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simplygojo · 9 months ago

Text

Gettin' A Full Service

author's note ⸺ Y'all I'm so sorry im nothin but a nasty dog bc no way this is 4.3k 💀. ANYWHO this smutty fic idea came to me when seeing the art used as the cover for this by @actuallyvalerie (original art is linked here), I just couldn't help myself from writing this...heh. Hope you enjoy!

pairing ⸺ Mechanic!Toji Fushiguro x reader

word count ⸺ 4.3k (im a nasty dog y'all...)

content ⸺ 18+ content, SMUT!, oral (reader receiving), intercourse, dirty sex, choking, pet names (pretty girl), fingering, slight overstimulation, mndi, reader has a vagina, reader uses female pronouns

materlist || request guidelines || commissions || discord channel

^^ art by @actuallyvalerie

The low rumble of engines filled the air as you stepped into the garage, the familiar scents of motor oil and gasoline swirling around you. Your heartbeat quickened the moment you caught sight of him—Toji Fushiguro.

He was bent over the hood of his car, focused on something behind the propped-up hood.

The muscles in his broad back flexed as he worked, his white tank top clinging to his sweat-slicked skin. His strong arms glistened with a light sheen of sweat, smudged with streaks of oil that only added to the raw masculinity he exuded.

A dark smear ran along his sharp jawline, the grease contrasting with his striking, rugged features. The late afternoon sun filters through the wide windows of Toji’s garage, casting long shadows across the floor as you lean against the doorframe, watching him work.

His muscles flexed as he tightened a bolt with practiced ease. His black hair falls into his eyes, and he grunts, annoyed, pushing it back with his forearm before continuing.

You can’t help but smile at the sight. Toji, focused and in his element, and it was really turning you on…

The way he concentrated on the task at hand, brow furrowed and lips slightly parted as he grunted with effort, was enough to send heat coursing through you. Each twist of the wrench, every subtle shift of his frame, seemed to radiate raw masculinity, igniting a spark of desire deep within you.

Your pulse quickened, and you felt a warmth pooling in your core, drawn in by the mix of confidence and sheer masculinity he exuded.

Toji, sensing your gaze, glances over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “You gonna stand there all day or actually say something?” His voice is teasing, rough around the edges, but there’s that familiar smirk tugging at his lips, the one that makes your heart skip a beat.

You push off the doorframe and walk over, hands in your pockets, pretending to study the car (like you gave a damn) as if you understand half of what he’s doing.

“Just admiring the view,” you reply with a grin, leaning against the workbench. “You sure know how to make fixing a car look… good.”

Toji snorts, wiping the grease from his hands onto a rag before tossing it aside. “Yeah? Well, don’t get used to it. Not many people get a free show.”

You roll your eyes at his usual bravado but can’t deny that there’s something captivating about him. He straightens up, towering over you with that smug grin still firmly in place. “What, you just came here to stare?”

You shrug, deciding to play along. “Maybe. Can’t blame me, right? You’re good at what you do.”

His smirk widens, and he steps closer, towering over you now. There’s an intensity in his gaze, but it’s softened by the playful glint in his eyes. “You saying I should charge for it?”

You laugh, lightly shoving him. “Please, you’d drive everyone away with that attitude.”

He chuckles, leaning back against the car, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “Probably. But you’re still here, so I must be doing something right.”

You look up at him, biting back a smile. “Guess I’m the lucky one, huh?”

Toji’s eyes narrow playfully, but there’s a warmth in his gaze that wasn’t there before. “Damn right.”

The two of you fall into a comfortable silence, the sounds of the garage filling the space once again.

After a moment, you speak again, your voice softer. “Need any help?”

Toji glances at you, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You offering?”

You shrug, moving closer to inspect the tools scattered on the workbench. “Maybe. I’m not exactly a mechanic, but I can hold a wrench.”

He snorts, amused, and hands you a tool.

“Don’t hurt yourself. That’s my job.”

You take it, rolling your eyes at his comment. But as you stand next to him, following his instructions and working together on the car, there’s a quiet contentment in the air.

You grip the wrench, watching Toji’s hands as he guides yours to the right bolt. His touch is firm, steady, sparking a heat between your thighs. His body is so close to yours that you felt the warmth radiating off him.

You try to focus on the task at hand, but with Toji standing over you, the subtle scent of engine oil mixed with his cologne makes your heart race, and it's hard to concentrate.

"Like this?" You ask, adjusting the wrench in your hand, trying to distract yourself from your dirty thoughts.

Toji’s lips twitch into a smirk as he leans in closer, his breath warm against your ear.

"Tighten it, don’t baby it, baby."

You roll your eyes but smile despite yourself. You give the wrench another turn, putting more effort into it this time.

"There. Happy?" You ask, looking up at him.

Toji’s gaze flickers down to meet yours, and for a moment, the air between you seems to thicken.

His eyes darken, a hint of something playful yet dangerous lurking in them.

He doesn’t pull away. Instead, he leans in even closer, so close you can feel the brush of his arm against yours.

"Not bad," he murmurs, his voice low. His big arms reached over you and tightened the bolt even more, just showing off his strength. "Maybe you’re not as useless around here as I thought."

You narrow your eyes at him, though there’s no real annoyance in your expression. "Oh, please. I’m the best help you’ve ever had."

Toji’s grin widens, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "Big words for someone who didn’t even know where the wrench was five minutes ago."

You open your mouth to retort, but before you can, he reaches past you to grab another tool, his arm brushing against your side.

He doesn’t move away, staying so close that your shoulders are practically touching. It’s deliberate—you can tell by the smug look on his face.

Your heart skips a beat, but you don’t back down. Instead, you let your own smile grow, deciding to meet his teasing head-on.

"Maybe I don’t know cars, but I know you like showing off. How long did it take you to fix that last engine again? Two hours?"

Toji lets out a low chuckle, clearly enjoying your banter. "Two hours, and it was perfect. Don’t forget that part."

You tilt your head, raising an eyebrow. "Perfect, huh? Or just barely passable?"

He narrows his eyes at you, though there’s a playful edge in his gaze.

"Careful. You’re gonna talk yourself out of a favour if you keep that up."

"Oh? What favour?" you ask, leaning against the car now, your arms crossed, fully enjoying the back-and-forth.

Toji leans down, bringing his face closer to yours, his grin shifting into something more dangerous, more tempting. "The one where I let you stick around here. Don’t think I’ll keep you around for free."

Your breath hitches slightly, but you don’t let it show. Instead, you match his energy, pushing back without missing a beat.

"Oh, so you’re saying I have to work to earn my keep? What’s the price, then? More wrench-holding?"

He chuckles again, the sound deep and rich, vibrating through the air between you.

His eyes lock onto yours, and for a moment, the teasing fades into something heavier, something that lingers in the charged space between your bodies.

He’s close enough now that you can see the flecks of green in his eyes, close enough that you can feel the warmth rolling off him.

"Nah," Toji says, his voice dropping an octave, turning more serious but still holding that playful tone.

"I’ve got enough wrenches. I’m thinkin’ of something a little more… personal."

You can feel your pulse quicken, but you don’t look away. "Oh? Like what?"

He leans in, just barely brushing his lips against your ear.

"Guess you’ll just have to stick around to find out."

For a second, the world seems to slow down, your senses overwhelmed by the proximity of him, the way his voice sends shivers down your spine.

But before you can say anything, Toji pulls back, the smirk returning to his face as he casually grabs another tool and turns back to the car, as if nothing just happened.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, your heart still pounding in your chest.

Toji always knows exactly how to push your buttons, how to get under your skin in a way that leaves you wanting more.

“Tease,” you mutter under your breath, shaking your head with a smile.

Toji glances over his shoulder, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

“I’m not teasing this time, I’m just busy. Like I said, stick around...”

His voice was low, almost serious, but that playful gleam in his eyes hasn’t faded.

He gives you a wink, and something about the way he says it sends a shiver down your spine.

You open your mouth to reply, but words seem to get stuck in your throat. The way he’s looking at you right now—like you’re the only thing in the room worth paying attention to—makes your pulse quicken.

The air between you feels heavy, charged with an energy you can’t quite name.

Toji watches your reaction closely, his grin fading into something softer, more intense. He drops the tool he was holding onto the workbench and turns fully toward you, wiping his hands on the rag before tossing it aside.

“You really think I’m just messin’ with you?”

Your breath catches as he steps closer, closing the already small distance between you. His presence is overwhelming—tall, broad, and carrying that rough, irresistible confidence he always seems to have.

But this time, there’s something else in the way he looks at you, something different. His teasing smirk is gone, replaced by a look that makes your heart race.

“Toji…” you start, but you’re not even sure what you want to say.

He reaches out, his fingers brushing lightly against your chin, tilting your face up so that you’re forced to meet his eyes. The touch is surprisingly gentle, almost tender.

“I’m serious,” he says quietly, his voice low and rough around the edges. “You think I haven’t noticed? The way you look at me, the way you linger around here like you’re waitin’ for something to happen.”

Your cheeks burn at his words, and you’re not sure if it’s from embarrassment or anticipation.

Maybe both.

But before you can respond, Toji’s hand slips from your chin, moving to rest against the side of your neck, his thumb brushing against your skin. The touch sends a jolt of electricity through you.

“I’ve been holding back,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse, like he’s been keeping this confession locked away for too long.

The dark, dangerous edge in his tone sends a shiver down your spine. His grip on you tightens slightly, a subtle indication of just how much control he’s been forcing himself to maintain.

You’re painfully aware of how close he is now—his broad frame nearly eclipsing yours, his body radiating a heat that makes it harder to breathe. The faint scents of oil and metal lingers in the air, mixing with something distinctly him. It’s intoxicating.

“M’didn’t wanna push too far, but... maybe I’ve been waitin' for you to give me the green light.” His words hang in the air, a challenge wrapped in velvet. It’s like a line drawn in the sand, daring you to cross it.

Your heart pounds, adrenaline coursing through your veins. Every inch of you is hyper-aware of Toji—the way his hand lingers on your neck, the way his gaze seems to devour you. You want this. God, you want this.

“What if I gave you that green light right now?” The words leave your lips before you can fully process them, but there’s no hesitation, no second-guessing.

For a fleeting moment, Toji’s pupils dilate, his eyes narrowing with something primal, something dangerous. The smirk that spreads across his face is no longer playful—it’s predatory.

“Then I wouldn’t waste any more time.”

Before you can draw another breath, his mouth crashes down on yours, and it’s like a dam breaking—everything he’s been holding back unleashed in one searing, possessive kiss.

His hands move from your throat to your waist, pulling you against him so fiercely that your feet nearly leave the ground.

There’s nothing gentle about the way he kisses you. His lips are demanding, rough, as if he’s staking a claim.

You can feel the pent-up tension in every movement—the way his teeth graze your lower lip, the way his hands grip your hips like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he loosens his hold.

Your hands move instinctively to his hair, fingers tangling in the dark strands, pulling him even closer.

You match his intensity, giving in to the heat that’s been simmering between you both for far too long. Every brush of his lips, every press of his body against yours ignites a fire low in your belly, making you ache for more.

Toji pulls back for just a moment, his lips hovering dangerously close to yours as he catches his breath. His eyes, hooded and dark, search yours as if looking for any trace of hesitation. But there is none.

“You sure you’re ready for this?” His voice is low, rumbling with barely restrained need.

Your answer comes not in words but in the way you tug him back to you, pressing your lips to his once more, harder this time, as if you’re trying to tell him with your body what your words can’t quite express.

Toji groans softly, the sound vibrating against your mouth as his hands begin to explore, sliding under the hem of your shirt.

His touch is scorching, sending jolts of electricity through your skin.

There’s an urgency now, a desperation in the way his hands roam your body, as if he’s trying to memorize every inch of you.

Your back hits the cold metal of his car behind you, the chill momentarily cutting through the heat between you, but it only seems to heighten the tension.

Toji’s hands are firm on your waist, holding you in place against the cool surface, his body pressed against yours in a way that has your pulse racing.

He breaks the kiss, breathing heavily, his eyes smouldering with an intensity that makes your stomach flip. The darkness in his gaze has only grown deeper, and when he speaks, his voice is rough, husky, full of raw need.

“I’ve been patient,” he mutters, his thumb brushing over the sensitive skin just above the waistband of your jeans. “But you don’t want me to hold back anymore, do you?”

The way he says it, the low growl in his voice, sends a wave of heat straight to your throbbing pussy.

You can only manage a small shake of your head, your throat too tight to form any words.

His lips twist into a smirk, something predatory glinting in his eyes as he steps back just enough to grab you by the waist and hoist you effortlessly onto the hood of the car behind you.

He quickly unbuttoned your jeans, sliding them off your legs, letting his hands roam your skin.

The cold metal beneath you contrasts sharply with the warmth of his body as he steps between your legs, spreading them open with a firm grip on your thighs.

“You’ve been teasing me, y’know that?” he growls, his voice low and dangerous as his hands trace the outline of your hips, fingers brushing the edge of your panties.

“You comin’ in here wearing these tight jeans, given’ me those looks.”

Before you can respond, he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties and, with one sharp tug, the fabric tears apart in his hands.

The sound of it—quick and final—echoes in the small garage, and the cool air hits your skin, making you gasp.

Toji’s eyes darken as he looks down at you, his gaze hungry and unrestrained. He licks his lips, the smirk from earlier gone, replaced with something far more serious.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his hands sliding up your inner thighs, rough fingers brushing the sensitive skin as he leans down, bringing his face closer to your dripping cunt. His breath ghosts over your exposed skin, sending a shiver down your spine.

“Such a pretty sight.”

He pauses for a second, his thumb brushing dangerously close to your center, teasing, but not yet giving you the touch you desperately need. You squeeze your eyes shut, your head falling back with pleasure.

“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to do this.”

Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he lets his thumb slide over your slick folds, testing your reaction, watching the way your body responds under his touch. The anticipation, the raw hunger in his gaze, it’s all too much, and you let out a desperate moan.

Your breath hitches as Toji's thumb slides teasingly through your folds, his touch both rough and deliberate.

You try to bite back the groan threatening to escape your lips, but the way his eyes flicker up to meet yours tells you he notices everything.

“Don’t hold back now,” he rasps, his voice gravelly, sending shivers down your spine.

“I wanna hear every pretty sound you make.”

Before you can react, he dips his head between your thighs, and the warmth of his breath against your sensitive skin makes your body tremble. His hands grip your thighs firmly, keeping you in place, as his tongue traces a slow, agonizing path over your slick heat.

Your gasp echoes through the garage, head falling back against the hood of his car as pleasure surges through you.

You feel Toji’s lips curl into a smirk against you, clearly enjoying the way your body reacts to his touch.

He doesn’t hold back—his tongue flicks, swirls, and sucks, each movement precise and calculated, as though he’s savouring every moment of this.

“Fuck, Toji—” you gasp, your hands instinctively flying to his hair, tugging at the dark strands as the heat builds inside you.

Toji growls in response, the vibrations of his voice against your pussy sending waves of pleasure through you, making your thighs shake.

He dives in deeper, his mouth working relentlessly, tasting every inch of you, each flick of his tongue pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

The sensation is overwhelming—his lips, his tongue, the way his fingers dig into your thighs, holding you open for him, like you’re his to devour.

It’s too much and not enough all at once. Every brush of his mouth over your clit sends electricity shooting through your body, and leaves you whining for more.

Your hips buck instinctively, seeking more, needing more of the pleasure he’s giving you.

Toji chuckles, dark and amused, his voice muffled as he continues to work you with his mouth. “So needy,” he murmurs, his voice like velvet against your heated skin. “I like that.”

It’s like he knows exactly how to unravel you, like he’s been waiting for this moment, studying you, learning your body, just so he could do this—just so he could make you fall apart beneath him.

“Toji—m' gonna cum,” you choke out, your voice barely a whisper, but he knows what you need.

He speeds up, his mouth and fingers working in tandem, the relentless pace driving you higher and higher, until the world falls away and all that’s left is him, his touch, and the pleasure that crashes over you in waves.

You cry out as your orgasm rips through you, your thighs clamping around his head as your body shakes with the intensity of it.

But Toji doesn't let up, continuing to lap at you, drawing out your pleasure until you're trembling from the aftershocks.

Finally, he pulls back, his lips and chin glistening as he looks up at you with a satisfied grin, eyes dark with lust. He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, standing back up, towering over you once again.

“Come here, pretty girl,” he rasps, his voice a low growl that sends another wave of heat through your body.

Before you can catch your breath, his large hand slides behind your neck, gripping it firmly, but not harshly.

He lifts you from your position on the car, pulling you up until you’re sitting in front of him, your legs dangling off the edge of the hood. His hand lingers at your neck, his thumb brushing against your pulse, feeling the rapid beat of your heart.

Your body is still humming with the afterglow of your orgasm, but when you glance down and see Toji’s other hand move to the waistband of his pants, your breath hitches again.

He keeps his eyes locked on yours as he unbuttons them slowly, deliberately, the tension between you thickening once more.

Toji's eyes gleamed with that dark hunger as his grip on your neck tightened just a fraction, enough to remind you who was in control. His free hand moved to the back of your thigh, pulling you forward on the car until you could feel the heat of him between your legs.

“Look at you,” he growled, his voice low and rough as his hand caressed the curve of your hip, dragging you closer to him.

“So pretty, all spread out for me.”

Your breath caught as you felt the tip of him brush against your entrance, your entire body already aching for him, needing more. You leaned into his grip on your neck, your pulse racing beneath his fingers as you whispered,

“Please, Toji…”

He chuckled darkly at the desperation in your voice, his grin widening as he pressed himself just a little harder against you, teasing you.

“Please what, baby? You gotta use your words.”

You squirmed under his grip, your body screaming for more contact, for him to stop teasing.

“God Toji—I want y’to fuck me,” you said in frustration, your voice barely audible as your body begged for him.

“Good girl.” His voice was a low, approving growl as he finally lined himself up with you, his voice sent another wave of heat to your aching pussy. Without another word, he pulled you forward, thrusting into you in one swift motion.

The sudden stretch had you gasping, eyes wide as your walls adjusted to his size, the feeling of him filling you completely was overwhelming.

Toji groaned, his grip on your neck tightening as he stilled inside you, savouring the feeling for just a moment. You grabbed his shoulders, nails digging into his skin.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he muttered through clenched teeth, his eyes locked on yours as each thrust sent a shockwave of pleasure through your body.

Your hands instinctively reached for him, fingers tangling in his dark hair as you clung to him, every nerve in your body on fire. Toji’s lips curled into a smug grin at the way you responded to him, the way your body seemed to melt under his touch.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” He rasped, his breath hot against your ear as he leaned in closer while maintaining his rough pace. His grip on your neck shifted to pull your head back slightly.

“Tell me how good it feels.”

“It’s so good,” you moaned, your voice trembling as he began to pick up the pace, the force of his thrusts making the car creak beneath you.

Every movement pushed you higher, the pressure building inside you all over again as Toji took you apart piece by piece.

Toji’s pace became relentless, each thrust hitting deeper, harder, and your body was a live wire, every nerve tingling under his touch. The pressure inside you built impossibly fast, the pleasure coiling tight in your core, threatening to snap.

“Toji—" you whimpered, barely able to form words as he drove into you, your body quivering beneath him.

Hot tears pricked at your eyes from the overstimulation you felt—never ever had anyone fucked you like this.

He groaned at the sound of your voice, his lips brushing against your ear.

"That’s it, pretty girl. Cum f’me," he rasped, his hand tightening around your neck just enough to send a thrill through you.

The roughness of his voice, the commanding way he held you—it pushed you over the edge.

Your body tensed, the world spinning as your orgasm ripped through you with a force that left you gasping, your walls clenching tightly around him as wave after wave of pleasure coursing through your veins.

You cried out his name followed by a pornographic moan, legs trembling, your nails digging into his shoulders as you rode the intensity of it, your whole body shaking as the pleasure overtook you.

Toji’s hand slipped from your neck, sliding down to your waist as he kept moving, working you through the aftershocks as your body convulsed beneath him.

“There you go,” he growled, his voice thick with satisfaction, his hips slowing as he watched the way you writhed under him, completely lost in the ecstasy he’d given you.

Panting and spent, your body collapsed back against the car, your chest heaving as the last waves of your orgasm rolled through you.

Toji’s eyes gleamed with pride as he pulled out, his hands still possessively resting on your hips.

"You look so damn pretty when you cum," he murmured, leaning down to press a rough kiss against your lips, your body still tingling from the intensity of it all.

You were utterly spent, trembling in the aftermath, but as Toji’s lips curled into that familiar smirk, you knew...

He wasn’t done with you yet.

1K notes · View notes

softsusanoo · 13 days ago

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Jealousy, Jealousy (18+)

summary: the heat of battle had long since faded, but the tension between you never had. It clung to the quiet moments—unspoken, sharp-edged, and waiting. When Team Taka paused for a single night of rest, beneath a sky washed in twilight and steam rising from ancient stone, you thought you might finally breathe. But some silences burn hotter than war. And when eyes linger too long, when touches hover just a moment more—something always breaks. Or claims.

pairing: sasuke x female reader

genre: smut

word count: 6,9k

warnings: mixed gender bathing (konyoku onsen setting), flirty suigetsu hozuki, power dynamics, dom!sasuke, rough intercourse, semi-dubcon elements, spanking / biting / marking, unspoken feelings, anal, possessive sasuke uchiha

The path narrowed beneath your boots, winding like a quiet thought through the cedar forest. Soft light filtered through the high canopy, gold pooling at the roots of trees and brushing the worn earth in patches. Somewhere ahead, the sound of water echoed—lazy, unhurried, spilling down stone and vanishing into moss. Evening hadn’t fully arrived, not yet, but it lingered at the edges. The kind of hour that felt like an exhale after holding your breath too long.

You could feel the change in the air.

It wasn’t the cold, though that crept in, subtle as a fingertip against your neck. It was the hush. The way the forest quieted around the five of you. Like it, too, knew this wasn’t a mission. No blood, no orders, no chase. Just a rare pause in the endless current you’d been swept into since joining Team Taka. Since aligning yourself with something that felt darker than you could name, but never cold enough to leave.

Leaves shifted underfoot as you walked, their dry crackle giving rhythm to your steps. Jugo moved steadily a few paces ahead, his silence steadying—like stone at the heart of a storm. Karin followed closely behind him, muttering something about the mineral content of the spring and how it would ruin her hair. You’d half-listened, smiling once when she’d sighed dramatically and tugged her cloak tighter around her shoulders. She had a flare for discomfort, made it sound romantic.

Suigetsu was at your side. Of course he was.

He walked like the world owed him something, his hands folded behind his head, blades strapped lazily at his hip, his grin a little too sharp for how soft the forest looked in the fading light. “You know,” he started, the drawl in his voice already a provocation, “you could’ve walked closer to me earlier. I don’t bite.” You gave him a sideways glance, mouth quirking before you could stop it. “That’s rich, coming from a guy made of water.” He laughed, low and pleased. “Water can be dangerous, you know. Especially when it gets into places it shouldn't.” You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t walk faster.

The path dipped then rose again, a gentle curve that led toward the steam rising faintly between the trees ahead. You could smell it already—warm minerals, damp stone, the barest trace of sulfur. The onsen was real. After days of tracking, hiding, running—it was real. Your shoulders sank slightly at the thought, the weight of it slipping lower along your spine.

Suigetsu must’ve caught the change in your posture, because he leaned in closer, voice dropping just enough to brush the shell of your ear. “I bet you’re the type to wear something modest, huh?” His grin curled. “Or maybe not.”

Before you could answer, before you could do more than raise an eyebrow, a sharp glance cut between the trees ahead.

Sasuke.

He hadn’t said a word in the last hour—not since you passed the river crossing where he’d stopped for water and stared at nothing for a heartbeat too long. But now his eyes flicked back toward you and Suigetsu, brief and unreadable, like the shadow of a bird crossing over stone. You felt it more than saw it. A shift in the air. The tension of something held tightly in place. He turned back before either of you could react. But something about the way his jaw tightened said enough.

You tilted your head slightly, just enough for your voice to carry without rising.

“Well, in that case,” you murmured, eyes still on the path ahead, “maybe I won’t wear anything at all.” The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It pulsed—thick with implication, humming in the space between one breath and the next. You didn’t look at Suigetsu, but you could feel him freeze for half a step, then exhale a soft, choked laugh, like he wasn’t sure if you were teasing or tempting. “Damn,” he breathed, grin widening. “Now that’s not fair.”

But it wasn’t his reaction you were listening for. You watched Sasuke’s back instead—watched the way his shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly, like someone had pulled a wire taut beneath his skin. He didn’t glance back this time, didn’t say a word, but the quiet around him deepened. Grew heavier. Like the forest itself had drawn closer to listen.

