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gladiatorcunt · 2 months ago

Text

- JOYRIDE / VIII.

i drink the honey inside your hive

cw: kinktober prompt (daddy kink), southern florist president’s secret child!reader x secret service agent!toji, reader has a vagina, tits used to refer to your chest, age gap (toji is 47 and reader’s early-mid 20’s), dad bf type shit, willing to expand on this, hints of political intrigue and fictional plots, toji x your mom mention, implied and eventual betrayal (not of reader), typical politician behavior, parental neglect & it’s consequences, anal & lack of proper anal prep, dirty talk, light pet play, arguable one sided incest role play & possible actual incest, plus sized!reader, gun play mention, underlying mental health issues, mention of itafushi, flower language, dead dove do not eat

please do not repost, translate, or feed this work to ai

kinktober 2024

“There. After nearly breaking my back, the seeds are all planted, finally.”

You'd like to be buried under this magnolia tree, it would be a pretty funeral. Black outfits against the white backdrop of rare winter snow. You have big dreams for this sapling, clearly, as unassuming and drab as it appears freshly planted in the soil of your garden. The ones you’re mom took care of are all gone, maybe they got up and walked after her to somewhere on the horizon. If it doesn’t get so hot the state gets put under another burn ban next summer, this little thing should grow into a beautiful thing that obviously showcases how not depressed you are.

Could a depressed person cope with grief by growing a new life? Well, you wouldn’t know, coping isn’t on your to-do list for a long time if ever. What’s the point of getting better when you’re just going to feel bad again?

Whatever, you shake your head and head back into the shop, you have bills to pay and moping around won’t do anything to help with them. Since you live in a pretty small town, it’s a slow day like always. That is until a tough looking man steps in through the door, opening it and making the bell ding.

His loud sports car is still on and roaring outside, a bright yellow Alfa Romeo 4C.

The man notices your wandering eye and smirks, “You like it, doll? Didn’t take you for someone who’d be interested in cars.”

“Uh, yeah, it’s cool. Must have cost you a lot.”

“Nah. I bought it off one of my buddies at work, fixed it up myself. Well, me and my son’s boyfriend that is. You lookin’ to get somethin’ like that for yourself?”

You’re not really on the market for one, no, because it’s loud as hell and practically rumbling in your ear. You rub it off and ask him what he wants, forgetting some of your politeness, but this man doesn’t seem like he’d care if you spit in his face and kicked him in the balls.

“I’m not from around here.” He rasps and adjusts his sunglasses, leaning one heavy arm on the counter and cocking his hip out, “DC, actually. I’m lookin’ for somebody. You could call it confidential business.”

You hum and narrow your eyes, “Unless that confidential business involves a funeral or getting out of the doghouse with somebody, I can’t help you.”

Suddenly you remember your mother telling you about a big shot politician that knocked her up with you, how he hid you both away when she told him she was pregnant. Your mother was down on her luck 16 year old diner girl, and apparently the politician knew all too well how to use and discard her. The money was enough for your mom to give up her dreams and keep you in this town. When you’ve lived so long without what you think you should, you’re fine to obsessively make sure you never go without again.

He’s the president now anyway, even more reason to make sure you’re the bug that stays squashed under the rock.

The man with the mouth scar notices and decides to drop the act, sighing and taking out his gun. He doesn’t shoot you, just scratches underneath his chin with the puzzle and pointedly makes eye contact with you.

“Okay, let’s cut the shit. My name’s Toji Fushiguro, and I know that you’re who I'm after just as much as you know why i’m here, so why don’t ya just appreciate that y’r old man wants you back and come with me?”

You grit your teeth but you know there’s only one way this interaction is going to end is with you getting in the passenger seat of this nutjob’s car. He watches you shut everything off in the shop and leave a message for the only other employee, asking them to take over until you can come back. He’s a gigantic wolf, tall and silent in the corner, keeping his eyes constantly on his prey. Toji’s never let a bunny or prickly house cat out of his sight in his entire career, but in his current line of work it’s at least legal. Essentially.

“Pretty flowers ya got here.” He says, prolonging your unease. “Maybe his office could use some of these, dull ass beige box that it is.”

Your lips quirk up despite the awful situation, “Yeah I guess. The camellias are new, but hellebores are my favorites, I think. Not many people are into flowers this time of year, but I don’t have anything else to do.”

Toji nods, leading you out of the shop with a hand at the small of your back and oddly content to let you stress babble.

“I’m nowhere near good enough to do arrangements for the White House anyway, regardless of who’s sitting all cozy in it.” You spit and bite one of your nails, nipping at a piece of a hangnail. “Probably’d just throw some buttercups, yellow carnations, orange lillies on the floor, a bit of aconite in there too.”

You know that the agent corralling you into his car doesn’t have a damn clue what you’re talking about, but he seems at ease the more you relax into the leather car seat.

You make yourself fall asleep when he puts the car into drive and speeds down the street.

You’ve been in DC for about a week now, without ever actually meeting your dad of course but you’ve met plenty of his staff after Toji introduced you. He’s a secret service agent, who was given the special task of watching over the president’s only child, you can tell he’s not that happy about it.

Probably not as much action as there’d be in his usual position, you’re very willing to go with their plans of you laying low and staying inside most of the time. You’re still so confused, none of this makes any sense at all. You’ve lived your whole life without being involved in any of this but it’s only when your mother’s dead and your father can’t ignore you anymore that he wants to claim you?

It’s all another move in the game towards the re-election. At least he’s a better president than a father, but that’s not by much. Promises to address climate change and the country’s oil dependance getting pushed to the side, worsening class issues and trickle down economics, putting up more anti-homeless measures. You wish you felt like you could leave, but the tiny sliver of hope that by some weird miracle you could do something keeps you from being bold.

There’s nothing you could actually do anyway, you’re never going to be a part of the groups that their agendas support. You’ll always be the small town reject who saw meth addicts at the local gas station more than your own father.

You and Toji have gotten closer, by necessity and the sheer oddity of being polar opposites. You’re both equally as prickly though in different ways, birds of a molted feather. He’s there when you wake up, there during your mundane day, and there outside your door when you go to sleep. Even if you wouldn’t have liked your “bodyguard”, and you’re not sure you do, the distance between the two of you decreasing was inevitable.

He delivers you food, opens your jars, fixes the pipes in your penthouse, drives you everywhere you want to go in the city, carries your books for you in a bookstore, kneels down beside you in the dirt so he can help you with weeding out your garden, and keeps an itemized list of period supplies and your favorite things.

Your favorite minor holiday is national cherry day, he puts a reminder on his phone with the help of his son to always stop by the supermarket and get you some.

You feel like Whitney Houston right now, and if late at night you listen to her albums more than your mom did growing up, fantasizing about a 40+ year old man who treats you like a bug he has to keep alive, then no one has to know.

But no other man’s gonna do

So i’m saving all my love for you

You also think he’s going to assassinate your father. Sometimes you’ll hear hushed whispers late at night between Toji and someone on the phone, he’ll break protocol and leave you alone to duck into another person’s office and end up leaving with a grim look on his face.

You’ve seen the logs he keeps of your father’s whereabouts, which he should have anyway. Maybe it’s just wishful thinking, but you get the most awful storm in your gut when you see them under a gun that’s never been fired, like it has a special purpose.

You only speak to your father briefly, tense hellos and goodbyes exchanged over the bridge of a too tight handshake. You immediately expressed your distaste for being involved in his political career and he accepted that, letting you galavant on your merry way around town with his most dangerous agent. Ahead of Satoru Gojo, Suguru Geto, Nanami Kento, and Sukuna Ryomen, your father’s closest gaggle of hyenas.

You call them that because you could easily imagine drool dripping from their jowls if they felt so inclined to attack, to devour.

They give Toji their own versions of the same look when you pass them in the halls or they need to meet to give security updates, watching and waiting.

They only give you smiles, of every shape and size.

It’s easy to get a closer look at what your father does, the lives he ruins. Peace can only be an option for so long before other courses of action have to be considered. You don’t know Toji’s motives, this could just be another murder for hire paid for by one of your father’s political rivals. You doubt his heart is that deeply invested in those sorts of things, he’s made himself too apathetic, but you can tell that he still cared a little bit. He told you once that he’s had children who grew up starving before he got the job he has now.

They’re your age now, but he’d still do anything to keep it, to support them.

And then you think that maybe someone who’s only ever been abandoned knows what it’s like to hoard any good thing you can get your grubby hands on.

You give him own little bouquet of flowers one day, half because you’re going stir crazy as the weeks go by with Toji being all you know and half because you think you do want him to kill your father.

Purple Orchid.

Red Lily.

Red Anemone.

Gloriosa.

Red Delphinium.

Red Clematis.

Genista.

The next day, he’s barking at you to get packed for a stay at one of the out of the state safe houses. Don’t ask questions, protocol means you heed his warning and hop back in that canary yellow mid life crisis status symbol.

The tension was bound to be cut with a knife, the whole ride to the safe house is filled with sideways glances and slipknot blaring from the speakers. You have the same uneasy feeling that you do anytime Toji even hints at something being wrong, but something seems especially wrong this time. It’s not your job to worry about it though, and the older man tells you as much.

“Shut y’r trap, alright? You never have to get your panties in a twist when y’r with me, sorta.”

The safe house is as boring as expected, something out of a kindergartener's drawing. One story cube shaped, small roof, faded brown door.

You're only in the tiny kitchen for a second when Toji locks the door and comes to prop himself up on the counter, licking his scar.

He chuckles, “You’re a lot different than I thought you'd be, ya know that?

“I could say the same about you, I mean not really, but there are things I was surprised by.” You retort and sort through the cabinets, picking what cereal you’re going to stress eat tonight.

He comes around the counter and his hands slide from the tile to grip your waist.

“Yeah? Like what, doll?” Is cooed right in front of your mouth when Toji leans down.

You’re not immune to the proximity, your heart does a factory reset. “I never knew you could be so sweet, Toji.”

You’re not supposed to refer to him by his name, but you can’t let the word you secretly want to say slip out. You’d have to tell the employee back at your flower shop to be ready to claim the insurance policy on it after you go back and set yourself on fire.

But God, the miserable man looming over your bunny-tense figure really is sweet, distantly warm in the way a generally emotionally unavailable father is. But Toji’s the kind that would actually give you something to hold close to your heart over his long stretches of being absent until months go by and he tries to be better again.

You’re glad Sigmeund Freud isn’t an immortal vampire who would still be around to psychoanalyze you to shreds.

“Sweet to you maybe, ‘cause I have to be.”

“My dad couldn’t care less if you beat me silly.”

“I know.”

He never once said it was your father that compelled him to be as gentle with you as he is. A woman he met decades one, shacking up with an up and coming politician who he didn’t even try and pretend to be better then. They hooked up once and then he met his late wife, but months later the woman from his one night stand swore the baby in her belly wasn’t his. He never asked for a paternity test.

He never will, he’s already enough like your Daddy anyway, there’s no point in getting a confirmation or a denial to what his soul (and his cock) knows is good enough for a rat bastard like him.

You come out of your shame spiral as he splays one of his beefy gigantic hands out on the counter so you don’t get cold when he pushes your head down.

“I’d kill your old man if he kept me from this ass pussy, but it ain’t like he could if he tried.” Toji grunts, pendulous balls slapping your ass like a couple of grapefruits with every rough thrust in your puckered hole.

You gave up on being shy as soon as he clamped a hand around your throat to direct the first kiss you’d share. “Daddy- ngh, you’re gonna break me”.

His hand is so warm, your cheek squishes against the grooves and minor cracks in his skin as your head bobs forward. Despite you already being pressed down into the kitchen counter as much as humanly possible, Toji seems determined to force you to become one with it.

He gropes your thick ass cheeks, watching them bounce and jiggle as his burly hips slam against you continuously. Performance art in its truest form, whiney little baby pushing their hips back to take him even deeper in their fat ass. He didn’t have the means to properly prep you, just spit on his hand and massaged it into your already wet rim and called it a day. No condom either, but he can probably save the pussy job and it's obvious consequences until after your old man’s been made to lie face down in the dirt.

“I like the way your cunt sits under your squishy belly, ‘s pouting, baby. Both you and your pussy are clingy as fuck, huh?” He laughs deeply, reaching the hand that’s not under your face to smack your clit.

Your empty cunt gets wetter at the teasing, clenching around nothing because Toji likes to play pretend that he can be halfway considerate to the poor thing until he can’t. You want it too much right now, when you’re all loopy from his mean pounding in your ass is the moment he’ll regretfully have to pull himself out to sheath his hung length in your chubby pussy.

You moan, thought it gets precariously close to a wail the longer it goes on. “Daddyyyyyyy, oh fuck, shit- ‘m gonna tear.”

Your words end in a squeal of delight, your off the cuff rambling driving Toji to speed up his thrusts to piston his fat cock harder into your ass. Like he almost wants it to tear, your biological daddy gave you some nasty emotional scars, let your real one leave you with a couple physical ones. That’s what good daddies do, they take care of their babies and always give them something to remember them by when they won’t like their ancient relic of a father so much.

“Now don’t get mad at me, but- Oh, fuck- i was gonna kill ya, that was the plan. Take ya back, blow your brains out in front of your dad, make ‘im piss his pants because he knows he’s next.” He smiles knowingly when his hand on your clit feels it throb at his dark thinking-out-loud musings, wishing he could scrunch his fingers all up in your scalp and roughly pet you. “You like it like that, baby bunny? Daddy gets you gooey and syrupy sweet when he touches you, huh? Could just gobble you up whole, bones and all.”

Fuckin’ hell, you’re more precious than diamonds or gold or any loot he could’ve swiped from your old man’s crib. He’ll have to remember to slide his cock between your slick girls later, soap them up in the freestanding bathtub and spill his thick off white load all over them. You’ll lick up what you can but cleaning you up is obviously Daddy’s job, slurping up his own jizz like a wolf smoothing his rowdy pup’s fur down, nuzzling his nose in the valley of your tits and in the crook of your armpits.

“Daddy-” Your mouth gapes, little punched out ‘unh-unh-unh’s fly out of your mouth as your ass ripples. A few of your hairs stick to your forehead and you look over your shoulder, flushed and overwhelmed.

He just said he was going to kill you, you couldn’t even say when he changed his mind if he’s even telling the truth. But all you can focus on is that you really hope no other security personnel arrive at the safe house to check on you, whatever the fuck you’re doing definitely isn’t protocol.

Toji leans forward and scruffs the back of your neck with his canines, nipping the skin and leaving a mark as he slams his hips forward again. His grip on your love handles becomes iron clad and binding, wishing on a shooting star for bruises to form. He plunges in to the hilt with every thrust and gnaws at your sloped shoulder, he’s gonna cum and fill your cute little butt up. Pump your backdoor so full of cump it bulges and trickles down your trembling thighs.

You keen brokenly, floating up and away into his kiss. Which is basically more of an affectionate bite, but his tongue is mapping out your teeth and your cherry chapstick lips glide against his cold weather chapped ones. So it can be technically considered a kiss, but it leaves you reeling, someone just smashed a rock into your face and you’re collapsed on the ground unable to walk it off.

You try to squirm away from the earth shattering pleasure.

“What i’d say about givin’ me a chance, doll? Anyway, you were good as dead until I actually laid eyes on ya. Pretty thing, soft heart with a softer touch, ripe for the picking and left all alone…”

He can feel you getting close, you’re humping back against him like a bunny in heat as his thumb does a frenzied dance on your clit. He slides his big hand up your body to strum your nipples, his soft as a butterfly’s wing touch contrasting deliciously with his diabolically rough strokes.

In the fantasy he coos in your ear and asks if you agree that he did such a good job making this body, didn’t he? He twists his wrist on your pert bud, timing his ministrations with the upwards angled stroke of his cock. Your whimpering, his thick tip hitting the sensitive place you’ve never been able to reach with your fingers or your extra large toys.

“Fill me up, Daddy, please.” You beg, tears streaming down your face and sticking to his hand cushioning you. You turn your head the tiniest bit to wetly smack your lips together, kissing the rugged appendage. “It’s so hungry, I need it, give it up to me already. Not goin’ anywhere.”

Your cock-crazed eyes widen in panic whenever he acts like he’s gonna pull out, allowing you only the tip before grinning and sliding all the way home once again.

“Don’t worry, baby. I fixed it, didn't i? Got you all plugged up and owned doll, would sooner ride the muzzle of Shiu’s gun than kill ya now. Y’r soakin’ my balls so goddamn good.”

“Thank you, Daddy. Thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you-“

Holy fuck, you can’t breathe. You can’t fucking breathe because how can you when all the air in your lungs is beaten out of you by some 47 year olds’s massive cock. The coarseness of his body is so right for you, abrasive where you’re soft and riddled with signs of being battleworn where your body’s only enemy is you. You feel split right down the middle and you’re half afraid that when Toji eventually pulls out, you’ll fall apart and actually become two bleeding halves of a whole fucked out person.

Your clit throbs at the mental image of his hairy swallowing the muzzle of a gun, Toji licks his lips and mercifully lets you reach behind yourself to claw at his rippling muscular glutes as he fucks you. Your ass squeezes his cock in a vice like grip as you shoot your load onto the pale wood laminated floor below. Your ass cheeks jiggle as your hips jump forward, grinding against the air as you get it all out. Riding that lightning off to who knows where.

“Jesus, oh, Jesus- You’re so fucking insane, Jesus Christ!”

At least Daddy will be there, because you’re certain you’re gonna crave keeping him inside and Toji seems like a terrible guy to try to do cockwarming with.

“Shit, baby bunny, this bouncy cottontail is gonna milk me dry, take me for all my money, isn’t that right honey bunny?” His voice is coated with sickenly toe curling condescension.

He roars a guttural groan, his nails forming crescent shaped indents in your hips as he pushes his cock as far as it can go and spurts his hot cum into your ass with a gruff grunt. He can feel your walls spasm around his dick, the sensation hurtles him further over the edge and his hips jerk and the joints begin to creak from the effort.

He’s not the wild and reckless young man who fucked your mother anymore, but you have him all wrong if you think he’s going to roughouse your shit any differently.

When you’ve both calmed down, his salt and pepper stubble gives you beard burn between the fleshy globes, punctuated by a breathless snicker and a barely there peck to your ass hole.

“Sleep in tomorrow, baby bunny” He says abruptly, his tone dropping to become startlingly serious. “I’ll bring back some breakfast for ya, give you a massage. I better come back and find your adorable ass right where I put it to bed, ya hear me?.”

“Yes, Daddy. ‘Said I wasn’t going anywhere.”

He pats your lower back, curling his thick digits around an invisible ball of fur.

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screamingcrows · 8 months ago

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A Good Night's Sleep - Zandik x Reader

Author's note: Feed this to an AI algorithm and I'm feeding you to Streptococcus pyogenes. This is written under the assumption that Zandik is Dottore (idk if using the Dottore tag is okay for it? If not please let me know and I'll remove it) 1.7k words of inexperienced NSFW Zandik Warnings: Somnophilia, noncon, there is no penetrative sex, dry humping, blood (very little), fem reader, very vague thoughts of murder, nsfw Summary: You're out on a field trip together and have been trekking through the forest all day. Somehow Zandik just isn't as tired as he should be. You're fast asleep. So naturally, he decides to try a hands on experiment. MINORS, AGELESS, AND BLANK BLOGS DNI - you will be blocked on sight

Zandik rubbed at his eyes, trying to convince himself that his inability to fall asleep was caused by external factors. You'd been trekking through the forest most of the day, and any proposed break had been quickly shut down by him.

Theoretically, he should be just as fast asleep as you. He turned on the thin mat, faintly cursing at the pitiful excuse for bedding. Proper sleep was a comfort he'd grown to take for granted, and the reminder of how things had once been stung. At least you'd managed to set up the bug net together, even if sharing did mean having to be a little closer than he'd have liked. Pillows would've been nice. Maybe if he hadn't insisted on travelling as light as possible.

It was always easy to be clever in hindsight. If only it could be harnessed.

Burying his face into the scratchy blanket that covered his body he attempted to block out any disturbances. He was no stranger to erratic thoughts, but tonight felt excessive.

His fingers tapped against his thigh in a well-known rhythm while shifting his breathing to accompany the subtle notes. By all means it should work to ease his thoughts, a tried and tested strategy. And it did. His frantic thoughts fading into nothing, no more triple-checking plans for tomorrow, considering parts to excavate and examine, plants to bring back, measurements to take…

A blissful silence settled, broken only by the rustling leaves above.

Until you moved. A small, sleepy mewl escaping your lips as you shuffled beside him. He didn't have to see you to to know what infuriatingly peaceful expression what likely on your face. Images of your soft features flooding his mind, hands moving to scratch at his scalp.

