#ANY GARMENT WOULD HAVE CAUGHT FIRE

[marzipanandminutiae]

Misinformation I burned to death several times as a teenager due to the long skirts I wore

sounds legit

just like how I've literally snapped in half while wearing a corset, every single time, and now my midsection is held together by a complex network of zipties

(in all seriousness, before anyone starts in with the Um Actuallys, yes your clothing can catch fire if it's too near an open flame. but I seldom see anyone talking about the 18th- or 19th-century fire risks of frock coats, tailcoats, capes, long sleeves, long scarves- I nearly caught a perfectly normal blouse sleeve on fire once while frantically trying to unplug a sparking extension cord at the museum -or indeed anything that's not a primarily feminine-coded garment)

(so...)

(also obviously Wool Smolders, You Tend To Be Better At Fire Safety If Fire Is An Unavoidable Part Of your Daily Life, Show Me The Reliable Primary Source Death Statistics; I'm Waiting, etc.)

[endlessdreamworld]

Baptism by Fire

the sequel to a short AU fic featuring secret priest! Sunday of a small village x baker! gn reader. part one here.

The familiar jingle of the bell above the front door signaled the arrival of a customer in the tailor’s shop. “Coming!” Sunday called, putting a pause to the present project. It was a simple hem for the blacksmith, though it did require some special care given how thick the heat resistant fabric was.

There you were, dripping on the polished wooden floorboards of the tailor’s shop with all of the charm of a pathetic wet cat. And it wasn’t just that. Your uniform had frayed threads that were burned loose from what seems to be a fire. It left you looking like you were covered in wet spiderwebs, the clothing in total ruins. Poor thing’s shaking, Sunday hurried towards you. “How in the world did you manage to both drown and burn your pretty uniform?” He knew you weren’t the type to be wasteful, so this current predicament put him on edge. I need to do something before my sweet dove catches a cold. 

Sunday took your hand, being mindful to brush as much of his skin against yours as he could. It was a test just for you, to see if his favorite lamb could resist the temptation of flesh. He didn’t fail to notice the small twitch of your lonely fingers just before he let go and sat on you on a stool, towel already in hand.

“There was an accident at work. A corner caught fire and I had to throw myself in the river or risk hurting myself,” was your out of character confession. It was unlike you to be this careless. “I’m sorry Mr. Oak, but I wasn’t able to save you any of today’s specials because I had to run right over here.” The implication of missed payment went unspoken between you.

Sunday retrieved the towel, and replaced it with some undergarments. “Think nothing of it, or maybe like a gift for being a loyal customer for such a long time. Now we need to get your measurements, don’t we?” He took your hand and led you to the back of the shop where there was a curtain to grant you privacy. You changed into the garments and readied yourself for the impending proximity. He pulled back the curtain, measuring tape already in hand.

The next – eternity. It was nothing short of an eternity of torture. It felt like you were dying every second Sunday’s fingers roamed your body. The brush of measuring tape and the tender pads of his fingers seemed to be relishing in your suffering. God was testing you, you justified. It was up to you to endure this for you and Mr. Oak.

Sunday worked in complete silence, leaving you with only the pounding of your heart and the scratch of ink against paper as he wrote down the shape of your form one number at a time. Just before you went crazy, and opened your mouth to vomit out your sinful feelings, it was over. You passed.

With a spare set of clothes, and a pat on the back, Sunday sent you on your way. It must be hard to make an entire set of clothing from scratch, and it would give you an excuse to come back every few days just to ask about the progress. There was nothing wrong with wanting to know about the status of something that important, right? But deep down you knew you were lying to yourself, and so you had to confess to all of the filth you have buried deep in your heart.

“Forgive me father, for I have sinned.”

It was you. Sunday was hoping you’d stop by and tell him the story of what really happened earlier that day.

“Speak freely child, God forgives all who sin.” He tried to keep his voice steady, but you were just as much of a test of faith for him as he was for you.

It took you a moment to find your voice but he couldn’t blame you. It wasn’t easy to confess your shortcomings especially if they weighed as heavy. “Today I lied to the person I cared most about.” He wasn’t surprised to hear this. Sunday knew the moment you spoke to him earlier that morning that you were lying about the circumstances of your garb.

“Confess to me the truth of your lie and all shall be forgiven,” Sunday kept his voice level, maintaining that unusual drawl of his to mask his identity.

“Perhaps it’s more of a fib, but my intentions were to deceive. Today I told him I had a workplace accident, but it was a bit more than that. The baker’s son has been more and more forward with his intentions and he’s become more shameless with his... touch,” the words tasted bitter leaving your mouth and you couldn’t hide the shaking in your voice even if your life depended on it. “I’m afraid to speak out for fear of losing my home.”

A foul serpent in our midst, one that needs dealing with. The viper will be extricated from our hallowed garden by the week’s end.

“Today, he got closer and closer, and I prayed to God to save me. As if by divine intervention my uniform caught fire from a stray ember that escaped the oven. No one thought ill of me when I elbowed past them on my dash to the river. That’s what truly happened. I just wanted to spare him the worry.”

He sighed, “A kind lie but a lie nonetheless. You are forgiven.” That wretch will pay most dearly for making you feel such desperation. 

“Father,” you called out, the wood of the confession booth felt claustrophobic. “Do you think this is a sign from God that my feelings are pure? I cried out to Him and he granted me the blessing of sanctuary, an opportunity to spend time with the one I hold most dear.”

You leaned up against the screen of the booth and shut your eyes, recounting the memory. “I feel I was tested today. I didn’t notice how soft Mr. Oak’s hands were until today when he traced them down every part of me. I fear I’ll be haunted by the memory of it until the end of my days.”

Sunday’s mouth went dry at the thought of your confession. “The book speaks of baptisms of fire. God has given you a sign from above that you’ll find salvation in your beloved. You should accept it for what it is.”

“Thank you, Father.” You bid your farewell, your heart much lighter and your head clearer. Yes, he was right, this surely is a sign from above. And so when you returned back to the bakery, you snuck around like a thief in your own home. You grabbed what you needed, the tool of your salvation, and climbed up the ladder to your room in the attic.

This is God’s will. You were told as such. But was the way your heart was racing, and the filthy thoughts that plagued your mind God’s will too? You didn’t know. What you did know is that you were desperate to be delivered from the fate you were given -- indulging the baker’s son or risking homelessness. You find the borrowed clothing you had gotten from Sunday earlier that day on the bed where you left it.

The object you had in your hand that you’ve used countless times felt much heavier, as if consecrated by the weight of what you were about to do. This is necessary, this is God’s will. This is so we can be together, so I can be saved. Your breathing sped up in anticipation and your hands shook. The shrill groan of metal grinding against metal as you opened the object echoed through your mind as you began to wildly cut at the fabric.

Who knew a simple pair of scissors could feel so holy?

Sorry for taking so long! I hope it met your expectations. Tagging everyone who requested a sequel or to be tagged: @yae-yu127 @hersweetsstrawberry @666xist @killergee @anzuwrld @xeltxt @thypplover @mehkers

[yup-thats-me]

—perv next door! • J. Yunho

🐾pairing; ❝perv!neighbour!Yunho x fem!reader❞ 🐾summary; ❝how is the sweet girl supposed to know that the cute boy next door is secretly a pervertᝰ.ᐟ❞ 🐾warnings; ❝perveted actions, panty stealing, sniffing❞

perv!Yunho who is your next-door neighbor!

He's so sweet. When you had first moved in, he had helped the movers carry up the boxes even before he had known your name.

After everything was moved in your unit, you had given him a candy that you randomly found in your bag.

"I know this isn't enough, but please keep this," You had smiled apologetically. "I will cook you a proper meal once i settle in."

perv!Yunho who had shaken his head as he took the candy from your hands, his fingers lingering a bit longer than appropriate but the smile on his face and his big, puppy eyes had cleared any traces of doubts in your mind.

"Thanks," He smirked. "Its Yunho by the way."

"Yunho." You had said trying how his name felt on your tongue. "Nice to meet you, Yunho."

Perv! Yunho began to press his ear against the wall he shared with you. The paper-thin wall does not do much for sound insulation.

Well, good for him.

Now he can listen to each and every noise you make.

Is it you moving the furniture? Yunho is guessing which one it is. Or is it you cursing each time your toe struck on a corner. Honestly, you looked so saintly sweet, and innocent. Hearing you curse has blood pumping to his dick.

perv!Yunho who wants to play with fire.

Each time he hears you taking your laundry, he's running out with his. He will meet you at the elevator, smiling. "Laundry too?" You'd ask with a sweet smile.

"Great minds think alike." As if he wasn't just rushing to put whatever clothes he could find into the bag.

He'd chat with you while you put your batch in, insisting he'll do his a bit later. "I have to run to the shop, you carry on."

And he'd leave, waiting just outside watching your every move. When you're done, he'll rush in to stop the machine, scouring through your dirty laundry till he finds the one he's looking for; your pink ribbon panties he caught a glimpse of yesterday while you were stretching.

perv!Yunho who sniffs the garment as if it's coke. Checking both sides for any passerby and swiftly pockets the pink cloth. Its his now.

perv!Yunho who watches quietly watches you workout on your balcony from his. The way your body bends, sweat sticking to your soft skin, glistening in the morning rays.

It is morning, but he can't keep the thoughts of bending you over and taking you right there against the railing right then. And when he notices your earbud drop, he'll quickly pick up his empty coffee cup to at least show that he was having his morning coffee when your eyes locked with his.

"Morning, yuyu." Running into Yunho several times a day was something meant you were bound to grow closer. And this nickname sounded cute, too.

Yunho licked his lips, smirking as he waved. "Good morning, Y/n."

perv!Yunho who is pushing his limits when he steals your panties almost daily now.

He'll take a new one, and throw back in the one he picked earlier, all sticky with his load. He quietly hopes the machine will stop midway and you'd have to wear the panty with his load. Maybe, he'll sire your virgin children too.

When you finally knock on his door with a tray full of freshly baked brownies to keep your almost forgotten promise, Yunho is running around his apartment like a headless chicken to hide all your panties from sight.

When he finally opens the door, he's a little breathless but hugs you nonetheless. "Haven't seen you in a while, Y/n," He'd make up excuses to hug you, his hands running down your back, hands sliding down your sides almost possessively.

After he had his fill of ''greeting'' you, he'll let you in with a big smile.

"Made you this," You'd offer him the tray. "Hope I'm not late?"

Yunho would smile, showing you to the couch. "Of course not. Here, wait. Let's eat them together."

When he leaves the room, your phone slips out your pocket ending up under his couch. Bending low to pick it up, your eye catches a certain something.

Before Yunho could speak when he returns, you start.

"You're the panty thief, aren't you?"

Yunho is stood frozen in place. He's caught. What now? Will you slap him? Call the cops? Report him to the landlord?

But to his surprise, he feels a pair of lips pressing against his, your hands holding his face.

"Gotta love a deranged pervert."

do not copy, steal or translate my work on other sites. all rights belong to yup-thats-me™ on tumblr

reqs are openᝰ.ᐟ🦦

[nanamisbbygirl]

just my take on making sukuna suffer (plz no manga spoilers) tw blood and violence :) @fayevalentiinee @twilightsumu here is the suffering we talked about!

it was the golden age of sorcery, the air was polluted with that lingering smell of fire, burning a blaze with power. although, tensions were rising, you had heard the whispers through your servants and from your husband's advisors. the world was walking a fine line between chaos and harmony.

your marriage was not one of love. it was arranged while you were still a child, and when you came of age you had been brought to sukuna ryomen’s estate, a bride for a sorcerer whose mission aired on the side of chaos. yet, he remained dotting despite his intensified vexation of society and humanity as a whole.

creeping into his chambers, you knew you'd be greeted by the sukuna who was tender, and somewhat protective. he was still human after all. and while he was often venomous to those around him, he had seemingly grown fond of your presence.

you crawled into his lap, seeing the stern expression plaguing his face, but when you kissed him there was a moment of relief.

"have you come to please me, woman?" his voice rang through the empty chambers, an air of amusement in his tone. you simply nodded, continuing to kiss his lips, letting his hands trace over your body, trying to itch off your garments.

sukuna was usually rough, but perhaps it was something in the atmosphere, something about how gently you approached him, how you seemed so submissive, you knew his guard was down. his cursed energy was low—almost defenceless.

his tongue pushed against yours, arm snaking around you, bringing you closer. the space between you was almost nonexistent. your hands find their way around his neck, sleeves still covering your arms, although your breasts were quickly exposed to him.

"i've been thinking of you," he whispers, dragging his cold finger down your chest. his touch made you shiver.

"in what ways, my lord." your address is formal, respectful, even though you were his wife, you were not excempt from using his title.

"i suppose i could show you, you look quite enticing." his apathetic expression twists into a sadistic grin, grabbing your face, squeezing it before pulling you back in for a third kiss. he was awfully affectionate, and you wondered if he knew what you had been planning.

growing anxious, you felt the cold metal against your hand, still hidden by your sleeve. his neck was bare and vulnrable. you stared into his dark eyes, thinking of the bloodshed, of the misery he brought to humanity. the suffering. the agony. the despair.

sukuna ryomen was a damned sorcerer, all-powerful with a lust for war. he was a demon disguised in a nobleman's robe. if he existed any longer the kamos, the gojos and the zenins would be in a never ending conflict. you didn't know how many people would have to die for him to be satisfied. it needed to be done.

the blade slipped across his throat like a dragonfly against water. smooth. delicate. the complete opposite to his own nature. it cut deep enough to hurt, and by the look in his eye, he had been caught off guard. blood oozed down, staining your skin, yet it didn’t stop you from plunging it deeper into his jugular.

you could feel the rage building in your soul— the dreadfulness of your marriage, his poisonous breath. everything he touched turned crumbled to hatred. he was the one who plummeted your life into this hell of sorcery and curses.

his pupils dilated, wide with disbelief. you wondered if he would be able to sustain it, to use his sorcery to stop you.

he gasped for air, more blood trickling passed his lips. it was as if he was choking on it, body aching forward. was he letting himself die?

if only you knew what would happen.

you only made him stronger.

his spirit twisted, going through a devilish metamorphosis, turning into something malevolent— malignant to society. he shed from his mortal cocoon, sprouting limbs, a villainous laugh ringing against the walls. a beast emerged from the shell of an evil man.

it had unleashed something beyond sinister, beyond human. you saw flashes of the future, cities burning to the ground, lives wasted trying to defeat him. he became unstoppable.

you had caused it. you had cursed sukuna ryomen. you had sealed the fate of humanity.

a/n: okay now that i’ve used sukuna as a punching bag i can actually write for him.

[d1s1ntegrated]

I just read your shigaraki fic with him stealing readers clothes and

First: loved it he’s such a little freak and I love him

Second: part 2? Maybe where reader goes into his rooms well he’s doing his thing with our clothes and gets caught red handed and just pretty much braces down and reader doms him or something I don’t know I just think a part 2 where reader walks in on him doing it would be fun

I’m sorry if this is against any rules you have you can ignore if you want

Im just an idiot 🙃 ok goodbye

shhhhh ur not an idiot and this is hot af so YASS

laundry pile (nsfw)

tomura x fem!reader

tags: stealing clothes, masturbation, stalker behavior, heavy petting, dacryphilia, p/v pen, swearing, degradation, dom/sub dynamic implied, fem reader, hardcore smut, light comfort, sub/switch! tomura, humiliation, oral (m&f rec)

A/N: i'm getting caught up on my asks finally 🫶 so sorry for the weird inactivity i love u all! also this isn't proofread sorry ill prob edit it later lol!

"For fucks sake" you threw your door open in frustration, storming down the hall to Shigaraki's room. You took a deep breath, preparing yourself for the worst. You didn't really want to ask him of all people, but you were desperate and flustered now.

You knock gently, and before hearing him respond, you turn the handle.

"Hey, Shigaraki, have you seen my-" You open the door of Tomura's room prematurely, the light knocking not alerting him fast enough as he scrambles to yank his covers over him.

"SHIT, fucking, GET THE FUCK OUT," the man's voice heightens in pitch with every word, straining to speak. He's gripping his blanket with four white knuckles, ring finger held above the blue fabric. His hands shake and beads of sweat are flattening his fringe to his forehead, and his breathing even from the doorway looks erratic. It's no mistake, you walked in at the wrong time. Your jaw hangs open slightly at the image of him and begin backing up slightly.

"I'm sorry, I'll...well, while I'm here," you start with a sheepish smile, "have you seen my black sweater? The one with the..." Your fingers twiddle around as you describe the well-loved garment, and he groans.

"...No," he wipes his hair from his face, "Go ask the girls."

"Sorry. Yeah, I'll do that." You reach for the door handle with a curt nod, and turn to head out, when something catches your eye. On the floor, next to a pile of used towels and dirty laundry, you notice the familiar lace trim, a delicate pink bow...

You reach for the piece as Tomura shoots up on his bed, still covering himself. "What are you doing??" His voice is anxious, and as you come back up, you hang the fabric delicately between your fingers in front of him.

"Are these my fucking underwear?" With a fire hot enough to burn his room to the ground, you storm closer to him, standing over him now with fierce eyes, able to really take in the sight of him now. His eyes are heavier than usual, his back flexed and his arms tense against his chest as he plasters the sheet against his snowy skin. He looks up at you with a feverish glint, avoiding contact with the skimpy bottoms hanging in front of his face. He shakes his head, unable to speak.

The sheet leaves little to the imagination, as you look him up and down in his bed. You bite back your rage as you notice a strap peeking out from under one of his pillows, and you shove him back and lean over to yank it out from underneath. Your pink bralette, that you could've sworn you lost for good, was now in your hands, waving dangerously close to Tomura. With wide eyes, he gives the equivalent look to a dog who got caught with a slipper. Cowering was a new look for him. As you stare him down, you notice the sheet twitching, an unmistakable silent pleading. Your face, now mere inches above his, sends his heart sprinting out of his body.

If it weren't for your discovery, it would've been almost...charming, to see him like this. Lips pink and puffy, as if they'd been bitten raw, and the remarkable sheen of sweat and lust glazing his scarred face. A heavy breath, halfway to climax and halfway to anxiety attack. You couldn't tell if he was turned on or terrified at this point. Your mind preferred the latter, but somewhere deep inside, you liked the idea of the former.

There was also something already charming about his actions. Your clothes were scattered all around him, around his room. Part of you felt enthralled by the idea of your fearsome leader, your boss, the dangerous villain doing something as depraved and perverted as stealing your clothes. Especially after all of the shit you guys fought about, how many times he told you to fuck off and that he couldn't stand you. It was like an unwritten confession, and it made your heart flutter for a moment. You stood there, thinking about what he was doing to them exactly, with a frivolous process. It didn't take much for your mind to conclude the thought, knowing you just caught him doing precisely what you could have imagined with them. It felt almost elementary to catch him in the act of something so vulgar, and despite your scornful expression, you had to fight the instinctual curling of your lips.

"What else do you have of mine?" You kept your face flat, curiosity driving you further. He shrank down a moment before raising a shaky arm towards his door.

"Close that, please" his brows furrowed as you both looked toward the wide-open door, giving whoever walked by a full view of the situation. You padded towards it and slammed it closed, locking it behind you before re-approaching him with the same fervor as before. You toss the two garments at him and ask him again.

"What else did you steal from me?"

He swallowed and took a deep breath before raising his hand up in defeat, "I'm sorry". His eyes glossed over as he looked away, blinking rapidly. He lifted the pillow behind him and began removing things from the pile of things. Multiple pairs of underwear, two bras, three shirts, a pair of lounge shorts, and a few random socks. Your jaw dropped as he handed them to you, sniffling with embarrassment and disturbance. You shook your head slowly, partially in awe and disbelief. How did he even manage...and why? How long had he been doing it for? Your mind raced as you compiled everything at the edge of his bed. He sat there dejected as you counted everything.