The trees began to open, just slightly. The path widened to a clearing where the air shimmered with rising heat. Stone steps emerged beneath patches of soft moss, leading up to a split in the terrain. One path veered left, toward the bath; the other bent right and disappeared behind a veil of mist. “Finally,” Karin huffed, adjusting her glasses. “My legs are going to thank me for this.” The clearing opened wider now, the path giving way to weathered stone steps wrapped in creeping moss and low-hanging mist. The smell of mineral water hung thicker in the air—rich, metallic, ancient. It curled into your lungs and settled there like something half-forgotten, something the mountain had been keeping warm for centuries.

A single wooden structure stood tucked between the trees, more shrine than shelter, its beams dark with age and slick with moisture. Lanterns had been lit along the entryway, their soft amber glow pulsing behind pale rice paper. Steam poured from behind the slatted walls in lazy drifts, rising into the fading sky like whispered prayers.

You stepped forward with the others, your body already easing into the idea of stillness. Jugo was the first to disappear inside—silent, respectful, his form folding neatly into the fog. Karin followed, mumbling something about temperature and skin pH under her breath. You caught the flash of her red hair as she vanished behind the curtain. That left the three of you. Suigetsu stretched his arms above his head with an exaggerated groan. “Now this is how a rogue shinobi should live. Hot water, no enemies, and—” he glanced sideways, his smile slanting, “—excellent company.” You raised an eyebrow. “Is that your idea of a mission report?” He laughed. “What can I say? I’m a man of culture.” But again, you weren’t looking at him.

You felt Sasuke more than saw him. A presence just behind your left shoulder, still and silent like a blade balanced on its edge. He hadn’t moved in several heartbeats, and when you finally glanced back, you caught the faintest shimmer of restraint in his posture. Arms crossed. Eyes unreadable. But there was a tightness in the line of his throat. Barely there. Telling, if you knew where to look. You did. “This one’s mixed, by the way,” Suigetsu added as he stepped forward, nudging the curtain aside. “Konyoku. Just the five of us. No rules.” He grinned at you, then shot a glance at Sasuke. “Unless someone wants to make some.”

No answer. Only quiet.

You slipped past the threshold, the air inside warmer, heavy with vapor and old cedar. A small alcove housed baskets and folded towels, a stack of simple cotton robes. You took one without thinking, your fingers brushing damp wood, the grain smooth from years of use. Your skin already tingled with the promise of heat, of letting go.

The quiet in the changing room wasn’t absolute—it shifted with the rustle of fabric, the low clack of hairpins falling into baskets, the sigh of breath held a moment too long. The air was warmer here, rich with cedar and steam curling in from the cracks in the wooden slats. Lantern light flickered softly overhead, washing the space in gold and shadow. You peeled your outer layers away with slow movements, your skin grateful to be free of the weight of travel. Somewhere to your left, Karin cursed under her breath as she tried to untangle her damp cloak from her shoulders. “Honestly,” she muttered, pulling her hair up into a twist, “we track rogue ninja for days, but heaven forbid my jacket comes off without a fight.”

You glanced over, watching as she narrowed her eyes at her reflection in the darkened glass pane nailed above the washstand. Despite the faint flush of travel across her cheeks, she still somehow looked composed—sharp lines, sharper wit. She caught your eye. “You’re not going to pretend you don’t notice, right?” she asked, a sly edge to her voice. “The way Suigetsu’s been circling you all day like a vulture with a crush?” You let the corner of your mouth lift, folding your clothes neatly into the basket beside you. “I’m used to it.” Karin scoffed. “Used to it isn’t the same as uninterested.” You didn’t answer. Not directly. Just reached for the thin cotton robe and slid it over your shoulders, the fabric clinging slightly to the heat of your skin. “He’s not subtle,” you offered finally. “No,” she agreed. “But then again—neither are you.”

You didn’t ask what she meant. The look in her eyes said she wouldn’t answer anyway.

By the time you stepped out into the main corridor, the scent of the spring was already stronger, curling in your lungs, tugging you forward. And Suigetsu was waiting. Leaning against the far wall, shirtless, robe slung low across his hips, a towel carelessly draped around his neck. His silver hair was damp, slicked back and shining faintly in the low light. When he saw you, something in his grin changed—less casual, more focused. Like he’d been waiting for this exact moment to arrive. “Well, well,” he said, pushing off the wall with easy grace. “I was starting to think you got lost in there. Shame—I was hoping for a proper entrance.” You raised an eyebrow, walking past him slowly. “You mean, one you could stare at longer?” “Caught me,” he said, unabashed. “And I’m not even sorry.”

You paused near the doorway, letting the steam kiss your skin, letting him look. His gaze wasn’t crude—just hungry. Not for your body exactly, but for the reaction he could draw from you. The game of it. The edge. “I hope,” he added, voice lower now, “you sit next to me in the water. Wouldn’t want this heat to go to waste.” You turned to look at him fully then, your voice quiet but clear.

“Don’t worry, Suigetsu. I run hotter than I look.”

That grin of his? It didn’t falter. But something in his eyes sparked—a flicker of genuine intrigue that sat just beneath the teasing. Then the door slid open, the mist rolled over your ankles like smoke—and the heat of the spring swallowed the rest of your words whole. The steam curled thick around you as you stepped into the spring, heat lapping at your calves, then your waist, drawing a long, low breath from your lungs. The world outside blurred—trees and rocks and sky all swallowed by mist and warmth and the muted hush of water meeting skin. It was the kind of heat that seeped into your bones, softening every edge, every tightly wound muscle. You felt yourself begin to melt.

Jugo sat farther off, shoulders deep in the far end of the pool, head tilted back against stone. His eyes were closed, expression distant—serene, almost. He looked like he belonged to the mountain. Karin was already in, arms propped along a rock ledge, her legs outstretched beneath the surface. The steam clung to her hair, pulled tight in a knot, droplets catching on her glasses. She glanced toward you as you settled nearby and gave a slight eye-roll. “Of all the places to end up together,” she muttered, “it had to be a mixed onsen.”

You didn’t answer. Not because you didn’t have anything to say—but because Suigetsu entered the water just then, with all the subtlety of a crashing wave.

He slid in beside you, grinning like he had already won something you hadn’t agreed to play for. The water rippled out in soft rings as he leaned back against the smooth stone behind you, stretching one arm along the edge behind your shoulders—close enough to feel, not close enough to touch.

“You look like you belong in here,” he said, voice low. “Like you were made for this.” You arched an eyebrow. “Sweating in a pool of hot minerals?” Suigetsu smirked. “I was thinking more along the lines of steam and moonlight.” You didn’t stop the small smile that tugged at your lips. But your gaze shifted—unbidden, instinctive—to the darker shape that had just appeared through the fog. Sasuke.

He moved with his usual quiet—slow, precise, measured. The kind of stillness that drew attention without asking for it. Water barely stirred as he stepped in, his robe discarded somewhere behind the boulders. His hair was damp, clinging to the line of his jaw, the rest of him half-swallowed by shadow and heat. He didn’t look at anyone. He didn’t have to. He settled near the edge, a few paces away from the rest of you, arms resting on the rocks, head turned slightly toward the trees. Like he was listening to something none of you could hear. But you felt his awareness. You felt it like the prickle of heat against your skin—subtle, constant, watchful.

“You know,” Suigetsu said, his voice dipping low as he let himself drift a little closer, “you never actually said if you were serious.” You tilted your head lazily, the warm water lapping at your collarbones, steam curling around your skin like silk. “About what?” He grinned—slow and sharp, eyes flicking over your bare shoulders with open interest.

“That thing you said on the trail.” His voice dropped to something just above a whisper. “About not wearing anything.”

You didn’t look at him, not right away. You let the silence stretch, watched the ripples move across the surface of the spring, and then—very slowly—you turned.

“I didn’t say it to be funny.”

Suigetsu blinked. For once, his cocky grin faltered—just for a heartbeat, before it slipped back into place, softer now. Less a smirk, more a surrender. “Shit,” he breathed, eyes locked on yours. “You're really trying to kill me.”

You smiled, just barely. “Maybe.”

And then—just for the fun of it—you rose a little from the water. Not enough to reveal, only enough to suggest. Just a hint. His breath caught audibly. Across the spring, something shifted in the mist. A presence more than a sound. You didn’t need to look to know it was Sasuke. You felt it. The air around him stilling. The quiet deepening like pressure beneath the surface of a wave. You let your gaze flick toward that shadow—half-concealed by steam and stone—and met eyes darker than the night above. Suigetsu was still watching you like he’d forgotten how to blink.

You settled deeper into the water, letting it rise just below your collarbones, steam curling like breath around your bare skin. The heat was almost dizzying now, soaking into you, flushing your cheeks with something more than temperature. “You know,” he said again, voice rougher this time, low and slow like it might slide against your skin, “I’ve had dreams that start less promising than this.”

You tilted your head, feigning thought. “That so?” He grinned. “Not one of them ended with me keeping my dignity intact, though.” You laughed quietly, the sound escaping before you could stop it. It felt good—unrestrained, warm, like something you hadn’t let yourself feel in weeks. The mountains seemed to echo with it, the trees holding their breath. “And here I thought you didn’t have any dignity to begin with,” you teased. Suigetsu clutched his chest dramatically, letting himself sink lower in the water as if your words had wounded him. “Cruel,” he groaned. “Beautiful, but cruel.”

You were about to reply—something smart, something worse—when you caught it again. That weight. That stillness. You didn’t need to turn your head to feel Sasuke’s gaze brush your skin. It wasn’t intrusive, wasn’t lecherous—nothing like Suigetsu’s playful hunger—but it was there. Focused. Steady. Like he was trying to understand something he couldn’t name. Your eyes flicked toward him—just a glance through the mist. He hadn’t moved. Still half-shadowed, arms folded along the edge of the spring, dark hair clinging to the curve of his neck. But his eyes were on you. He didn’t blink. Didn’t pretend not to see. Didn’t pretend not to care. Something in your chest tugged tight, unexpected.

Before the moment could stretch too long, Karin’s voice cut through the air like a pebble through glass.

“Oh my god, Suigetsu,” she snapped, “would you shut up already?”

You turned just in time to see her pushing herself off the rock ledge, arms sloshing water as she waded a little closer. Her glasses had fogged slightly, but not enough to hide the sharpness in her eyes—or the flush creeping up her neck. “Seriously,” she went on, voice full of acid-sweet disdain. “You’re embarrassing yourself. Again.” Suigetsu didn’t even flinch. “Aw, Karin. Don’t be mad just because the view’s not of you tonight.” Her mouth fell open in outrage. “You slimy little—!”

You started laughing before she could finish, the sound bubbling up unfiltered, a sudden rush of warmth against the thick air. It spilled out of you too easily—honest, unguarded—and for a moment, the tension in your chest loosened completely. Even Karin froze, caught off guard by the shift in your expression. She blinked once, then rolled her eyes so hard you were surprised they didn’t get stuck. “Whatever,” she muttered, turning her back and sloshing away again, muttering something about “morons” under her breath. Suigetsu leaned a little closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “See? I knew I could make you laugh.” You turned toward him again, amused despite yourself. “Is that your goal? Flirt until I crack?”

“I wouldn’t call it cracking,” he said, watching you from beneath damp lashes. “More like… melting.”

The words lingered in the air between you, sticky and warm as the steam. You were about to reply—something sharp, something clever—when another voice cut in, quieter, colder.

“Suigetsu.”

One word. Flat, steady. But it moved through the haze like a blade.

You turned your head just enough to see Sasuke more clearly now, his form still half-submerged in shadow, arms draped along the edge of the spring, dark eyes narrowed. The steam curled around his shoulders like smoke, and for a moment, he looked less like someone bathing and more like someone waiting for a fight to start.

“Enough,” he said. Calm, but firm. “You’ve made your point.”

Suigetsu blinked, as if surprised to be addressed at all. Then, slowly, that lazy grin of his crept back in place like it had never left. “Come on, Sasuke,” he drawled, stretching his arms out wider across the rocks. “Just appreciating our teammate’s… confidence. You don’t own all the silence around here.” His voice danced with mischief, but there was something else beneath it now. A hint of provocation. As if he knew exactly which threads he was tugging. You didn’t say anything. Just leaned back slightly, the stone cool against your spine, and let your mouth curve into a quiet, knowing smile. Not at Suigetsu. Not at Sasuke. At the space between them.

Sasuke didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. His eyes flicked from Suigetsu to you and held there—just a second longer than necessary. The water rippled softly where his fingers touched the surface, a subtle tension in his jaw that only someone who knew him would have noticed. You tilted your head and met his gaze with deliberate ease. And smiled. Not a challenge. Not an apology. Just a spark. Something unspoken passed between you then—wordless, heatless, deeper than either of you was ready to reach for. And still, Suigetsu chuckled low under his breath, breaking the moment like a ripple through still water. “Careful,” he said lightly, “or I’ll start thinking you’re jealous.” Sasuke didn’t look at him. Didn’t even blink. But you saw it—the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile. Not really. But not nothing, either. And that, somehow, was more satisfying than any reaction you could’ve hoped for. You shifted slightly in the water, letting your shoulder brush Suigetsu’s again, playful and slow, before sinking deeper into the heat with a soft exhale. Let them stew.

After all, the water wasn’t the only thing simmering tonight.

Eventually, Suigetsu’s words began to fade into quieter things. He still grinned, still let his shoulder brush yours once or twice, but even he wasn’t immune to the pull of the onsen’s warmth. The minerals soaked into his muscles, and his voice, once so sharp with flirtation, dulled into a lazy hum, his head tilted back against the stone.

Karin was the first to leave. She mumbled something about “pruney fingers” and needing to dry her hair before it frizzed, shooting you one last look you couldn’t quite read before she climbed out and disappeared behind the bamboo screen. The scent of her perfume lingered faintly behind, floral and acidic. Jugo followed soon after, as quiet in his exit as he had been during the entire soak. He nodded to you in that gentle, solemn way of his, a silent acknowledgment, before slipping out into the cooler night.

And then, it was only the three of you.

The heat had long since sunk into your bones, softening muscle and thought alike. The water curled around you like silk, fragrant with cedar and iron, as if the earth itself was trying to cradle your skin. The quiet between the three of you had grown dense—not uncomfortable, but not empty either. It pulsed softly in the steam. A low hum of awareness.

Eventually, you felt the shift in your own body. The way your limbs, slack with warmth, started to stir beneath the surface. The gentle ache in your shoulders, in your thighs. The knowing that rest had settled long enough.

Time to move.

You exhaled slowly and leaned forward, fingers skimming the surface as you pushed up onto your knees. The water slipped from your body in slow, weighty waves, heat trailing behind like reluctant hands. You rose. Unhurried. Unbothered. Uncovered.

The water rolled off you in long rivulets, catching the lantern light as it traced the curve of your waist, the dip of your spine, the soft weight of your breasts, the swell of your hips. The cool night kissed you instantly, raising goosebumps across your exposed skin, but you didn’t flinch. You welcomed it. Let it draw the heat closer, concentrate it. And you felt them. Both of them.

Suigetsu went very still.

His gaze, no longer teasing, turned liquid—heavy and openly reverent. He didn’t even pretend to look away. His jaw slackened slightly, one hand drifting beneath the surface of the spring, forgotten. He didn’t speak right away, and the silence that followed said more than his usual thousand words ever could. You stepped forward slowly, droplets trailing down the inside of your thigh, across the backs of your knees, and you knew without seeing that every shift of your body was being watched.

And Sasuke—

He hadn’t moved. But his eyes…

You didn’t need to meet them to feel their weight on your skin. Not curious. Not surprised. Just… alert. Fixed.

As if every drop of water clinging to your skin had his attention. As if he was memorizing the exact shape of you in this light, at this hour, like he was afraid it would vanish. Your hand reached for the robe draped neatly over the bamboo rail. The cloth was cool, the texture rougher than you remembered, and for a long moment, you let it hang in your grip—deliberately slow, deliberately still. Behind you, Suigetsu finally spoke, his voice low and thick with awe and something more dangerous. “If that was your exit,” he murmured, “you just ruined every fantasy I’ve ever had.” You paused, hand still resting on the tie of your robe, and glanced over your shoulder—just enough to meet his gaze. A slow, dangerous smile curved your lips. “Then you need better fantasies,” you said softly, voice like smoke. “That was nothing.” Suigetsu made a low sound in his throat—half-laugh, half-groan—but didn’t argue.

The robe slid over your shoulders, clinging faintly to damp skin, outlining more than it hid. You tied it loose, unhurried, and turned slightly—enough to glance over your shoulder. Suigetsu was still staring. He didn't bother to hide it. His expression was open now, unguarded. Almost reverent. Like someone who knew they were witnessing something they had no right to touch. You smiled, just a little. But it wasn’t for him. You shifted your gaze past him, to the stillness coiled in the steam. To Sasuke.

His expression hadn’t changed. Not much. But something in his eyes had darkened—just slightly. Something low and unreadable flickered across his face. A muscle in his jaw ticked, faint as a heartbeat. And he was watching. Not like Suigetsu did—hungry and open and hungry again—but deeper. Quieter. Like he was listening to a secret your body had just confessed. Your smile softened.

You turned fully now, barefoot against the stone deck, heat still clinging between your legs, across your ribs, behind your knees. You gathered your hair in one hand, lifting it from your neck, letting the air cool the damp line of your spine.

The changing room was silent, save for the soft creak of the wood beneath your feet and the distant hush of wind curling through the trees outside. Most of the lanterns had burned low, their light flickering across smooth walls and empty benches. The steam from the onsen still clung faintly to your skin, your robe damp where it rested against your spine. You slipped out of it slowly, letting it fall in a quiet heap at your feet, exposing your body to the cooler air of the room. Your fingers brushed the edge of a clean towel as you reached for it, ready to pat down the lingering heat, to smooth your hair, to return to the calm you’d wrapped around yourself like a second skin.

But then—

Footsteps. Soft. Deliberate. You didn’t flinch. Just let a small grin tug at the corner of your mouth as you tilted your head toward the sound. You didn’t need to turn to guess who it was. “Took you long enough,” you said, voice low, teasing. “Didn’t think you had the balls to follow me, Suigetsu.” No answer. Just silence. And that silence—

It felt different. Heavier.

The grin on your lips faltered, not quite gone, but pausing. The towel in your hands stilled. You straightened, slowly, listening. And then you heard it. The breath behind you. Not rushed. Not eager. Measured. Quiet. Too quiet to be Suigetsu. You had just enough time to turn your head—just a little—before a hand caught your waist and the other braced your shoulder, spinning you gently but firmly toward the nearest wall. Your bare chest met the wood with a soft thud, the grain cool against your heated skin. He stepped in close—closer than breath—and then you knew.

Sasuke.

His presence was unmistakable. Sharp and restrained and heavy like thunder behind the mountains. His body didn’t touch yours fully, not yet, but you could feel the heat of him—like a storm waiting to break.

“Sasuke,” you breathed, surprised, but not afraid. Not even close. His chest pressed against your spine then—solid, steady—and one hand smoothed along your side, fingertips skimming the curve of your waist. Slow. Intentional. Like he was memorizing what others only dared imagine. “I saw the way you looked at him,” he said quietly, voice a dark thread of breath beside your ear. You didn’t move. Not away. “You were watching,” you murmured, a hint of satisfaction in your voice. His hand slid higher, brushing the outer curve of your breast, not quite cupping it—just touching, just claiming. “I always watch.” That made something in your stomach tighten.

You could feel the tension in him, coiled and carefully held back. His fingers traced the line of your hip, the dip of your lower back. He didn’t rush. He didn’t need to. Every inch he touched felt like a quiet confession. “And what exactly are you doing here?” you asked, barely managing the steadiness in your voice. He didn’t answer right away. Just leaned in closer, until his breath grazed your ear and his chest fully met your back. You could feel the rhythm of his heartbeat, low and steady, against your spine. “Reminding you,” he said. You smiled—slow, dangerous. “Of what?” He shifted then, one hand bracing the wall beside your head, the other sliding lower, over the swell of your hip. His voice was quiet, almost calm.

“That he can flirt all he wants.” His fingers tightened slightly. “But you’re still mine.”

You inhaled, sharp and shallow. His words weren’t loud. They weren’t boastful. But they burned. You let your head fall back slightly, resting against his shoulder, your bare skin flush against his warmth. His mouth hovered just over your throat now, not quite touching. Not yet. “And here I thought you weren’t the jealous type,” you whispered, just to test him. You felt his breath stutter—just once—against your skin. But his hands didn’t stop. “You’re wrong,” he said simply. “About a lot of things.”

That made you laugh—quiet and breathless. “Maybe I wanted you to see.” He went very still behind you. Then: “I know.”

You turned your head then, just enough to glance at him over your shoulder, your cheek brushing his.

“And what will you do about it?”

His eyes met yours—black, unreadable, burning with something deeper than anger, darker than want. His hand rose, cupping your jaw gently, thumb brushing along your cheekbone. “I’m already doing it,” he said. And then he kissed you. Not rushed. Not desperate. Just deep. Certain. Like he’d already decided—long before this moment—that you were his.

The kiss deepened, slow and consuming, like something long held back. It wasn’t rough. It didn’t need to be. The restraint in it—his restraint—made it burn hotter. Like fire fed through silk. Sasuke’s hand at your jaw shifted, tilting your face just enough to grant him better access, as though even your mouth now belonged to him. His lips moved with purpose, but not urgency—like he had all the time in the world to unmake you.

You were still pressed to the wall, the wood cool against your chest, a grounding contrast to the heat blooming across your skin. And then—he moved.

Fingertips, barely there at first, trailed along the edge of your shoulder, down the line of your spine, brushing over each vertebrae with maddening precision. His touch was electric—light enough to tease, firm enough to promise. You felt your breath catch as his palm flattened, gliding down the length of your back in a single, deliberate stroke. Your hands rose, instinctively reaching for him, but his free hand caught your wrist gently and pressed it back against the wall—quiet command, not force.

“Stay,” he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. And you did. His hand dipped lower now, tracing your waist, then your side—mapping the places that had been hidden in steam and silence. He moved as though he needed to commit every curve to memory, as though knowing you this way was not a privilege, but a right. You felt the heat build beneath your skin, from the inside out.

When his fingers brushed over your hip, your breath hitched. When they trailed further, tracing the outer swell of your thigh—your knee almost buckled. Still, he said nothing. Not until his hand paused, resting low at your waist again, splayed and steady. “You let him touch you with his eyes,” he said softly, voice rough around the edges. “Let him think he had a chance.”

His mouth returned to your neck, but this time, it wasn’t just breath. He kissed the space just beneath your jaw—once, twice—each press slower than the last. You felt it in your stomach, in your spine, in the ache blooming at the base of your throat. His hand slid further now, curling around your thigh, fingers tightening slightly. Not possessive—but certain.

And then—

He shifted behind you, pressing closer, until his chest met your back fully, until you could feel the rise and fall of his breath against your ribs. His hand smoothed forward, tracing the inner line of your thigh. A promise. A question. A warning. Your knees brushed, the tension coiling between your legs sharp and sweet. Still, Sasuke didn’t rush. Just let his fingers hover, let them drift, let you feel the weight of his attention in every inch of air between your skin and his. You exhaled, shakily, eyes fluttering closed. His lips hovered just beside your ear, his breath hot against your skin.

“Don’t ever do that again,” he murmured, voice low and taut. “Don’t let him look at you like that.” You turned your head slightly, enough for your mouth to brush the corner of his. “And if I do?” A pause. A shift in the air. His fingers tightened at your waist, deliberate, slow.

“Then I’ll punish you for it.”

For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of your own breathing—shallow, steady, as if your lungs hadn’t quite caught up to the weight of the silence. The space between you and Sasuke pulsed with something thick and slow-burning, like the last ember in a dying fire that refused to go out.

Then—he shifted.

You heard it before you saw it. The faint rustle of fabric, the soft whisper of linen sliding against skin, and the quiet finality of something falling to the floor. His towel. It landed with barely a sound, but the intent was deafening. Your pulse stuttered. He said nothing. Didn’t move to touch you. Not yet. But you could feel him behind you—his presence heavier now, less restrained. Not wild, never that, but sharpened to a single focus.

You remained still, standing in the soft light of the room, the scent of hot water and cedar still clinging to your skin. And then—

His voice, low and sure:

“Bend forward.”

It wasn’t a request. Your breath caught. Not from shock. From the way something inside you lit up in response—something instinctive and deep. You obeyed.

Slowly, deliberately, you turned toward the wooden bench, placing your hands on its surface. The wood was smooth beneath your palms, slightly cool against your heat-flushed skin. You bent forward, just enough for your back to arch, for your hips to tilt naturally, exposing the long, bare line of your spine, the soft swell of your hips, the curves he’d traced in silence only minutes before.