How he tried once more to push those thoughts away, his crimson eyes darkening as memories of the day filled his consciousness nonetheless. You, with your deviously impractical attire, shorts that had left practically everything exposed. It was a daring choice, reflecting the total confidence with which you had moved through the thicket. Oh how his fingers ached to know what it would be like to touch bare skin, hands flexing at the mere thought.

Nothing but a preprogrammed reaction. Although annoying and impractical, the response was natural. The thought circulated in the back of his mind, slowly losing meaning. His body curled in on itself, delirious poison spreading through his body.

You were fluttery by nature, a little bird struggling to remain still for longer intervals. Easily excitable as well, in the most annoying way. You'd flitted around in the forest, zigzagging between moss, animals, shiny rocks, saplings… Leaning down and touching anything you could, ass up while you chatted about your findings.

He'd never had problems concentrating, but with all the blood draining from his mind to other places, it had been impossible to focus on your ramblings.

Despite the hurdles of keeping you on a leash, he always found himself having to suppress a smile when you yapped, your eyes alight with glee. So much went on behind those bright eyes of yours, words clearly too slow to convey everything clearly. That much was evident with how you sometimes spoke in tongues, stumbling and altogether skipping words. But better yet, how you looked when your brows furrowed, sucking your cheek in enough to bite at the inside, actually considering his perspectives.

Before he could register it, he'd already rolled around on his mat, eyes burning holes into your back. A shaky hand reached out, his breath catching in his throat as he fought the desire to examine, squeeze, grope… He groaned softly, reminding himself that this was an endeavor driven by pure curiosity. You were asleep and would be none the wiser as long as he was careful.

The mantra kept repeating itself. This was curiosity, and nothing more. Curiosity about why you had that blasted effect on his mind, and if pursuing physical intimacy would solve his inability to sleep. It was a need akin to hunger, satisfy it and he'd be left alone.

There was already an uncomfortable tightness in the front of his pants, the feeling unfamiliar and invasive. Instinct kicked in and made his hips buck a little, erection rubbing against the confines of his pants. Archons he needed more than this. It infuriated him to no end, body craving the feeling of you against him.

He shifted closer, needing to know if you felt as divine as everything in him screamed. He had to bite down on his own arm, sharp teeth threatening to break skin as his other hand ghosts along your waist. How it had snaked under your blanket without his knowledge was lost on him, which only fueled the heat traveling along his skin.

You were unimaginably warm and pliant under his touch, fingers sinking a little deeper. Everything in his body tingled, an almost magnetic pull spurring him on to shift closer. Your breaths were still even, body vulnerable and his for the taking.

It felt like sacrilege as his hands worshipped your form, pupils dilated when his palm slides across your soft stomach, somehow already under your shirt. Just a little more. He needed some reaction from you, assurance that this was real. That he hadn't inhaled spores and was caught in a hallucination. How terribly unbefitting such a fate would be.

But that would likely entail cutting this experiment short, meaning he'd have to ignore those urges for now. Everything was foreign and uncomfortable, a tightness straining against the front of his boxers. He had to close his eyes, unwilling to watch as his hips buck tentatively, a low hiss passing his lips at the slight friction provided by the fabric.

Still too reluctant to move closer, he settles for sliding his hand further up. It was ridiculous how your skin got even softer the closer he moved to your chest. There was something repulsively human about the way your heart felt as it beat steadily under his twitching fingers. He wanted to throw up.

He needed to get closer. Holding his breath while inching closer, wishing he could sink his nails into your skin and tear it from the muscle. A need to expose exactly what made you this infuriatingly irresistible.

Your scent brought on an almost euphoric state, warm and comfortable as it caressed him. It had to be preserved, your body too ephemeral for this world. He groaned, still careful enough to angle his head away from the back of your neck.

Temptation had him firmly in its grasp, hips meeting the plush of your ass. Slowly, deliberately, he rolled his hips against you. It sent him reeling, a pleasant fog creeping into his mind. He couldn't find it in himself to resist, hands slowly moving back down to your hips and adjusting your position.

He felt alive, burying the part of him that bled out with every slow buck of his hips. The wet patch that had been forming at the front of his boxers did nothing to quell the beast piloting his body. Daring to look down between your bodies, he found nothing but fuel for his frenzy in the way your body curved. The way it looked when he let his fingers squeeze your hips a little further, utterly transfixed by the indentations it made.

Everything in his mind screamed at him to let go and back away. Not for your sake, no you were still blissfully unaware, a tired little creature. No, the longer he continued the more certain he became that this had to be preserved. There had to be a way to mimic it, reverse engineer what made it impossible for him to keep his face out of your hair.

He inhaled deeply, intoxicated as he kept bucking against you, delirious mind too far gone to notice the little huffs and whimpers that left your lips, sleep clearly disturbed by his movements.

It's a dangerous battle, fingertips playing with the hem of your panties. It was imperative that he knew all details. It was too warm, burning his skin and making his stomach churn. There was nothing practiced about it, tentatively tugging and rubbing. Your soft squirming was nothing against him, body curling greedily around you.

Quick to pull his hand back out, he settles for massaging your thighs. His hold was steadily morphing to mimic the vultures of his birthplace, nails sinking in like talons. Tear you to pieces, that was what he needed to do.

He barely realized that he'd begun softly chanting your name, the word a prayer upon his parted lips. It was all too much, uncoordinated movements growing even sloppier as he found himself unable to stop. An overwhelming feeling was building in the pit of his stomach, drowning out every uncertainty that made its home there.

Pure ecstasy was all he felt, head pressed against your shoulder as he came. His nails were stained with your blood when his hands finally released your form. He slowly came to, repulsion filling his entire being at the wet sensation. There was nothing but simple, temporary pleasure to be gained from this endeavor. Expecting anything more profound had been folly.

So this clarity was the price to be paid for his actions?

No.

The real price was paid when he heard your confused voice, the pale moonlight too invasive in the way it lingered along your trembling body. How it reflected in the shimmering droplets of blood running from atop your hip. Small sniffles mixing with your terribly soft voice.

"Z-zandik? What just… why is my back wet? a-and I'm bleeding?"

Part 2

#zandik x reader #zandik #dottore x reader #il dottore x reader #cw blood #cw somnophilia #cw noncon #genshin impact x reader #fem reader #dottore #il dottore #genshin impact #crow with a pen #x female reader

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revasserium · 1 year ago

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butterfly lovers opla zoro screaming crying throwing up

butterfly lovers

opla!zoro; 7,106 words; fluff, kind of childhood friends to lovers, slowburn af, nsfw, pron with TOO MUCH plot, opla!canon divergence, ships doctor!reader, fem!reader, riding, "good girl", emotional sex

summary: yours and zoro's story, from two different perspectives.

a/n: @halfvalid this is ur fault. take responsibility pls. also the smut is literally just one part of a larger story, but it does actually get explicit so. do with that info what u will u__u.

false start.

most good stories, scholars and storytellers would both agree, have a beginning, a middle, and an end. though, famously, not necessarily in that order. and this particular story — well, it has several places one might call the beginning. and one of them is here — in shimotsuki village, in a patch of rich green forest that always smelled of cedar and moss and earth.

it would be a lie to say that the story begins here, at a doujou where eight year old boys and nine year old girls swing wooden swords hundreds of thousands of times each day. where you’d seen zoro for the very first time.

the story could have started here, but alas, it did not.

because you see, you’d never been great, or even particularly good at swordsmanship. and zoro — zoro was one of the best. even from the beginning, his raw, unfettered talent was a force to be reckoned with. but the reckoning came in the form of the doujou sensei’s blue-haired daughter, and you were no more part of zoro’s story then than a drop of ink in a midnight ocean — lost to the tumultuous waves of childhood tedium, of sword practice and sparring, of warm up laps and cool down stretches.

but you’d known him then, watched him as he grew, as he got better and better and better. bigger, stronger, quicker, sharper. and beside him was kuina, steady as the shifting tides, relentless in her efficacy, tireless in her craft. he was good, but she was better.

until one day, when very suddenly, she wasn’t.

the story, as it is, does not start here, because you’d made the solemn walk to kuina’s funeral altar with the rest of the students at the doujou in complete silence, had knelt there in equal silence and watched as sensei had bestowed the wadou ichimonji upon zoro, watched as he had gripped the sword with both hands, his knuckles going white as the sword’s moon-washed sheath, and bowed his head in acceptance.

it does not start here because later, instead of following the same, silent procession of kids back to the doujou’s main compound, you’d slipped away, silent as a shadow, and sprinted through the wide, cedar forest to a secret, open patch of grass where the sun bled from a stretch of endless sky blue enough to sting, and tiny little white-petaled flowers had sprung from the still-damp earth, turning their faces towards the coming spring.

you’d run, screaming through the field till you’d run out of breath to scream with, and collapsed among the tiny white flowers, panting and staring up at the endless blue sky, feeling the helplessness pulse through your veins. because even though kuina hadn’t been your friend — you’d exchanged perhaps a handful of words in all the years you’d spent here — she’d been a constant presence in your life. and now, she was gone. and there was nothing you could do to stop it.

you laid there for longer than you can remember, and then, as the sun finally dipped beyond the far horizon and the darkness grew longer than the sea was wide, you got up and trudged towards the clearing’s edge. only to find a small creature huddled against the trunk of a thin sapling tree — it looked like nothing more than a bundle of white-spotted fur, and it took you a long moment to realize that it was a fawn, curled into a pile of gnarled roots, shivering, eye wet and wide and terrified.

you blinked, staring at it for a few seconds before you’d noticed the gash on it’s hind leg, jutting out at an uncomfortable angle. your heart had stuttered inside your chest, and you’d dropped down to your hands and knees, cooing softly as you slowly approached the creature, trying to look as unmenacing as possible.

“hey there… are you hurt?” you’d said, crawling towards it, trying very hard to make your movements as slow and smooth as possible.

the fawn shivered as it stares at you, apparently caught between sheer terror and curiosity. you tried to smile, before digging into your pockets and pulling out a handful of peanuts, offering them to the fawn on an open palm.

“c’mon, i’m not gonna hurt you… i just wanna take a look… at that leg of yours, can i do that?” you’d asked, inching in closer and closer until the fawn’s warm, wet nose dug into your palm, it’s smooth-edged teeth grazing your skin as it crunched through the peanuts. you took the chance to glance down at it’s injured leg — it wasn’t a deep wound, but judging by the angle, it was a bit dislocated and would need to be set back right if the fawn was ever going to walk again.

slowly, you reached out a free hand to gently stroke at the fawns haunches, feeling it’s muscles tense up beneath you, even as it continues to snuffle against your palm, eager for any remnants of the peanut shells. you ran your hand along it’s leg and quick as a flash, you pressed against the odd jutting of bone, even as it snapped back into place with a satisfying crack.

the fawn made a shrill, screeching noise, jerking to its feet, but a moment later, it seemed to realize that it’s leg was no longer hurting. you held up both your hands in what you hoped was a calming gesture before tugging out a few more peanuts holding it out as an offering.

the fawn blinks it’s dark, watery eyes at you a few times before limping forward to dig its nose once more into your palm. you allowed yourself a smile then, and a soft relieved laugh as the fawn limped forward a few more steps, testing the weight of it’s body on its newly repaired leg. it looked more confident now, seemingly realizing that the wound was somewhat fixed, and it gave you one last, lingering look before it bounded off back into the sunset forest, leaving you with nothing more than a handful of peanut shells and a tightness in your chest you can’t quite seem to put your finger on.

you’d snuck back into the doujou that evening, smelling of mud and moss and cedar, and you’d lain in your futon, staring up at the high slatted ceilings, streaked with moonlight, wondering where on earth you truly belonged.

the next morning, everyone woke to neatly a folded futon and a wooden training katana, the hilt carved with your name, laid across your pillow.

so you see, the story could have started here. but it didn’t. and perhaps we should be thankful for that.

the cost of ambition.

the story, as we know it, starts then at the baratie, on the morning after a meal was eaten and not properly paid for, after an ill-fated duel between a boy with a mouthful of ambitions and a man who’d forgotten what it felt like to be truly surprised. well, he was surprised that morning, watching the boy fall back with a gash the size of the world spurting blood across the docks.

“grow strong,” he’d said, “and come find me.”

and it starts, when a pirate in a straw hat comes crashing into the baratie’s kitchen, shouting about a dying friend.

“help! help! zoro… zoro needs a doctor!”

“whoa, whoa, slow down, chore boy — i can’t understand a word you’re saying,” zeff holds up a hand to stem luffy’s panicked rambling.

“my friend is dying…”

“the nearest doctor’s on the conomi islands —”

“wait, no —” sanji frowns, cutting zeff off, “lemme look at the reservations from last night —” he hurries off to the front desk and returns with a thick leather bound volume, flipping it open to scan through the seating chart for the night before.

“i knew it!” he says, pointing at a name written in deep, ocean blue ink, “there — her! i’ve heard of her — she’s the best ship’s doctor in the east blue, and if i’m not much mistaken, her ride’s not due to leave till this afternoon.”

“great! c’mon — we haven’t got time to lose!” luffy says as he rushes out of the kitchens, leaving sanji and zeff to exchange an exasperated look before following after.

they find you on the loading docks, your nose buried in a notebook, your hand flying across the page, ink smudging your unrolling sleeve.

“please! we need a doctor! my friend — zoro — he’s dying!”

you jerk up from your notes, the name ringing in your ears like an alarm bell, rocking through your body like the base boom of a signal flare. zoro? here?

you look around even as luffy makes his way to you, pressing in too close, a hand on top of his head to keep his hat from flying away, the other curling around your upper arm.

“w-wait — what’s going on? did you say someone was dying?”

“yes! my friend! he got into a fight with this warlord guy and now he’s bleeding from everywhere —”

“show me,” you say, lurching to your feet and shouldering your leather knapsack, pursing your lips as your vision threatens to tunnel ahead of you. zoro. it’s been such a long time since you’d heard that name. sure, you’d heard of his exploits in the east blue. how could you not have?

demon, bounty, pirate hunter. hunter, hunter, hunter —

you take a deep breath as luffy leads you onto the deck of the going merry and ducks below, motioning for you to follow.

when you step into the room, you don’t notice the orange-haired girl or the long-nosed boy, instead, your eyes are drawn to the body on the kitchen table as a magnet would a compass rose. his shirt torn into barely more than ribbons, a large red gash oozing blood, bisecting his torso like some unbridgeable canyon in miniature, his skin paler than you’d ever remembered it being, sweat beading his flickering brow —

oh, zoro…

you resist the urge to press your hand to your mouth. so instead, you swallow back your heart and try to assess the damage. massive blood loss, possible head trauma, and who knows what else?

“you said a warlord with a giant sword did this?” you ask, hurrying to the table and frowning down at the gaping wound.

“y-yeah — he — he had a big hat with a white feather on it —” luffy starts.

“mihawk. his name was dracule mihawk,” the orange-haired girl cuts in, her voice sharp and a bit too forced to be steady, “he told zoro to get stronger, and that… it wasn’t his time to die yet.”

you grimace, chewing on your bottom lip as you dump your supplies unceremoniously onto the countertop next to him, digging out the necessities.

“well, he wasn’t lying — the cut’s clean and judging by the size… he could’ve cut much deeper. but he didn’t,” you sigh, absently rolling up your sleeves as you pull out a hooked suture needle and a length of thread.

they watch you work in silence, first cleaning the wound, and then slowly, painstakingly pinching and stitching him back together. by the end of it, you’re nearly dizzy with exhaustion, and the sky outside has already turned a deep, bruising purple.

you sigh, wiping down your hands.

“can someone go and ask the waiter for a fish? any fish’ll do, but the fresher, the better. oh, and a bottle of scotch.”

“got it!” the boy with the long nose bolts up and is gone in a flash.

you slump down into a nearby chair and let your head loll back. a moment later, you feel someone pressing a glass into your hand and open your eyes to find the orange-haired girl holding a glass of water.

“here… you looked like you could use it.”

“thanks,” you say, taking a grateful gulp.

“i’m nami, by the way… thanks for —” she waves at the shape of zoro still on the kitchen table, “and that one over there is luffy. the guy that just left is usopp and —” her breath catches as her eyes fall back onto zoro’s form.

“i know who he is,” you say, your voice quiet as you look down at the glass clutched in your hands.

“you know zoro?” luffy’s voice is loud, but not unpleasantly so.

you glance up and feel the truth pulsing against the back of your throat like a heartbeat. then, you shake your head with a soft smile.

“i mean, he’s got quite the reputation.”

luffy lets out a laugh, “yeah! he sure does — he’s a great fighter! probably one of the best i’ve ever seen!”

you nod, staring at the sloshing liquid in the bottom of your glass.

a few moments later, usopp returns with sanji in tow, holding a bottle of scotch in one hand and a dead fish in the other.

“you’d better have a good reason for this,” he says, his expression grim, “zeff’s not gonna be happy when he finds these gone.”

you force a smile, “well, i can promise that at least one of those things’ll be put to good use — can you just skin the fish for me, please?”

sanji frowns, “and the scotch?”

you glance around before shrugging, “i don’t know about you guys but… i think we could all use a drink.”

the cliche of the morning after.

when zoro wakes up the first time, it’s to a world-muffling quiet. he coughs, uncertain of where he is, his head throbbing, his chest feeling too light and too heavy all at once.

“oh! you’re awake — here… have some water. you’ll need it.”

he hears the voice, both familiar and foreign, and then, he feels the cool press of a glass against his lips.

he gulps down the water greedily before pain rockets through him and he lets out a loud groan.

“i… i had a dream…” he says, his head spinning, the words slurring from him, and for a second, he wonders if he’d just been fed alcohol instead of water, but the pain seizes him again and he can’t stop talking.

“yeah? what did you dream about?” the familiar, foreign voice asks, soothing, as a cold palm presses against his forehead.

“shimotsuki village… i — i made a promise. i told her — i’d be the greatest… swordsman…”

his voice is fading, and the world is fading with it.

“yeah… you did, huh? and i’m sure you’ll fulfill it, one day…”

zoro sighs, sinking gratefully into the warm, welcoming arms of darkness once more.

“but not today,” you say, reaching out to wipe the sweat from zoro’s brow, your voice so soft that you’re sure no one else can hear, “today… you just need to keep on living. and that’s the greatest promise you could ever make to me.”

smooth sailing.

when he wakes up proper, you aren’t there to greet him. but he doesn’t miss the shape of you as they all pile onto the merry to go looking for nami. he doesn’t miss sanji’s too-wide grin or the unpleasant, burning itch that shoots through his healing wound as he watches the cook ask you about your favorite foods.

he keeps quiet for the most part, but you find him still, and you ask him how he’s doing with a ship’s doctor’s professionalism and efficiency.

“how’re you healing?”

“fine.”

“any tenderness?” you ask, your brows knitting as he tugs open his shirt and lets you peel the bandages away.

“not really,” he lies, because the the tenderness is not skin deep. he feels it in the labyrinthine galleys of his soul and he can’t quite figure out why you, of all people, might make him feel this way.

you run a surgical hand along the stretch of puckered skin and he sucks in a long breath, feeling his cheeks flood with inexplicable heat.

you smell of cedar and moss and freshly turned earth and for the life of him, he can’t remember why it makes his entire body go soft with memory. it reminds him of… something.

something, something, something.

“i hear you, y’know,” you say, and he jerks back to the present, with you absently rolling up your shirtsleeves before tugging at a fresh piece of gauze to wrap him back up.

“don’t know what you mean.” he looks away, willing himself to stay still as you daub a pungent cream against his chest before applying the layers of bandage. he lifts his arm to give you more room even as you shoot him a disbelieving look.

“sword practice, in the middle of the night. i told you that you need to rest — you’ll only prolong your own healing if you keep on pushing yourself like this. rest is it’s own brand of practice.”

zoro narrows his eyes. because he’d heard that from someone, somewhere before.

“your bodies need time to repair,” his sensei used to say as they all gathered after dinner at the doujou for evening meditation, “and a disciplined mind leads to a disciplined body. don’t forget that rest is it’s own brand of practice.”

zoro had never been good at it, but over the years, he’d managed to endure.

“there. all done.”

you lean back to admire your handiwork, unaware of zoro’s eyes as they scan over the shape of you, taking in the length of your hair, the bright of your eyes, the limber, spider-quick thinness of your hands and fingers.