"Fourteen. FOURTEEN things of mine. Just under your pillow. What, why?? Where else do you hide it all? Is this where all my clothes have gone?" Your voice rises in frustration and confusion as he falters.

He shakes his head and quavers, with the smallest voice you've ever heard from him.

"I don't know. I'm sorry". He shows remorse, no doubt. But the movement underneath the thin sheet doesn't help to convince you of his guilt. Some part of him likes the fact he was caught, surely. It's easy to see it, with the faint flush of his complexion.

You lean down more and lift his face with a finger on his chin, directing his eyes to meet yours. You don't say anything, which scares him more than anything. At any point, you could run out of his room, screaming about how he was a freak, or a coward, or a stalker. Even him, your notorious leader, was scared of being exposed so viscerally. You recognize this, his crimson eyes welling with shameful tears as you look into them.

You wanted to be so angry. You wanted to be disgusted, freaked out, and you wanted to hate him. You could let him being murderous slide, but being a loser? It boiled your blood. But you couldn't tear yourself away from his wet gaze, the tears falling heavily now as you gripped his chin between thumb and forefinger. He didn't pull away, either, he just accepted his loss. There were so many reasons why you should hate him.

But you don't, you realize, as you lean in and pull him into a hungry kiss. His lips are rough, but wet with tears as you press yours into them. Maybe it was pity, maybe it's because you know he's pent up and stressed out and most certainly a virgin. It's possible he just needs comfort. Perhaps you're encouraging him, and for all you know, maybe you like that.

You stop yourself from thinking and just let your body move. You push him back, taking his hands away from the iron grip on the sheets and lifting them above his head. He doesn't argue, and complacently loosens his body with a light whimper as you touch him. You climb onto his lap, still pinning his arms down as you snake your tongue into his mouth. He tastes so sweet, so addicting. It was unlike anything you could describe, like apple and spices and sweet mint. You cave in to him, allowing yourself to feel the rush of endorphins swell in your core. Your mind goes blank as you feel his length between your legs, twitching and jumping like an eager animal.

You finally pull away from the kiss, only to bite down his scarred neck and shoulder.

"You're a fucking thief" you say between bites, and he whimpers.

"I know" he shakes as you sink your teeth in. He groans out as you bite down harder at his response.

"You're a fucking freak" you spit. He nods, trembling.

"I'm sorry" he cries out as you sink your canines into him.

"You like that, hm? You like being a sick fuck?" you tighten your grip on his wrists.

His whimpers and moans drive you crazy. You fight the urge to take him all at once, even if it tortures you as well. Your lips curl sadistically as you lick his wounds, tongue grazing over not only the bites, but the torn skin of his neck from his incessant scratching. The faint taste of blood stings in your mouth, the metallic fragrance soaking your senses. You feel your core liquify as tears spill from his eyes, the thick lashes sticking together. He sobs, clenching his jaw.

"Please, I can't take it". His heavy breaths buckle in his chest, and you bring your free hand up to caress his face.

"You're so pretty like this, Tomura" your voice is slick with hunger, a newfound lust from hearing his pathetic noises. He blinks up at you in a daze, his pupils blown wide as you release your grip on his wrists.

"Please" he whispers, and you laugh.

"Please what? You seriously think you're getting rewarded? For being a fucking pervert?"

Tomura bites his lip and shakes his head.

"No, I'm sorry".

It was a sight to behold. Your fearsome leader, now crumbling beneath you, begging to be touched. Pleading for forgiveness, admitting fault with fat tears soaking his cheeks. Everything you swore he would never be capable of, he was doing. And it made you feel so powerful. It was well overdue- someone eventually would've put him in his place- you just never thought it'd be you to do it.

You retreat from his lap, standing swiftly. You watch his face fall a bit, then relight as you slide your top and bottoms off, leaving you standing nearly naked in front of him. His eyes soak in the image of you, his hands clenching. You reach for the sheet and yank it off of him, finally, to expose his naked body completely.

His cock stands proud, already leaking and throbbing as you grab it. He gasps, the air hitching in his chest as your thumb slides down the tip, admiring his length as you squeeze it gently.

"You're such a desperate little bitch," you start demeaning him further, fingers trailing to wrap around his balls. He mewls as you continue, "I always knew you were a pathetic loser".

His cock convulses as you speak, and you lose you patience. You take him in your mouth, pressing your tongue flatly against the thickness. You graze your teeth against the sensitive skin, and he hisses out a string of curses. You speed up, fingers still teasing him with lazy tugs. You reach underneath and press two fingers against the untouched skin, massaging it gently. The action causes him to clench his fists mindlessly against the sheets, and they immediately disintegrate into nothingness. He grumbles out a "Fuck", but is swiftly redirected back to the multitude of sensations below. You laugh, his thick cock still in your mouth, and he throws his head back. He begins mindlessly thrusting into your throat, causing you to choke a bit on the size of him. He spreads his legs open further as you massage the neglected spot, clearly enjoying the newly discovered sensitivity.

Before he can finish, and god is he dangerously close to doing so, you pull off of him. He groans and silently begs for more, but you shake your head and get back on top of him.

"You think I'm doing this for your enjoyment? You owe me, not the other way around." you spew out. "It's my turn, loser."

He doesn't have time to argue it as you slide your underwear off and bring yourself to his face. You speak, knowing his can't respond, enjoying his compliance. "Have you ever done this before? No? Hm..." You chuckle out sinfully as his mouth falls wide, dragging his tongue up your dripping cunt to your clit. "Do a good job, and maybe then I'll let you have more."

He's clearly inexperienced, the way his tongue explores your folds and curves, but he's starving regardless. He presses his tongue deeply into you, moaning at the taste as you grind against his mouth. He gains confidence as he grips your hips with a four-fingered grip, keeping his pinkies as far as anatomically possible from your soft skin. He kneads his slender fingers into the fat of your hips and ass, his nails digging in as his tongue picks up speed. After a minute or two adjusting, he's eating you like a dog, licking and sucking and nipping at everything he can, with a determination previously unseen. It feels unforgettable, the way his teeth graze your clit and his tongue licks at you like you're candy. The poor depraved man laying under you, finally graced with the taste of you he's only ever had in dreams. You tasted much better than the underwear he stole. It felt holy now, so dirty and urgent that it felt like prayer.

You can't avoid the hastily approaching orgasm as he flicks his tongue on the throbbing bundle of nerves. You grind down on his face, coating his mouth and chin with your heat as he sends you over the edge. You drive your hips down, nearly suffocating him, as you clench and shiver on his face. You can feel him panting and smiling and swallowing every drop of your climax thankfully, which sends you even further.

When you finally come crashing down, you pull off of him and slide back down his chest and position him right in front of your needy hole. But you can't give into him just yet. It's his punishment, not reward, to fuck you and please you and make you cum.

He looks positively elated, his pupils still swallowing his ruby irises and his hair tangled around his pretty face. He's smiling, with a tired breath, but he's nowhere near done. He's completely aware of his consequences.

"Good boy, Tomu" you praise him with a gentle kiss on the cheek, his face still soaked from you. He smiles a bit more, but is still silent as you continue, "I almost forgive you for being such a disgusting slut".

He nods and silently mouths out an "okay". You trail a finger up his jaw and press a kiss to it. But his response isn't enough for you. You want more, you want to press the subject deeper before allowing him to have something so sacred.

"Tell me, pretty freak; why did you steal my clothes?"

He takes a moment to bite his lip, looking away as he responds. "I like to".

Not good enough. "And?" you pry.

"It...feels good. To smell you. And taste you. It feels so good..." he bleats out pitifully, and you can't help but feel a little bit enamored at his answer.

"Yeah? Was it worth it?" You tilt your head slightly, loving his plaintive admissions.

He nods and smiles, "Definitely".

Tomura's slight defiance stirs something inside of you. At the end of the day, he always gets what he wants. And if he wanted to steal your clothes, soil them with a weeks worth of cum, he fucking would. He did. He wasn't an entirely too demanding person, but he was, at his core, determined to have everything he wants. Including you, in every way he can.

You can't wait any longer as you take his length inside of you. You gasp out a bit at the size, feeling it stretch your walls with a burning sensation. He immediately moans out, unable to even slightly quiet down as he feels how wet you are around him.

"You're so fucking tight," he cries, and you clench around him, causing him to spasm a bit. His eyes roll back and he begins thrusting into you from below, the friction driving you crazy. "You feel just like I imagined" he confesses, words heavy with desire.

You grind into him as he thrusts, both rutting against each other fervidly. The tuft of baby blue hair drags a bit against your clit and you can't help as his name spills from your lips like honey.

"Fuck, Tomura, you're so big" you lewdly cry out as he grips you again. His cock slams against your cervix, sliding in and out of your entrance rapidly. His moans and whimpers become intangible, a never-ending slew of crude noises just leaking from his pretty pink lips. You nearly forget being angry, you throw your inhibitions to the side, because it feels far too good to not focus on entirely. The way he whines and keens melts you like the sun.

You both get closer with each frantic thrust. Months of pining and pretending to hate each other paid off well enough, because the feeling of his cock inside of you, plowing you filthily, locked in the satisfaction of meeting him in the first place.

"And I thought you hated my guts" you moan out as he slams into you, folding a bit. He wraps his arms around you and you tuck your head into his neck as he takes complete control from beneath.

"No, I just, fuck, couldn't stand not having this" he breathes out, his hold on you intensifying. "I want you".

His speed shakes your mind, leaving you fuzzy as you reach your final breaking point. He's close behind, his thrusts becoming less coordinated as he moans out your name like a broken record.

"Tomura, I-"

He cuts you off with a whine, "Please, let me cum inside of you". You completely shatter around him, the heat inside of you finally snapping in half as you grind into him mindlessly, the sensation of your orgasm tearing through you like a full moon's tide. You cry and gasp out into his ear, and he decides he can't wait anymore. He spills into you with a howl, twitching and sputtering as he finally fills you up. The pearly strings coat your sore insides, gumming you up. He sinks his teeth down into your neck as he ruts into you, pumping his seed deeper inside as he rides out his orgasm. You feel the suffocating wave of euphoria wash over you, unable to form a coherent thought as he pulls out slowly.

He lolls his head back and keeps you wrapped in his arms, unwilling to release you.

"I'm sorry" he finally speaks. The silence in the room dissipates with his raspy voice, and you nod.

"Do you at least wash them when you're done?" You ask, and he nods back.

"I return them when you aren't there.." he admits.

"Okay" you don't have the energy or even the space inside of you to actually be mad. If anything, you were more upset before cause for the most part, you were missing a lot of your favorite pairs of underwear, and you thought you were losing your mind.

"I promise I'll stop" he whispers into your hair, "I'm sorry".

You shake your head against his chest. "Don't. It gives me an excuse to come back in here and do this again".

His heartbeat speeds a bit as he processes your words. A part of him wants to tell you you don't need an excuse. But the other part of him wants you to keep catching him. The chase, the raw desire, he'd been playing the long game, and you fell right for it. His silly little game he'd been playing worked out perfectly in his favor, and he relished in that fact.

He doesn't respond. You close your eyes on his chest, and he pulls up the other blanket that was unscathed from his torrential grip. He smiles to himself as you slowly fall asleep on him, your breathing slowing. Lying there with you, he finally felt content and full for once, and that scared him. But he laid there still, soaking in the feeling of completing his goal.

But he no longer wanted to play this game. He wanted to win it.

[utterlyotterlyx]

The Fox and The Fawn

High Lord Eris x Rhys!Sister!Reader x Azriel

Part One

Summary - As the ways of the world shift, you find yourself torn between those who have always cared for you and the life you feel like you were made to live.

Warnings - none right now really, some angst, harmless flirting, tension, slight fluff, mention of wing loss

Hauntingly beautiful was one of the few ways to describe the High Lord Eris Vanserra.

There was a rake-ish look about him, like he belonged in one of Nesta's regency era romance novels that had her eyes widened and bottom lip caught between her teeth. It was rather infuriating.

Tension continued to linger, one of doubtful trust. Rhys wanted to trust Eris, he wanted to trust that the new High Lord of Autumn knew what he was doing, but something was stopping your brother from investing into the change fully and you weren't quite sure what.

Eris sat opposite you in the meeting chamber, eyes trailing down your figure approvingly, a crown of golden leaves dipping to his brow and accentuating those russet eyes that always sought to burn you with their intense glare. It had been strictly forbidden for you to leave Velaris on your own after what had happened to your elder sister at the hands of Tamlin, you understood it of course, Rhys wouldn't survive if he lost you too, his youngest sibling but by far the fiercest creature in all of Prythian's history.

War was scoured into your bones, hellfire raged in your soul, and you were very well known for your tactical prowess and outspoken nature, from your quick wit to your dry humour. Some said that you were the reason that Prythian still stood, you had worked very hard to undermine Amarantha right under her nose, feigning innocence and naivety that she drank from like a fountain of youth, you had been instrumental in the war against Hybern too, and Eris had watched in stoic awe as you wielded your sword like it was an extension of yourself, gracefully cutting down your victims and using your power to decimate hoards of males into ash.

Eris wouldn't admit it, certainly not in front of Rhysand and Cassian who made it his mission to keep Eris as far away from you as possible, but he thought that you were the most incredible thing he had ever witnessed. And as you sat before him, draped in a sheer black dress adorned with white crystals that allowed him to relish at the picture of your full breasts, it was taking him a lot of will power to not fling you on that table and take you right there and then, even if your brother was watching, he didn't care.

The meeting was simple, Rhys wanted to know how the politics between the courts were to improve with Eris now at the helm and steering the Autumn Court ship. Feyre sat to the left of your brother, dressed in her usual ethereal pale blue, another garment made by your mother, but less impressive than the items you owned. You sat to his right with Azriel to your side, Mor, Cassian and Nesta occupied the seats to Feyre's left in that order, and Lucien lingered somewhere between, still on the side of the Night Court, put just an arms length away from his brother.

Eris was stoic and cruel, power radiated from him, but you seemed the be the only one who saw what lingered beneath that façade. The occasional split second glance he would direct to Lucien when he thought no one was watching, one full of regret and sadness. It seemed that there were many more layers to Eris Vanserra than any of you realised.

"How do we know that you won't rule like your father did?" Rhys had craned forward in his seat, his jet black crown glistening in the darkening sunlight that poured down through the domed windows.

Eris' jaw ticked, a clearly sensitive subject for him, your chin dipped in examination and for a moment, he glanced to you, fire in his eyes that mirrored the very faint sphere of orange that curled around pupils, "Would I have bothered to overthrow him to only rule like him?" Eris replied with his own question and you felt Mor scoff from where you sat, your older cousin not enjoying the sentiment one bit.

"Who knows what you males strive for," Mor bit, more like growled, at him, you face remained distant and cold, you didn't remove your gaze from him, everyone knew that they couldn't hide from you, you were too observant.

Guilt had swirled in your gut at the sight of him, under examination by a group of people he longed to be somewhat friendly with, to work with to better the lives of his people, and Velaris was rich in knowledge and power, it was a court that you would want on your side if you walked a second in his shoes.

It wasn't often, if at all, that you would speak at meetings, it was an unspoken rule for you to be seen and not heard, your presence was powerful enough, and you did have the knack for making things worse with your jabbing words, "Raise your hand if your father is a piece of shit," the room fell silent, and Azriel had his head dipped low to conceal his smirk, his knee nudging yours gently in warning.

Slowly you raised your hand and looked to Rhys who rolled his eyes, but didn't raise his own, he didn't want to indulge you. In turn, Cassian raised his hand, Azriel lifted a finger as did Mor, Lucien's hand raised with his elbow still firmly plastered on the arm of his chair, and Eris didn't dare partake, but you all knew his answer already. Counting under your breath at the souls that had answered your call, you relaxed into your seat, "I don't know about you Rhys but I don't think you're anything like our dear old dad. Mor is nothing like hers, nor is Cassian or Azriel or Lucien. If we were all held accountable for the actions of our fathers then we surely would live in the most tyrannical world possible, no?"

Rhys raked down the iron clad walls of your mind and you gave him a pointed look, refusing him entry and smirking at the twitch that pulled at the corner of his lip, "There is no evidence that Eris will be like Beron, and refusing him alliance only makes such possibilities more likely," you picked at an invisible thread of your sheer black garment and feathered your fingers down the bargain tattoo that curled around your upper arm, one that matched the mark Azriel bore in the same place from a stupid bargain you had made what felt like eons ago.

"In simple terms, brother," you fluttered your eyelashes at him, ignoring his clear fury, "Get over yourself and give it a chance. Prythian can't be a land of harmony when males with big egos can't see the opportunity before them."

Feyre had confined herself to looking at the wall, shifting uncomfortably at the colliding forces of power between you and her mate. It was never something she had the courage to stand between, she'd perish if she even tried. Nesta was smirking at you, the only one who would hold Rhys accountable and live to see another day, relishing in the fury of the High Lord.

Another nudge prodded into your thigh and you snapped your gaze to Azriel, "Will you stop nudging me?" You swatted at his thigh, "This world has been through enough already, Amarantha, Hybern, Koschei... It's time that we made a world to be proud of and we can only do that if we work together."

"Who knew that the fawn had a voice?" Eris spoke and you sent him a satisfied grin, Rhys looked to the High Lord and snarled at the name he had dared to direct to you, but quickly composed himself with a warning glace to you that meant he would deal with you later.

Matching is tone, you teased, "Thank you. My campaign for High Lady is imminent," Cassian let out an audible low chuckle, his shoulders shaking next to Nesta who was doing her best to contain the amused smile that fought its way onto her lips.

Typical y/n.

Looking to Rhys, you smiled and waiting expectantly, he seethed out his answer, "Fine," he moved his attention to Eris who was still smirking at you, eyes blazing with curiosity, "We will work with you, Eris. Let's call this the start of a long lasting alliance between our courts," Rhys rose to his feet, "Please feel free to stay the evening and join us for dinner. I will have a room prepared for you."

An olive branch, one that made you avert your gaze to Eris to see him nod in shocked agreement.

Rhys lowered himself so that his head lingered by your ear, his fingers curled around the back of your chair, and he growled, "My office. Now."

A chill slithered down your spine and you smiled thinly at no one in particular before rising from your seat and following Rhys from the room. The pair of you didn't utter a single word as he led you through the halls of the House of Wind, walls that seemed to shrink away from your pulsating energies as he led you to his office and shut the door behind your entrance.

"What in the name of the Mother do you think you're doing?" Rhys seethed as he rounded your smaller figure, towering over you to the point that he shrouded you in the shadow of his figure and flexing wings.

With a raised brow, you spoke calmly, "I highly suggest you take a step back and stop trying to intimidate me," his gaze softened slightly and he obeyed you, stuttering back a couple of feet and tucking his wings out of sight.

"Eris is not someone that we should have an alliance with," he leaned against his desk and watched as you turned around, lifting the heavy glass lid to his whisky decanter and pouring two glasses of the amber liquid before extending one out to him which he took without question.

You waited until he had taken a sip before talking, "Regardless of what you think, you know I'm right," you took the seat opposite the desk and nestled into the deep brown cushions, leaving him standing before you, "Rhys, you wear a mask to the rest of the world, in everywhere other than Velaris. Cauldron, you even make us follow suit. Has it ever entered your limited mind that Eris may do the same, that he too is hiding behind the mask he has created for himself?"

Rhys frowned, "Did you just call me stupid?"