The air touched you like a second pair of hands—cool, then warm where his breath followed. He knelt behind you. You didn’t need to see it to feel it. There was a shift in the air pressure, the faintest creak beneath his knees, the stillness of a hunter closing in. And then—

His hands.

They returned like they’d never left. Slow, certain. They didn’t grab. They explored. His fingertips brushed the sides of your thighs first—so lightly you almost questioned if they were really there. Then upward, ghosting over your hips, retracing the same path with more pressure now, more possession. You closed your eyes, spine tightening slightly as your body responded—quietly, instinctively. He was touching you like someone who had held back for far too long. His thumbs skimmed the space just beneath your waist, circling slowly, grounding you. You felt every breath he took behind you. Then, without warning, his hand left your hip. Silence stretched again.

Clap!

The sound was sharp, clean, not cruel. His palm met the curve of your ass with a sting that blossomed quickly, heat blooming under skin already sensitized from his touch. Not brutal. Just precise. You gasped. Not from pain, but from how sudden it was—how intimate. But it was what came after that made your knees weaken. His hand lingered. Flat, broad, warm—he let it rest there like a seal, his fingers curling slightly, digging into the soft of your skin. Not hard enough to hurt. Just enough to remind you that he was there. That this was him. And that you were his. His thumb brushed a slow, deliberate circle over the tender spot he’d just claimed, and the silence he left in its wake felt loaded with heat.

“You’re quiet,” he murmured behind you, voice rough around the edges. “I thought you had more to say.” You smiled, lips parting with breath, eyes still closed. “I didn’t think you liked talking.” “I don’t,” he said, his hand trailing down now, slow and reverent, over the back of your thigh. “But I do like answers.” “To what?”

His other hand returned, gliding up your side, along your ribs. He didn’t reply right away. His thumb brushed the edge of your breast as he leaned closer, breath ghosting over the curve of your shoulder. “To whether you’re still thinking about him,” he said finally. “Suigetsu.” You turned your head, just enough to glance at him over your shoulder. Your hair had fallen slightly forward, damp against your cheek, and in the low light, you caught the edge of his jaw, the darkness in his eyes. “I was never thinking about him,” you said softly. “Only what you would do.”

A pause.

Then his mouth was at your shoulder, not kissing—just hovering. You could feel how close he was. How tightly wound. “You wanted this,” he said. You didn’t deny it. And then—his touch changed again. His hands roamed more deliberately now, like he was no longer just committing you to memory, but writing something into your skin. A language only he would understand. His palms cupped the backs of your thighs, the curve of your hips, moved over the softness of your waist, brushing low along the front of your belly before retreating—teasing, never lingering long enough to satisfy.

He shifted behind you, not touching fully, but close. Close enough for you to feel the warmth of his skin, the power in his stillness. You inhaled, shaky, your fingers gripping the edge of the bench. “Is this the punishment?” you whispered. He leaned in again, his breath against the nape of your neck now. “No,” he said. “This is the warning.”

The sharp sting of his palm still pulsed beneath your skin, warm and aching, when you felt him shift behind you—closer, lower. You were bracing yourself, breath uneven, when his hands steadied you once more, thumbs pressing gently into your hips, as if to keep you still. Then came the heat of his breath—low, deliberate, trailing down your spine in slow descent until it hovered just above the skin he’d struck. You didn’t move. Couldn’t. The tension held you in place, strung tight and breathless, your fingertips curling into the edge of the bench as if it could ground you.

But then—

You felt him.

His tongue, warm and unhurried, drew a single, slow line over the curve of your ass—right where his palm had marked you. The wet heat of it sent a jolt through your body, sharp, intimate and entirely unexpected. Your hips twitched, involuntary. “Sasuke—” you breathed, barely a whisper. He didn’t answer. Just gripped you firmer, his fingers digging into your flesh in a way that said stay still. And then he bit you. Not gently. Not playfully.

His teeth sank into the soft of you with intent—enough to make your entire body jolt forward a breath, your voice catching in your throat as fire rippled through you. It was possessive. It was a warning. And it was so intimate that your knees almost gave out. A strangled sound escaped your lips—part gasp, part moan, part something you didn’t have words for. His mouth lingered there a moment longer, tongue flicking over the mark he left as if to seal it in, to soothe what he’d claimed. The heat, the pressure, the slow drag of his tongue—it all blurred together until you couldn’t tell where his mouth ended and your skin began.

When he finally pulled back, the absence of him was just as loud.

But you still felt him—his presence, his breath, the ghost of his teeth. You felt it in your skin, in your spine, in the place where your thoughts had quieted into raw sensation. And then his voice came—rough, low, shaped more by breath than sound. “You’ll feel that tomorrow.” You couldn’t answer. Not with words. But your body did. The way you leaned back into his hands. The way your breath hitched. The way his name still sat on your tongue, unspoken but heavy.

He stayed behind you a moment longer, his thumbs brushing circles into your hips—slow, grounding, as though to remind you of who was touching you. Of who wasn’t. And when his lips brushed the curve of your lower back, soft now, like an apology he would never say aloud—

You knew this wasn’t just punishment. It was possession. And he wanted you to remember it.

The anticipation was almost unbearable as you felt Sasuke’s hardness press against you, his arousal unmistakable. He didn’t say anything, just let his actions speak for themselves—his hands sliding from your hips to your waist, his body moving closer, aligning with yours.

With a rough, claiming thrust that stole the air from your lungs he got inside you. You cried out, the sound echoing in the room, and he swallowed it with a growl that vibrated through you. His cock filled you completely, stretched you in a way that was both painful and exquisite. “Fuck, Sasuke,” you gasped, your voice shaking. He didn’t bother with sweet nothings, no gentle reassurances. This was punishment, after all. “You’re mine,” he murmured against your skin, his teeth scraping along your spine.

The words sent a tremor through you, your body responding with a clench around him that made him hiss in pleasure.

He began to move—slow, deep strokes that had your eyes rolling back in your head. The sting of his bite and the ache of his handprint were a constant reminder of what he’d done to you, what he was still doing to you. But it was the feeling of him, so deep and demanding, that had you losing your grip on reality. You felt your pussy start to get wet, a betrayal to the pain that was quickly forgotten as your body craved more. His hands slid around to cup your breasts, pinching your nipples just hard enough to make you arch your back into his touch. “You’re going to take it all,” he said, his voice a dark promise. And you knew you would. For him, you’d take it all.

The room was a blur around you, the only things in focus were the feeling of him inside you and the pressure building low in your belly. He moved faster now, each thrust hitting that spot that made your legs tremble, made you want to beg. But you didn’t. You held on to the edge of the bench with a white-knuckled grip, your breaths coming in ragged gasps.

You felt his hand slip down to where you were wet, his fingers teasing your clit in rhythm with his thrusts. It was like he knew exactly what you needed, and he gave it to you without asking. “You’re so wet for me,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire. “It hurts,” you admitted, your voice strained. “Good,” he said, the word a growl. “It’s supposed to hurt. But it’s also supposed to feel good, isn’t it?”

And it did. The pain and the pleasure were so intertwined that you couldn’t tell where one began and the other ended. His fingers played with you, rubbing in tight circles, as he pounded into you with a ferocity that had your toes curling.

Sasuke’s grip on your hips tightened, his thumbs digging in almost as much as his teeth had. He pulled you back into him with a force that made your eyes water, his cock slamming into you without mercy. The bench creaked beneath you with every powerful thrust, echoing through the room like a declaration of his ownership. Your breath hitched in your chest, turning into gasps that grew louder and more erratic with each movement. The sting of his earlier bite was now a constant throb that only served to heighten the sensations as he took you harder than you’d ever been taken before.

The sound of your skin slapping against his filled the room, punctuated by the slick wetness of his cock plunging into your pussy. You could feel the ache deepening, your body trying to adjust to his size, to the intensity of his claim. His fingers on your clit moved faster, more insistent, as he drove into you from behind, each stroke hitting deeper, rubbing against that spot that sent sparks of pleasure through your core.

“Sasuke—it’s too much—” you panted, your voice hoarse and needy.

His voice was a challenge, a taunt, and your body responded with a shiver that had nothing to do with fear. He was right. You’d always craved this from him—his dominance, his possession, the way he made you feel like you were the only thing that mattered in his world when he was inside you. Your pussy clenched around him, desperate for more, and he gave it to you. His hips slammed into yours, each thrust more demanding than the last.

Sasuke’s hands left your hips, and for a moment, you were left to the mercy of his relentless thrusts, your body rocking back into him with every forceful plunge. And then—his fingers trailed down, down, until they hovered at the sensitive juncture between your thighs. You felt his touch linger there, teasing the tight ring of muscle, making your entire body tense in anticipation of what was to come.

Without warning, he pushed one thick digit into your ass, and you bit back a scream, the intrusion foreign but not unwelcome. The dual sensation of being filled in both places was almost too much to bear, but your body, trained to crave his dominance, opened for him willingly. The pressure was intense, but the slickness of your arousal and his steady rhythm allowed him to slide in deep, the digit joining his cock in claiming you fully.

Your breaths grew ragged, your eyes squeezed shut as you tried to adjust to the new sensation. His pace didn’t falter—instead, he used the newfound leverage to drive into your pussy even harder, his finger curling inside you in a way that had your toes curling. You were stretched to the brink of pain and pleasure, a fine line that Sasuke danced upon with expert precision.

The feeling of his hand on your ass, his finger buried deep within, was almost too much to handle, but you didn’t protest. You knew what he wanted from you—what he always wanted. Complete submission. And as his thumb found your clit once more, pressing down with just enough force to make you whine, you gave it to him. The pressure grew, building like a storm in your belly, your muscles tightening around his cock and finger, your entire body straining towards release. His breaths grew harsher, his thrusts more erratic, and you knew he was close, too.

And then it hit—a crescendo of sensation that shattered you, sending waves of pleasure crashing through your body. Your orgasm washed over you, a tidal wave of ecstasy that had you collapsing onto the bench, your limbs trembling.

But Sasuke wasn’t finished with you yet. He withdrew his finger slowly, the emptiness in your ass making you whimper, only to be replaced by the fullness of his cock. He pulled out of your pussy and pushed into your ass in one swift motion, making you cry out. You weren’t ready for this—his cock was so much bigger, and the burn was intense. But his hand was there, his fingers playing with your clit, keeping you on that delicate edge of pain and pleasure.

He took you with the same ferocity as before, his cock sliding in and out of your ass as he whispered dark promises into your ear. The burn grew with each thrust, turning into something else, something deeper, something that made you crave more. “You like this, don’t you?” he growled, his voice a mix of pleasure and challenge. “You’re mine. All of you. Every part of you.”

And you couldn’t deny it. Every inch of you was his, claimed by his touch, his bite, his cock. You pushed back into him, meeting his every thrust, begging for more even as your body screamed for mercy. He was unforgiving, his cock filling you completely, the stretch of your ass around him making you feel so impossibly full. The pain was sharp, but it was a reminder of who owned you, who was taking you so fiercely. And in that moment, you’d never felt more alive.

Sasuke’s breathing grew ragged, his hips pistoning into you with a force that had the bench groaning beneath you. You could feel him swelling inside you, his release imminent. And then, with a final, brutal thrust, he came—his hot seed filling your ass, his body shaking with the force of his orgasm.

The silence that followed was thick—settling over the room like steam, curling into every breath you tried to steady. Sasuke’s chest rose and fell against your back, his breath still ragged, the heat of him pressed along your spine. Neither of you moved. Not yet. His hands remained on your hips, fingers flexed faintly like he wasn’t quite ready to let go. Like he wanted the imprint of you to last a little longer beneath his palms.

You closed your eyes. Let yourself feel the burn in your thighs, the dull throb where he had held you too tightly, moved too deeply. The ache was raw, but not unwelcome. You’d asked for it. And he had given more than words ever could.

When he finally stepped back, the loss was immediate—cold air rushing in where heat had been, breath settling into the space his body had filled. You rose slowly, steadying yourself with one hand against the bench, the other brushing damp strands of hair from your face.

You didn’t look at him. Not right away. But he was still there—standing, composed, barely disheveled except for the sharpness in his gaze. He reached for his towel without a word, draped it over one shoulder, and then—finally—spoke. “Don’t make me remind you again.” His voice was low. Flat. No heat in it now—just fact. You turned, eyes catching his. There was no softness in his expression. No apology. Just that steady intensity that never seemed to break.

His eyes dipped briefly—tracing the marks he’d left on your skin, now blooming in quiet color along your hips, your thighs, the subtle red curve where his mouth had claimed you. When he looked back up, his mouth twitched—just barely. “You’re mine.” he said again. Not with fire. Not with gentleness. Just truth.

And you knew: it wasn’t jealousy that drove him.

It was certainty.

He didn’t reach for you again. Didn’t kiss you. He simply turned, collected what little he’d brought in, and left the room with the same quiet finality he always carried—with steps that didn’t ask for attention, only left it behind in their wake.

You stood alone in the warm hush of the changing room, skin still tingling, breath still uneven. You weren’t sure if what you felt was regret or satisfaction.

But whatever it was, it was yours to carry. And you would.

Because so was he.

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strayingawayy · 6 months ago

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doodle princess (dad! hyunjin)

it was a lazy afternoon, and the sound of soft brushes against paper filled the cozy room. the sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the room. hyunjin sat on the floor, his legs crossed beneath him, a canvas of vibrant colors spread out in front of him. his tiny daughter, only a little over a year old, sat in front of him, a small paintbrush in her hand. the little girl giggled as she dabbed the brush into a cup of water, the bristles swaying playfully as she mimicked her father's every move.

hyunjin was in his element. he had always enjoyed painting, but since becoming a parent, he found himself getting lost in more than just his art. his thoughts often wandered to his family, and now, as he painted, they became the subject of his work. he had always doodled, usually sketches of his love for you, lines that captured your smile, your essence, your very being. but now, his art had evolved. no longer were his doodles just of you; they included the tiny miracle he and you had created together.

as hyunjin worked on his newest piece, he couldn’t help but glance at his daughter sitting beside him. her chubby little hands clutched her brush as she carefully made tiny strokes on her own little paper. the sight made his heart swell, a sense of pride that no canvas could quite capture. his daughter was a masterpiece in her own right, and every day he spent with her was like painting his own personal heaven.

"look, sweetheart," he said, his voice tender, "you’re making art just like daddy."

you stood by the door, arms crossed, watching the scene before you. you had always admired hyunjin’s dedication to his art, but seeing him like this, in such a domestic, tender moment, filled your heart with something more. your little girl was a perfect mix of the two of you, with her father’s expressive eyes and your smile.

she babbled to herself, her eyes locked on the colors in front of her, her tiny face scrunched in concentration. her gaze shifted between the painting and hyunjin’s hands, as if trying to decode the magic behind each stroke.

a giggle broke your thoughts. your daughter’s tiny finger pointed excitedly at one of the doodles hyunjin had painted. a rough but endearing image of her. the likeness was undeniable, though a bit abstract, with big eyes and an exaggerated grin.

“na-ri!” she babbled suddenly, pointing directly at the doodle of herself.

hyunjin’s eyes widened in surprise, and he quickly looked at you, barely able to contain his laughter. “did she… did she just say her name? as her first word at that?”

you blinked, a small chuckle escaping your lips as you approached them. “i think she did. but....why is she saying her own name? usually babies babble ma or da?"

hyunjin’s expression shifted from surprise to a proud, mischievous grin. “she must be taking after her old man, huh?” he said, giving his daughter a teasing look. "so humble, so self-aware. you definitely take after your daddy, little one. you already know how to recognize your own greatness.”

you snorted, unable to hold back the laughter. "oh, so you’re teaching her narcissism already, huh? at least wait until she's older for that."

“she’s a genius," hyunjin said, his voice dripping with pride. "it’s not narcissism if it’s true.”

your daughter giggled, clearly enjoying the attention. she looked at her father with the same gleam in her eyes that you had seen countless times before. it was the gleam of someone who knew they were loved, who knew they were everything.

“you’re so spoiled,” you said, teasing hyunjin now. “i can't believe you’re making our daughter narcissistic already."

hyunjin chuckled, placing his paintbrush down and scooping her into his lap. “she’s just confident. that’s all. but i guess you’re right. i’ll take it easy on her. let’s see if she says da next time.”

but as he held her close, the little girl turned her attention back to the paper, where her name was written in swirling letters beneath her doodled face. she babbled again, sounding almost like she was repeating the syllables. it was clear that she was as in love with her own name as her father was with his art.

you sat down next to them, leaning against hyunjin. “well, at least she has good taste.”

hyunjin rested his head against yours, a playful smile on his face. “she’s my masterpiece. of course, she’d be a little self-absorbed.”

you couldn't stop laughing as you watched them together- father and daughter, both lost in the magic of art and family. you had always known hyunjin was talented, but there was something even more beautiful about his creations now. they weren’t just art; they were a reflection of the love he had for you, for your little girl, and for the life you had built together.

with a loving sigh, you wrapped your arm around him, your daughter still babbling happily in in his lap. as the laughter echoed through the room, you couldn't help but feel that this was the masterpiece you'd always been waiting for- perfect, in every little way.

___

everybody say thank you @hwajin @astraystayyh for indulging with me 🙂‍↕️

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alex51324 · 8 months ago

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Now, more than ever, we need to be careful about spreading misinformation and rumors

I can guarantee that over the next few months, we'll be hearing about a lot of alarming things going on here in the US. Some of those things will be true, and some won't. (And some will have both true and false or exaggerated elements.)

It's going to be absolutely vital that important information is not drowned out by misinformation, rumors, and ragebait.

That means, when you see something that would be important if true, before sharing, you check whether it's actually true.

In library world, we use the acronym SIFT:

STOP: Don't spread the information, or get caught up in your emotional reaction to it, before you've checked it out. INVESTIGATE: Who is saying it? How do they know? If there are links or sources in the post, do they actually say what the person is saying they do? FIND other coverage: Do an internet search for key details: quotes, people's names, specific locations. If something major is happening, there will normally be a lot of coverage. TRACE claims, quotes, and media back to their original context.

Usually you don't need to do all four things: just STOP and then pick what makes sense from the other three. If you decide to share the information, you can also say what you did--"This is a firsthand account from XYZ protest; it lines up with what the local TV station is saying, but has a lot more details about what the cops did," or whatever.

The more urgent the information seems, the more important it is to make sure it's reliable.

If we're hearing every other day that this or that vulnerable group is in immediate, life-threatening danger--but 49 times out of 50 it turns out to mean Trump rambled somewhere about something which, if actually implemented, could end up having the described consequences at some point down the line--then people aren't going to know the difference the one time in 50 when the danger really is immediate.

Think, here, things like immigration crackdowns, CPS investigations into parents who affirm a trans child's gender, or demands that health care providers report miscarriages to law enforcement. We all know that these are things Trump World talks about a lot and would like to be able to do, in some form. For the sake of the people affected by these topics, we need different ways of talking about, "Here they are, back on their bullshit," versus, "This is a policy proposal for a real thing that could happen," versus, "Holy shit, grab the kids and run."

We cannot go to "Holy shit, grab the kids and run" every time Trump, or someone in his inner circle, decides to bloviate about something that could disastrously affect people lives. The people who are most in danger can't stay at DefCon 5 every day of their lives, and when they do really have to grab the kids and run, we need that alarm to be heard over the constant background hum of dread.

The same goes for action items--whether protests, ways to help, or little things people can do to stay safe/sane. There's going to be plenty going on, and nobody is going to be able to do everything, so do your part by passing along those things that you can vouch are true and important, and skipping the things you aren't sure about.

I'll leave you with an example. Remember how a few years ago, we were all-in about hand hygiene and disinfecting surfaces? And then it turned out that those were not actually very important in terms of preventing the transmission of COVID-19, and what we really need is better air filtration in public spaces--but, at my work at least, we still have canisters of surface-disinfecting wipes sitting around, and tattered old signs up about hand hygiene, and no air filters.

At the time, early in the pandemic, we were sharing the best information we knew about how to stay safe, but people got a little too fixated on that initial advice--remember how people would wipe down their groceries? And those little sticks for pressing elevator buttons?--and then when the advice changed, they didn't want to hear about it.

Distrust, fatigue, superstitious attachment to the old grocery-wiping ways--there were a lot of reasons, but the key thing to take away is that attention, energy, and goodwill are all finite resources. Try to avoid wasting it with grocery-wiping--or worse, shilling for the guy selling little sticks to press elevator buttons with.

#us politics #i am a master of information science

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revacholreverie · 3 months ago

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X7/Locust City Act's V Plot Details, Tasks, and Endings!

hi everyone! I created a new sideblog EXCLUSIVELY so that I can post this text (I figured my main account is shadowbanned or smth) ANYWAY

you can read the 1-5 Acts' Summaries done by @parasolemn! They've done an amazing job and I wanted to take part in deciphering too, hehe

note: English is not my first language therefore word-guessing can be pretty hard for me. There are some minor places I couldn't undestand so I would highly appreciate your help!

UPD 10/04/2025 @parasolemn kindly helped to fill in some lacunas I had in Endings! At the weekend I'll try to edit other gaps myself

PLOT DETAILS ACT V

So what is Cunoesse’s story?

Cunoesse has brought Cuno to Hämärä Maa as a replacement for a kid she drowned three years ago.

Cuno and Jaakko – the drowned kid – don’t have much in common. Both are/were boys with red hair, and about the same build but that’s about it. Only a child’s mind would come up with a plan to replace the dead kid with an ‘identical’ one so she’d be accepted back in her tribe.

But Cuno can’t just be like Jaakko, he has to *become* Jaakko.

The Suru(?) have a coming-of-age rite that involves drinking a brew made of the bone marrow of a blind underwater cave fish. This experience has sometimes profound, sometimes devastating effect on one’s consciousness.

Perhaps this “Naming Ceremony” doesn’t happen until the Hämäräns are 10 years old, so that’s why Cunoesse never got her name, and this is the pretense under which she lures Cuno into the ceremony – a name for herself (but Cuno doesn’t know it’s also going to be a new name for him.)

Cunoesse believes that if she subjects Cuno to this ceremony and “spirit guides” him through this process Cuno might actually *become* Jaakko. Or at least accept he’s Jaakko now. She’s been laying foundation for this transformation throughout this whole journey.

Cunoesse’s people thought her dead, drowned with the boy. Hardly anyone could recognize her at first sight.

Maybe Cunoesse hid the body (under a rock in one of the caves) before she fled Hämärä Maa, so in her mind no-one can definitively claim the kid she brought back isn’t Jaakko.

Psychedelic Sequence

We want this to be a truly visually … and spectacular setpiece where you can bind the rules of everything <…> and apply dream logic.

The entire underwater showdown will be in FELD.

We can depart form/ play with the … perspective, switching into a side-view showing the vastness of the dark screen, with the C&C small figures sinking.

Experiment with overlays, filters as well as tainted and/or 3D mode/ed addictions (??) in the scene, showing people, motifs and icons elements from their journey. There can be lots of … with the visual elements reflecting decisions the players has made throughout the game.

Competitive Red Checks are the key now feature we want to test here, to create unique playthroughs and the impression of truly “fighting yourself” as the rolled value of Cuno or Cunoesse’s Red Checks affects the difficulty of the other’s counter attack.

For the first time, … and commune with each other.

Cunoesse comes out of the trip with +1 Psyche is she lives.

Blue notes:

Multiple life/death outcomes.

Swarm/Locust City side-plot reaches its conclusion.

New home for Locusts

Funeral cultural event

(another note totally unreadable for me, sorry)

_____________________________________

TASKS ACT V

The path through Act V is still largely TBD

In its bare minimum implementation Hämärä Maa could have the same density as the Deserter’s Island finale of Disco Elysium, where the game’s entire conclusion is communicated through a small number of characters – three very extensive and immersive dialogues (one of which is a stylized dream sequence) followed by a posse epilogue. Although railroaded, Disco’s finale had a “page-turning” quality to it that we should aim for as going too much into the mundane idle of the Hämärans would kill the pacing. However, since the entire journey has been about getting to the island, we should give the player at least a little more to see and do than the Deserter’s Island did.

An example of how the task chain at Hämärä Maa could look:

Face Cunoesse’s folks

Find a new home for the Locust City.

Learn how the brew works

Make the brew

Go to the caves

Survive the caves

Bring “Jaakko” to his parents.

Reactivity/Outcomes

Cuno drowns and Cunoesse is this time for real exited by her people

Cunoesse drowns and Cuno returns to Jamrock alone.

