiet. You purse your lips, pondering. Should you go through the trouble of stopping her?

"Then leave," Neia finally says, "and pray to God, He never puts you in my path again."

The merchant scrambles, disappearing into the mass of bodies.

Neia turns around, laying her elbows on the counter, her gaze fixed ahead.

A beat.

"What was that about?"

"Hmm?"

You mimic her, leaning against the counter with your shoulder brushing hers. "Why did you scare the soul out of that woman?"

Neia tilts her chin, appraising you. The scar on her lip tilts it back, showing just a hint of the canine underneath. "C'mon," Neia says, straightening up and grabbing your elbow.

You blink, but go when she pulls you. "But the food—"

"Fuck the food."

★

It's not until much later, when a silver head lies on your chest, that a revelation is made.

You're treading your fingers along Neia's scalp, her hulking body a comfortable weight on top of yours, when, suddenly, your eyes widen. "Jealousy."

Neia lifts her face, chin digging into your sternum. "You spoke, sweetling?"

You look down at her face, still slightly sweaty and with a red tinge on the sharp arch of her cheeks. "You didn't want the merchant talking to me... because you were jealous."

Neia stares at you.

You stare back, a ghost of a smile forming on your lips.

"... not another word."

And you let out one of your rare laughs, loud and hearty, before a large hand muffles your mouth.

- - -

The man shuffles the cards too quickly for you to track. The white and black blur into a single color until, with a flick of his wrist, he presents a single card to your face.

"Is this the one you picked?" the trickster asks, his voice smug with certainty.

And you can't be annoyed. Not when the red king stares back at you. "It is!" you say, bumping your knees under the table. "Lord in Heaven, it's the exact one."

The trickster reaches a hand toward you, a silent request. You move towards your satchel—

When a hand drops a silver onto the waiting palm. "Got it," Rafael says, putting the coin a little too aggressively in the other man's hand.

The trickster doesn't mind, however. He bows, smiles, and shuffles the cards once more. "Again?"

"Yes," you say.

"No," Rafael declares.

The trickster pauses. "Which is it?"

You look at Rafael and catch his clenched jaw. "Got somewhere to be, do you?" you ask him, giving him a teasing smile.

But the thief, usually with a smile ready to reciprocate, only tightens his lips. "No," he says lamely and crosses his arms.

You quirk a brow at his sullen mood but decide not to press. You have a trick to uncover, after all. "One more," you say to the other man.

The trickster smiles wider. "Good choice. The lucky three, they call it."

★

The black Joker stares at you.

"... yea," you say. "That’s the one."

"Oh, what bad luck," the man says, trying and failing to sound sympathetic.

"You're incredible!" You praise him. "I've never seen anyone move as fast as you, my mystic friend."

Rafael grumbles something under his breath.

"It's by the grace of our Lord," the man says, humbly lowering his head. The humbleness is spoiled by his beaming smile. "Now..."

He presents his palm.

Once again, Rafael shoves a silver in it.

"Again?"

"No," Rafael croaks.

You laugh, but this time, you agree. "I’ve been humiliated enough for tonight.”

With a last flourish, the trickster is gone.

And you're left at the table with a sulking thief.

★

You nurse your drink, fingers lightly trailing the rim of the tall glass. Your legs are crossed under the table, your foot swaying up and down to an imaginary tune.

You've been watching the festival, amusing yourself with the amount of times people trip over a loose stone in the square. Once, a girl almost fell. You were ready to cheer, but alas, she kept her balance.

Now, fewer people mingle about, and you are officially bored.

Stealing a glance at your gloomy companion, you see Rafael still frowning at his drink. With a roll of your eyes, you have had enough. "Rafy," you say, leaning in until your shoulder grazes his.

"What?"

You rest your chin on his shoulder. "Rafael Borja, light of my life, you're still pouting?"

"I ain't pouting," he grumbles. "'M drinking."

You poke his bottom lip. "That's a pout."

Rafael scoffs, leaning his head away from you. "Not."

"And you're not drinking," you continue as if he didn't speak. You glance at his cup. It's almost full. "You're just glaring at your mug. What did it do to you, hm? It's just poor, helpless ceramic."

With a deep inhale, Rafael turns to you. His cheeks are slightly flushed from the drinks you had earlier, and his hair is tousled from when you swept your hands through it as you danced together. He looks so good under the twinkling lights of the floating candles. Too bad his lips twist in a familiar sneer.

"Nothing 'bout it was ‘incredible’." He spits the word. "That freak was tricking ya."

Ah, the trickster. Of course.

"I’ aware. I'm not that dumb, Raf."

"Didn't say you were," he mumbles.

"I wanted to catch the trick," you say, "try to understand how he was cheating." You drum your fingers on the table. "But I couldn't do it. He was too fast. Too damn good—"

Rafael scoffs again, cutting off your compliment. "I bloody caught it at the first try. He was an amateur."

You stifle a smile. It's always so easy to tell when he's lying. "Really? Then why didn't you tell me?"

Rafael frowns, then takes a gulp of his beer. "Didn't wanna ruin ya fun. You seemed all..." He looks away. "Impressed."

And it hits you harder than a sucker punch to the jaw.

You thought your thief was sulking because he was bested by the other man, but this isn't about skills at all. No, Rafael is sulking because...

A devious smile curls your lips. "Oh, Raf," you say, looping an arm around his shoulder. He stiffens underneath you, but when you press a light kiss to his cheek, you see the flush immediately spreading on the spot. "Oh, my sweet, precious man. Are you jealous?"

You expected a scoff. A sneer. Even a clench of the jaw.

But all you get is tense silence and narrow eyes. Rafael no longer glares at his cup; he tries to stare a hole through it.