Scoffing, you sipped the amber liquid and enjoyed the delicious burn that sank down your throat, "All you're doing is proving my point."

Rhys threw his head back and inhaled deeply, clenching his eyes closed and pinching the bridge of his nose, "You know that I love you," he lowered his gaze to wash over you, but you didn't falter, you had never faltered under Rhys' glare, you were perhaps the only one who wasn't impacted by it, "You have to understand that I will always do what is right to protect our home, to protect you."

"And you have to understand that I will always do what is right to better the continent, not just our people."

The relationship between you and Rhys was a complicated one. There was a lot of love and respect between you, but his fear of losing you often clouded his mind. His word was law, but your word was the final judgement. The reckoning. There was nothing even he could do to change that.

Many males had attempted to get close to you, but none were good enough to appease the expectations of the High Lord of the Night Court. It wasn't as if you cared. You required an equal, someone who wouldn't diminish your power, and males had the tendency to attempt to control you.

Rhys had even refused your hand to Helion, much to your disappointment, and before the acts that led to the demise of your sister, he had refused to extend a thought to Tamlin who had clearly been besotted with you. Thank the cauldron for that at least.

"You have a strong will, y/n," a backhanded compliment if you had ever heard one, you rose from your seat and placed your empty glass on the bare surface to his left, "It will get you in trouble."

"Good. I can't wait."

Leaving Rhys alone in his office had filled you with far too much smugness and serenity.

The golden tainted pink hue from the sunset poured through the large windows, trickling up the walls and coating your skin in its soft shimmer as you paced before them.

Black fabric chased after your steps from your dress sweeping in the breeze you had created in your movements, you could feel the comfort of your chambers, you could almost taste it as you rounded the corner and entered the room without a second thought.

The familiar skitter of cool kisses swirled around your ankles and you didn't need to look up to see who was splayed across your cream comforter, "I know what you're going to say," you disappeared behind the thin clouded dressing screen and peeled your dress from your body, rifling through the railing full of ornate pieces whilst Azriel examined your silhouette from his place on your bed.

"Then I don't need to tell you how stupid you are," you looked over your shoulder at his words, like he could see your expression which was one of confusion and annoyance, "I swear you get more defiant each day."

Peeking your head around the corner of the screen, displaying your face and shoulder to him, you spoke, "It's the only exciting thing I have to do around here."

Azriel quirked a brow to you, his shadows dancing around his shoulders at the sound of your voice, "That's not true," you scoffed at his words and disappeared back behind the screen, continuing on your quest to find a dress for dinner, "There are plenty of things to keep you entertained in Velaris."

"Azriel," you deadpanned, not stopping your movements in plucking dressed from the railing and holding them up to your body, "Rhys doesn't let me do anything other than train and sit and look pretty and intimidating. I'm Velaris' glorified trophy."

A particular garment caught your eye and you smirked, taking it from its hanger and pulling it up your form. It was a stunning piece, one you rarely wore. An ornate solid gold bodice of blooming roses and ivy that connected to a red wine skirt that possessed a high slit, cream lace poked from the highest point of the slit and kissed your thigh.

"That's not true. He let you fight against Hybern," Azriel told you pointedly, seemingly becoming lost for words when you stepped from the screen and soothed down the skirt of the dress before bending down to secure golden heeled sandals to your feet.

"I fought against Hybern because there was no choice to do anything but that," you hadn't spared the Shadowsinger a glance but smiled softly at the shadows that curled lovingly around your ankles, you held two sets of earrings up to your ears and tilted your head in the mirror, "I'm sure if there was an option to stay home then Rhys would have gladly assigned the position to me."

Azriel rose from the bed, moving behind you and resting his hands on your hips, his hazel eyes boring into your reflection, "He worries about losing you. He couldn't stop what happened to your mother and sister, I think he just wants to be able to stop anything from happening to you," Azriel smiled at you and your orange ringed violet eyes softened at him, "Wear the red ones, they match the skirt."

"Thanks, Az," he hummed in response and took a step back, the place where his hands once lay turning cold and begging for more, "Shall we go to dinner then? What an exciting evening we have ahead of us," Azriel chuckled and offered his arm to you which you gladly took, allowing him to pull you from the room.

There was an unspoken attachment between you and Azriel, like it could be something more if you were both willing to risk your already perfect relationship on the notion of it. You both knew that feelings lingered, but if Rhys ever found out it would surely cause a civil war within your family, and you'd hate to think where everyone would stand in that battle.

The dining room had been beautifully dressed, a black tablecloth and tall golden candles, gold plates and coated silverware, ornate but expensive goblets and an array of blood red and orange flowers, no doubt a nod from Feyre of respect toward Eris.

Azriel left you at your usual seat with a subtle squeeze of the hand before rounding the table and taking his spot opposite you, scuffing the chair against the stone and sitting in it as you did in yours. Family members trailed in one by one, Nesta took her seat beside you and Cassian sat to her left, Mor took the spot beside Azriel and Elain took the other, then Amren entered, then Rhys and Feyre, the former of which nestled into his spot at the head of the table.

Then Lucien and Eris entered, and the High Lord eyed the last two remaining spaces, the one at the head of the table opposite Rhys or the one next to you, and Eris strode beyond his brother to steal that option. He teetered at the edge of it and peered down on you questioningly, "May I?"

Feeling Rhys' eye on you that you didn't dare to acknowledge, you nodded gently, "Of course," he took your answer in the palm of his hand and used it to pull the chair out, his scent of mulled wine, candied orange and pine filling your lungs as he sat.

Eris was dressed well, a red waistcoat adorned with golden swirls, a cream shirt that was tucked into the waistband of his black pants, like he knew to match your own attire, something that not only you noticed.

Idly, decanters of wine floated about the space, pouring themselves into the empty goblets placed at every seat, and food began to appear, dish by dish, on the long table. Platters of roasted vegetables, silver dishes piled with meats, bowls of fresh salads, boats of sauces, and most importantly, towers of desserts that made your eyes glisten, wanting to skip the main course entirely and help yourself to a slice of cake.

Clearing his throat, Rhys raised his goblet, tearing you from your salivating thoughts, "A toast," he smiled thinly at Feyre whose gaze shifted to you and then to the male at your side, "To new alliances."

The room repeated the sentiment before digging in, doing their best to ignore the swirling tension caused by Eris choosing to spend the evening sat beside you. Though, that soon vanished when Cassian started telling his many tales of his escapades throughout the years with the intermittent corrections from Rhys and Azriel.

"I should thank you," a low voice spoke from your right and you craned your head toward Eris, his hypnotising russet orbs were fixated on you, dark and full of wonder as they raked over your face, "For what you said at the meeting. I hope you weren't scolded for helping my cause."

Eris' voice was low, only loud enough for you to hear and you alone, his eyes were soft and stare void of that stoic cold that usually possessed it. He looked like a completely different person, there was actually kindness bubbling within him, genuine sincerity in his words.

"Rhys can scold me all he wants, it'll never change anything," you replied in the same tone, the orange ring in your eyes burning like wildfire, "Anyhow, it's a cause worth supporting."

From the corner of your eye, you caught Lucien watching you with intrigue, his fingers encased with Elain's atop the table with a knowing glitter lingering in his expression, he grinned as his brother spoke and leaned toward Elain to whisper something beyond your realm of hearing, "I can't remember the last time I saw you before Hybern."

Smirking, you asked, "Have you been thinking about me, High Lord?"

"It's not hard to," he replied honestly, watching the faint blush creep up your cheeks, "When was the last time?"

Humming, you thought about it, it wasn't often you actually left the confinements of Velaris thanks to your brother's protective antics, your eyes glazed over slightly, "It was Under The Mountain, at the beginning, after she," you rolled you shoulders, coiling them in the memory of that night.

That's right, the last time he had seen you before the war had been the night after Amarantha had stripped your wings from your body, carving them off with her talons to punish Rhys' reluctance. It had taken everything within Eris to not set her alight on the spot, if he could have, after he had seen your shaking pale form wandering the halls like a ghost.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bring it up."

"It's fine," you insisted, sighing deeply, "It's a fading memory now, I've adjusted well."

"I'm glad to hear it," the genuine tone to him was confusing, but you always knew there more to him than what met the eye, and part of you was proud to have been correct about it.

Eris had grown up listening to the stories about you and Rhys, two formidable winged warriors that exuded darkness and power, who held the capacity in their fingers to shatter kingdoms if they so wished it.

It didn't scare him. You had never scared him actually.

"Make the most of this alliance, Eris. It's very rare that I speak up on such matters," you told him, sipping from the wine in your cup and placing it back onto the tabletop under Rhys' watchful gaze.

There was an elegance about you, Eris noticed, the poised shoulders and perfectly slender pointed ears, the violet eyes with the speckles of Autumn orange, the grace laced in your words. It was a spectacular thing to witness up close.

"Then why did you?"

There was a moment of contemplation and you furrowed your brow in thought, "I can't sit by and be part of the reason why people suffer," very unlike Rhys, "Other than that," you trailed off, looking deep into his eyes like your violet pools were drowning in his soul, "I'm not quite sure."

Author's Note

Part one to the series I've been planning for awhile.

Prepare yourselves for a pining, needy slow burn with a hint of forbidden love x

[nonsensenook]

Chapter 3.5 | Moment of Respite

Synopsis: In which Bajie kindly gives you some time alone with the Destined One. An optional and indulgent chapter in this unapologetic take on you, the reader, accompanying the Destined One on his journey. 

Word Count: 3,129

Warnings: 18+/Explicit Content/Smut/N.S.F.W, Female Reader

Author’s Note: Though I say unapologetic, I am very much nervously sweating. I will soon find a nice rock to hide under. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy!

Read on AO3: Link

Ch. 1 - Ch. 2 - Ch. 3 - Ch. 4 - Ch. 5

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The snow covered landscape turned to dense forest once again. With Bajie now completing the trio of a group, any sort of affection you showed came sparingly. Whatever you could show comfortably in Bajie’s presence was quick and subtle. It didn’t take long for you to begin struggling with the confines of this restriction. As time went on you would do what you could to distract yourself, but more than once Bajie had caught you staring at the Young Sage. This made the Pig Guai pelt you with seeds while counting how many it took until you were broken from the spell. He had also begun to stack things on you, laughing when his pile would tumble once you were out of your daze. On his less patient days he’d purposely scare you back to reality by shouting loudly near your ear. Even while you were standing he’d find something to hop onto to do this. 

The Destined One wasn’t doing any better. He didn’t seem to fully understand why you were quicker to separate from him in the mornings before Bajie woke up. Sometimes he’d pull you close or try resting his head in your lap, however these moments were quick to end when you moved away after seeing Bajie approach. You saw how this annoyed the Destined One by the way his tail lashed back and forth behind him. Your little explanations didn’t stop that tail of his either. He had recently started to walk away from Bajie mid-conversation to see whatever unimportant task you were up to. This earned him plenty of choice words from Bajie. More often now you would see Bajie knock the Destined One on the head with the back of his rake when he caught his gaze wandering off. Needless to say, Bajie’s temper seemed to be getting shorter these days. 

Tonight, the Destined One had found a suitable cave to set up camp. The half-moon in the sky shined brightly as your group settled down for the night. It was an evening full of unfinished chores. You were doing what you could, having picked up sewing to mend various articles of clothing while the Destined One worked on crafting a new staff. You sat near the fire and worked by its light. Across from you, Bajie stood up and dusted himself off.

“A lovely night like this is meant to be enjoyed with alcohol,” he announced, brushing past you to pick up the spare bottles of brew. “I’m going to finish these off by the waterfall we passed earlier. Do not expect me until morning and do not expect I’ll be sober,” he said with a chuckle. You weren’t really paying attention. The thread wasn’t going through the needle and the dancing firelight wasn’t helping. 

“I said,” Bajie emphasized loudly right next to your ear, making you jump and drop the needle, “I am going and to not expect me till morning.” 

You moved garments aside trying to find the needle with eyes squinting in the firelight. “Yes, yes, we heard you the first time, Bajie. Did you want company?” 

“Not from either of you! I’ve had enough of the two of you to last me several lifetimes.” Bajie began walking down the path through the trees. “If a lovely lady passes by here, send her my way!” he called back. You heard him singing loudly as he walked away, his voice slowly receding until it disappeared in the regular hum of nature around you. 

Thankfully, you found your needle again and managed to successfully thread it. You worked quietly on patching up your clothes. The night was cool, the air was filled with the soft croaking of frogs and crickets in their tunes. The fire next to you crackled softly as you worked. A breeze rustled the trees surrounding your little camp. You paused for a moment to listen to the leaves flutter on their branches. Bajie was right, it was a lovely night. You glanced up and saw the Destined One taking apart an old staff to make anew. His gaze was concentrated, you watched for a moment as he extracted the needed materials. You returned to your own work feeling content. 

Being alone with the Destined One had you reminisce on the beginning of the journey. Unlike this comfortable silence, the silences then were awkward and prolonged. Small accidental touches had you apologizing or him stepping back. Though you pride yourself in reading what he means to convey at a glance now, you remembered those perplexing games of charades you used to play with him. Then there was the bathing spring incident. You inwardly cringed. Even with everything you’ve done with him till now, that moment still pulls you back to those same feelings of panic and embarrassment. You shook your head, forcing the memory back to the corners of your mind. Then you felt your body stiffen as you finally realized: You were alone with the Destined One.

You felt a sudden sharp pain on your finger making you inhale through your teeth. You had accidentally poked yourself with the needle. The air around you moved, a pair of strong hands gently held yours open. The Destined One examined your finger closely. It was only a small dot on your index where the skin was barely broken. You looked at his face, his expression was full of focused concern. 

“I’m okay,” you said quietly, not even looking at your hands. He brushed his finger onto yours. Satisfied that you weren’t bleeding, he made to move away. You held onto his sleeve. 

“I-” You began to speak, then felt your mouth dry up. Embarrassment shot through you, quickening your heart and tying your tongue. How depraved were you that you’d jump at this opportunity the moment Bajie stepped away? Pretty depraved, you thought. 

“Could-” you stuttered, trying and failing once again to fully transfer incomplete thoughts from your mind to your mouth. You couldn’t find a way to say you wanted to touch him without sounding perverse. The Destined One looked closely at you. He reached his hand up to brush strands of your hair aside, fishing out a stray leaf. His hand traced along your face, lingering on your cheek. You leaned into his touch, placing your hand over his. You then turned your face to brush your lips against his palm. Usually, this action alone was enough to have him lead the rest of the way, but he made no motion. He simply looked at you with a shadow of amusement on his features. He slowly moved his hand to your chin where he tilted your head upwards to look him in the eyes. This damn monkey. 

As if reading your thoughts, you saw the corner of his lips twitch. You glared at him. He gave an innocent tilt of his head. You could so easily read what he was saying as if he’d whispered it into your ear. All you needed to do was ask.

“Could you please-” you started again, your breath hitching as he brushed his knuckles against the heat of your cheeks. You stared into his eyes. That same look of kindness, that same boundless patience, and something else. Something ravenous, waiting just beneath the surface. You just barely managed to whisper out the next words, “Touch me…” 

The Destined One looked more than pleased as he leaned forward. His lips touched yours in a gentle kiss. His warmth always seemed to envelope you. How long has it been since he’d touched you like this? How long have you wanted this? How long have you needed this? Long enough to know that this wasn’t even nearly enough. Your hands came up to his robe, pulling him closer to deepen the kiss. You sealed your fate in this one bold move. This you knew: The Destined One wasn’t one to abandon something once started. Soon enough, he showed you just how famished he’d been. 

You felt his tongue greedily taste you as his hands traced your frame. You welcomed him to consume you, wrapping your arms around his neck as he sucked on your tongue. You moaned against his mouth as his hands trailed down to grope you in all the right places. He proceeded to lift you up as he trailed kisses and bites from your neck to your chest. He carried you easily into the cave where he held you against its walls. You stood there, your head thrown slightly back as he slowly descended down. His sharp nails snagged and tore at your clothes, still being careful not to push too hard into your soft flesh. 

You felt his hot breath on your chest. His tongue traced the area around your nipples, tasting you. You heard your cries echo in the cave when he began sucking on one while groping and flicking the other. The hand you held against your mouth did little to mask the sounds he pulled from you. He played with you until you were quivering in his hands. Satisfied, he continued trailing his tongue downward. He continued tearing at your clothes to make way for himself. By the time he was kneeling, your clothes were but scraps barely hanging onto your body. 

He slowed down, listening to your small whimpers as he slowly moved his hands up your legs. His nails softly scraped at your skin sending shivers down your spine. Slowly, painfully slowly, he made his way up to your thighs. He stopped just before he reached your entrance. Closing his eyes, he began planting slow, gentle kisses on your inner thighs. Then he opened his mouth and took a bite, making you cry out in surprise. You saw his tail flick behind him. He loved that sound you just made. He cruelly continued to do this, getting so close but never touching you where you wanted most. He took another bite which he licked once he let go. While holding your legs apart, he looked up at you. This Gods damn monkey. Mischievous doesn’t even begin to describe him anymore. 

This was his revenge for all the times you’d pulled away from him before. Knowing he was depriving you on purpose made you stubbornly bite your lip. Yet simply seeing him stare up at you while he traced your inner thigh with his teeth already cracked something in you. Just as you knew what he was doing, he knew what you were thinking. Frustration coursed through your veins as the Destined One watched you in playful amusement. It was unfortunate, you were up against someone who’d never lost a battle. You saw him use his knuckles to hover ever so close to your folds. You watched as he pulled away, then spread out his fingers to show your fluids sticking and dripping down them. You outwardly cursed at him this time. The Destined One wasn't listening, he’d started licking his fingers. You felt your pride and shame crumbling down as you watched him. The last embers of your stubbornness were snuffed out by his tongue.

Your lips quivered as you breathed out your next words. “Please,” you begged, “Please…” Again, you saw that same pleased look on his face. He'd gotten just what he wanted. You threw your head back as his tongue tasted your entrance. You felt his breath pant against you as his hot tongue slid into your pussy. From everything he’d done, there was so much of you for him to hungrily lap up. Your hands went to the fur on his head, gripping them to steady and ground yourself from the stimulation. He pushed his tongue in further, making your grip tighten on him. You felt him slowly traced back to your clit, flicking his tongue against it. You flinched and buckled each time he did this. His tight grip on your thighs held you still as he greedily devoured you. You couldn’t hold yourself up anymore, your shaking legs began to give out from under you. In response, the Destined One placed one leg over his shoulder. 

“Wait-” you cried out more in shock than command. He placed the other leg over too until your whole weight was fully supported by him. This new angle had him reaching deeper into you. With his hands on your waist and forearms resting on your thighs, he began sucking on your clit. You gasped then moaned uncontrollably loudly, pulling hard at his fur. Your twitching legs tried to come together but were held firmly in place by his immeasurable strength as he thoroughly ate you out. Your cries echoed back at you in the cave. You felt something build up, tightening inside of you. You cried out a string of curses as you came hard, your body twitching and convulsing against the cave wall. 

The Destined One slid his tongue against your pussy, lapping you up slowly as he helped you ride out your orgasm. When you settled down, he gently moved your legs from his shoulders. You leaned against the cave wall for support. Out of breath, you watched him wipe his mouth as he took off his robe to lay on the ground. In the dim light of the cave, you drank in the sight of his body. Your eyes stared at his muscles, his lean figure covered in fur, and the veins trailing from his arms to his hands. The Destined One helped you over to his robe where you laid down on your back. 