ENDINGS

Ending 1 – Jaakko Ending

Location: Hämärä Maa

Cunoesse is alive, Cuno is brainwashed

Notes:

Cunoesse’s manipulations worked. Cuno has fully internalized Jaakko.

The scene closes with Cuno diving dead-eyed among the Hämäran boys. He’s one of them now.

Loss of Identity. No more Cuno-sentences.

Ending 2 – Pale Ending

Cunoesse is dead, Cuno is alive

Location: Tréville, deserted

Notes:

With Cunoesse dead, Hämärä Maa holds nothing for Cuno anymore. He turns back, aimless.

He lands back in Tréville and finds it deserted. The prison has finally moved.

Cuno sits with him. With Cunoesse’s death, Cuno’s prison has left him too. The thing about freedom is that no one tells you where to go.

Cuno waits with the prisoner indefinitely. We fade to white and roll credits.

Ending 3 – Bad Ending

Cunoesse is dead, Cuno is dead

No notes, no location

Ending 4 – Circle Ending

Cunoesse is alive, Cuno is dead

Notes:

With Cuno dead and her plan failed Cunoesse must exile herself from Hämärä Maa again.

She goes into another Murder Hangover, back to sleep and hibernation.

The Internal Skull(?) announces “A new epoch of timekeeping is beginning”

(two another unreadable notes for me)

Ending 5? – New Tribe Ending

Cunoesse is alive, Cuno is alive

No notes, no location

#locust city #disco elysium #cuno de ruyter #cunoesse vittulainen #kim kitsuragi #project x7

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dippindaz · 4 months ago

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Munson's Little Sister Part 2 - Billy x Reader

Here is part 2 :) I hope everyone enjoys

You can find the masterlist here

Warnings: Kissing, butt grabbing, slight(?) hair pulling, blood mentioned

The gym is packed, the energy buzzing with the kind of excitement only high school sports can generate. Students crowd the bleachers, some actually invested in the game, others just here for the social aspect. The cheerleaders lead a chant, their voices barely cutting through the roar of the crowd, and the scent of popcorn and sweat hangs in the air.

You and Robin manage to find seats toward the middle of the bleachers, wedged between a group of excitable underclassmen and a couple making out like they’re in the privacy of their own home.

“God, kill me now,” Robin mutters, grimacing as she shoves a handful of popcorn into her mouth.

You smirk, but your focus is elsewhere. Your eyes scan the court, searching almost unconsciously until they land on him.

He’s in his element, moving across the court with that effortless, cocky confidence. His jersey clings to him, curls damp from sweat, a permanent smirk playing on his lips. Every time he makes a shot, the crowd loses it, girls in the stands cheering his name.

You tell yourself you’re just watching the game like everyone else. That it has nothing to do with the fact that Billy’s playing in it or that this is the first time he’s looked at all day.

As if sensing your gaze, Billy’s eyes flick up to the bleachers, scanning until they land on you. His smirk widens just a fraction, and for a second, it feels like the whole gym narrows to just the two of you.

Then he winks.

You tear your gaze away, heat creeping to your cheeks. Robin, oblivious to your internal chaos, nudges you with her elbow.

“This game is so stupid,” she groans. “Why do people get so worked up over—” She follows your line of sight, her expression shifting. “Wait. Were you just—oh my God, were you looking at Hargrove?”

Your head snaps toward her. “No.”

Robin narrows her eyes suspiciously. “Uh-huh. Right.”

You shove a handful of popcorn into your mouth to avoid answering.

Robin huffs. “You know he’s an ass, right?”

“Obviously.” You don’t need another person reminding you of that.

Robin gives you one last side-eye before turning back to the game. You try to focus on not looking at Billy, but his constant glances your way are hard to ignore.

And the worst part?

You really didn’t mind it.

The final buzzer sounds, and the gym erupts into cheers as Hawkins secures the win. The team celebrates on the court, clapping each other on the back, while the crowd starts to filter out of the bleachers.

Robin stretches, groaning dramatically. “Thank God that’s over. Now we can get to the real reason I agreed to come—harassing Steve.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Go ahead, I’ll catch up in a minute.”

Robin gives you a questioning look but shrugs. “Alright. Try not to get lost in the crowd.” She disappears into the sea of students, leaving you standing near the edge of the bleachers.

You let out a slow breath, glancing toward the court. Most of the players have already started heading back to the locker room, but one hasn’t.

Billy.

He’s still out there, still sweaty, still smug, and worst of all, looking right at you.

You barely have time to process before he’s striding over, pushing past a couple of lingering students until he’s right in front of you.

He’s Close.

He’s too close.

The scent of sweat and cheap cologne lingers in the air between you, and his skin glistens under the gym lights. His curls are damp, strands sticking to his forehead, but he doesn’t seem to care. His smirk is firmly in place, and his eyes gleam with something dangerous.

“Well?” he drawls, tilting his head. “Enjoy the show?”

You cross your arms, forcing yourself to keep your expression neutral. “It was fine.”

Billy lets out a short chuckle, clearly entertained. “Just fine? C’mon, Princess. I thought you’d be a little more fun than that.”

You roll your eyes. “Shouldn’t you be off celebrating with the rest of the team?”

He grins. “I’d rather celebrate with you.”

Your stomach flips, but you keep your face blank. “Not happening.”

Billy clicks his tongue. “That’s too bad. I was gonna invite you to the afterparty.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And what made you think I’d say yes?”

His smirk widens, and he leans in just slightly—still enough to feel his warm breath against your skin.

“Promise I won’t bite,” he murmurs, voice low and teasing. Then, with an infuriating pause, he adds, “Unless you want me to.”

Your breath catches, but you don’t move back. You should, but you don’t. Billy watches you carefully, eyes scanning your face like he’s waiting for something. He knows he’s getting to you.

He leans back just a fraction, giving you space—but not much. “So?” he asks, expectant.

You hesitate. You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t. But the words are leaving your mouth before you can stop them. “Fine. I’ll go.”

Billy grins, victorious. “Knew you would.”

Before you can turn away, he tilts his head, studying you for a second before adding, “Wait for me after. I’ll drive.”

Your stomach twists. “What? No, I can—”

Billy raises an eyebrow, already smirking like he knew you’d argue. “C’mon, sweetheart. You really wanna show up to a party with Harrington and his little sidekick?”

You glare at him. “Robin is not his sidekick.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “That’s what you’re focusing on?”

You cross your arms, searching for an out, but Billy steps closer, voice dropping just enough to make your skin prickle.

“Just let me drive you,” he says smoothly. “It’ll be fun.”

You swallow. You should say no. You really should. But the way he’s looking at you—like he’s already won—makes your stubborn streak flare up.

“Fine,” you mutter, averting your gaze. “Whatever.”

Billy grins, triumphant. “Good girl.”

Your breath catches, and he knows it.

“Meet me out front,” he says, then turns on his heel and walks off, leaving you standing there with a racing pulse, butterflies in your stomach, and an absolutely terrible feeling in your chest.

The parking lot is mostly empty by the time you step outside. The cool night air nips at your skin as you scan the lot, your stomach twisting in anticipation—whether from excitement or nerves, you can’t tell.

And then you see it.

Billy’s Camaro is parked near the edge of the lot, headlights off, but he’s there, leaning casually against the driver’s side door, arms crossed over his chest. His hair is damp from the post-game shower, and his Hawkins jersey is swapped out for a fitted black t-shirt. He looks annoyingly good.

He notices you immediately. A slow smirk creeps onto his lips as he pushes off the car and meets you halfway. “Thought you were gonna stand me up,” he muses.

You scoff, shifting your weight. “Tempting.”

Billy tuts, shaking his head. “That’d be rude, sweetheart.” He gestures toward the car. “C’mon. Get in.”

You hesitate for only a second before exhaling sharply and moving toward the passenger side. The door creaks slightly as you pull it open, and the scent of cigarettes, cheap cologne, and something undeniably him fills your nose the second you slide in. The leather seats are cool against your skin, and when Billy climbs in beside you, the car suddenly feels much smaller.

The engine roars to life, vibrating beneath you as Billy shifts into gear. “You ever been to a real party before?” he asks, drumming his fingers against the wheel as he pulls out of the lot.

You roll your eyes. “Yes, Billy.”

He glances at you, amused. “Lemme guess—some little gathering with Munson and his band of losers?”

You glare at him. “They’re not losers.”

Billy snorts, eyes back on the road. “Right.”

Silence stretches between you. Outside, the streetlights blur past, and you find yourself absently tracing the curve of your knee, hyper-aware of the warmth radiating off of Billy beside you.

“So,” he says, breaking the quiet, “what made you change your mind?”

You blink. “What?”

“About tonight,” Billy clarifies. “Couple days ago, you wanted nothing to do with me.” He glances at you again, smirk teasing at his lips. “Now here you are, in my car, lettin’ me take you to a party.”

Your face heats. “I—” You fumble for an answer, something that isn’t the truth. That you’d been thinking about him too much. That some stupid part of you wanted to be here.

Billy chuckles, shaking his head. “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice dripping with something both smooth and dangerous. “I’ll be on my best behavior.”

He shoots you a sidelong glance, smirk deepening. “Unless, of course, you don’t want me to.”

Your breath catches.

Billy just grins, clearly pleased with himself, and returns his focus to the road, leaving you sitting there, heart pounding.

The house is already packed by the time Billy pulls up, the muffled thump of music vibrating through the car windows. A few kids linger outside, passing around drinks and cigarettes, laughter spilling into the warm night air. You spot a couple of familiar faces—mostly people from school you don’t talk to much—but before you can think too hard about it, Billy kills the engine and turns to you.

“You look nervous,” he observes, smirking.

You huff, shifting in your seat. “I’m not nervous.”

Billy raises a brow. “No?” He leans in slightly, resting an arm on the back of your seat. “Then why’re you still sittin’ here?”

Your fingers tighten around your bag strap. Truthfully, you don’t know. Maybe because this feels like a bad idea, like the kind of thing that could change things. But you’re already here, and the way Billy’s looking at you, like he’s got you all figured out.

Maybe it’s your pride, or maybe you just want him to like you that badly. Regardless, you lift your chin and push open the door. “You coming?” you throw over your shoulder.

Billy chuckles, stepping out after you. “That’s more like it.”

Inside, the party is loud and hazy, the air thick with cigarette smoke and the sharp scent of cheap beer. Someone’s already half-passed out on the couch, and a group near the kitchen is shouting over a drinking game. You spot Robin and Steve by the stereo, deep in conversation, but before you can head their way, Billy’s hand brushes against the small of your back.

“C’mon,” he says, voice low by your ear. “Let’s get a drink.”

You hesitate. “I don’t—”

Billy tilts his head, eyes glinting. “Relax, princess. Just one.”

Against your better judgment, you follow him toward the kitchen, where he grabs a bottle and twists it open before handing it to you. “Go on,” he urges, watching as you take a tentative sip.

It’s stronger than you expect, and you cough, grimacing. Billy laughs, leaning against the counter. “Not a fan?”

You shoot him a glare but take another sip anyway. “It’s fine.”

Billy’s grin lingers as he watches you, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. “Y’know,” he muses, “didn’t think I’d get you here.”

“Yeah, well,” you mutter, glancing around. “I’m full of surprises.”

Billy hums, clearly amused. “Guess we’ll see about that.”

Before you can ask what that means, someone calls Billy’s name, you barely have time to register it before Billy straightens, rolling his shoulders like a boxer stepping into the ring. A couple of guys from the basketball team wave him over, drinks in hand, already hyping him up over the game.

Billy tilts his head toward you. “Go have some fun, dollface. I’ll find you later.”

Before you can respond, he’s gone, swallowed by the crowd.

You exhale, your eyebrows knitting together as you glance around. You shouldn’t feel disappointed. You shouldn’t be wondering when later is.

Don’t let it bother you. But it does. So does the noise and lack of familiarity at this party. Your eyes scan the room for Robin. But you’re sure she didn’t stick around; she isn’t the partying type. If Steve’s here, he’s probably got his tongue halfway down Nancy’s throat right now and that’s a sight you don’t want to see. So really, you’re just looking for someone that you know.

You weave through the crowd, dodging drunken conversations and the occasional sloshing cup of beer. The air inside is thick with cigarette smoke and sweat, the music pounding against your skull like a second heartbeat. You don't know why you thought this would be fun. You don’t even drink. And as much as you shouldn’t care, Billy being whisked away so quickly—like he didn’t just go out of his way to bring you here—leaves an odd taste in your mouth.

With a sigh, you push through a side door and step outside onto the back porch. The night air is a relief, crisp and cool against your flushed skin. It’s quieter here, the party noise muffled behind the walls, leaving only the occasional chatter of a few couples further down the porch. But they’re lost in their own worlds, paying you no mind.

You lean against the wooden railing, letting yourself breathe, finally taking a moment to process why you’re even here. It wasn’t for the party. It wasn’t for Steve, or Robin, or anyone else. It was for him.

And you hate that.

A shiver crawls up your spine, whether from the cold or the realization itself, you’re not sure. You should leave. Walk home, convince someone to drive you, whatever it is. You shouldn’t be here. It was stupid.

“Didn’t peg you for the party type,” a voice breaks you out of your thoughts.

You glance over, instantly recognizing one of the guys from the basketball team. You don’t know his name, but he’s got that same cocky air as the rest of them.

You shrug. “Not usually.”

He smirks. "Didn’t think Hargrove would let you out of his sight."

Your stomach twists at that. "He doesn’t own—" you start, but Brandon cuts you off with a chuckle.

"Please, everyone saw you walk in with him. Pretty sure that means you’re his for the night."

Something about the way he says it—like you’re some kind of prize—grates against your nerves. You push off the railing, ready to leave, but his hand finds your arm, not rough, but firm enough to make your muscles tense.

"Relax, I’m just messing with you," he says, but his fingers don’t move.

Before you can shake him off, before you can even open your mouth—

"Didn’t realize I had to keep a leash on you, sweetheart."

Billy’s voice is smooth, easy, but there’s nothing relaxed about the way he steps between you and the other guy, his presence heavy, suffocating. His eyes flick down to the guy’s hand still on your arm.

He releases you instantly. "Shit, man, I wasn’t—"

"Wasn’t what?" Billy cuts in, tilting his head. His smirk is lazy, almost amused, but you can see the sharpness beneath it. "Wasn’t tryin’ to steal my girl?"

He puts his hands up, stepping back. "Didn’t know she was off-limits, man. My bad."

Billy finally looks at you, possessiveness flickering behind his blue eyes. "She is."

Your breath catches. The words shouldn't mean anything. Shouldn’t make your pulse stutter the way it does.

The guy nods quickly, muttering some excuse before slipping back into the house, leaving you alone with Billy.

He turns to you then, stepping closer, his voice dropping lower. "Didn’t think I had to spell it out for people, but maybe I should."

Your lips part, but you don’t know what to say. You should be mad, should tell him off for acting like he owns you. But all you can think about is how close he is, how intense his gaze is on yours.

He leans in, just enough to make your breath hitch. "Careful who you let get close, sweetheart. Wouldn’t want anyone gettin’ the wrong idea."

The party doesn’t get any quieter, but Billy keeps close after that. Not in an obvious, possessive way—he’s not clinging to you, not throwing an arm around your shoulders—but he lingers nearby. Close enough that you can feel his presence no matter where you move in the house. Close enough that anyone thinking of striking up a conversation with you seems to reconsider after a single glance in his direction.

And maybe that should annoy you, but the longer you stay, the less you mind it.

You don’t see Robin or Steve, and with nothing but drunken teenagers around, you eventually settle against the wall near Billy as he leans on the counter, half-listening to some conversation between a few of his teammates. His beer dangles from his fingertips, barely sipped. His attention flicks to you every so often, eyes unreadable in the dim light of the kitchen.

It’s only when the party reaches the point where people are either stumbling or making out in every corner that Billy pushes off the counter and turns to you.

“C’mon, let’s get outta here.”

You blink up at him. “Yeah, probably a good idea.”

You follow him out, assuming you’ll be heading back home. But when you slide into the passenger seat of his Camaro and he pulls out of the driveway, he doesn’t head towards the trailer park. Instead, he takes a sharp turn out of town, toward the winding road that leads to the quarry.

You frown, glancing at him. “Uh, this isn’t the trailer park, Hargrove.”

“Yeah, no shit,” he mutters, one hand gripping the wheel, the other resting lazily on his thigh. “Figured I’d give you a break from babysitting Munson all night.”

“I don’t babysit Eddie,” you huff, crossing your arms.

Billy smirks, eyes flicking to you briefly before returning to the road. “Sure, you don’t.”

The drive is quiet after that. It’s late, the roads empty except for the occasional streetlamp casting long shadows over the pavement. The steady hum of the engine fills the space between you, and for once, Billy isn’t filling the silence with cocky remarks or teasing jabs.

By the time he pulls up near the edge of the quarry, the headlights bouncing off the rocky terrain, he looks… different. The ever-present smirk is gone, his usual sharp edges softened just a little.

You watch as he rolls his window down and kills the engine. Billy then leaned back against the seat with a sigh, tilting his head against the headrest. The moon casts a faint light over his face, highlighting the way his jaw clenches, the way his fingers tap against his knee like he’s trying to keep himself grounded.

For the first time, he looks… tired. Not just physically, but in a way that feels deeper, heavier.

You hesitate, then shift slightly toward him. “You okay?”

He scoffs, but there’s no real bite to it. “Yeah, just peachy.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Really? ‘Cause you don’t seem like it.”

Billy exhales through his nose, drumming his fingers harder before finally going still. For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything. Then, so quietly you almost miss it, he mutters, “Didn’t feel like goin’ home yet.”

You don’t ask why. You don’t have to. The weight behind those words is enough.

For once, you don’t try to analyze him, don’t try to pick apart his intentions. Instead, you lean your head back against the seat, mirroring him. “Yeah. I get that.”

And somehow, that’s enough.

The Camaro sits still, the night stretching around you, and for the first time, there’s no push and pull, no sharp edges between you. Just quiet understanding.

You’re not sure if this moment should feel so comfortable. Enjoyable. But it does. Because for once, he’s not playing games. He’s not smirking or teasing or trying to get under your skin. He’s just… Billy.

And you don’t entirely know what to do with that.

You hesitate for a moment before finally unbuckling your seatbelt and pushing the car door open. The night air is crisp and refreshing after the haze of beer and sweat from the party. Gravel crunches under your shoes as you step forward, glancing back at Billy, who hasn’t moved yet.

“You coming?” you ask.

Billy exhales through his nose, like he hadn’t actually planned on getting out. But after a beat, he reaches for the door handle and steps out, stretching his arms above his head before shutting the door behind him.

You walk a few steps ahead, stopping near the edge where the land slopes downward toward the still, dark water below. The only lights out here are the moon and stars, casting a pale glow over the rocks and rippling surface.

Billy comes up beside you, hands in his pockets, gazing out at the water. His shoulders slumped and an odd look in his eyes.

“You do this a lot?” you ask.

“What?”

“Disappear after a party. Drive off to the middle of nowhere.”

He smirks, but it’s faint, tired. “Maybe.” He kicks a loose rock, sending it skidding down toward the water. “Not much to do in this town besides drink, fight, or fuck. ‘Less you count this.”

“And what is ‘this’?”

“Nothin’,” he says, voice lower, almost contemplative. “Just a break.”

You look at him closer. His posture is loose, but there’s something weighed down about him, something he’s not saying. Maybe it’s the beer, maybe it’s the late hour, or maybe it’s the fact that, for once, he’s not trying to impress or intimidate anyone.

“Rough day?” you ask softly.

Billy scoffs. “Rough year.”

You don’t know what to say to that. You don’t really know anything about Billy’s life, except that he showed up in Hawkins, all charm and arrogance, immediately claiming his place at the top of the food chain. But there’s more to him, that much is obvious.

“You ever just wanna get the hell outta here?” he asks suddenly, eyes still on the water.

The question surprises you. You’d never expect him to ask that. You clear your throat. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Of course,” you admit. “I mean, I’ve got responsibilities here, but if I had the chance? If things were different?” You huff out a small breath. “Yeah. I’d leave in a heartbeat.”

Billy nods slowly, like he already knew your answer. Like maybe he’s thought about it a million times himself.

He sighs and sits on the ground. “Sometimes I just need to get away. Don’t really got anywhere else to go.”

Something about the way he says it makes you pause. You don’t push, but you don’t change the subject either. You slowly move to sit beside him, your shoulders almost touching.

“Is it that bad?” you ask after a beat, your voice softer than before.

Billy doesn’t answer right away. For a moment you think he won’t. Then, finally, he lets out a short breath. “Yeah.”

You didn’t expect the honesty. Truthfully, you didn’t expect any of this. You didn’t even think Billy had a vulnerable side, much less that you’d ever see it.

The conversation dips into silence again, but it’s not uncomfortable. If anything, it feels… easy. Like you’re both just two people, stripped of whatever expectations everyone else puts on you. No reputations, no rumors. Just existing.

Billy shifts, reaching into his pocket. He pulls out a pack of cigarettes, tapping one out before offering it to you.

You shake your head. “No, thanks.”

He shrugs, sticking one between his lips and lighting up. The orange glow flickers against his face as he inhales, then exhales slowly, smoke curling into the night air.

“You’re different than I thought you’d be,” he says suddenly.

You raise an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His lips twitch, almost like he’s amused by his own thoughts. “Figured you’d be a little more like your brother. Loud. Annoying as hell.”

You chuckle. “Thanks.”

Billy grins, tilting his head toward you. “Nah, I mean it. You’re… quiet. But not in a scared way. You just—” He exhales, looking away. “You think before you talk. Most people don’t do that.”

You’re not sure what to say to that. Because it sounds dangerously close to a compliment, and you don’t know what to do with Billy saying something that isn’t meant to rile you up.

Instead, you look back out at the water. “I should probably get home soon.”

Billy flicks the ash off his cigarette. “Yeah. Guess so.”

But neither of you move to stand. Instead, you rest your palms on the grass, leaning back. Out of the corner of your eye you can see him looking at you. You turn your head, meeting his gaze and it feels different. Like, he’s really seeing you, not just picking you apart for something to tease.

“What?” you ask, voice quieter than before.

Billy shakes his head, a slow smile tugging at his lips, but it’s not the usual arrogant one—it’s softer, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. “Nothin’.”

“Liar.”

He huffs a short laugh but doesn’t give you a proper answer.

“You got plans tomorrow?” he asks after a beat.

You look back out to the water, butterflies beginning to form in your stomach. “Why?”

Billy shrugs. “Maybe I wanna see you again.”

It should sound like a line. It probably is a line. But the way he says it, the way his voice dips just slightly at the end, makes your heart flutter.

“You see me every day at school,” you say, attempting to keep your tone even.

“Yeah, but that doesn’t count.” His smirk deepens. “C’mon, princess. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“You really want me to answer that?” You ask with a chuckle.

Billy laughs, shaking his head as he looks back at the water. He stubs out his cigarette on the ground.

“You know,” he starts, his voice quieter now, more contemplative than usual, “you’re not the only one who wants to keep things under control.”

You glance over at him, brows furrowed, but he’s not looking at you. His gaze is fixed on the quarry, the water stretching out under the moonlight, calm and still.

“I don’t know what you mean,” you say, your voice guarded.

Billy doesn’t answer immediately. He exhales slowly, as if trying to find the right words, and then finally looks at you. “You’ve got this thing where you think you can plan everything. But, hell, life doesn’t always work that way.”

You stare at him, feeling a tension build in your chest. You’re not sure how he can read you so easily. And for some reason, you think he isn’t just talking about you, rather, himself too.

“And what’s your point?” you challenge, though you’re not sure why. It’s not like you’re really mad at him. It’s just… uncomfortable. No one likes being called out.

Billy leans back against the seat, his eyes flicking toward the water again. “My point is, you don’t have to be perfect. You don’t always have to be the responsible one. Sometimes you gotta do something just for the hell of it.”

You can’t help but laugh bitterly, shaking your head. “You think I should just go off the rails like you, Hargrove?”

He smirks. “Nah. I’m not sayin’ you gotta be like me.” He pauses for a moment, a flicker of something in eyes. “But you can let go a little.”

You swallow hard, feeling the weight of his words settle in your chest. The idea of letting go, of not being the one to keep everything in line, is terrifying. But there’s something about Billy’s easy confidence that pulls at you, tempting you to step into the unknown.

Billy nods toward the quarry, a glint of something mischievous in his eyes. “You ever go in?”

You shake your head. “Nope.”

"The water’s right there." He gestures lazily to the quarry, then looks at you, eyebrow raised.

You raise your eyebrows and scoff. “I’m not going in there.”

Billy chuckles like he expected that response. “You scared or somethin’?”

You scoff. "Of course not."

"Then prove it."