“thanks,” he says, slipping off the kitchen table, pausing as he notices how still you’ve gone, your eyes wide as you blink at the planes of his chest, inches from your nose. a second later, you stumble back, clearing your throat, a sweet dawning pink dusts the high of your cheeks as he cocks his head to watch you, fascinated by your reaction.

he almost grins, letting his stomach flex as he takes his time in doing up the buttons of his shirt, before grabbing his swords and slipping from the room, leaving you to clean up your medical supplies, your bottom lip caught between your teeth.

zoro wonders, just briefly, how it might feel to catch your lips between his own teeth instead.

ink, skin, and bullets.

it’s you who bandages nami’s self-inflicted wounds, you who spends four meticulous hours tattooing over the sawfish curl with a pinwheel spiral that curves into a tangerine’s plumpness. you, who soothes eucalyptus balm over nami’s arm before wrapping it up in a fresh roll of gauze, waving away her hiccupped thanks.

and it’s you, who gets a shotgun pressed into your palms by a stony-faced nojiko as you all prepare to march on arlong park.

“if i can’t go with you… then at least, i can give you the tools,” nojiko says as she wraps your fingers around the butt of the gun.

zoro narrows his eyes as he watches the way your fingers shake as you weigh the shotgun in your palms.

“i don’t like it,” he says.

“yeah, you shouldn’t come with us — we’ll need you to patch us up after,” sanji agrees with a wink, much to zoro’s displeasure.

but you shake your head, a steely light in your eyes as you clutch the shotgun to your chest, “no, i — i want to come. i mean — like luffy said… it’s our fight, after all.”

arlong park.

the flurry of battle is as it always has been. you use the shotgun more as a blunt instrument than as a projectile carrier, but it seems to work just as well. you’re small, and quick, and your knowledge of anatomy (yes, even fishman anatomy) allows you to maneuver the head of the shotgun into the softest, most venerable places on a fishman’s body as you all fight your way through arlong park.

but zoro is never far off, keeping close to you as he fends off the worst of the snarling fishmen, his sword flashing like fish scales in the midday sun.

there comes a moment when he slices an oncoming fishman right through the jugular that you let out a long breath, wincing as the fishman’s body hits the ground with a dull thud, and zoro sighs, turning towards you. but a second later, he freezes as you grab the hilt of his sword and shove it backwards.

he feels it resting against thick, bullet-proof flesh and he hears the loud panting of something next to his ear as he sees in the reflection of your eyes — a fishman standing behind him, frozen against the tip of his blade, the hilt clutched in your shaking, shivering hands.

“d-don’t — i’ll kill you —” you say, your voice a forceful, fractured thing.

zoro searches your eyes before clasping his hands over yours and slowly tugging the sword from your gasp.

“hey…” he says, deliberately drawing your gaze away from the fishman before he jerks his sword back and feels, with a satisfying shink, the weight of the blade sinking into unforgiving flesh. he feels your fingers trembling beneath his as he pulls the sword away, and the fishman behind him sinks to his knees before falling sideways with the dull thunk of a no longer animate body.

you try to tug away, but zoro holds you steady, running his thumb in soothing circles along the backs of your hands.

“s-sorry — i — i couldn’t —”

zoro shakes his head, pulling you up by your elbow.

“it’s okay — don’t apologize.” he whips his swords around and catches another fishman in the stomach, dropping him with a flicker of silver and a splash of red.

“you never have to apologize…” he says, as he reaches for your hands and curls them in the warmth of his own, callused palms.

finding neverland.

you kiss for the first time after a brutal battle. after the deck has been washed of blood and the railings have been hung with the remnants of the tattered sails.

repairs are much needed, but zoro had saved you yet again. you pull him to you in the darkness of the midnight deck, the crow’s nest empty because, well, he’s supposed to be up there, keeping watch. but you’d caught him instead, curling your fingers into the soft linen of his shirt, your mouth seeking out his in the relative dark.

“mnph —”

he grunts as his hands find purchase against your shoulders, pressing you back and back and back, till you’re pushed flush against the thick totem of the main mast, and your panting breaths are all he can taste against his desperate lips.

“s-sorry…” you let out a helpless laugh as he pushes forward, his teeth clacking against yours.

“quit that,” he says, his voice nothing more than a panting breath on the open sea air.

“hm?” you blink, lashes fluttering in the moonless night, your lips kiss-swollen and delectable even as zoro forces himself to pull back, studying you with an accusatory eye.

“you’re always saying sorry,” he says as he brushes a strand of hair from your cheek. above you, the main sail whoomps, catching an evening wind.

“i’m not… i don’t…” you look away, embarrassed to be caught. zoro reaches down to grab your chin, forcing your head back towards him.

“yeah, you do,” he says, his voice gentle, even as he cups your cheek.

“you don’t ever, ever, have to apologize for just... being you. got it?” and there’s a burning ember in the spark of his voice as he twists your face up towards him, his lips hot and hungry as he brands you with this promise, and you’re powerless to do else but accept it.

you find your fingers in the short hairs at the nape of his neck, his breath cascading over your lips even as you press in close, close, closer. a helpless whine twists its way up the back of your throat as zoro hoists you up, his fingers digging into the plush of your thighs.

“z-zoro… please,” there’s something broken in the tenor of your voice that breaks him more completely than he has the words to describe, so he settles for holding you tighter over his hips and carrying you to his room. it takes a bit of finagling to get you comfortably situated in his hanging bed, but once he does, he can’t help the soft sigh that escapes him as he looks over the length of your body.

from your pink-flushed cheeks to the loose, crumpled material of your button up shirt, all the way down to the hem of your skirt as it brushes up along the skin of your thighs. he leans own to press an indulgent kiss into the dip of your collarbone.

“'please' though… i like a little bit more,” he says, reaching down to pop the top button of your shirt, to revel in the way you hiccup as he teases a line down your chest, his lips following his fingers as he undoes your buttons one by one.

“i — ah —” your fingers curl into the soft moss of his hair and he groans, long and lush into the creamy expanse of skin above the waist of your miniskirt.

“again…” zoro says, whispering the word against you, tugging on the elastic of your skirt, pulling them down the length of your legs.

“z-zoro, please!”

your head tips back as you feel his tongue flick over the hot button of your clit, his fingers digging into your hips, the pads of his forefingers tracing gentle circles around your hip bones as he holds you to his mouth and moans.

there’s a fumbling of fingers and a clashing of teeth as he wrenches himself up from between your legs to mouth at your lips. you taste yourself on his tongue and shiver at the indecency. still, the coals of desire burn in the pit of your stomach as his fingers press into your spit-slicked folds and you feel your whole body arch up in response.

he has always been quiet, but none more so than when he’s working three digits into your fluttering core, his eyes dark and fixed as they watch his own fingers pull out of you and push back in, slick and shiny with the evidence of your arousal.

“fuck…” he whispers the word like a prayer, slipping passed his lips like some holy thing. you can hear the near reverence in his voice as he slowly removes his hand and presses them to his lips for a taste. the lewdness of it makes the hot coil in the pit of your stomach twist all the tighter. and this time, when he drags himself up the length of your body to kiss you, you whine against his mouth, tasting your own tang on the heat of his tongue.

“ngh — fuck —!” you echo, as he flips onto his back and tugs you over his hips in one, fluid moment, his palms helping you grind your sodden folds over the length of his cock, the friction all-consuming and dizzying. a thin string of arousal connecting the tip of his cock to the seam of your cunt and zoro is helpless to do much else but moan thickly at the sight.

“shit.”

you whimper softly as he teases at your entrance, your palms splayed against his chest for support, your thighs shaking on either side of his hips as he eases you down inch by slow, excruciating inch, ontohis thick, throbbing cock. you toss your head back as he pushes into you, the fit of him fiery-tight and stretching you in ways you’d never thought was possible.

you feel him pulsing against your walls, and you wish briefly that you could’ve tasted him as he’d tasted you, before he sheathed himself inside you. how would he taste, you wondered, and you feel your mouth water at the thought of his heavy, salty weight on your tongue.

“n-ngh!” your voice cracks as he rocks his hips experimentally against yours, the drag of him inside you driving you to near incoherence.

“good girl,” he whispers, the words falling from him like second nature. you keen beneath his praise, bracing yourself as he plants his feet on the bed and jack hammers up into you, his stomach tensing in deep breaths of tight, sinewy muscle, his arms flexing as he helps you rock down above him.

“pretty… fucking… girl…” he intersperses his heavy groans of pleasure with soft exclamations, fucking you now to the light, rhythmic rocking of the ship, even though there’s nothing light about the way his cock bullies it’s way into your cunt again and again, forcing you to clamp down around him on each and every thrust.

there’s nothing gentle about the way he digs his nails into the flushed skin of your hips, how he leans up to latch his greedy mouth onto one of your pert nipples, moaning as he savors in the way you arch against him, pushing your chest more fully into his mouth.

“r-right — right there —”

“yeah?” he asks, half-smirking as he looks up at you, his warm gaze betraying the hard, teasing edge behind his voice, “where do you want me?”

you keen, whining as you drag your hands down your own body to press against your stomach, grabbing his hand to push it against you as well, his palm hot and flat as it lays along your tummy.

“r-right here —”

“fuck — that’s right —” he jerks up into you, burying his face in your chest with a clipped moan as he quickens his pace, his one hand pressing against your stomach as you feel him pushing up farther into you than you’d ever imagined possible.

the pleasure is intense, an other-worldly feeling as he finally pushes you over the edge, his hips stuttering as he feels you clench around him, your arms winding around his torso, to act as both tether and tide as he holds you to him, grounding you to this feeling while simultaneously casting you against the rough edges of this most selfless and selfish pleasure.

“h-holy… fuck me…” you breathe out, clutching at zoro’s back, digging ruddy red grooves into his shoulder blades as he rolls over to fucks down into you, relentless in his chase of his own climax, groaning deep and throaty as he finally spills into you.

you hiss as you feel the heat of him pooling inside. and it’s not till a few minutes later that he picks his head up from where his face had been buried in your neck to shoot you a wide, lopsided grin.

“yeah, pretty sure that’s what i just did,” he says, rolling onto his side and letting out a deep, soul-steadying breath.

you roll your eyes before turning to look at him, only to find him watching you with a gentle, anchoring softness. and like this, it’s hard to see him as the battle-hardened warrior. like this, it’s hard to imagine that he’d ever made such a promise as to become the greatest swordsman in the whole, entire world.

like this, he just looks like a lovestruck boy, forced to grow up much too soon, searching for any remnants of pleasure he might have left to hold on to.

an irony of hands.

it’s never easy, the night after enemy raids, the deck pooling with bodies and blood, the sea the color of a scabbing wound, flotsam and jetsam like bloated body parts floating on the dark, inky waves.

you’re helping usopp push some of the dead bodies overboard, but then you find one man with three deep gashes on his torso and blood bubbling on his lips.

“… gonna… gonna report — never… escape…”

you nearly yell as you see the tiny den den mushi in his hands, his fingers quivering as he tries to dial the emergency line. you smack it from his hand and press your tiny, surgeon’s scalpel to his throat. it’s sweet, polished silver gleams wicked beneath the moonless night.

“don’t you fucking dare,” you say, even though your voice shakes, and there are perhaps a million other ways of taking care of him more easily. but you know that if you throw him overboard now, he’d bob, half-drowning and helpless, for a few hours, or maybe even days before he’d finally succumb to the terrible, patient drag of the ocean (and most likely, dehydration).

“no,” a voice says, steady and firm, as a long, rough-fingered hands enter your vision and carefully tug your hands way from the man’s throat.

you look up to find zoro, his hand still clutched around yours, an unspoken sweetness flickering behind his eyes.

“i — if we toss him over — he'll just —” you swallow thickly, tearing your gaze away from zoro’s face as his expression shifts into something of the unreadable and soft. you hate to let him see you like this, so hesitant, so incompetent.

“let me do it,” zoro says, giving your hands a light shove before, with one swift arc of his blade, he severs the man’s carotid, leaving him slumped and bleeding on the blood-stained deck.

“oh… oh god…” you press your shaking fingers to your lips, the silver scalpel falling with a loud clatter.

“c’mere,” zoro says, tugging you up and leading you down to the hallway below decks. he slows as the pair of you enter the darkest part of the hallway, and he turns to hold you at arms length, his fingers tight on your arms as you feel his eyes scanning you over, and over, and over.

“you’re not hurt?” he asks, voice quiet and clipped.

“no,” you shake your head.

“not even a little?”

you shake your head again, pursing your lips this time to keep the sob from pouring through.

still, he sees it, and he pulls you to him, cradling your head in his large, warm palm, the other arm wrapping around your middle.

“stupid girl,” he murmurs, light, into your cheek even as you let out a bitten off sob against his chest.

you hiccup, curling your fingers into the material of his shirt, "i — i couldn’t do it,” you say, squeezing your eyes as he holds you to him and lets you cry.

“i — i couldn’t kill him.”

zoro sighs, pulling back to smooth a hand over your hair, bringing it down to cup your now tear-stained cheek.

“yeah, i know. but that’s not what your hands are made for,” he says, letting his own hands trail down and down and down, till he’s got both of your palms cupped in his like a wishbone.

“don’t you get it?” he asks, staring down at your palms, upturned against his, “these hands were never made for taking lives…” he looks up, his eyes too bright in this borrowed darkness. and then, he smiles.

“they were made for saving lives instead.”

confessions, part i.

you stare at him for a full ten seconds before letting your body fall laxed into a soft, bubbling fit of champagne-colored laughter.

“i love you,” you say, the words tumbling from you, more truth than any story or poem or legend or myth either of you have ever heard.

“i love you, zoro,” you say again, tasting the words on your tongue like fireworks, like pop-rock candies, like the first, stinging breath of autumn after the hazy veil of summer has finally lifted. and slowly, in the clarity and truth of your declaration, you think you can see his lips as they lift up in an open-heart smile, as he too tastes the words you’ve just so recently mustered the courage to say.

confessions, part ii.

zoro stares back, and or a long moment, he doesn’t say anything. then, for too long. and you think you’d made a mistake, telling him how you feel. but then, he smiles — a true smile, a smile that lights up his face and erases all the grooves and lines that should’ve been worn there by the weathers and weights of hardship.

and still, listening to your words, he smiles — a smile that makes him nothing short of incandescent.

he nods, squeezing your hands in his.

“i love you too.”

false start (redux).

every story as a beginning, a middle, and an end. though not necessarily in that order. and, looking back, roronoa zoro knows that if he had to pick, his story probably begins here — at the ripe age of eight, in a doujou nestled next to a forest that always smelled of cedar and moss and freshly turned earth.

it probably starts with an endless parade of sword practice and sparring, of warm up laps and cool down stretches.

its true — it could be said that his story starts with kuina, the doujou sensei’s blue-haired daughter, who was better at swordcraft than zoro thought he ever might be. and to some, this is a good enough kind of beginning to latch on to.

but no, zoro knows, because he knows himself now, and he knows that stories, just like swordsmanship, is an art that requires a certain amount of tempering. a certain degree of trimming and tailoring. a certain kind of articulation.

so he’s certain that it starts here, when he’d seen you for the very first time. and it’s true, you’d seemed like nothing special then, just another quiet little girl who’d been forced into the doujou by some faceless set of rigid, expectant parents, and you’d worked just as hard as you could have, given your natural inclination for anything but sword play.

he’d known that you’d never be great shakes at swordsmanship, but still, he’d found himself drawn by and to you, as a magnet would a compass rose, as one might find their destiny, or their soulmate. he had found his eyes tracking you whenever you weren’t looking, found himself watching as you’d patter around after sparring practice to ask everyone how they were feeling, to dig your tiny fingers (strong and dexterous as they already were) into a knot here, an aching muscle there, a pinched nerve that might’ve been really bad if not found here, and left to fester in that vast, horrible elsewhere.

but he’d been a shy, quiet, kind of boy, absorbed by his sport. and kuina’s skill was more than enough for one growing, teenage boy to contend with without worrying about the strange attraction he had towards perhaps the least “swordsy” person in the entire class. and so, he’d never plucked up the courage to talk to you, never questioned when you’d kept away from his side of the classroom after sparring practice, when all the other girls would flutter around him like a flock of unwelcome pigeons, asking if he wanted to be their stretching partner.

then, the morning came when shimotsuki-sensei had informed him in not so many words that kuina was gone. and the funeral had slipped by in a hazy blur of bodies and incense, and the next thing he knew, he was holding the wadou ichimonji, and sensei was saying something about keeping kuina’s dream alive.

he’d seen you flit from the funeral march of black-clad children, shadow-dark and raven-quick, right off into the thicket of trees. and he’d followed you, because he couldn’t think of a place he’d like to be less than back in that suffocating practice room with all his fellow classmates, half of them casting him curious looks, the other half avoiding his gaze like the literal plague.

he’d followed you to the clearing, and watched as you’d sprinted, screaming around the field of tiny, white-petaled flowers until you slumped down, panting with your face upturned to a sea-breeze sky. he caught himself before he could burst out laughing (or crying, he wasn’t quite sure which he wanted to do more at that moment), and he’d forced himself to sit still behind the trunk of a large tree and watch as you pushed yourself up. the light of the dying sun washed your figure in a great, dream-like ream of orange and gold.

then, just as it seemed like you were going to head back, he spotted you spot the injured fawn, curled into the gnarled roots of a sapling cypress tree. and he’d watched still as you slowly approached the creature with a handful of peanuts before distracting it and crack — he’d heard it clear across the clearing — the sound of a bone being set back into place.

the fawn had screeched and bolted to it’s feet.

but you were just as fearless as you always were, holding out your palm with more peanuts, and zoro had watched, with a mounting fascination coiling in the base of his stomach, as the fawn dug its nose into the palm of your hand.

he’d seen the brilliance behind your eyes, heard the bell-toll sound of your soft, everlasting laughter.

and he vowed, then and there, to become the greatest swordsman he could be, the greatest swordsman in the world, if only to protect you from those who might hurt you. from those who might threaten to take away the light — the life — that thrummed, ever present, in the palms of your very own hands.

a/n: i know, i know, there was an authors note before. but i feel like i can explain this better now that you've read the fic -- to me, the story of "butterfly lovers" is and always has been as story of someone pretending to be someone they're not, right? so in that sense, you/reader was just trying to fit into a mold that wasn't quite made for her before discovering her true calling as a doctor. and the fluff and romance was that, unbeknownst to her, zoro's known that this entire fucking time. u__u anyways. i hope you enjoyed. bless up and simp zoro, fam.

opla!zoro requests are open!

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pin-k-ink · 6 months ago

Text

matters of the heart // ukitake jushiro & kyoraku shunsui (pt. 1)

tw ⇢ suggestive content, implied threesome, love triangle but not really, strong sexual tension, alcohol consumption, unrequited love, mild angst

wc ⇢ 2.3k

part one | part two | part three

"Ukitake, you really need to get a handle on yourself," Kyōraku chuckled, sauntering into the room. "Your spiritual pressure is all over the place, I could feel it down the hall."

He shot a pointed look at you where you sat perched on the edge of Ukitake's bed, one hand resting gently on the sickly captain's arm. Despite your casual closeness, Ukitake's face was adorably flushed, eyes widening at Kyōraku's teasing observation.

"Wh-What are you implying, Shunsui?" Ukitake managed, attempting to gather his dignity despite his deepening blush. "We were just talking about the upcoming training schedules."

"Mmhmm, I'm sure," Kyōraku laughed easily, waving away the excuse as he ambled closer. "And I'm sure it had nothing to do with our dear friend leaning over you in that delightfully distracting way."

You arched an eyebrow at the two men, decidedly unoffended by the banter. As someone who practically grew up with them over the centuries, you were quite accustomed to their cheekiness. If anything, you enjoyed leaning into their flirtations on occasion.

"Why Shunsui, are you jealous?" you purred teasingly. "I assure you, I'm more than happy to come lean over you as well if you're feeling left out."

You punctuated the words with a sultry wink. Ukitake immediately dissolved into a fit of embarrassed sputtering while Kyōraku let out a rich belly laugh.

"My, my! At last, the delightfully bold honesty I've come to expect from you, my dear," the gregarious captain chuckled deeply. "Though I'm afraid leaning may not be enough to satisfy an old dog like me."

"Kyōraku!" Ukitake managed, tone somewhere between scolding and pleading as the flush crept down his neck. You simply grinned, reveling in flustering the usually unflappable captains.

With an effortless playfulness born from centuries of camaraderie, you rose from the bed and sauntered over to Kyōraku. You reached up to blatantly straighten the fall of his shirt, letting your hands linger a beat too long while holding his gaze brazenly.

"Perhaps another time then, Captain," you murmured in a voice meant to carry. "Wouldn't want poor Ukitake's heart to give out from overexertion, after all."