He hovered over you, admiring the absolute mess he’d made of you. He then went to your neck and started sucking on your skin, one hand reaching to pull down his pants. He tossed them aside. As you twitched below him you felt the tip of his cock brush against your folds, spreading your wetness all over himself. You felt yourself pulsing in anticipation. Your hands went to his chest. You felt hard muscle beneath soft fur as you slid your hands down. You hear his breath catch when you brush along his lower abdomen. Your hands then went to his back where you slowly scraped and pulled at him. He shivered at your touch. As he continued to mark your skin, you felt him start to enter you slowly. You felt his tail wrap around your leg. One of his hands held yours, pinning you down to the ground. His other hand shot up to grip the cave wall. As eased into your soaked pussy, you heard the sound of something cracking above you. 

You let out a low moan as he went deeper, stretching you out, until you had taken him fully. You felt yourself tighten around him as he let out a sigh. Again, you heard that same cracking noise above you, like stones scraping together. He began moving slowly, cautious of you adapting to his size. Your breath was coming up short again. When he quickened his pace, you could not stop the sounds that erupted from you. The Destined One’s breathing was heavy and labored in your ear. You heard more cracking from above as he let out a low, husky moan. You clawed at his back, making him snarl. He let go of the cave wall, scraping his nails down your back as he gripped your hips, digging deeply into your skin. You cried out, arching into him, your chest meeting his as his thrusts came harder. You could only whimper and moan as he pulled you in by your hips to meet each of his thrusts. Growling in your ear, he pulled back, then slammed into you hard. You choked out another cry which became mewling whimpers as he fucked you harder. You were begging for him, but the sounds were indiscernible to your ears. The cave walls had you deafened by your own voice drenched in ecstasy and the sounds of his body slamming into yours. 

You felt yourself tighten up, that same peaking feeling getting closer. Moaning fully into his ear you came again, twitching hard as your pussy tightened around his cock. His thrusts quickened, becoming frantic, desperate. You felt him bite down hard into your shoulder as he came in you. Both his teeth and nails dug deep enough to draw blood, but the pain felt delicious as he twitched and filled you. 

For a moment he stayed still, breathing heavily, then he let go of your shoulder and pulled out of you. His hand unlatched itself from your hip, he moved his arm up to support his weight. The other hand was still firmly holding your own. Both of you were still out of breath as he closed his eyes to rest his head against yours. You reached up to hold his face, giving him a tender kiss. He returned the kiss as you wrapped your arm around his neck. He pulled you up slowly, delicately. You closed your eyes as he carried you out of the cave.

~

In the morning, Bajie returned the way he’d left: singing. True to his word he held many empty jars of drink and walked like a sailor towards where you and the Destined One were having breakfast. Before he’d made it to you two, however, Bajie face-planted into the ground. You heard the distinct sound of him snoring as a jar rolled towards you. The Destined One stood up to carry Bajie over to the light bedding you’d prepared for him. 

The Young Sage then returned to you and pulled you into his lap. The Destined One wrapped his arms around you, tail pleasantly thumping the ground. You leaned into him, feeling your sore body ache. Your clothes just barely hid the bruises and bites he’d left all over your neck and chest. The bite on your shoulder along with the scratches down your back and hips still stung. He’d done well to help tend and clean you up last night. He was initially a bit worried at the wounds you sustained, but you reassured him that he hadn’t hurt you in any way you didn’t want him to. He seemed quite happy to trace over the various marks he’d left on your body afterwards. 

You were glad to take a day off from traveling today. The Destined One still had a staff to remake and you had more clothing to repair. Yes, both were quite reasonable explanations to validate this moment of respite. That and how your legs were fully out of commission. You kept your eyes away from the mound of rock and stone behind the two of you. You hoped that by the time you were on the road again Bajie would be too hungover to ask what happened to the cave. 

[sillyswriting]

: ̗̀➛ forsaken

     ㅤ  ₊✩ˎˊ˗ highlander johnny 'soap' mactavish x princess reader

04 : na sacsonaich

cw : sexual theme, angst, religious guilt, blasphemy, chubby reader, historical facts and inaccuracies, (johnny wearing kilts, yes, it's a warning of its own) words : 7.4k

     ㅤ  collection - prev ⋆ next

bold - french italic - gaelic

Flames flickered in the cavern, their light casting restless shadows along the rough stone walls. Through the narrow opening, you could see the storm raging outside, as if Mother Nature herself had turned against you. The wind howled through the trees, rain lashed violently against the earth, and each crack of thunder illuminated the forest in an eerie, fleeting glow.

The journey to the safe haven Johnny had promised had been grueling, slowed to a crawl by the relentless downpour and the unforgiving terrain. Now, as you stood at the mouth of the cave, drenched and shivering, you couldn't tell if the fire warming the space had been prepared by fate or sheer luck. Either way, it was salvation.

In a way, you were grateful for the storm. The Highlands terrain was challenging even on a clear day, and the late winter tempest would make it nearly impossible for the foreigners to track you. The relentless wind and rain had likely erased any traces of your passage, buying you precious time. It had been difficult enough for you to navigate, even with Johnny—someone who knew these lands like the back of his hand. The English didn’t have that advantage. For once, the unforgiving Highlands were on your side.

Turning around, seeking the warmth of the fire, your body shivered from the wetness, the cold, and the sheer exhaustion weighing down on you. But as you took a step forward, your breath caught in your throat.

Johnny stood before you, half-naked, his broad, muscled back facing you. Only his kilt remained, the rest of his soaked garments draped over the jagged rocks to dry. The flickering firelight cast shadows along the ridges of his strong shoulders, highlighting the sculpted definition of his arms as he moved with quiet precision. His muscles rippled beneath his skin, taut and powerful, each motion exuding the effortless strength of a man shaped by war and the unforgiving Highland terrain.

The cavern suddenly felt smaller, the air thicker. You swallowed hard, unable to tear your gaze away from the way his back flexed as he adjusted the placement of his clothes, the firelight dancing across his damp skin.

It was the first time you had ever seen a man’s half-naked body this close. You had heard the tales—whispers among the women about how warriors were sculpted by war and labor, how their strength was carved into their very flesh. But no amount of stories could have prepared you for this.

He was beautiful. Strong. Tempting.

The firelight danced over his skin, illuminating the scars that mapped his back, the stretch marks along his shoulders, the faint beauty spots scattered across his arms. Every detail called to you, luring you closer, urging you to reach out—to trace the paths of his battles, to feel the proof of his existence beneath your fingertips.

And then, he turned.

Your breath hitched as your gaze fell upon his chest, dusted with dark hair. It was broad, solid—made for shielding, for fighting, for enduring. Yet something about it looked soft, warm. Your eyes drifted lower, tracing the ridges of his stomach, where strength met comfort, where power softened just enough to make you ache to touch him.

Never in your life had you thought you’d want to kiss something so badly. But as your gaze settled on the firm yet inviting plane of his stomach, the thought consumed you. A desperate, maddening hunger, pooling low in your belly.

"Ye should tak' yer dress aff, bonnie," he stated casually, folding his undershirt before draping it over a rock to dry. He had yet to look at you, and for that, you were grateful.

Your heart pounded at his words, an undeniable heat spreading from your chest to your neck, blooming across your cheeks. Only moments ago, you had been shivering, body wracked with cold, but now—now, you felt unbearably warm. Too hot in the small cavern, too aware of every inch of damp fabric clinging to your skin.

Your fingers twitched at your sides, hesitating. The logic in his words was undeniable—remaining in wet clothes would only worsen the chill in your bones. But stripping, here, in front of him? The very thought sent a shudder through you that had nothing to do with the cold.

Johnny still wasn’t looking at you, but you could feel him. Feel his presence, his body just meters away, his muscles shifting subtly as he adjusted his kilt. He was giving you space, giving you time, yet you couldn’t shake the feeling that he was just as aware of you as you were of him.

Slowly, you started untying the dress, though it proved to be much harder than you had anticipated. The ties were at the back, just out of reach, frustratingly stubborn beneath your trembling fingers. It was the first time you had worn a dress like this since arriving here—one of Johnny’s sisters had brought it to you that morning, gently fastening the ties as she helped you into it.

Now, standing in the dim glow of the fire, soaked to the bone, exhaustion weighing heavy on your limbs, you fought against the fabric with little success.

Frustration built in your chest, your breath quickening as tears pricked the corners of your eyes. It had been a long day. A cruel, unforgiving day. Your nerves were frayed, raw and exposed, and this—this simple, infuriating impossibility—felt like the final crack in your already fragile composure.

Sensitive. The word had followed you all your life, sometimes spoken with fondness, other times as a cutting remark. Now, it felt like a curse, tightening around your throat as you sniffed and blinked hard, willing the tears away.

"Come here, bonnie," the Highlander murmured, motioning you toward him with a gentle nod.

Of course, he had noticed your frustration—the way your fingers fumbled with the ties, the quiet huffs of breath as you struggled. He had also noticed the way your eyes lingered on him earlier, taking in every inch of his exposed skin. But the day had been too long, too harrowing, for teasing. His focus now was on easing your discomfort, ensuring you could rest, if only for a few precious hours. And for that, you needed to be out of your soaked dress.

Under any other circumstances, you might have bristled at the suggestion—spat in his face and called him improper. But right now, exhaustion weighed too heavily on your body to argue.

Johnny knelt behind you, the warmth of his presence at your back sending an unfamiliar shiver down your spine. With practiced ease, he made short work of the laces, his calloused fingers deft against the damp fabric. The ties had been fastened tightly—his sister’s handiwork, he reckoned, a small smile tugging at his lips. 

His family had taken you in as one of their own, ensuring your comfort, welcoming you as only true Highlanders would.

Once the ties were undone, Johnny pushed his luck.

Rising to his feet behind you, he let his hands slide beneath the heavy fabric of your dress, his fingers grazing over the linen of your underdress as he slowly eased the gown down your arms. His touch was firm yet careful, as if he were handling something fragile, something precious.

The dress pooled at your elbows before slipping lower, his hands guiding it past your waist, pushing it down inch by inch. The sensation sent a shiver through you, though whether from the cold or the unexpected intimacy, you couldn’t tell.

Once your arms were free, Johnny lowered himself again, kneeling behind you. His rough hands trailed down your sides as he gathered the fabric, gently tugging it over your hips, then down your legs. The damp material clung stubbornly to your skin, forcing his fingers to brush against your bare thighs as he worked.

A slow, deliberate motion. Neither of you spoke.

The only sound was the crackling fire and the soft rustle of fabric as Johnny undressed you with a patience that sent heat curling low in your belly.

Johnny made quick work of your boots, pulling them off with ease before placing them near the fire to dry. His fingers lingered on your ankles for a brief moment, a gentle touch, before he returned his attention to the rest of your clothing.

Once the heavy dress had been removed, his hands skimmed over the thin fabric of your underdress, testing for dampness. The linen was cool, a little humid, but not enough to be dangerous. Sitting close to the fire would warm you soon enough.

His own kilt, however, was a different story. The wool clung to his skin, soaked through from the storm. He shifted uncomfortably, feeling the chill of it pressing against his thighs. Normally, he took pride in wearing the garment of his people, but for the first time, he cursed his decision not to wear undergarments beneath it.

The thought of stripping it off entirely crossed his mind—he’d done it countless times before, unbothered by nudity. But now? With you here, flushed and vulnerable in the firelight, he wasn’t sure if he had the self-control to test that boundary.

Looking down at the man before you, you had never seen a more breathtaking sight. As fierce and brutal as Johnny could be, with his enemies and on the battlefield, he had shown you nothing but gentleness and patience. Yet, the image of him now—half-naked, kneeling before you, his strong hands carefully peeling away your soaked dress—sent a primal heat through your body.

It was a feeling you had never experienced before, something raw and overwhelming. A need so strong it nearly stole your breath, a warmth pooling deep in your belly. You barely managed to swallow the small whimper threatening to escape your lips.

Your thoughts were unholy, wicked, entirely unfit for an unwed woman. And yet, as Johnny’s rough fingertips brushed against your skin, as the firelight flickered over his broad chest and powerful arms, you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

The moment shattered as another rumble of thunder roared through the cavern, making you jump. You had been too lost in him—his presence, his touch—to notice the worsening storm outside. The wind howled through the trees, and with it came a biting chill, seeping into your already trembling body.

Snapping out of your daze, you hurried to the fire, settling as close as you could without burning yourself. The heat licked at your skin, chasing away the dampness that clung to you like a second layer. As if seeking comfort, your fingers instinctively grazed the cool metal at your throat, softly grasping the small cross hanging from your necklace.

A reminder. Of home. Of who you were. Of what you should be thinking about, instead of the half-naked Highlander behind you.

A few moments passed in silence, the crackling of the fire filling the space between you. Johnny had settled across from you, putting distance where he longed to close it. Every instinct in him screamed to pull you into his arms, to feel your weight against him, your warmth seeping into his skin as his hands traced the soft curves of your body. But his self-restraint was the only thing keeping him in place.

Still, he could see it in your eyes—the same longing, the same hunger that burned in him. It was there, flickering like the firelight dancing across your face. But as his gaze drifted lower, catching the way your fingers clung to the cross at your throat, he understood.

It wasn’t hesitation. It was conviction. And yet, the way you looked at him… it made him wonder how much longer that conviction would hold.

If faith and convention were the only things holding you back, Johnny could make quick work of it.

The wedding ring he carried—a simple, unadorned band of gold—rested against his chest, tucked away on the chain around his neck. It had been his mother’s, a final gift from her deathbed. A promise. A reminder. A vow to be a good man, a good husband, and one day, a good father. He had cherished that ring, holding onto it as if it carried the weight of her spirit, imagining the day he would slip it onto his wife’s hand, fulfilling the silent pledge he had made to her memory.

But faith had never come easily to Johnny. Not after what had been taken from him.

If God existed, why had He taken someone as kind, as pure, as his mother? She had been the sun in his life, warming everything she touched, and yet, she had been stolen away, leaving only cold shadows in her wake.

Eight pregnancies. Three miscarriages. And in the end, it was illness that had taken her, not the dangers of childbirth. Not the hardships of life in the Highlands. It had been a cruel, senseless thing, an unfair twist of fate.

He had been twenty then—old enough to understand the world, too young to accept it. He had seen war, had watched men commit unspeakable acts, and yet they still walked the earth while his mother lay six feet under.

He had cursed the world. Cursed the doctors. Cursed his father.

Cursed God.

Even though Johnny and God were still at odds, he could still take you under his care, bound under the watch of the Holy Father.

The truth was, no matter how much his clan respected you, they didn’t have the means to send you back to France. The Mactavishes were not seafarers. They had no ships, no ties to merchants who could smuggle you across the channel. They were farmers and warriors—one of the strongest clans in the Highlands—but strength meant little on the open sea.

Even if they had the coin to pay for passage, who would take you? The British controlled the waters. Every port, every harbor, every ship that left these lands was watched. You weren’t just any woman lost in the Highlands—you were a prize, and Johnny had no doubt the English wanted you back more than anything.

No. There was no going back.

You were here now. And whether it was under God or under his own oath, Johnny would see to it that you were protected.

Protection also meant keeping you safe from illness—he’d be damned if he let sickness take someone else from him.

You might not have admitted your feelings, but Johnny had embraced his the moment he first saw you sleeping by the fire that night. Oblivious to the danger your name carried, wrapped in the soft glow of the flames, breathing so peacefully while the world hunted you.

And God, how he adored you. You were stubborn, sharp-tongued, and utterly unafraid to challenge him. He had never met a woman so unyielding, so unwilling to be tamed. The French court could never have held you—not a woman like you, not with your fire. Here, you were free. Unknown to him, you had discovered this side of yourself on the journey here, far from the rigid rules of your homeland. It had been liberating—an unfamiliar yet intoxicating freedom, something you had come to cherish. 

It wasn’t just chance that had brought you to him.

It was fate.

As his gentle gaze settled on your sleeping form on the cavern floor, he took it upon himself to act when he noticed your body trembling from the cold. Something he had learned quickly from years of sleeping beneath the open sky was that body heat was essential for survival.

Sighing, he rose to his feet and moved closer, the flickering firelight casting golden hues across your skin, making you look almost ethereal. He knew you well enough to predict the earful you’d give him for what he was about to do, but he’d rather endure your wrath than let you freeze. The thin underdress you wore did little to keep you warm, offering almost no protection against the biting chill.

Johnny tried not to linger on the way the cold had affected you, but his gaze betrayed him, drawn to the way your nipples pebbled beneath the damp fabric. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to look away. He didn’t want to reduce you to something base, like the women who warmed beds at the brothels, but you were—without a doubt—the most beautiful thing he had ever laid eyes on. Soft, full, and utterly ripe for the taking.

Quietly, careful not to startle you, Johnny lay down beside you. At first, he thought his mere presence would be enough to chase away the cold, that just having him close would steady the shivers wracking your body. But after several long minutes, he realized it wasn’t working.

With a small sigh, he inched closer, feeling the soft curve of your backside brush against his thigh, his arm barely grazing your back. Still, you trembled.

Muttering a curse under his breath, he turned onto his side and did what needed to be done. 

Gently, he slid an arm around your waist, pulling you against him, his body a solid wall of warmth. The sudden movement stirred you, your head lifting slightly in confusion. Johnny took advantage of it, slipping his arm beneath you so his bicep could serve as your pillow.

"What are you doing?" you murmured, voice thick with sleep.

"Keeping you warm," he whispered, testing his luck as he let his other hand rest on your stomach. The softness there contrasted sharply with the roughness of his calloused palm, a sensation he could easily grow addicted to.

"I was warm already," you mumbled, sleep dragging you back under.

Johnny huffed out a quiet laugh. "Aye, right, lass. People usually shake when they’re warm." His voice was laced with amusement, a teasing lilt warming the words.

As sleep enveloped you, your body melted further against Johnny’s, instinctively seeking his warmth, molding into him as if you belonged there. He felt the way your breath evened out, the tension in your muscles fading as you surrendered to the safety of his arms.

And in that moment, there was nothing Johnny wished for more than to feel this every night for the rest of his life.

Warm. That was all you could feel—warm, comfortable, and undeniably aroused.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you had slept without nightmares clawing at the edges of your mind. It was strange, considering you had just escaped another attack. Usually, the slightest bit of stress was enough to conjure haunting visions in your sleep.

As you slowly drifted back to awareness, you became conscious of a weight pressing between your legs, sending a shiver through your body—something unfamiliar yet thrilling. The mere shift of your hips sent a spark of pleasure coursing through you, the warmth only intensifying the sensation. Another slight movement, and the pressure hit just right, pulling a soft, unbidden moan from your lips.

A deep, satisfied sigh left your lips before you even fully realized what was happening. The warmth, the firm pressure—it all felt too good, too intoxicating. Your body responded instinctively, hips shifting slightly, chasing that unfamiliar but thrilling sensation.

It wasn’t until you heard a slow groan against your neck that reality began to seep back in. The weight between your legs, the solid heat pressed against your back—it was Johnny.

And then it hit you.

The hardness nestled against you, the way his grip had tightened slightly in sleep, his body unconsciously seeking yours even as he dreamed. A wave of heat rushed to your cheeks, mortification battling with something much darker, much more sinful.

Your breath hitched, and as if sensing your awareness, Johnny stirred behind you.

"Don't mind me, bonnie. Keep going," Johnny mumbled against your neck, his voice thick with sleep, barely conscious. The words slipped past his lips unfiltered, a mere reflection of his thoughts. Had he been more awake, he would have never dared to say them.

Given the circumstances, this was one of the best nights of his life. He was warm, comfortable, and had a moaning lass unknowingly using his thigh for her own pleasure. What else was he supposed to feel but utterly content? So blissful, he could die right there and have no complaints. 