You narrow your eyes. "I didn’t realize I had to prove anything to you."

Billy grins, standing up in one fluid motion. He pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it onto the grass before kicking off his shoes. His hands go to his belt next, unbuckling it with ease.

"What the hell are you doing?" Your mouth goes dry, you want to look away, you probably should, but… well you also don’t want to look away.

"What’s it look like?" He shoots you a smirk before shoving his jeans down and stepping out of them, leaving him in just his boxers. Then, without hesitation, he jogs toward the edge and dives into the water.

You scramble to your feet, watching as he disappears beneath the surface. He’s under for a few seconds before breaking through, shaking water from his hair and turning to look at you.

"Shit’s nice," he calls out. "You comin’ or what?"

“No thank, I don’t feel like getting wet.” You called back.

“Bet I can change your mind.” He says, and you swear you can see the smirk on his face deepen.

You scoff and roll your eyes, but don’t respond. You cross your arms over your chest, still looking over the ledge at him. The cool night air brushes against your skin, but some part of you can’t resist the idea of joining Billy. Of entertaining the possibility of him for just a bit longer. You can go back to responsibility and ignoring him tomorrow, right? It’s just swimming.

"C’mon, sweetheart." His voice is smoother now, coaxing. "You spend all this time thinkin’ ‘bout what you should and shouldn’t do. Just do somethin’ for the hell of it."

Your pulse quickens. Maybe, just this once…

Your fingers hover over the hem of your shirt. Billy watches you, his expression unreadable. And before you can talk yourself out of it, you pull the fabric over your head. Your shoes and pants follow.

Billy’s smirk returns, slow and satisfied. "That’s my girl."

That makes your heart pound. You can feel heat creeping to your cheeks and suddenly you’re grateful he’s so far away. You step to the edge and take a deep breath before jumping into the water below.

The cold rush of water engulfs you instantly, stealing your breath. For a second, all you hear is the muffled quiet beneath the surface, a stark contrast to the pounding of your heart. When you break through, gasping softly, Billy’s already watching you.

His arms move lazily through the water, keeping him afloat as he smirks. "Not bad, huh?"

You push your wet hair out of your face, trying to ignore the way your body still buzzes from the sound of that’s my girl. "It’s freezing."

"You’ll get used to it."

Billy floats closer, water rippling between you. There’s an ease to the way he moves, completely comfortable in his own skin. You wish you could say the same for yourself.

"See?" he says, voice lower now. "Didn’t kill ya."

"Yeah, well. Jury’s still out."

Billy chuckles, and the sound makes your stomach flip. He dips his head back, wet curls sticking to his forehead as he watches you. "You really gotta loosen up, Munson."

You roll your eyes, but before you can fire back, he surges forward, splashing a wave of water at you. You yelp, spluttering, and immediately return fire, sending a splash right back at him.

Billy laughs, a real, unguarded laugh. It’s warm in a way you don’t expect, and it does something to you—makes something shift in your chest.

Before you know it, you’re both laughing, treading water in the moonlight, teasing and splashing until you’re breathless. And then—

Then, just like that, the moment settles.

You don’t know who stops first, but suddenly the space between you is less. Billy is close, closer than he’s been all night, and it’s different now. His usual cocky grin has softened at the edges, and his eyes flicker to your lips—just for a second, but long enough that you notice.

Your breath catches.

"Billy—"

He reaches out, fingers brushing lightly against your waist beneath the water. A slow, deliberate touch. His eyes hold yours, searching, asking.

And maybe you should pull away. Maybe you should remind yourself of all the reasons this is a bad idea.

But you don’t.

Because right now, with the water lapping at your skin and the way Billy’s looking at you like you’re the only thing that matters… you realize, you want this. And sometimes, that’s all that matters.

“Tell me to stop.” He murmurs, leaning in and hovering his lips over yours.

You don’t.

Billy doesn’t hesitate.

The moment he has his answer—the moment you don’t pull away—he closes the space between you, lips pressing against yours with a confidence that makes your head spin. It’s not gentle. It’s not careful. It’s heat and pressure, the kind of kiss that steals your breath, that makes you forget everything except him.

His hand curls around your waist, pulling you against him. Your fingers find his shoulders, digging in just slightly as you kiss him back. Billy hums against your lips, like he’s pleased, like he knew this would happen all along. It should annoy you. Maybe it does. But right now, you don’t care.

His teeth press into your bottom lip, teasing, and you gasp just enough for him to take advantage of it, deepening the kiss. His other hand moves, trailing up your back, fingers tangling in your damp hair giving it a soft tug. You’re sure it’s just another way he’s teasing you, testing your boundaries, but right now you couldn’t care less.

The water ripples around you, cool against the heat of his touch. Everything else—the reasons why this is a bad idea, the voice in your head telling you you should stop—fades into the background.

Right now, it’s just Billy. Just the way he tastes, like beer and smoke and something distinctly him. Just the way he holds you, like he doesn’t want to let go.

His thumb traces slow circles against your waist, and you realize how easy it would be to let yourself get lost in him.

Too easy.

Your heart pounds as reality seeps in through the cracks. What are you doing?

Billy’s hand released your hair and began trailing down your back, over your bra strap and down to your ass, giving you a firm but not painful squeeze.

Now the reality of the situation completely flooded your senses. You swiftly pulled away, your hands pressing against his chest to make a small bit of space between you two.

Billy’s eyes flick open, searching yours, and for a brief moment, something unreadable passes over his face. Surprise? Annoyance? Disappointment?

You don’t give yourself time to figure it out. You take a breath, trying to ignore the way your lips still tingle, the way your skin feels too hot despite the cool water.

“I—” You swallow hard, struggling to piece together the right words. What are the right words? You kissed him back. You wanted to. You still want to.

Billy doesn’t move, doesn’t try to pull you back in. His hands stay where they are, but his grip loosens, like he’s waiting to see what you’ll do next. Like he’s testing you. Your fingers are still pressed against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath your palms. You should say something. You should explain.

Instead, you shake your head, stepping back. “I need to get out.”

Billy watches you for a beat, his expression unreadable, then exhales sharply through his nose. “Right.” His voice is rougher than before, lower.

You don’t look at him as you swim toward the shore, your heartbeat still hammering in your ears. What the hell were you thinking? By the time you pull yourself up onto the grass, your hands are shaking. It’s just from the cold, right?

After a few moments, you hear movement behind you—Billy pulling himself onto the shore, water dripping off his muscular frame as he runs a hand through his soaked hair. You pointedly keep your back to him.

“You gonna pretend this didn’t happen?” His voice is quieter now, lacking its usual bite.

You hesitate, as you wrap your arms around yourself. You should pretend. You should walk away and never look back. You finally tune to him, his blue eyes feel like their piercing right through you.

You hold his gaze, pulse hammering in your throat. Every instinct screams at you to lie, to brush this off as nothing. But the way Billy is looking at you—like he already knows the truth, like he sees it—makes it hard to force the words out.

So you say nothing.

Billy exhales sharply through his nose, like he was expecting that answer. He shakes his head slightly, smirking, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Fine. Pretend all you want, princess.” He steps past you, beginning the walk back up to the Camaro and your clothes. “But we both know you felt that.”

You glare at his back, but you don’t argue. Because he’s right. You follow behind him. The walk back is silent and tense.

The ride back is just as quiet. The radio hums softly in the background, but neither of you speak. You sit stiffly in the passenger seat, arms crossed, still damp and shivering slightly from the air and water mixture. Billy keeps one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh, his jaw clenched as he watches the road.

You steal a glance at him. He looks calm, but there’s something different. He’s tense. Not in the usual cocky, on-edge way he carries himself, but like he’s thinking. Like he’s feeling something and doesn’t know what to do with it.

You shift in your seat, focusing on the blur of streetlights passing outside the window. Your mind races, replaying everything from the quarry, from the way he kissed you to the way you didn’t stop him.

What the hell were you thinking?

By the time Billy pulls up to the trailer park, your stomach is a mess of knots. And it only gets worse as you see Eddie, who was just about to climb into the van looking at the Camaro in disbelief.

You grip the door handle, desperate to make some excuse, but Billy’s voice stops you.

“This ain’t over, you know.” He mutters, a glint in his eyes.

Your eyebrows furrow as you look at him but right now, you don’t have time. You shake your head as you step out of the Camaro and Billy follows in suit.

Eddie looked more pissed off than you’ve ever seen him. His wild curls are disheveled, his ripped Metallica shirt hanging loose off his frame, and his eyes—dark and furious—snap straight to you.

Then to Billy.

“What the fuck is this?” Eddie demands, his voice sharp as he stalks forward. His gaze flickers to your damp clothes, to Billy’s just-as-soaked shirt, and his face twists in something close to horror. “Are you kidding me?”

You open your mouth to explain—though you don’t even know how—but Billy beats you to it.

“Relax, Munson,” he drawls, smirking as he leans lazily against his car. “Nothin’ happened.”

“Oh, bullshit,” Eddie snaps. “She’s soaking wet, you’re soaking wet—what the hell am I supposed to think?”

Billy scoffs. “Maybe that we went for a swim.”

Eddie’s nostrils flare, his hands balling into fists. “You think this is funny?” He rounds on you now, voice laced with disbelief. “What were you thinking? You show up in his car, lookin’ like that, after disappearing all night?”

You don’t know what to say, or how to explain any of this. “Eddie—”

“No,” he cuts you off, pointing a shaking finger at Billy. “I told you to stay the fuck away from her.”

Billy chuckles, low and condescending. “Yeah? And what are you gonna do about it, Munson?”

That does it.

Eddie lunges, grabbing Billy by the collar with both hands and yanking him forward. “You think you’re so fucking tough?” he growls, voice dangerously low. “Try me, asshole.”

Billy doesn’t hesitate. His fist slams into Eddie’s jaw, sending him stumbling back a step.

“Billy!” you gasp, instinctively reaching for Eddie, who shakes you off, wiping at the corner of his mouth where blood has already started to bead.

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie mutters, touching his jaw before glaring back up at Billy. “You really are a fucking psycho.”

Billy flexes his hand, rolling his shoulders like he’s ready to swing again. “You’re the one who grabbed me, man.”

Eddie exhales sharply, clenching and unclenching his fists like he’s debating whether to go for round two. But then he looks at you. And whatever he sees on your face—guilt, worry, something else—makes his shoulders sag slightly.

“This isn’t over,” Eddie mutters, shaking his head as he backs away toward the trailer, grabbing your arm and dragging you with him. “Not even close.”

You watch as Billy slides back into the Camaro, starts the engine, and peels out of the trailer park like he doesn’t have a single regret in the world.

You, on the other hand?

You’re drowning in them.

#stranger things x reader #stranger things x you #billy hargrove x you #billy hargrove x reader #stranger things billy hargrove x reader #stranger things billy x reader #stranger things billy x you #stranger things billy hargrove x you

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the-kr8tor · 2 months ago

Text

Port of Call

Pairing: Pirate! Hobie Brown x fem! Reader

Word count: 13k

Synopsis: The start of a brand new adventure.

Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader (except for clothing), Pirate AU, CW blood and injury, CW violence, TW death, CW food mentions, CW guns, CW alcohol mention, chapter 1 of Beyond the sea of night, a sequel to Between the Devil and the Sea. Fluff.

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Beyond the Sea of Night Masterlist

Chapter 1 >>> Chapter 2

The ship is on fire, only this time, it's not your fault. Well, technically it isn't.

And it's not your ship, it's a navy ship that thought they could mess with the bloodsail pirates just because your numbers have dwindled. That's true and sometimes you're afraid of acknowledging it, but the crew is as fierce as ever. It's been three months since it all happened— Mathias, the truth of your lineage, and the declaration of your love for your pirate captain in front of hundreds. Three months, it still feels like a fever dream concocted in your mind. But it's all real, from the new scars and memories— both good and bad ones. It all happened, and you'd choose to do it all over again just to end up right here on this flaming ship with your family and your captain.

Your shoulder hits the door of the lower deck, leaving the flickering flames behind as you climb up with two sacks of supplies over your shoulders. The fire is truly not your fault after a lit candle accidentally got knocked down by a sailor who tried to grab you by the neck. It's their fault for leaving it lit in a wooden boat no less. The sailor is no more and also the whole ship quarters. The flesh around your neck still aches as you dodge bullets left and right.

Eyes skimming over to the small battlefield, you breathe a sigh of relief to find the crew still in one piece while the navy sailors find themselves on the edge of their cutlasses and blunderbusses. The navy ranks have fallen out of order ever since the people sacked the palace walls and kicked the royals out of the country. So much so that even the large ships lack the men to fill it with only a handful left on board. And yet there's no lack of ego on the blasted navy ship after they shot a cannon right at you first.

Grunts and yells fill the ship as more and more sailors fall to the crew's hands. The Osprey— still a temporary name for the bloodsail pirates’ home, is a formidable opponent in the tides. Its façade is laden with gold that glimmers in the waters and the searing sun above. Its bird figurehead stands tall on the bow, wings outstretched as if it's about to fly away, a reminder of your heritage. The cannons boom around you, splintered wood flying about, gunpowder singeing your nose— you're in your element. Within flames that burn, amongst the waves that you've come to revere.

Fast footsteps thud against the floorboards as the fire slowly consumes below deck, flames licking at the soles of your worn out boots, and acrid smoke filtering through the cracks. The embers slither up to the sails, burning it together with their navy flag. Flecks of ashes stick to your sweaty skin as blade clashes against blade. The cutlass in your hand has grown familiar, calloused palms tight around the pommel, fiery eyes staring at your opponent. You quickly toss the supplies at your feet, eyeing the man down.

The sailor is stronger than you, taller, and with the same fury you have. But you have more to lose if you let his blade cut you down. You're a pirate, and you refuse to play fair by polite society rules.

The man tries to swipe at you, but you dodge it, blade nearly nicking your arm. With a swift hard kick to the man's shin, he buckles, staggering on the floorboards before his stomach is met with your sword. Flesh and blood squelches as crimson coats your cutlass. You try not to dwell on it. Don't let them try to kill you for the second time.

“Fuckin’ hell!” Hobie, your captain, guffaws from the upper deck whilst he's steering the massive flaming navy ship away from the Osprey as everyone on board flings to the side. Your back hits the bannister, but you shake it off. “You alright, love?!”

There he is just across the chaos, the destruction and the bloody battlefield— your angel shaped by a hurricane.

He's covered in soot and crimson, and yet his smile doesn't waver. With a red bandana around his head, silver chains dangling on his chest together with your black pearl that's proudly displayed, he looks like a picture perfect pirate captain. The giant spider tattoo on his chest is in full display while his linen shirt is open and blowing in the breeze. With the sun behind him, and the fog of gunpowder at his feet, he looks right at home.

“One to ten?!” You ask, adrenaline flowing through you as you quickly shoot down a navy man trying to climb up towards Hobie while you hold onto the bannisters. The uniformed man falls on the stairs, flopping down into the deck. “I'd say a nine on being fine, but I accidentally knocked down a candle below deck so a seven, I think!” Just as you say it, more smoke rises through the floorboards.

His loud cackle reigns above the booming canons. “That's my bloody arsonist!” Eyes widening, he warns you with a simple look.

You turn around, dodging an axe thrown your way. It hits the wood behind you, splitting it. “Shit!” The navy man charges towards you, and you quickly scramble away but he still ends up snatching your ankle, making you fall as your body hits the hot floor with a thud. Ankle in flames, the pain ebbing through your leg and head pounding. You're in between a rock and a hard place. Your vision swirls as you see him raise his fist, gold rings covering each finger. Before it hits your face in a smattering of blood, he gets flung away by a familiar pair of boots.

“Up your pretty arse, scuttlebutt!” Your captain stands before you in all his glory, the burning sails fluttering behind his back, and cutlass soaked in crimson. He's holding onto a rigging rope tightly with the other hand. He swung down to you, hence how he managed to get down from the helm that quick and how far the man flew just by a kick.

You're immediately on your feet, adrenaline pumping in your veins, heartbeat sounding like a drum in your ears. You take your fallen blade, standing side by side with Hobie just as when the man charges again, shoulder first, yelling a battle cry.

Hobie side steps away, using the pull of the rope to lift him up from the floor, and using the momentum to cut the uniformed man's back. Simultaneously, you drop down to your knees, swinging the cutlass in a line and slashing the man's joints down to his bone.

The shared enemy tumbles down, bleeding on the floor, twitching for a second before he stills, unmoving.

Hobie sprints towards your crouched form as you watch the blood soak the floorboards, and the flames lick at the man's face. He lifts you up by the armpit, and away from the fire just underneath you. He turns your head towards him, hands smelling of gunpowder and iron.

“You alright?!” He asks frantically, afraid that you've broken something based on your far away stare.

You shake your thoughts away and the trembling in your legs as you nod. “I'm fine—” The ship lurches to the side of the osprey, almost making you fall backwards if not for Hobie's hand. “Shit, the fire’s gonna spread.” You worry for the remaining crew on board.

“I need to get back up there!” Hobie talks of the helm, the wheel wildly shifting around when no one's taking control of it while the waves flings the ship back and forth.

“Go!” You yell, and you're abruptly met with his lips upon your own for a brief yet affectionate kiss in the heat of battle.

He sends you off with a wink, swinging away towards the helm with the rigging rope around his fist, raising him up and dropping him to the helm. Taking control of the wheel, you brace yourself as he corrects the ship's course away from the osprey.

There's a sudden shriek, and then a high pitched whistle that has your ears ringing.

“Chain shot!” Miles yells and tackles you to the ground before a metal chain shoots out towards the deck, breaking its mast and taking a few navy along with it. They only leave a mist of blood as the mast cracks and slowly falls, but is still held up by the sails. Burning cloth floats all around you, ash mixing in with blood and sweat.

“Shit!” You heave, hearing nothing for a second before the sound of chaos returns, ears still ringing. Your eyes are wild and bloodshot from the smoke as Miles helps you stand up with a hand. “Thanks, Miles.”

“Fucking Yuri and her goddamn chains! This ship isn't long for this world, doc!” He yells above the chaos. “We need to get the rest of the loot and get off it!”

Looking around, the flames have reached up to the deck now, eating quickly at the cracking wood. Hobie fights off two men simultaneously with his cutlass, barely breaking a sweat. His wide grin has you shaking scandalous thoughts away. He shoots one with your father's lilac blunderbuss, and the remaining man almost falters from the sight of a cracked open skull. Bodies lay on the floor, some falling through the deck as the fire drags them down. Thankfully, none of them are your crew, especially that you can count them all in one hand.

Lyla dropkicks a uniformed man towards the depths, and George Stacy shoots down two men with a single bullet. Wait, Stacy? He shouldn't even be on board when he was supposed to help steer the Osprey together with Pavitr and Gwen. You'll deal with him later as you nod at Miles and help him haul the sacks of supplies over your shoulders while he covers for you like always. Flicking your eyes towards Hobie on the helm, checking if he's alright, you find that the number of his opponents has dwindled to zero. Your chest fills with pride.

Bullets whizz past, but you ignore it as you toss the sacks over to the dinghy where James lies in wait. A grappling hook helps keep the small boat in place with the navy ship, reminding you that you still haven't figured out how to properly toss the bloody thing.

“Over here, doc!” James raises his arms, catching all the loot you lob at him.

Your eyes widen at someone barreling towards Miles, who's occupied with another. With quick thinking, throwing the sack haphazardly off the ship, you grab a dagger from your belt and fling it towards the enemy. A harsh thud follows and Miles takes down the last sailor with a quick slash to the throat.

“Damn, you're getting good at that.” Miles smiles and shoots at the same man who tried to stand up with a dagger embedded in his chest cavity. “Still room for improvement though.”

“I've got a good teacher.”

Hobie swings towards you, rigging rope in hand as he uses it to get down to you quickly from the upper deck. “That was bloody perfect, love!” He gravitates towards you, eyes roaming to check for injuries, and when he finds none, he resists the urge to kiss you. So instead, he squeezes you once for good measure, a promise that he'll give you a proper one later.

He smells like adrenaline and sea salt— like home.

Lyla suddenly appears with a bruise on her cheek, tapping it and wincing. “Yeah, yeah, you two are so in love with each other! Let's get the fuck out before we become barbeque for the dolphins!” She clasps your shoulder before plunging down on the side of the ship.

She's followed by Stacy, who only managed a few scratches on his arms. His blond hair is soaked in crimson, and his hands still shake from the fight. Before you could ask what the hell he was doing on board with the attack group instead of being defense, he jumps off the side and swims towards the dinghy without sparing you or Hobie a glance.

Miles chuckles, “I hate that she's right.” He notices your heavy gaze on the older man and pats your bicep. “He'll come around, don't worry.” Crossing his arms over his chest, he jumps off the ship and the sounds of splashes echo above the roar of the fire.

Tucking it in the back of your mind, you turn towards Hobie, whom you already know is thinking the same thing as you are.

“Is she right about us becoming barbecue or that we're so in love with each other?” You nudge him and in turn he takes your hand in his blood soaked one. Taking inventory of his injuries, it doesn't seem like he's even injured. Not even a nick nor a bruise.

“I can confirm that the latter is right.”

You roll your eyes with a chuckle, stepping further, precariously teetering over the edge. “I see that you’ve been peeking through the osprey's library.” All your late night reading has gotten to him, and it has made you feel closer to him than ever after he decided to read together with you.

He shrugs and points at his temples with shining grey eyes. “I need to keep up with you, love.” As if he ever needed to.

With mirrored smiles, the two of you take a plunge into the cold depths. Your stomach falls as you fly for a second, all the while still holding onto his hand.

Briefly, you see him under the water. He's as handsome as ever, piercings shining around the bitter blue of the water, and as the fire rages above, he even manages to smugly wink at you.

Bubbles escape from your lips as you let out a chuckle, almost forgetting that you're underwater. Hobie takes your hand in his again, melded around your own as if his hands were sculpted together with yours. Rising above the tides, you gasp for air.

Before you could wipe away the salty water from your eyes, he takes your face gently and kisses you right there and then. Oh the things adrenaline does to a person in love.

Your eyes open as he parts, and all you could see is him, smiling at you, dimples in full show, and grey eyes swimming with affection. None of the rage or sorrow, just love and happiness, the very things he deserves.

“C’mon, scuttlebutt, let's get back—” You cup his cheek and kiss him again, he smiles against the kiss as his arms wrap around you. Legs embracing him, you lean away with a giggle. “Fuck…”

“Mm–mhm, now we can go.” Satisfied, you wipe water away from his eyes and loop your arms around his neck, fingertips brushing along the baby hairs above his nape.

“Do we have to?”

“Do you want to be fish food, captain?”

“‘m flirtin’ and you hit me with somethin’ grim.” Hobie leans again, but this time he pecks your jaw, peppering it with dozens of kisses.

“Just reminding you of reality—”

“Oi!” James curses under his breath, and Hobie seizes his barrage of kisses. “Get the fuck on, we don't have all day!”

You and Hobie share a look and a chuckle before swimming towards the dinghy filled with supplies and a very annoyed crew.

“Come on, right in front of us?” Miles groans, rubbing his temples while James and Stacy help the two of you up.

“Seriously, I should drop you.” James says as he hauls the captain on board. “And you,” he points accusingly at you once you're on the boat. “You almost dropped the sack on my head! I could've died!”

Your hands are on the side of your head, surrendering. “I've got a really good excuse, James.” You explain while Hobie shrugs off his vest and puts it over your shoulders for warmth or comfort, either way it works. James waits with a raised brow, “I saved Miles.”

James groans, “‘I saved Miles.’” He mocks your tone, huffing and puffing as he sits down and rows the dinghy with Hobie sitting beside him. “Last time it was Pav!”

“I really did!” You defend, and as you look at Miles and Lyla, who are rowing the boat behind you, they just shrug with a glint in their eyes. Sitting down with a huff, you squeeze yourself in between them. Hobie gives you a look as the Osprey looms over the dinghy. “Alright, I'm really sorry, James. I'll be careful next time.”

James frowns but nods his head. “Fine, this just proves that we need a new crew, Hobie. I can't be down here catching sacks forever.”

“I heard you, James.” Hobie clasps his shoulder, wiggling him in place until the man manages a small smile. You stare at them with fondness. “Once we get to the mermaid's head, that'll be the first thing we do.”

The mermaid's head, it's a one and a half day sail away now. After not feeling solid ground for the whole three months, too afraid to dock and face whatever's waiting for you at the shore after what happened at the capitol, you're more than ready to dock once again.

“Right, love?” Hobie smiles as the dinghy hits the side of the Osprey with a light bump.

“Yeah, you won't be on sack duty anymore, James.” With a nod and a reassuring pat on James’ knee, you roam your eyes around the crew. “Everyone’s alright, right? No need for my services?” They look at themselves, taking note if there's anything to be patched by you. After a minute, they shake their heads and you sigh in relief.