You threw a wink over your shoulder at the sputtering white-haired captain as you sashayed from the room, leaving the two men in a state of cheerfully ruffled bemusement in your wake.

Kyōraku watched you depart with an appreciative chuckle, eyes twinkling mischievously as he turned back towards Ukitake. The pale-haired captain was still blushing furiously, mouth working soundlessly as he struggled to reassemble his frazzled composure.

"You know Ukitake," Kyōraku began conversationally, a teasing lilt entering his rich tone. "One of these days you're going to have to stop looking like a lovestruck schoolboy every time our ravishing friend graces you with that wickedly delicious attention."

Ukitake shot him a halfhearted glower, finally finding his voice. "And just what is that supposed to mean?"

"Oh come now, don't play coy!" Kyōraku tsked, settling himself comfortably at Ukitake's bedside with a lazy grin. "It's painfully obvious you're still carrying that self-same hopeless torch you've been nursing since our Academy days."

A fleeting look of mingled fondness and melancholy flickered across the worldly captain's expression. "Why, I can still vividly picture that first time you completely lost your words after taking one look at our lovely friend. A new student positively radiant with promise...who somehow instantly rendered the Regent Genius himself into a speechless sapling."

Ukitake's flush now had shifted into more rueful territories, his expression softening with the warmth of nostalgia. "Yes, well...she did make quite the striking first impression, I'll admit."

"That she did," Kyōraku agreed with an indulgent smile. "Almost incomprehensible grace and elegance housed in such a tiny slip of a thing. Utterly captivating in a way none of us young bucks could resist."

A weighted pause stretched between them as memories of those long-gone Academy days resurfaced - hazy recollections of playful flirtations and burgeoning attractions flickering in the spaces between words. Ukitake's throat worked minutely before he dragged his gaze up to meet Kyōraku's knowingly.

"You weren't immune to her charms either, old friend," he murmured, holding the other captain's stare levelly. "If I recall, you became quite the shameless flatterer whenever she was around."

Kyōraku's wolfish grin returned full force as he reclined back with a careless shrug. "Well of course I did! I may have been young and foolish, but I wasn't blind." His expression softened slightly as he let nostalgia bleed into his words once more. "Though we both know where your focus truly lied even then, Ukitake. It was painfully, endearingly obvious you were a gone cause from that very first moment."

Ukitake's only response was a soft huff of laughter as he settled back into his pillows, expression distant as the decades and centuries blurred together into an endless tapestry of affectionate longing. Kyōraku watched him descend into those bittersweet recollections for a long moment before continuing in a quieter tone.

"And that same hopeless ardor has only bloomed more magnificently with each passing era, hasn't it?" His dark eyes glinted with a strange melancholic intensity. "Even now, after becoming captains, growing into the full bloom of our power...you've never wavered from that steadfast yearning for something more with our dazzling companion."

Ukitake was quiet for a heartbeat, digesting the profundity of Kyōraku's observation. When he spoke again, his voice was little more than a rasping whisper edged with deeply buried embers of profound emotion.

"There are some affections that transcend the temporal constraints of a single life, Kyoraku." He lifted his gaze to lock with his old friend's, a universe of unspoken longing and tender fealty burning behind the banked jade fires there. "She is...and always has been...the lodestar of my devotion. My truest reason for persevering through each waning era, always burning brilliantly on the horizon of the next."

Kyōraku held that blazing regard for an endless, weighted moment. Then he twisted his expression into a small, rueful smile and inclined his head in a subtle nod of understanding and acceptance.

"Well then," he murmured at last. "I supposed that settles matters rather definitively."

With an inscrutable look flickering behind his eyes, Kyōraku rose fluidly and started towards the door, pausing briefly with one hand resting on the frame.

"For what it's worth, my friend...I don't believe anyone could have hoped for a worthier recipient of such profound fealty than our dear Captain. She has always represented the very soul of the Gotei's honor and nobility, after all."

Then, with a final indulgent smile cast back over his shoulder, Kyōraku took his leave - surrendering the still silence of the chamber to the blazing truth of Ukitake's interminable yearning.

You sauntered into the dimly lit officers' club, eyes instantly landing on Kyōraku's unmistakable silhouette slouched in a corner booth. A lazy grin tugged at your lips as you made your way over, the lingering stress of the day's duties already dissipating.

"Well, well, getting started without me I see," you drawled, sliding into the booth opposite the shameless layabout of a captain. "Though I can't say I'm surprised."

Kyōraku's eyes danced with mirth as he pushed an already filled sake cup across the table in your direction. "You know me, my dear - I simply couldn't resist getting a head start on this week's well-earned debauchery."

"Mmm, debauchery indeed," you hummed in agreement, scooping up the proffered drink and firing off a saucy wink. "Does that mean I should expect a reprisal of the good old Academy days tonight, Shunsui?"

You punctuated the teasing lilt with a meaningful pause, watching realization slowly dawning across Kyōraku's roguish features. His grin stretched wider as an undisguised heat flared to life in his dark gaze, dragging appreciatively over your lithe form.

"Well now...I'd almost forgotten what a deliciously incorrigible tease you can be when properly motivated," he purred, voice taking on a silken rasp. "Tell me - are we talking about those drunken nights when a few too many drinks inevitably led to wandering hands and sloppy kisses galore?"

You barked out a bright laugh, knocking back the sake as flashes of tangled limbs and swapped caresses flitted through your mind's eye. "Don't play coy, you insatiable lech. We both know it went well beyond just kissing by the time the three of us got sufficiently inebriated and curious."

Kyōraku made an indulgent rumble of agreement low in his throat. "So it did, so it did. Do you suppose poor, sweet Ukitake even remembers just how thoroughly we indulged our baser urges with one another back then?"

He waggled his eyebrows suggestively, practically leering at you over the rim of his cup. You scoffed, though you couldn't deny the frisson of heat uncurling low in your belly at the blatantly salacious turn in conversation.

"Are you kidding? With how easily Jūshiro blushes even at the mildest insinuation these days?" You snorted inelegantly, reaching for the sake decanter to refill your cup. "I'd bet my haori that prim and proper act is just a front to cover up how vividly he recalls every scorching caress and indecent proposal from those wild nights."

A wicked gleam entered Kyōraku's eye as he leaned across the table with wolfish relish. "Is that so? Well then...perhaps it's high time we endeavor to pry those delectable memories from our sweet Ukitake's repressed subconscious once more."

You matched his lascivious grin with one of your own, anticipation curling hot and insistent in your core.

"I'll drink to that," you murmured throatily, clinking your cups together as fresh sparks of delight danced between your heated stares.

After all, if anyone could tempt that dishearteningly innocent veneer from Ukitake and resurrect glimpses of his Academy self's wild indulgences...it would surely be the two of you.

The drinks flowed freely as you and Kyōraku descended into increasingly risqué reminiscing about the wild indulgences of your days together. With each cup emptied, the heat between you seemed to ratchet higher - burning glances, lingering touches, and blatantly suggestive remarks growing more and more brazen.

By the time you finally stumbled out into the cool night air, thoroughly buzzed and flushed with residual desire, the atmosphere had taken on an unmistakable charge. Kyōraku's arm was slung low around your waist, thumb tracing idle circles against the jut of your hipbone in a way that made your breath hitch.

"You know..." he rumbled as you meandered aimlessly down the path towards your quarters. "We never did quite get around to recreating some of those more...intimate recollections in explicit detail tonight."

His voice was a smoky rasp against the curve of your ear, one calloused palm drifting with clear intent along the swell of your hip. You shivered at the naked suggestion, unconsciously leaning into his solid heat.

"Is that so?" you purred back, tipping your head to graze your lips in a featherlight tease along the sharp line of his jaw. "What a terrible oversight on our part, Shunsui. We really ought to rectify that..."

A low groan reverberated through Kyōraku's broad chest as you pressed closer still. His hand slid purposefully lower to cup your backside, pulling your bodies flush in a way that left no ambiguity to his interest. You could feel the rigid line of his arousal through the layers of clothing and felt a molten thrill zip down your spine.

But even as heat flooded your veins with liquid desire, a small, persistent voice in the back of your mind rang with gentle warning. Reminding you that however intoxicatingly tempting Kyōraku's familiar body and lascivious attentions were in that hazy moment...he wasn't the one you truly longed for on the deepest level.

Before you could fully process that prickling sense of reluctance, Kyōraku stiffened almost imperceptibly against you. Then, with what seemed like a monumental force of will, he drew back slightly - leaving a hairsbreadth of cooler air between you that managed to clear some of the lust-fogged haze.

"We should stop," he rasped out in a strained tone, features taut as he visibly fought to rein himself back under control. "As much as my baser urges are screaming otherwise... I know your heart lies elsewhere, my dear."

You blinked up at him owlishly, thrown by both his words and the abrupt check on the thick undercurrents of desire that had been steadily spiraling higher between you all night. Kyōraku's gaze smoldered into yours, rich brown irises blazing with veiled emotions that had your breath catching somewhere low in your belly.

"There are...certain lines that perhaps shouldn't be crossed, no matter how alluring the indulgence," he continued gruffly, calloused thumb tracing a maddeningly slow path along the line of your hipbone. "Especially not when affairs of the heart are involved."

You felt your expression slacken in stunned realization as the implication of Kyōraku's murmured confession sank in like a lead weight. Of course...this was about Ukitake and whatever profoundly tangled yearnings your oldest friend harbored for you.

Something hot and bittersweet twisted in your chest as you studied the naked vulnerability flickering in Kyōraku's gaze. Your throat worked convulsively as you attempted to process the magnitude of what he was trying to convey without words.

You opened your mouth, not quite sure if you meant to protest, question, or simply surrender to the pregnant silence stretching between you. But no articulation seemed adequate - or necessary - in that fraught instant.

Because Kyōraku was already moving again, ducking his head to claim your lips in a scorching, openmouthed caress flooded with infinite regret and unspoken apologies. You inhaled sharply, feeling your body bow against his as the clash of tongues robbed you of breath.

As abruptly as the devastatingly intimate kiss began, it was over. Kyōraku drew back, taking the scant inches of distance between you like a physical blow. His gaze searched yours with a blazing intensity one final time before he turned on his heel and strode away without another word.

You were left standing there, chest heaving and skin still tingling from the brand of his kiss, feeling as though the world had tilted irreversibly off its axis. Because in that singular moment of connection and unequivocal rejection...

...you realized that Kyōraku's resolute fealty to Ukitake's yearning desire for you may ultimately prove the more exquisite and lancing intimacy of all.

#bleach x reader #bleach smut #bleach #bleach x reader smut #jushiro ukitake #bleach ukitake #jūshirō ukitake #ukitake x reader #ukitake smut #ukitake x reader smut #shunsui kyoraku #kyoraku shunsui x reader #bleach kyoraku #kyoraku x reader #kyoraku x reader smut #kyoraku smut

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milliesfishes · 3 months ago

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omg you write angst so well😭😭😭 literally been sobbing while reading your latest works 😭😭😭😭😭 anyways here’s an idea: billy finally settles down with you and the two of you start a family and have a little daughter together (girl dad! billy agenda never ends!!) and right before he almost thinks he has it all the world takes you from him :(

⋆౨ৎI Can Go Anywhere I Want, Just Not Home⋆౨ৎ

[fem reader] contains: death, grief, illness, *angst* pairing: billy the kid x fem reader summary: you were the center of billy's world, and the center faded away author’s note: offering my apologies once again <3 tagging @phantomamor because they helped me come up with some of the content <3 Pinterest Board Spotify Playlist

Everything was bright, the day an endless dawn that rested its rosy cheek on the glass that covered the earth and touched the spot between reality and dreams.

You felt the stirrings of that feeling as you leaned on the porch railing, hair falling over one shoulder and tickling your wrist. The wood was grainy and smooth under your palm, and you shifted from one foot to the other, dulling the ache brought on by the activities of the day. It was a happy thing, borne of the many joys present in your life.

Off in the distance, by the oak tree that sprouted thick and wide, with leaves that blocked the sun on summer afternoons, your daughter sat among the knotted roots, playing quietly by herself. You had always said Annie was born content, evident in the way she minded herself, preferring long daylight hours spent alone. It was a touching thing, how comfortable she was within the confines of her imagination.

Bootsteps thumped on the wood of the porch, the boards creaking under Billy's weight, and then a pair of warm hands were creeping around your waist like the vines that crawled up the walls of the house, pulling you in. You smiled, leaning back and finding his body less than a breath away. He ducked his head and pressed a kiss to your cheek, the gentle prickling of love lingering long after. "How's my wife?"

Five years you'd been married, and still you could hear the way he relished the word like a sweet melting on his tongue. Billy wore his ring proudly, brandishing it for all the world to see. The gunslinger feared far and wide across the south was tied down, and he was happy for it.

You had been pleasantly surprised by how well he took to domesticity after so long on the run. He'd built this house for the two of you, every nail hammered in establishing permanence. It had been a rare luxury for him before, even when you'd met. But he'd proudly given you the brass key to your new house, sweeping you into his arms to carry you over the threshold even though you'd been married for a year at that point.

Now, standing on the porch built with your husband's own hands, sheathed in his arms, you could practically feel the love he'd siphoned into every board, every wall. Billy hadn't only built you a house, he'd built a life. All those nights holding him, promising him he wasn't ruining yours had come to fruition. It had been clear when your belly had begun to swell with his child, a promise of tomorrow. And it was clear now, as you watched that little girl hum to herself under the tree that had been a mere sapling when you'd first moved in.

The first breaths of spring were opening the world up again, sunshine kissing your skin and whispering about new beginnings. It instilled a sense of hope in you, something beautiful brimming with joy. This was your favorite time of year.

"I'm good," you responded to Billy, holding one of his hands against your stomach. "Really good."

He kissed the top of your head, swaying the two of you back and forth. "Should we go inside?" Billy nosed at your neck. "Think you need a little lovin'..."

You laughed, turning around in his arms and pressing your cheek to his chest. "With Annie out here?"

"Aw, she won't come inside 'till it's past dark and we make her." You could hear his smile in his words, and you lifted your chin, tilting your head and letting your hair brush his hands on your waist.

"Hm, maybe you're right," you murmured, reaching up and playing with his collar, straightening it out.

Billy ducked his head to catch your lips in a brief, tender kiss. He pecked your lips once after. "Just make sure to be quiet."

"I'm not the one who-oh-!" Suddenly you were being hauled up, lifted to hang over his shoulder like a sack of flour. He laughed quietly, not wanting to disturb Annie out in the distance, carrying you through the door of the house and shutting it gently. Your hair obstructed your view, and you parted the silky curtain when he bent, setting you down on your feet and grabbing your hand.

"C'mon, pretty-" Billy paused, looking at you and squeezing your palm. "Baby? You okay?"

You were frozen, eyes wide with a sudden realization of the happenings within you. Your skin was icy hot, a blizzard and a wildfire blended into a raging storm that ravaged at your chest. It tore into your bones, filled them with a cloud of dread. Something's wrong.

Billy came closer, blue eyes struck with concern as he searched yours. "Sweetheart...what-?"

Your knees buckled, weakness spreading in a swarm that enveloped your body. Now you were tumbling, poised to hit the ground before Billy's arms caught you, his voice speaking your name over and over like a prayer. "Honey...what's wrong?"

No words found you, only blackness.

The doctor was summoned quicker than Billy thought possible, and he thanked the heavens above for the man's swiftness. You insisted he stay with Annie while you were being examined, and he suspected it was for his own sake as well as your daughter's.

Annie was quiet, staring at the door you were behind. It felt ominous in that moment, and he tore his eyes from the sight. His knee was bouncing, heel of his boot tapping the floor over and over. The voices in your room were muffled, and Billy wished he hadn't listened to you.

The sun was setting now, smearing a palette of color across the sky and shadowing the clouds in hues of orange and pink. He ran a tired hand through his hair, weary already from whatever news awaited.

He reached wordlessly for his daughter, and she crawled into his lap, head resting against his chest. Billy didn't know what to say to her, and so he chose silence. He was grateful for her old-soul tendencies, but also wished she was still naive enough that she was oblivious. More than anything he wanted Annie to be able to be a kid, to be able to forget her mother's distress and go out to play.

He wasn't sure what he was expecting. The way you had collapsed so suddenly worried him beyond belief. That was the way it had all started with his mother. And now she was no more than a shadow, a memory haunting him.

When the door opened, he shooed those thoughts from his mind, standing and lifting Annie to sit on his hip. The doctor appeared, bag in hand, expression grim. He nodded once at Billy, gesturing to the room. "We'll talk in a minute."

Billy offered half a nod before rushing in to you, Annie in his arms. The sight of you nearly stopped him in his tracks. Paler than a ghost, nearly the color of the sheets you laid atop.

When you noticed them, a sweet smile brightened your face, and you reached out, beckoning. "Annie."

He set his daughter down, and she ran to you, burying her face in your chest. You hugged her tight, kissing the top of her head. "Sweet girl. Are you okay?"

Annie mumbled something Billy couldn't make out. He was still, like a statue caught in time's grip.

Nothing was going to be the same. He had that thought over and over in the next few weeks.

It was a symphony of the same scenes over and over again. Your illness took hold of you, settled into your bones and became all that had been you. That version of you was replaced with a feverish imposter, weaker than a newborn foal. You still laughed often, but it was a dull, raspy sound that panged at Billy's heart.

He clung to hope that somehow you would pull out of it. That by the grace of a miracle one day he would wake up, and you'd be looking back at him, saying you felt better.

The opposite persisted. Every time you awoke in the throes of a fever, tossing and turning until he wound his arms around you, he felt you slipping away. It pounded at his chest, an awful realization he ignored in the hopes that it would prove wrong. He shut it out, hiding his face in your hair, holding on tight and wishing, praying, pleading.

You seemed oblivious to it, though you were feeble and listless most days. Still, you smiled, hugged your daughter, kissed him. You were bedridden, but still your spirits were high as the heavens. Even now, as you read quietly beside him, thumbing through the little book with the red cover you so adored, he swore he saw glimpses of you before the sickness that had eaten away at your being.

Billy was absentmindedly stroking your side, lost in thought. He kissed your temple. "Why don'tcha rest for a bit, sweetheart? You can read more when you're better."

He reached his hand out for the book, and you waited a moment before handing it over, letting him set it on your nightstand beside the vase of dried flowers, petals withering away. They had been a gift from Annie, picked in the field not too far from the oak tree.

You settled limply against his chest, fingers rubbing up and down his stomach softly. Your quiet spoke magnitudes, things Billy wasn't sure he was ready to hear.

"I'm not going to get better," you whispered, though the quiet did nothing to dull the sting your words ensued. He felt a tide of panic begin to crash, and immediately ran the other way.

"Shh, don't say that," he murmured, squeezing your shoulder. "You'll be better in no time. Just needa rest, baby."

"Billy-" you sat up, lifting your head from his chest. He tried to pull you back down, but you shook your head. "We need to talk about this."

"No. No." Billy looked away, dread crawling over his insides. He felt as though he were in the middle of an ocean, waiting for it to swallow him up. "You have to get better. I need you-"

"You're going to be okay," you promised, taking his face in your hands and turning it back to you. "It's gonna be okay."

He was struggling for air. "It can't...I can't...how am I supposed to do a damn thing without you? I can't..." Tears were pricking at his eyes, threatening to spill over. "Baby..."

"I need you to be there for Annie. She'll have questions," you murmured, making sure he was looking at you. "She's gonna need you."

"I need you," he whispered, arms tightening around you. "I can't do this without you. I can't raise her. I-" Billy swallowed thickly. "I can't live without you."

"You still have me," you said softly, and he could see tears in your own eyes now. "You have Annie. She is me. She's got all the good parts of both of us, none of the bad."

"There were never any bad parts of you," Billy breathed, and you took in a breath, smiling in a bittersweet way.

"Promise me you'll be there for her," you said, voice firm despite your gentle hold. "Please."

"I promise," he managed, biting the side of his cheek. "Baby-" An unborn cry cut him off, and he looked down, squeezing his eyes shut. Everything he'd tried to avoid had him pinned down now, shaking his shoulders and screaming at him to wake up.

You took in a breath, pulling him closer, down so his head was on your chest. He clung to you, feeling like a child. Your fingers stroked his hair, delicately roving through his curls in an attempt to soothe. Billy only let himself cry then, tears soaking the front of your nightdress. You breathed, "Oh, Billy," and he fisted your bodice, trying not to imagine what things would be like if you were no longer here.

When you were no longer here.

He wasn't ready. How can anybody ever be ready?

Grief hunted him down, made him miss you before he was gone. It stripped the skin from his bones, buried itself into his being and filled the spot where you were. He couldn't remember how it had felt before.