He should have known it would be too much for you. The way your entire body tensed, your breath hitching as if the air had been stolen from your lungs—it was obvious. But the feel of you, warm and soft against him, had clouded his judgment. Even more so when he had just barely left the land of dreams, where restraint did not exist. 

You were mortified. For a fleeting moment, your body had betrayed you, surrendering to instinct rather than reason. And in that moment, you had sinned.

Shame clawed at your chest, wrapping around your ribs like a vice as your mind spiralled. The weight of your actions settled heavily on you, each passing second only worsening the guilt. What would God think? What would He do to punish you for such impurity?

Your breaths came quicker, uneven, as panic threatened to consume you whole. As fast as you could, you left his embrace, immediately hit with a cold shiver, his warmth no longer shielding you. Tears burned at the corners of your eyes, shame tightening around your chest as you hurriedly pulled your dress back on. Modesty was your only comfort now. 

The events of yesterday crashed down on you all at once—the peaceful moment at the pond, Espoir, the attack, the thunderstorm, the cave… Johnny undressing you. You had been too distraught to stop him, too desperate for warmth to protest. You had let him touch you, hold you, care for you in ways only a husband should.

But Johnny wasn’t your husband. He was just a man. Nothing more. 

He could never be your husband. You were never meant to stay here. Spring was blooming, and soon, you would be gone. This was not your land; they were not your family. They were nothing more than hosts, helping you survive a cold and cruel winter.

The realization sent another wave of shame crashing over you, your hands trembling as you fumbled with the ties of your dress. Your fingers felt clumsy, useless against the fabric, and frustration only made the tears burn hotter behind your eyes.

How had you let it come to this?

You had been in distress, vulnerable, but that was no excuse. You should have resisted, should have found another way. Instead, you had let him touch you, hold you, comfort you in ways no man ever should before marriage. And worse—you had wanted it.

God would understand, you tried to reassure yourself. You would pray, you would confess, you would repent. He would understand. He had to. You had endure too much to be abandoned by God. 

As you spiralled, Johnny was slowly coming back to his senses. He had long forbidden God from his life—he was not subject to the same guilt that consumed you. But he did feel guilt. Guilt toward you. It clawed at his chest, making him feel as if he had taken advantage of you, used a moment of weakness for his own comfort.

That wasn’t what had happened, of course. You would have frozen to death if he hadn’t undressed you, if he hadn’t pulled you into his warmth during the night. But logic did little to soothe the ache of seeing you like this.

The mere sight of your panic was a stab to the heart—your eyes brimming with tears, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. There was nothing to be ashamed of. Your body had simply responded, drawn to warmth and comfort in an innocent moment of unconscious surrender. It was nature at its finest, nothing to condemn yourself for.

Sighing, he got up himself. Quickly, he made his way to the mouth of the cave, checking the damage Mother Nature had brought with her. Some trees had fallen, their roots torn from the earth, and the soil had turned to thick mud—but that was good. He knew these lands better than anyone, and the treacherous terrain would slow the Sassenachs in their pursuit.

It would take longer to get back home, but that didn’t matter.

Turning back inside, Johnny was met with a sight he never wished to see—you, on your knees, praying. No, begging. The words tumbled from your lips in French, a language he didn’t understand, yet he understood perfectly. It was in the way your hands were pressed together so tightly, your eyes clenched shut, as if you could will away the shame burning inside you.

"Dear Lord Jesus, I know that I am a sinner, and I ask for Your forgiveness. I believe You died for my sins and rose from the dead. I turn from my sins and invite You to come into my heart and life. I want to trust and follow You as my Lord and Savior."

You whispered it over and over, your voice shaking, a desperate plea for absolution—a testimony of a faith Johnny had long since abandoned.

Anger rushed through him like wildfire. God couldn’t care less about your actions. It didn’t matter if you were a saint or a sinner—God reaped without looking back, without mercy, without reason. Johnny had learned that the hard way.

Pray all you want, beg until your knees bled—it wouldn’t save your soul. Not from guilt, not from fate, and certainly not from him.

Dressing in silence, the echoes of your prayers still whispering through the cave, Johnny made quick work of his clothing. The less time you spent in the wilderness, the less time you were a target. He needed to get you back to the castle—fast. A place where you would be protected. Your knight by your side and the Mactavish Clan behind you.

You were still on your knees when he told you it was time to move. It would be a four to five-hour journey given the storm’s damage.

And those hours were spent in utter silence.

Johnny was never comfortable with silence, but this one felt like torture. You wouldn’t look at him. You lingered close enough not to get lost, but still too far, as if the mere idea of touching him was unbearable. The distance gnawed at him, bitter and unwanted.

He had thought that moment at the pond was the start of something—the start of you seeing him as more than an annoying lurker.

He diverted his mind from the hurt he felt to the more pressing issue—the traitor. Someone had talked. Someone, surely, had sold your information to the Brits. It was near impossible for them to know you were the protégée of the Mactavish clan. He had made sure the villagers around didn’t know he was tracking you. He had trusted them, had faith in them.

He shouldn’t have.

Money was scarce now that their kingdom was once again at war. Even though they didn’t answer to any king, they still bore the consequences of it. Famine was already creeping through some of the clans, a looming threat everyone was afraid of. The tension in the air was palpable, like a storm waiting to break. The survival of so many depended on the decisions made now. And someone had betrayed them. Someone had put you, and the whole clan, at risk.

Ever the optimist, the thought of betrayal had never crossed your mind. Before the guilt set in, you had imagined it to be a horrible coincidence. Perhaps they had simply stumbled upon a Scot soldier, and, being enemies, they had wanted him gone. Not once had you considered it might be related to you. The tartan you wore on your shoulder surely made you pass as just another Highlander.

While Johnny was lost in thought, devising a plan to uncover the traitor, you were caught in a different kind of planning. You couldn't stay here anymore. The temptation was too strong, and you weren’t sure how much longer you could hold out. You knew yourself better than anyone, and you feared that you would eventually surrender to it. You needed to talk to Ser John, to beg him to finally leave this place before it became impossible to escape the pull of everything that was slowly threatening to undo you.

It was heartbreaking, really. You had come to love life here. It was simple, unburdened by the strict laws and rigid rules of the French court. You loved the independence, the way your voice mattered here, and the warmth of the lovely people you had met along the way. The breathtaking landscapes, with their raw beauty, had become a part of you. In another life, you could have imagined yourself being born here, living a life so different from the one fate had dictated for you.

But that was not your reality.

God had chosen another path for you, a path that, despite how far you had strayed from it, you needed to return to before you lost it all—before you lost yourself completely.

Once you reached the castle, it felt as though war had been declared. The courtyard was a sea of men, all gathered and armed for battle, the air thick with tension. At the sight of you, all eyes turned toward you, as if you were the sudden center of their universe.

Ser John was the first to reach you, his eyes scanning your face, immediately knowing something had happened. The weight of his concern was undeniable, and in a moment that would have been forbidden back home, he did something his manners would never normally allow—he embraced you.

His arms enveloped you, a shield of warmth and safety. The moment you sank into his embrace, the tension in your body began to fade, replaced by the steady beat of his heart. It was a comfort that reached deep inside you, a comfort that felt like the love of a mother, gentle and unyielding.

Ser John didn't want to let you go. He had feared the worst when you hadn't returned the night before. You weren’t just a ward to him; you were his princess, his protégée, his family. His life as a protector had never given him the opportunity to build a family of his own, but God put you in his path. You had become his daughter in every sense that mattered.

He had watched over you since you were young, knowing you better than anyone. He could read you in an instant, could see what troubled you, and what comfort you needed. No matter what happened, he would always protect you. Always.

Hell, he had crossed the sea to ensure your safety. Never trusting anyone else with the responsibility of watching over you.

The only time he had ever given his trust to someone else, you disappeared.

The memory of that moment still haunted him. Four men had to restrain him from charging into the unknown land himself. The raging storm outside not stopping his will to find you. The fact that he didn’t know the land, that it was a world unfamiliar to him, hardly mattered. He had never been a man of hesitation. The only thing that mattered was you. And he needed you safe.

You were his to protect, and he would never let go again.

He had to, though. Despite every instinct telling him to stay by your side, a counsel was called at Johnny's demands, and he was asked to assist. You, as the subject of the counsel.

Your knight wasn’t the traitor, it would have been easy to blame him, a stranger to the clan. Yet he had seen it in every action, every gesture. If all his previous actions hadn't proven his loyalty to you, the intimate moment you shared—under the watchful eyes of the clan—was all the proof Johnny needed. There was no doubt left in him. The bond between you and your knight ran deeper than any mere betrayal. It was something more sacred, more unspoken, and it was clear to Johnny that you were both fiercely protective of each other.

Johnny’s loyalty was not easily given, but it was steadfast. And he had seen enough to trust your knight without question. The traitor was still out there, but Johnny was certain it wasn’t the one who had been by your side through it all.

As soon as your knight let go of you, Johnny's sisters were there, ushering you inside, guiding you like you were one of their own. They moved around you with practiced ease, their actions a blend of care and urgency. The world still felt distant, your mind numb from the whirlwind of emotions that had overtaken you.

They were used to tending to each other, and in that moment, they made it clear that you were no different. You were part of their family now, another sister to be cared for, another soul to protect. They brushed your hair, their hands gentle and sure as they worked to smooth out the tangles, a quiet comfort in their touch. The familiar smell of lavender and herbs filled the air as they bathed you, their kindness a soft balm for the storm of thoughts in your mind.

As they worked, their eyes never strayed from you, always checking, always ensuring that you felt safe. They wrapped you in warmth—furs, blankets, soft cloths that were a stark contrast to the chill you had just endured. The fire crackled nearby, the flickering light casting a soothing glow across the room. They took your filthy dress, replacing it with something fresh, and soon the weight of your worries felt a little lighter.

When they finally urged you into bed, they stayed close, watching over you like sentinels. Their presence, unwavering and full of love, made you feel small but safe—like a child surrounded by a protective circle. The warmth they provided wasn’t just physical, but emotional as well, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to close your eyes, surrendering to the comfort they offered.

Here, in this moment, you could almost forget the world outside. Almost.

As you drifted into a dreamless sleep, the events of the past days slowly began to blur, but one constant remained. Johnny. His face, his presence, and the feeling of his arms around you lingered in your mind like a gentle echo.

On the other side of the castle, Johnny sat at the head of the war table, opposite to his father, his hands folded tightly in front of him, as the discussions raged around him. His mind was elsewhere, his thoughts consumed by the betrayal he felt deep in his gut. He could hear the anger in the voices of his people—his warriors, his kin—raging against the idea that the English were so close to their land, so bold in their attack. But none of them knew what he suspected. None of them knew the truth he couldn't yet voice aloud.

His mind wandered back to the events that led to this point, the confusion, the unexpected attack, the way things had unraveled so quickly. He couldn't shake the feeling that something had been set in motion long before they had even realized. A traitor, one of their own, had whispered information to the enemy. Johnny's gut clenched at the thought, the sting of betrayal burning in his soul. He had trusted everyone, treated them like family, like his own blood, and yet someone had turned on them.

His eyes flickered over the faces around the table, studying each one. They were all loyal—at least, they had been. But the question gnawed at him: who among them could be the betrayer? He couldn't ignore the signs, the subtle shifts in behavior, the way some of them avoided his gaze, or the way others seemed to be too quick to offer solutions that sounded too good to be true. But Johnny knew better than to rush to conclusions without evidence. It was too dangerous.

Sir John's gaze rarely left Johnny as the discussion swirled around the room. He had known the young Highlander long enough—and had always been adept at reading people—to sense when something was wrong. Right now, Johnny was on edge: every muscle taut, every breath shallow. His leg bounced restlessly beneath the table, a clear signal of the frustration and anxiety gnawing at him.

While the counsel raged on, a mix of voices rising in Gaelic and English, Ser John tried to piece together what little he could. He didn’t understand everything being said, the language barrier was a constant obstacle, but one thing was clear: something didn’t sit right with the entire situation. The attack had seemed too well-coordinated, too precise, and it felt personal. The knight felt Johnny knew it too. It must had been the reason the Scot had been so angry, so deeply disturbed by what had happened.

As the counsel unfolded, Johnny couldn’t help but feel a gnawing sense of frustration. Time was slipping away, and there was still so much to uncover. But the most important thing for him was clear: your safety. And he would not rest until he ensured you were no longer in danger.

As his gaze swept across the room, Johnny's eyes finally locked onto his father. He had never seen him like this before—vulnerable, as though a sword were hanging over his head. When their eyes met, Johnny subtly tilted his head, narrowing his gaze. The chief of the clan was hiding something. Something dark. Something he was ashamed of.

He couldn't be…

Without breaking the tension of their stare, Johnny's voice cut through the chaos, steady and unwavering.

"We have a traitor among us." His words rang out, slicing through the heated debate as his eyes remained locked on his father's, never wavering.

The room fell unnervingly silent at his declaration, the tension crackling in the air like the stillness before a storm. Every eye turned toward him, but none more so than the chief’s. His father’s face hardened, his posture stiffened, and his hand tightened around the hilt of his sword as if instinctively preparing for a threat.

Johnny’s eyes never wavered from his father’s gaze, his suspicion burning bright. It wasn’t just the attack on you that unsettled him—it was the sense of something deeper, something more sinister festering within the clan. He had trusted his father above all else, but now, with his gaze fixed on the elder Mactavish, Johnny felt an icy chill run through him.

As Johnny's mind churned with the realization, it became clearer. His father had the most to gain from betraying the clan to the Brits. As Chief, it was his duty to protect them, and if things were looking bleak, aligning with the enemy could seem like the only way to ensure survival. But one thing Johnny couldn’t reconcile was why, if his father truly intended to betray them, he would have sent Johnny to protect you.

Johnny was his son—his flesh and blood. Could his father really want him dead? The thought twisted in his gut. Why would he not have sent someone else in his place, someone expendable? Why trust his son with such a critical task if he was planning on throwing everything away?

There had to be more to this. Something didn’t add up.

The chief's gaze darkened as he straightened, his brow furrowing. The whispers that followed Johnny’s words were muted, unsure of how to react. Even his closest men seemed uneasy.

Johnny’s heart pounded in his chest, the weight of his own words heavy in the room. It was a dangerous thing to accuse someone, especially the head of the clan. But he could feel it deep in his gut—his instincts never lied. His father was hiding something, and whatever it was, it was the key to the attack on you.

"You dare accuse me?" The chief’s voice was low, rumbling like thunder, his gaze flicking from Johnny to the men in the room, daring them to speak out.

Johnny’s jaw clenched. "I don’t dare do anything," he shot back, his voice unwavering. "I know what I feel. We’ve been betrayed, and I can sense it’s coming from within our own walls."

A single glance from the Chief was all it took. The councilmen, seasoned warriors and loyal clansmen, understood the unspoken command immediately. Without hesitation, they rose, their heavy boots echoing against the stone floor as they made their way toward the exit. The doors groaned as they shut behind them, sealing the room in tense, suffocating silence.

Ser John, however, remained unmoving in his seat. As your sworn protector, he had every right to stay—more than that, he had a duty to. His sharp eyes flickered between father and son, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword. Something about the way they stared at each other—unblinking, unreadable, as if an invisible battlefield stretched between them—made his instincts scream at him to be ready.

Any wrong move could turn this into a war of its own.

His father jaw tightened, his weathered face shadowed with something unspoken. Pain. Resignation. Maybe even guilt. But not fear.

"It is not me you’re looking for, son," he said, slower this time, voice rough with hurt. How could his own flesh and blood believe him capable of such treachery? He had already lost his wife; he would not—could not—lose his only son.

Johnny didn’t waver. If anything, his anger burned hotter. "If it’s not you, then you know who." His words were sharp as a blade, slicing through the heavy air. In one swift motion, he stood, chair scraping against the stone.

Ser John was up just as fast, his body tensed like a coiled spring. His hand hovered near his sword, his soldier’s instincts screaming at him to prepare for the worst. He couldn’t understand their Gaelic exchange, but he understood tension—understood the way men moved before steel was drawn.

The room reeked of conflict, of something festering beneath the surface.

And then Johnny’s voice boomed again, rattling the very walls.

"Why are you protecting a traitor?" His voice carried, loud enough to be heard beyond the heavy doors. His hands were fists at his sides, barely containing the storm inside him. "What do you have to gain, if you're not the traitor yourself?"

Fionn expression darkened, but he didn’t flinch. And that, more than anything, sent ice crawling down Johnny’s spine. 

His father exhaled a long, weary sigh, his shoulders heavy with the weight of unspoken truths. His gaze, filled with something distant—something sorrowful—met Johnny’s, and for the first time, the young warrior saw not just his father, but a man burdened by impossible choices.

His voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper, yet it struck like a hammer against the silence.

"She loves him." Fionn closed his eyes briefly, as if the truth pained him. When he spoke again, his voice was even softer. "She didn't know."

The words settled over the room like a final toll of a bell.

Johnny felt his breath hitch, the pieces shifting, rearranging, falling into place. And with them came a realization so profound, so devastating, it left him standing there—frozen—while the world seemed to tilt beneath him.

Outside, the storm had passed, but inside, another had just begun.

[withclawandvine]

continuation of this | barbarian!bakugou, fem reader (wears a dress, referred to as daughter/wife)

when katsuki returns to his tent after washing the grime of travel away in the springs, he is surprised to find you still in your dusty, reeking dress, next to the basin of hammered copper, gently steaming with the water and silky, floral oils he’d ordered for you. 

“i can’t untie the laces,” you admit, voice trembling slightly with frustration or exhaustion. your arms are drawn tightly, protectively, around yourself. and when you quietly ask if he will undo the knot between your shoulder blades, katsuki feels itchy heat bloom on his neck, the tips of his ears.

rough hands finding your elbows, he turns you around, with more speed than entirely necessary. 

“so useless,” he tsks, not for the first time. the journey home had taken twice as long with you as it otherwise would have; you struggled to mount your own horse, and didn’t know the first thing about starting a fire or how to cook over it. 

“if you really thought that,” you murmur, peeking over your shoulder as he fights with the strings, “you wouldn’t have brought me here.” 

you’re looking at him as if you’d just asked a question. 

katsuki is spared from having to answer, because he’s finally managed to unravel the securing knot. your skin is soft and warm against his knuckles when he wedges two fingers between the laces and your spine, tugging the lattice of string loose until the expanse of your back is exposed.

he barely has time to step back, much less exit the tent, before you let it fall in a heap unbefitting of a garment with jewels embroidered on the bodice.

katsuki looks at a patch in the buckskin enclosing you until he hears the soft splash of your body entering the water, a pleased sigh that seems to go through his ears and zip down his spine.

“i didn’t expect you to be so prudish.” for the first time since he met you, you’re smiling a little, and he is alarmed to realize that the poets had been right about you.

the smile is gone in a blink, drooping into a frown the second your eyes land on the wash cloth, folded atop the stack of clean clothes on a stool near the wash basin. making a discernible effort not to look at him, you strain for it. once, twice, your delicate, uncalloused fingers skitter over the fabric. on the third try, you knock it to the ground. 

relieved to no longer be the one who's fumbling, katsuki picks it up for you. “can you wash yourself?” he asks, feeling his mouth curl into a goading smirk. “or do you need my help with that, too?”

you snatch the cloth from him, with a haughty look that makes it impossible to forget your patrimony. “but it’s clear you need my help with something.”

for centuries, his people have struggled against sprawling kingdom below — a growing power that refuses to relinquish control over the narrow pass that serves as the sole line of trade through the formidable northern range, often meeting any tribesman that wanders too close to the laden caravans being shepherded with lethal force.  