There's shuffling from above, a metallic clink, and then a familiar click of tongue.

“Took you lot long enough!” Yuri peeks over the cannon hole, waving at you while Gwen and Pavitr lower the ropes, which Stacy and Lyla attach to the dinghy. “Did you all see the chain shot?!” Her shouting is probably caused by the loud canons.

“Yuri! I told you to protect your ears!” You and Lyla simultaneously say, a bit eerie as the two of you give each other a glance.

“I love you too!” She calls out and slithers her way inside the ship.

“She meant me by the way.” Lyla whispers to you as the boat gets lifted up.

“Calm down, Lyla, I'm not trying to steal her from you.”

“Sure, sure, your grace.” She teases, patting your bicep. “We all know that between the two of us, I won.” Her eyes flick over to Hobie and he scrunches his nose.

You roll your shoulders, feeling the adrenaline start to ebb out. “I know, Lyla, you were definitely the first choice.” Sarcasm drips from your lips.

A chorus of laughter echoes from the small boat as it slowly rises up with a squeak. You wink at Hobie as reassurance and he knows that you meant it as a joke by tapping his boot with your own. He answers with a smile, sunlight illuminating the side of his face, grey eyes glowing while the double blunderbusses on his hips shines in the light.

“Wait, what does that mean?!” Lyla gasps out just as you face the warmth of the sun.

“It means that Yuri is so smitten with you, Lyla.” Gwen says as she secures the ropes with the help of Pav by her side. Her comment drips with sarcasm, earning snickers from the rest of the crew.

Lyla huffs, glancing at you. “When will the hazing end, your grace?”

“When you stop calling me that.” You pat her shoulder reassuringly before standing up and taking Hobie's helping hand to get you on board.

His hand is warm against you, damp with sweat, and slick with crimson. You don't mind it one bit when your hands are just the same as his. Your calluses meet with his own, clicking into place with each indent.

As you find penchant on the foot hold, standing on the firm bannister, you get a good look at the decks of the mighty Osprey. She has three balconies on each end, railings painted with gold leaves, wood carved immaculately into violet flowers and into the shape of hazelnuts. The whole place reminds you of what could've been, it's a floating Hazelside. Apples are etched on doors, birds, both perched on trees and flying— they're all occasionally seen on the walls. It's opulent, but intimidating at sea with its size. There are two dozen cannons all lined up on each side, and swivel guns on each balcony for added defense. The ship is a man-of-war, a force to be reckoned with, and an honour to sail beside with her allies, if you ever do find allies. But it doesn't quite feel like a pirate's ship just yet, or a bloodsail pirates’ home. It's missing the iconic crimson sails, and its spider skeleton jolly roger flag.

Hobie will shape her into his vision once you dock at the mermaid's head.

“Careful now, love, your leg.” With a hand on your hip, he lifts you off the bannister and onto the deck.

“Thank you, captain.” You're chest to chest with him, hand in hand as you gaze at him as the sunlight kisses his skin. “I left my dagger on board again,” wincing, you apologize to him for losing another blade.

“I told you, I'll keep givin’ you one until it sticks.” Squeezing your hand twice for good measure, his attention turns to Gwen who's fussing over her father, half chastising him and half dotting.

You follow his gaze. “Well, they're adorable, annoying but adorable.”

“He's overbearin’” Hobie says with a shake of his head, still holding onto you while George checks on Gwen's healing injury.

“I heard that most fathers are.” You whisper to him with slight sadness.

“He needs to get off the ship, that's what he is.”

“Hey, cut him some slack. His daughter is a bloody pirate.” You poke his cheek, turning his attention back to you as he raises a brow.

“He's a shit cook.”

“Well he's no Finn, but he's not exactly navy material either. Give him some time.” Patting his jaw, Hobie huffs at you.

As quickly as his annoyance came, it fades when he meets with the softness of your eyes. He smiles at you like he had on your little island. “You hurtin’ anywhere?”

“No, nothing unusual, you?” Hobie's hand rubs at your back lovingly while he shakes his head, relief felt through his touch as he gives you another once over before helping the others off the dinghy.

The second Hobie leaves your side, Pavitr embraces you from behind. “I'm okay, Pav!” You giggle as he sighs in relief. He has gotten taller than Miles now, and he always takes the opportunity to remind the navigator. You pat his hand and he releases you. “I told you, there was nothing to be worried about.”

“Yeah, but then I saw the fire—”

“She's an arsonist, innit?” Hobie adds while dragging the supplies to the middle of the deck.

“Again, landlubber?” Gwen raises a brow as she does final checks on her father's scratches.

“It was an accident!” Exclaiming, you help haul the rest of the bags before Hobie grabs it from your arms. “C’mon, Hobie, tell them.”

He pauses, eyes all on him. Smacking his lips together, he looks between you and the crew. “I wouldn't bloody know, I was above deck—” a resounding groan echoes around the deck. “I wouldn't fuckin' know! I wasn't there!”

“Always the favouritism with you!” Lyla stomps away, hauling a sack over her shoulder. “I mean, I get it, but come on!”

James makes a gagging sound. “I'm gonna be at the crow's nest if you need me.” He then starts to climb on the mast with a huff.

“Just to be sure though,” Yuri suddenly appears from below deck and places her arms over your shoulder and Hobie's casually. “You're not allowed to have a lit candle every night, right?”

Lyla chuckles together with Pav. And you swear you heard James chortle while climbing the ladder.

Gwen shakes her head with a smile, still tending to her father by using the knowledge you taught on basic wound care. He grumbles but with one glare from his daughter, he surrenders. Miles watches them with a fond smile, but stays slightly away from the duo. Gwen notices his stare, smiling affectionately at him before crossing the distance and takes Miles’ waiting hands, whispering something to him. George looks away, finding the pile of loot more interesting.

You roll your eyes at the woman behind you, flinging Yuri's arm away while Hobie drops the remaining bags together with the rest. Everyone stands around it while Hobie, Miles and Pavitr dig through each bag for the contents. All the while Yuri and Lyla sort through it, opening boxes and cans as they're all crouched down next to the pile. There are beans of coffee that's just enough for the whole crew, a couple blocks of tea that would last the everyone a whole year, and navy uniforms that need a wash.

“Ew,” Gwen winces when Miles lifts a pair of dirty trousers from the bag. “Is there anything that we can sell?”

“Not that I could see, Gwendy.” Hobie says, voice muffled while his body is halfway inside the sack. You crack a smile.

“Let me.” Gwen clicks her tongue in mild annoyance and decides to help.

She begins to crouch down, but she winces immediately, trying to hide the ache but her contorted face betrays her. Her hand flies to her chest, and you quickly go to her side with a careful arm wrapped around her middle. Her father joins you on her other side, furrowed brows and frowning deeply with concern.

Miles stands up but Gwen stops him with a hand braced on his shoulder. You and Hobie share a worried look. Pavitr shares the same worry, and Yuri's eyes drop towards the pile, distracting herself from Gwen's pained flinch.

“You should rest, kid.” Her dad whispers kindly to her.

“You shouldn't force yourself, Gwen.” You utter with the same concern in your tone. “Besides we got this, you can do inventory later once we sort it all out.”

She closes her eyes, inhaling deeply before opening her baby blue eyes. “I'm so sick of this. I should be better by now.”

“You got shot, it'll take some time.” You say while wiping the sweat off her forehead. “Give yourself some time.”

“We need to sit her down.” Stacy looks over Gwen to address you. With a nod, the two of you sit her down on a nearby crate.

“I'm the goddamn quartermaster, I should be helping more.” She's not entirely wrong, with a large ship like this, it needs a bigger crew to operate it. The whole place is barely functioning because of the lack of manpower, and it frustrates her to always be placed on the sidelines while everyone else does the heavy lifting. “I want to help more.”

Hobie stands up, “Pav, can you go over to the helm and make sure we're still on course?” Pav nods with a small smile and heads over to the wheel. You can tell that he's hiding his concern for Gwen too from the slouch of his shoulders, and deep frown.

The captain crosses the small distance and hands you a medium sized box filled with medical supplies. The two of you communicate with your eyes, and he takes your place beside Gwen as you join Miles next on the pile.

“— We'll find a reliable crew once we port.”

You catch the tail end of their conversation as you crack open the box that's filled with labelled vials, they're sparse, but you'll find some use for it. You know that Hobie's reassuring her as a friend, all the while telling her to go easy like a captain should with his ship's quartermaster.

“Is she alright?” Miles whispers to you while checking each trouser pocket.

The sun beats down upon you, already drying you, and the humidity almost chokes you. The heavy look on Miles' face doesn't help. “Yeah, I check on her everyday. She's getting better, it's just—” you inhale, remembering her warm blood splattered on your face in the capitol square. “With an injury like that, it'll take more than three months for it to fully heal.” Or maybe not at all. You shudder at the thought.

“The surgeon who saved her said that it was a miracle that she even survived through the whole thing.” He sniffs, finding a large clinking pouch.

“I'm guessing that the money you gave him helped with his determination to save her.”

“Our guns too.” He opens the pouch, eyes widening and face lighting up. “And speaking of money.” Showing you the contents, you see enough coins to weather the whole crew for at least a whole season.

“Shit.” You chuckle, and you notice similar looking pouches on the bottom of the sack. “Wait, maybe there's more.” Handing Miles one while you open the other, the two of you mirror each other's expression. “I guess they weren't out here to just protect our national waters.”

Yuri and Lyla notices your hushed tones and looks over each of your shoulders for a peek.

In each bag contains a dozen or so of gold and silver jewellery. Each looks fancier and more intricate than the other. Rings, bracelets, brooches, you name it and the pouch carries it. They were probably out here trying to survive just like you and the crew are. With the government in shambles, and the crown separated from the country, the branches of military— especially the ones who remained loyal to the crown, are left to fend for themselves. If only Mathias could see them now, he's probably rolling in his watery grave.

“Captain!” Yuri yells, and Hobie almost jumps in his skin. “Get your flat ass over here!”

—

“It's not much.” Gwen says, sitting down on Hobie's desk as she jots down the supplies on the ship logbook. “But with all of these plus the one we got from the merchant ship last week and the privateer ship we raided a month ago, we're set.”

“Thank fuck.” Yuri exclaims, placing her arm over Lyla's shoulder, waking her up from her nap on the plush couch.

Lyla lays her head on Yuri's shoulder, fondly gazing at the side of her face before dozing off.

Miles sits beside Pavitr, who is oiling up your blunderbuss for you when you've told him countless times that you could do it yourself. He insists, telling you that he worries that it'll one day blow up in your face if you don't take care of your guns. He's a sweetheart, and you think he just likes to keep his hands occupied ever since the whole crew started working overtime for the large ship. You take a mental note to check up on him every once in a while. Miles continues to scribble on his scrapbook, almost filled by the looks of it and you remind yourself again to get him a new one once you dock. Just above you on the deck, you can hear James hum at the helm, keeping watch at night together with George.

This is all hard work, you think as you sit on Hobie's bed that's situated in a cubby with a heart shape engraved on top of it, to which he called it fitting the first time you two shared it. The bed is all plush pillows and velvet covers that's all shoved on the foot of the bed in favour of a simple linen under it and a couple of pillows for his head to rest upon. A pair of blue velvet curtains are tucked and tied on the side of the bed, and more than once it has been closed during your journey. You're the main reason why he closes it whenever you come slinking towards his cabins at night since you haven't fully left your own cabin. Sometimes you think the crew knows that the curtains around his bed are being put to good use and not just for sleep.

The captain's quarters is bigger than the one on the first people's revenge, much larger. And it functions as the captain's office too. There's a sitting room, its own bucket with a silk partition depicting a garden with lotus flowers in a pond. And a water basin that Hobie always refills whenever you're around, which is always. The place is just under the bow of the ship where there are large windows that face the glimmering sea. He has his own table and bookshelves filled with books and logbooks of the osprey. Your own history that you have flipped through in hopes of seeing your parent's handwriting in them.

There are various knicknacks all over the place, conch shells on the shelves, bones of sea creatures— a hammerhead shark, dried pufferfish, a few starfishes and a bone of a swordfish on display just above his desk. *It's all gaudy, he said, too aristocratic for his taste with all the naval themed tapestries and silver candelabra. He stopped complaining after he realized he could make it his own space. His bandolier is hanging from a fancy oak coat rack with your father's blunderbuss safely tucked inside, one that you gave to him for good luck. Musket balls are freely rolling around the shelves together with the gold inlaid picture frames of the countryside. And of course his clothes are in the wardrobe and shoes under the bed. He tries his best to make it his own when that's all he could do until he has the opportunity to make the ship more to the bloodsail pirates' tastes.

As you take note of the floor with a bear rug on it, you notice a nick on the back of your hand. It's small, not even hurting you in the slightest. The adrenaline has fully weaned off, and the oncoming crash would have you falling back on the bed. Then you see the shaking of your palms as you stretch your hands that were meant to sew flesh close and not rip them open. You know what will follow the trembling, and it's just tears. But it had to be done, they were just surviving but so were you, so were your family. Sometimes you wish it doesn't have to be this way. But the world is built over the bloodsoaked dirt and corpse ridden sea that you now call home. And sometimes, fighting back is just a means to survive. Maybe one day it doesn't have to be like that, that the world could be better for everyone to just live and not kill.

A world where he could just sail and explore the seas without the threat of death.

“Love.” The man occupying your thoughts calls for you. “You alright?”

You exhale out, stretching your aching ankle. “Yes, why? We're good, right?”

Hobie smiles, resisting the urge to beckon you over to his side. “Can you ask Stacy to help you prepare supper if you're alright to do it for tonight?”

“I'm always up for it, captain.” Hopping off the bed, you point at Lyla and Yuri on the settee. “Besides, whenever those two get inside the galley we always end up eating hardtack instead.”

Gwen manages to crack a smile while still doing the numbers on the ledger, her longer hair annoying her as she blows at the strands in front of her face. And Miles shakes his head with a knowing grin. Pavitr makes a face and scooches away from Yuri, making the said woman scrunch her nose at him.

Hobie chuckles, and spares you a knowing glance. “Right, go back to your stations, we've got a long night if we want to get to the head at dawn.”

Yuri spreads her arms and legs, waking up Lyla, who rolls her eyes and yawns, glasses askew on her face. “Fucking finally!” The ravenette reaches over Lyla to nudge at Pav playfully. “Can you believe it? We'll be home by tomorrow!”

Pavitr nods and pats the back of her hand politely. “Yeah, yeah, we all know you're excited to see Riri.” The second the name leaves Pav's lips, he regrets it.

Lyla jumps awake, head turning quickly at Yuri. “Who's Riri?”

You clamp your mouth shut from letting out a laugh. Hobie tells you to leave and save yourself with a gesture, and as you close the door behind you, you hear Yuri's stuttered explanation.

Shaking your head with a wince, you head up towards the deck. The halls are as confusing and winding as the revenge, but multiplied tenfold when it has more floors than the older ship. The walls of the osprey are shinier, all smooth oak with its perfect packing to prevent drafts from getting in. Its floors are just as smooth, albeit scruffed now from all the walking around it by the crew. You'd smoothen it out with wax, but doing that isn't on top of the list of chores when it's just you and a handful of people that help maintain the gigantic ship so it could keep sailing.

Your muscles ache, and your throbbing leg and ankle aren't of any help either. Whenever fatigue rolls over you, your old injuries flare up, the bullet wound on your leg that was entirely an accident. The sprained ankle from running away from your godfather Miguel, and the sharp phantom pain around your neck and on your hip. As always, you tend to ignore it when the day isn't quite done yet. As you reach the doors to the deck, you swing it open, and the hinges don't even announce your presence when it's well oiled.

James, still on the wheel, immediately finds you, trained eyes already honing in on you. His days in the crow's nest helped give him that experience. He waves at you from the helm, smiling tiredly. Everyone is too tired these days, as much as you're apprehensive about a new batch of crew coming in, you need the extra hands.

“Hi, James.” You say above the sea wind as the ship rocks in the calm waves. The full moon looks down at you, a guiding light in the night filled with stars. “You okay up there?”

“Better than up there.” The blonde points at the crow's nest up on the mast. “That fucking wind is terrifying, doc.”

“Do you think you can manage on your own for a bit?” You look apologetically at him. “The trio will relieve you in a few minutes, I just need help in the galley.”

“Sure, I might spot a mermaid here and this time I won't tell anyone.” Chuckling, he sends you off to fetch Stacy up on the raven's nest.

You start to climb up carefully as the wind whips at your cheeks. The fatigue in your bones is multiplied by a hundred once you're dangling a dozen feet in the air. You can feel it in each step, in each grab on the ladder. Head falling on the metal, you take a breather, it seems that the air is much thinner up here where you can practically wave the clouds away. The mast back on the revenge didn't go as high as this, or is it your tiredness making your memory fail? As you heave, you feel something rubbing on the crown of your head.

Looking up, you see the frayed edges of a rope hanging above you, it's tied together like a noose, giving you a sense of dread just by the sight of it. “George?”

“It looked like you needed help.” He noticed your odd stare at the piece of hemp rope. “Put your wrist in, just in case you fall, you'll have me to hold you up.”

“You should've said that earlier,” you chuckle shakily, placing your hand inside as you continue to climb up. “It looks like a fucking noose, George.”

The older man smiles, lifting the rope up as you climb. “Sorry about that.” With a hand, he helps you up the last step.

“Fucking finally.” You stretch your back and aching wrists when you're finally on the nest. “I don't remember it being that high.”

Even with the climb being bothersome, the view can't be beat. There's not a cloud in sight, and you're thankful that there won't be any rain for tonight that'll rock the ship throughout the whole night. The glimmering sea is calm as a few gentle waves greet you from below. The sea stretches far and wide, everywhere you look there's nothing but the dark depths waiting for you. It's as if the salty sea water has swallowed the whole world while you and the crew were gone.

“You're just tired, kid.” He sits down on a stool, tucking the rope away back to where it's supposed to be. “Are you my relief?”

“No, I think Yuri will replace you.” You're still breathing heavily so the man gestures for you to sit down on the floor, which you gratefully do. Sweat dribbles from your temple, and your head swirls from the sudden surge in height. The sails wave just under you, a sea of white amidst the darkness. You spot a small hole in one of the sails, Ned would've noticed it earlier and patched it up already. “Can you help me in the galley?”

George furrows his brows. “Why? The crew doesn't like my cooking.”

“Well,” his eyes urge you to tell the truth. He has some sort of air around him that makes people tell him nothing but the truth. A good trait to have when you're a gambler like he is— or was according to him. You wonder what Gwen's childhood was like with him around as a father. No wonder why she's so good at lying. “You want the harsh truth?” He nods. “Hobie asked me to talk to you about today.”

“I left my post.”

“Yes. You're there with Gwen and the others for a reason. You're a good fighter, Stacy, we've established that. But with just us here, we can't afford to leave the ship unguarded with just them on board.” Your eyes bore into him, knocking some sense into the older man while a breeze passes by and blows at his blond windswept hair.

“We got lucky. Again. But next time we might not be. So please understand that the plan is there so that everyone is protected. That no one is alone during the fight.” He was noble, just like you were, and you understand how much he wants to prove himself to the crew. Especially that you were in his position just a few months ago. And your captain understands that, that's why he sent you to talk to the man, knowing that you and George have some sort of understanding. “Gwen's still out of commission, don't leave your daughter alone on board ever again.”

He nods, eyeing the crochet basket Yuri must've left on her last shift. “I— just… can I tell you something, doc?”

“Sure.”

“I’m planning on leaving the crew.” Your brows knit together. “I love my girl, she's my world. But this isn't my world.” George's shoulders slouch, like a weight has finally lifted off him. “I know what being a pirate entails, all the pillaging, the thievery… and I know that not a lot of you will live to see forty. And I'm more than forty, an old man like me can't survive this long out here.”

“Then why did you go and fight?” You blink and you see Miguel's face for a second. “Why are you letting your only daughter stay here if that's how you think will happen?”

“I guess I wanted to be useful before I leave. Admit it, I've been a burden to you and the crew.”

“More or less. You just haven't found your role here yet.”

He shakes his head, curling and unfurling his fists. “As for Gwen, I would be lying if I didn't try to persuade her into leaving.” His tone is small as he scratches off the caked blood on his knuckles. “I almost ruined what was left of our relationship by doing that and I— I don't want that. I don't want to bury her, but I don't want to push her away either. After seeing her—” He pauses, sniffing and clearing his throat. “—I never want to witness that ever again.”

“I'm sorry. This isn't a safe life, I know that. But it is a happy one, fulfilling? I don't know yet. And yet I'm still here when I had every opportunity to get out.” You smile softly at all the times you were supposed to leave but stayed instead. “It's the people, Mr. Stacy. For me it’s not the ship or the pillaging or the thievery. If you want an out, then Hobie will grant it to you, same goes for any crew member.”

Then you get a vision in your head, of another life where you're talking to your own father, his voice a mere imagination in your ears— is it high or as deep as Mr. Stacy's? But you know his face, seen it on a tiny portrait that used to hang around your mother's neck. But his face is young, probably the same age as you now, and you never got to see him grow old with her. It hurts to think about you being older than him now. That you never got to tend to his wounds or talk to him while the moon washes over you. You wonder if he's like the man before you, if he'd be conflicted about the life you're leading. Will he leave you too?

“I know this is something I shouldn't even be asking you but…” George's eyes soften as you seem to shrink in his eyes. “Can you look after my girl? Make sure that I go before her. If she's not planning to retire any time soon, at least it'll give me some comfort to know that she's being looked after.”

There's heat behind your eyes, legs shaking underneath you. “That's a hard ask, but yes, I'll do that— I'll keep doing that as long as I can't.” You begin to stand up on trembling legs, throat filled with heaviness. You know you can't promise him anything, but you'll try, not for him but for Gwen, for Miles, for Pav and Hobie. You can't lose another one.

“Thank you, doc.” He stands up in gratitude, sad blue eyes that mirrors his own daughter's stare at you with guilt and apologies.

“Just promise me something, George.” Your jaw clenches. “Write to her, and keep her in your mind even when she isn't writing back. At least you'll have that. You'll still have someone to come home to you.”

“I will, she's my daughter.” The word strikes an arrow right to your heart.

“Then don't forget her.” With your parting words, you start to climb down but you pause when he calls your name. “Yes?”

“Does this make me a bad person?”

“What do you think?”

Your words punch him in the gut. “At least let me help with supper.”

You shake your head, maybe some time alone will do you some good. Working with your hands would be a good distraction from your thoughts. “No, I think I'll be fine.” Your words come off as callous, his expression falls and you immediately think to explain yourself.

George fixes himself, exhaling and smiling softly as if he didn't drop a cannonball on you. “Maybe I should've just gone down instead of you coming up here, kid.” Chuckling, he hands you the rope again for extra security.

You blink and groan at the realization that you should've done just that and called him down instead. “Fucking idiot.” You thump your head on the ladder as the man above you tamps down his laughter lest he angers the ship doctor.

—

You were right, some alone time helped your mind ease down for tonight. With your hands occupied with the pot of stew, you shoulder the door to the deck open and you're immediately greeted by the captain himself.

“I was about to get you, scuttlebutt.” He takes the pot for you, careful not to spill a single drop of it. “Pav was worried you fell asleep on the counter again.” Propping the door open for you with his body, you exit below deck and hold onto the door until he and the stew are safely on the deck.

“Me? Never.” You chuckle and he nudges you gently as the stew sloshes inside the pot. “Careful!”

“Shit, we almost ate hardtack for supper again.” Hobie's laughter echoes through the night as the crew quickly sets up the makeshift table on the deck, just like back on the revenge. His grey eyes look tired, and yet the crinkle in them stays, still smiling amidst the fog of fatigue.

Everyone does their part in making the meal pretty. Gwen and Miles made paper flowers that are now on the dainty vases. And Pavitr with the help of Lyla folded all the napkins into cranes. Meanwhile James and George are placing each plate and bowl for every seat at the table, while Yuri is carefully placing all the utensils beside the plates. It's pretty quiet on deck, and it fills your chest with heaviness as you see all the empty spaces on the table.

The long table stretches down towards the helm, as if the crew has made space for the ones that can't be there. It's been like this since you left the capitol, grief weaves through every movement, guilt stained their every action. It's in the way they leave leftovers for them, place extra seats and plates just for them. It's in every squeeze of the trigger, every cut of their swords. They go on, for them.