You were slipping away too quickly, and he was grasping for you, milking every second he was allowed. This was a familiar notion- he'd known it before, so he'd thought. But it was different now. You were a new love, one he'd embraced wholeheartedly. He'd given up everything to be with you and done it gladly. You were the center of the life he'd built so far from the land of outlaws and wanted posters. You were epitome of everything good and pure in the world.

Had his sins truly been so unforgivable that you were now being taken from him? Was he so far from absolvable? Billy had repented with every second since he'd met you, knowing that men who kept doing bad things didn't get to keep women like you. It had all been for naught now, because you were turning into memory.

"Give Daddy extra love, okay?" you whispered to Annie, holding her in a tight hug despite your growing weakness. "He's gonna be sad for a while. Can you give him love for me?"

Annie nodded, and you kissed her forehead, squeezing her to your side one last time. You said one last soft thing to her, and she nodded, leaving your side and shutting the door behind her when she went into the other room.

When she was gone, you gave him a tired smile, one that told him everything he needed to know. Billy crawled in beside you, pulling you to lean against his chest. He felt tears wet his shirt, unsure if they were yours or his.

"I don't want to die," you whispered, the pain in your voice making him want to sink into the earth.

Billy squeezed you, tears raining into your hair. "I know. I know, angel."

"I don't want to leave you." Your hand found his, winding fingers together and clenching.

He felt the lonely rise of grief's dull ache seize him again. "I know, angel." Billy's lips parted, something he both wanted and didn't want to say lingering between them. It escaped before he could think further. "Just rest. We're...we're gonna be okay. You can sleep now. I'll hold you the whole time."

"Billy-" you were grasping, breathing faint. He could see life draining from you, your body growing heavy.

"Shh," he whispered, tears like rivers down his cheeks. He brushed them aside, sitting up and pulling you into his lap, so your head was resting against his shoulder. He was still in one piece, strong for you as he rocked you steadily, holding you tight. Love...that was what you needed right now. To know you were loved.

He wouldn't fall apart yet. Not when you were still here for now, clinging to him and holding on for every moment you could squeeze out. Billy leaned down and kissed you tenderly, trying to convey every bit of what had always been yours. His heart. "I love you."

Your body relaxed, and sunbeams spotlit the floor through the windows. He could hear birds outside, singing their merry tunes. It was the birth of summer, the sister of spring. Your essence alone existed in these few months, and it would echo at him for the rest of his days.

Billy held you close as your expression grew peaceful. The veil separating life and death was thin, and you were answering its call. He whispered over and over like a mantra. "I love you. I love you. I love you."

Your body went still.

And now he fell apart.

#billy the kid #billy the kid x reader #billy the kid fanfiction #billy the kid x you #william h bonney x reader #billy the kid 2022 #william h bonney fanfiction #william h bonney x you #billy bonney #billy the kid imagine #billy the kid fic #billy the kid fluff #tom blyth x reader #william h bonney #william h bonney imagine #william bonney #tom blyth #milliesfishes billy

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ddarker-dreams · 2 years ago

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kabukimono, you're the cutest person i've ever seen but i need to do my work. could you please come later?

"Cute? Me?”

The eccentric conveniently overlooks the part where you’ve gently asked for some time alone, which happens to be a rarity these days. There’s a lot of work to be done and only so many hours in the day. While it’s nice to have company, he’s an inquisitive guest, frequently padding over to ask how common appliances work or if you need anything. If he isn’t doing that, he’s just sitting there and staring. Watching you with an intensity that makes it difficult to concentrate.

Most days, you can’t bring yourself to get upset because of how sweet he is, but a deadline looms over your head.

It seems the latter half of your words finally hit him. He rolls up his sleeves and leans forward, stars practically twinkling in his eyes.

“You’ve done so much for me, I can’t just leave you to do everything on your own. Tell me how I can help and I’ll do it. Would you like a snack? Some water? A more comfortable cushion?”

You shake your head, mustering up the kindest smile you can offer. “That— that’s all very nice of you to offer, but I think I just need some space to concentrate.”

“Space...” He trails off, his shoulders and head slumping. “Oh.”

He looks so defeated, so crestfallen, it tugs at your heart and injects your being with guilt. You have the power to make him blossom or wilt at your words. It’s a harrowing realization, this absolutely sway you have over him can’t be good for either of you. Still, what are you to do? Such a precious sapling must be tended to with care. It’s bound to get better with time. You just need to extend some extra grace until then.

“Please, disregard what I said. Some water sounds nice, if you wouldn’t mind.”

He immediately perks up and sets out to fulfill the task you’ve given him.

“Yes, of course! I’ll get started on dinner as well! Just please... please don’t make me go. I really will do anything.”

You try not to shiver when his voice drops to a near inaudible whisper.

“Anything at all.”

#yandere scaramouche x reader #yandere genshin impact x reader #yandere x reader #interactions #my stuff #answered #Anonymous

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bonefall · 1 year ago

Text

Moorland Research Notes

I usually let these sit in my drafts because they're kinda messy, but no one actually knows anything about moorland, including myself shortly before starting this deep dive. So I'm just going to post this in the hopes that it's useful in some way

This post is about moorland in the UK, I have not done any research into moorland in other places, and then I focused more specifically on lowland heath.

Feel free to use this information for anything you so desire, and check out the sources I put at the bottom of this list if you'd like to learn more. I really hope this helps out WindClan Fans in particular

I do plan to condense what I've learned and chosen into a "Welcome to BB!WindClan!" type post at some point, but this is a REALLY broad post on what moorland is.

What is moorland?

Moorland is a broad term that lumps together several completely unique biomes, most of which are partially or completely reliant on the management of human beings. They are defined by low-growing flora and acidic soils, which makes them difficult for non-specialist plants to grow in.

These can be sorted further into upland or lowland, dry or wet.

Because many types of moorland are dominated by heathers, they are also called heathlands. Though the terms Moor and Heath are sometimes used interchangeably (and this is where a lot of confusion comes from), usually, Moor refers to upland/wet, and Heath refers to lowland/dry.

I have to stress a that LOT of the confusion is coming from this. Heather will grow in both, and the terms get used interchangeably, but an upland/wet moor is FUNDAMENTALLY different from a lowland/dry heath, down to the very soil.

Most specialists will open up an explanation by defining how they're using the Moor/Heath distinction, and will stick to those terms, but just keep in mind that in casual language, ALL of these biomes get called moors, and places without any heather will get called heath.

They can also touch. There are locations where upland moor slopes into lowland heath, or upland heath kisses lowland moor, and there can be very special species that exist in the transitional space between these areas. This too is yuri.

It is not a prairie. It is not a savanna. Please for the love of god stop portraying moorland as prairies and savannas

lots of purple. why he ourple? heathers and purple moorgrass.

Common heather is also called ling, flowery bell heathers are sometimes called erica, and gorse can be called whin or furze

Maritime heath, dune heath, blanket bog, upland moor, transitional upland heath... these are all frequently lumped under the same term even though they are very different.

How are moorlands managed?

Above 700 meters of altitude and in harsh weather conditions, you get montane heath. Near coastlines, you can find maritime heath. These are the only two that are completely "natural" and require no human management.

In wet moors, the elements will beat the vegetation down into peat. Above the peat is turf, the top layer which grows the visible flora. Peat = below, Turf = above. Peat has historically been used as a fuel, and if that bottom layer catches fire, IT IS DISASTROUS.

Because of this, most upland moors (which are usually wet and PACKED with peat) are managed primarily through grazing. There are even breeds of sheep and cattle who have been specially bred to thrive in upland moors-- such as the iconic highland cow. (Though overgrazing can be a problem, too.)

Sheep are used to graze back the heather (sometimes called ling), and in good modern practice, goats are brought out along with the flock to eat pioneering shrubs and saplings. Pigs are also used to control bracken and combat ex-pine plantations with scattered needles, because of their ability to churn soil.

However, controlled burns are still done in some circumstances and when required (LIKE BEFORE A HEATWAVE). Because of the serious danger, it's considered inferior to good grazing management. It's done carefully, in controlled patches, both to not set the underlayer of peat on fire and to make sure there is differently-aged patches of flora in one area to support different species of animals.

If peat catches on fire, it will burn for days or weeks... and can even smoulder underground after you THINK it's been put out.

In DRY LOWland heath, proper burning is common. Gorse and heather grows strong, woody, and flammable, and the thin layer of peat below can combine to devastating results when a wildfire does eventually break out. Large swaths of dry heather and gorse is an ecological powderkeg, even if it was only growing on mineral soil.

Worse, the older heather gets, the woodier it becomes. Woody heather can cause high-temperature fires that absolutely devastates new growth, leading to a slower recovery and causing a controlled burn to become uncontrolled real fast.

Burns are typically conducted in winter, when it's cold, and grazing animals are deployed in summer.

Cutting is also important in lowland management, literally cutting out squares of turf to expose the ground. This is good for mason bees, specifically.

Moorland. Is. Flammable. Fire risk = HIGH.

If you do not manage the moorland, the moorland will manage YOU. with FIRE.

Do NOT set the peat layer on fire. Whatever you do, do NOT let the peat get set on fire. PEAT FIRE BAD.

The controlled burning of moorland is "swaling", or a "muirburn."

Pigs and goats have special abilities when used in grazing management

Pigs are a tactical nuke

Sheep will graze heather a lot harder than cattle, causing grassy "sward". They should be kept away from it in winter.

MOORLAND IS NOT GRASSLAND. Sward BAD.

Cattle will graze moorgrass a lot harder than sheep and bite back any sheep-induced sward, but trample the soil with their heavy hooves.

Bones tell me about the funny cat environments

Victoria Holmes (the original writer of Warrior Cats, for those who have just walked in, still in your bathrobe and perhaps comically eating some sort of breakfast bagel, on a cat giving a detailed ecological lecture to a bunch of other cats) has spoken about how she based the environment of the Forest Territories on New Forest, Hampshire UK.

[ID: New Forest's heathland on a misty morning. It's dominated by common heather with a few sparse trees, and a New Forest Pony grazing alone.]

That means that WindClan's moor was a lowland heath, characterized by sandy soils with excellent drainage. This is consistent with the thin layer of peat, deeper layers of sandy soil and clay (as encountered by tunnelers), and lush vegetation that's seen in DOTC and Tallstar's Revenge.

If that's not enough evidence, it's also described after its destruction in these terms;

New Forest boasts some of the widest swaths of well-managed lowland heath in the entire UK. It's been managed collectively for hundreds of years, and exists in tandem with bogs and old-growth forest for miles. The heath is just as important as the trees, here!

In TNP, the forest is tragically bulldozed to create suburbs. While they were at it, they also bulldozed the geography of Great Britain because, suddenly, there is a MOUNTAIN in Southeastern England; a region notoriously flatter than the Onceler's ass

So once the Clan cats get to the Lake territories, we could be dealing with a completely different biome. They might have gone from dry, lowland heath, to wet, upland moor.

However, descriptions of the new territory are scarce, to put it lightly. In spite of the Lake Territory being the setting for the past 20 years, WindClan's land is rarely shown. When we do get a glimpse of it, like in Crowfeather's Trial, we only get told about the presence of certain species such as gorse. Because of there being no tunneling, we don't know what's exactly below the surface, either.

Occasionally though we are made aware of the presence of "moorgrass" (possibly Molinia Caerulea) and the smell of peat, pointing towards it probably being upland moor. The bigger question is actually where all the sheep are? There should be a lot of sheep here, but instead, there only seems to be horses.

Aaaaand lastly before I close out on canon material, Lungwort.

Lungwort is a herb that becomes a plot device in A Vision of Shadows. ShadowClan becomes sick with a variant of greencough, and it is said that Lungwort would be its only cure. However, it "only grows in WindClan" and the leader, Onestar, has refused to let them have this medicine.

But lungwort doesn't grow on moorland. ESPECIALLY not wet, upland moor, which we might maybe possibly be dealing with now.

Lungwort is a FOREST plant, it needs the absolute opposite conditions of a moorland. It requires moist but well-drained ground, FERTILE soil, and full or partial shade. There's no way that WindClan has it and ShadowClan doesn't, OR its neighbor ThunderClan, in the WOODS, who Onestar has no power over.

It would also poison a cat but honestly 75% of the plants they use in canon would also do that, so, whatever.

What they SHOULD have gone for is great mullein which prefers full sun and well-drained soils, so it could feasibly be found best in some parts of WindClan, regardless of which sort of moor or heath primarily makes up their territory.

What sorts of plants are found in moorlands?

In moorlands, you'll find plants that can withstand poor soil quality and full sun. In upland moors, they also have to be hardy in frequent heavy rains and high winds. Because it has conditions that so few plants are able to handle, moorland is chock-full of specialists and unique species that aren't found anywhere else!

Historically, moorland could not be used for agriculture exactly because of this. With the invention of artificial fertilizers and introduction of (invasive) pines from America, moorland is under serious threat. Even if it's just next to a pine plantation, the trees will attempt to spread.

COMMON HEATHER, also called Ling, is the big bad boy associated with most moorland, and used for a bajillion different things. First of all, it was used in construction for thatching. Second of all, it can be used as a yellow dye, especially on wool. Third, honey made from heather pollen is as thick as jelly. It's found on all sorts of moorland, and is an extremely hardy species.

BELL HEATHER, sometimes called Erica, is more commonly associated with lowland heaths. It's one of the best flowers for pollinators in the entire world, and attracts tons of insects.

GORSE, also called Whin or Furze, smells overwhelmingly like coconut. It is also covered in wicked thorns. It's highly flammable and can burn ridiculously hot, making it excellent to collect as kindle.

PURPLE MOORGRASS is associated with upland moor, but will grow basically anywhere nothing else could. It's scary hardy, surviving in acidic soil down to a PH of 2 (THAT IS THE SAME LEVEL AS YOUR STOMACH JUICE), and can grow as tall as 4 feet (and even taller, apparently, next to its bestie girls heather and gorse).

In heath, tormentil, milkwort, and heath bedstraw are indicator herbs, and wavy hair-grass, bristle bent, and vernal grasses are found here and there.

PLEASE remember that moorland is not grassland. When grasses go from sparse to common, it's a very bad sign. It means the soil is losing its acidity, and converting into a different biome.

Bramble, bracken, nettles, perennial ryegrass, and broadleaf plantain are some of the species that can indicate that a heath is becoming a grassland. A few patches or examples are fine, but if they're eating into the gorse/heather/moorgrass, it's time to call in some management.

There's also the fascinating, parasitic plant called dodder. Dodder likes to twirl around heather before suffocating it to death. Cool plant! I don't know where else to mention dodder. I just think it's neat.

Threats to Moorland

I mentioned the problems in passing through this whole post, but to restate, these are some of the major problems that moorland faces.

AFFORESTATION: When trees are added.

[ID: A sitka spruce plantation on upland moor in Scotland, followed by a clip of Markiplier who condemns it in no uncertain terms.]

American pines, such as the douglas fir and sitka spruce don't belong here. These are commercial plantations and they exist to make money, but are touted as "eco friendly" because uneducated rubes think 1 Tree = 1 Ecology Point. They provide diddly or squat to native wildlife, destroy valuable moorland which can negatively impact carbon capture, and let fools pat themselves on the back for doing nothing but put government money into a logging company's pocket.

(there are also only 3 native conifers to Great Britain-- the scotch pine, the common juniper, and the yew. All others are introduced.)

But even worse than being a wooden blight, these are wooden blights that spread. If there's a plantation nearby, it WILL begin to encroach on the surrounding moorland, and the traditional sheep and cattle will not eat the saplings. GOATS are being added to herds in modern grazing management to combat this new problem.

The native birches (silver and downy) plus the scotch pine will also move in when moorland is not managed! They are pioneer species, which success the moor into secondary woodland.

OVERBURNING: When moorland is burned too much.

Even if you don't set the peat on fire and cause an even bigger problem, too much burning is bad for the biome as well. This is often done to serve hunters, who want to perpetually keep common heather in the youngest state possible to support grouse populations... and grouse populations alone.

Properly managed moorland will be burned in sections, NOT all at once, so that there's a healthy mix of plants in different ages to provide shelter and food to the animals that live in the environment. Too much burning will decimate the insect population, and prevent peat buildup.

("Hold on Elder Bones, why is peat good?" Carbon capture and soil acidity! It's super efficient at combating global warming, and peaty soils will prevent the moor from quickly succeeding into a grassland.)

NUTRIENT ENRICHMENT: De-acidifying the soil and making the soil welcoming to other species

Specifically from dog and horse droppings, but also from the addition of fertilizers. The biggest thing that can be a problem here is how conservationists try to balance public access to these spaces with the "recreation pressure" from having too many visitors.

SOURCES

I have had to do SO MUCH READING. OH my god, this was not easy research, please appreciate this big, beautiful list of resources I am giving to you

GREAT BRITISH LIFE: A really good intro to heathland (This article was written by Katie Piercy from the Cheshire Wildlife Trust)

WILDLIFE TRUST: Heathland and Moorland, Moorland, Lowland Heath, Cheshire Heath, Bell Heather, The Roaches

BUGLIFE: Upland heath as it relates to insect populations (website contains insect-centric guides to many unique UK biomes)

NEW FOREST: Heathland information and history

NATIONAL TRUST: Bickerton Hill and the Restoration Work

WIKIPEDIA: The Roaches, Yorkshire Dales, Heath, Moorland (listen kids, wikipedia is always a great place to start. Just make sure to double-check the claims you see there.)

COUNTRY LIFE: A flowery article that describes the North York Moors (this one's just really pleasant!)

AN ACTUAL LOWLAND HEATH ECOLOGIST: Dr. Sophie Lake's Presentation for the NPMS (This is the most detailed and proper source on this list, if you want to learn some serious info, PLEASE check this one out)

#Moorland #Lowland Heath #WindClan #hello everyone I hyperfixated on this for 12 hours straight

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saradika · 2 years ago

Text

— somewhere only we know

[series masterlist]

din djarin x f!reader

rated e - 4.6k

Tags: spoilers for s3 finale, established relationship, mini fix-it, cottagecore vibes, multiple pov, possessive!din, found family, fluff, angst, cabin smut, references to masturbation and oral, manual restraints, PiV, creampie

A/N - after that finale, I had an urge to write a part iii to the mini neighbor!din series. 💖 Massive thank you to @rescuethewretched for some perfect inspiration with her post, along with being so kind as to beta this!

That seed of want had been planted on Sorgan. Cracking him open and nestling it deep inside.

But he had smothered it, pushing it down. Strapping the armor over the hole it had burrowed in.

Now, with time - it had found life.

After everything - a new life is built on Nevarro.

It takes some time to rebuild. But like before - when the land had just been desert and barren flats, strength had come with it. The sense of community.

Banding together to fit each brick back into place. Repairing what you could, salvaging what had crumbled under the blasts that had reigned down. Spreading that green again - letting it wind into gardens, throughout the streets again.

Karga has another gift for the man who had saved the town. The best bandaid he can offer, materials for a new home - some kilometers away from where the rubble of the old remained.

In that space deeded to the Mandalorians, nestled between the lava flats and Bulloch Canyon.

Days spent mapping the area, before Din picked a spot. Where a small, green-leafed tree already flourished. No longer near the hot springs - but there's a scattering of small ponds with chirping frogs.

Remote - the peek of Nevarro just visible when he turns towards the hills.

It feels safe. It's his.

You are there - helping him get settled in, planning out the garden - for a few weeks before he asks you to stay.

It’s no more than that one word.

Murmured out in the early morning, as you try to slip from his bed. A warm, bare hand wrapping around your wrist - pulling you back under for another few hours.

One night, turning into another.

Until one morning you realize it's been days since you've returned to the small apartment near the trade district, where you had been staying. While the place where you used to live was cleaned up, examined to see what if the structure could be salvaged.

That most of your stuff was already there.

Boxes brought over each time you go into town, things inside eventually finding their way throughout the cabin. Working together to fill the space with things that feel like him.

For the first time, being able to choose. A soft, hidden smile as he explores his preferences - finding an overstuffed chair in one of the shops. A groan as he sinks into it, gloves sliding over the armrests.

It sits in his small living room now. It gets used - in the evenings, in the early mornings.

Memories made, with each moment.

And something else begins to grow, during those hours spent together. Not just the reaching varos saplings, and the neat lines of behot - the seeds brought back by his clan. Gifted and carefully cultivated, with tender fingers.

Sprouting from the flats as time passes, and just as you learn about this new life - you learn more about him.

You find out what those words mean. Picking up the way in which he says them - fondly, whispered in quiet, intimate moments.

Only for you, when you walk through the city together.