“you—” he starts, but loses the words when you roll your head to one side, baring your neck. droplets of soapy water adorn your skin like morning dew.  

“i?” 

“you… are leverage,” he finally says. a harsh truth, but not humiliating to speak aloud. unlike the other stupid, honest thoughts filling his head. 

tales of the proud king and his prize of a daughter had caught katsuki’s attention immediately; all he had to do to foster the first diplomatic tie in the history of your peoples was slay a beast. scarcely a challenge, for an archer such as himself — the greatest his tribe had ever seen.

you nod thoughtfully, kicking a foot out of the frothy water to scrub it from toe to knee. “then i suppose you were right after all.” 

“huh?” katsuki feels a bit dizzy. 

“to call me useless,” you clarify. drawing your leg back, you wrap your arms around yourself, resting your cheek against your knee to look at him. your tone is mild, but there’s something melancholic about the way the candlelight makes your eyes shine, like a star just before winking out of the sky. a tragic beauty, they say, his brain supplies, unbidden. “i’m afraid you may have overestimated my father’s affection for me.” 

in fact, you think he is probably furious; he had intended to trade your hand for access to the nearby island kingdom’s formidable navy, or send you to the east, where precious stones the size of a man’s fist are mined. not to come away with less than what he had to begin with. 

and you couldn’t have been more right: down the mountains and across the plains, the king paced in his war room, surrounded by his most trusted advisors and generals — plotting an assassination.

[svtoose]

Palace Rendezvous ft. Joshua Hong

pairing: joshua x fm!reader

word count: 1.2k

F : pretty fluffy

warnings: palace au, reader is a worker, kissing

summary: you and josh are two staff members at the palace. how will you keep your relationship a secret?

a/n : i made a banner hehe. ps. I'm sorry if u read this before I proofread bc gosh what was wrong w me!!

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

"We're going to get caught, Shua." You whisper into his ear. He continues to kiss your neck, moving his lips freely among your skin.

"Please, baby. I can't risk it." You plead. He finally releases you from his arms and frowns at you. You and Joshua both work at the king and queen's palace, but are forced to date in secret cause of a 'no dating' policy for the palace staff.

"I have a dress to sew, and you have a prince to tend to. Don't let the prince find out his right hand man is violating a rule." You whisper against his lips in a teasing fashion. He shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath. Before he lifts his lashes, you sneakily slip out of his grip and start speed-walking down the dimly lit hallway.

"This isn't over, Y/N," you hear him threaten as you giggle, continuing on your path to your quarters, where there is a garment waiting for you to complete.

With quick steps, trudge to the basement, fearing your boss's dismay at your tardiness.

"That's two in a row, Miss Y/N," your boss says after you enter the premises. Her eyebrows are raised, and a subtle smirk sits on her lips. It's almost as if she knew what you were doing just a few minutes ago.

"I apologize. I'll be extra early tomorrow." You speak guiltily, avoiding eye contact.

As you scurry toward your workplace, her next words make you stop at your place. "It's a boy, I presume. He must be the reason you're always late."

'Oh, no. This could be the end' you think to yourself. Is it that obvious? Well, you can't really admit it to your boss. Both you and Josh could get fired and sent home. Worse yet, you guys could be injured in front of all the staff to "set an example."

"No Miss. I just lost track of time while getting ready," you reply to your boss, hoping she believes your lies.

"Sure, you did. Just get to work."

You nod your head and quickly walk to your station, continuing to pin the hem of a dress you're working on. The gown is sheer pink, with an intricately embroidered bodice and a tulle skirt. It's absolutely perfect for the 16-year-old princess. It's definitely one of your more extravagant pieces.

Your hands steadily prick needles into the ragged hem of the dress as your boss walks around, critiquing and admiring your and the rest of the girls' work.

She finishes her rounds and takes a seat beside your isolated workspace as you mentally prepare yourself to be berated some more. Your boss was a kind woman in her fifties, but she did not appreciate any misconduct. Nobody ever wanted to be on her bad side.

"Exquisite Miss Y/N. Very elegant. I'm sure the princess will be delighted. Do you plan on adding straps?"

"Thank you. Yes, I do. I could also leave it strapless, but I know the princess prefers the support."

"Perfect then." She's about to leave before she pauses and looks at you.

"Miss Y/N. I know you know there are rules about personal affairs in the palace.

"I'm not having any personal affairs." You cut her off, lying through your teeth. You are usually not this abrupt, but the anxiety of her finding out about your relationship is surely terrifying.

"A chance to finish, Miss?"

"Yes, of course. I'm sorry."

"You're a terrible liar, you know. As I was saying, I know there's a boy. I know you're scared right now that I might get you in trouble. But I'm not looking to ruin your life. As long as it doesn't interfere with the quality of your work, which it obviously hasn't, then there's nothing to report. Even if the queen were to find out, she's a complete sucker for a good love story. She would be more than glad to turn a blind eye. And as for the king, he barely notices the staff. I'd be surprised if he knew my name. All I ask is that you come on time so you don't raise any suspicions among the rest of the staff. Does that sound reasonable?"

Do you hear her right? You and Shua won't have to worry about it anymore.

"It sounds far better than reasonable. Thank you so much. I promise I won't let you down, and I'll be on time from now on."

"Alright then. I'm glad this could be resolved. Get back to work. The dress is due in a few hours." She winked at you and walked away to her own station.

'I've got to tell Josh the news!' you think to yourself.

Though you are quite distracted for the duration of the work day, you successfully complete the dress, straps, and all. You quickly hang the completed garment on a rack and speed your way to your room, where you hope to freshen up for your date with Joshua.

You remove your hair tie, allowing your locks to lay freely, before you swipe a sheer shade of rouge over your lips. 'He's going to be so happy.'

You take steady steps toward the rooftop, where you know Josh will be awaiting you, imagining the smile that will adorn his face after you share your news with him.

After a few seconds, a beautiful scene reveals itself. Your dear boyfriend stands against the railing, admiring the acres of green that are accompanied by the sunset.

"Shua?" You call out with a peaceful smile on your lips.

He perks up, turning around to walk toward you with open arms. No matter how many times you see him in his uniform, it never fails to take your breath away; the suit is just tailored so perfectly to his frame.

"C'mere, sweetheart." He calls you in for a warm embrace, while you just cannot wipe the smile off your face.

"What's got you so happy?" He asks, releasing you from the hug. You grab his hand and walk back to the railing, pulling him behind you. While his arms enclose you as you both stare out into the sunset, you begin to reveal the news.

"I was late to work today... and..." He lays his chin on your shoulder, leaving sweet pecks on your neck.

"Well, my boss had an inkling that I was with a boy and told me that... it was okay. She wouldn't tell anyone we were together as long as I came on time." You feel his kisses pause as he lifts his head.

"Does that mean..."

"Yes, Josh. We don't have to fear for our lives anymore. We can be together."

"Oh, baby, that's so great." His arms tighten around you as you turn around to hold his face in your hands. The happiness in the atmosphere is blooming as your lips inch up toward each other in a deep kiss.

"I'm so happy, Josh."

"Me too, Y/N." You turn back around and continue to admire the nature that surrounds the palace. You can just feel it in your bones that life is about to get better.

[fatallyfalling]

Bitter Water 0.10 ~ ♆

“ sweetheart, “

{{ Finnick Odair x Reader }}

{{ previous part || next part }} {{ masterlist }}

warnings: typical Hunger Games violence/trauma/themes, language, blood, injury, PTSD, forced prostitution, enemies to lovers, slow burn, mutual pining, time skip, unshared feelings, etc

{{ word count }} 2.5 k

{{ outfits }}

{{ prompt }} Something is stirring between the Victors, with Plutarch Heavensbee at the head of the operation. Will it bring you and Finnick closer or tear you further apart? Only time will tell.

{{ a/n }} Y'all better buckle your seatbelts! The timeline will be skipping around only a little from here on out. My drive is slowly returning but I'm focusing more on pushing the plot toward catching fire where most of my plans lie.

You werent sure exactly what web you’d gotten yourself caught in at first.

But it was dangerous, not to mention treason.

It felt wrong, stiffly sitting across the cold dining room table of the frigid, Capital Penthouse apartment you were forced to frequent from the man you’d met almost a year ago now. Plutarch Heavensbee was a…’character’… to say the least. He’d been paying for an hour or two of your time every other week since he’d introduced himself and shaken Finnick’s hand and kissed yours that night at the Gala. He’d claimed to be “someone who could help”.

As much as a prestigious and well known and retired Game-Maker could, anyway.

Whatever that meant.

Your distrust was potent. Obviously.

The reasoning for his short and infrequent meetings had been inconclusive at first, feeling more like an extensive interview than actually answering any of your swarming questions. You hadn’t been able to figure out why a Game-Maker would care for spending coin on the Capital’s Desirables other than some sadistic power-trip. He kept his distance, always formal and polite. If you weren’t so familiar with the cruel games the Capital elite often played, if you weren’t labeled as Desirable, you might have thought him kind. Instead, you remained suspious. Heavensbee’s questions had been simple enough. Asking about how you were coping following your Games, if your life was what you’d dreamed it to be following victory, your brothers, your father. 

The mundane nature of the questions had your jaw tensing, aware that you’d have to word things carefully. Even if they weren’t in the room with you, you were all too aware of how many eyes and ears were on you at all times. You’d answered as blandly as you could manage. Short and concise while maintaining proper poise and eye contact. It was what was expected of you, anyway, as the Capital’s Doe. You hated the nickname but couldn’t seem to shake it. As time went on the Game-maker seemed to get more comfortable, his questions more personal, but always phrased in a backwards sort of way that left the answers open ended and vague. He was planning something. Something bigger than just hosting conversation and something bigger than just the current pool of Victors. He’d mentioned speaking with others only once or twice. Finnick included, as you’d immediately confronted the honey-tanned male after your third meeting with Plutarch months ago. You’d been anxious, a kernal of fear almost convincing you something had gone wrong. A leaden stone in your stomach that kept you on edge.

It’d been late, nearly half-past midnight when you’d gripped the cold, bronze knocker on the 65th Victor’s home and rapped twice. You hadn’t bothered to change from the dress you’d been wearing, even if the horrid garment was more translucent than opaque in some places, merely wrapping a thin shawl over your shoulders to protect yourself from the chilled air. A handful of moments pass, and you start to doubt he’ll answer, but just as you move to turn away the lock clicks and the wooden door creaks as its pulled open.

Your name is a tired rasp on Finnick’s lips.

“Can we talk?” You almost whisper, as if your voice had suddenly been caught in your throat. You rationalize the tightness to be your nerves following Plutarch’s visit. Definitely not the fact Finnick looked like he’d just rolled out of bed. Or maybe off a sofa, considering how quickly he’d answered the door. Surely it wasn’t the mess of bronze waves atop his head appearing messy and soft and frizzed all at the same time, nor the glazed over look in his eyes or his groggy expression. Or the fact he didn’t have a shirt.

He says your name again, the syllables rough on his voice and you debate just leaving instead. 

“Get yourself together!” You internally curse at yourself while clearing your voice, averting your eyes from his face to your trembling hands.

“Get In. It’s freezing out.” The male sighs while all but tugging you inside his home. You almost balk, batting his hand away from your arm but he only lets go once the door closes. You give a small huff of annoyance, remembering why you found the 65th Victor insufferable all over again. “I’m fine,” you quip and he gives you a roving look that has your eyes narrowing as a sly smirk tugs the corners of his mouth. “Uh-huh, sure. Whatever you say, sweetheart.” 

Sweetheart.

He’s rubbing a hand over his face now, trying to rub the sleep from his features, and you partially regret having woken him up. Bristling under the term of endearment, feeling the tips of your ears warm as it catches you off-guard but you’re quick to shove down the heat pooling in your chest. He was half asleep, probably hadn’t even registered the word on his tongue, you again try to rationalize. It meant nothing. Just another part of his playboy act.

“May I ask what is so important the Darling’s Doe must seek my company this late at night?” Finnick drawls, his voice still rough with sleep and you try not to grimace at the nickname. You knew The Darling to be an early riser, but clearly he was atleast a bit of a sarcastic grump if awoken from his slumber prematurely. “Don’t be a prick because I interrupted your beauty sleep.” You muse, half rolling your eyes and he chuckles, “It’s Heavensbee.” You add and he’s quick to go quiet. Interesting. 

“Has he been visiting you?” You ask rather bluntly, “Paying for your time and just asking questions?” You continue and recognition flickers in his eyes. “Why?” He asks and this time you really do roll your eyes. “It’s weird!” you exclaim, biting back the urge to throw your hands up. “Depends on what you’d qualify as weird,” The Darling rebuttals and you shoot him a pointed look. “You kow what I mean, Peacock.” You snap, gritting your teeth and he chuckles again, eliciting another annoyed huff from you while you cross your arms over your chest. “He’s seen me twice.” The Darling relents and your expression softens a fraction. “You?” He queries and you nod.

“Three times.”

Its his turn to nod and he gestures for you to follow him down the entry hall of the house.

You knew the homes of the Victors were cookie-cutter identical in both outward appearance and indoor floor plan. Only personal decoration and belongings dfferentitated the homes. You allow your gaze to sweep over the walls. They’d been painted a shade of blue that leaned more grey while the intricate mouldings remained white. You hadn’t thought of painting the walls of your own house, before. Now that you thought of it, you hadn’t actually ever been inside Finnick’s house before. And he hadn’t ever been to yours. It was an odd revelation but one you tried to brush off. It didn’t really matter, anyway. He leads you into the kitchen, another twin to your own as you glance around. There was only minimal furnishings, and your gaze lands back on the honey-tanned male as he gestures you to take a seat at the kitchen table. 

“Tea?” He asks and you simply nod as you make yourself comfortable. 

He sets a kettle on the stovetop to boil before slipping into the seat across from yours. “So? What do you want to know?” He asks nonchalantly, tilting his head as if he were a dog being asked for a walk. You have to smother the warmth in your chest all over again. “What has he asked you about?” You reply, trying to keep your tone even and neutral. He’s quiet for a moment, clearly sorting through his thoughts for the information. He bites the inside of his cheek as he thinks, his sea-green gaze averting for a moment.

“Different things,” The 65th Victor shrugs, placing his forearms on the table, “He asked about my Games, the trident, the interviews.” He begins to explain and you nod along intently as he rehashes the meetings. “He asked if I liked being a Victor…” Finnick pauses, something grim crossing his features that you hadn’t seen before. “Asked if I was happy…” he mutters additionally, his gaze flicking up to yours. 

“Are you?” You ask, holding his gaze and its almost as if you’re seeing one another for the first time all over again.

“Gods no.” Finnick shakes his head and you can’t help the relief that floods your veins. “Are you?” He asks, already knowing the answer.

“Don’t make me laugh, Odair,” You almost snort and he cracks a cheeky grin your way.

Another moment of silence passes, but its a more comfortable one than before.

“Did he ask what you thought of the Capital?” You ask next, your voice almost hesitant. Finnick’s grin falters but doesn’t break. “Yeah, he did.” the Darling responds.

“And how did you reply?” You press further, knowing you probably sound just as invasive as the Game-Maker had. “How did you answer?” He parrots back, arching a brow and you leash the urge to roll your eyes again. You were treading into uncharted waters together, sharing secrets that could end not only your prospective “Careers” as Victors but your lives. But a part of you already knew his answer to the question just like he knew yours as you stare at one another in tense anticipation.

You break first.

“There’s too many people watching up there. I couldn’t give him an honest answer.” You sigh, leaning back in your chair.”It’s too dangerous to be honest with anyone.”

“You’re honest with me,” Finnick speaks and your jaw tenses.

“That’s different,” You try to brush him off.

“Is it?” He presses, leaning forward slightly, pressing his forearms into the dark wood of the table firmly. “Who says I won’t turn my back and spill everything to the next Peacekeeper I see?” He adds, and the tilt of his head is suddenly less coy and curious but rather calculating. A predator assessing prey, a glimpse to the version of the man who’d killed his way to victory during his Games at just fourteen. Ice lashes up your spine and you suddenly feel small, vulnerable. You hated this feeling.

“Stop it,” You mutter but his expression doesn’t change. “If there wasn’t any form of trust between us I’d already be dead.” You snap, a venom you weren’t fast enough to leash slipping into your voice and something like mischief flickers in the 65th Victor’s gaze. He backs off, raising his hands in mock surrender and its an effort not to bare your teeth at him. “You’re not funny.” You grumble and he rolls his eyes with a humored scoff. “Trust is conditional for people like us,” Finnick shrugs, and you know he’s right. “Unlike you, I find I have more…sway… with how closely I’m watched. I’ve played their game longer and I know more of their tricks. I know how to use my words as a weapon of their own.” Finnick explains, relaxing back into his chair and his words have regained your attention as you give him a quizzative look. “Are you going to keep responding in tongues or are you actually going to get to the point?” You huff and he smirks, leaving you to glare back at him. “I told Plutarch what I thought,” he starts and you feel your senses perk up in anticipation to his answer. “I told him The Capital was Great, but even things that are great age. They develop cracks. And those cracks need to be repaired before something breaks. Like how some teacups are repaired with gold. Creating something new from something that was broken.” Finnick explains and it takes you a moment to decipher what he was saying. 

The Capital had cracks.

Cracks that possibly weren’t being fixed fast enough. Cracks The Capital possibly didn’t even know about.

Atleast not yet.

“Holy shit,” You’d cursed as everything suddenly clicked.

“Nice language,” Finnick muses and you’re about to make a comeback when the kettle finally sings and you both physically start as it cuts the remaining tension in the room. 

You’re left to gape in your revelation as the honey-tanned Darling pushes back and stands from the table, swiftly moving into the kitchen to shush the shrieking kettle. The air around him is casual and your eye twitches as you realize he’d probably figured things out days if not weeks ago. ‘Damnit..” You swear as your brows sew together and you scrub your hands over your face, not caring nor really remembering the shimmers Hyacinth had painstakingly applied to your skin before the meeting you’d had with the Game-Maker. Finnick says something and you don’t catch it, too lost in your own thoughts.

“What?” You ask, your tone more caught aloof than you would have liked it to be.

“Relax,” Finnick muses, his all too familiar cheshire smirk flashing his too-white canines your way in the dim light of the kitchen. “How do you like your tea?”

The familiar urge to throttle the Peacock flashes through you, dampening any embarrassment to a dull thrum in the back of your mind but you use a sharp exhale to expel the desire from your system before telling him your preferences. Minutes later Finnick returns to the table, two mugs in his hands and he sets one across from you before retaking his seat. You both stare into the brewing herbs a moment before he turns back to the conversation at hand.

“He’s planning something.” Finnick says and you nod, “That much is obvious…” You mutter, keeping your gaze on your steeping drink. “You seemed pretty shell-shocked a minute ago,” The Darling muses and you cut him a glare while muttering a “Shut up,” under your breath that has his cheshire smirk returning.  

“Make me,”

Oh, you’d kill him.

You really would, if you actually had the gaul to, that was.

That late night conversation had lasted well into the wee hours of morning. Neither of you had remembered when you’d moved from the kitchen to the parlor, Finnick stretched across his golden sofa while you’d curled up in an armchair after drinking your tea to the dregs. Neither of you remembered the other falling asleep either.

Not till the morning sun streamed through sheer curtains and inevitably roused you both.

Finnick made more tea, though a stronger, caffeinated variety this time around and you gave him your thanks and a quiet “Be careful,” before taking your leave and making the brisk trek across the culdesac of Victor’s Village to your own home.