You chuckle softly, leaning more of your weight on him. "Look at me."

The arch of his cheeks flushes deeper.

"Rafael."

His knuckles turn bloodless white.

"Rafael Borja."

Losing a battle with himself, he faces you. "What if I am?"

Gently, you cup his cheeks between your palms. "Then I'd say you're an idiot," you tell him softly, not masking the affection in your voice. "And that I never wanted to kiss you breathless more than I do right now.”

Rafael blinks. Then, two sneaky hands loop around your hips. "Yea? Then, I’m jealous. I didn't like how you entertained him. Didn't like how he sat at our table without an invitation. Didn't bloody like you calling him 'incredible' when that's what you say when my tongue is halfway up your—"

You kiss him deep, fingers tugging on his hair, your own face flushing with embarrassed heat.

- - -

They fall like flies.

The world sings as you move, pulsing, breathing, alive. Blood decorates the air, warm and sticky on your skin, sharp and metallic on your tongue, drumming in your veins.

Your axe never stops, not until the last of them ceases moving entirely. And even then, the steel refuses to rest. You allow it to keep going, your black hand pulsing in tandem with your heart, spreading pleasure down your spine.

But, at last, silence.

You halt, chest heaving, gulping down air. Slowly, you become aware of your body once more, of the fatigue clinging to your limbs. Your eyes shine with a mad light, but they peer again, no longer simply reflecting. Slowly, gradually, you return to yourself.

"It should be ahead."

You snap your head up to see Alessa approaching. She cleans a knife on her thigh, blue eyes steady on your face. "'Twould not do to linger."

You don't answer, turning to look at the valley beneath. The sunset paints the peaks of the snowy mountains in shades of red, almost as dark as the red that drips from your hands. "Night approaches."

"And we don't want to slip and break our necks." A voice sings from behind you. Shortly after, a hand grabs your shoulder, and you feel a body leaning into your side. "What a sorry end to our journey that’d be."

Alessa stops beside you both. "I believe there is still enough light to make the descent."

"Oh, go right ahead," Vallen says cheerfully. "I'll be sure to bury your body in the morrow."

Slowly, Alessa turns her chin towards Vallen. Her face is inscrutable, her eyes colder than ice.

Vallen laughs. "No? Then mayyybe you should go get the horses while we sort out the campfire."

You're only half paying attention, staring into the distance. This forest is old, older even than the woods around your tribe. You can feel a pressure in the air, an ancient power beneath the soil. But even so, you don't miss the way Alessa's eyes flash.

Nor do you miss Vallen's nails digging into your shoulder.

They're both quiet, staring at each other... until Alessa wordlessly turns to go.

But you shoot out a hand and stop her, holding her forearm. "You did well today," you say, dragging your eyes from the horizon to her.

The briefest surprise shows in her eyes before Alessa hides it. She nods and slinks away, her footsteps making not a sound.

"Come on," you say to Vallen, moving to drag the nearest body. "Let's make a clearing."

The Red Guard follows, but not without the slightest pause. Two moon-like eyes stared at your hand, the one that touched the other mercenary. And if dusk had been deeper, shadows would have clung to her face.

★

You've washed, eaten, and sharpened the head of your war axe. Now, you bend down to enter your shared tent, naked from the waist up, the chill in the air raising goosebumps along your arms.

Vallen is already inside, propped against a blanket, reading by the light of a candle precariously placed beside her crossed legs.

She doesn't look up.

She's barefoot, her hair is free from the usual braid, and her blond eyelashes sit pretty against the white of her cheeks. Your eyes linger on her as you sit beside her, stretching your legs on the furs.

A beat of silence.

You rest your head on the wall of the tent. "What is it?"

Vallen flips a page.

You can't help the tilt of your lips. "Did I eat the last rib?"

She lets out a breath of air. You notice her eyes aren't moving along the page; they're staring at a line.

"Suit yourself," you say, beginning to drag your body down into a sleeping position—

"Don't you dare go to sleep," Vallen whispers, still looking at the book, her voice light and airy and entirely serious. "Or you may not wake up."

You sit back up again. "You can speak, after all."

Hazel eyes land on you, round like an owl. "Come here," Vallen says, putting the book away.

You glance at the mere inches of space separating you. "I'm already here."

Vallen motions with two fingers. "Down here."

You entertain her, curious about what she wants. You bend your head slightly. Vallen motions you again. With a click of your tongue, you bend even more until your ear is beside her mouth. "Is this enough for you?"

Vallen softly, gently, almost tenderly cradles your opposite cheek, the one with your healed scar, preventing you from moving away. "I don't blame you," she whispers, her breath bathing your skin. "You don't know, do you? You’re not aware of your own presence.”

You tilt your chin, trying to catch her gaze, but she keeps you in place. "Don't know what—"

Quickly, like a snake pouncing in the grass, Vallen shoots forward and locks her lips on your neck, right on the side, where it's visible above your armor. Stinging pain makes your eye flinch, but you don't move as she bites you, tongue swirling on the skin to make sure it leaves a mark.

When she's satisfied, Vallen lets you go, sitting back against the furs.

You lift a hand to the spot, finding it wet with her saliva. "Hmm," you hum, turning towards her fully now. "Explain."

Vallen's hand drifts down your face, curling her fingers on your jaw. "That's so she knows who you belong with."

Before you can answer, she climbs onto your lap, her other hand trailing up your arm. "Now, make me scream," Vallen says, lips brushing yours. "So, she hears who I belong to."

---

Hey, everyone! I am so terribly sorry for how late this is. I caught covid when I went to the oceanarium, and it knocked me on my ass for nearly a full week.

I'm fully recovered now and have been writing a lot!!! I hope you enjoy this. ♡