Mesh'la. Beautiful. Cyar'ika. Sweetheart.

It sends your own heart tripping and tumbling, each and every time you hear them.

There was one you still didn't know. The one the Mandalorian called Paz had called you, when he found the two of you together.

A low chuckle, when he had visited a few weeks ago - when you quietly asked him what it had meant.

"Ask him yourself, ad'ika." He tells you, a broad hand thumping against your shoulder.

But, he does help you - in the end. Teaching you words that you've been practicing on your own. Still clumsy on your tongue, murmured when you're alone.

Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum.

You'll give them to Din, someday.

When it's perfect.

Because that's what he deserves.

———

It still feels strange, waking up in a space that isn’t moving. That dull ache in his neck and hips slowly fading - no longer sleeping in the pilots chair.

He never thought he’d miss the tiny bunk in the Crest so much, but that was before he had slept all night in a starfighter.

Now, he sleeps in a nest of pillows. Soft sheets and layers of folded blankets. A place that stays put, standing firm and steady.

Slowly filling with things he can call his.

That seed of want had been planted on Sorgan. Cracking him open and nestling it deep inside.

He had been a different man back then. Not ready. But he had still thought a little too long about the offer. Wondering, and wishing.

You and your boy could have a good life.

He could be a child for a while.

Wouldn't that be nice?

It had been.

But he had smothered it, pushing it down. Strapping the armor over the hole it had burrowed in.

Now, with time - it had found life. Much like the grass that has started to push from the flats, growing thick and lush. Slowly spreading, until there’s a blanket to sit on.

To enjoy.

To calm his own. To fill with things with meaning, instead of pure function. Having to pair his belongings down to just the essentials - things that were easy to carry.

He’s found things from his old life, bringing them here. A crate, pulled from storage. A box, there - still sitting unopened.

Finding moments to unpack, in-between time spent under the sun. Making lists of things they still need, things to pick up from the marketplace.

It's in one of those small crates that Grogu finds it. An older memory - something the Child had taken with him on his training. Had kept close to his heart, while they were apart.

Clutched in his tiny fist, held out for his father. A little point with the tip of a claw, through the open door.

Where you bend over the neat rows of flowers, blooming in the sun. Clipping a few to bring in, like you did in the mornings.

Din hadn’t been sure, at first. Had wanted to fill the plots of tilled land with something practical. Grains, maybe. Tall stalks of golden-eared corn.

“We’re the only ones out here.” You had laughed, “We’re not exactly short on space, Din.”

You hadn’t seen the soft curl of a smile as his head had ducked. Yielding.

Later - alone - he had admired the plucked bouquet on the small table they shared. Taking the briefest moment to lift his helmet. Inhaling the layers - fruity and light, filling the space with more colors than he had seen in a long time.

Grogu waves the piece again, tugging him back from the memory.

"You think so?" Din asks, taking it from him.

It fits between his orange-tipped fingers. Thinking he understands his son’s meaning. That maybe, it’s been something he’s been thinking about, too.

He'll find a new cord, something more suitable.

Saving it - until he is ready.

———

It seems to suit him. Having someone to look after. That acceptance of their enduring bond - something that had always been there, that he had just hesitated with putting a name to.

How Grogu seems to be more capable than ever, but how there's still those muscles that bunch in Din's back, as he prepares to reach out, to offer a helping hand.

Openly worrying, like a father.

Maybe it's that acknowledgment that knocks something loose. Allowing him to finally welcome the things he truly wants, instead of rejecting or running from them.

Putting down roots somewhere, after years of calling hyperspace his home.

Maybe even to lean into them. Moments and things that he's never had before. No longer leaving for a bounty all alone.

No - now he has someone waving him off, a kiss pressed against the curve of his helmet. He has a "come back safe" and a "thinking of you" to hold close to his chest while they're gone.

A voice at the other end of the comm, when he calls.

Someone waiting for him to get back, happy and smiling.

He has you.

The recklessness fades. That foolhardy rushing in for a bounty, depending on past experiences and instinct to carry him through to the other side.

He tells himself it's because of the kid, when he slows down. When he is more careful of his choices when Captain Teva comms.

But maybe, he does it for himself, too.

For the first time in his life.

Bringing him back here, every time. Grogu tucked and sleeping against his chest as he arrives home after dark. The stars above shining down on the little cabin.

The starfighter touching down on the landing pad, moved some ways off from the house. Far enough that it doesn't rattle the tidy kitchen when he takes off, far enough that it doesn't wake you with an early departure.

Stepping down onto familiar soil as he climbs from the cockpit. So certain that you'd be in bed, already dreaming.

But there's a light on, he can see it from here. A golden beacon, calling to him to the place he now calls home.

Unconsciously, his steps quicken. Bringing him closer, until he can see your silhouette through the opened window.

On another night, he might scold - unable to the help the worry. Telling you to keep that window closed. To keep yourself safe.

But tonight, all he can focus on is you. Seeing now the clothes you wear, as you read - waiting up for him.

Knowing when it's dark and his nose is burying in your neck, that it will be your sweet scent perfuming the clothes that he can tell you're borrowing.

Mixing, melding together.

Layered, in a way that is impossible to untangle.

———

There’s the soft swish of the front door opening, but you wait patiently. Listening to the long-memorized path, a he moves throughout the small cabin.

Storing his rifle by the front door. The shuffle as he removes his boots, another hiss as the small side room is opened. His son tucked carefully and lovingly into the tiny bed.

The slow cadence of his steps, as he is slowly brought back to you.

Already smiling, when he fills the doorway.

He always seemed to do that. Encompass this small space you share. His armor making him thick and broad, and you can never help the little leap your heart does - rising up to your throat - when he leans over to to grab something.

Caging you in against the counter - whether on accident or purpose, you’re not sure. You think on purpose, judging by the short buzz of breath, when your eyes so unconsciously tip up to find his. Hidden away, behind the visor.

Always leading to something else. There’s lots of places you’ve found out here - places that aren’t so easily stumbled upon.

You’re already pushing up to go to him, your body melding against his. A long-held sigh releasing from his lungs, and his shoulders relax.

As you lead him to the bed - as he lets your hands brace on his chest, until his shoulders are pressing against the mattress.

Until you’re climbing on, after.

This is what you think about, when he’s gone.

The familiarity of your fingers, as they pluck at hidden buckles. The careful way you remove each piece - setting the shining armor in the woven basket at the end of the bed.

It’s second nature now, and the way you move so easily thrills you. Knowing that you know him in a way that no one else has.

Knowing that he can say the same, about you.

Each piece has its own place, as his hands rest on your thighs. Gloves removed the second he was inside, fingers tracing paths on equally bare skin.

Until it’s just his helmet that remains, the softest glint of the stars off the shining visor as his head tilts upward.

“Do you want me to close the blinds?” You murmur.

It’s dark. More than enough for some, but you’ve come know him. Respecting his beliefs, and are already rising to cut the light from above off completely.

His hands tighten on your thighs - voice buzzing low though the vocoder.

“No.”

A pause, as his hands swoop. Finding yours and squeezing. Guiding them to his helmet.

“Not tonight.”

It makes your stomach flip, the words already on the tip of your tongue, “Are you sure? I can-”

You can close your eyes, like before. Could wear a blindfold - anything that makes him comfortable.

But instead, his fingers are mapping yours. A soft hiss as you both lift the helmet - before you’re leaning over him, resting it carefully in its place on the table next to the bed.

Then, he’s pulling you down. A rough groan in his throat as your lips meet his, as you smile. Unable to help the giddy grin, the fingers that brush through soft curls.

Reacquainting your mouth with his, making up for the week that has passed. Soft and chaste - growing deeper when his hand spans the back of your neck.

The other pressing between your shoulder blades, until your body melts against his again.

Still broad-shouldered, without the armor. Still filling a good part of the bed - a fixture in this cabin.

Your fingers make quick work of the flightsuit, even as your mouth slots with his.

More zippers and snaps that you know well. Rough canvas giving way to warm skin, his hands joining yours as he pulls his arms from the sleeves.

Rolling off him, just for a moment. While he shucks the lower half from him - before he’s pulling you back on top.

Nestling himself between your thighs. Hard and thick, the evidence of how much he missed you. Mutual huffs of breath as your hips rock - only the cloth of your underwear separates you.

His hands wander then - fingers brushing from shoulder, to neck. Sweeping and dipping across your front, down between your breasts. Imagining something only he can see.

As he wonders if it’s time.

The thoughts unraveling as his fingers drop instead, to pluck at the ties of the tunic you wear.

Loosening them, so he can lean upward. His turn now, to strip the layers from you. Fingertips pushing the fabric from your shoulder, before it’s tugged over your head.

The moon and stars spilling streaks against skin, as you peel off the last piece. Until you’re bared fully, feeling the weight of his gaze dragging over you.

Fingers still twisted in the fabric, before it’s dropped off the edge of the bed. Tracing over your curves after, feeling where the goosebumps rise. The taut peaks of your breasts, under his thumbs.

You sigh, breathed out into the night. Missing him, wanting him, aching for him.

This slowness is another thing you’ve discovered. A countdown of time no longer lingering about his head. A ever-growing list of things he had to do on those short visits, trying to fit as much time with you in-between as he could.

Pounding into you, the breath pushed from your lungs. Leaving you gasping as his helmet presses against your forehead. Gone - the next morning.

No, now - he takes his time. Slow and steady and winding you up. Until the frenzied movement comes from pure need, chasing the release. So wrapped up you forget everything else except the pleasure.

You rise up on your knees to take him. Can feel the thudding between your thighs, the dampness that glistens on sensitive skin.

His hands tighten instead. Rocking you forward instead, until your slick cunt slides against his cock. A rumble you can feel, as your hands splay flat across his chest.

“Din.” You protest, trying to move again.

Those hands, still gripping on.

“What did you do while I was gone?”

If the helmet was on, you’d never hear the soft tremor. The rasp of his words, that edge that is so soften masked.

It has you blinking, pulling you out of the haze.

“I, uh-,” You lick your lips, distracted by his question. The way you can feel the twitch of his cock, when you grind yourself against him, “I worked.”

A tiny smile as you add, “And I missed you, of course.”

He hums at that, as your hips make another pass. As you make another attempt to rise, your hands pressing against his chest.

Din still holds you steady.

“Did you miss me at night?” He asks, a knowing tone to his words, “In our bed?”

You can feel your cheeks burn - as a sweet embarrassment, and then a heat, floods through you. Fingers curling into fists, pressing against his sternum.

Our bed.

If the question had been yours, you would have said his bed. But instead, he shares this space with his words, making it just as much yours.

“Yes.” You breathe, and he groans. Pushing up against you, grinding his cock against your slick center.

“Show me.”

There’s an expectancy to his request that has you squirming. The slightest hesitance, before your fingers slide down, across his chest, then stomach. Letting him feel their path, waiting until the last possible moment to lift them.

Brushing the tips against the head of his straining cock, as you find your neglected clit. Lightly dragging a fingers across the sensitive nub, finally getting a bit of that friction you’ve been aching for.

Your moan is a soft, drawn out “oh”. Laced with relief, as your fingers press and circle. The other hand still braced on him, as you shift into your own touch.

His own fingers flutter. Petting over your breasts and down your hips. A thumb brushing across your mound, the breadth of his hands framing where yours works.

The starlight shines more on you. He can see glimpses of your fingers, the part of your lips as you pant. His own fingers joining yours, following the tight patterns.

“What did you think about?” He rasps, as your eyes close.

Your chin tipping down, your breath now ragged. He always knows just how to touch you.

Knows your body as well as you know the straps of his beskar armor, and can take you apart just as easily.

“You.” You whimper, your free hand gripping at his hip, anchoring yourself, “How much I wanted you. How it’s never-“

A gasp, as the pleasure flickers through you like lightning. Starting in your core and radiating outwards.

“N-never as good. When you’re not here.”

His exhale is sharp, the grip on your waist loosening. As he guides your hips against his. Still sliding against him, smearing your arousal on his cock.

Not sure how much longer he can draw this out, not with you saying such pretty things.

Swallowing as your own question comes, almost surprising yourself with your boldness.

“Did you think of me? While you were gone?”

In the darkness you miss the quick, sharp pull of teeth and lips. The growling groan that catches in his throat, as his fingers still circle.

“Yes,” He rasps, “Always.”

The answer has you clenching around nothing. Needy and desperate to hear more.

Barely managing to ask, “What did you think about?”

His fingers leave you, and you mourn them. Gathering at your waist again - lifting you this time. Angling his cock so it kisses against your lips, nudges against your entrance.

“This,” He growls, as he tugs you down.

Your moan is loud as he fills you. That familiar and sweet stretch as you take him in a long, fluid thrust. A stiffness to your shoulders as you sit, your ass flush to his hips.

His cock shoved as deep as he can, stealing your breath and words. Breathing the air back in as you slowly begin to ride him. Shallow bounces as your knees dig into the bedspread.

It’s hazy, in the dark. Near featureless - but as you move, there’s the hint of something. The curve of his nose. The scruff of his jaw, dark and just starting to pepper grey.

Features you’ve tracing with your fingertips, in those evenings before. Pressing a kiss to against the curve of his cheek, instead of the sharp curve of beskar.

You don’t know that he does this, during the day. Far enough out that there’s rarely uninvited guests.

Rising early, as the rest of the cabin sleeps. Feeling the dew-sprinkled grass beneath bare toes, as the morning breeze rustles his hair.

A stolen moment, before the day begins.

Dreaming of sharing one with you, one day.

Until then, he settles for this. Your soft touches and patience and the silky darkness of the night curling around you both.

Enveloping you, with the roll of your hips - your hands braced on his chest. Pushing down with your hands now as you rise up, the soft heat that he sinks into when you drop back down.

Taking him to the hilt, again and again.

Slowly picking up speed, finding your rhythm as his fingers find the soft space between your thighs again.

Dragging you towards something that licks red-hot in your belly. Fueled by the teasing - the knowledge that your swiftly budding feelings might not be all so different that his.

It feels like too much. The flutter of your heart, you eyes close so you can hear the soft grit of his words.

“Feels so fucking good.”

“Stars, cyar’ika. Keep going, just like that.”

It has your warning sticking in your throat, as those two, broad fingers tease at you.

“Din-”

You like saying it, but not nearly as much as he loves hearing it.

“Din, I’m so close.”

“I know.” He husks, as his hips rock up to meet you. Feeling how you clench down around him, how your rhythm has slowed to a sloppy grind.

That press of his fingers winding you up and up and up. An invisible string tugging you toward him, until his mouth is pressing open-mouthed against your neck.

Whatever your response was disappears as you fall, and then shatter. The sound coming out as a sharp gasp instead, one that he can feel as his lips suck a mark against your skin.

Just a senseless rutting of your hips now, as you chase the sweet pulse between your thighs. The way he feels as you clench around him, as his fingers never seem to slow.

Robbing you of your strength, the pleasure that scatters throughout your limbs replaced with a warm, liquid lead. Weighing you down as your body sinks against his, your face curling against his neck.

Remembering how to breathe again, coaxed by a calloused hand that smooths down your back. The shift of his hips that remind you of where you are - your focus on what you want so much more clear, now.

You want to feel him. Want to make him feel just as good as you did right now.

He lets you ride him. Until your arms are trembling with the effort - still coming down from your high.

Pushing himself up until he’s sitting, his back pressed against the metal headboard. His hands moving to grip the underside of your thighs - tugging you up just the slightest bit, until he’s doing the work for you.

Thrusting up, dragging his cock against your walls. Pounding into you as his skin claps against your, each pushing a breath from his chest.

Your arms wrap around his shoulders, fingers twisting in his hair. Fingers biting into your skin, enough to pinch. The cadence of his breathing growing rougher, shorter - until those hands are moving your your waist.

Pulling you down, holding you there, as he pushes deep one last time. His groan seeming loud in this small room, wordless as it echoes in your ears.

As his hips rut against yours - try to work himself even deeper as he spills into you. Palms press into your back, keeping you flush against him, as a nose nudges against your neck.

The warm exhale of his breath eventually slowing, a kiss placed against the spot where your heart thuds in your throat.

After, you curl up in his arms. A smile pressed into bare skin as the evening wind cools your sweat-dewed skin. Listening to the croak of frogs and the rustle of leaves as you wait for the thudding of your hearts to slow.

Your mind is already drifting to tomorrow. To all the things you want to do together, all the questions to want to ask about the latest bounty, even as your eyes grow heavy.

While his is placed more in the present.

Knowing that right now…

There’s no place he’d rather be.

———

The sun breaks on a gorgeous summer day.

It mirrors your mood, as your steps take you out of the small cabin. Through the garden you’ve built together.

It feels like such a luxury, to call this place your own. To have something that feels like it belongs to you, that you’re not just staying there - mingling with the ghosts and memories of before.

It fills a space inside you that’s been empty for some time. Pieces finally clicking into place, as you bask in that sense of belonging.

A small oasis in the rolling planes of desert and earth. Far enough away from town that sometimes, it truly feels like it’s just the three of you.

You had asked Din, one time. If he had minded the quiet, living in such solitude.

“Don’t you miss it?” You had asked, “How things were, before?”

He had been sitting next to you, then. In that little spot just outside the door, a leg kicked up against the a thick piece of railing.

Leaning back against the wall, arms shifting over his chest as he had answered without hesitating.

“No.” Din has rasped, “Not at all.”

The memory makes you smile.

The slightest ache to your knees when you bend down to pluck a ruby-red tomato from its vine.

The remnants of your thorough second welcoming home, while in the sonic that morning. The slightest wobble in your step, from when he had returned the favor, back in the bed.

A hand shielding your eyes when you hear the sets of footsteps behind you. The basket tucked under your arm as you crouch to greet Grogu as he coos, something small and brown clutched in his fist.

Held out, dropped into your cupped hands.

It wasn’t unusual that they brought something back. A small trinket when there was time. More seeds, for the garden.

But there was something about it that makes you slow down, as you reach inside. A fluttering in your stomach, an anticipation.

Something about Din’s posture at he waits, some steps away. Strung-tight - missing the cock of his hips, the bend of his knee.

It glints in the light, as you tip it into your palm. Polished to a pretty shine, though there are areas that are still darkened with age and time.

A necklace, the silver charm dangling at the end of a leather cord. A long skeleton face with curving horns, that looks familiar.

The low voice comes, breaking through your thoughts.

“We wanted you to have this.”

Din hovers near you, hands braced on his hips. Grogu peeks up with flickering ears and bright eyes.

“It’s beautiful.” You tell him truthfully, a thumb sweeping over the metal. A weight to it, a solidness filled with memories and meanings.

“It’s the symbol of the Mandalorians. A Mythosaur.” He explains - tone flat and patient from behind his helmet.

Masking the tones that would color them, if his helmet had been removed. Hiding the full meaning of his gift.

“If anyone comes by while we’re away, they won’t harm you. You’ll be protected.”

It warms you.

That he still worries, even after danger has passed.

Your head ducks as you slip the cord around your neck. Adjusting it carefully with slow fingers.

“Thank you.” You tell them both.

Brimming with something too tender to name, as the pendant rests against your chest.

It feels right, resting there. Against your skin. So close to the place that pounds so steadily for him.

It feels like a promise.

Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum - I love you ("I will know you forever.") / mesh’la - beautiful / cyare & cyar’ika - sweetheart / ad’ika - little one

behot - a citrusy herb that is native to Mandalore

varos - a fruit native to Mandalore, known for its velvety aroma when ripe

Thank you so much for reading! So happy to write something sweet and hopeful for Din. 💖

#din djarin x you #din djarin x f!reader #din djarin x reader #din djarin x female reader #din djarin smut #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin imagine #mandalorian spoilers #mando s3 spoilers

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wrathofrats · 5 months ago

Note

mommy zeph and daddy aether

discuss

(♡)

Hi icon I def got carried away as usual

Listen listen listen listen I just think that they need a sweet submissive mountain between them to share.

Calling aether daddy is completely on purpose, mountain may be taller than him but god aether makes him feel small. Put him on his knees in front of them just for aether to show Zeph how well mountain listens to daddy, how easily mountain slips into it, aether doesn’t even have to prompt him.

It’s sweet, mountains head comes up to zephs chest even when he’s sat back on his knees like this. Doe eyed as he looks up at the air ghoul expectantly, hoping to be praised for his natural obedience. Zephyr just cards their hand through his hair while they look at aether with almost a proud look in their eye, like they’re impressed by the display.

“Didn’t realize you had trained him so well aeth” Zeph practically purrs, leaning against him with a smile. It’s teasing, looking down at mountain who is still kept still by zephyrs hand.