Rumors flew through Capital gossip lines by that afternoon. Tales of your “disheveled” parting from the Darling’s home and you wanted to all but melt into sea-foam in the waves and wash away for the following week and a half the news stuck around.

From then on, you were more discreet about your debriefings.

{{ taglist }}

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[escespace]

Merthur prompt

Or rather, a long concept that has been going around in my head since I saw a tiktok but that I don't have the energy or time to write:

BUT LISTEN TO ME, I HAVE NOT FOUND ANYTHING LIKE THAT:

The king who seeks his warlock, the warlock who seeks his king. Two halves trying to become a whole again through two parallel growth journeys and a convergence between duty and hope.

So...

Merlin pretends to be heading for Camelot but he definitely isn't going there. I mean, IT'S THE KINGDOM KNOWN FOR ROAST BUNNY ON FIRE SEASONED WITH SORCERERS (he loved his mother but is that woman out of her mind?!)... However, he understands why she came up with the idea and agrees that his magical outbursts are becoming harder to conceal, so he wants to seek help (other than that of an ex-sorcerer who remains under the command of the chief butcher of his kind). He wants to find druids but he knows it will be a difficult journey, druids never stay in one place long enough and they distrust outsiders. Either way, he's already made up his mind and he never backs down when he does that.

Meanwhile Arthur's taking Morris to Gaius because the idiot moved at the last minute while he was practicing throwing knives.And it's totally his fault and not Arthur's. How dare him doubt the ability of his prince? Ha! As if Arthur could fail.

He knows he's going to be late for the banquet and his father will look at him in that way he does and well, it better not be that late, right? So he takes other routes and somehow ends up near where that magnificent entertainment is staying, that Morgana kept talking about but that he didn't listen to at all...

He hears the commotion in one of the rooms and ends up stopping a crime and finds evidence of a possible assassination attempt on the royal family. More or less, Arthur stops the whole fiasco with Lady Helen before it happens.

While they take her to the dungeons to burn her the next morning, she growls, attacks and curses the Pendragon ancestors... Above all, that night Arthur does not stop listening to her again and again claiming for the life of her son, burned that same morning :

«It wasn't Him, it was my magic, it wasn't Him »

And for the first time in his life Arthur asked himself a question related to magic...

Weeks go by and for Merlin things may not be going the way he thought they would. He has been living on just one meal a day and sometimes manages to pick up work in passing villages in exchange for lodging for a couple of nights; but mostly he tries to stay in the woods. It's not that he know much about living off the wild, but He has been through tough times before, not big deal, and for some reason there's something very comforting about being constantly surrounded by nature too.

Almost any discomfort would be acceptable if it weren't for the freaking unicorn that never stops following him. And aren't they supposed to be a sign of good fortune or something? Then why has it been the cause of all his calamities so far? First the overestimated horse tore one of his shirts while dragging him across the grass, and it's not like he's in a position to lack of anything without having money and with the cold nights he usually faces. Then the animal he fought with him until push him into a river whose watercourse rolled him around like a lady's garment during the wash. The last encounter ended when I lead Merlin towards some bandits Merlin did what he could. He knocked most of them down, causing branches to fall on them and their feet to get caught in roots. But one managed to get close enough to knock him until leaving him confounded, then the others who were not so bruised joined in the beating and Merlin could do nothing.

Intense emotions, deep reflections on his identity and self-worth until he is finally saved by an blonde woman. The lady said at most three words and all the bandits fell asleep.

An exchange of words that I can't come up with but ends with the woman telling him that she didn't do it for free, that he should pay with her neckerchief. Merlin doesn't understand but he's hurt and tired so he no protest

(Pause to say that in defense of the unicorn, he was just looking to steer Merlin in the direction of his destiny coughcoughArthurcoughcough, and Merlin didn't make it easy for him)

Days later the thing with Valiant and nobody suspects anything, nobody is there to save the ass of our favorite brat. But a Old lady follows him around like a duck all morning treating him like a adorable and helpful young man (much as a grandma style) until he bends to accept a ☆favor☆, yes that one... You and I know where she got it, Arthur doesn't and he doesn't know how unique and special that little piece of cloth can be.

No one sees anything strange in this favor because the old woman gave it to him in a very public place and everyone assumes that the prince is just being chivalrous

But the scarf ends up being what protects Arthur from Valiant's shield just because I say so and the magic of fiction stories and Merlin and his neckerchiefs have a special connection so its essence or whatever is still there

The story would extend to the first encounters between Merlin and the druids, Merlin and his father (a meeting before time to give them their due quality time and badass moments). He having the opportunity to forge his own identity and an independent path. On the other hand, Arthur discovering aspects of magic on his own to create his own criteria and value system. HE COULD EVEN BE THE FIRST TO TALK TO THE GREAT DEAGON!!!!

Forget that, Arthur is definitely the first to talk to the great dragon and learn of the prophecy. And listening to how it sounds, without many details and as critical as only Kilgharrah can be, plus the fact that he is only told about a certain Emrys and not about if is a wizard or witch or sorcerer or him or her...he comes to the same conclusion as us: That Emrys is his other half, "SHE" IS HIS SOULMATE... Oh man when they meet...

[nervousd]

Drabble— Longing

→ Infatuation | m.list

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Before setting fire to the hooches, Quaritch had decided to pay your little hut a visit. He was curious as to how you lived— eager to know more about you. There was clothing scattered around along with trinkets. A picture frame of you and Grace along with other science pukes posing for a picture. He took his time in tinkering with random objects that caught his curiosity— ornaments scattered here and there. It was homey— decorated just the way you like it. He inhaled softly, eyes hazing as your smell comforted his tense muscles. He sluggishly went over to your makeshift bed; it dipped under his weight as he sat down.

His fingers dragged along the fabric, rubbing it between his fingers. He gripped the garment tighter, pressing his nose against the fabric. It smelled just like you— he clung onto the fabric tighter; wrapping it around his body. It was as if you were embracing him. Just like how you used to— wrapping your arms around him and whispering sweet words in his ear. Tracing his scar with soft caresses— he stands up abruptly, chest heaving and heart thumping. His tail slapped numerous items to the ground as he pawed aimlessly at a pile of dirty clothes in your hamper.

His hands moved to their own accord— finding socks, shirts, bras and underwear. He snatched the clothes up smashing them against his face. He inhaled aggressively, his muzzle pressed against your soiled underwear. A low groan escaped his lips— tongue dragging across its surface. He could taste the tangy taste of your cunt on his tongue. His eyes rolled to the back of his head— saliva coating the fabric as he continued to suck on the piece of cloth. It wasn’t enough for him— but not to panic. Now that he has you waiting patiently for him back in his room where he ordered you to be placed; he’ll finally have a proper taste of you.

He dragged the pile towards the mattress, spreading the clothes across the bed. He laid down on the pile, nuzzling the clothing with the tip of his nose. He reached down grabbing his cock, lewdly squeezing the protruding bulge. He groaned in relief, his cock was swollen and desparte for much needed attention—without hesitance he shoved his palms down his pants; wrapping his hands around his length. With your panties shoved against his face his imagination runs wild. Short snippets of memories of your whorish moans come to mind— you sprawled on his bed with your legs spread out and him feasting on your drooling cunt.

His fingers pressed on the bulbous tip of his cock, pre-cum leaking out. His hips thrusted up, frantic to get any sort of friction he could get. His eyes rolled to the back of his head— ❝ shit— sweetheart, you’re driving me crazy ❞ he moaned out your name. He stroked himself with fervor, picturing you on top of him and riding his cock desperately like the good slut he knows you are. His hips stutter as he neared his high, lost in the intoxication of his desires for you. He wonders just how much your cunt can take— would you squeal and whine? Whine about how big his cock is? Push against his shoulders as you wiggle beneath him hoping for any mercy he can give— would you get drunk on cock— babbling nonsense as you go stupid. Fuck— what he would give to see you fall apart on his dick. Would he take you face down ass up? Mewling and whimpering as he bullies his cock into your cunt

He stroked himself with fervor, picturing you going stupid on him— having the full advantage to use you like a flesh light. His own personal hole for him to fuck— his teeth clenched down; eyes rolling to the back of his skull. He couldn’t cum now— not with his balls swollen and full of cum. He couldn’t waste his seed on his hands— his breath was labored as he released his cock from his grip. Not yet— not when he has access to your body, he’ll make sure to fill you up. He could picture it— your cunt messy and swollen, filled with cum— hell maybe you’ll pop another kid for him.

His hands trailed lower towards his swollen balls, fondling them with care as he imagined you on your knees; basking his balls with your tongue. He released a deap, grutal groan from his lips. Drool leaking at the corner of your lips with tears glistening in your eyes— messy— just how he likes it. He shudders at the thought— a wave of lust washes over him. He quickly gathers himself, shoving a couple of panties inside his pockets. He’ll have you soon— real soon

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━━━ : © NERVOUS.D

[forever--darling]

the princess of bakura

summary: you are faced with reality finally catching up with you as you are at risk of falling with your planet amidst the clone wars, yet your father the king of bakura refuses to let you stay within the burning city, thus contacting his old-time friend and jedi he was in training with to come and take you from the city.

pairings: anakin skywalker x princess!reader

word count: 2.2k

warnings/notes: mention of war, of death, mention of clone of wars, the start and beginning or rather where it all ended for the princess of bakura but not for y/n.

series masterlist | 00

The fires appeared, reflected from the great towers in waves of orange and red. The very sound of buildings collapsing into fines of dust and ash was the only attention-holder you had from the high floors of the capital. Locked away within a side room, the gold dress pooled in heaps at your feet, as the handmaiden undid the clasps from the tops of your shoulders. The raging sounds of gunfire no longer had the ability to make you react in the form of a jump or to shiver out of fear — it was too normal, too accustomed to this life that had become Bakura. As if there could be any room for it — for the fear, that surely the evil would succumb to and never let go of. 

“Princess we must hurry,” your handmaiden Sora cried, tears welling up within her innocent green pupils. She wasn’t much older than you, in fact maybe no more than a year or two, and yet her life was sealed, sure to never escape the ruin that would become. 

“Why? They’re coming. I’m sure my escape won’t be deemed successful,” you could barely recognize your own voice, so void of hope, of a greater good but rather defeat.  

“We must not say things such as that.” 

“And why not?” you asked, turning to find a pair of tight black pants hanging in her arms, sure to not get caught on anything as if your father was expecting you to run, “It’s not as if they aren’t true.” 

She gave you the piece of garment, and you took it, aware almost as if you could sense that there was something she wasn’t telling you. Rather, was withholding as the intruders marched to the gates of the capital, their sabers and guns fully loaded. Hesitantly, you pulled the garment on just as she offered a long black tunic that was tight around the chest and shoulders, with short sleeves and bracings where the belts would go. She bit down on her lip, and you knew it then. There was something she wasn’t telling you.

“What is it?” 

“It is nothing to be concerned with. We just must hurry, to ensure your safety.” 

“My safety?” You repeated brows furrowed as her innocent face refused to meet yours. “Tell me what it is you know. I ask of it. No, I demand of it. Sora, this is perhaps our last moment in the same room together so please.”

She tried to offer a smile, one of encouragement, as the tunic slipped over your frame and tightened at the back, just like the rest of the corsets you had been wearing since you were no older than thirteen. But it was only sad, her face painted in dried tears as the corners of her lips barely managed to lift.

“The Jedis have come.” 

Hurriedly, the belts were wrapped around your mid-drift and tightened as you waited impatiently, with the sounds of soldiers’ large boots echoing off the floors outside of your room like a steed of chariots. “Go on.” 

“The king will ensure your survival, princess. One of the greatest and his padawan has been sent to ensure your departure will be successful.” 

“Departure? He wishes for me to leave?” you asked, almost in disbelief as her hands dropped from your back. 

The war only got louder, the walls seeming to shake as the fires only grew outside, catching your gaze once again. The screams were inescapable as Bakura burned to the ground. 

“He wishes for you to survive,” she said, tone firm. 

Your fists loosened, falling to your sides in the devastation that you were expected to flee to survive while the rest of your people burned and were killed… their existence sure to mean nothing by the end of the war. The Clone Wars had claimed far too many planets and innocence at that point. An anger, a sense of guilt squelched at your possibility of living while your father, the king, went down with his people, his empire. 

You didn’t wish to be a coward. You didn’t wish to flee, even if with it was the promise of survival. 

It was not fair, yet exactly how the ex-Jedi would deem to have it. 

They had too much hope for their own good, you thought with a permanent furrow in your brow, tucking the long strands of hair back behind your ears and out of the way. Lips pulled into a fine line, you felt the energy and the particles align as if the force itself was speaking to you, to the Jedi blood coarsing within your pulse. 

A Jedi must not have any attachments. 

A Jedi must put others needs before his own. 

A Jedi must not partake in anger, in fear, or aggression. 

You bowed your head then, a series of guilt appearing at the mere thought of the Jedi code that still no doubt laced upon the king of Bakura’s back. 

In that moment, you hated him for that. 

With anger suddenly reverberating within your veins and a huff along your parted lips, you took the long black cloak from Sora and wrapped it around your shoulders, slipping your arms in each sleeve. Taking the hood within your nimble fingers, you pulled it up and onto your head, concealing what you could in case the halls had been invaded already. 

Turning, you shared one last longing glance with the handmaiden, one who had devoted her young life to being a caretaker as well as your source of company. You nodded solemnly, “I thank you for your service to the royal family.”

At that point far aware of the glassiness in her eyes and the loss that had already been stained upon history, you felt the chokeful dread that had a hold of you at that moment. With so much uncertainty, you turned away, fingers grasping the cloak tightly, and left the room. Chambers that once had been yours, but now never would be again.

The brick-tiled floors of the capital’s hallways were flooded with soldiers of Bakura, the most trusted, all dressed in armor, grey and blue helmets concealing their faces, their identities. A simple nod was sent their way as you turned down the spiraling hallway, feeling as if doom was upon you, a slow march to death though you had been told otherwise. The building shook, the walls quaking with despair as you followed the army up and into the main corridors of the capital, separate from the royal family’s chambers. The brick turned to grey stone, white towering walls made of metal, and the windows were all concealed behind large doors of steal. 

You came upon the war room, the place of perpetual decisions, the place you knew he would be the most protected in the capital’s final moments. Pulse quickening, eyes dazed, you felt it again — the frustration, the immense anger — a type you didn’t realize you could ever feel. With narrowed eyes, your hands released around the cloak and up into the air. Waving in the direction of the doors, the doors flung open, slamming loudly. It was almost as if the force was apologetic, leaning into your feelings. 

Sure enough, as you stepped through the threshold, the king stood near the table, a shield of dark grey armor covering every part of him but his face. A face wrinkled in nothing but despair. Silence overcame the bustle of protectors, and suddenly, you found the eyes of the man at his side. 

There he was as if like a savior. 

The Jedi — one of the greatest, and the very man who happened to be your father’s closest confidant. 

Obi-Wan Kenobi. 

A savior with long hair and pale eyes, dressed in tan tunics of his own, his saber held securely at his waist. 

You hadn’t seen the man since you were a mere child, a man who could’ve very well been an uncle to you and a protector at the headway of your mother’s death only a few years before, and yet he stood there a bewildered look on his face as if he had felt it. Felt your anger from a few rooms away. 

The king faced you, a look of grief evident, and regret as he noticed the betrayal upon yours. He didn’t look away from you as he leaned over and spoke to Obi-Wan. “My dear friend, I ask of you to take my daughter. You haven’t much time as the rebels have just managed to break through the front gates. Time can only be in our favor for so long.” 

As Kenobi moved near you, his palm outstretched, you stood your ground, “No!”

“My sweet daughter—”

You shook your head, that tightened expression refusing to let up, “I will not just abandon my people, abandon you, my king.”

It was as if the look he gave you then was one of disappointment rather than pride. As if he had wished to raise you to be a coward. Jedis, don’t run, you thought. Queens don’t leave.  “Father, please.” 

“Y/N—” 

You interrupted again, “I cannot leave you to die.” 

His face fell, the great and powerful king deflating just at the single look on your face — from his greatest love. Sadness swirled within his irises, and though it could have very well been the very last time you would ever look your father in the face, you couldn’t move. You couldn’t grasp his hand or pull him in for one last embrace. You were far too stubborn. Far too angry, then. 

He stepped closer, but you only took a step back because this was a fight you wouldn’t be able to win as time was wading by each moment; it wasn’t something that was in your favor then. He sighed, “I can’t fail you too, my child. I failed your mother, and I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if I lost you too.” 

Your mouth parted, a single tear falling from your cold steel eyes, just as a burst of static filled your ears. The com-system interlocked upon Kenobi’s waist began to illuminate, and loudly, drowning out everything else as a voice propelled through. 

“Master! They are invading. I repeat they are beginning to storm the capital. I don’t know how much longer we’ll be able to hold them off.” 

His padawan. 

Obi-Wan, held the side button of the com and lifted it to his face, unable to look away from the sad parting between father and daughter, “Hold your ground, my strong padawan. We’ll be to you in just a few short minutes.” 

As he clipped the com back into place he cleared his throat, “We must go. Time is falling away from our side. Princess…” 

“Father, don’t do this.” It was your final plea.

There was nothing left to say. 

His eyes tore away from yours, and you felt a small part of yourself break then and wither away beneath the confines of your walls. The emotion was gone from his face, weakness shoved away where you could no longer see it. He waved off some of the nearby soldiers to get into position — to be able to escort you and Obi safely to the main entrance. 

A small whimper fell from your parted lips as he looked then at Obi. “You must go now!” 

Obi nodded but hesitated, feet stopping after a few short steps. He turned, peering over his shoulder to share one last final look with the former Jedi. 

“I commend you, my dear friend,” your father wished farewell, his hand lifting up near his face and down as if in a form of respect, “May the force be with you.” 

“And you, my king,” he returned, before approaching you with fast steps, his hand taking a hold of your forearm firmly. 

“No, no, please,” you cried out, trying to fight Obi-Wan as he began to pull you from the room. You tried as the fleeting image of your father across the room is all you would have in departing, his glare somehow hard and cold, “Father!” 

The doors slammed shut in your face, echoing like a final coo of death. You collapsed in the Jedi’s arms, all exertion and passion gone from the confines of your chest. Nothing would remain. 

Peering up, slumped against his figure, the halls were bathed in darkness. The electricity had been cut, yet the alarms remained, loudly echoing, screaming in agony while the light the dark red reflected across your skin — somehow matching the anger and rage that pulsed within your body. A sense of resentment for the king, for this Jedi who pulled you through the halls, leading you away from your death, from your planet, from your former life. 

Bakura was destined to burn that night, to fall, to whither into ashes, and yet its future queen would not. All that remained was anger, frustration, and resentment.

[yiiyiiwrites]

Please do winter warrior at winter solstice. What gifts would she give everyone?? Part two to tame the wolf? Please 🥲

Oh this is sweet :) I think winter warrior would bring a mixture of the most bizarre gifts to the most obvious. Nesta is not mated to Cassian 3461words not edited [Previous part]

[winter warrior masterlist]

❄️ Winter solstice

The heat hit you as soon as you entered the townhouse. Your fur coat still tinged with the pink hues of your blood, you'd patched the hole refusing Cassian's offer of buying you a new one. The Garments in Velaris were not as warm or heavy as the ones from the winter court.

Cassian guided your coat down your arms, a twinge of pain surging through your shoulder making you flinch. You were supposed to return in the morning, but you'd ventured into the heart of winter to buy some last minute gifts for your friends. The word felt foreign to you, but you'd come to realise that they were your friends as much as they were Cassian's.

