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speaknow-sw · 2 months ago

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THE POET AND THE ROSE Content : no smut just Anakin being himself. Age gap ? Anakin is 30 you’re 21. Vaginal touch and breast play. 3.7k words.

꧁ Chapter 1 : A Treaty in Vows ꧂

From the Lays of General Anakin Skywalker, XIII century

"They say the pen is softer than the sword, Yet neither have mercy for hearts of stone. I write not to conquer, but to endure, To whisper to shadows when I’m alone."

The clash of swords had long faded into memory, replaced by the measured beat of war drums. The French and British armies had bled each other dry over countless seasons, yet no victor emerged. The French Empire, once unyielding, now sought peace, not for lack of strength but out of weariness. Across the sea, the British, proud and unbowed, saw no other way forward.

And so it was that the fate of two nations rested not on the battlefield but in the fragile vows of marriage.

General Anakin Skywalker stood in the drafty war council chamber of a French outpost, his imposing frame dwarfing the room. His armor gleamed faintly in the torchlight, though the marks of countless battles marred its surface. His jaw was tight, his hands clenched behind his back as he listened to the terms of peace being read aloud.

"The King offers his daughter, the Princess, in marriage," the envoy concluded, his voice careful, almost hesitant.

Anakin’s lips curled into a grimace. He turned to Obi-Wan Kenobi, his second-in-command, who leaned casually against the stone wall, his expression betraying none of the mirth Anakin knew lay beneath.

"So this is what our victories amount to? A wife." Anakin’s tone was clipped, laced with disdain.

"It’s a union, not a surrender," Obi-Wan said lightly, though his eyes were sharp. "An end to the bloodshed, Anakin. Isn’t that what we’ve fought for?"

Anakin growled under his breath, pacing the room like a caged lion. He was a man of war, forged by the fires of battle, not the silken threads of diplomacy. The thought of binding himself to a woman he’d never met, for a peace he wasn’t sure would last, set his teeth on edge.

"She better be under fifty," he muttered, earning a snort from Obi-Wan.

"Knowing your luck, she’ll be a saint. Or worse, she’ll be kind."

Anakin shot him a glare but said nothing. The decision was not his to make. He was a soldier, bound to his king’s command, and the decree was clear.

From the Lays of General Anakin Skywalker, XIII century

"To bind two nations with a golden ring,

A fragile thread between war and peace.

But peace is no gift—it is a battle of its own,

A sword wrapped in silk, waiting to pierce the heart."

Westminster Abbey was a grand, sprawling structure, its high arches and marble columns whispering of a legacy far older than France’s green hills. The air was heavy with incense, the murmur of the gathered crowd muted by the solemnity of the occasion.

Anakin stood at the altar, his back straight, his hands resting loosely on the hilt of his ceremonial sword. He had traded his battle-worn armor for fine but unfamiliar attire: a dark tunic edged with gold, a heavy cloak draped over one shoulder. Yet even in finery, he looked out of place, a predator among prey.

He kept his gaze forward, ignoring the curious eyes of Roman nobles who whispered behind painted fans. His thoughts were a tumult of irritation and resignation.

The doors at the far end of the hall groaned open, and a hush fell over the crowd.

The princess entered, her form veiled in a cascade of ivory silk. She moved with practiced grace, her steps measured, though Anakin noted the faintest tremor in her hands as she approached.

When she reached the altar, Anakin risked a glance at her. He could see nothing of her face beneath the veil, only the outline of her delicate figure. She was smaller than he’d imagined, her presence dwarfed by the weight of her ceremonial robes.

The priest began the rites, speaking in both French and the English tongue. Anakin’s responses were curt, his voice a deep rumble that carried through the hall.

Finally, the moment came.

"You may lift the veil," the priest intoned.

Anakin's hands hovered over the delicate fabric of her veil, his heart pounding in his chest. He'd expected to feel nothing, a sense of detachment from this forced union. But as his fingers brushed against the silk, he felt a jolt of electricity course through him.

Slowly, he lifted the veil, revealing her face inch by inch. Her eyes were the first thing he saw, a vivid color that seemed to pierce right through him. They were wide and luminous, framed by long lashes and set in a face of such beauty it took his breath away.

Her hair was a cascade of curls, tumbling down her back like a river of water. Her lips were full and pink, parted slightly as if she were holding her breath.

Anakin found himself staring, unable to look away. He'd seen many beautiful women in his life, but none who had affected him like this. It was as if the very sight of her had stolen the air from his lungs.

"You're... you're beautiful," he heard himself say, the words rough and awkward.

She blushed, her cheeks flushing a delicate pink. "Thank you," she murmured, her voice soft and melodic.

The priest cleared his throat, breaking the spell. "The ceremony is complete. You may now be presented as husband and wife."

Anakin blinked, coming back to himself. He took her hand, feeling the warmth of her skin against his. It was small and delicate, a sharp contrast to his own rough, battle-hardened hands.

For a moment, the world narrowed to just the two of them.

"Princess," he said, his voice rougher than he intended.

"General," you replied, your tone measured but soft.

As they turned to face the crowd, Anakin felt a strange sense of pride well up inside him. This woman, this stranger, was his wife. The thought was still foreign, almost surreal. But as he looked down at her, saw the way her eyes shone up at him, he felt a flicker of something else.

Hope.

Perhaps this union, forced though it may be, could be more than just a political arrangement. Perhaps, given time, it could be something real. Something meaningful.

But Anakin knew better than to hold his breath. In his world, there were no guarantees. Only the harsh realities of war.

From the Lays of General Anakin Skywalker, XIII century

”Bound by vows of gold and stone,

Two strangers stand beneath the crown.

The weight of peace, a heavy throne,

Where swords are lowered, yet hearts may drown.”

The reception was held in the grand hall of his castle, a sprawling room lit by dozens of chandeliers dripping with crystal. Long tables were laden with silver platters of roasted meats, ripe fruits, and delicate pastries. Musicians played softly in the corner, their strings and flutes weaving a delicate melody that was nearly drowned out by the chatter of the guests.

General Anakin Skywalker stood rigid at the altar, his jaw set, his expression an unreadable mask. He loomed in the sea of French grandeur, his presence at odds with the refinement of the occasion. The fine clothes he wore—a dark blue tunic trimmed with gold—felt foreign, a costume draped over the hardened warrior beneath. His scarred hands rested on the hilt of a ceremonial sword, though his instincts yearned for the familiar weight of the blade he had carried through countless battles.

Around him, the French elite murmured behind fans and jeweled hands, their gazes drifting to him with a mixture of curiosity and disdain. He could hear their whispers, faint and venomous.

"A barbarian…" "He doesn’t belong here…" "And she is meant to marry that?"

Their words did not bother him; he had grown used to such scorn. What rankled was the reason he stood there. Marriage. Peace. He was a soldier, a man who lived for the battlefield, not for the political games that followed.

Finally he sat at the head of the table, his new wife beside him. He had barely spoken to you since the ceremony, unsure of what to say. The weight of the day pressed heavily on him, the noise of the room grating against his nerves.

You were quiet, your gaze fixed on the goblet of wine in your hands. The soft light of the chandeliers caught the gold in your hair, making you appear almost otherworldly. Anakin found himself stealing glances at you, though he quickly looked away each time you shifted, afraid you might catch him.

"You’re brooding again," Obi-Wan said, leaning toward him from the next seat over. His tone was light, but his eyes flicked meaningfully toward you.

Anakin scowled. "I’m not brooding."

Obi-Wan smirked. "You are. Perhaps you should try speaking to your bride instead of glaring at your wine."

Anakin shot him a look that could have melted steel, but before he could respond, a sharp crash echoed through the hall.

All eyes turned toward the source of the noise—a French noble, Lord Aulbry, red-faced and unsteady on his feet, had knocked over a goblet. The wine spread across the table like blood, pooling near the edge.

"How fitting," the noble slurred, his voice loud and cutting. "A barbarian at the head of our table."

The room fell silent.

Anakin’s jaw tightened, but he did not move. You stiffened beside him, your fingers tightening around the stem of your goblet.

"Peace, Messire," one of the French officials said hastily, rising to calm the situation. "Tonight is a celebration, not a—"

"A celebration of what?" the noble sneered. "Of our empire’s weakness? Of selling off our princess to a savage?"

Anakin’s hand twitched toward the hilt of his sword, but you placed your hand lightly on his arm. He glanced at you, surprised by the gesture. You gave a small shake of your head, your expression unreadable.

"I suggest you hold your tongue," Anakin said, his voice calm but dangerous. His gaze locked on the noble, who faltered under the intensity of his stare.

The noble muttered something incoherent and stumbled back to his seat, and the tension in the room eased, though it did not dissipate entirely.

You leaned toward him slightly, your voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you," you said, your tone careful.

"For what?" he asked, equally quiet.

"For not drawing your sword."

He allowed a faint smirk to cross his lips. "It was a near thing."

The castle chamber assigned to them was warm, lit by the soft glow of a roaring fire. The heavy wooden door closed behind them with a resounding thud, leaving them alone for the first time.

Anakin moved toward the hearth, shrugging off his cloak and tossing it onto a nearby chair. He could feel your eyes on him, though you said nothing.

"Does this room meet your standards, princess ?" he asked, his tone dry as he turned to face you.

You stood near the bed, your hands clasped before you. Out of the elaborate wedding attire, you seemed even smaller, dressed in a simple nightgown of white linen.

"It is fine," you said quietly. Then, after a pause, you added, "You may call me as you like, sir."

He arched a brow, and saw roses embroidered on her gown. "My rose, then."

"And what shall I call you?" You asked, surprising him with your directness.

"Anakin will do, or my husband." he replied, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

The silence stretched between them, heavy with expectation. Anakin felt the weight of the evening press down on him. He had no desire to take you roughly right now—not out of indifference, but because he could see the tension in your posture, the faint nervousness in your eyes.

Instead, he moved toward you slowly, as if approaching a startled doe. When he reached you, he took your hand in his, his calloused fingers brushing against your softer ones.

"You’ve been through enough today," he said gruffly. "You needn’t fear me."

Your gaze searched his, and something in your expression softened. You nodded, a small but significant gesture of trust.

He guided you to the bed, but instead of undressing you, he took a seat beside you and began to unlace your tight shoes. His movements were careful, almost reverent, as though you were something fragile.

"You don’t have to—" you began, but he interrupted you.

"Let me," he said, his voice softer now.

The flickering light of the fire cast a warm glow across your face, illuminating the delicate features that had captivated him since the moment he'd lifted your veil. As he knelt before you, gently removing your shoes, Anakin felt an unfamiliar tenderness stir within him.

"These shoes look uncomfortable," he murmured, his fingers brushing against your ankle as he worked. "I'm surprised you managed to stand through the entire ceremony."

A small smile tugged at the corners of your lips. "It's not the first time I've worn them, my husband."

The formal address sent a shiver down his spine, a reminder of the weight of this union. But as he looked up at you, saw the way your eyes shone with a mix of nervousness and curiosity, he felt something else. A spark of connection, however tenuous.

"Anakin," he said softly, his hand still resting on your foot. "Please, call me Anakin right now..."

You nodded, your cheeks flushing slightly. "Anakin," you repeated, as if testing the name on your tongue.

He rose to his feet, his hand moving from your ankle to your waist. The touch was gentle, almost hesitant, but there was a strength beneath it that spoke of the warrior he was.

"You're trembling," he observed, his thumb rubbing small circles on your hip. "Are you cold?"

"No," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "I'm just... nervous."

Anakin's heart clenched at the admission. He knew all too well the fear of the unknown, the anxiety that came with stepping into uncharted territory. But he also knew the power of vulnerability, the strength that could be found in laying oneself bare.

"There's no need to be afraid," he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple. "We have all the time in the world to... get to know each other."

The last words were laced with a hint of suggestion, but there was no pressure in his tone. Instead, there was a promise, a silent vow to take this journey together, one step at a time.

He drew back slightly, his eyes searching yours. "May I ?” He asked, a hand on the thin strap of your linen gown.

Anakin's eyes searched yours, a silent question hanging in the air between you. He could feel the weight of the moment, the anticipation that seemed to crackle like electricity.

But there was no rush, no need to force the issue. Instead, he leaned in, his lips brushing against your throat in a feather-light kiss. The touch was innocent, almost chaste, but the scruff of his jaw sent a shiver down your spine nonetheless.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. "I find myself at a loss for words."

His hand slid from your waist to your back, drawing you closer. The heat of his body seeped through the thin fabric of your nightgown, a reminder of the man beneath the armor.

"Tell me," he continued, his voice low and husky. "What do you want, my rose?"

The question hung in the air, a challenge and an invitation all at once. Anakin knew he was treading on dangerous ground, that one wrong move could shatter the fragile trust that had begun to grow between you.

But he also knew that this moment, this first night as husband and wife, was a turning point. A chance to build something real, something lasting.

You took a shaky breath.“Anything you’d like me to have, husband…”

Anakin's heart raced at your words, a heady cocktail of desire and tenderness surging through him. He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he whispered, "Are you sure, my rose?"

Your breath hitched, a soft gasp escaping your lips. It was all the encouragement he needed.

Anakin's hands slid down to your waist, his fingers splaying across the small of your back as he pulled you flush against him. He could feel the heat of your body, the way your curves melted into the hard planes of his own.

"I want to worship you," he murmured, his lips trailing down the column of your throat. "To taste every inch of your skin, to make you writhe with pleasure."

His hands roamed lower, cupping your buttocks and squeezing gently. The thin fabric of your nightgown did little to hide the heat of your skin, the way your body responded to his touch.

"Tell me what you need," he urged, his voice rough with desire. "Tell me how to please you."

Anakin's own need was a throbbing ache, his cock straining against the confines of his trousers. But he held himself back, determined to focus on your pleasure first.

He nipped at your earlobe, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh. "I want to hear you, my rose. I want to hear you cry out my name."

His hand slid up your thigh, pushing the hem of your nightgown higher and higher. He could feel the heat of your skin, the way your muscles quivered beneath his touch.

"Is this what you want?" he asked, his fingers brushing against the damp heat of your core. "Do you want me to touch you here?"

Anakin's own breath was coming in ragged gasps, his control hanging by a thread. But he held back, waiting for your response. This was your journey, your pleasure. And he would follow your lead, no matter where it took him.

His scruff ghosted against your shoulder. “I fucked many whores senseless in brothels…but never thought I’d have an angel to satisfy. This is the culmination of my mere mortal life…to have you in my arms, quivering from the pleasure I’m giving you …how lucky I am to be alive right now.”

Anakin's words washed over you, a heady mix of reverence and desire that sent shivers down your spine. You felt cherished, worshipped, like a goddess being praised by a devoted supplicant.

"Anakin," you breathed, your voice trembling with need. "Please..."

It was all the encouragement he needed. With a low growl, Anakin swept you into his arms, carrying you to the bed. He laid you down gently, his body covering yours as he hovered above you.

"You're my angel," he murmured, his eyes dark with desire. "My very own heavenly creature, sent to grace my mortal life."

His lips found yours in a searing kiss, his tongue delving deep as he claimed your mouth. You responded with equal fervor, your hands fisting in his hair as you pulled him closer.

Anakin's hands roamed your body, mapping every curve and hollow. He pushed the straps of your nightgown down, exposing your breasts to his hungry gaze.

"Beautiful," he breathed, his fingers skimming over the sensitive flesh. "Perfect."

He lowered his head, his tongue flicking out to taste your nipple. You arched into him, a low moan escaping your lips as pleasure coursed through you.

Anakin lavished your breasts with attention, his mouth and hands working in tandem to drive you wild with need. Your hips bucked against him, seeking friction, but he held you down, his weight pinning you to the bed.

"Not yet, my rose," he growled, his voice rough with desire. "I'm not nearly done with you."

His hand slid down your body, his fingers teasing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. You trembled beneath him, your body aching for his touch.

"Please, Anakin," you whimpered, your voice barely recognizable to your own ears. "Please…husband..."

With a low groan, Anakin obliged. His fingers delved between your folds, finding you slick and ready. He stroked you slowly, his touch maddeningly gentle.

Suddenly a knock echoed “General, the French renegates attacked a village, we need you as fast as possible.” A voice spoke urgently through the thick wooden door.

The knock at the door jolted you both out of your passionate haze, the harsh reality of your situation crashing down upon you. Anakin cursed under his breath, his expression hardening as he sprang into action.

He quickly fastened his armor, the tender lover of moments ago replaced by the fierce warrior you knew him to be. You watched him through narrowed eyes, your heart pounding in your chest.

How could you have let yourself be swept away like that ? This man, with countless deaths on his hands, had touched you with such tenderness, had made you feel things you'd never felt before. It was a betrayal of everything you stood for, everything you believed in.

"I have to go," Anakin said gruffly, his voice devoid of the warmth and affection he'd shown you just moments before. "Your people have attacked a village. I need to lead my men."

You nodded stiffly, wrapping the sheets tighter around your body. "Of course. Duty calls."

Anakin paused at the door, his hand on the handle. He turned to look at you, his eyes searching your face. "Princess..."

"Go," you said firmly, turning away from him. "Save the village. That's what you're good at, after all."

The bitterness in your voice was unmistakable, and Anakin flinched as if struck. But he didn't argue, didn't try to change your mind. With a curt nod, he left the room, the door slamming shut behind him.

You were alone, your body still thrumming with unfulfilled desire. But it was tinged with shame, with the knowledge that you'd betrayed your principles for a moment of pleasure.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them back furiously. You were stronger than this, better than this. You wouldn't let a man, no matter how charming or skilled, make you forget who you were.

But even as you tried to convince yourself of your own strength, a small voice whispered in the back of your mind. A voice that wondered what might have been, if you'd given in to the passion that had burned between you.

From the Lays of General Anakin Skywalker

"A fleeting touch, a ghost, a flame, A breath that whispers your quiet name. The silk of your skin beneath my hand, A treasure I cannot yet command.

I burn for what I cannot claim, This ache, a tether, this want, my shame. Your gaze, a wound in my chest both sharp and sweet, A battlefield where I’m brought to defeat.”

#hayden christensen #anakin skywalker #evie writes #anakin skywalker x female reader #anakin skywalker smut #anakin skywalker x you #anakin skywalker x reader

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bluebells-and-dragonflies · 11 months ago

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Ascended Astarion who refuses to take your virginity until you're officially declared his consort. He'll kiss you until you can't breathe, leaves bite marks all over your inner thighs, cups your breasts with his hands and rolls your nipples gently with his thumbs. He'll hold your legs apart at the ankles and grind into you, letting you feel how hard he is. No matter how you beg him to fuck you (even with just the tip, anything at all), no matter how you plead and pout and maybe, once or twice, cry for it, he always pulls away.