There are candle lights flickering on the table, wax slowly melting off the cheap tallow candles and onto the silver plated candelabra. The plates are all porcelain, smooth with lilac inlays around it. Even the utensils are in solid silver, pretty but not exactly sustainable on the ship when you could get raided by other pirates looking exactly for what is spread around the table. There's an abundance of wine on board thanks to your ‘dear’ uncle Frederick, so everyone's goblets are all full with the sloshing drink. Lyla insisted that you all use the finer things one last time before docking at the mermaid's head in the morning since everyone voted to sell most of it for supplies and ship maintenance. You won't lie, you quite enjoyed the fine dining evenings every now and then.

“We're eating good tonight, we got some carrots—”

“Tiny ass carrots.” Yuri peeks inside the pot while she fixes the cutlery around the bowls.

“At least they're fresh…” you glance at the floating orange bits as Hobie places it down in the middle of the table. “...ish.”

“They're better than hardtack.” Pavitr defends your abysmal stew as he sits and places down a napkin on his lap.

“Thank you, Pav. Looks like someone still appreciates my cooking.” You clasp Pav's shoulder and he grins happily at you. You swear that boy always has enough energy for everyone.

“I've got bread here if anyone wants some.” Gwen passes the basket of day old rolls. She sits on Hobie's right and next to her father instead of Miles. You guess they already had a talk about him leaving, or else it'll get awkward once the ship ports.

Hobie sits at the head of the table, hand immediately grabbing your own bowl to scoop some stew for you. “Do you want some bread too, lovie?”

“Yes, please.” You say with a smile as you sit on his left.

“Can I have some too, cap’n?” James asks, hand already waiting for a roll. Hobie tosses him one that James catches effortlessly. A round of brief applause surrounds the table at the incredible feat. “Thank you, thank you, I take gold as payment.”

Yuri chuckles and shakes her head while Lyla tries to steal her bread roll. Miles snitches on Lyla with a simple tap on Yuri's shoulder, prompting the two to exchange bread. You guess they're on good terms now.

The sound of cutlery echoes around as the whole crew starts to devour their ration.

Hobie sits your bowl down in front of you, but before he sits, he helps himself with his own share of stew and bread. Sitting down with a groan and cracking joints, your hand reaches for his knee, patting him in thanks. He takes your hand from under the table and kisses your knuckles once, all the while gazing at you softly. Good thing the whole crew are all busy eating.

“Hi,” you smile at him as the silver moonlight hits his chiseled cheek. “You alright there, captain?”

“Better now, doc.” He kisses your knuckles again, grey eyes closed this time as you swoon.

“At least wait for supper to finish, man!” Gwen flings a carrot at Hobie's head.

“Alright, alright!” Hobie surrenders, releasing your hand and then raising his goblet. “To the bloodsail pirates!”

“Hear hear!”

“To staying alive!” Gwen adds as she clinks her glass with Hobie's then over to her father's, who is looking at her through sad eyes.

“To this stew!” Pavitr raises his glass and to your appreciation, clinking his glass with yours.

“And to the Mermaid's head we go!” James exclaims, raising his cup high.

“To the Mermaid's head!” Everyone yells out with a grin as excitement rolls off with every clink of glass as wine sloshes on the table.

Chairs scrape as you all sit back down, “what should us newcomers expect in the Mermaid's head exactly?” You ask, scooping a generous amount of stew on the spoon.

“Don't look at me, I've been there. Not a newcomer, remember?” Lyla scoffs, taking a huge bite of her bread. She glances at Hobie briefly, having a wordless conversation about their shared thieves guild.

“Are there rules there or is it actually lawless?” George asks the same question on the tip of your tongue.

“Rules? It's not the capital, Stacy.” Hobie says against the rim of his cup. “‘sides, the pirate code reigns there.”

“Oh I've heard about that, it's different for every ship and crew right?” You ask, taking a swig of your drink to water down the alright stew. Times like these, you miss Finn's cooking.

“Aye, all members have to swear by it, same goes for every pirate that sets foot in the place.” Hobie answers, nudging your foot with his own. “That reminds me, you haven't been sworn in yet, scuttlebutt.”

Pavitr gasps beside you, “that means you're not an actual pirate!”

“Is that still necessary?”

“Everyone does it, doc.” Gwen smiles, patting her dad's hand. “You have to do it too, dad.” You guessed wrong then.

“Yeah, kid, I will.” George scratches the back of his head. “Maybe once the captain gets it all written out, y’know make it legal.”

“It's not legally binding.” Miles adds, immediately clamping down when the older man looks at him. “I–I mean, technically it's not but we all honour it!”

“How about some bread, Miles!” Gwen shoves a roll in his mouth, wordlessly eyeing him.

“That's true,” James says with his mouth full. “You swear an oath and we all honour it. No questions asked, and then you're officially a pirate.” Yuri grimaces and hands him a napkin.

“George is right though, I have to draft it since we lost the copy.” He side eyes you, and you kick him under the table, earning chuckles around the table. “We’ll do the oath taking before we dock. The others can smell it if you're not sworn in yet.” Teasing, you roll your eyes at him.

“Other than that,” Yuri wipes her mouth daintily. “The Mermaid's head is just another settlement on an island, the only difference is that everyone's a no good scallywag.”

The original bloodsail pirates agree with a chuckle. And yet it doesn't curve your nerves. The last time you were in a town, it didn't end well. At least Miguel won't be there to run after you again now that it's all resolved. Just in case though, you'll keep your gun and cutlass by your side.

“You have nothin' to worry ‘bout, love.” Hobie seems to sense your worries as he holds your hand over the table. “You've got us, yeah?”

You nod, shoulders relaxing from his words. “Yeah, I've got all you.”

—

Hair washed, body scrubbed clean, you sit on your hammock in your own cabin. The place reeks of a surgeon's cabin, filled with thick medical manuals that you've already dug into. Pages of illustrations depicting illnesses and injuries, and even a whole skull on the shelf. You have a feeling that it's an actual human skull and not an imitation made of wood.

It's a weird looking room, as if you belong and don't at the same time. Maybe that's the bloodied wedding dress you keep in the closet that just makes you feel uneasy. You almost threw it out a dozen times, but the spare fabric has proved to be useful especially that you managed to clean some of the blood off it. The lace, or according to Lyla, is Italian made, which she has cut a few pieces of with your permission. Stating that Yuri might like it, the next day it's sewed around her bandana. She wears it better anyway. And the silk underneath it is made only in one small town in South America, this time, its according to Gwen's dad, who came from a wealthy merchant family once upon a time. You keep telling yourself that you kept it because it's expensive and could be sold someday, and not as a reminder of that grim day you almost lost it all. It proves that you lived through it, the same reason why you kept your threadbare shoes.

Hobie mentioned, cleverly and subtly at that, that you can always stay at his cabin since you always end up in there every night anyway. You want to move in, but something holds you back. Maybe it's such a huge step that you're afraid once you do there's nothing forward left? That your relationship with him would remain stagnant like a floating buoy. You don't want it to be a floating buoy, and maybe just maybe, you're still afraid that the other shoe will drop and that he doesn't love you as much as he thought back then now that there's peace. Your hand immediately gravitates towards the golden necklace around your neck for comfort. Thumb running along the engraving of a flying bird.

You sigh as you put your trousers on, sleep weighs heavy in your eyelids, jaw aching from yawning too much. Your leg doesn't help much when you feel a strike of pain ebbing through it. The fight and all the chores tired you out, and the sound of the trio above the deck makes you feel older than you seem to be since they're still as energetic as ever. Rubbing your tired eyes, and just like clockwork, you hear the rhythmic knock that he made just to tell you that it's him— two quick sharp knocks, followed by three long knockings.

“You know you could just open it.” Your tired voice bounces off the walls as the sea laps at the side of the ship.

Hobie peeks inside, still wearing the bandana on his head but without the leather vest and bandoliers on his torso. “That wouldn't be so gentlemanly of me, lovie.”

You chuckle, beckoning him over. “Come in, captain.”

With a smile, he enters the small space, head almost hitting the ceiling from how small the room is. “Can I interest you a place in my cabin?” He raises a pierced brow, leaning casually on the doorway, hands braced on top of it, shirt raised up and his stomach peeking in between his trousers and shirt.

“Why is it that you never sleep here? It's always me sleeping at your place.” You say with your arms crossed playfully, gently rocking on the hammock.

“Love.” He gestures at the one person hammock and the ceiling brushing against his head. “Really?”

“Really.” You repeat, “I guess if you really do love me, it won't matter—” you're abruptly quieted down by his whole body suddenly laying on top of you. “Hobie!” Giggling, you flick his ear. The hanging hammock teetered dangerously with the added weight.

“If it takes sleepin' with you in this gnome hole—”

“Gnome hole?!”

“Then so be it.” Hobie fakes a loud snore, laying his whole weight on you.

“Hobie, you're heavy!” Laughing, you lift his head up and he still feigns sleep, eyes shut and mouth agape. “Alright, fine, I'm getting up.”

His eyes immediately open, a smirk playing on his lips from his so-called victory. “This place doesn't even have windows, scuttlebutt.”

“Yes, it does!” You scoff out, glancing at the small porthole on your left.

“You call that a window?” He laughs out, pointing at the tiny thing. “I'll show you a real window.”

“Oh yeah? Like yours is so impressive and huge.” Rolling your eyes, he lifts himself by his elbows and gazes down at you fondly.

“It’s impressive, alright, got all the birds chuffed ‘bout its size.” He wiggles his brows, earning a giggle and a smack on his behind from you.

“What fucking birds?! I'm the only bird here, motherfucker!”

He takes your face, and places a quick yet affectionate kiss on your lips. “Exactly!” Jumping off of you, he knows that if he stays like that any longer he'll end up falling asleep and he'll never hear the end of it from you. Your body swings back and forth so he stops the hammock with a firm hand. “C’mon,” smacking your thigh, he can't help but smile at your flustered expression. “If I say please…” He bats his long lashes at you.

“If only the navy could see the red spider right now—!” You're lifted off your back, carried by him or more like dragged as your heels scrape on the floor while you purposely lay limp in his arms.

“‘m makin’ you walk the plank for insubordination!”

“Hollow threats, Captain! Hollow threats!” You exclaim, for sure waking up half of the sleeping crew with your guffaw.

—

“On your knees, cap’n.” You instruct him with a teasing glint in your eyes as you point at the space by your feet.

“Yes, ma’am.” Hobie sighs with a lopsided grin, hands on his hips as he does what you told him.

Laughing, you open your arms as he sits down by your feet while you're situated on his bed. “Makes me feel an ounce of your power, Hobie.”

“I don't have the power to make people kneel, love.” He twists in his seat, patting your knees as his back rests in between your legs. “No one does.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, cheek pressed on top of his head, kissing his crown before you lean away. “You're right, but I can when we're in here.”

“You're right ‘bout that, jus’ don't tell the rest of the crew, hm?” Hobie chuckles and tugs off the bandana on his head, revealing the small tuft of curly hair that's growing nicely.

Kissing the top of his head again, he holds the back of your hands while you let out a resounding smack. “It's getting longer by the week, Hobie, I can tell.”

“You're just gassin’ me up.” He sighs, fully relaxing in your arms.

Giving one last peck, you take a jar next to you filled with coconut oil, courtesy of Pavitr. “Well, it's true. It's looking good.”

“Really? Not patchy?” He sniffs, calloused palms running down your legs.

“Nope, looks like George and Miles did a good job fixing it.” You try to open the jar but it doesn't budge.

“Think we can put somethin' like shells in it? Like before?” He thumbs a loose thread on the hem of your trousers.

“I think we can try.” You struggle and he hears it as he gestures for you to give him the jar. Handing it to him, he opens it with less effort. “Thanks, speaking of George…”

“What ‘bout him now?” His annoyance ebbs away the moment you carefully run the coconut oil on his scalp. “Did you get to talk to him?”

“Yes.” Gently, you massage the slick thick oil into his scalp, fingers twisting around every curly hair strand. “I know you don't like him, but try not to curse his name again.”

He inhales once you brush your lips against the shell of his ear. “...Fine, what'd he do?”

“He's planning on leaving—”

“What?” Hobie's head swivels to look at you. “Why? How'd she react?”

With a deep inhale, you tell him exactly what the older man told you. “I guess he just doesn't want to see his daughter get hurt again.”

“That's fuckin' bullshit.” He says through gritted teeth, shaking his head.

“It is. But it's still his decision.” You gently tilt his head back around with your wrist so that you don't accidentally wipe oil on his chin. “We can't keep him here if he doesn't want to, at the same time…” biting the inside of your cheek, you pause for a moment and then continue. “We can't keep Gwen here either if she decides to come with him.”

Hobie clenches his jaw but deflates almost immediately. “‘m guessin’ he hasn’t told her yet.”

“No, not yet.” The cool oil trickles down your arm as you generously spread it above his nape.

“What if she leaves?” His grey eyes flick towards you, hand wrapped around your ankle protectively.

“Then we let her, as much as we don't want to see her go.” Your heart clenches at the thought.

“Yeah,” he sighs out, head ducked to give you space to work. “Men like him—” his grey eyes swim with sorrow. “Fathers.” He scoffs, untying your shoes and you let him take it off your feet. “They’re all the bloody same.”

“What do you mean by that?” Closing the jar, you grab a silk scarf found in one of the wardrobes here, probably your aunt's, and place it around his head, carefully tying it at the back.

“Nothin’” He shakes his head, patting down the scarf on his head and twisting around to face you. “We have to talk ‘bout your shoes, love.”

You click your tongue and grin as he lifts the thin shoe up. “We haven't exactly stopped by a town to shop around for new shoes.”

Hobie places the pair neatly next to his boots, right beside the bed. Then he places his chin on your knee, fondly staring up at you. “I'll get you a new pair, a nice one that won't let you slip on nothin’. And a new dagger too.” He reaches behind you and grabs a vial of ointment as he taps your hand, to which you open your dry palms for him.

“I'm sorry that I keep losing them.” You let him rub the ointment around the dried and cracked skin on your palms. He's careful and his warm fingers help spread the thick ointment better, melting it all over your skin as his fingers massage it over your lifeline.

He chuckles, reminiscing where the first dagger he gave you now lies. “And jus’ like what I told you back then, I'll keep gettin’ you a new one. A hundred more if you want.”

You have no words or rhetoric for him, so you lean down and kiss the tip of his nose sweetly. And in response, he turns your palms towards him, thumbs rubbing along the inside of your wrists and bringing them towards his lips, kissing and praising the very hands that helped put him back together. His bird— his peace that calms the storm inside him.

The grey eyes in the shade of a lingering rain cloud gazes up at you, soft lips pressing a kiss with each staggered breath you let out.

“You'll be the death of me, Hobart Brown.”

“I hope not, trouble.” Smiling against your pulse, with the scent of aloe and chamomile wafting over your nose, he leans away and closes your palms for you. “Leg up.” Patting your leg, you bring your heel atop his thigh as he takes the same ointment and gently folds your pant leg for you, revealing the scar where his bullet met your flesh.

You watch with fond eyes as he runs his knuckles over the raised skin, then down to your ankle that never fully healed. “Are you going to keep admiring my leg or—?”

“Am I…” something passes by his stormy eyes, thumb carefully spreading the ointment on the bullet scar. “‘m sorry.”

“Hobie,” your heart aches at his sullen expression. “I told you a hundred times before, and I'll keep saying it to you over and over again, I forgive you. You could shoot me in the foot right now and I'll still forgive you.”

“That's it though, love.” Swallowing thickly, the pads of his fingers hover above your ankle, as if he's not worthy of touching you. “You'll keep forgivin’ me, no matter how many times I shoot at someone, how many people I kill—” he inhales, and he sees his hands caked in crimson. “You’ll always look at me like this, like ‘m made of stars.”

You take his face in your hands, gentle like you're holding water in your palms, careful not to spill all his love for you on the floor but tender enough to let him know that you're right there with him— like how the moon is there for the tides. A companion, a lover, someone to help stave off the raging hurricane inside him.

Your eyes grant him that same love he harbours for you. “My love for you isn't a reward for good behaviour.” Hobie gazes at you through glassy eyes. “I know you, all of you, the good and the bad. I stayed for both, loved all sides of you. Never have I thought that you weren't worthy of me. I'm just glad you let me in, that you let me know you.”

“If I was good—”

“You are every bit of good in this world, Hobie.”

“Better, if I was better— I jus’” His hands grip your shirt. He hopes that if he's ever judged in the afterlife, he'd end up in the same place as you are, or at least let him visit you, knowing that you'll go somewhere better than the place where he'll spend eternity in. “I look at you and I ask myself, ‘what did I do to deserve this?’ To deserve all this good, and yet I let you do all this bad shit.”

“Hobie, my thick headed pirate captain.” You coo with a smile, earning a small smile from him. “I had every opportunity to leave, and every time, I chose you, I chose the crew, and I chose to do all of that without coercion. This is where I belong. I’m not an angel either, we did it to live.” Your lips press to his forehead, letting it ease him further. The night brings worries to everyone it seems, not just you. “Nothing matters, just this.” Just this life that you'll choose every time. Even if it means you won't live to see forty, it'll be a good one, a well lived life and not everyone can say that.

Hobie moves closer, cheek pressed to your chest, arms wrapped around you. He's not just a pirate captain right then, just Hobie, a man trying to live his life without regrets, a man carrying the world on his shoulders. Just a man who's trying to love you the way he thinks you deserve.

The three words fall from his lips, muffled by your shirt as he melts in your arms. Back folded, you lean down to meet his lips, whispering the words back before showing the love you have for him right in the ship your family has owned for generations.

—

“Love.”

You sniff the air, coconut and sea salt permeating around you. Eyes still closed, you move closer to his warmth as the cold of the sea tries to smother you in the captain's bed.

Hobie chuckles, knuckles gently tracing along the curve of your spine whilst you're curled around him. “C’mon, you'll miss it.” His voice is deep with sleep.

“You keep massaging me like that as if it'll help in waking me up.” Your muffled words have him laughing quietly in the cold of dawn. Hand paused and now spread across the small of your back, gently poking you with a ringed finger.

“We’re ‘ere.”

Cracking one eye open, the first thing you see is his face painted in ocean blue. The sky hasn't fully woken up just like you have, the remnants of night still twinkling just outside the ship. The sea feels calm while the ship gently rocks in the waves, as if it's cradling you to fall asleep.

“Morning, captain.” Your voice cackles with sleep. “We're at where?”

Hobie chuckles softly, hand brushing away the hair off your pretty face. “Mermaid’s head, scuttlebutt. Time to become a pirate.”

You hum, hugging him closer, face nuzzling his bare chest. “Five minutes.”

“Don't make me carry you upstairs.”

“That sounds nice.” Your tone drifts off, and as the bed shifts, you think that he's about to leave but the way you feel his warmth above, he's not surrendering. The swinging black pearl brushes along the curve of your jaw, making you smile.

He flings your shirt above your stomach, and before you could flinch away, knowing what he's about to do, he places his frozen hands right on your belly.

Jumping awake, you almost hit your head on the ceiling as he cackles, wiggling his fingers menacingly.

“Fuck you and your weirdly cold hands!” Back hitting the wall, you point at him accusingly while he's still wiggling his hands and slowly moving closer. “Stop! I'm already awake!”

With a victorious guffaw, he jumps off the bed and extends a hand out for you. “C’mon, you'll see why it's called the Mermaid's head.”

You slap his hand away, and he feigns a frown. “Don't touch me with those icicles you call hands.”

“Please, you like these icicles all over you.” You just glare at him in return. “And ‘ere I thought I was supposed to be the grumpy one in the mornin’”

He scrunches his nose, eyes following you as you put on your shoes and clean the sleep off your face with the water basin in the corner. Judging by how warm it still is, Hobie just refilled it for you, waking up earlier than he was supposed to just to make sure that you have warm water to wash your face with.

Handing you a towel, he leans against the bannister of the bed as water splashes on your face. He wants to always have mornings like these, for your voice be the first thing he ever hears, and for him to wake up tangled in your limbs. He hopes that mornings with you will forever be like this as he twirls his fingers around the cool black pearl tied around his neck.

“What?” You ask, eyes still laden with sleep as you wipe your face. “Stop ogling and let's go.” With a giggle, you drop your angry façade and take his hand towards the door.

“Wait,” digging his heels in, he pulls you against him, pecking each of your cold cheeks and then placing a saccharine kiss on your lips that'll put honey to shame. “There, now ‘m ready.”

Fluttering your lashes in hopes you get another one, you smile victoriously when he moves in closer once again. Suddenly, you feel yourself getting lifted up from the floor and placed on his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

“Hobie!” Your squeals fall on deaf ears as he cackles through the halls of the ship, definitely waking up the night shift from their slumber while he runs around, hauling you around until he gets on deck. “You little shit!”

Hobie drops you back to your feet, grinning widely like a schoolboy, who just commited mischief in class. You get a glimpse of what he was like when he was younger through his expression.

“Before you hit me,” as if you'd ever hit him with the sole purpose of hurting him and not for playing around. “Look behind you.” He twists you around with his cold hands on your shoulders, and as the sails part away in the breeze, you now see what all the fuss is all about.

A few miles away, situated in the backdrop of pink hues and cold blues, is a pair of lush islands, standing tall amidst the sea, a green pair of eyes right in the middle of all the ocean blue. The twins are connected by a rope bridge, and hidden within the smaller island is a shipwreck situated on top of it. You have no idea how that even got there, but you're too occupied with gawking at the larger piece of land. The stone façade seems to resemble a head, two eyes— or jagged holes adjacent to one another. A triangular nose and parted lips that opens up to a large port. The greenery above it spills over to the sides, acting like hair. Now you know how it got its name.

It's beautifully grotesque in a way, with every way you look at it, it does have a face of a woman carved into it. But the way you see it from where you stand, it's a hollowed skull welcoming you.

“Welcome to the Mermaid's head, scuttlebutt.”

Banners by @/cafekitsune

A/N: Please consider reblogging if you liked it!!

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queers-gambit · 11 months ago

Text

The Black Dread part one

prompt: after word is sent for Dragonseeds to raise up, you shockingly claim The Black Dread. knowing your stance would all but determine the war, both Alicent and Rhaenyra send emissaries to persuade your allegiance through means of marriage. when tragedy strikes, you fly to war. -> in this part - you claim Balerion and emissaries are sent.

pairing: Jacaerys 'Jace' Velaryon x female!Tyrell!reader pairing: Aemond Targaryen x female!Tyrell!reader -> hair color specified reader -> technically Targaryen!reader -> ALL characters aged 18+

fandom masterlist: House of the Dragon

series masterlist: The Black Dread part two: read here

word count: 4.9k+

note: ALL characters are aged up - they are NOT minors

warnings: hair color specified reader but it's paramount to the story. Dance of the Dragons AU, Balerion lives AU - kinda heavy introduction. political manipulation, i guess no Baela, Rhaena or Alys romantic interests, ALL characters are aged 18 or older, Muses aren't in this part much, stolen Olenna Tyrell quote(s), Dylan Thomas quote.

though Balerion is not shown in the shows [HOTD or GOT], these are some of author's personal favorite fan art pieces: this this one, but maybe this color

Considering the climate, environment, elements, and location of each region with no true diverse distinction or transition between seasons, summers varied in each corner of the Seven Kingdoms. Notably, the mainland experienced vastly different summers in comparison to the constantly humid Westerosi islands.

This was expected.

Where the weather endured in King’s Landing is dry and stale - lacking cloud coverage, baking all forms of life under the unforgiving sun - Dorne was ideal: temperate, tropical, the temperature usually consistently comfortable.

Northwest of the continent, off the Westerlands coast in water of Ironman's Bay so dark, secrets remain hidden, summers on the ratified Iron Islands were cold due to the winds blowing from the North. The rocky region wet and slippery from rain; never humid, usually biting.

The Reach boasted pleasant summers; lush and green with fully bloomed gardens, perfectly balmy. The Stormlands lived up to its name and was plagued with frequent storms. These were usually warm rains - opposite the Iron Islands. The Crownland's annually hosted hordes of tourists at their ever popular summer attraction: temperate beaches. And why wouldn't they? The Crownlands's usually kept moderate temperatures and plenty of vast coastline to offer reprieve in the surf.

However, the only exception to sweltering, stereotypical climate that ransacks the Realm is the North - an expansive outlier. You see, in the North, summers are cold but winters are REALLY cold. From Bear Island to White Harbor, the dreary, overcast summer sky reflects on year-round, bright, pristine summer snow, making it glitter and blindingly glow. This results in the curation of a blue-grey filter naturally exclusive in the North.

However, tonight - You weren't ankle-deep in North summer snows. You weren't wheezing in King's Landing. You weren't vacationing in Dorne. You weren't sloshing through the Stormlands.

Tonight, you weren't on the mainland.

Tonight, you were on Dragonstone - ancestral home of your distant, estranged family.