Aether leans down first to encapsulate zephyrs lips on his. It’s slow, soft at first, like he’s trying to show off for mountain who is desperately attempting not to squirm watching the two make out in front of him. Aethers hands grab at Zeph to pull them closer against him, deepening their kiss. Mountain can hear the soft sighs and moans from Zeph as aether presses his thigh between their legs. A true sight to watch that mountain would be much more grateful for if he wasn’t already feeling fuzzy in the head just from aether making him call him daddy In front of Zeph.

It’s truly an accident that it slips out.

Zeph tightens their grip on mountains hair as aether practically grinds his thigh against their cock.

“Mommy I-“ he whimpers, almost too quiet to hear . But they both catch it. Both stop to pull away and just look at mountain who looks absolutely mortified.

“What did you say sapling?” Zeph asks, seeming more amused than anything.

“I’m sorry i didn’t-“

“Say it again mo” aether placed a loving hand on his chin, smiling like he’s almost proud of him for the small slip. “Gonna call Zeph mommy again for us?”

Just

Zeph in front of mountain, practically fucking themself on his cock while they reach back and pull his head forward into their neck, making them whimper it over and over again. Aether behind them making mountain cock warm him, the only simulation from Zeph jostling them while chasing their own pleasure.

“Tell mommy what you want mountain”

#hi #mommy ghouls are doing it for me lately idk what’s up #also daddy aether is always #just #yeah it’s daddy aether #aether ghoul #zephyr ghoul #cw daddy kink #cw mommy kink

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writingfromabox · 2 months ago

Text

by any measure, through any door

The cage was thickly barred and wound with silver chains. Paper blessings fluttered in the brief breeze of the door being opened, and Lucifer stepped softly over the threshold of the squalid dungeon’s single door. They really had put in the work for this cell, he had to hand it to them. Every wall reinforced twice over. Wolfsbane hung from the ceiling and even the doorknobs were forged in pure silver.

As he stepped forward, the guard took in a harsh breath, grabbing him by the arm. It made perfect sense for him to be wary enough to forget himself, no one wanted a visiting dignitary ravaged to death by the monster inside that cage. Lucifer simply brushed the man’s hand aside and slowly removed his gloves.

In the gloom, the creature inside let out a soft whining sound, and blazing golden eyes turned towards them. The shadows didn’t do much to illuminate him, but Lucifer saw enough to know what he was looking at. A huge, rangy shape with long, thick black fur. Vicious teeth glinted in the dim candlelight, brightly shining shackles gleamed from two huge forepaws.

He lifted the lantern from a nearby table and sucked in his breath, feeling fury spark in his blood at the state of the werewolf in front of him. Fine silver chains were hung along his body, half-buried in fur, and dried blood coated them. Deep score marks were gouged along the walls, bits of claw scattered on the floor.

The werewolf’s furious, golden eyes were the only human part left of the man, and they stared at Lucifer a long while with unsettling intensity. He couldn’t tell if there was any recognition in that barely sane state.

Lucifer took a cautious step forward and the werewolf bristled all over, struggling against the chains with a low, savage growl. The silver cut into his flesh, causing him to bleed anew, and the creature whimpered and yelped as his skin practically sizzled at the contact.

If the guard had seemed anxious when he approached the cage, he practically hyperventilated in panic when Lucifer approached the cage. “Sire, I can’t let you—“

“Let me?” Lucifer asked coldly, turning his gaze on the man for a bare moment. The guard shuddered upon seeing the magic blazing in his eyes, flame red. Even this far from his kingdom, the black magic rumors still clung to him, but now he was more than happy to play into it if it bought him enough time.

Once the guard left, Lucifer turned his attention back to the cage, dimming the fire in his eyes. The wolf whined again, piteously, nosing at the bars of the door. Sickeningly, the air smelled of burnt fur and the thick iron stench of blood.

This still might not work, after all. The key to undoing the curse meant as much trust as love, and Lucifer had run roughshod over that. Still, he stretched out a careful hand.

At first, the wolf growled deep and low in his throat, baring fangs that looked knife sharp. Lucifer made soothing noises, hushing him, and the werewolf made a pitiful sound close to a human sob.

His fingers met warm fur, a soft muzzle, and Lucifer tried to keep his hand from trembling. All the arcane power in the world, or the black magic for that matter, would not keep him from the curse of the wolf’s bite. Under his fingertips, the wolf trembled as well.

“Adam. That’s right, it’s me,” he whispered. “I know you. Adam. I’m sorry it took so long to find you.” His throat closed over the apology, and Lucifer gulped back tears. With both hands, he clasped Adam’s muzzle and stroked the fur there. His voice broke and he cried helplessly. “Adam. Adam. Adam! Please, I’m calling you by your true name.”

Adam shook like a sapling in a strong wind, like his muscles were spasming. The fur under his fingers crawled but didn’t quite recede. A low, confused wail issued from Adam’s throat, and Lucifer tried to press against the bars as much as he could, wrapping his arms around the wolf’s shaggy neck.

“Don’t leave me,” he pleaded into his ruff, the fur prickling against his cheek.

It felt like an eternity of clinging to him, speaking his name like a breathless, sobbed prayer. Hoping that enough of their old love still lingered for the enchantment to break under its weight. Lucifer almost sobbed when he felt Adam shrinking in his arms, heard the chains slipping away from a frame too small to hold them. When Adam finally wrapped his arms around him as well, Lucifer finally released the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

Notes: For the Full Moon prompt! Based off of this: https://www.tumblr.com/annabellioncourt/72995324233/theres-a-lovely-old-english-myth-that-if-someone?source=share

#adamsapple #lucifer x adam #hazbin hotel adam #hazbin lucifer #guitarduck #adamsapple harvest

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bellofthemeadow · 11 months ago

Text

Dawn Ends the Night | Chapter 4

Aemond Targaryen x FemReader (Dayne)

Previous Chapter | Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Rating: M for Mature (18 + no minors allowed)

Word Count: 5.5k

Warning: All warnings on the Series Masterlist, will update if necessary (Re-iterating, no minors allowed! Thank you)

Chapter Summary: After Aemond saved you, you are presented to court.

Notes: New character unlocked! Hello you guys, I am so happy to be back with a new chapter, its not necessarily a filler chapter, but it is definitely a "move the plot along" chapter. Can you believe that we are still on the same day the Lady Dayne arrive to King's Landing?! Sorry for the snail's pace. but I really like to dig deep into the psyche of the characters. It should start moving a bit faster now.

ALSO, omg you guys were so kind with all the love you gave me, and I am so happy that you are enjoying this story 🥰 Your comments and reblogs are fueling this story, so thank you so much xxx

Unto the story, LMK what you all thinks and if there are some things you would like to see, feel free to tell me 💜💜💜

Love you all

Taglist: @duds31 , @snh96, @lol-im-done, @heavenly1927, @whimsywilde , @queen-123s-posts , @httyd-marauders , @singhfae ,

The Iron Throne

Perros despised King’s Landing he hated everything about it from its oppressive heat to the humidity that was always thick with a constant, putrid stench that reeked of death and desperation. Having lived most of his youth on the streets of Sunspear, he had thought himself familiar with poverty and misery of those of lesser means. Yet, after just a day navigating the Captial’s streets, he realized how mistaken he had been; even the most destitute street urchin in Dorne seemed to live like a king compared to those in Flea Bottom.

As the evening sky started to fall and dim on their first day in the city, Perros was dumbstruck that his lord would still consent to leave his only daughter to languish in such a dismal place. Perros had always felt a close connection to his young lady. He had after all, witnessed the young lady’s youth and had watched her grow from a little sapling to an elegant and beautiful cherry tree. He had even been present at her birth, and Perros was certain he was the first outside the immediate family to cradle you after you entered the world –screaming and crying face scrunched up and as red as a little tomato. Perros still vividly remembered how small and fragile you had looked in his large, scarred hands. The future Lady of Starfall, your father had declared. Perros had also been there for your first steps, the first time you went in the Dornish Desert, the first time you had swum in the Torrentine. Perros had seen all of the work and expectations placed on your young shoulders as the future ruling lady of Starfall – and he had seen it all snatched away after the birth of Gerris.

Perros could still remember when life was simpler, in those days he would follow you around Starfall, ensuring your safety – running after you as you would try to evade your tutors, twirling on your small pudgy legs. Perros may not have been your father by blood, but his love for you was no less than that of a true parent and he had always taken immense pride in your achievements and when your birthright was passed over in favor of your younger brother, Perros had felt such a deep outrage. So much so that he had been willing to take arms in your name. Despite his respect for your father, he could never fully reconcile with the decision to favor Westerosi customs over the Dornish practice of absolute primogeniture, which held no bias against gender in inheritance and would have seen you on the starry seat. This injustice had always kindled a flame of discontent in his heart, and he had vowed that if your father would not, he would always do right by you.

And today he failed you.

When your party had just arrived in the city, like when you were a child, you had managed to elude Perros' vigilant watch. He had been so preoccupied with surveying potential threats around the carriage that he hadn't noticed your discreet departure. The mere thought of what could have happened had the one-eyed prince not intervened sent shivers down his spine. He shuddered at the possibilities and although he could not help but find the boy an arrogant sniveling prince that was unworthy of even licking the ground you walked on; he was nonetheless grateful for the boy’s intervention.

Only a few hours had passed since the turmoil at the market, and following the Queen and the Hand's directive, The Dayne retinue had taken some time to recuperate and prepare for the formal introduction at court. Much to Perros’s amusement, you had taken much of that brief respite to caring for the scruffy young boy you had rescued from the market. You diligently scrubbed him clean, his skin eventually taking on a healthy glow. Later, after Prince Aemond had insisted on being led to your chambers, you even spent part of the afternoon in his company, a fact that Perros found utterly unbecoming of royal decorum.

He stood guard, silently observing as the prince awkwardly assisted in managing the boy. Aemond held Davos firmly, yet his stiffness and apparent disconnection from the warmth of your smile struck Perros as wholly unsuitable for someone of your worth. In the guard’s eyes, the prince's rigid demeanor and aloofness did not befit someone worthy of your affection or regard.

After an hour, Perros had gruffly shuffle the dragon prince outside of the room, refusing to listen to his backward grumbling or your insistence that he could stay. While you were changing? Absolutely not. Perros had remained firm, you needed time to prepare before meeting the rest of the dragons and their Hightower kin. Snakes. Snakes wearing dragon skins, but snakes nonetheless, Perros thought.

Following Prince Aemond's departure, you entrusted Davos and your brother Gerris to the capable hands of your trusted maid, the same one who had taken care of you alongside Perros’ watchful eyes. Athna, with her years of experience and her motherly touch, gently herded the two boys, softly silencing their childish protests, away for a much-needed nap. Gerris, though the young heir to Starfall, was still too tender in years to be formally introduced at court and the bond he had swiftly formed with Davos, it seemed already impossible to separate them – the boys had become friends since their introduction earlier in the day and Davos’ presence in the throne room would be deemed inappropriate. For common born lads do not belong at court with well-bred folk, Perros thought, yet he was welcome and regardless of his birth he was the captain of the guard for House Dayne, had been for the past 15 years. Birth mattered less so in Dorne, perhaps the lad could come with them and leave this putrid city behind, Perros pondered, and Lady Dayne could come back with them and they could all forget about this business.

Upon his return to escort, you to the throne room, Perros was met with a vision that nearly brought tears to his eyes. There you were, no longer the little girl who hung unto his legs and begged for stories of the desert, but a captivating beauty with wisdom in her eyes. Your dress, a delicate lilac silk intricately embroidered with stars, hugged your form in a way that highlighted your softness and elegance. It was a sight that filled Perros with immense pride, yet also a twinge of sadness. The young charge he had watched over for so many years had blossomed before his eyes into a dignified lady, ready to step into the world.

"You are a sight for these old eyes, my lady," Perros uttered, his voice quivering with emotions.

You faced Perros with a gentle, self-effacing smile. "You know, after the day's events, you'd think I'd feel more prepared for this. I mean, I barely escaped having my head chopped off in the street," you said with a light, self-deprecating laugh. "And I have even met my betrothed. And surprisingly, I think we might get along well. But I am still so nervous.”

Perros let out a snort at your observation. "That boy should count himself fortunate just to breathe the same air as you, my lady," he remarked.

You playfully rolled your eyes at his comment. "Oh, please, Ser. Le us not speak ill of him. After all, Aemond is a prince – and a most gracious one at that." You teased.

"A prince of a realm that holds no sway in Dorne," Perros countered dryly.

Your laughter rang out, light and carefree. "You have quite the knack for diplomacy, Ser," you teased.

Perros responded with a half-smile. "My sword is the only diplomat I need."

Your eyes sparkled with mirth. "Perhaps it's best to keep that sort of diplomacy sheathed when we enter the throne room," you suggested with a wink.

Perros let out a soft snort and watched you attentively as you stood before the mirror, expertly arranging your hair under the elegant hairnet your mother had given you, the shiny strands of your hair framing your face with grace.

The room fell into a heavy silence, filled only by the soft rustling of your gown. Perros's gaze remained fixed on you, his expression a mix of fondness and concern. His voice, when he finally spoke, was thick with emotion. "My Lady, just give me the word, and I'll whisk you away on the next ship. We can escape to somewhere far from here, away from dragons, from politics. I could take you back to Dorne – to Princess Aliandra. The Martell would look after you!"

You offered him a melancholic smile, "Your loyalty has always been unwavering, ser Perros," you replied gently. "But we both know fleeing is not an option. It never was an option. I love my family too deeply to abandon them. And as for Prince Aemond..." You paused, your gaze lingering on your reflection as you blushed slightly. "He saved my life. Perhaps being his wife won't be the dreadful fate I once imagined."

"A cocky dragonling, that's all he is," Perros grumbled under his breath.

"You have always been overly protective, dear Ser," you said with a soft chuckle. Hugging yourself, you looked thoughtful. "Do you think I can handle it? This life at court?"

Perros met your soft gaze in the mirror, "There's no one more gracious or better prepared for such a task than you, my lady." His voice betrayed a hint of sadness. "Even if it pains me to say it as it means acknowledging how much you've grown."

Your smile was bittersweet, as you let out a breathy laugh. "I remember when you'd carry me back to bed after I'd sneak out to watch the stars on the ramparts."

"I've earned many gray hairs because of you," Perros snorted warmly, "You were a handful, my lady, but you touched my heart. I'd do anything to see you happy."

"I might not find happiness," you mused, "but perhaps I can find contentment."

"That's not enough," Perros insisted softly.

You looked at him, a mischievous glint in your eyes. "You know what would truly make me happy, Perros?"

He straightened, ready for your command. "Just say the word, my lady."

"I would like you to take care of Davos. Teach him everything you know. I want more for him than the life he's had so far. I do not want him to be alone anymore.”

Perros snorted gruffly "That little Davos, eh? He's a scrawny thing, but with the right care, I suppose he could grow strong. He's got spirit, that one."

You nodded. "He is a fighter; he just needs a chance. And with Gerris already taking a liking to him, I'm sure he shall fit right in with the rest of the family."

Perros raised an eyebrow, skepticism clear in his voice. "And you think the royal family will just accept a Flea Bottom urchin in their midst?"

You smiled, a hint of mischief in your expression. "Maybe they will have to. I've already spoken to Prince Aemond about it, and he has agreed to discuss it with his mother."

Perros huffed, "And you trust him?"

"He's given me no reason not to trust him," you replied steadily. "He saved my life, Perros. And he seemed genuine about helping Davos."

Perros sighed, the lines on his face deepening with worry. "My lady, your heart is too open, too trusting. It worries me, what others might do with such kindness. You wear this cloak of a ghost, trying to shield yourself, but I see through it.” Perros took a small breath, before softly continuing “Your heart is too large, too exposed. Be cautious, my lady. Don't let them take advantage of your goodness.”

Approaching Perros, you reached out and wrapped your arms around the seasoned guard, holding him tight. "You've always been my rock, Perros. Believe in me a little, will you? You have taught me everything I know after all. " You softly admitted.

Perros returned the hug, his tone laced with a hint of regret. "I only wish I had more time to teach you... But you remember, don't you? How to defend yourself if necessary?"

Your laughter was light at his words, "I don't anticipate the need, Perros, but yes, I remember. Between the ribs to make it hurt, straight to the heart to make it quick.”

He nodded sagely. "And subtly, to leave no trace?"

"I'm not planning on poisoning my betrothed, Perros!" you chuckled, shaking your head.

"Just ensuring you're prepared, my lady," Perros replied protectively.

You smiled warmly. "Thank you, Perros. But let us keep discussions of poison out of these walls, please."

"I'll do my best, my lady," he promised, his expression softening.

The sound of knocking interrupted the moment. "My lady, it's time. The court awaits," called a voice from outside.

Taking a deep breath, you steeled yourself. "No backing down now,” you took a deep breath “Time dance with some dragons.”

The grandeur of the Targaryen (or perhaps Hightower?) court was a striking blend of both everything you expected and the unimaginable. Its vastness and opulence were just as you had envisioned – expansive windows casting brilliant light across the room, the pervasive symbols of the Seven adorning the walls, and the hall itself, immense in its scale. Dominating the space was the Iron Throne, a chilling emblem of Aegon the Conqueror's might, forged from the molten swords of a thousand defeated foes.

Yet, as you beheld the throne, a surge of Dornish pride swelled within you. Dorne, after all, had never yielded to the dragonlords. The words of House Martell, "Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken," resonated with a deeper meaning, but it was your own house, House Dayne, that had historically been the shield of the Torrentine. You remembered the tales of your ancestors, steadfastly repelling invaders, or in times of desperation, slowing their advance to buy precious time for the other houses of Dorne to prepare.

House Dayne had endured much at the hands of the dragons and the Hightowers, but in this moment, amidst the intimidating splendor of the Iron Throne, you felt a sense of covert triumph. Today, it was your family that held a pivotal position of influence, and this knoweldge filled you with quiet confidence as you stood before the throne, the legacy of your house a silent yet potent force at your back.

Upon nearing the foot of the Iron Throne, your attention was inexorably drawn to Prince Aemond. Positioned regally to the right, he presented a stark contrast to the man you had encountered earlier. His silver hair, which had previously hung loosely, now was arranged in an elegant half-updo, lending him an air of refined sophistication. Dressed in what appeared to be the finest black leather, he exuded an aura of princely dignity, enhanced by the presence of a longsword at his hip. With his hands neatly clasped behind his back, he observed your approach with a piercing blue eye, sharp and discerning. Almost predatory.

This frigid version of your intended seemed worlds apart from the one who had awkwardly, yet warmly, helped you with Davos. The raw protectiveness he had displayed in the market was now cloaked behind a facade of cool detachment. Standing there, he seemed carved from marble, exuding an air of untouchable, statuesque grandeur, he appeared as a figure from the legends, the embodiment of a Dragon Lord. Observing him in the shadow of the Targaryen throne, standing tall and imperious, it was easy to believe the tales told by the smallfolk – that the Targaryens were more akin to gods than men. Yet, as you stood there, a small smirk tugged at the corner of your lips. This fearsome Dragon lord, Aemond One-Eyed, was the same man who had been struck by a soapy sponge just hours before. The memory of Aemond, momentarily caught off guard and spluttering with indignation, as Davos and Gerris were cackling with glee had somewhat shattered the formidable image he now presented.

Your gaze swiftly swept past Prince Aemond, landing on the figure seated next to him – from the dark green doublet with the golden pin on his breast, the man could only be Otto Hightower, the hand of the king. Notably absent was the King himself, rumors of the King's failing health had reached Dorne, but to see the throne unoccupied during such a crucial introduction – your presentation as his son’s betrothed and as the first Dornish retinue on Westerosi soil since the Conquest – hinted at a deeper malaise within the realm.

You pondered whether the King's absence played into the Hightowers' favor. With no monarch to potentially disrupt their schemes, Otto Hightower's influence was unmistakably clear – no number of dragons or wildfire would change that fact; the Hightowers ruled here. Otto’s eyes, sharp and calculating, met yours. There was an almost tangible weight to his gaze, as if he were measuring your worth, gauging whether you would be an asset to his plans or an unforeseen hindrance.

Next to the throne, your gaze settled on a woman of sophisticated poise with a cascade of dark auburn hair. She was clad in an exquisite gown of deep green samite, the high neckline accentuating her stately bearing. Her attire was accentuated by ruffles of a darker shade at her wrists, and her neck was adorned with a striking necklace of emeralds and onyx, shaped into the symbol of the Seven-pointed star. This must be Queen Alicent, you reasoned.