You deserve something more special than this for your first time, he says. You deserve the wedding, the feast (the food you can't eat and the wine you can't taste). The softest of marriage beds, the sweetest possible claiming. Oh, he wants you, but he wants to give you that luxury more.

And so you wait. You accept the proposal when it comes and show off the ring (golden, diamond-studded, jewels so large you can't begin to fathom the price) to anyone in the palace who crosses your path. Astarion's dressmaker comes to your rooms and fits you for a wedding gown that, when it's delivered, turns out to be less of a gown and more of a negligee, gauzy and light and so sheer that it's see through. When you ask Astarion about it, he only smiles.

The wedding comes sooner than you know and you process almost none of it. At the altar, Astarion looks at you as though he wants to eat you alive. When he kisses you, his tongue slides filthily into your mouth and you nearly bruise him with your grip at the shock of it. It takes nearly half an hour for the heat in your belly to die down. The reception is worse. As you sit at your table at the head of the hall, receiving well-wish after well-wish from a very long line of people you don't seem to recognize, Astarion subtly reaches under the table and places a hand on your thigh. When you stumble on a 'thank you' to the latest guest, he trails his fingers further up your leg, igniting a path of fire on your skin. You are wearing underwear, thank the gods, but you can feel the fabric growing wet between your thighs.

He strokes his thumb over your clit once, then pulls away. When you have the courage to look over at him, he presses the digit to his lower lip and licks it.

By the time he pulls you into the bedroom, you're more than ready to give yourself to him, your husband, your lord. He kisses you hard, clutches your face in his hands, bites your mouth so the blood flows freely between you, coppery and slick, just how he likes. He slams the door behind you and rips the sheer expensive tulle that drapes you to shreds. You look fucking gorgeous, he growls in your ear, all decorated for him, his wife. Oh, he'll give you what you want.

You expect him to slow down at least a little once he has you on your back on the bed, hands clutching nervously at the sheets. You want this, yes, but he had said it would be soft. He had said it would be sweet. And it's only your first time, you with no real idea what to do. You can't keep up with him like this.

Astarion crawls over you and kisses you deep, and it seems like he's good for his word. It's everything he promised, a flick of the switch performed so fast it's like he's reading your thoughts. You help him shed his suit and start to lay back down, but then he tells you to turn onto your stomach. It's easier this way for the first time, he says, and you have no reason not to believe him, so you turn.

When he positions himself between your outstretched legs and cups your cunt, you shudder. He laughs at you, lightly, calls you beautiful, lets his hands roam all over your body. So sweet and soft for him, everything he wanted in a bride. All his, forever. And you saved yourself for him like you knew all along he was waiting. He fits his hips to your ass, lets his cock, hard and smooth on your skin, drag. He's already gotten to claim your life. Your mind. It's a gift to take your body, too.

He thrusts into you without warning, without stretching you, without checking to see if you're wet. The choked sound you make is just as much from surprise from pain. He promised, you think. He promised.

Something tears inside you as he pulls back out, slowly, and you cry out, the pain forcing your body to at least try to fight back. He shushes you, grabs your wrists from behind and pins them on your lower back. He's sorry it hurts, he is, but you do look so very pretty like this, spread out beneath him, his to do what he likes with. Innocent. Fresh.

Just relax, and it'll feel better- he's very, very good at this. Calm down. It'll feel good soon.

His pounding continues, relentless, his cock sawing in and out of you like a blade, and as the tears start to spill down your temples onto the sheets you are truly afraid of him for the first time.

Forever, he whispers into your ear. The word reverberates in your mind, his voice louder and louder until it's all you can hear. The only voice you'll ever hear again. Forever mine.

#astarion x reader #ascended astarion x reader #astarion x you #astarion smut #ascended astarion smut #.nsft #mdni #.astarion #tw dubcon #tw virginity #tw general nastiness #girl i want him.

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honeeybee3 · 5 months ago

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Of Lions and Dragons

Aemond Targaryen x Lannister! reader Summary: Aemond Targaryen, known for his stoic nature and unwavering focus on the realm, is softened by his Lannister wife’s pregnancy. He finds himself drawn to her like a moth to flame, discovering a love that transcends duty and politics. Tonight, he comes home to her, needing her more than he ever thought possible. __________________ The halls of the Red Keep were quiet at this hour, the cold stone walls illuminated by the flickering glow of torchlight. Aemond Targaryen moved silently through the castle, his long strides purposeful as he made his way to his chambers. He’d spent most of his day dealing with Council matters, overseeing reports on the growing tensions in the Riverlands, and managing the ever-increasing burden of his family’s legacy. It was exhausting work, and it left little time for anything else. But tonight, his thoughts were solely on her.

He slowed his pace as he approached their chambers, his chest tightening with anticipation. He always felt this way when he came home to her—the only place in the entire world where he could let his guard down. The only person who saw him as more than just the stern, one-eyed prince of House Targaryen.

His Lannister lioness. His wife. The mother of his child.

He pushed open the heavy door quietly, stepping inside. The sight that greeted him made his heart stutter. She was seated by the fire, her golden hair spilling over her shoulders, her delicate hands resting protectively over the gentle swell of her belly. She looked up as he entered, her amber eyes softening with warmth and affection.

“Aemond,” she murmured, a smile curving her lips. “You’re home.”

He let out a slow breath, as if he’d been holding it in all day. “I am.”

Moving closer, he took her hand in his, lifting it to his lips and pressing a tender kiss to her knuckles. The simple touch, the feel of her skin against his, brought him a sense of calm he could never find anywhere else.

“How are you feeling?” he asked softly, his gaze dropping to her belly. “And how is our little one?”

She chuckled, a sound like bells ringing on a summer’s morning. “We’re both fine, Aemond. A little tired, but that’s to be expected.”

He frowned slightly, his brows drawing together in concern. “You’ve been resting, haven’t you? You know what the Maester said—”

“Aemond,” she interrupted gently, squeezing his hand. “I’ve been resting. I promise. I’ve spent most of the day embroidering the new blankets for the baby and catching up on some reading.”

His frown eased, though he still looked at her with that intense, almost overprotective gaze. He knew he could be overbearing at times, but he couldn’t help it. Not when it came to her. Not when it came to their unborn child.

“You know I worry,” he muttered, lowering himself to sit beside her. He reached out, his hand coming to rest on her belly. His palm was warm and steady, a stark contrast to the fluttering movements beneath her skin.

She covered his hand with hers, intertwining their fingers over the place where their child rested. “I know. But you don’t need to. I’m strong, Aemond. Our child will be strong, too. A lion and a dragon.”

A faint smile tugged at his lips. “Yes, a lion and a dragon. A formidable combination.”

They stayed like that for a while, sitting in comfortable silence. Aemond’s gaze was focused entirely on her, taking in every detail—the soft curve of her cheek, the way her eyelashes brushed against her skin, the subtle swell of her belly that held their future.

“How is your family?” he asked after a moment, his voice low and careful. He always tread cautiously when speaking of House Lannister. The alliance between the lions and the dragons was still delicate, despite their marriage.

Her smile faltered just slightly, but she kept her voice even. “They are… as they always are. My brother wrote to me today. He sends his regards and wishes us well.”

Aemond’s jaw tightened, a familiar flicker of tension passing through him. He’d never gotten along with her brothers—the proud lions of Casterly Rock. They’d made no secret of their skepticism when she’d been betrothed to him, questioning if a match with a second-born Targaryen prince was worthy of their sister. It was a slight Aemond hadn’t forgotten, and likely never would.

But he’d proven them wrong, hadn’t he? He was no mere second son. He was a warrior, a rider of the largest living dragon, and a key figure in the politics of Westeros. And more importantly, he was her husband. The father of her child.

“They will see, in time, what I already know,” she murmured softly, sensing the shift in his mood. “That you are the best man I could have ever chosen.”

He looked at her then, really looked at her. She spoke with such quiet conviction, her gaze unwavering. It still astonished him sometimes—how she could make him feel so understood, so accepted. So loved.

“I never deserved you,” he said quietly, his voice almost a whisper.

She shook her head, reaching up to cup his cheek. “Don’t say that, Aemond. You are everything I could have hoped for. And more.”

He closed his eye, leaning into her touch. Her hand was soft and cool against his skin, grounding him in a way nothing else could. He turned his head slightly, brushing his lips against her palm.

“I don’t know what I would do without you,” he admitted, the words slipping out before he could stop them. They were raw, unguarded, but he didn’t regret saying them. Not to her.

“You’ll never have to find out,” she whispered, shifting closer so she could rest her head against his shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere, my love.”

They stayed like that for a long time, wrapped up in each other. The fire crackled softly, casting a warm glow over the room. Aemond could feel the steady rise and fall of her breath, the gentle rhythm of her heartbeat against his arm.

After a while, she shifted slightly, glancing up at him with a mischievous smile. “I have something for you.”

His brow arched in curiosity. “Oh?”

She nodded, reaching over to the small table beside her chair. From a delicate wooden box, she pulled out a small, embroidered blanket. The fabric was soft and fine, the stitching intricate and beautiful. A lion and a dragon were woven together in a dance of gold and red thread.

“It’s for the baby,” she explained, her smile widening as she watched his reaction. “I wanted something that would remind them of both their houses. Something that symbolizes both parts of their heritage.”

Aemond stared at the blanket, his throat tightening. The design was perfect—a blend of Targaryen and Lannister sigils, unified in a way that felt both powerful and meaningful. He reached out, his fingers brushing lightly over the embroidery.

“It’s beautiful,” he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. “You did this yourself?”

She nodded, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. “It took me a while, but I wanted it to be just right.”

“It’s more than just right,” he said softly, turning to look at her. There was a fierce, almost reverent look in his eye. “It’s perfect. Just like you.”

Her blush deepened, but she held his gaze, her eyes shining with love. “I wanted our child to know that they are loved and cherished by both of us. That they are a part of something bigger.”

Aemond swallowed hard, struggling to find the right words. “Thank you,” he finally whispered. “Thank you for… everything. For loving me. For giving me this family.”

She leaned up, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat, Aemond. For you. Always for you.”

His hand came up to cup the back of her head, holding her close as he deepened the kiss. It was a slow, tender meeting of lips—a silent promise that spoke of all the things he couldn’t put into words.

When they finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against hers, his breath mingling with hers. “I love you,” he murmured, his voice low and rough. “More than I’ve ever loved anything in my life.”

“And I love you,” she whispered back, her fingers threading through his hair. “Forever and always.”

They stayed like that for a long time, wrapped up in each other’s warmth. Outside, the world was filled with turmoil and uncertainty, but here, in this small, quiet moment, they were at peace. It was a fleeting reprieve, a rare glimpse of happiness amidst the chaos of their lives.

But it was enough. Because no matter what happened, no matter what challenges they faced, they had each other. And together, they were stronger than any storm.

The lion and the dragon. Bound by love. Bound by fire.

And soon, they would welcome the next chapter of their story—a new life that would carry on their legacy. A child born of two great houses. A child who would be loved, cherished, and protected.

Aemond glanced down at her belly once more, his heart swelling with a fierce, protective love. He would do anything for her. For their child. For their family.

He bent down, pressing a gentle kiss to her belly. “I can’t wait to meet you, little one,” he whispered softly. “And I promise—I will always be there for you. Just as I am for your mother.”

Tears shimmered in her eyes as she looked down at him, her heart overflowing with love. “I know you will, Aemond. I know you will.”

And in that moment, with his wife’s hand in his and the future cradled between them, Aemond Targaryen felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Hope.

And it was beautiful.

#aemond one eye #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x female reader #aemond targaryen x ofc #hotd #house of the dragon #asoiaf #aemond fic

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surielstea · 6 months ago

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Move Me, Baby

Eris Week, Day Seven: Free day

Pairing: Eris Vanserra x Fem!Reader (arranged marriage)

Summary: Reader and Eris slowly fall in love with both the music and each others movements, on the dance floor and off.

A. Note: Last Eris Week day, and it would not be a Surielstea Eris fic without a ballroom scene, so enjoy… ;)

3.9k words.

Eris has never felt this way before. This eagerness and anticipation. But this female, his betrothed, she was changing things, stirring up feelings that he had long since thought dead. Hope, being one of them.

He stood outside my door anxiously, silently pacing back and forth as he waited for the clock to strike seven, when he was supposed to be here. He hadn't meant to come so early, but his impatience got the better of him and suddenly he was dressed and ready and meandering towards my chambers.

I was unaware of the males presence just outside my room, too busy admiring myself in the mirror. The dress Eris had gifted me this morning was exquisite. Made of the smoothest silk, the deep green shimmering fabric catching the light as it moved like water— and when I put it on I looked as beautiful as an emerald.

The cut of the dress was beyond flattering, with a low neckline and form fitting bodice that hugged me in all the right places. The skirt of the dress was long and flowing into a train that blended from emerald to a glimmering gold.

I decorated myself in golden jewelry, adorning a few rings that paired well with my engagement ring.

I looked to the clock on the wall to see it a minute past seven, when a knock sounded at the door.

I smiled slightly and strides over to the door, I took a moment— making sure my hair was still neat and my painted lips weren't smudged for the umpteenth time. Then I swung open the door and was greeted with the Heir of Autumn.

Eris froze as soon as he saw me, his eyes drinking in every inch of me. His mind went quiet and his throat dried, he had always thought I was gorgeous but tonight I was downright devastating.

I noticed how he stared particularly long at my chest, his eyes roaming over my ample cleavage on display.

Finally, he looked to my eyes and sucked in a sharp breath, understanding that he had been caught.

"You're late, Vanserra," I say and he gives me one of his signature smirks that had my knees buckling. "What's your poor excuse?"

"I know, I know," He rolled his eyes at my chiding tone. "By all of one minute." He adds and I smile up at him. He reaches forward and brushes a strand of my hair behind my ear. "You look absolutely sinful," He said as I linked my arm with his.

I smile broadly. "I know," I sent him a wink and his smirk only widened.

We walked in silence towards the ballroom, but every now and then Eris would steal glances down at me and how perfectly the dress he chose for me hugged my dips and curves. He had never seen something so worthy of worship.

He wanted to be closer, linking arms wasn't enough, he needed more than friendly contact— but he had promised a night of dancing and sparkling wine, not a night in his bed, no matter how much he fantasized about the latter.

"Act like you're in love with me," I say through a tight lipped smile as two royal guards open the large wooden doors leading into the ballroom.

He momentarily wagers how brutal my glare would be if he rolled his eyes, but decided it best to place a hand on the small of my back, bare due to the low cut of my dress.

We strode into the ballroom as one, his protective grip on me claiming me off limits to any male who thought they were good enough for me. I ease into a graceful saunter, nodding my head at bowing guests and curtsying court members. My fae ears perked up at the sound of soft music playing from the live orchestra in the center of the ballroom, filling the large hall with notes and tunes of beauty. I would've lost myself in the sound of it if Eris hadn't guided me over to the dais, where his father and mother sat in their thrones— or rather throne, the Lady of Autumn was sat in a simple, cushioned chair instead.

Eris's mask of cold calculation slipped in place as his arm left my waist in favor of bowing to his parents formally. I do the same, curtsying with a feminine grace that took years of practice.

"Father," Eris rose from his position and I did so I few moments afterwards. "Mother," He nodded his head.

The High Lord gazed at me with a sickeningly honeyed expression, as he always did, and Eris's hand slipped back into mine protectively. The movement doesn't go past either of their notices, but while Beron narrowed his eyes, his wife smiled softly.

"Our newly weds," The Highlord purrs, his eyes taking me in with feline enthusiasm. "You look absolutely delectable tonight, my dear," He hums and I nod with a soft smile.

"Thank you, my lord," I will myself to sound polite and pray it doesn't come off as sarcasm. Eris's hand squeezes mine, relaxing me slightly.

"You are quite proper compared to the last lovers my son has taken into his bed," The high lord says and Eris stiffens.

"Father, I would appreciate it if we didn't discuss past partners while in the presence of my wife." Eris said with a terse voice.

'My wife.' He had said, the words still echoing off the walls of my mind as Beron replied, "Oh c'mon, boy. I'm only teasing, surely she isn't too bothered by it. Right my girl?" His cold gaze slides back to me and my back straightens under the weight of his gaze. I try not to cringe at the nickname and the possessiveness that came with it, but Eris made his distaste clear.

"I don't mind in the slightest, My Lord," I say with a soft voice, leaning into Eris's side, telling him it was all a ruse and I was fine, that even if I was upset I didn't need his protection. But I could still feel the heat rolling off of him, he was ready to pounce and shred into him like one of his smokehounds might.

"See? Shes a perfect little obedient wife, isn't she?" Beron arched a brow, directing all his attention at his son. I wanted to reassure Eris, to tell him his father was only saying all this because he knew that when he spoke of me it got under his skin the most, but that comment, it made my stomach knot and bile threaten at the back of my throat.

Beron smirks, satisfied at the level of discomfort he had breached in both of you. "She is perfect, yes. I would have no complaints." Eris said with a cool grace that I marveled at.

Berons smile widened with amusement, to my dismay. "You've got quite the grip on my son, girl," He hums. "Wrapped around his finger." Beron leans lazily back into his throne. Neither of us supply a retort, which seemed to invoke enough boredom for him to excuse us. "Well, off you go then. The guests have come to see that happy couple dance."

We bow in a synchronized motion once more before Eris whisks me away towards the dancing aristocrats, planting his hands on my hips and holding my back to his chest as he guided me through the grand hall, as far as he could get from his father.

"You didn't have to answer that, you know," He mutters beside my ear, his lowered voice sending a shiver down my exposed spine.

"Answer what?"

"What my father said. About me being with other lovers, you didn't have to agree with him." He clarifies and I frown, my brows bunching.

"I simply didn't see the point in starting an argument with the High Lord at a ball thrown in our honor," I supply, whirling around to face him, he was much closer than I was anticipating and I had to crane my neck to look up into his gold flecked amber eyes.

"I only meant that you didn't have to go along with his teasing, I can't imagine it's very amusing to think about your husband's past partners." Eris expressed.