Bullfrogs belted their croaky song, loud and incessant; as if trying to individually greet each twinkling star in the inky sky - the ever faithful audience; intrigued by this reckless and dangerous suicidal showdown you embarked on. Crickets chirped in a soprano choir; dotting around the maze of tide pools - cratered by the same porous, jagged, volcanic rock that defines the unpredictable, natural coastline. Frothing alto waves of dark navy, violent, salty sea brutally crashed against rock - the booming baseline of the frog's and cricket's private duet sang in perfect harmony.

All that was missing was a little red crab with a Jamaican accent encouraging you "kiss the girl".

Night had fallen. The winds were cold as a storm rumbled overhead. Rain fell sideways. Lightning streaked the skies.

You navigated through the dark - a slippery, dangerous feat.

Few windows of the castle gave a subtle, dim light; indicating the residents were more than likely turned in for the night. Still, despite the lack of patrolling guards and other witnesses, you remained in stealth mode. Only fools allowed themselves to feel cocky when their guards go down. When someone allowed their defenses to go down, mistakes are made, capture is imminent, the mission is a failure, and surrender to the enemy's mercy is forced.

Your presence on Dragonstone wasn't for romance - no girls (or boys) for you to kiss. This wasn't a social visit to recreationally mingle with the Velaryon Prince or Targaryen Princess Twins. You're not conducting research curriculum - no time to study flora, fauna, volcanic activity.

To the winged terrors, Dragonstone Island is a recognizable safe haven that promotes healing - the one place these miraculous beasts could relax, ease their defenses; be vulnerable with lowered guards. This sense of safety gives freedom away from the confines of Dragon Riders - simply allowed to be true, authentic, and animalistic.

Currently, a couple dragons sought refuge on the island, nesting, minding their own business; others sought rest, retirement, peaceful isolation. Several took advantage of the heat and loitered around the volcano, the Dragonmont.

They weren't just any dragons, some were rogue, wild; some released after captivity; all unclaimed, riderless. This tempted several persons to rely on arrogant luck and try their hand at harnessing the terrible beasties - but they never returned.

Summer days stretched long, giving limited time to move under the cover of darkness, and the nights progressively shortened each day leading up to the solstice. Your journey was miraculous, having never navigated open water before yet somehow arriving at Dragonstone after setting sail from King's Landing by yourself. Perhaps you had a hidden talent, a subconscious sailor mentality; maybe you were just lucky, or maybe your boiling emotions made you defiantly determined - running on pure spite to stay alive, unharmed, and without capsizing in an effort to complete your mission.

Most of the time, you relied more on logic than emotion, something that helped keep you balanced, grateful, rational. Leading with logic arguably "made" someone intelligent; solution oriented, stubborn, hardheaded, unwilling to compromise (a common foundation when leading with emotion).

Yet logic made you very black and white - no grey area. Logic is cut and dry. Logic is sometimes sophisticated. Logic is also stubborn. Logic abandoned empathy. Logic could be explained. Logic identified applicable reasonings and explanations. Logic is hard to argue against. Logic sustained battles of wit. Logic is sometimes discriminatory. Logic always tells the truth. Logic has limited loopholes.

Logic is fact driven, and when paired with your own rooted moral and religious beliefs, made you subconsciously judgmental.

There's a well-known proverb, quote, "it's not the destination, but the journey." Yet some philosophers think the destination is mundane, anticlimactic, boring, sometimes disappointing and unfulfilling while the journey is much more fulfilling. The journey is what's worth; an adventure, where development inflates, where a story worth telling lies.

Logic is the destination. Leading with emotion is the journey.

Leading with emotion develops thoughtful decisions. Emotions sharpen empathetic abilities. Emotions sometimes changes perspectives, broadens horizons. Emotions allow for differences in opinions. Emotions curates safety. Emotions heightens generosity. Emotions expands willingness to help. Emotions softens situations with compassion. Emotions often strides towards peace. Emotions structures harmony. Emotions accepts all. Emotions could be overwhelming. Emotions don't always have one, single, clear victor.

Leading with emotion makes you easily reactive, being why you made a conscious effort to engage logic; keeping yourself in check.

You often never lost your cool; always having a handle on things, but sometimes, it was a challenge. Emotions demand to be felt, and no matter how hard you train yourself and practice relying on logic, you were still human.

Both leading with logic and emotion made you passionate, sometimes synonymous with stubborn. Either way, you ended up here - on Dragonstone - slinking around in the dead of night as if a criminal on the run, trying to avoid the Rogue Prince's nefarious, outlandishly violent City Watch.

You were dedicated to the truth, hence your willingness to embark on this suicide mission. You know it's out there, becoming desperate to find it; never settling, fed the fuck up of mindless gossip the court whispered and hissed about. Enduring years of scrutiny and unfiltered rudeness made you confident, wanting, and energized to justify your claims, prove self-worth, assign relief, terminate turmoil, tension, and assumption.

Yeah, yeah, yeah - but what truth are you dedicated to? Your family's lineage and heritage, your birthrights, your position in society. Your contributing livelihood. They only thought you a young lady boasting the Tyrell surname - a broodmare to sell off. After Queen Rhaenyra proclaimed herself, you became incessant to prove you were so much more than a pretty fragile rose to be set in a vase.

Truth became your Eighth God; being a dedicated, loyal, trusting, worshipping follower. And the truth was, you're a Targaryen as much as a Tyrell, and by all means, had as much of a right to claim a dragon as any of the rest of them.

You refuse to take detours, cut corners, violate, or cheat to obtain your goal(s); arriving at your desired end result with integrity, completing your mission by barreling through obstacles with laser focus - like a predator stalking prey.

Boots slapped and clicked on wet rock, splashing in puddles, splattering mud up your legs to soak into your breeches. Heavy humidity - thick and muggy air - coated lungs and stuck in nostrils, being suffocatingly stuffy; breathing becoming difficult. You could physically feel the condensation in the air - hair adopting a mind of its own; beaded, clammy skin becoming uncomfortably sticky, palms slick with sweat. You missed the dry heat of the capital.

Dark hood of your cloak hid your vibrant hair; the material swishing, swirling airy fog low to the ground around your creeping form, creating an ominous energy. You half expected a ghost to appear at your flank.

The clanking of the night patrol's armor was heard first, alerting you to a diminishing window; sliding into the mouth of one of the dragon caves in time for the White Cloaks to stalk around the castle's perimeter walkway.

Even with thick rock cocooning your form, the rumbling of the nested dragon's slumber was heard; loose pebbles, dust and other debris showered from the cave ceiling. Despite the heat of the Dragonmont, you heard the slow echo of dripping water.

Your choice to come to Dragonstone, was it a logical decision? Or driven by emotions - fed up with the rumors, sneers, disrespect, critical judgement from everyone in King's Landing? ...yes.

Navigating a dragon lair was dangerous, but navigating a dragon lair with ZERO experience was an anticipated disaster. Surely, you must've lost your mind because no mentally stable person would dare step foot in this cave - let alone scale the depths in search of an ancient beast that could (and possibly wound) treat your charred body as a BBQ appetizer. With a gasp, you slipped on the rocks, hissing when the heels of your palms took the brunt end of impact and slit open; tiny pebbles sticking to your open flesh. You whimpered gently, jagged rocks digging into your knees as you cleared your hands and slowly found your feet.

Even with knowledge of your heritage, you hadn't grown around the scaly Targaryen counterparts like any and every other legitimate offspring. You were long divided from that side of your family, missing out on fascinating Valyrian traditional customs. It made you a slightly bitter.

No dragon egg in your crib. No hours-long practice in the Dragon Pit. No reptilian anatomy studies. No personalized leather saddle embellished with a three-headed dragon. No claim to ancestral privilege or birthright. No unique morality, nor holier than thou complex. No generational beast to inherit.

Skin free from the lingering, invasive, embedded stench of dragon hide.

You used to think learning Ancient Valyrian was a redundant waste of time, education, and resources. You were raised in the ancestral keep in the Reach's capital, Highgarden, under your father, Lord Tyrell, and his beloved wife - the Vanished Princess - which made this secret sleuthing harder to rationalize or explain, given no Targaryen ever lived in Highgarden. Never before were dragons hosted in The Reach, and therefor, a Dragon Pit was never erected.

So, you know how when you're a kid and see something at the store that you really want but your parent says no because you already have too much shit? They might've made their point by saying something, like, "Where do you think you're gonna put all that?"

Well, Highgarden is the toy box and you intend on bringing home one of those enormous stuffed animals won at a carnival / festival.

If anyone knew of this plan, they might've sent you to the medical institute the Citadel in Oldtown operates; involuntarily commit you to the structured research program that studies different mental and physical medical phenomenons.

Truth was, this wasn't even your idea. Your grandmother, who definitely either spent time in one of the Citadel's cells or should, encouraged you. Perhaps that should've been a red flag, but it was too late now, her words echoing in your mind ―

Be a dragon.

The gardens you walked through were in fragrant, full bloom; providing a sweet air to combat the foul words you admitted with your arm looped in your grandmother's. You paced evenly through the overgrown foliage, the bees buzzing to drown your words.

"Perhaps, something is wrong with me," you sulked, "because surely, it cannot be this difficult to find a match. It seems I need to lower my standards, I could not attract a decent man if I were covered in honey and he were a fly."

"Perhaps try covering yourself in shit, then," she advised with a knowing smirk.

"Grandmother."

"Well, it's curious, isn't it?" Celia asked.

"What is?"

"All your life, you've always been more Targaryen than Tyrell; fierce, loyal, impulsive, strong, enduring. Yet now, you return nothing more than a rose wilted from King's Landing's stench, moping about failed relations. Have you ever considered that simple men are incapable of supporting the love and marriage of a dragon?"

"Half blooded does not make me a dragon."

"No, but the spirit, wit, intelligence, spunk, ferocity, cunningness, and determination you display proves it." She paused your stroll, secluded canopy shroud by foliage to provide a moment of privacy.

"Not all would think so," you let your eyes roll.

"Who do you speak of?"

"Those who think I am lying about my own Targaryen parentage, citing the color of my hair as evidence. You would think I'm one of the Queen's sons, the way they whisper."

"Do not listen to busy mouths, sweet child, hair cannot be a sole indication of parentage. I know it's easy to cite, but not all descendants of Valyria have silver locks, and should anyone have anything to say, know they are merely bitter and jealous for your hair is the perfect blend of Tyrell auburn and Targaryen silver. A color that is hard to ignore."

"Yet it's not enough to prove myself to them, Grandmother."

Now Celia sounded determined but angry, "You are every bit Tyrell as you are Targaryen. While you might not appear to their biased eye, there's never been denial that you are made in your mother's fire. Pure blooded or not, you're a dragon, my sweet petal."

"So?"

"Oh, for the love of the Gods - so, be a dragon! Dragons do not fret because men don't blink twice at them, they eat those men! Don't beg for approval; maintain your dignity, instill a new opinion, demand respect! Prove your strength, skill, and capabilities - everything the courts would deliberately overlook. Prove everyone wrong, offer contribution to this war, become a valuable asset who would be foolish to send away. Establish your seat at the table and never let anyone talk down on you again," your grandmother snarled with passion. "There's more than one way to prove you have the blood of the dragon."

"Such as? What would you have me do?"

"I hear rumor there remains a host of unclaimed dragons on Dragonstone. The Queen's son and heir, Prince Jacaerys, has called for dragonseeds to try their hand - they need more dragonriders for their war. Claiming your birthright might be the fastest, easiest way to earn the Realm's approval; doubling as undisputed evidence of who you are."

"What a terrifying thought."

"But what a statement it would make," Celia's lips pulled in a smirk, wrinkles deeper, more prominent on sun-soaked, wrinkled skin. "Tyrells might be flowery, we might sigil a rose - but we are resilient and refuse to wilt; even in the heat of dragon fire. The Realm thinks Tyrells are only pretty faces; pretty flowers meant to be seen and never heard, whose sole purpose is to be left on display. Preconceived as uselessly inexperienced during wartimes; criminally green, pure, innocent - judgement that makes them shockingly unprepared for how deep our thorns prick." Both of Celia's hands grabbed yours, squeezing, advising, "Do not go quietly, my petal, make those who doubted you be haunted by their foolish choice to challenge the wrong woman. Let them seep in humiliation and regret their judgement. Allow your successful conquest to be the biggest 'fuck you' to prejudice, the final nail in any coffin of doubt. Toss your wilted rose of fear aside, petal, embrace the fire that burns in your veins; you are Lady Y/N Tyrell of Highgarden, daughter of The Forgotten Princess, and you will not go gentle into that good night. You will be a dragon."

You were ensuring passage by morning light, intent to deliver yourself to Dragonstone.

Parts of the cave glittered with unharvested gems; a lost collection of rarities nobody dared pursue out of fear of the ancient, terrible Valyrian beasties that dwell in those caves. The walls sweat from combined dragon and volcanic heat, tunnels jagged and uneven; zero holes, cracks, or slits the sun could leak through (if it were up); everything terribly dark. At least there was a scattered pile of preprepared torches to light the way. A permanent odor of limestone and fractioned corpses assaulted your sinuses, dried puddles of blood seeped into rock, the scurrying critters who used dragons as hosts echoed with a twinkling charm - the least menacing reminder that you were not alone.

Claimed dragon chambers varied in size; pitstops along the winding pathways that ended at the largest chamber - a dead end. While other chambers were large enough for sometimes several dragons, this final stop could only be described as a jarring, stomach churning, hauntingly pitched ebony abyss of incalculable depth that played tricks on the mind. An abyss. It was like you were staring Death in the face and anxiety was dredged forth from white hot fear.

With a flickering torch alight in a trembling hand, you slowly stalked down the chiseled causeway that ended several lengths into the expansive, bleak nothingness. Pitch black shadows danced; the air felt electric, seemingly vibrating - alive and judgmental.

The glaring cavern besmirched your family name, hauntingly reminding that your disinheritance resulted in your late dragon bloom. The ebony airy sea identifies and heightens fearful insecurity about your estranged family's rejection, their lack of interest and care for your side of the family stinging; their rejection of familial relationships. The darkness predicted your failure, inability, and humiliation.

The cavern challenged your confidence and determination, your staked ownership and proclaimed lineage; labeling your bravery, beliefs and ambition as arrogant. It sneered about your stupidity, weakness, fear, and anxiety; belittled applied effort and desired goals; questioned your true desires and needs; tested your loyalty.

The cavern rejects any and all attempts before you could even try; unraveling your logic, shunning your emotions; proclaims reactive decisions as immature and lacking control, crowning you as dangerously naïve.

The cavern mocked your desperately pathetic need for station and acceptance; revoking and nullifying public (and private) ladyship, dubbing you unladylike - which, in itself, was insulting to your womanhood. Why do men get all the exciting adventure, but when a woman tries, she's crucified for being irresponsible? Smooth ebony waves reflected your maddening, constant effort and want for acknowledged contributions.

To the naked eye, the cavern appeared uninhabited, assuming the habitat was abandoned. The silence was eery; air buzzing with alarm, deceiving humans that attempted to see through the waves of darkness.

To a "true" Targaryen, this was just a sheet of camouflage the fire breathers wield for their privacy.

No wonder the Red Sowing was so... Bloody and devastating.

A growl was heard, something gravely and deep, intimidating and impressive. You frozen, eyes wide as if it would give you night vision, torch flickering, hands starting to shake. Then you saw prominent movement, lungs stalling and heart hammering. Slowly, a large, scaly, stained snout emerged at a sail's pace.

The more the beast stepped into your sight, your mind could only scream one thing - was coming face to face with a dragon logical or emotional? Because whether logical or emotional, this was a dumb fucking idea there was no turning back from.

So, you steeled yourself in position, dewy sweat lining your forehead to soak your hairline.

112 years After Conquest, dragons flew to war at the behest of the Targaryen family over Rhaenyra and her half-brother's claim to Aegon the Conqueror's Iron Throne. Sister-wife, Queen Visenya, rode Vhagar - said to have been the smallest dragon with bronze hide, yet, as rumor had it, still large enough that a horse could ride down her gullet. Sister-wife, Queen Rhaenys, rode Meraxes - who was larger; big enough to swallow horses whole with silver scales and golden eyes.

Then, The Conqueror, King Aegon Targaryen I, rode Balerion - the fiercest and largest, who’s wingspan could shadow entire towns, swords-long teeth assisting his ability to swallow mammoths whole, and who’s scales, wings, and fire were pitch black. Balerion was called the Black Dread and was so powerful, he could melt steel, stone, and fuse sand into glass. He never lost a battle - against human or dragon.

Balerion was also the dragon responsible for the Burning of Harrenhal, largest castle in Westeros.

In the year 2 BC, Aegon began his Conquest and engaged King Harren Hoare the Black in his keep, Harrenhal, who refused the Conqueror and was met with Balerion’s flames. In fire so hot, it melts stone like candles, the entire House Hoare was extinguished when Harren and his sons perished in the largest tower - later named Kingspyre Tower - though it’s said they haunt the Wailing Tower.

Since then, of Aegon's Three Dragons, only Meraxes boasted a single rider, but to be fair, in 10 AC, during the First Dornish War, allegedly, both Queen Rhaenys and Meraxes met their demise. Vhagar knew Prince Baelon Targaryen, Lady Laena Velaryon, and Prince Aemond as riders. Balerion knew Maegor the Cruel, Princess Aerea, and King Viserys, who, in the year 94, retired The Black Dread - thinking the beast was nearing his end. The dragon outlived every single rider.

In the year 129, Viserys died and The Black Dread stared you in the eye; curating a vibrating rumble deep within his chest that made the darkness dance. It'd been decades since anyone dared face this terrible beastie, thinking he wasn't long for this world; the pair of you curious about the other, no moves made yet.

There was no backing down, there was no turning away. This is what you wanted, for Aegon the Conqueror's mount to see you as you are - worthy of your of blood. You refused to be told you did not deserve your lineage, the Targaryen name, you would not endure disrespect any longer! You would earn your place in this Godsforsaken family, earn station in this Godsforsaken world, or die trying...

That night, Balerion took to the skies again, doing several laps in the air, soaring over King's Landing to let the residents of the Realm know - he flew again.

Your father's family hailed from The Reach, specifically Highgarden; colorful, temperate, lush, bountiful, and abundant. Your family oversaw 75% of the country's sole wheat, barley, grain, and corn production, even germinating the country's most grand gardens - which decorated a rather generous estate.

Despite the vast, open lands, there had never been need for a dragonpit before, so, when you landed your mount, he was left exposed on the outskirts of the Keep. Considering he was the largest thing, you know, ever, Balerion seemed content out there - so, you didn't worry.

It was strange, however, to see anyone without white hair on dragonback. Even stranger to the Realm to learn of your accomplishment; adding fuel to several fires.

The Green King Aegon asked lazily, a hand waving in the air, "Who?"

His mother, Dowager Queen Alicent Hightower, reminded, "She is of Targaryen seed on her mother's side, but was raised under the Tyrells. She sits to inherit all of The Reach, she will be Lady of Highgarden - "

"Until," Grand Maester Orwyle interjected softly, "her young brother, the Young Lord Tyrell, comes of age."

Aegon waved their words off, complaining, "Yes, yes, but why do we caaaaare about some red headed bitch?"

See, where the Targaryens had trademark white locks, the Lannisters had golden strands. The Starks had deep umber brunette color hair, and while both the Tully's and Tyrell's erred more on the reddish side, the Tully's had darker overtones, like an auburn, and the Tyrell's had lighter, coppery-amber waves. North of the Wall, they say "kissed by fire".

"Because Lady Tyrell has laid successful claim to The Black Dread! To Balerion!" Alicent snapped, quickly adding the snarky punctuation, "Your Grace."

"Well, we have Vhagar - "

"With respect, Your Grace, Balerion could give a singular chomp to any living dragon as Vhagar did Arrax and it would prove fatal," Otto Hightower, the King's grandfather and Hand, quickly stepped in to save his daughter from losing her temper.

"Well, she doesn't even speak High Valyrian," Aegon scoffed, rolling his eyes; lip curled, slouched in his chair.

"Neither do you," Aemond quipped in his Father's Tongue.

Otto continued loudly to prevent Aegon's response, "With The Black Dread now officially out of retirement and in play, the only choice we have is risk facing him in open battle, or..." His eyes shifted to Alicent, pausing, sighing and revealing, "Send an emissary to negotiate terms of an alliance."

"Meaning...?" Aegon drawled.

"Meaning a marriage pact, Your Grace," Otto supplied sternly.

"With respect?" Larys Strong spoke up, "But the Crown is lacking in their eligible bachelors for such terms."

"Or perhaps, what of someone outside the family? Marry two strong allies of the Crowns? Alliances henceforth might not have to include Targaryen marriages," Jason Lannister threw in quickly, but every Small Council member denied him just as swift.

It was reminded, "There's Prince Daeron."

"Lady Tyrell is actually the same age as Prince Aemond, I do not think she is looking for a husband so many years younger than her."

"Didn't Prince Aemond already secure the Baratheons through a marriage alliance?"

"Technically," Otto agreed slowly, "but given the circumstances and turning of tides, Lord Borros can be treated with in other ways should we need to offer Aemond for Lady Tyrell's willing support."

"Rhaenyra will send terms, as well," Alicent reminded. "Lady Tyrell is Prince Jacaerys' age, she might consider breaking his engagement, too."

The Small Council continued their plotting. Prince Aemond remained silent. Nobody so much as threw him a glance.

When the Black Queen Rhaenyra was informed of your heroics and your identity was questioned, her uncle-husband, Daemon, informed, "Daughter of the Forgotten Princess."

And Rhaenys affirmed, "My sister's daughter... Do not mistake her lineage for guaranteed alliance; her mother and I are long estranged, she's lived in The Reach her whole life - she does not know us. Nor owes us any loyalty."

"Perhaps she could be persuaded," Corlys wondered. "The Lady Tyrell is unwed, is she not?"

"As far as accounts go, yes," his wife reported.

"Perhaps a marriage alliance?" Corlys glanced around the table.

"To whom would you propose?" Queen Rhaenyra asked, all sat around the Painted Table.

"If I may be so bold...?"

"Please."

"Given your marriage to Daemon and his daughter's are shared with our own daughter, Laena... Is there truly need for a marriage pact between the children?"

Rhaenyra cocked her head, "You mean to... Disengage my son from his intended, and engage him again...? Like a pawn in chess? My son, Heir to the Iron Throne, married to Lady Tyrell?"

"Why do you sound displeased by the prospect, Your Grace?" Corlys wondered. "I hear the Lady Tyrell is most beautiful, and we need the Tyrell's wealth like we need their dragon, Balerion. If used properly, he can melt castles alone, Your Grace; burn towns, extinguish entire bloodlines, torch this country, melt the bloody Wall. No living dragon rivals him in size, in ferocity, in age nor experience. He's been at rest for decades now... Something tells me there's a reason he's come out of his nest."

"An omen," Rhaenyra agreed, straightening her spine.

"Precisely - the portents are cast, Your Grace."

"Lord Corlys makes a point," Daemon chimed in, "if by marriage, we secure The Reach and take back the Iron Throne with little to no carnage. Should the Greens fight, not even Vhagar could stand against Balerion."

"Prince Jacaerys is a handsome match to offer," another lord agreed, "which should help sway Lady Tyrell to our side."

"Which also frees both Lady Baela and Rhaena for other pacts - if need be."

"But if we have had this thought, I promise so has Alicent," Rhaenyra stood from the table, staring at the triangle of King's Landing, Dragonstone, and Highgarden. "Who would they offer? Who do they have, unwed, unpromised?"

"Well," Rhaenys stood to meet her Queen, "if we had the thought of a marriage alliance, and the thought to break off one engagement in favor of another, who is to say the Greens would not consider the same?"

It was quiet, a shiver shooting down the Queen's spine. "Vhagar and Balerion are familiar with one another," she grit her teeth, "and Aemond is the False King's brother. He's an attractive match, too."

"I think it's worth making the Tyrell's an offer," Corlys sat back in his seat. "They will receive us both and decide their allegiance - just as the Baratheons did, just as the rest of the Realm has or must do as well."

"Let it be done - if Prince Jacaerys agrees," Rhaenyra nodded, looking to her son - wanting his consent and participation in his own fate. Jace proudly lifted his chin and puffed his chest, nodding while nobody noted the looks of near relief on Lady Baela and Rhaena's faces. In a moment, they had been engaged to Jace and Luke without their thought, input, nor consent. In another moment, they were single young women with the tantalizing prospect to marry outside the family.

"I consider Her Grace's offer an honor."

part two: read here

requesting rules and masterlist

HOTD masterlist

The Black Dread masterlist

i'm already writing it, but, poll for the end ―

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