His hand slid to yours, warmth spreading through your frosty veins. You allowed him to guide you down the hallway and up the stairs, the muffled sounds of your friends in the living room. Lights flickered against the narrow walls, Cassian nudging the door open with his foot as he dragged you and the bag of your belongings into his and yours bedroom.

The fire roared beside you, logs crackling in the silent room. Your gaze trailed after Cassian, his armour already shredded and the black swirls decorating his chest, a smirk tugged his lips.

"Is this where you give me my gift?" His brow arched, wings twitching as you stalked towards him. Always the predator in his gleaming eyes.

You traced your nails along his bicep, shaking your head and jutting out your lip. "Sorry, my love but you'll have to wait," you said, you fingers working the buttons of your undershirt. "Think you can manage that?"

He’d already gifted you your solstice present this morning, unable to keep it a secret. A silver locket, snowflake trapped between a glass pendant. Not just any snow though, it was a mixture of the Illyrian mountains and the winter mountains. To anyone else it was found anywhere, but the way the light caught the snow, you could see fusions of blue ice from the first place you met him in the winter mountains. The Illyrian frost a duller white in comparison to the crisp blue hue of your home.

Cassian grumbled, pulling on a clean shirt. His gaze wandered to you as you undressed, brows furrowing as you peeled off your shirt. He let out a deep breath, "God's they really did whip you like an animal," his whispered breath fanned against the back of your neck. He traced the three lines scored into your back, scabs stretching the healing wounds that you could feel the tight pull with every move.

"My love, you forget I am an animal." You stepped away from him, the knot in your stomach leading you back to him. "I deserved it, I shouldn't have lashed out at my sister." You kissed his stubbled jaw, patting his cheek.

"No one deserves that," he trailed after you, through the walk in wardrobe helping you reach for the lighter layered clothing you'd stored away. "Besides I'm sure your sister deserved it, the things that come out that mouth. That's an animal." His distaste for Veyna never hidden, he frequently told you what he thought of her.

You tried to push back the memories of your nails digging into her throat, even the blood spitting from her mouth as she continued baiting you. The wolf snarling, silvery gaze filtering the warm colours around you.

Blinking you, you pushed down the wolf and dressed in a tunic and trousers, inky blue velvet hanging from your shoulders. You were still getting used to wearing light weight clothing, the way your body moved like shadows and the silence of fabrics not rubbing together. The boots you wore thinner, the soft leather laced up and the sole smaller giving you less height.

“Come on,” you tugged him with you. “This is my second solstice, I think I understand the gift part much better now.”

Cassian chuckled behind you, “my love, I’m definitely looking forward to what you think as a gift.”

It was true, you’d messed up last year. Getting people what you thought was necessary, forgetting that they didn’t live in the rugged mountains. You’d hunted food to bring for the feast, only knowing what you’d read from old books in the mountains. That and you gifted them each a lock of lucky witches hair you’d bought from the keeper of forest high in the mountains.

You’d spent the last three months trying to figure out what would be a good gift. Even sneaking away to the healers quarters in the heart of the winter court to ask your sister, Senna’s advice. It was awkward, you’d never given a gift even to your family. Their life was down there whilst yours was in the mountains. The only gift you did get was from the high lord each yeah consisting of supplies and new clothes.

The winter solstice went on for a week below in the heart of the court. You had never celebrated it, your days spent patrolling the forest and mountains like usual. The wicked never slept, that’s what they’d reminded you growing up. You knew that families in the mountains had their own tradition of dinner of the night of solstice, but you didn’t have anyone close to your hut to bother with the holiday. Sometimes though when you woke the morning after, someone would leave food wrapped in a cloth on your doorstep.

Laughter echoed down the halls, the glow of yellow welcoming you into the living room. So much warmth, not just from the fire. Feyre rushed forwards and hugged you, force nearly knocking you over.

“We didn’t know if you were coming or not…” she trailed off her rambling, gaze flitting to Cassian behind you. Her cheeks turning red as she linked your arm with yours. “Elain wanted to give you her present first,” she whispered patting your arm and pointing through the misted glass at the balcony.

You pushed the door open, shutting it behind you and tucking your hands around your body for warmth.

“I knew you wouldn’t be long,” Elain said, smile tugging her lips. She clasped her hands in front of her, a habit she did for you as she realised you followed her every movement.

You don’t know why but Elain made you very aware of every bone in your body as if the wolf would jump from its cage and unleash itself. The straightness of your back and the tightness of jaw setting the dull aches of pain as you willed yourself to walk towards her.

Her gaze was always soft, just like her face and her touch. Something you were still getting used to. The way she chose her words and coated them with kindness surprised you most.

“I respect that you fend for yourself, but everyone needs a little bit of help sometimes. There’s lots of things to aid you when you’re injured.” She said, stepping aside to retrieve a brown bag.

Elain rifled through the bag, pulling out an assortment of health tonics and soothing balms. She knew you too well, knew you wouldn’t look through the contents as if something lurked in there, you peered over looking into the unzipped bag and the ribbons of bandages balled up. It must have taken her weeks to collect it all and she would have had to research certain things you knew only tied to the winter court.

“Thank you,” you said bowing your head and mirroring her smile. “You didn’t have to go to so much trouble, one tonic would have been enough.” Gods now your present paled in comparison.

“Nonsense,” Elain said, swatting her hand, you jerked back before her hand connected to your arm. Fists twisting in the fabric under your crossed arms.

As if sensing the change in mood, the house dropped Elain’s present into her hands. You looked out the corner of your eye, wondering if she’d like the gift.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, breath fogging the glass she held. A small flower nestled on top of a mound of snow, blue petals ruffling as a cloud dispersed snowflakes from above to fall upon them. “This is from your home?”

You nodded, “it’s from the highest peak of the mountains, only grows in snow.” It had taken you days to trek to the top, part of you needed to go that way on your patrol, but another telling you it was perfect for Elain.

“Thank you, I love it. I shall put it on my desk in my bedroom. So I can always see it.” A smile blossomed, the tip of her red nose reminding you to go back inside. She held the delicate glass, her eyes on the flurry of white flakes kissing the petals.

You held the door for Elain to enter first, scanning the balcony out of habit before you retreated into the warmth.

Turning on your heel, your met with the dark wisps and their owner. Azriel smiled down at you, he plucked a small box from the darkness swimming around him and gave it to you.

“Happy solstice,” was all he said before slinking away. He took up space by the door again, leaning against the wall and falling back into conversation with Feyre.

You pulled the thin yellow ribbon, the lid opening as you untied it. A silver coin laid upon shredded tissue, a wolf on one side and a sword on the other. You picked it up, examining the scripture on the side. The coin more of a medal nowadays, was given to patrollers in winter when they had reached a certain milestone. It wasn’t something your court did anymore, but there were still some floating around. You had never seen one though. He didn’t need to hear your appreciation out loud, he nodded to you across the room knowing that it meant a great deal to you.

“What did you get, Az?” Cassian said, his arm slipping around your waist to pull you onto his lap.

Azriel perked up at the mention of his name, he wasn’t expecting a gift and he’d told you not to get him one.

“I may have taken a days leave to hunt someone for you.” You prayed they wouldn’t ask for the gritty details, you squeezed Cassian’s arm before he could ask. “They’re being held in the winter courts tower and ready to be transported at your convenience.” You’d spoke in length with Azriel about a slippery fae who kept flitting between the courts in hopes of pleading sanctuary. Thought you’d make his gift the essence of time, hunt the fae and offer him up for questioning.

“Not today, Az,” Rhys said, stopping Azriel before he could get to work. “Solstice remember.” He patted him on the back, steering him to an armchair by the fire.

Azriel’s hazel eyes connected with yours, smile tugging the corner of his lips as Cassian was trying to coax an answer out of you. How did you find them? Wolf or warrior?

You slumped back, wincing as you back made contact with Cassian’s firm chest. “Gods, this gift giving is hard work,” you sighed, rubbing your forehead. Mor, Nesta and Amren were yet to join you, saying they’d be at the townhouse for dinner.

The rest of your gifts were piled up with the others. Yours could be spotted a mile away, brown cloth wrapped around and tied with string. Colourful shining papers and vivid ribbon bows surrounded yours. Maybe you’d have to ask where to get stuff like that, it did look pretty.

Rhys was busy giving out his gifts, the ripping of paper and gasps filling the room. He stopped before you, “if you’d allow me, I’d like to meet your wolf and help you understand the spirit better for yourself,” his words echoed in your mind, but his lips did not move. Words for you to hear alone and maybe for the wolf to hear too.

His gift meant more than he realised, no one had asked to meet your wolf or offered you help in a way that wouldn’t harm you. You nodded in thanks, his energy slipping from your mind.

You handed Rhys a thin long box, teeth sinking into your bottom lip. It was a gamble and you wasn’t sure if it made you look savage, but it was the only thing you could think of. He slid the lid off, frown settling his head, his violet eyes snapping to you.

“The talons from the naga that attacked Feyre in the spring court,” you said gesturing to the four claws rolling around the box. “The autumn court chased them through to the winter, I came across a group of them in the mountains. Could smell feyre’s scent on that one.”

The room fell quiet, all eyes on you and Rhys as he picked up one of the long sharp talons. Had you messed up? Was this not something normal, least you didn’t bring its head.

“What?” You blurted out, glancing at each of your friends around you. “I did good, right?” Cassian’s face softened, faint smile replacing the frown.

Feyre appeared beside you, palm smoothing up and down your arm. “Thank you, that must have taken a lot of courage. It’s a thoughtful gift,” she said, she took the talon from Rhys and placed it back in the box.

“Will make a good paperweight.” Rhys smirked, dodging feyre’s jab.

You settled next to cassian on the sofa, head resting against his shoulder. The heat radiating from him and the fire calmed you, twinkling lights draped the mantle piece with pine cones and branches. The scent of pine reminded you of home and all you wanted to do was bundle up in a duvet letting sleep take you. The past few weeks catching up with after your dazed hunt.

Mor, Nesta and Amren appeared in the doorway.

Nesta sauntering through the room, her icy stare focussed on you. “I’m glad to see you,” she said, stretching her hand for you to take. She pulled you up, hand clasped in yours as she led to the entryway. There was bite of frost you and eldest Archeron shared, the way it claimed you as cold and detached, made your friendship stronger. One look between you two and you knew what each other were thinking.

You knew what she’d get you, clothes. She’d been the one to give you clothes more fitting for life in Velaris, your heavy set garments no use outside of the winter court. Nesta kept to the same shade of midnight blue, that hung in your wardrobe and complimented your complexion. A long overcoat, white fur trimmings circling the cuffs and hem. Silver embroidered stars and the traditional snowy pattern of your court decorating the soft material.

“Go ahead, try it on,” she said, holding the coat so that you could slip your arms into the sleeves. You winced at your healing wounds, shoving down the ache with a smile. You twirled around, her hand holding her chin as she examined the fit, she was well know to the tailors and you didn’t put it past her that she’d designed it herself.

“I should warn you,” you whispered leaning in to lower your voice as low as you could. “This book is banned so don’t go leaving it around.”

Nesta turned the book in her hands, fingers flicking the yellowing pages. She’d mentioned the author once before, the name never left your mind and you’d been searching for it since she’d confided in you. You managed to get lucky, finding one in a second hand shop in the heart of winter. As if you were meant to find it. She raised it in air, the house hid it away till it was time to leave.

You removed your overcoat, folding it back up in its neat box and set it aside on the cabinet in the hall. Nesta and you made your way to the dining room, plates full of food lined the centre of the table, thin pillar candles tucked between the dark green foliage.

Bottles clinked in your hands and you placed them in front of Amren, the only place at the table without a plate. “I may have drained a few beasts during the coldest months,” you said, popping the cork from a bottle and pouring the red liquid into the glass in front of her.

Amren downed the glass of blood, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. A smile playing on her lips as she poured another. “Always full of surprises little wolf,” she said, raising her full glass at you. You wondered if she could tell which beasts you’d drained, but you’d leave that for another day. Letting her savour the gift.

She gifted you a weather warner, a metal device that predicted rain. You’d hated the rain ever since you’d arrived in Velaris and always got caught without shelter. Snow you could handle, rain you loathed it. How it drenched your clothes and left muddy splashes in its wake. Now you couldn’t be caught in it thanks to Amren.

The dinner rolled on, questions about your three months away and what everyone else had been up to. Your stomach and jaw ached from laughing so much. You all returned to the living room, more subdued than earlier. The wine coaxing Amren into a slumber on the window seat, Mor placing a fluffy blanket over her.

You hadn’t spent much time with Mor, she’d been busy with the hewn city before you left for winter. So you still didn’t know enough about her to get her a meaningful gift. That’s what you’d learnt, to get presents that the person would like or something they’d mentioned, to know you listened to them.

You’d settled with red lipstick that didn’t budge in the cold, only removed with cleaning balm that came with it. A winter court speciality that kept people lips hydrated in the biting cold, but added a bit of style. It matched the red encrusted gown she worn tonight, she dabbed it onto her full lips thanking you for the gift.

She handed you a flask, magicked to keep liquids warm. A welcome addiction to the supplies you needed for the coldest months.

Feyre hovered nearby, she’d asked you to wait till last to exchange gifts. She could hardly contain her smile as she finally got to her turn. You’d gifted her a wooden box, palette inside that kept paint cold and stopped them drying out, a few paints that were darkest colours which were only made in winter.

“Thank you, I can’t wait to test them out,” Feyre said, looking at the paint tubes and opening them to see the depths of colours. She set the it down, holding a finger for you to wait.

When Feyre entered the room again, you gasped. Snuggled in her arms was a scruffy furred white fox. It squirmed on her arms and leapt to the ground. Is darted towards you, snaking in and out of your legs.

“Flick,” you said, scooping your messenger in your arms. “But how did you? My general refused to let me take him.” You’d had flick since you were a child, his name given to him because his tail was forever flicking. His white fur wasn’t pure, a sandy hue to the shaggy coat.

The winter court had many white foxes they used to send messages, fast little things that blended into the snow. Flick licked your chin, teeth nipping gently at the braid over your shoulder.

“I asked Kallias.” Feyre stroked Flick, tears stinging your eyes as you buried your face into his fur.

“Thank you, this means so much,” your voice a hoarse whisper. You knew your general would have something to say to you when you returned, but you didn’t care. You’d cross that bridge when you came to it.

The evening blurred, your head heavy as you swayed in Cassian’s arms. You sank into the soft mattress, warm hands took off your shoes and pulled the sheets over you. You blinked, the bed dipping beside you and Cassian coming into view. His hand cupped your cheek and you held onto his wrist, resting the side of your face on his calloused palm.

“Your present,” you mumbled, sleep lacing your voice. The house dropped an ancient tome on the bed, his love for war and history running deep, but he’d never read texts on the winter mountains. Well till now, frost clung to the hardcover, you’d ventured far into the forest and begged the keeper of the forest for the old tome. Exchanging the scales of naga for it.

Thanks for the request :) I didn't realise how long this was but wanted to include all of the inner circle. Hope you liked it - Yiiyii

[imtrashraccoon]

I was suddenly hit with a burst of inspiration for this one. Like, my original idea was maybe three sentences long and then I looked into how to remove grass stains before modern laundry. That was a surprisingly interesting rabbit hole to go down.

@owl-bones

First, Previous, & Next Day

Bad Sansuary II: Horror - Stained

Word Count: 1,020

In the morning, Maul busied himself with general chores around the camp, like replenishing the firewood supply and checking the traps he'd set up a couple days ago for small game. Your mobility was still pretty limited, so you mostly stayed put, doing smaller but still important tasks like cutting up kindling. You also offered to monitor the fire when Maul decided to make a stew for later.

There had been a bit of tension in the air when you woke up that morning. With nearly dying by your teammate's hand and then having a heart to heart chat afterwards, you weren't really sure if you should acknowledge what had happened. Maul seemed equally as clueless, but talking had never seemed to be his strong point since you met him. There wasn't anything more to discuss anyways since neither of you had any answers to the obvious questions and weren't keen to go find them either.

Between Maul's trips of carrying firewood and stacking it near the fire pit, you requested a basin of water with the intention to do some cleaning. He was more than happy to help and soon brought you a bucket of water from a nearby stream.

You had noticed a grass stain on the back of your shirt when you got up, likely from getting pinned to the ground last night, and had decided to try getting it out. Now, you weren't an expert on stain removal, but you were confident that with a bit of elbow grease, you would get it out in no time.

How wrong you were. Not only had the stain already set into the fabric, but also no amount of scrubbing could remove it. You tried soap, you tried beating the stain with a stick, and you tried rubbing the fabric against a coarse stone. The trouble was you had limited supplies in the wilderness. Your mother probably would have known what to do in a heartbeat, but you really only knew what to do for blood and basic grime.

Maul returned with a pot of water and set it near the fire to boil. After checking how the stew was coming along, he glanced over at you curiously. "...havin' some trouble?" he asked.

You sighed and dropped the shirt into the bucket. "I guess, I now know why my mom would get upset when I came home with grass stains."

The giant of a skeleton let out a soft chuckle, eyeing the shirt with an amused glimmer in his eyelight. "there's a better way than what you're doin'."

"Oh? Do enlighten me then," you grumbled, crossing your arms with a huff.

He held up a clawed phalanx and went to go retrieve something from the supplies cache. When he returned with a metal banded cask, you raised an eyebrow. What could he possibly know about getting out stains? The whole time you had known him, he hadn't seemed to care if his clothing was stained and, beyond maintaining his armour, you had never seen him do anything remotely similar to laundry.

He poured out the water you had been using, leaving the shirt in the bottom of the pail. As you watched, he opened the cask and poured just enough of the surprisingly clear liquid to cover the stain. Your nose twitched as you caught the distinct scent of strong alcohol.

"let it soak for a while," Maul said as he closed the cask.

"You think that will actually work? Where did you even get spirits that strong?" You wrinkled your snout before adding, "Even if it does get the stain out, the whole garment will stink of alcohol."

He shrugged and motioned to the pot of water. " 's only to get the stain out. clean it again afterwards." He glanced down at the small cask and then shrugged, "bought it last time i was in the undercity."

Your mouth dropped open in shock. "Wait, you've been to The Undercity? And got out without being robbed or murdered?"

His permanent grin widened and he motioned to the crack in his skull. "not many are foolish enough to bother someone like me. i usually make the trip once or twice a year to buy stuff ya can't get anywhere else."

"I guess that makes sense." You eyed his sharp claws and chuckled. "With all the gang violence that goes on, I don't think I would last a second if I went there. I'd probably offend someone and get shanked, if I didn't get kidnapped by one of the local dons for being illegally adorable that is..."

Maul let out a sudden bark of laughter. It actually startled you for a second since he wasn't normally a loud person. He nearly had to brace his hands on his knees to keep from losing his balance.

"...boss would hate that," he managed to say between lingering chuckles. " 'specially cause it's true..."

You felt your cheeks grow unnaturally warm and quickly looked away to hide your blush. Since when was he so smooth with his words? You hadn't been expecting him to find your admittedly awful joke funny, as he usually only responded to your attempts at humour with a grunt or a huff.

"True, he'd tear the whole city apart if someone did that," you murmured.

"hey."

You turned to look at Maul again.

"promise ya won't tell either reven or dirk about this," he said quietly, motioning to the metal banded cask he was holding. "i mostly keep it for sterilizing bandages and they might steal it if they find out."

You pressed your paw against your chest and nodded. "I promise I won't breathe a word of it to them. They can find their own liquor to drown their sorrows in."

He gave you a stiff nod and went to put the cask away, leaving you wondering how he had figured out to use that specific alcohol for removing stains. There seemed to be a lot about him that didn't make sense, but it was fun to think about. Maybe you would ask him about his travels sometime.