"Why?" I tilt my head. "I don't have an issue with you being with women prior to me, we live long lives, I don't have any right to be upset about what's happened in the past." I say while mindlessly straightening his dark green suit jacket. He let out a strained sigh and I glanced up at him, a smirk pulling at my lips.

"Don't tell me you're jealous, Vanserra," I taunt and he scoffs, looking anywhere but my eyes.

"Please. I am not, that's laughable." He shakes his head.

"Really? So my past relationships don't affect you in the slightest?" I suggest with an arched brow.

He looks down at me, it was humiliating the way he towered above me. "No, I suppose you're right that it is jealousy. My perfect little obedient wife having a history of other males certainly does not please me." He retorted and I sneered at the recall of his father's description of me.

"You're almost too easy to rile up these days, My Lord," I grin devilishly up at him.

"Oh, you're pushing it Princess," his hands return to my hips. "If it's anything, it's the dress you're wearing that is riling me up." He stated amusedly and I smirk, not falling into the flustered haze he wanted me to.

"It's only a dress," I reply innocently. "One that may end up on the floor of our bedroom tonight if you play your cards right."

"Keep talking like that and I doubt this dress will even make it to the bedroom." He remarks and I curse myself for blushing, losing the little game we had been playing as a rush of heat washes down me.

"Is that a threat, or a promise?"

"Could be both, but I'd mark it as a warning."

"Careful now or we might find ourselves skipping this ball entirely." I grin at him mischievously.

"Is that such a bad thing? I'd much rather have you to myself than watch all these people gawk at you," He smugly says.

"We must dance at least once, first." I say with a knowing certainty, pulling him closer to the dance floor, towards the rising music that I could feel thrumming through my bones.

He lets out a low grumble but obliged anyways, and took my hand in his, his other on my waist. "Alright, one dance and then I will carry you back to our rooms if I have to." He said with a defeated sigh, his eyes roving over me as I pulled him onto the tiled floor, in the center, closest to the music.

"So impatient," I tease while placing a hand on the nape of his neck.

The music flows into a new song, and like clockwork Eris and I easily slip into a graceful waltz. It came like second nature, spinning and twirling beneath the warm lighting, the gold of my dress fanning out, the other dancers giving us a wide berth at the flowing fabric.

I was far too aware of the eyes that were on us, some stealing glances between turns, others outright staring. But my husband didn't seem affected, he was too caught up in my movements to comprehend the idea of anyone else. I flash him a wide smile as he twirls me, then pulls me into his chest with enough force to invoke my crashing into him.

The music ceases and we're met with our heavy breathing, his hands tightly on my hips. "We have danced," He stated with a puff of breath. "And now I am free to be as much of a selfish ass as I wish," He hummed, slipping his hand into mine and pulling me off the dance floor before the next song could start.

I let out a soft laugh as he steers me through the throng of court ladies attempting to get our attention that he ignored, and continued to lead me towards the door. "Calm down, your highness." I purr, squeezing his hand slightly. The use of the nickname made him pause, and he turned back to look at me. "We can't just ditch halfway through a ball that was set in motion for us," I explain.

"There's nothing left for us to do here, aside from me standing here, watching as the others stare at how ravishing you look tonight." He intoned and I flashed him a lovely, innocent smile.

"And that's such a bad thing?" I bat my lashes up at him and he smirks, taking a step towards me and closing the distance between us.

He leans in closer, his voice a rolling purr as he says, "You have no idea how incredibly torturous it is to watch every one here foam at the mouth over the sights of you in that dress"

"You're being dramatic." I scoff, looking at the crowd surrounding us who quickly averted their gazes. "The looks everyone was casting our way had little to do with me." I shrug and look back to the Heir.

"My fawn, do not go shy on me now. You look like an angel tonight." He shakes his head and turns away from me again, his hand still interlaced with mine as he pulls me through the large doors which the guards closed behind us, shutting the peering eyes of the crowd out.

"An angel, hm? Careful Vanserra you're starting to sound like you have some real feelings for me." I say, bumping into him playfully.

"My 'Real Feelings' for you would be on display the moment we walked into that ballroom if I wasn't worried about ruffling our people." He makes clear and I grin. Our people. I might have been from the winter court but he was fully prepared to share his lordship with me, as his high lady.

"Oh?" I glance up at him. "And what exactly do these 'Real Feelings' consist of?" I say while continuing the journey back to our chambers.

"Would you like a demonstration?" He suggests as we reach the doors of our suite.

"I've always been a visual learner." I retort, the flirtatious hum in my voice enough to send any male wild.

"You know exactly which buttons to push to drive me mad, don't you?" He asks while throwing open the door and following in after me.

"I don't hear you complaining." I shrug, my snarky attitude sending him into a spiral. He tightened his hold on my hand and pulled me back, pressing me into the door and pushing it shut with my weight.

"No, I'm certainly not complaining." His hand comes to my waist, and the click of the lock makes my ears perk up. "Quite the opposite actually," He confesses, leaning forward and pressing a claiming kiss just below my jawline, licking, sucking, and biting at my neck. I let out a soft sigh at the feeling of his lips on my skin.

"Eris," I murmur through a hushed moan.

"Yes, love?" He voices, the sound vibrating against my neck.

"You're moving too slow, I think you've been patient enough with me." I grumble, my hand slinking into his deep red hair and tugging on it slightly as he tortures a particularity sensitive spot just below my pulse point.

"You're going to be the end of me." He grumbles, his restraint slowly slipping from his grasp. "Do you have any idea what I want to do to you?"

"Enlighten me." I smirk with lustful eyes, a challenge.

"The list of things would take us days to get through, my dear." He admits and my core heats at the idea, a wicked grin on my lips.

"Good thing we've got nothing but time." I suggest.

"You're not making it easy for me to maintain my control." He grouses against my skin.

"Who says I want that?"

"You're toeing a dangerous line, pretty girl." He narrows his eyes on me, a cold smirk playing at his lips.

"There's no line, it's just a statement." I retort, my hand tugging at his hair while the other undoes the buttons of his shirt. "Right now there is nothing I want more than for you to lose control." I admit and his teeth brush over my neck as he grins wildly.

"Have it your way love." He grabs my hips and pulls me over to the bed, practically carrying me and settling me down onto the bed.

"Please." I press my thighs together, my hands fumbling to get his shirt off.

"What do you need?" He hummed, coming to hover over me, his muscled arm mmm flexing with the movement.

"You, I need you." I murmur as he dips down, his lips sealing over that same sensitive place on my neck, biting and kissing around it, forming a group of purple marks around the area.

"Oh yeah?" He purrs, his knee coming down to press in between my legs. I gasp, gripping the sheets beneath me as he allowed me to grind down on it, friction sparking up my spine.

"Yes, oh gods, yes I need you." I sigh, my head tilting back, giving him further access to my throat.

"And what do you need me to do to you, my pretty wife?" He asks and my mind reels with possibilities. A list, he said he had. I wanted every item on that list crossed off by the end of tonight.

"Eris I can't take it anymore, please," I writhe beneath him, biting into my lower lip to stop myself from pleading with him any further.

"Keep begging and I'll consider it." He drawls, his voice low and flooded with lust.

My breath hitched as I let out a soft, "Please." My head is heavy with need and my core thrummed. "Please take me right here, right now. Do whatever you want to me Eris just, please, I need you inside of me." I whimper, pathetic, that's what I was, and I'll be full of shame in the morning when I remember how needy I am, but right now the only thing I cared about was his touch.

A resounding tear sounded through the room and I gasped, looking down to see my dress falling from my frame. "I warned you what would happen to this dress if you kept your teasing up." He growled and I grinned, showing off all my teeth.

"I've never been too mindful of warnings." I utter, hands moving to the buckle of his pants as he kisses across my collar bone.

"I'm painfully aware." He grits through his teeth, holding back his groan as I palmed him through his pants.

He pulled back to look down at me, taking in every dip and curve of my body, his hands caressing over my waist and it felt like flames licking up my side. "Gods you're beautiful." He murmured, mostly to himself.

I revel in his touch, left only in my underwear before him. He helps me with the task of his pants, thrashing them off and discarding them onto the floor to join my ruined dress.

His hard length met my clothed cunt and I gasped, my hands forming into fists at the sudden stimulation.

"Eris, please," I whine, my brows furrowing with need. He smirks and in one fluid movement he's moving my panties down my thighs, revealing how wet I was, all for him. He grunts at the sight, his eyes losing any emotion except desire, lust.

His eyes trace the outline of my body as he leans down, his lips pressing to mine and I moan as his cock pressed into my aching folds. He takes the opportunity of my open mouth to slip his tongue in, exploring with it eagerly, flicking and curling it so skillfully that it made me wonder what it could do in other places.

"You sure about this, baby?" He panted into my mouth, his words ghosting across my raw lips.

I nod, fervent to please him, to feel him.

"Words beautiful, use your words," He whispered over my lips.

"Yes, Eris, please— I'm sure," I whimper and he grins, my words all he needed to hear before aligning his head with my entrance and pushing in.

I gasp at the stretch, my hips lifting and back arching in adjustment as he continues filling me, inch after inch, seeking new unfound levels of pleasure. I move my hands to his back, muscles shifting as he leans down.

His hips meet mine, fully sheathed inside of me. I look down at where we connect, my pulse picked up as he begins to move, and I watch, stare as he pulls out only to thrust back in, stretching me wide.

He continues his brutally slow pace, groaning and panting filling the room as I grow more and more used to the pain, slowly morphing into pleasure.

“Yes, Eris, yes,” I chant, shoving my head back into the pillows, eyes rolling back as he molds my elastic walls to his cock.

“You’re doing so well, such a good girl,” He praised, leaning over me and pressing a kiss to my cheek, his touch all too innocent as one of his hands comes up to grope my breast. His touch was smoldering and burning, but I delighted in it, for it was purely him and no one else could replicate the marks he left on my skin.

“Eris,” I whimper, his name the only thing my mouth could form, everything else was an incoherent moan. “Eris,” I repeat and I realize I was praying to a god willing to answer my every request.

“I know, I know,” He said over my skin, his warm voice like embers still crackling. “You going to come, my love?” He taunts, but I was too caught up in reaching my high to pick up on his teasing tone.

I nod frantically, scratching my nails down his back.

“Go ahead, come for me.” He implored and I let out a cry of pleasure as his thumb presses to my clit, the bundle of nerves sending shockwaves up my spine.

A wave of white hot ecstasy washed down my spine, staining my cheeks, warming me down to my very bone.

His climax was quick to follow, my clamping down on him beckoned him to barrel towards his peak, his release seeping into my most untouched places.

He co tinted to guide me through my high, slowly coming down. He leaned forward and placed a supple kiss to my sweat slick forehead. “You did so good, my dear,” He murmured into my skin as he slowly pulled out, grunting softly as I milked him for all he was worth.

“Come now, let’s get you cleaned up,” He gathered me into his arms and I smiled softly at the warmth and familiarity of his embrace. And I knew then, as I found comfort as he cradled me, that it was no longer just sex, but rather what I had been craving for years and hadn’t been able to name it. This intangible thing that I had always yearned for without realizing it, love, I loved him. I knew there was no return from this point on.

Eris Week Tag List: @adharanotfound @mp-littlebit @its-me-meg @olive-main @bookwormysblog @inurus @iwishiwasaprincess @randomgurl2326 @tigerlily00 @i-know-i-can @bubybubsters @booklover0318 @lalaluch @hallabongy @paintedbyshadows @ninthcircleofprythian @chasing-autumns-chill @deepestmentalitypersona @myromanempiree @rosewood-cafe @witchmoon10 @andreperez11

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fanaticsnail · 1 year ago

Text

Chapter 3

Masterlist here, Moodboard here

Sapsorrow Masterlist

Word Count: 8,054

Themes: enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, forced proximity, lord and subordinate, one bed trope, apprehension, mutual pining, obligation, slow burn, eventual love, protective, "where is my wife" trope. Slow-slow-slow burn. Series Inspiration link: The Storyteller Episode 8

Song Suggestions: The Green Light - Je Suis Parte

(Image Source: Here)

Your sleep that night was restless; your body awakening much before the first dawn of sunlight cracked through the dark of the night to awaken the many unique birds within the lands of Kuraigana. Their voices were yet to cry out and alert the castle and surrounding keep of the morn, yet you continue to lay sleepless amongst your plush bedsheets.

Huffing out a breath of frustration, you shook your head and rose from your reclined position against your pillows and thrust the duvet from your body. One foot falling over the mattress first, followed by the other, you slid your feet into your sleep shoes tucked beneath your large bed and hoisted yourself to your feet. Reaching over to your armchair, your fingers found your lengthy silk negligée and wrapped it around your body and tied it firmly around your front. The lengthy pale sleeves draped around your wrists, you found your hairbrush and began angrily detangling your sleep-deprived hair from their matts.

Why did he look at you like that? Why was he so intimately holding you? Why did your breath hitch as your eyes met? His eyes, the amber hue bearing such intensity and longing- was that what it was? Surely you were mistaken. Those were the thoughts keeping you from a blissful slumber, clawing like a beast at the walls of their cage, the thoughts rendered you paralyzed and incapable of rest.

You angrily thrust your hairbrush down within your firm grip, a loud clack of the metal base echoing against your vanity benchtop. You clenched your eyes firmly shut, pursing your lips and biting back a frustrated scream.

It had been years since any action was outside the realms of your control, this one being the first to draw a physical outburst to occur since you were a teenager. You sucked in a deep breath while closing your eyes, rotating your neck to rid it of its sleep-deprived, rigor-mortis akin stiffness. Reopening your eyes, your pupils narrowed in as you focussed on your puffed eye-bags below your irises.

“You came here to do a job. You are a governess,” you reassured yourself, affirming yourself sternly in the mirror, “You are strong. You are safe. It is just a job.” Your looped affirmations continued as you attempted to repress memories from arising, but to no avail. You knit your brows together, shaking your head to rid the memories from coming to light before your eyes before the sun was yet to create the dawn.

“You are in control here,” you again spoke aloud, rising from your seated position against your vanity. You claimed a small unlit lantern hanging limply from the door, unhooking it from the wall and drawing out a small box of matches to ignite the flame atop the wick. Shaking the flame away from the matchstick, you discarded the small piece of twig into the basket below your desk and fled from the room causing you sleeplessness.

The halls became ignited by the small flame in your lantern, illuminating the portraiture littering the gloomy halls. Several generations of the lord you unwittingly bound yourself to with the Sapsorrow ring lay staring vacantly at you as your slippers peppered the ground with your featherfall footsteps.

You were unsure as to where your feet were carrying you until you found yourself amongst the large wooden shelves in the large library. Each book was meticulously cataloged and alphabetised, the colors on the leatherbound spines ranging from the deepest of emeralds to dark magenta with golden twine. As each of the spines of the books drew you in by their pigments and binds, your left hand unconsciously flew to the shelves and danced among the pages. Tracing upon the many spines as you wandered aimlessly amongst the shelves, your fingers met with a vacant space in the nook; your fingertips falling through the space housing a book that no longer resides within its crease.

Looking at the space for any semblance of literature navigation, you noticed you were in the section marked “S”, somewhere tucked between knowledge of Sangiovese vines and winemaking, and Sailing the uncharted waters of the grand line.

“Sapsorrow,” you spoke aloud in a small whisper, gasping as your fingers collected the moved dust, “that was what he said,” you pressed your sleep-deprived memory for a semblance of thought: “Ten rings of the Sapsorrow queen, all riddled with charm, none can break from its challenger’s gleam, or cause the commissioner harm.”

“What does that mean?” you gasped once more, drawing up your fingertips to look at the dust collected, rolling the powder and webs within your hand, “there’s ten of them. What is a Sapsorrow? Ten of them?” you looked down onto the moss-coloured stone sitting innocently atop its golden circlet of destiny, “Like ten fingers?”

Turning again to the bookshelf and looking at the vacant space against the shelves, you huffed out another breath of exasperation and grumbled; “It would have been useful to have a book on the matter. Perhaps that is what my betrothed-,” you rolled your eyes at the taste of the title over your palate, "-is doing with the book. If there even is one.”

You growled beneath your breath, another attempt at ridding yourself of the memories of the night prior. It was dancing behind your closed eyes slower than it occurred in reality. Each small brush of his fingertips over your body as he took your measurements, the small rasp in his voice as he spoke to you, his humility in joining his forehead against your own, and the way he held you against himself. You were going mad, reading into something that was truly not there.

Shaking your head and breathing in deeply, you attempted to calm yourself down and reached for the nearest book at the end of the row. Your brows furrowed as you looked at the title, a small curious smile prickling at the corners of your cheeks.

“Waltzing: A Pirate’s Guide to Entangling with the Upper Classes,” you spoke, your eyes lightening as your smile deepened. You examined the books cover for any other information, finding no further explanation, “there’s no author? Curiouser and curiouser.”

You took the book to the corner of the room, sitting atop a plush crimson armchair and placing your lantern on the side table to illuminate the corner of the room. You huddled against the suede arm of the chair, bringing the pages closer to the light as you turned the first chapter: “Swords and Steps.” Your face became more bright as diagrams of pirate gentleman holding his sword upright and extended, followed by the placement of an ornately dressed woman spinning within his arms; the imagery of the evening’s prior events falling away from you the further you dove into the pages.

The lantern’s wick began to flicker, the candle warning you it was in its final moments as the hours in the library began to fall away from you. You were barely aware of the dawn beginning to filter through the curtains, the first light a warm pink dusting the marble floor with its presence. The only sense able to bring you from your hypnosis within the pages was the scent of the extinguished wick as the stale smoke danced over the benchtop.

Shaking your head, you attempted to again return to the present as you closed the pages of the book together and rose to your feet; hastily sauntering over to the aisles to return it to its rightful position within the shelves. You didn’t even know where to begin navigating the halls, unsure how you managed to draw yourself from your wing into the library to begin with. The patter of your heart began thumping heavily against your ribcage, anxiety raising at the thought of being caught within your bed clothes by a member of staff, or worse: Zoro and Perona.

As the light of the sun began awakening the walls you wandered earlier, a strange mud-covered silhouette of a person holding a bouquet of flowers at eye level remained in the sunlight cascading over the front marble steps. They were picking at the thorns, clipping the stems and arranging the florals and vines in a fashionable style with pliers and ribbons of twine wrapping around the amassment of petals.