Yet, for all her poised appearance, you could discern a subtle undercurrent of anxiety that seemed to ripple beneath her calm facade. It was as if each of her measured movements and serene expressions were carefully orchestrated to mask an inner turmoil that screamed to be released. What mask would you need to wear after your marriage? A face of practiced contentment? Or would you need to seem as cold and lethal as the blades forming the throne, and keep your Dornish warmth to the confine of your husband’s arms? Would he even welcome your warmth, a traitorous voice murmured in your head.

The Hand of the King's voice broke the silence of the court. "It is my privilege to welcome House Dayne to our court. We greet our Dornish brothers and sisters, and the realm rejoices in embracing them back into its fold." The words, spoken with a calculated warmth, hung in the air, but their reception among the courtiers was mixed. Murmurs rippled through the crowd, and you could feel the undercurrent of barely veiled disdain for your kin.

As you stood there, your mother's firm grip on your bicep served as a silent reminder of the facade you needed to maintain, while your father's smile, a practiced mask that barely concealed the distaste in his eyes, echoed the sentiments of your own heart.

“Dorne has long sought friendship between our two noble and valiant kingdoms," your father began, his voice smooth and measured. "As lord of house Daynes, whose lineage traces back to the Dawn Age, it is my honor to mend the rifts that have long divided our kin. And given today’s events, perhaps a touch of Dornish wisdom is precisely what this city needs.”

Otto visibly bristled at your father's veiled critique. “Indeed, an unfortunate incident," he conceded, his words tinged with a forced calmness. "Though, it must be said, had your daughter adhered to the expected bearing of a lady—safely ensconced within her carriage—such an unpleasantness might have been averted.”

Your father opened his mouth to respond, but you swiftly interjected, your tone honeyed yet edged with steel. “Or perhaps the crown should offer a timely reminder for the city watch that an overzealous exercise of power is not always necessary or justified."

A collective intake of breath echoed through the room; Otto's face contorted like someone who had sucked on a sour lemon. He quickly masked his reaction, regaining his poise. "Indeed, my lady. A most astute observation. Perhaps you would grace one of our small council meetings with your insights. We would be most delighted to benefit from your wisdom."

The throne room buzzed with suppressed snickers and whispers. Mocking. Mocking you. Mocking your ideas and your lineage, bastards you thought. Meanwhile, you noticed Aemond, his fists clenched in barely contained anger seething next to his grandfather.

With a poised smile that belied the storm brewing within, you replied, "I would welcome such an opportunity, Your Grace. I am heartened by your gracious invitation."

Otto's brow furrowed, readying a sharp retort, but before the words could leave his lips, Queen Alicent smoothly stepped in. "We are indeed relieved that you emerged from the ordeal unharmed, my lady," she began, her voice calm yet carrying across the room. The murmur of courtiers filled the air as she continued. "My son Aemond has spoken highly of your courage, particularly your selfless act in defending a young boy at great risk to yourself." Her gaze swept across the assembly, her expression one of sincere admiration. "Such gallantry is truly commendable and speaks volumes of your character. It has always been my belief that the woman who would marry my son must possess a resilience of spirit. I am glad that it turned out to be the case, my lady."

Trust. This was the unspoken question that hung heavy in the air. Are you with us or against us? Her gaze seemed to demand. What role will you play in this game of thrones, and how will you influence my son? The queen’s warm gaze seemed to demand.

What was your endgame? Even you could not definitively say. Your heart pulsed with your love for your homeland, the desire to serve your family, to protect those you cherished. But could you extend that loyalty to this new, intertwined Hightower-Targaryen lineage? Could they become your family too?

Your eyes flicked towards Aemond, whose demeanor was a volatile mix of restraint and simmering anger. A wrong word and he looked like he might explode. The words of his grandfather seemed to have struck a nerve, yet there was something more beneath that tempestuous surface. In the brief hours since your paths had crossed, he had shattered the rumors of his cold-hearted nature, showing glimpses of kindness and vulnerability. Could you learn to understand... nay to love this enigmatic prince who had saved your life? To become his partner, a bridge between Dayne and Targaryen, nurturing future heirs who would one day soar the skies on dragonback? Your mind wandered, envisioning a child with silver hair and laughing eyes, astride a majestic purple dragon, Dawn gleaming in their small hand.

"I too am relieved, Your Grace," you replied respectfully. "Prince Aemond's actions were both brave and just. His courage in defending not only me but also the ideals of his house was commendable. You have every reason to be proud of him."

Alicent's expression softened at your words, you had said the right thing apparently. She stepped forward, her movement graceful and composed, and gently took your hands in hers. She smiled, and there was warmth in her eyes, trying to get a read on you, on your intention. She seemed satisfied with what she saw because she slowly tugged you with her toward the dais. Your parents' expressions briefly registered surprise and a touch of apprehension at this unexpected development as you were drawn away from them.

With your hands still clasped in the queen's, she led you closer to the throne, positioning you beside Prince Aemond. A flicker of panic crossed his features as you stood there, a mere breath away from him, you could feel the twitches of his fingers next to your hands- his presence was so overwhelming it was almost crushing. You could hear Queen Alicent (or was it the Hand?) drone on in front of the court, but all you could feel, hear and see was Aemond.

"Prince Aemond," you whispered playfully.

Aemond, his voice equally low replied, "Lady Dayne."

"It is a pleasure to see you again, my prince," you continued, the corners of your mouth curving into a subtle smile.

"We saw each other merely two hours ago, my lady." he pointed out.

"A lifetime for some prince Aemond," you quipped lightly. "I would have thought my absence might weigh heavily on my betrothed's heart."

Aemond appeared momentarily lost for words, his usual composure faltering. While Queen Alicent continued her discourse on duty and loyalty, you maintained a facade of rapt attention, though a sly smile played on your lips.

"Surely, you have missed me in these past few hours, my prince?" you murmured under your breath, the hint of a tease in your tone. "A betrothed left unmissed is a grievous oversight, would you not you agree?" Aemond, caught off guard, struggled to respond.

Reproachfully, Aemond looked at you with a glower of distrust "You find amusement in mocking me, my lady?"

"No, only in the delightful shade of pink you turn when lightly ribbed," you teased, observing as his ears flushed a deeper shade.

Aemond cleared his throat, regaining his composure. "It has been some time since anyone dared to make such jests with me. To tease a dragonrider takes a certain fearlessness. Some would say stupidity even."

"Is the great Vhagar present in this room, then?" you inquired with mock seriousness. "I see no mighty she-dragon poised to devour me."

A soft chuckle escaped Aemond's lips, but it was cut short by a stern glance from his grandfather. The Hand's disapproval was evident and was seeping through his every pore, which you could see even from his position on the throne. Was Otto Hightower regretting the alliance already? How quickly to make an antagonist of one of the most powerful men in the realm, this calls for an award, you thought morosely.

“I pray that Davos has recuperated from the ordeal?”

You smile, “It depends; the attack in the market or the forced bath? If it's the former, I believe he has bounced back quite resiliently. As for the bath, well, I fear the poor boy might carry that trauma for some time, given the intensity of his protests.

You glanced at Aemond's hair playfully, "I must say, your hair seems to have weathered the soapy siege remarkably well. I'm relieved, really. It would have been a tragedy to see such fine, silken locks come to any harm."

Aemond's response was a tad unimpressed "You do me too much honour with your flattery, my lady," he sarcastically uttered. Then, in a softer voice, he added, "I'm relieved to hear the boy has not been too deeply affected by today's ordeal."

You nodded, "Davos is a resilient child. For now, I have entrusted him to the care of my knight, Ser Perros. He is to teach Davos everything he once taught me. I have every hope that he will grow to be strong and fearless, never again to be a victim of brutality."

"Is it a customary practice in Dorne for a knight to oversee a young lady's upbringing?" Aemond inquired.

You offered a light shrug, "Ser Perros was not responsible for my formal education, but he ensured I would never be defenseless. Despite what transpired in the market, I assure you, I am far from helpless."

Aemond's voice was soft, his gaze still fixed ahead as Queen Alicent continued her discourse. "I would not dare to think otherwise, my lady," he said. "Your courage outshines that of many men of greater size and strength. I myself know of a young boy who would have wished for nothing more than to have a guardian as valiant as you when the time called for it."

Twice now, Aemond had mentioned this young boy - once at the market and again just moments ago. Curiosity bubbled within you. Who was this boy? Did Aemond genuinely know him, or was this some sort of strategy to charm you? To humanize himself to you? Your gaze discreetly swept over his striking profile: the pronounced aquiline nose, the defined jawline, and the sharp cheekbones – you feared you could cut yourself on him if you got too close. By the Gods, it was so unfair – this man was such a beautiful specimen, a perfect blend of sharp angles and elegance. You could almost feel homely when standing next to him. Almost. You had seen the hungry looks from some of the male courtiers when you had first entered the throne room, Perros had almost taken some heads before the formal introduction had begun.

As you stood beside Aemond, carefully positioned by Queen Alicent on his unscarred side, your eyes couldn't help but drift to his face. The sight of his lone, good eye, clear and intense, pulled at something deep within you. A curious urge overtook you, a desire to reach out and gently touch the leather patch that covered his other eye, to silently convey that his imperfections held no sway over your perception of him. The loneliness and hurt that lingered in his gaze were palpable, almost tangible in their intensity. You knew little about the prince beside you, but perhaps, in time, you and Aemond would find the words to share your stories, to reveal the journeys that had shaped you both into who you were today.

The commanding voice of the Hand resonated through the hall, snapping you back to reality and away from the small bubble you had created with Aemond.

"With the formalities now concluded, we can finally rejoice in the joyous celebration to mark the betrothal of my grandson, Prince Aemond, to a noble daughter of House Dayne. May their union be enduring and bountiful, heralding a new era of prosperity and unity for both our houses. This wedding, under the watchful eyes of gods and men, shall be a beacon of hope and unity, shining brightly against the backdrop of our bloody histories.” Otto Hightower paused, his eyes sweeping over the assembled courtiers with deliberate calculation. "In four moon’s time," he began, his voice laden with nuanced implications, "the Seven Kingdoms will welcome a new princess into its fold. This auspicious union will not only fortify the bonds between our houses but will also herald a new epoch of strength and unity for House Targaryen and all its true and devoted allies. It is a time where loyalty shall be rewarded, and the true power of allegiances will be unveiled. Now comes the time when we must take care to distinguish friends from foes, and I am grateful to call House Dayne, and the whole of Dorne, true friends of the crown."

The weight of Otto's words hung in the air, its sinister undertones sending a shiver down your spine. You felt a wave of apprehension washed over you. You knew why you were here, your father and Prince Quoren had warned you of the green’s plot and yet, your heart raced nonetheless. You had not thought that Otto Hightower would be so... blatant in his desire for power and the weight of the situation pressing down on you like a physical force.

It was then you felt a gentle but firm pressure on your hand. Glancing sideways, you saw Aemond, his expression inscrutable, not even looking at you, but his warm, large hand enveloped your smaller shaking one in a soft grip. It was as if he, too, sensed the burgeoning unease within you, and offered a silent reassurance. His touch, surprisingly warm and grounding, was a small comfort amidst the rising tide of fear and uncertainty. In that moment, the prince, spoken of in whispers of terrors, felt less like a stranger and more like a friend.

Leaning closer, his presence a comforting shadow, Aemond's lips hovered near your ear, his breath a warm caress against your skin. His whisper was barely audible, yet clear, "Might I have the pleasure of your company tomorrow to break our fast, my lady?"

The soft intimacy of the moment caused a warm blush to rise on your cheeks. "It would be my joy," you responded with surprised. You did mean it truly; you would be delighted to eat with Aemond tomorrow.

"Shall we say at dawn?" he suggested, “Or is that too early, my Lady?”

"Dawn is quite perfect, my prince– any later and I would feel robbed of your presence” you ribbed.

"Is this to be our fate? For you to tease me until the end of days?" Aemond’s good eye slides over to you, inscrutable yet vulnerable.

Biting your lip in a moment of contemplation, "If it displeases you, I can refrain, my lord." you offered shyly trying to tug your hand back – but Aemond refused to let go.

His reply was swift, his tone soft yet earnest. "No, please... never stop," he murmured with a naked vulnerability that touched you. "My lady."

You gently squeezed his hand, offering a silent gesture of comfort and understanding, "Dawn it is then," you affirmed softly.

Next Chapter - Interlude

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lamemaster · 5 months ago

Text

Return of the Traitor

Request: Literally no one. Not a single soul.

Pairing: Maedhros x Reader

Genre: fluff, fix it-ish?

Summary: You have returned to Himring, to him, whom you are no more than a traitor.

AN: This has been in draft since Himring fell...

"With all due respect," the realtor squeaked, his voice a strained octave higher than usual. "This property has been on the market for centuries. Every venture initiated here has ended in heavy losses, not to mention the…spectral reports." He shot a nervous glance towards the crumbling ramparts.

A grim smile played on your lips. "Losses are one thing," you drawled, tracing the rough stone of the wall with your fingertips. "But some things are worth the risk, wouldn't you agree?" The realtor, a man whose immaculate suit seemed woefully out of place amidst the decay, coughed nervously.

You were back in Himring, the once-proud fortress of the first Feanorion. Centuries had passed since the ocean reclaimed it, but time seemed to hold no sway here. The wind howled through shattered windows, carrying whispers of a forgotten past.

The ancient craftsmanship still held. "Damn elves and their unrelenting craft," you muttered under your breath.

Ignoring the realtor's stammering protests, you strode purposefully into the dark halls. The halls of your dear nemesis. Wondering if you would have the pleasure of stumbling upon his wraith.

Hope, a fragile thing nurtured by years of longing and yearning, flickered in your chest. Perhaps, just perhaps, you would find him here. Maedhros, your nemesis, your lover, the ghost who unknowingly haunted your every waking moment.

You came looking for the unfairly handsome elven lord, who remained the most charming single-handedly, you snickered at your joke imagining the eye-roll Maedhros would have rewarded you with had you uttered such words in his presence.

The past. A time when love bloomed effortless and potent, strong enough to lure you across the vast expanse from the Eastern lands to stand at your lord's side.

But was he still your lord? The guilt gnawed at you, a constant companion. After everything you'd done, such a title felt like a cruel joke. Not a lord, not a friend, not even a lover could you ever deserve after causing the fall of Himring.

You, Ulfang the chieftain, became the fall of Himring. You, who was the cause of estrangement of the firstborn and secondborn. The idiotic chieftain who lost everything in one gamble. The weight of that choice, the burden of countless lives lost, pressed down on you like an invisible mountain.

Now you stand, entrapped in the gray area of past and present. Even death had failed to take Maedhros away from you. He lived still in your mind, body, and soul.

"I am here Maedhros," you whisper to the winds that rush through his fort. "Try not to kill me." You add as a second thought.

Day one started with a bang. Or, more accurately, a clumsy stumble. Despite a surprisingly good night's sleep (considering the freezing halls and the weight of the past), you woke up way past sunrise.

Stumbling outside, you squinted at the sky, a canvas of swirling gray. Rain, fantastic. Just what you needed. But a frown did little to deter you.

With a disgruntled sigh, you hefted the "saplings" you'd dragged all the way to the fortress. "Saplings" being a generous term for the small, but decidedly unyielding trees you clutched in your arms.

These weren't your typical saplings. No sir, these were chosen with meticulous care. Flowering Jasmines, delicate Gardenias, and yes, even a tangled mass of Rose vines – a blatant nod to Maedhros' preferences.

If Manwe had rain planned then you might as well make use of it.

Of course, you hadn't forgotten about practicality either. Tucked amongst the fragrant blooms were a healthy assortment of vegetables – you weren't about to starve to death while playing gardener.

Perched precariously on the crumbling balcony, you busied yourself adding some delicate periwinkles to the mix. That was, until your foot met a rogue root with the grace of a drunken bear. With a surprised yelp, you went sprawling – a tangle of limbs and saplings tumbling down towards the damp earth below.

The first sensation that registered was the bite of freezing rain stinging your face. Then came the thrum of pain, a low ache traveling from your shin all the way up to your hip. You lay there for a moment, the rain drumming a steady rhythm on your body.

Suddenly, the air seemed to shift. A new sound, a soft rustling perhaps, or a presence that settled on the world like a heavy cloak. Your breath hitched in your throat. Maedhros had finally graced you with his… attention.

A slow smile spread across your face, a blend of sheepishness and something else – a spark of defiance, a hint of something you hoped wasn't misplaced hope. "Well, hello there," you murmured, your voice barely audible over the rain.

Falling from the balconies, getting trapped in musty rooms – these became your daily routines. The aches and pains were starting to accumulate, a dull throb in your ankle a constant reminder of your latest tumble. Despite the new collection of scratches and a growing limp, your spirit remained defiant. You were, after all, the same old you.

"By eru! Auugh-" You spit your soup coughing unrelentingly in the lonesome dining hall. "Oh my, that almost took me out," you panted, your tongue feeling like a desert after a sandstorm. "Soup of death, or perhaps a bowl of salt with a reluctant splash of broth?"

"Did not know death made trolls out of elves..." you chuckle giving up on the idea of dinner. "Or is it just you, my love?" You speak to the empty room. Bemused that the idea of Maedehros' antics.

Pushing the offending dish away with a grimace. Giving up on dinner, you surveyed the desolate hall. A flicker of sadness crossed your features as you noticed a chipped teacup lying forgotten on the floor. It was a simple thing, but it reminded you of a brighter time, a time when laughter filled this room.

A sigh escaped your lips. Why torture yourself with such memories? With a determined glint in your eye, you pushed yourself up from the table, ignoring the protest from your injured ankle. You were here for a reason, and a little soup-induced near-death experience wasn't going to deter you.

"Do whatever you must," you declared, a hint of bravado lacing your voice. You addressed the empty room, a bemused smirk playing on your lips. "I will not leave." As if on cue, a sudden crackle erupted from the fireplace behind you, sending a shower of sparks dancing into the air.

"I have nowhere else to be," you continued, feeling a familiar warmth bloom in your chest. He was here. He had to be. or you were having some very personal conversations with a random spirit.

A cold gust of wind swept through the hall, extinguishing a nearby candle with a hiss. You shivered, a flicker of vulnerability replacing your bravado.

"And if you think killing me will rid you of my presence," you continued, your voice gaining strength with each word, "you are sorely mistaken. This time, I will not leave. Not even in death. So pray to your Valar that I do not die and join you as a wraith, forever tethered to this accursed place."

You declare with borrowed confidence from your stupid past self.

Maedhros loathes you. He despises you. The way you are different yet achingly familiar, the way your body moves in a similar fashion, yet your hair shines differently in the sun – it is a constant torment.

He despises the wretched hope that blooms in his chest at your sight. Hope before, resentment. A racing heart before a broken one.

But he is not unchanged either. Times have worn him into a resentful sprite. A wraith instead of the elven lord you remember. A bitter existence opposite of what you remember.

At least that's what he tells himself as he watches you passed out in the rain or when he sees you throwing away another inedible dinner.

He wants you gone. He yearns to be free from the constant reminder of his failures, the embodiment of a love that has brought him nothing but ruin.

He will never offer you the solace you crave, the forgiveness you desperately seek. Love, absolution, even a semblance of the tenderness he once held for you – these are things he has long since locked away, burying them deep beneath the layers of his self-imposed exile.

At least that is what he tells himself.

He wants you gone, yes, but the thought of you suffering gnaws at him like a persistent ache.

He will never admit it, but he finds himself drawn to you. Following you into his own, long-abandoned chambers was an act of… what? Curiosity? A morbid fascination? Whatever it was, the sight of you dusting the ancient tomes he hadn't touched in millennia sent a jolt through him.

For a fleeting moment, time seemed to warp. You were both in the same room, you dusting the shelves, talking in your usual way, oblivious to his presence.

And for once, Maedhros allowed himself to simply look at you. Not with the burning hatred he has cultivated for so long, but with a… a wistfulness he can not explain.

He even finds himself replying to your nonsensical chatter about fearing toads. It is a small indulgence, a rebellion against the prison of his own making.

The illusion is shattered with a deafening crack. The rickety bookshelf groans and then collapses, a cascade of heavy tomes raining down on you. Maedhros reacts on instinct, a desperate lunge forward that would have been pointless given his form.

As expected you pass through his outstretched arms, a wisp of smoke, landing with a surprised yelp on the dusty bed. A cloud of dust erupts, momentarily obscuring the room. When it settles, his breath hitches in his throat.

Your eyes are wide and startled, fixed on him. Your mouth is agape, and your eyes, glistening with something other than dust?

A tremor runs through Maedhros, with something he dare not name. Could it be…? No. It had to be just the dust. Just the dust.

#the silmarillion #silmarillion x reader #silmarillion #maedhros x reader #maedhros #ulfang

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