The figure almost didn’t look human; bipedal humanoid, surely, but not human. The amount of dirt, muck, fur and feathers eclipsing their body under their cluster made them look beastly. You heard a deep rumbly hum, the creature before you appearing to be singing softly to themselves a tune you could not recognise. This was the only clue that allowed you to presume their gender, the smoothness of their deep voice almost serenading you with its comfort. Rolling slightly on your heels to rid yourself of your nerves, you cautiously approached the figure while holding your arms laced over your chest to shield his view from your sleep-clothes.

“Excuse me, sir?” you called to them, their body’s stiffening in response and raising the flowers up further to cover their face, “No need for alarm, I am the Governess here.” He seemed to remain statuesque, rigid in his stance and not making a sound. You grew more curious, stepping forward again to get a better look at the arrangement, noticing it was similar to the ones placed atop your table and decorating your room.

“I know who you are, my lady,” he spoke slowly. His cadence seemed familiar to you, albeit his face was hidden, “You should not be up at this hour. Is there something troubling you?” You were taken aback by his direct approach, but it was a welcome surprise.

“I was unable to sleep, sir. My thoughts are my own, although I have been having trouble ruling over them of late,” you replied honestly. He nodded behind the flowers, your eyes trailing over him and studying his attire. He was clad in hessian pants, his boots trekking mud into the cobblestone galley. His torso was clad in a pale linen with mud, sticks and leaves masking the pigment of his skin from your eyes with how heavily caked he was beneath the thick sludge.

“If I may be so bold as to ask for your help,” you asked him, stepping further into his proximity. The scent falling off him in waves was the earthiness of the mud mixed with the petals clutched over his face. As you drew in closer, you noticed he was wearing a broad straw hat, his face shielded by the wide brim, while his nose and lips were covered by a piece of woven cloth. He held his sight fixed to his hands, electing not to make eye contact with you.

“You may ask anything of me, my lady,” he responded, his eyes remaining holding to the floor beneath him. You allowed a soft smile to rise against your lips, a small sigh electing to release itself from your chest at his candor.

“I am unaware of my surroundings. I have been here a fortnight now, this being the first night I have opted to explore the grounds rather than remaining sleepless in my bedchambers,” you confessed to him, nodding as you spoke, “I have no idea where my wing is from here, and I assume you are a member of staff here.”

“I am something of the like, my lady,” he admitted to you, nodding while actively listening to your words as they fled from your lips, “I admit I was on my way to your chambers presently.” Your eyes widened, looking at the bouquet clutched firmly within his hands then back to his face.

“So, I’ve finally caught the culprit,” you laughed at him, “just as you have caught me in naught but my nightdress. Those are meant for me, are they not?” His rigidity did not halt, nor the tingle in his fingertips dancing amongst the vines.

“You’re the one who brings the ever changing arrangements to my bedchambers, am I correct in my assumption?” you asked him while fixing your gaze on the white puffs of roses clutched within his muddy fingertips.

“That you are, my lady,” he again admitted, bowing in a low stoop as a performer would to receive their applause. You smiled warmly, reaching for his forearm and lacing your right arm within his.

“Chaperone me,sir. Please lead me to return to my wing,” you asked him with a small laugh, uncaring for the dirt falling from his sleeve onto your own.

“I will make a mess of the halls, my lady. I should not be above the cellars while dressed like this,” he spoke in a warning tone, “I don’t enjoy cleaning up the boot prints I trek in at this hour.”

“Tush,” you dismissed his warning, tugging at his forearm, “I cannot wait for you to strip yourself of your tarnished clothes, bathe and escort me to my wing. I am in my nightdress, sir,” His eyes widened at your comment, his eyes almost holding a honey color displayed from its angle to you.

��I would not desire tarnishing your own clothes with my mess, my lady,” he sighed as you both witnessed some mud falling from his shirt onto your sheer chemise. You smiled at his halt while bringing your other hand to fall atop his dirt-caked forearm. “Please, sir. I cannot have the lord of the house seeing me like this. Nor our shared wards.”

“Is not the lord of your house your betrothed?” he asked you, his brows furrowing as he spoke his warning.

“That he is, sir,” you nodded your confirmation while laughing once more, “all the more reason for the both of us to scurry on to my wing so we can both be rid of this predicament.” He hummed in response, shaking his head slightly with a small chuckle. You sighed in relief as he began to shepherd you towards your room, your body physically relaxing aside his as he guided you through the halls. You made idle conversation, the morning rising alongside the chirps of local birds warning you the day has been broken and to be thrust into your day.

“How long have you been working the land here in Kuraigana? Your arrangements speak wonders to your skill, sir,” you praised him, watching as his smile began to upturn in the creases of his eyes. His nose and lips remained hidden beneath a woven cloth, his eyes being the only human part you could gauge the emotions of.

“I have been working with agriculture since I first laid eyes on the keep. There’s something about the soil here that is particularly riveting. The grapes thrive here,” he expressed with such unbridled passion, you could feel his joy at working the soil of the gloomy land, “they grow large, their skin dense and firm. Perfect for a variety of vines and vintages.”

“A viticulturist also? My, you have an array of talents. What do you grow here?” you ushered him to continue expressing his passion, your interest in the land growing by the interaction with the creature guiding you to your wing.

“I do enjoy watching the vines grow, yes. I also have had a hand in crafting the varieties into wine,” he admitted, nodding beneath his wide, straw hat.

“A wild ferment, perhaps? A malolactic for chardonnay and sangiovese?” you asked him, prodding him and probing with your pointed questions. He chuckled at your comments, shaking his head at your comments.

“You are well versed in the art of conversation, my lady,” he commented accusingly, with a small whisper of humor beneath his words, “you need not humor me with your polite words.”

“Sir,” you furrowed your brows at the creature, halting your steps, “if I was not interested in your craft, I would not be asking so many questions,” your confession rendered him almost speechless. You chuckled at his surprise, once again allowing your feet to fall in pace towards your chambers.

“To further spur how truly interested I am in what you have to say, I would simply hum and nod to showcase my active listening while not asking questions,” you continued, your warm smile continuing to power your words, “my favorite phrase to use in that particular situation is: ‘that certainly sounds interesting’.”

He chuckled at your comment as he continued leading you to your chambers, the door within your sight as he unlaced his arm from within yours and opened your front door for you.

“A gentleman amongst the staff of Kuraigana?” you praised him with your words, prompting him to hand his head with a small huffed chuckle at your words.

“I aim to be, my lady,” he uttered, walking within your bedchambers and beginning to remove the prior arrangement of flowers atop your desk and replace it with another arrangement. Unbothered by his presence in your chamber, you began tending to yourself by finding an appropriate uniform for the day and hooking it over your changing screen beside your bed. You continued to hear his footfalls against the room adjacent to yours, yourself feeling secure behind the screen enough to begin changing into your uniform to begin your day.

You threw off your chamise, followed by your night dress, slippers and socks before weaving yourself into your chosen attire for the day. A simple long dress, practical in nature with a cinched waist and a modest neckline: exactly how a governess should be seen by members of the household staff, not scantily clad in your bed attire.

“I am heading out, my lady,” the strange chaperone informed you, prompting you to hasten your pace of lacing your boots.

“Wait, sir. Allow me to thank you for escorting me back to my wing,” you called to him, hastily making your way towards the table setting in front of you. The flowers were breathtaking, this one filled with difficult to collect flowers with sweet scents and crystal-like dew drops. You carefully selected one from the bunch, a simple bushel of baby’s breath clutched between your fingertips as you carefully pried it from its place amongst the bouquet.

“This one is for you, sir. Thank you for aiding me in my time of need,” you presented the small bushel of flowers to him; his muddy hand coming out to collect it within his discolored fingertips.

“Thank you for your kindness, my lady,” he nodded in a small bow, your fingers brushing together slightly at his withdrawal.

“What may I call you, sir? Surely you have a name, and I would like to know I have a friend here in Kuraigana while I work,” you asked him, your trail of intellect deducing the flurry of thoughts, “or would you prefer to be known simply as ‘Farm-hand’?”

“Farm-hand,” he repeated back to you, his voice almost laughing, “Farm-hand is fine to me, my lady.”

“If you are to go by this name, please bestow one of a similar likeness to me, Farm-Hand,” you laughed at his candor, as you reached for the metal hairbrush you were using earlier and began hastily smoothing over your tangled locks.

“If I am to be Farm-Hand,” he thought hard, a small hum exiting from his chest, “you ought to be ‘Lost-Lady’. Considering it is too much of a mouthful to address you as ‘woman clad in naught but her nightdress’.”

You laughed again at his comment, before guiding his muddied form outside of your bedchambers.

“Until tomorrow's flowers, Farm-Hand,” you stooped in your low courtesy and offered him your left hand. He accepted it, bringing down his forehead to brush against the back of your hand atop your knuckles.

“Until the morrow, Lost-Lady,” he raised his forehead from his bowed position and watched as you turned back into your chambers to continue readying yourself for the day, the door shutting with a small click behind you.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.

Mihawk was frozen, his dirtied hands rolling over the small white flowers within his fingertips. He hooked his hand against his mask, drawing back the material to taste the air once more without the filter of material or mud. His beard was no longer scratching behind the mask, the flavor of the air feeling all the more sweet. As he twirled the flowers within his fingers, he sighed at the innocent object dancing in his hand.

His left hand shook, feeling the warm tingles of the memories of your flesh joining briefly with his as he clutched yours within his fingers. The ghost of radiant heat against his forehead remained alongside the memory of such a warmth you presented to him, a presumed low-ranking member of his staff.

He looked down at his attire, the mud covering his body causing him to physically hiss out a verbal reprimand at himself.

“So stupid to lose footing beneath the vines,” he chastised his appearance, “especially to collect the insignificant little baby’s breath-.” His words halted as he drew up the pale flowers you had gifted him in return once more, a soft smile rising to his lips.

“What have I ever done in this life to deserve such sweetness?” he whispered to himself, a sighed laugh falling from his lips as he shook his head.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.

Sitting with the young pink haired debutante in the courtyard, you noticed her eyes were glazed; her far off expression alerting you to her being not overly present for this afternoon’s private lesson.

“Perona, dear?” you called to her, placing your cup back on the saucer. She hummed in response, slowly blinking her eyes but remaining away with the ghosts that haunt her. You sighed deeply, rising to your feet and moving behind your chair. You slowly wedged the chair beneath the circular dining table and walked over to crouch in front of her.

“Perona,” you softly spoke, reaching to claim her hands laced within her lap beneath your palm. She squeaked, looking down into your eyes and uttered a hasty, “yes, my lady?”

“There you are, you’re back,” you smiled at her, prompting a blush to rise and litter her pale cheeks with its hue. You smoothed your thumb over her knuckles to reassure her she wasn’t keeping you waiting.

“I’m sorry my lady, they-,” she began, rapidly blinking as she attempted to articulate her thoughts to place them within the air verbally, “-they have been saying some unusual things to me. It’s been a bit tricky to ignore them.” You quirked your head to the side, not completely processing what she was admitting to you.

“Oh?” You prodded her, rising to your feet and tugging lightly on her hand to usher her to her feet, “and what do they have to say today? Only good things, I hope.” Her teeth drew outwards in a straight line, cringing out a small apprehensive wince of a smile.

“Not exactly,” she admitted while rising to her feet in front of you. Her smile only drew more apprehension from you, curiosity now being eclipsed by concern at her words. You nodded to her to continue relaying her thoughts to you, her nodding while adding; “they say he’s found a way. Something about the moon being first, I think. Help? He’s getting help- no-... asking for help? They’re not making much sense.”

You knit your brows further in the center of your forehead, her words not drawing any conclusion to your already troubled mind from sleeplessness earlier.

“A beast? No... A Crocodile has the moon?” she nodded with her eyes shut tightly, focusing on the voices as they presented themselves to her. She continued shaking her head, the many voices falling over her mind and corrupting her thoughts with their nonsensical visions.

“Perona,” you called to her, her aura beginning to turn a different hue to indicate her beginning to be overwhelmed by other worldly voices. You took both of her hands in yours and gave them a firm squeeze, “Perona, sweetheart.” She opened her eyes, glossy and a different hue than her usual vibrancy.

“The moon,” she uttered, “the moon has commenced.”

“Perona!” your voice held an elevated firmness to your tone, immediately snapping her from her daze and coming back to the world she views as reality.

“I’m sorry, Governess,” she uttered quickly, bowing her head to you and beginning to tremble a little, “they’ve just been enthusiastic lately. They are very interested in that.” She nodded to your left hand, your ring shining its smoked, green gemstone within the sunlight.

“They say,” she teeters off her voice, shaking her head as the voices begin to eclipse her form and shroud her mind with their nonsensical visions. She allowed herself to snap out of it, taken aback by their final informational relay, “there’s a party? Oh! And there’s a dress for you.”

The blood in your face physically leapt from your head and paled. He’d done it. He’d made the first dress, the doom of your wedding day approaching with more haste than you would have desired. You were to be a bride, donned in dresses of the finest make and forced down the aisle with the knife of destiny thrust against your back to usher you onwards-.

“-Not one of those, my lady,” Perona broke you from your thoughts, her eyes wide and serious as they met with your widened gaze. She gently squeezed your hands within her own, reassuring you with her kind expression, “they say the party is to announce your engagement, and Mihawk has had a dress made especially for you to wear to it.”

“O-Oh,” you stuttered, the color once again returning to your cheeks. Perona giggled at your apprehension, lacing her arms within your own and beginning to draw you closer to the sage-colored hedge-ends to look over the impressive grounds of Kuraigana.

“You want to go and see it? They say he has it ready for you, if you like,” she shrugged, her enthusiasm sparking at the corners of her cheeks as she physically began to shake with anticipation. You allowed a softness to fall over your body, your young debutante beginning to break down your walls and squeeze herself into the realms of personal friendship.

“I think I will wait until he sends for me,” you smiled at her, “for now, we need to continue with your lessons.”

“Why, my lady?” she whined, a small semblance of childish anger falling from her pouted lips, “I don’t want a husband, I don’t want to be a lady.”

“Do you desire to wear beautiful gowns, dance with handsome men and woo them with your radiant beauty?” you sighed, your eyes rolling with a soft smirk arising against your lips. She immediately snapped out of her childish tantrum.

“Yes, my lady,” she softly spoke while nodding, her pink-hair bouncing with the gentle bob of her head.

“Then lessons in being a lady are to continue until I’m satisfied you are able to showcase my reputation alongside your own,” you chastised her with your smirk rising into a pleasant smile.

“Yes, my lady,” Perona sighed, beginning to lead you throughout the beautifully maintained hedge-ends. The map of the maze lay unpolished, dust and dirt falling over the sign and making the object unable to be read.

“I shall talk to the Farm-Hand about that tomorrow,” you spoke under your breath. Perona looked to the side, conversing with an astral projection beside her, “We have a farm-hand? I thought that was-... oh…��

.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.

“WHAAAAAAAA-?” the den-den-mushi split the lord of Kuraigana’s eardrum with the verbal cry form the other end of the transmission.

“Silence your incessant screaming, Clown,” Mihawk growled into the receiver.

“You called Me, Hawk-Eyes,” the voice called on the other end, Mihawk’s migraine beginning to worsen its throb against his temples. He should never have done this, requested aid like this. From them.

“That I did, Clown,” he admitted in a defeated sigh, bringing his index and middle fingers up to rotate around his temple.

“Stop calling me ‘Clown’. I have a name,” the voice spat back at the gloomy warlord as he sat neatly dressed against his desk, “and if you’re calling in a favor, I require to have my full title spoken to me.” Mihawk sighed again, his defeated eyes closing as his humility began to overcome his body.

“Captain Buggy D Clown,” Mihawk uttered darkly into the microphone at the end of the den-den-mushi, “I need you to make something for me. I know you can do it, I’ve seen something similar at your big-top. It needs to be starlight. A gown for a bride as radiant as the stars that litter the night sky. A dress so spectacularly clustered with diamonds of glittery stars, people would be amazed that something so beautiful could be found within the realms of mortality.”

A brief pause occurred, static from the other end of the receiver before the clown once again spoke up.

“Mihawk, baby,” the voice taunted him, “you had me at ‘I need you’.”

At that, the other end of the receiver clicked to indicate the end of the conversation, the clown striking a bargain with the darkened lord of Kuraigana, who’s very core was wrecked with absolute hopelessness.

“Two calls down,” he sighed, rotating his neck to rid it of the tension arising within it, “the drunken red-head is next.”

Lord Dracule Mihawk understood this undertaking was seemingly impossible, the three gowns he was to present to his governess- …no, his betrothed, was no easy feat. He did not initially intend on asking for aid, but his resources and contacts were depleted with such haste, there was no way he would be able to commence such an undertaking on his own.

The Crocodile managed to sense there was a difference in his usually stoic and disinterested demeanor, which prompted Mihawk to relay his troubles onto the larger gentleman. A cigar clenched within his pearled teeth, his eyes held amusement rather than their usual boredom at Mihawk’s predicament.

“I have some material you may enjoy, former warlord,” he spoke with such confidence, his eyes almost twinkling with delight at the notion he had something to hold over the golden-eyed swordsman, “a shipment delivered balls of silk and satins to my keep. Pale as the coldest chill of the first drops of winter,” his taunts continued as he blew a puff of cigar smoke into Mihawk’s face, “it almost looked as radiant as the moon.”

“Almost,” Mihawk spat, his eyes narrowed and anger growing more tangible, “almost will not do. It needs to be exact, precise, executed to the highest quality for my bride-.”

“-Your Bride? Mihawk,” Sir Crocodile’s sinister grin split his reptilian face upwards, “You never took me as the type to marry. Concubines? Of course. They have their uses. But Bride?” He removed his cigar from his teeth and pressed the butt-end with his thumb into the ashtray, “A Bride to the lord of Kuraigana. She must be some woman.”

“Indeed, that she is,” he admitted, his anger only remaining within its elevation at the taunts from the larger man. Sir Crocodile hummed, stooping lower to Mihawk’s stature, and smiled further upwards to crinkle his cheeks.

“I will have it made for you, Hawk-Eyes,” he hissed into his face, his shadow from his larger stature doing nothing to intimidate the confident swordsman, “and I expect a favor in return for it. Send her measurements to me, and I will have a hundred hands stitching it for you.”

“Mihawk, you gloomy old prick, that you? What are you calling me for at this hour?” the lazy voice of the overly confident red-headed captain asked at the other end of the receiver. Mihawk sighed, his anxiety at requesting the final object from his oldest rival getting the better of him the longer he remained in silence.

“Mihawk, if you don’t speak soon, I’m going to hang up the call and go back to my drinking-” Shank’s voice was halted by Mihawk uttering a single word.

“Lingerie.” Silence. Naught a word was spoken for several seconds; the anxiety elevating higher in Mihawk’s chest the longer the silence remained stagnant. An uproar of laughter was thrust into the receiver, several members of the red-hair pirates thrusting their jovial laughter into the air at a single word. As the laughter stifled back, Shanks spoke up once more.

“Lingerie, Mihawk? You want some lingerie? Is it for you, or is it for you?” the red-head captain jested, taunting the dark-haired warlord with his words. Mihawk shook his head, notably too far deep now to pull away from his request now.

“Red-Haired Shanks,” Mihawk began, the verbal shushing from the redhead on the other end to hush his crew to silence as he heard the request of the former warlord.

“Yes, old Hawkie? Go on, relay your request for intimate items onto me. See what I can do with your raunchy thoughts, you sick bastard-.” Shanks’ words were halted as he heard the tone of voice depicted by the usually stoic gentleman.

“Sapsorrow, Shanks,” Mihawk gasped in desperation. The audible sound of the thud of footsteps and the voices of the crew fell away from the speaker, indicating the redhead was actively moving away from the campground.

“You still have that thing? Mihawk, you should’ve cast the cursed thing into the seas. Mine was at least swallowed by the sea-beast while I protected the boy,” Shanks hushed an elevated whisper into the receiver.

“I know,” Mihawk uttered, his brows knitting further into his face as he cursed himself of such stupidity. After another moment of silence, Shanks spoke again.

“And your betrothed requested Lingerie to be a condition of her intention to wed. My, Hawk-Eyes, you’ve at least got a good one,” he chuckled into the receiver, “go on, lay it on me. What conditions needs to be met with this one?”

“Gold,” Mihawk confessed into the mouthpiece of the receiver, “Gold as heated and radiant as the sun, beams of dawn and cracks of dusk. Admittedly, I am unsure where to begin with this request.” More silence followed on the other end of the receiver, Mihawk feeling the anxiety once again claw at his throat with anticipation.

“Do you have her-... I’m assuming it’s a her, yes?” Shanks asked, his voice giddy and boyish; elevated with a twinkle of mischief and excitement.

“Yes,” Mihawk hummed his gruff confession into the receiver.

“Hah!” Shanks laughed triumphantly, “Wonderful. Do you have her measurements?” Mihawk relayed his governess’ measurements to the one-armed Captain, hearing the thump of sandals footsteps falling against the sandy shores of Shank’s island’s shores, crunching beneath his heels.

“Beckmann,” Shanks called his voice away from the receiver, “Beckmann, you’re not going to believe this-... Mihawk, give me a moment, would you? Beckmann!” Mihawk’s expression was not amused, his eyes narrowing beneath his lengthy dark eyelashes.

“Beckmann, bring me my anvil, pliers and soldering pick! All the gold we’ve got on us and then some-... Mihawk,” Shanks laughed into the receiver, his voice brimming with absolute glee, “Oh, Mihawk. You’ve made my day.”

“I’m glad one of us is getting a semblance of joy from this request,” Mihawk sarcastically spat into the receiver.

“Oh, lighten up. You’ll be getting some joy out of this once I’m done with it, Hawkie,” Shanks laughed again into the mouthpiece, several clangs and elevated voices being spoken into the mouthpiece.

“All the gold on us, Captain? That seems a bit rich comin’ from him. Isn’t he a lord or somethin’?” Beckmann’s raspy voice held a distant quietness away from the mouthpiece.

“Yeah, but I’m gonna make something out of it, Becks. Lingerie for the sword-wielding lord’s future misses. Gotta get out the good stuff for this one-... Hawk-Eyes, are you still there?” Shanks called back into the receiver, Mihawk feeling his anxiety beginning to calm at the notion that Shanks was willing to participate in the task.

“I’m here, one-arm,” Mihawk lazily drawled into the microphone, exasperation relayed on every syllable. Shanks chuckled at his title, disregarding it with glee.

“I’m gonna make your future misses something you will both never forget,” He laughed into the transponder, his boyish charm prompting the swordsman to almost crack a small and apprehensive smile.

As the call of the den-den-mushi went quiet, Mihawk sighed and lulled his head back on his arched backrest. He felt relieved to have the weight of his predicament shared with his allies, but also apprehensive at the requests they would omit from him in return. And the teasing. He loathed being on the receiving end of taunts and jabs from the three of them, particularly the idiot clown.

He propped his neck back upright and glanced his amber eyes over to the desktop, honing in on the small bushel of baby’s breath you had offered him earlier. He reached his fingertips forward, his index finger and thumb grasping the twig holding the cluster of white flowers.

“Lost-Lady,” he smiled at the innocent balls of petals clinging against the sprigs. He chuckled at your earlier interaction, how open you were with him about your feelings of late. He was already thinking of another arrangement to create to decorate your halls with his flowers and vines: sweet jasmine, honeysuckle, bluebells and daisies were amongst his choices for your following tabletop. Much less of a risk of becoming covered head to toe in mud again.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.

“M’Lady, Hawk’s lookin’ for ya,” Zoro huffed a small grunt, extending his left forearm to you as you and Perona entered the galley. You shook your head at Zoro, your eyes glaring at him to wordlessly reprimand his pronunciation of your title. He furrowed his brows at first, before his eyes widened in clarity as it dawned on him. He shook his head slowly, rolling his eyes within his skull and bowing sloppily and lowly to you.

“Forgive me, my lady,” His voice, absolutely dripping with the sticky molasses of sarcasm, “I extend my most sincere apologies, my lady. Would my lady prefer me to kneel on the ground to receive a verbal reprimand, or dost my lady prefer me bent over her lap? Perhaps at such an insult to my lady, I should be drawn and quartered. A cat and nine tails whipping their iron slashes into my chest for insulting you in such a way, my lady-.”

“-That’s quite enough, Zoro,” you reprimanded him, unlacing your hand from within Perona’s arched elbow. Your brow descended into the middle of your face, your chin extended into the air as you circled him, “and here I thought you were making waves as a gentleman, but you are remaining evermore a petulant brat.”

“I aim to please, my lady,” the corner of his lip curled upwards into a small smirk. Perona refused to react to the situation for fear attention from her governess would be drawn to her rather than the display offered by Zoro.

“You are doing a poor job it today, Trainee,” you snarled at him, causing his smirk to widen as his eyes narrowed at your challenge.

“Bein’ a gentleman?” Zoro scoffed at you, his lip darting out to dampen his bottom lip as he tested you further.

“Pleasing me,” you quipped back, your challenging eyes and candor immediately bringing a warm blush up the swordsman’s neck and teasing the lobes of his ears. He remained speechless, Perona allowing a silent giggle to threaten to pour over her lips. As the silence began to build with tense air, you clicked your neck and approached the young swordsman.You were now within a foot of the tall gentleman in training, continuing to warn him with your expression.

The three of you were so caught up in this moment of challenge, you remained blissfully ignorant yet again to the silent approach of the lord of the house watching from the shadows. He was on the edge of his hypothetical seat as he witnessed Zoro challenge you, but now watching on with amusement at how you were effortlessly managing him.

“Try again,” you ordered him. There was not a sound that dared break your challenge of the green-haired swordsman within the galley. He sighed deeply, bowing his head formally to you and closing his eyes.

“My lady,” he uttered slowly and cautiously, “the lord of Kuraigana has requested your presence in the parlor. Perona and I are to escort you to meet with the formal dressmakers for a fitting.” He almost made it through the sentence before allowing his distaste for the whole situation known.

“We’re all to have a fitting?” Perona squeaked in joy, “We all get a pretty outfit for it?”

“Yeah,” Zoro huffed, his brows falling against the arch of his nose to indicate his displeasure, “we’re all meant to get one.for it. He’s invited everyone already. They’ll be here by the weekend.” You allowed a shocked breath to escape your chest, not understanding such haste in such a ceremony.

You inhaled deeply through your nose, closing your eyes in deep thought before speaking again.

“Zoro,” you began, calming your body and attempting to regain control of your uncontrollable circumstances, “escort Perona to the parlor for her fitting. I will be going to my chambers for a small moment,” you cringed a small smile, attempting to stifle the anxiety by gritting through the pain, “unless the lord of the house is here to escort me himself, I will need a moment or two to myself-.”

At that small apprehension, Mihawk made his entrance to where the three of you had met within the galley. Perona withheld her small smile behind her palms, her upturned eyes doing nothing to satisfy her amusement and joy at the swordsman approaching them. Zoro followed Perona’s eyes to lord Mihawk, which in turn alerted you to his presence approaching behind you. You felt the waves of his confident aura falling from him before you turned to meet his gaze. He cleared his throat briefly, honing his gaze on the green-haired swordsman and addressing him.

“You heard your Governess,” he commanded him, turning to Perona and nodding to her, “Off you go to the parlor. Ensure the spatchcock is properly feathered, Perona.”

“Yes, my lord,” she chuckled, taking Zoro’s arm and immediately springing in her steps towards the parlor without a word from Zoro regarding his new bird-related nickname. You remained stationary and rigid in the galley, your chin extended outwards and tongue pressed to the roof of your mouth. Eyes narrowed, you felt him circle your body like a hawk looking over their next catch.

“I have come to inform you,” he began, remaining behind your back and away from your sight, “I have announced our intentions to wed. There is to be a ball this weekend, held here at the keep,” he paused his words, the tap of his feet indicating his approach in front of you. You closed your eyes, feeling waves of anxiety again rising over your body and filling your head with the thoughts that swirled well into the night. You remained with your eyes tightly closed, clenching your jaw behind your closed lips.

“Betrothed?” He addressed you, halting his prowling in front of you. He extended his hands above your own, hovering over where you had them hanging together in front of you but refusing to bring them down to touch yours. You opened your eyes, your brows furrowing as you looked down at his hand slowly descending and hovering above your own before snapping your gaze back against his amber-colored eyes.

“Yes, Betrothed?” You asked him, eyes dancing between his irises and searching within them for an indication as to how he was feeling. He sighed, finally bringing his hands down to collect yours and smooth his thumbs over your knuckles softly. You were again taken aback by his softness, unsure as to which place this was coming from.

“Is there someone I could invite for you to make this transition easier for you?” he whispered in a low rumbly tone, “it is quite the conundrum: coming here to complete a job, only to find yourself bound to your employer in matrimony. What can I do? You may ask anything of me, my lady-... Betrothed.”

Your heart began to race your mind with how frantic and sudden this expression of care for you had been brought on. You took your time to study his face, looking from his brows to his cheekbones, bearded jaw down to his smooth lips beneath his manicured mustache. You drew your gaze back up to his amber-hued orbs and danced your gaze between them.

“I have no one, Betrothed,” you admitted with a small nod, placing one of your palms atop his hand, “you knew this of me from back when I first tutored that arrogant blond boy in shells-town with his iron-jawed father. We discussed this at the gala.” Mihawk arched his brow upwards, deep in thought.

“Remind me, Betrothed, the mention has fled from me presently,” he asked, bringing his other hand to rest atop the one you just placed atop his. You inhaled deeply, exhaling out your tension at the memory.

“No father, no mother,” you smiled at him, “no sisters, nor brothers. Although, you may be interested in my dowry,” scoffing at the comment, Mihawk rolled his eyes and nodded his chin for you to continue on. “My mother died birthing me, my father died of illness on the road as he ventured over the estate.”

“No friends, nor extended relations?” He inquired, drawing up your hand to lace within his elbow, leading you on towards the parlor at a leisurely pace.

“None that are alive, nor that you would not already know, I’m sure,” you commented with a polite nod, “you did attend many of the functions I presented my students at.” He hummed in response to your comment, continuing to fall in step with you through the hallways onwards.

“No former lover to come knocking on my door, betrothed?” Mihawk’s curiosity pulled at the corner of his lip with his brow arched upwards. You halted your step with him, pulling him to a halt and shooting him a warning look. As his eyes met with yours, he understood the tangible emotion clawing at your chest.

“If you are asking what I think you are asking, sir,” you snarled at him, your lip curling upwards at his question, “I am a lady.” His eyes widened at your comment, searching your face for any further emotion to depict your unspoken confession.

“I did not mean to pry into your personal-,” he was halted by your words as you spoke over him, your eyes softening and a small smile rising to your lips at his attempt to flee from an uncomfortable situation he created for himself.

“This title we have been using to address each other,” you commented, again keeping in step with the tall swordsman at your side, “I am no longer comfortable with our mutual use of the phrase. Shall we dream up something else more appropriate together?”

Mihawk’s breath caught in his throat, hoping you did not catch such a quiver of anticipation falling from him. Why did you have such a hold over him? Why was the way you were speaking to him affecting him like this? Your voice, that sweetness you held in your cadence. It was intoxicating.

“I am sure we will think of something,” he held tight his jaw and remained outwardly stoic. Internally; he was delighting in your willingness to allow him to think of you. You gently squeezed his forearm in support, walking in comfortable silence towards the parlor together.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.

Zoro’s arms were horizontally outstretched, perpendicular to the floor as the tailors began to pin and prod the material he was trying on. Perona beamed at her reflection, her eyes reflecting her joy at the trim and frill of her fine gown. Zoro smirked, closing his eyes and addressing his peer.

“Mihawk’s infatuation is starting to spill out, isn’t it. He’s not even hiding it anymore,” He chuckled, Perona immediately laughing at the comment before retorting her own comments on the matter.

“Speak for yourself, Moss,” Perona continued to giggle, “your little crush isn’t as hidden as you think it is, either.”

Tag List: @sordidmusings@writingmysanity @gingernut1314 @since-im-already-here @feral-artistry @be-good-please @little-bunnybabe @sukilovesyou @buggyenjoyer @thesailus @under-kitty @acehyacinth @andriannag @one17 @canthebest1 @khaleesihavilliard @quirkyrascal @hungrhay @sentieence @lebanese-afg-ya @captaincupio @szired

#one piece #opla #opla fic #one piece live action #x reader #mihawk #mihawk x reader #sapsorrow fic #dracule mihawk #dracule mihawk x reader #zoro #perona #shanks #buggy #sir crocodile #mihawk fic #mihawk series #mihawk x you

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saebyeokbliss · 1 month ago

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ONCE MORE TO SEE YOU— PART II.

synopsis: on a cold january day, you were worrying about the reason your girlfriend wasn’t texting back. when she finally does and asks to meet at your apartment, you’re met with heartbreak as she ends your relationship. no explanation. two years later, you run into her at a cafe with someone new. what are you to do? warnings: angst, saebyeok is lowkey a dick, familial trauma, arranged marriage mentions

pairing: sae-byeok x fem!reader

Two years.

That’s how long it had been since the night Sae-byeok shattered your heart with just four words. Since she walked out your door without a single glance back.

Time didn’t heal everything. It softened the sharp edges of the pain, dulled the ache enough to let you function, but the scars were still there. Some days, you didn’t notice them. Other days, it was like someone had ripped them wide open again.

You groaned as your alarm blared through your tiny apartment, pulling you out of the half-sleep you’d managed to get. The clock glared back at you, the red numbers reading 5:30 AM. You slapped the alarm off and rolled over, staring at the ceiling for a moment, steeling yourself for the day ahead.

Your mornings always started like this: too early, too tired, and too much on your mind.

By 6:15 AM, you were out the door, a travel mug of cheap coffee in hand and your backpack slung over your shoulder. The bus ride to campus was long, but you used the time to skim through the notes you’d barely had time to review last night.

You were in your third year of med school—arguably the hardest year—and it was beginning to take its toll. The lectures were endless, the exams brutal, and the clinical rotations left you drained in a way you hadn’t thought possible.

But you had to push through. You’d worked too hard to get here. Giving up wasn’t an option.

Still, as you sat in the back of the lecture hall, your mind drifted—not to the professor’s voice or the slides on the projector, but to her. To Sae-byeok.

You hated that she still crept into your thoughts, uninvited and unwelcome. It wasn’t just the memories that haunted you; it was the questions. Why had she left? Why hadn’t she fought for what you had? Why hadn’t you been enough for her to stay?

You shook the thoughts away, forcing yourself to focus on the lecture. But it wasn’t long before the familiar ache settled in your chest, like it did every time you thought about her.

Your shift at the bookstore started at 4 PM, right after your last class of the day. It wasn’t glamorous, working part-time at a small shop near campus, but it paid the bills. Barely.

You arrived with just enough time to shove a granola bar into your mouth before clocking in. The work was monotonous—stocking shelves, ringing up customers, straightening displays—but it gave your mind something to focus on. Something other than the stress of med school and the emptiness you felt at the end of every day.

“Hey, you okay?” your coworker, Sun-Ja, asked as you rang up a customer’s purchase. She was the only one at the shop you’d grown close to, though even she didn’t know much about your life outside of work.

You forced a smile. “Yeah. Just tired.”

“You’re always tired,” Sun-Ja teased lightly, but her eyes softened. “You should take a day off. Like, an actual day off. Go do something fun.”

You laughed, though it held no real humor. “What’s that?”

Sun-Ja rolled her eyes. “I’m serious. You’re going to burn out if you keep going like this.”

You didn’t respond, because what could you say? It wasn’t like you had a choice. You needed the job, needed to keep up with school, needed to push through. There was no time for "fun."

By the time your shift ended at 9:30 PM, you were drained. But the day wasn’t over yet. You still had to call your sister, Veda, a weekly ritual that always left you feeling worse than before.

You sat on the edge of your bed, phone pressed to your ear, as your sister’s voice filled the quiet room. She was your parents’ golden child, the one who followed their expectations to the letter. Unlike you.

“They’re still upset with you,” she said, her tone clipped. “You know how much they wanted you to marry him. You embarrassed them.”

You clenched your jaw, the familiar anger bubbling up in your chest. “I wasn’t going to marry someone I didn’t love.”

“And look where that got you,” she snapped. “You’re killing yourself with school and work because you have no support. You could’ve had an easier life.”

“An easier life isn’t worth it if it means being miserable,” you shot back, your voice sharper than you intended.

Your sister sighed, the sound heavy with disappointment. “You’re so stubborn.”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t have the energy to argue anymore. After a few moments of silence, she hung up, leaving you alone with the weight of her words.

By the time you finally crawled into bed, it was well past midnight. Your body ached, your mind was foggy, and your chest felt hollow. The apartment was silent, save for the hum of the heater kicking in.

You stared at the ceiling, your thoughts drifting back to Sae-byeok once again. You wondered where she was, what she was doing, if she was happy. If she ever thought about you.

And then, like every night, you told yourself to stop. To let her go. To move on.

But the truth was, you didn’t know how.

Here’s the continuation of Chapter 2, building up the tension of the cafe scene while giving insight into Sae-byeok’s life post-breakup and her relationship with Ji-yeong. This section transitions between the reader’s perspective and Sae-byeok’s, culminating in their first encounter after two years.

The smell of freshly brewed coffee greeted you as you stepped into the small cafe near your apartment. It was a rare indulgence for you—breakfast out. Most mornings, you barely had time to grab a granola bar as you rushed out the door, but today, you’d made a deal with yourself. Just one morning to sit, breathe, and maybe feel like a normal person before the chaos of your life swallowed you whole again.

You ordered a simple Americano and a croissant, then found a seat near the window. The snow outside had started to melt, leaving gray slush on the sidewalks, but the cold still lingered in the air. You pulled your coat tighter around you as you sipped your coffee, letting the warmth seep into your body.

For the first time in what felt like weeks, you allowed yourself to relax. To sit with the quiet. To not think about exams or work or family.

You didn’t notice the door chime behind you.

Mornings were always quiet for Sae-byeok. Too quiet.

She’d learned to live with the silence, though. It filled the spaces where you used to be, where your voice, your laugh, and your warmth used to echo. She’d told herself it was better this way. Safer. But some days, the silence felt suffocating.

Her days had fallen into a routine over the past two years. She woke up early, made breakfast for Cheol, and helped him get ready for school. After that, she’d head to work or run errands. The monotony was comforting in a way—something to keep her mind occupied, something to keep her from thinking too much.

Ji-yeong was often there to fill the gaps. They had met during the games, forming an unlikely bond in the face of death. When it was all over, when they’d walked away with blood on their hands and more money than they knew what to do with, Ji-yeong had stayed. She had no family, no home to go back to, so she became a part of Sae-byeok’s life.

They weren’t together��not in the way people assumed. Ji-yeong was like a sister to her, someone who understood her in a way no one else could. They’d both lost so much, seen so much. It was an unspoken agreement to lean on each other, to share the weight of their survival.

Cheol adored Ji-yeong, and for that, Sae-byeok was grateful. She had been terrified that he would grow up feeling as alone as she did, but with Ji-yeong in their lives, their little family felt fuller. Not complete—never complete—but better.

“Can I get a muffin?” Cheol’s voice broke Sae-byeok out of her thoughts as they walked toward the cafe near their apartment.

“We’ll see,” she replied, ruffling his hair as the three of them stepped inside.

You were halfway through your croissant when you heard the sound of a child’s laughter. It was faint, nearly drowned out by the clatter of cups and the quiet hum of conversation around you, but it made you glance up.

Your eyes swept the room briefly before returning to your coffee. You didn’t think much of it—just another family stopping in for breakfast.

But then, a small voice called out. “Noona!”

You froze, your coffee cup halfway to your lips, as a boy barreled toward you. It took a moment for your mind to catch up, but when it did, your heart dropped.

“Cheol?” you asked in curiosity, tilting your head.

He threw his arms around you, hugging you tightly. “Noona! I missed you!” His voice was bright, filled with the kind of innocent joy that made your chest ache.

You hadn’t seen Cheol since the breakup. Back then, you used to visit him with Sae-byeok at the orphanage, bringing little gifts and spending afternoons playing games with him. You had adored him, and for a time, it seemed he felt the same.

Before you could respond, a sharp voice cut through the air. “Cheol!”

You looked up, your stomach twisting as Sae-byeok approached, her expression dark. Ji-yeong trailed behind her, her face carefully neutral.

Cheol pulled back, looking sheepish as Sae-byeok stopped in front of you. Her eyes flicked to you for a brief moment before narrowing at Cheol.

“What are you doing?” she asked, her tone clipped. “You can’t just run off like that.”

Cheol pouted, glancing between the two of you. “But it’s Noona! I missed her.”

Sae-byeok’s jaw tightened. “Go back to the table,” she said firmly. When he hesitated, she added, “Now, Cheol.”

He gave you one last look before trudging back to where Ji-yeong was waiting. The cafe suddenly felt too warm, too small, as Sae-byeok turned her attention to you.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice low and sharp.

You blinked, stunned by the hostility in her tone. “I—I was just having breakfast.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Stay away from him.”

Her words hit like a slap, leaving you momentarily speechless. “What? Sae-byeok, I wasn’t—”

“I mean it,” she snapped, cutting you off. “Whatever this is, whatever you think this is—stay out of it. Just back off.”

Her words were cold, final, and they left no room for argument. Before you could respond, she turned and walked back to the table, leaving you sitting there with your heart pounding and your hands trembling.

You watched as she sat down next to Cheol, her posture stiff, her face unreadable. Ji-yeong glanced at you briefly, her expression almost apologetic, before turning her attention back to the boy.

You swallowed hard, the taste of coffee suddenly bitter in your mouth. The quiet morning you'd hoped for was shattered, leaving you with nothing but the familiar ache in your chest and the weight of Sae-byeok’s words hanging over you.

taglist: @monroesturnns

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#sae byeok #squid game #fanfic #wlw fiction #saebyeok x reader #067 #kang sae byeok x reader #angst with a happy ending #angst

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feyhunter78 · 8 months ago

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Chapter Thirteen - It is the night to celebrate your dear friend, but the tensions with Jon only grow greater.

Note: This is the same day as the previous chapter

Ch 14

You have never seen a nameday so beautiful, the ones within King’s Landing are grand, opulent, but here in Highgarden, they are beautiful. The Great Hall is decorated with flowers, a feast the likes you have never seen set along the walls. The musicians are far more skilled than those in King’s Landing, and you find yourself enraptured by the fragrant blossoms surrounding you.

Margaery enters the hall on the arms of Tommen and Loras, Robb’s necklace in place, his ring on her finger, her gown is a thing of beauty, silk, and gossamer fabrics, delicate but vivid embroidery. Her hair is twisted up in an intricate style, her crown set between two strands of hair left down to frame her face, she shines in the dying sunlight, the sky behind her ablaze with pinks, red, oranges, and golds.

She and Tommen start the first dance, with those around them cheering to her health and the health of their marriage.

You have not yet seen Jon, and you are unsure whether you want to or not. He has been distant, holding you at length, avoiding you when he can. In the last few moons, you feel you have spent less time with him than you have the entire time you have known each other, and it is…strange. The distance hurts, he is your closest companion, your friend, your soon-to-be betrothed, your sworn shield, he has been by your side since you were five and ten. But now, now he is virtually a stranger to you. Not fully one, as there are still moments, times, when his eyes soften as he looks at you. When he carries you to your chambers because you drank too much with Margaery, when you learned he slept outside the door to your room when your travel party stopped at inns along the Roseroad.

It is those moments of warmth that worsen your pain. It would be preferable if he were to close himself off completely, act as the Kingsguard does, instead of this back and forth. Then in time, you would be able to bury your feelings deep enough that they would no longer be a sharp, piercing pain but a dull throbbing ache that could be ignored. That would be swept over like the ocean waves sweep over the sand.

Jon claimed his distance was because he was busy. That he was devoting himself further to his swordsmanship, that he needed to act with greater care and propriety in order to not draw suspicion upon you both. Yes, his reasons could be seen as understandable, but no one has ever truly cared. Since you were both young you have acted in a companiable and familiar manner, but now with the way he is acting, people are far more suspicious than they were before. How he does not see this you cannot understand. You know he is not an idiot but, it seems there are still ways of the court he has not learned.

You wrap your arms around yourself, feeling exposed without Jon at your side, perhaps he has grown tired of you? Your silk gown is a petal pink with silver embroidery, that cinches at your waist and dips low to display your décolletage. It is beautiful, but far more revealing, than you would normally choose to wear. Would Jon like it? He most likely would not even notice it, given how he avoids looking at you.

Your hair is loose and styled in waves, and your customary golden bangles have been swapped for ones of silver, a diamond necklace is draped around your neck. Small rubies gleam from their places below the diamonds hanging from strands of silver. It was a gift from your Uncle Robert, given to you on your first Maiden’s Day. The irony is not lost on you that your aunt would choose it for the day on which she is attempting to sell you out like a broodmare. Though you will not deny, it is one of your favorite pieces.

Finally, you spot Jon, and it feels as if someone has draped a warm blanket over you, no longer feeling so alone among the crowd of strangers. He is with your father, which is both strange and not so strange, but what is strange is that Jon wears no armor. Instead, he is dressed in his house colors, in finery you did not know he owned, his hair pulled back, his sword nowhere to be found, and he is wearing rings, well one ring, a signet ring.

“Father, Ser Jon, this is quite a surprise. Have I been tricked, and it is truly my nameday?” You try to jest, taking a step towards Jon, a force of habit you cannot break, reaching to run your fingers down the arm of Jon’s doublet. “You look so very handsome, my champion, is this new?”

He takes a step back, avoiding your touch, and it is a dagger though your heart. He has never rejected your touch before, truly he must have lost feelings for you, but when, and why? Has another slipped beneath your nose and taken him from you? How would it even be possible?

Your Aunt Cersei was right, there is no point to loving men, they will always disappoint you and when you love them it will only hurt you more.

The hurt must have shown on your face, your father reaches for you, but you shrug him off, avoiding both their eyes.

Fine, if Jon wishes to be distant, then so shall you. “The Dowager Queen has a list of suitors she would like me to dance with tonight, I am afraid I will not be able to spare a dance for either of you.”

“A pity, but I understand, do have fun, little lion.” Your father says, giving your hand a pat before heading off towards the nearest feast table.

Jon remains in place, unable to meet your gaze. His boots are shiny, his strong shoulders, muscled arms, and broad chest displayed by the gray cloth that encompasses them. He is so very handsome, a marble statue, a god, an ancient warrior, a conqueror who takes what he desires.

Y/N now is not the time, you are angry with him, and he does not care for you. You internally chastise yourself, donning a mask of indifference.

“Well, are you going to return the compliment, or are you too busy to even speak to me?” You fully fail to sound unaffected by his actions.

“You look very nice, My Lady.” He says, in that same stilted tone that makes you want to scream.

You take a step closer, glaring up at him, unable to stop yourself. “Why are you speaking to me in this way, it is me, y/n, not some stranger.”

He sighs, and takes a step back from you, that same uninterested, stiff tone, drilling into your mind, past your walls of civility, hitting deep, triggering the tripwire of your insecurities and anxieties disguised as rage. “My Lady, it is not proper—”

“Shut up, shut up, I do not wish to hear from you until you stop acting like this.” You snap, anger boiling over in your chest. “Get out of my sight, Lord Snow.”

You turn away from him, blinking back angry tears, and search the hall for your aunt.

You have danced with an Algood, a Tarbeck, a Swyft, a Crakehall, a Blackmont, an Arryn, and Tommen to give yourself a break from the suitors. As well as a Hightower which your aunt quickly ushered you away from telling you he was a fourth son who had slid his way in, and not on her list. Now you dance with a Bracken.

Lord Hendry Bracken, who will be heir to House Bracken if his uncle does not have a son before he dies. He has light brown hair, ale-colored eyes, and a sweet smile. He is not necessarily charming, or overly handsome, but he seems kind and does not talk over you as the Blackmont man did.

“And then my cousin Bess chased me around the halls with a frog in her hand until her father caught us.” He says, laughing as he tells a story of his time growing up alongside his five female cousins.

You laugh as well, imagining a little Hendry running from a frog carried by his cousin, who was no more than a year older than him. “That is terrible, you poor thing.”

He shakes his head. “No, no, do not pity young me, after my uncle forced her to put the frog back outside, I ended up venturing into the gardens to ensure it had returned to its pond safe and sound.”

Your heart warms at his words. “That was quite sweet of you.”

He blushes and shrugs. “I have always felt compassion for those smaller and less able to defend themselves, especially when it comes to animals, they have no voices to speak with, so we must speak on their behalf.”

His sentiment makes you think of Ghost, of the way he and Jon communicate wordlessly.

“It is an admirable trait.” You say, giving him a radiant smile. You could not see yourself falling in love with Lord Hendry, but his kind words and humorous stories have lightened your heart, if only for tonight.

The song comes to an end, and you find yourself reluctant to leave him in favor of a new suitor.

“Perhaps we might exit the floor and refresh ourselves? Have you tried the wine in the golden glasses? The wine within is from a vineyard named for Queen Margaery, and it is perhaps the sweetest, most refreshing wine I have ever had the pleasure of tasting.” Hendry suggests, offering you his arm.

You take it with a grateful smile. “I have not, though the queen was telling me all about that very vineyard on our journey here.”

Hendry leads you over to the table and hands you a glass, you take a sip, about to speak when a flash of yellow and white catches your attention.

Jayne Westerling. You truly have no reason to dislike the girl; she is quiet, shy. Your Uncle Jaime described her as not a beauty worth losing a kingdom for, which you will admit you laughed at. But there is simply something about her that irks you. Something that sets you on edge, as if her sweetness is a farce covering a far more devious countenance.

You track her movements, your glass still at your lips, your grip on it tightening when you see her stop in front of Jon, your Jon, with two wine glasses in her hands. They have been talking, dancing, and spending time together. Is it her? Has she somehow stolen your champion?

“Lady Lannister, are you quite alright?” Hendry asks.

Jayne smiles, laughs, throws her hair over her shoulder flirtatiously, and you drain your glass then slam it down onto the table. “You must excuse me, My Lord, I have something I need to take care of.”

It is simple, find Margaery, have her direct you to her cousin who would anger Jon the most, and dance with him, as close to Jon and Jayne as possible.

The Tyrell man whose name you do not know, and do not care to learn, attempts to talk to you, but you are intent on listening to Jon and Jayne’s conversation.

There is more giggling, more flirting, and when you hear Jon compliment Jayne’s dress, telling her she looks like a flower maiden in summer, you turn to your dance partner.

“Do tell me about yourself, good sir, I am quite interested.” Your voice is not overly loud, but loud enough for Jon to hear, and it is dipped in honey, heated by the flames of desire, as near as you can fake them at least.

The Tyrell begins to blather on, and you laugh in all the right places, leaning in close, and letting him spin you in a way that nearly bumps you into Jayne.

When the song ends, you go up on your toes and whisper your thanks in his ear, letting your hands linger on his chest. You step back and giggle as you curtsy, agreeing to a second dance with him when Jon catches your wrist.

“My Lady, you are needed.” He says, his eyes steely as he leads you out of the Great Hall and down a side hallway.

The hallway is darker than the Great Hall, and it takes your eyes a moment to adjust. “Is it my father?” You ask, looking around, there is no one in sight.

“It is clear you cared not for the blathering on of that foul man, and yet you agreed to a second dance. Tell me, what game is it that you are playing, My Lady?” Jon demands, his eyes blazing, his hand still holding your wrist as he comes to a stop.

“How would you know if I cared or cared not for his words? Perhaps in the few moons you have been ignoring me, I have changed my interests.” You counter, fixing Jon with your own withering stare.

He laughs humorlessly. “You do not change interests, not so much that you find talks of hunting and tanning to suddenly be enrapturing.”

“I do find a good hunting tale to be interesti—did I not tell you to leave my sight?” You say, cutting yourself off before Jon can drag you off course.

He takes a step towards you, looming over you, his lips set in a hard line. “You did, but you did not say I could not return to it.”

“Semantics.” You wave your hand dismissively. “I do not want to see you, and I do not appreciate being pulled away on a lie.”

Another step. “It was not a lie.”

“Who needs me then? Surely it is not you, the honorable Lord Jon Snow.” You snark, crossing your arms over your chest.

He does not answer, simply watches you, drinks your torchlit form in.

“If you have nothing to say, then I shall return to Lord Tyrell, he had much to say to me.”

Suddenly your back is pressed against the wall, the stone cool against your heated skin, Jon’s strong arms encaging you, his head dipping low, his voice even lower, his dark hair still tied back and his eyes nearly black in the shadows of the hall. “You cannot keep on this way.”

You look up at him, still breathless from the dance and your argument. “What do you mean?”

His eyes flit down to your rising and falling breasts, soft skin exposed by the low-cut gowns your aunt had made for you, gowns meant to tempt your potential suitors, the ones you wished would tempt him. “You know what you are doing, y/n.”

“I do not, so unless you are going to tell me, I would ask you to release me.” You say imperiously, though you hope he does not release you. It feels as if it has been ages since you had his attention fully on you, since he dared to stand so close.

“The laughing, the flirting, the smiles and fluttering of eyelashes, the pouts? You are driving every man in the room mad with desire.” He says, his accent thickening, the rough brocade making your stomach flip, your heart nearly beating out of your chest.

“I am simply enjoying the party; I cannot control if men look at me, if they wish to dance with me. Would you have me say no? Answer every lord and knight who asks for a dance with an icy glare and utter contempt?”

“Yes. Yes, I would.” Jon growls, his breath warm against the shell of your ear, his hands curling into fists on the wall above you, his chest heaving with the act of self-restraint. “I would have you tell them to sod off, that your hand is spoken for.”

“But I cannot, there has been no formal betrothal, and it would be rude.” You tell him, lifting your chin in defiance. He has been hot and cold with you, and you are sick of it, you need to hear him say it, hear him admit he still wants you.

“Others take them and any sense of rudeness, you are mine.” He snarls, gripping the back of your neck, his fingers spreading out into your hair, his touch is not harsh, but firm, for Jon is never rough with you.

Goosebumps adorn your skin, liquid heat filling your veins. It feels good to hear him say it, to see him so possessive, see him feel the way you have felt watching that Westerling girl fall all over him. “Am I? Because it seemed that perhaps Lady Jayne had taken my place.”

Jon laughs, the sound harsh. “The Westerling? You have thrown a fit because of some girl I met only tonight?”

“I am not throwing a fit, I am acting as an unmarried lady must, to secure a match.” You argue, throwing the unmarried part in his face.

He shakes his head, before dipping it lower, trailing his lips along the curve of your neck nipping at the skin as he goes. “If you wish to be a married lady so badly, my lioness, I will take you to the Godswood right now and throw my cloak over you. Would that suit you? Would that cease these unneeded flirtations?”

You draw a quick intake of breath, eyes fluttering shut as Jon kisses the crook of your neck, using the hand in your hair to guide your head, exposing more sensitive skin to his touch.

“Would my starlight like that? To finally be Lady Dayne, the pretty lioness with her husband who trails after her, devoted, desperate, a lovesick wolf pup who wants only to make his lovely wife happy?”

This, this is what you have needed to hear.

“Yes, please, Jon, I want to be your wife.” You say, your hands pressed to his chest, desperate to feel his heart beating beneath his doublet.

“I want you to be my wife as well, more than you will ever know y/n, but we must wait.” Jon says softly, and your eyes fly open, the illusion shattered.

You shove at his chest angrily; he predictably does not move, but you do it again anyways. “Gods take me, I cannot wait any longer. I cannot stand pretending I am interested in others. I cannot stand their lewd words, their stares, and I cannot pretend that I am unfazed by the stares you get, the whispers I hear, the maids and ladies that do not shy away from lusting after you.”

“I know, I know, but—” The sound of footsteps makes him jerk away from you, and you turn away from the sound, arms folded across your chest.

“Oh Lady Lannister, Ser Jon, I had wondered where you two had run off too.” Jayne’s voice is cloyingly sweet, and it infuriates you.

You turn towards her with a placid smile. “Apologies, Lady Westerling, I seem to have eaten something that does not agree with me, and Ser Jon was helping me to my chambers.”

Jayne makes a sound of sympathy. “Was it the shellfish? I find they are often the culprit.”

“My Lady does not enjoy she—”

“Yes, it was.” You take a step away from Jon. “Ser Jon, will you escort Lady Westerling back to the party? I will return to my chambers on my own.”

Jon moves to argue, but your expression is unyielding, and you storm off in the direction of your chambers, wiping away angry tears as you go.

You know it is not fair to blame Jon, he is trapped as you are, but you are still angry. Gods, your father was right. It would be easier if he was a Targaryen, then he could steal you away on a dragon. No one would argue, no one would be able to cite him as not a good enough match for you, they would have to accept the marriage or face dragonflame.

The sound of hurried footsteps nearly makes you turn, but you have no desire to see who is coming down the hall, especially not as tears continue to slide down your face.

“Lady y/n, please, wait.” Jon calls.

“What, whatever could you want?” You snap, continuing to walk forward, vision slightly blurred, tears dripping onto your dress.

He catches up to you easily, pulling you into a shadowy alcove. “I simply wish to talk, to understand what has made you so angry.”

You fix him with a stunned look, blinking away your tears. “How can you not know? I have stated it quite clearly.”

“I understand you are upset that we cannot yet marry, but the plan y/n.”

A sob rips from your throat, and you shake your head. “It is more than that and you know it.”

Jon cups your face, his own a portrait of guilt-ridden agony. “Please, please, do not cry, my starlight, I cannot bear to see you cry.”

“Do not tell me what to do.” Your words sound much less sharp than you wished them to.

He wipes your tears away with his calloused thumbs catching them as quick as they fall. “I am sorry, y/n I am so, so sorry, I never should have danced with Lady Westerling.”

You pull away from him with an angry sob, continuing your blind storm down the hall. “I do not care about Lady Jayne.”

Jon beats you to your chambers, opening the door for you, giving you no choice but to enter or keep walking down the hall.

You enter, keeping your back to him as you throw open the balcony doors, lungs burning for fresh air. You are suffocating under the weight of this night, of this unknown plan, of the hurt you feel knowing you can not go a single day without speaking to Jon, without being near him. Yet, he seems to be able to survive moons without you.

“Then what do you care about, because I am lost, y/n.” He says, and you can feel his presence behind you, still in the doorway, close but not close enough, just as he has been since he spoke with your uncle.

“You! I care about you, Jon, as I always have.” You tell him, turning to face him, throwing your arms in the air helplessly, tears streaming down your face.

“Then why did you cast me from your sight?” He wears that hurt puppy dog look that never fails to melt you, but your anger keeps you frozen.

How can he not know? How can he not see the pain he has caused you? Jon is not a fool, he is not blind, and truly there is no one who can read you better than him and yet it is as if you have suddenly been written in another language.

“You have been so cold, so distant, these past few moons. Then you storm up to me tonight and act as if I am doing something wrong. As if I am hurting you, when it is you who has been hurting me.” You tell him, your hands balled into fists at your side to hide their shaking. “Even now you stand so far from me, and I know you say you are training, that you wish to protect our reputations, but I cannot go on like this.”

Jon says your name softly.

“No, Jon, I cannot hear another excuse. I know my uncle said something to you, but is he truly the man to take advice from? Seven knows I love him, but…” You wrap your arms around yourself, wiping your tears with your sleeves, uncaring if they are stained with cosmetics. “If there is someone else, if I have lost your affections, you must tell me because I cannot understand what else would cause you to hurt me in this way.”

“There is no one else.” He says fervently, desperately. “Y/N I swear it to you, there is no one else.”

You cannot look at him, casting your eyes towards the moon. “I love you Jon, but I cannot bear this distance any longer, you must make a choice.”

“A choice?” He rasps, the sound so quiet it is nearly drowned out by the wind.

The words taste bitter on your tongue, but they must be said. “To end this strange game, you are playing and return to being the man I have known for the last four years or continue to play it, and I will ask my father to release you from my service and allow you to return home to Winterfell.”

Your words linger in the night air, the space between you and him not even the length of two grown men, yet it feels like an ever-widening chasm.

“You would release me from your service?”

You wipe away a stray tear, throat tight with grief. “If it is what you desire.”

“You would send me away?” His voice is strained, and you chance a look at him.

He is beautiful in the moonlight, a tragic beauty, as to look upon him pains you. His dark eyes cannot settle on one part of your face, as if this is the last time they will ever see it. The thought tears at the flimsy hold you have on your composure, and you press your hand to your aching chest.

“I do not want to.” You sob, curling your fingers around your necklace, desperate for something to hold onto. “But I cannot play your game, I am drowning without you, and if you wish to leave, if it will make you happy—”

Jon crosses the balcony in two large strides, and pulls you into his embrace, crushing you to his chest. “I love you, gods, y/n I am so sorry, I love you, I love you, I love you. I do not wish to leave, do not send me from your side, it would not make me happy, you make me happy.”

“Then why, why have you kept your distance from me? There have been so many things I wished to tell you, so many times I wished to reach out, but you turned from me.”

Jon rests his forehead against your own. “Your uncle, he spoke of his grief, how he did not wish me to further entangle myself with you as it would only cause us both pain.”

“Why would you listen to him?”

“Because I was afraid, and I felt…guilty. If he had seen it, then others would. I thought that if I kept my distance until we were formally betrothed, I could spare you further harm.” He sighs and rubs his hands up and down your arms soothingly. “Clearly I was mistaken.”

“Clearly.”

He squeezes your arms playfully. “It harmed me too; do you think it was not torture? That I did not miss you? That I did not curse myself for turning from you, that I did not drive myself mad trying to stay away from you?”

“Seems well deserved.” You pout, wrinkling your nose, even though you know you are being slightly petulant.

“Aye, it was.”

You bask in his warmth, listening to the sound of his breathing, clinging to him like a drifter at sea. “Is that the only thing you have been keeping from me?”

“There is more, I cannot tell you until the morn, but I will give you something to tide you over.” Jon says, wiping away the remainder of your tears with his calloused thumbs.

“More waiting, how wonderful.” You deadpan.

His voice drops to a whisper, a smile tugging at his lips. “My father is alive.”

You jerk back, shocked then delighted, soon Jon will be claimed, you truly will be able to marry soon. “Truly? Oh, Jon, that is wonderful news.”

Jon pulls you back, tilting your head gently and ghosting his lips over yours. “It is. Though I would rather speak of him in the morn, for I found myself missing your touch greatly these past few moons and have not yet gotten my fill.”

With a giggle, you melt against him, looping your arms around his neck, letting him tilt your chin up so that your lips meet. It is like returning home, laying down in a familiar bed, the stress of the day falling away. He smells different, a hint of spice, and you taste no hint of wine on his tongue.

“Did you not drink tonight?” You ask against his lips, your heart pounding as it always does for him.

“I could not risk finding my way to your chambers, bolstered by wine again. Not when it had been so long since I have held you in my arms. I feared I would fall upon you like a savage beast.” He breathes, his hands gliding down your body, the silk so thin you can feel the warmth of his hands through it.

“I would not mind that.” You admit, running your fingernails lightly down the nape of his neck, relishing the shiver it brought forth, a soft groan slipping from his lips.

“Do not tease me, I beg of you.” He pleads even as he pulls you closer, his nose trailing down the curve of your face.

“I should, you paid me such a horrid compliment in the Great Hall, it would only be fair.” You say, an indigent whine slipping past your whispered tones.

“I do apologize. I wished to say how beautiful you looked, how you shined, how if you were a goddess I would fall to my knees and worship you endlessly.” He says, tracing the curves of your body with his fingertips.

You let out a shuttering breath, eyes closed, as you allow Jon’s words and touch to wash over you, to ease your emotions as they always did.

“Is that better, my starlight? Am I forgiven for such a grievous blunder?” He teases, nipping at your bottom lip.

“If you do that trick with your tongue, you shall be.” You say breathlessly, as the tip of his tongue darts out to soothe the sting.

“As you wish.” He says, recapturing your lips wholly, his tongue meeting your own in a familiar dance.

A wolf whistle followed by drunken cheering has you both dropping to the floor, chests heaving, and hands pressed over your mouths to keep from laughing.

“Perhaps we should move this inside?”

TL: @mostclevermiss, @solacestyles, @2valentines, @sharknutz, @idohknow, @bdudette, @pluraldoggo, @legolastheleafyelf, @faerie-film

#meg's writing #jon snow #jon snow x y/n #jon snow x reader #jon snow x you #lannister!reader #I've been waiting to drop this one #jon snow imagine #jon snow imagines

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multiheadcanons · 18 days ago

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A LITTLE EXTRA FOR THE DOLLS. HEAVY AND MEDIC GET MARRIED. HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY

heavy proposed in a very unconventional way. medic did not take it very well.

they were reading separate books, together in the hall leading to the infirmary, in silence. he slid a golden band on the side table that was between them. he didn’t speak, or make a grand statement of it, just made sure to angle it so the glint caught the doctor’s eye.

and the doctor did notice. he was not cool about it. “that’s not funny.” is all he could say. as heavy insisted, the doctor’s face notably scrunched up in a strange combination of emotions. he looked like he just got shot. but he was also bright red.

it was time to share some secrets.

medic opened up— very hesitantly— without removing his face from the book, about his prior marriage. a woman he called the love of his life. his childhood best friend, the woman who knew him better than he dares to ever know himself. genevieve. and the doctor isn’t paying any attention as heavy’s face pales.

and heavy isn’t thinking as the only thing that exits his mouth, as the doctor is genuinely baring his soul to him, talking about this brilliant woman who fundamentally shifted his view in love and marriage and life itself; the only thing heavy can think to say is “isn’t that… demo’s genevieve?”

the silence that fell in that room. the doctor stopped mid sentence and did not close his mouth. he turned, so controlled in the slow movement, to the heavy weapons guy. and stared at him, slack jawed. harder than he’s ever stared at the man before. an active craze brewed in the doctor’s eyes. heavy kept calm, hoping that if there was any time the doctor would follow suit it would be right now. and for a solid twenty seconds, he had confidence. nobody spoke, but they maintained eye contact and heavy felt he had a handle on the situation. he was so confident he was going to disarm this bomb.

he was confident until he saw the book snap shut. and they held eye contact. and then the doctor carelessly tossed the book up. that is where heavy made the mistake of breaking eye contact, and in a swift motion, medic grabbed the ring and stormed away.

heavy had officially lost control of the situation. before he moved to chase, he went for the medigun.

and the doctor was like a robot. it did not take him long to locate where the louder teammates were. he was honed in, ring grasped tightly in his hand. and him slamming the door to the common area caught their attention immediately.

he took stock of who was in the room.

scout. soldier. pyro. engineer. demo.

there’s the son of a bitch.

and frankly, demo could tell from the look in the doctor’s eyes exactly what was about to transpire and for exactly what reason. there was nothing he could do but brace for it, and maybe do him the favor of meeting him halfway. he didn’t have time for the second before the doctor had crossed the room.

maybe he could’ve told medic earlier and moved past this.

it didn’t matter, demo hit the floor before anyone had time to react. luckily, they were close enough to grab the doctor before he could really start to do damage. he didn’t fight them either, and everyone looked at demo for answers as he stumbled to his feet and shook his head.

“it’s alright; i’m alright… i had that coming. long time coming. alright, doc…” he cracked his neck, and stared at the doctor, notably sobered from the hit. “firstly: hell of an arm you got there. we need to have a chat.”

“you need to be rotting out in the desert. we do need to have a chat.” the doctor replied, calm for a man who literally walked in swinging.

“are you gonna hit me again?”

“yes.”

“…fair enough.”

and they left the room as heavy entered, medigun slung across his back.

“…am i too late?”

the team didn’t see much of demo, or the doctor for about a week, initially. and when they did, they were engaged in silent conversation, their faces set in grief. in anger. in regret and contempt and pity and ache and despair. the team watched as their faces shifted through the days to broken resignation. sometimes the team would walk by and see them both with their heads on the mess hall table, slumped against each other, the bags under their eyes evident as they caught precious seconds of sleep that they weren’t getting otherwise. they would see the men crumble out of their peripheries. their tear streaks would hit the light as they passed by and they would simply continue to walk. but cries echoed through the halls of the base for weeks. the doctor wouldn’t look at anyone, his hands remained balled into fists and his face twisted in snarls. demo wouldn’t speak to anyone, even if he was addressed first, just shook his head and continued on. it showed in battle as they caught their breath in alleyways, and as their enemies passed they would catch glimpses of them on their knees, head in their hands, and the wracked hoarse sobs were drowned by gunfire. it took months for them to begin to show signs of returning to normal. with each other. with the team.

it took a month still from normality returning on shaky legs for medic and heavy to resume their reading together. the first time was tense. talking was off the table. just the repeated tap of the doctor’s foot against the floor, getting louder and louder until it was just him slamming his foot against the ground.

“i can’t do this.”

at that point medic threw his book against the wall and stormed into the infirmary. heavy did not follow.

neither he nor that wedding band were seen again for a few days.

heavy had resigned himself to the fact that he would never see that ring again. and he had mostly resigned himself to the knowledge that if he didn’t permanently ruin his professional relationship with the doctor, they definitely weren’t together in the way that heavy wanted them to be.

he thought that until a glint caught his eye.

he gave a brief glance.

a single silver band sat on the table. large enough for his ring finger.

he closed his book. “that’s not funny. that’s not funny.”

“it’s not funny at all.” the doctor closed his book as well. “i made my decision.”

he set the book down and began to pull off his glove.

“misha. i loved genevieve. i loved her with everything i could give her. it haunted me. she haunted me, her willingness to put her life on pause to be with me and save myself from my own… shame of attraction. i couldn’t thank her enough for that. there was no display of devotion i could make, past giving her a child, to show my gratitude, and i couldn’t do that. to her, to myself, to a child.” he paused in the removal from his glove, before continuing, revealing a single golden band around his ring finger.

“then i find out she didn’t. her life never stopped. only mine did.” herbert stared at the ring around his finger, sparing a slight glance towards misha. “…i’m ready to move on. i held onto her for so long. and i’m ready to let her go.”

misha stayed quiet. he gingerly reached for the ring. he wasn’t sure it was real. but the cold metal confirmed he could believe what he was seeing. he held it in his hand. so small in comparison to his palm. so small in comparison to the scars they give each other. he stared past the ring to the scar slashed across of the life line of his palm.

he gave himself that. for his doctor.

they were already bound by blood for life.

a ring wasn’t needed, he had told himself. he’d been telling himself that for weeks now, in the certainty he had been rejected.

“i don’t want a wedding. i don’t want a honeymoon. just put it on, and we can continue to read. or give it back, and we can continue to read. either way, it’s… it’s okay. it’s alright. i’m alright. we’re alright.” misha couldn’t stop the breath of laughter. the smile that crept on his face. a ring. a ring. and he couldn’t stop a couple of tears from falling. he wiped them away quickly. it felt a little silly to cry because he got what he wanted. it took months, but he got exactly what he wanted.

“it’s… not what i expected from you. when have you ever done what i expect from you?” misha finally found words to say that made sense in his mind; sliding the ring onto his finger.

a perfect fit.

“…i want a honeymoon.”

“…we may have a honeymoon if you would like.”

misha laughed. he couldn’t help it. he looked at his hand, at its new adornment. rotated his hand. saw the glint from every angle. looked at herbert. looked back at his hand. his face felt hot, and a hand naturally reached to feel the heat. he couldn’t stop the smile from getting wider. he laughed again.

he patted the seat of the chair next to him, and held out his other hand.

“come sit next to me. properly.”

herbert’s eyes narrowed, if only slightly and for the moment. but he took a breath. he forced himself to relax. he made this decision. he needs to stick to the commitment he made.

it took many days of working, and thinking, and crying, and not sleeping to decide to say yes.

he didn’t know if he had it in him to do it again. he didn’t know if a commitment he had made, by all means at this point except traditionally, by all means felt traditionally was the right thing to do; was the best thing to do for either one of them at this point. herbert was getting older. he had held onto the ghost of a woman, held onto what he thought was love so tightly for so long, and it was shattered in less than five words. everything he thought he knew about his life was shattered in less than five words.

and herbert was no stranger to hurt. he was no stranger to misha hurting him. he was no stranger to hurting misha. physically and emotionally. they’ve fought. they argued. they’ve said things to each other they can never take back. that still hang in the air some tense days. but they’ve always made it through. come back stronger, held onto each other tighter in battle. learned each other better, maneuvered with and around each other smoother. every force against them has made them a stronger unit, closer friends, better partners.

misha completed him in undefinable ways. understood him enough to accept him fully, wholly. never asked for more than herbert said he could give. respected it. respected him. it’s obviously not a far throw to say misha loved him.

he owed the man a commitment to the grave.

he took misha’s hand and stood, closing the distance and taking his rightful place at misha’s side.

they sat, shoulder to shoulder.

hand in hand.

misha squeezed. herbert squeezed back.

they looked at each other.

spared each other uncertain smiles.

then they opened their books and continued to read.

#team fortress 2 #team fortress two #tf2 medic #tf2 heavy #tf2 medicheavy #red oktoberfest #what if i threw you headfirst into a situation i’ve built in my head #but the context never made it to post #anyway i wanted them to suffer #wanted to think about grief and the doctor and demo #tf2 demo #tf2 demoman #should probably tag him #he’s technically there #i should actually write the context #are y’all ready to go on this trip backwards #bc that’s how i’m gonna have to do it #thanks for appreciating my hcs if you got this far!

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lindseymcdonaldseyelashes · 5 months ago

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Can't believe I'm not seeing more about the Leverage: Redemption Season 3 opening scene they showed at Electric Con (details—to the best of my recollection—under a cut because SPOILERS):

It starts with Hardison and Parker dressed to the nines, walking down the hallway of a big manor. They're on a date in Paris. Kind of. Parker wishes they could be out stealing things, but Hardison reminds her that they're trying to stay on the right side of the law, at least for the time being, because Sophie has been working on mending her relationship with Astrid in London. Parker's still not sold on the concept, given the conflict of interests between their work and Interpol.

We hear a woman speaking German from across the hall. The camera swings over to Sophie, on the arm of a mark as she aggressively butters him up. As Hardison and Parker pass, Sophie hands Parker the man's wallet. Parker takes what she needs before returning it to the mark before the couple strolls away.

Eliot pops in and knocks out the mark (I think) with a good punch. They walk along, and Sophie mentions she's hunting for the perfect gift for Astrid, but doesn't know what to get her—struggling particularly because it'd ideally be a non-stolen object. Eliot says it's also been a bit of a learning curve to reestablish his relationship with his dad. They also mention that Breanna's been looking at colleges along with Harry and his daughter (implying this is going to be an original crew-only episode).

Hardison reenters the scene, now dressed in coveralls and clearly stressed, muttering something to himself about a special ring. Eliot punches out another goon before asking Hardison if "Parker knows."

A door swings open, with Parker hanging upside down in her coveralls on the other side. She asks Hardison what Eliot was talking about, but Hardison manages to dodge her question, walking her across the hall and boosting her into a vent. Parker makes a comment about how the vent has a smell—event the vents in France smell like cheese.

Before long, she's back with a small golden trinket, stolen from a nearby vault from some rich jerk. Problem is, said rich jerk comes around the corner, trying to impress the lady he's with, and they beeline for the vault. He sees it missing and sounds the alarm. Parker, Hardison, Sophie, and Eliot are trapped, and they're going to have to think up an exit strategy, fast.

Not to mention all of this happens in one continuous shot (faked with movie magic, but impressive nonetheless).

They also showed a quick cut of bits from later in the season. We got a very fast shot of Alexandra Bligh—implying a possible return of RIZ—and some scenes with some of the costumes from the exhibit—including Harry with a beard and a disguise with some wild sideburns.

Super curious about whether this is going to be a straightforward proposal arc or something more interesting, given that Hardison and Parker's relationship is anything but ordinary and they don't necessarily seem the traditional marriage types. Can't tell you how excited I am for this season to air.

#leverage #leverage redemption #electric con #parker #alec hardison #sophie devereaux #eliot spencer #the paris date night job

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goldenringbanquet · 2 years ago

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Golden Ring Marriage Hall in Alipur Delhi: A Comprehensive Guide

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Reviews and Testimonials

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Can I bring my own caterer or decorator to the venue?

Does the venue have an in-house DJ or can I hire my own?

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The Golden Ring Marriage Hall has an in-house catering and decoration team, but you can also bring your own caterer or decorator if you prefer. However, it is recommended to discuss this with the venue's staff beforehand to avoid any misunderstandings.

Does the venue have an in-house DJ or can I hire my own?

The venue does not have an in-house DJ, but you can hire your own DJ or music band for your wedding or event. The venue's staff can also recommend experienced and reliable DJs or musicians if you need assistance.

What is the cancellation policy of the Golden Ring Marriage Hall?

The cancellation policy of the venue depends on the specific package you choose and the terms and conditions outlined in the contract. It is recommended to read the contract carefully and discuss the cancellation policy with the venue's staff beforehand to avoid any issues.

Is there a separate area for the bride and groom to get ready?

Yes, the Golden Ring Marriage Hall has separate areas for the bride and groom to get ready before the wedding ceremony. The areas are equipped with mirrors, seating, and other amenities to ensure a comfortable and stress-free experience.

Conclusion

The Golden Ring Marriage Hall in Alipur Delhi is one of the Top 10 banquet halls in Delhi an excellent choice for couples looking for a stunning and sophisticated venue for their wedding day. With its top-notch facilities, services, and packages, the venue is sure to make your special day unforgettable. Book your wedding at the Golden Ring Marriage Hall today and make your dream wedding a reality.

#Top 10 banquet halls in Delhi #Luxury Marriage hall near alipur #luxury banquet halls near alipur #Luxury Wedding Venue near alipur #Luxury Wedding Venue in Delhi #best wedding lawns in Alipur #Luxury Banquet hall in Delhi #banquet halls in alipur delhi #Banquet halls near alipur #Banquet halls near me #Marriage Resorts in Delhi #golden ring wedding hall

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rel124c41 · 2 months ago

Text

MONKEY BITE. floyd leech

SWEET CREAM, WET DREAM. floyd leech

DEJA VU. floyd leech

MONKEY BITE. floyd leech

requested by: anon / cake details: cheesecake (arranged marriage AU) with fresh fruit compute (hurt/comfort)

“Hey, why the long face?” You pass him one of the two — a new matching couple set — wine glasses that you received from the bridal registry. “C’mon, you knew it wasn’t going to be you.”

Floyd stays numbly silent. His suit is in disarray as usual. Tie like a boa around his neck and nostril blood speckled on his cuffs like sequins. Though, he does take the wine glass full of whiskey from you, so you suppose that is a small victory in the war that just happened in the reception hall. Making yourself comfortable, you sit down next to him, cupping your dress backside as you go down.

“Aah,” you sigh, relieved to stop carrying your weight on taut, squeezing heels. Chin up, you observe the open ocean stretched out before the two of you.

Floyd simply slumps deeper into the palm he is resting his cheek on. He is all languid tonight. His human limbs are loose like his skin has been stretched like baking dough. Acting like collapsing, dead weight, he simply tilts his wine glass more towards himself because he had accidentally let it drip on the cobblestone in his weak hold. All his fight is extinguished just like that? It’s only appropriate, you suppose.

Sipping your whiskey, you congratulate yourself on how well versed you’ve become in human limbs. A month ago, you would have broken an ankle in heels — honestly, more like stilettos! — like these.

But, watching the unfurling waves that bounce back and forth under a pitch black sky, you think you would have preferred a childhood-dreamed wedding, with all your traditions, the pearl necklaces and the safety blanket of home. That one was probably one of the easiest sacrifices of a hundred that you have made in just one itty bitty month. A wave hits the sand hard and you take another gulp of whiskey.

“He doesn’t love you.”

Aren’t you at least going to look at me while talking? Turning back to the ocean, which Floyd is intently staring at, you reply, “Don’t be ridiculous. He has no obligation to love me.”

“‘To love and to cherish’. It’s right there in the vows.”

“You know those are nothing more than words to the both of us. Something that could happen, probably never will.” Still not looking at you, jeez. He had no problem staring at during the entire ordeal and now he wants to avoid eye contact. “Besides, what good is love?”

Love has yet to do you any favors. For infinity, it has been a leash on your person, and now after tying the compressive knot of a loveless marriage, you can be free of the loathsome tick of love. At that moment, you clink your wedding ring against your glass and gulp down a sphere of whiskey.

“What about the love between us? Wasn’t that good?”

There it is; the pith of this. The central essence of why Floyd crawled over your husband’s stunned body like a starved predator and used his hand like a mechanical piston to hit, hit, hit until your husband’s nose bent into a curved sausage of red. He acted so raptorial when tearing apart your groom because there was love between the two of you.

“No.” You finish the remaining whiskey quickly. With your thumb, you cover up the golden swirls that write out an eyesore word, Mrs., on your cup. “It was just teen romance. Fun but nothing of substance.”

Floyd throws his wine glass on the cobblestone. It is reminiscent of how violently he attacked early; his languid arm zaps into life and suddenly there are shards of glass spreading like an arching rainbow in front of your and Floyd’s expensive footwear. The gold, swirling Mr. is ineligible in the shining shambles. Back to silent it seems; he covers his mouth with both his hands and leans low into his hunch, groaning deeply like you shot him.

Waste of good moonshine. Fast-acting alcohol puppets your tongue. “Face it, Floyd. It was never going to work between us. I’m sophisticated, Floyd. You’re nothing but a brute. You eat fish raw off the bone; I dined on cooked surface food. I’m refined and you’re a slob. I live life in first class. You’re riding the coach. We weren’t gonna last.”

Dating an eel-mer as a mermaid had to be one love’s tightest leash on you. It was never going to work. Differences between the two of you were too stark to ever blend together. When you intertwined hands, you could feel the corporal proof of how incompatible both of you were — the softness of neatly trimmed nails and delicate fingers held in the callousness of talons and dense, compact flesh.

It had been a quaint experience but nothing of substance.

Basking in the aftermath of your lies, you smile happily of how self-assured your speech sounded and how it sure swayed Floyd’s opinion. Positive that you had painted a convincing picture, you turn to find Floyd’s eyes on you.

(It’s so unusual to see him with peach-toned skin. It will help that this will be the last face of his you will see; it would hurt more to depart viewing his original face.)

“Then why ya cryin’?”

“Crying?” That must be some human expression that you are not yet familiarized with. “I don’t think I’m doing that.”

He points to his own — there are little snakes of red in the whites of his — and declares, “you’re cryin’ and leakin’ up a rainstorm.” You touch your dry face. “Hah, made you check.”

You huff, humorless. Typical Floyd. He used to pull a trick similar to that when both of you were growing toddlers. That’s all over now. You swirl an empty glass and watch one droplet spin at the bottom.

“You’re gonna be miserable.”

“Yeah, I am.” Smiling, you raise your Mrs. — absent and incomplete with it’s broken Mr. — and say, “That’s why I got this sweetheart. I’ll be less miserable with her.”

You two sit in silence after that declaration. Reality sets in like a bruise. The fast-paced alcoholic talks are done and the fast-paced sober fights are finished. Simultaneously, the both of you look at your childhood home extended out in cobalt pulses. What a beauty the ocean is from the surface; a blue, shriveled heart that bleeds and bleeds.

“Your … that guy, knows nothin’ about merfolk tradition.” You turn, intrigued, but Floyd is still watching the waves of childhood. “He didn’t get you a single courtin’ gift, so I can tell he’s dumb as a stone boat. Ya don’t got a single necklace on you. Your parents know nothing about the surface. Not zilch. They rarely travel up here, so ��”

So? You wait as Floyd turns towards you. “So, we can make an excuse for this. Say ya got bit by some other animal.” Your blue heart beats like a blitzkrieg bongo as Floyd trails a finger diagonally along your neck before grasping the middle between your left cleavage and left shoulder. He lingers there, warmth shared by your combined flesh.

When he leans in, palm pressing in the white petals of your bridal dress, you figure out his intent quite quickly. A good girl would protest. I’m married! I just got married today, for Seven sake! You don’t think those thoughts as you lean, exposing more of your neck to Floyd. As his breath warms your shoulder, you put in one last joke for old time sake, “The mosquitos are huge this time of year.”

“Haven’t ya heard? The zoo let some rabid monkeys out and they’re on the loose.”

You giggle, for the first time in twenty-four hours, and look towards the ocean as Floyd bites in, scarring you with love, in the form of two puncture holes in your neck.

SWEET CREAM AND WET DREAM. floyd leech

requested by: anon / cake details: marble cake (NRC) with citrus glaze (smut) and edible flowers (fluff)

You are sitting on your boyfriend’s lap, staring down an erect penis. Salivating.

This has to be the beginning of a work by Shakespeare. Written in his own blood – something primitively disgusting and erotic. Yet, it is a labor of the body which is why the pen is inked with genuine, honest sanguine. Taken from a wrist or a chest.

Or, you could just be very pulled by hunger. Your first sight of a penis makes your stomach rumble, starved.

Go with the more artistic one, you decide just as large hands rest upon your hips, pulling you backwards.

But, Shakespeare interrupts, this did not start with you sitting nude on your boyfriend’s stomach, sizing up the dimensions and shape of what you desired more than anything to put in your mouth. It started with –

Turn off the stove. I haven’t seen ya all summer, Shrimpyyy.

From Ramschakle’s renovated cooking station, courtesy of long hours at Mostro Lounge, you glance away from the stove. The aroma is magnetizing and thick. Sizzling pops are musical like siren calls. You cannot comprehend why he wants you to turn it off. Before your eyes, Floyd leans against the countertop, chin set on top of crossed arms. Boyish and in love with you, he stares back with half-lidded, amorous intent.

The toothpick in your mouth makes a question quirk up because – why would I turn off the stove when dinner isn't close to being ready?

Haven’t got to taste ya all summer long either.

Something moves within your viscera like a giant, slithering tapeworm. It is a scarlet warmth.

It is a quick melange of sounds that add together like ingredients. Faint click of the stove, switched off. Harsh hit of hip-bone on countertop. Rustling thump as a freshly untied apron collides with ground. It is all overwhelmed by the groan Floyd lets out as you two collide at the kitchen island. Your toothpick is still in your mouth, held messily on the junction of your mouth’s right side, pressing and hurting the skin.

You cannot kiss with your tongue around the pick. So, Floyd takes the outward point in his fingers and draws it through your lips like unlocking a zipper. Obedient, your mouth falls open with his ministrations.

He places the toothpick on the bed of your tobacco-flavored tongue. His golden eye stares at your dangling uvula.

Say aaaah.

His intentions are: silly.

Aaaah.

Your intentions are: serious.

Fluid and lubricious as cooking oil, you two kiss. Floyd throws the toothpick away, not caring where it ends up in your house. Then, after shedding more of your clothes, you two end up here on the plate of your mattress.

It is a really pretty cock.

Standing before you in full attention, the weight of it in your curious hand sends a small shiver down your spine … and sends a large shiver down Floyd’s as you watch the muscle in his thighs tighten up. There is a slight right taper to it. Holding it at the base, you stare down at the bulbous head that almost arrows itself up towards your mouth. The anticipation and speculation of your boyfriend’s cock’s flavor profile leaves a sweet metaphorical taste of your tongue. Guessing is as fun as knowing.

Thrill numbs out a majority of your nerves. You feel like one, big, blue-white neuron. Though you can section out the feeling of your abdomen clenching hard when you feel Floyd move your knees so they are settled by his head rather than below his armpits.

Salvia is so thick in your mouth it feels like a second tongue. At least you know you will have enough natural lubricant.

Just as you open your mouth, lips glistening from previous kisses, a tongue oscillates down the center of your sex. And, deterring from your original goal, caught off guard, you moan brokenly with a sharp gasp. That’s what a tongue feels like? Oh OH — you are going to devour Floyd whole.

Two hands curl up around your hips, fingers digging on the bottom hook of each designated asscheek, palms squeezing flesh. Just as his tongue departs from the midline’s end at your anus, Floyd dives just back into your wet center and attempts to suction up all your slick like his tongue is a napkin.

You would almost feel bad about your knee-jerk reaction if it didn’t immediately speed up Floyd’s tongue. Caught off guard, still in the middle of your sharp gasp, your body unconsciously pushes itself back as far as it can, suffocating Floyd. Chasing indulgence and never pulling away from it. You pin him firm between the mattress and your pussy.

Quickly, you go to lift up. That motion is snuffed when Floyd’s fingers tighten on your ass and pulls you down harshly. “Flo- ah — Floyd, you don't have to. Mmh … Oh my god … !!”

Biting your own lip, you think you feel the letters of stay grumbled into your lower lips.

Even though it sends an earthquake through the miles of your intestines, it does not distract you from your intent. You are not the only one starving. Teeth from a wrist bracelet made long ago, ivory-speckled-brown like elephant tusks, jingle as you grip onto the shaft of his cock. Your own teeth part as you slowly slide Floyd up on the mattress of your tongue.

In the neurological wave, your heart stops … then jackrabbits in doubletime.

It tastes like running your tongue over a block of salt. Tentatively, you spiral your tongue around in short swings, lapping up the precum already coating him. The musky scent of sex wafts up from him like perfume. Right away, you are smitten with the taste and aroma that has greeted you.

Because it is the taste of Floyd, and you love Floyd dearly to the point of devouring.

It is an ouroboros of pleasure — a never-ending circular connection of moans and licks on each other’s hot, dripping genitals — that goes round and round. When a moan vibrates on Floyd’s dick, it sends an eruption of a heated gasp across your folds. When a thick groan hums onto your clit, you are left moaning whorish around the cock in your mouth. Back and forth with a heartbeat of cannibalism between the both of you. Devouring the most sacred parts within your mouths.

Floyd spits and giggles. He brings up little beads of salvia from his throat before smoothing them out over the folds of your labia. His affection towards you leaves him pressing fat kisses on your clit and sharp thrusts with his tongue up in your vagina.

It’s vulgar. Primitive. As you said before, something written in the blood of poets. Something smeared with jam-like red. A fun and lovey-dovey brutality.

Eventually, those tentative licks evolve into more. A mixture of precum and saliva follows your brief pop-off Floyd’s dick before you go down messily — the sounds are squelching like stepping in a pool of wet, glistening organs, the loud hollow muffle of your moan creaking — until it hits that fated uvula. Floyd’s spine arches like a girl’s, like he is your bitch, when you suck hard.

Then, you start bobbing. It is almost instinctual as a symphony of moans and licks play itself against your slick which dribbles, dribbles, and dribbles across Floyd’s face. A warmth spreads through your neuron-body as a large palm reaches down to rub at your shoulder, not even pushing or pulling, just a light massage to feel the heat of your body. The gesture makes you feel dizzy with love.

I love you I love you I love you — right there right there rightthererightthere! Your body jumps like it was shot as Floyd sucks roughly on your clit like it’s hard candy.

It is evolving more and more into vigorous fucking. The poem is losing its stanzas and the order of words has become jumbled. Your sexual ouroboros is burning a hot white hue as the sounds in the room grow grosser and grosser.

You damn near choke yourself on him as you fiercely rub up and down the length you cannot fit in your mouth, the side of your hand repeatedly hitting and splashing the wet puddle on his ballsack, filling yourself up to your heart’s content. “Shrim— Shrimpy — I’m gonna ! Mmh mmh mhh! I’m —!” God or Sevens or whoever, you cannot wait until he explodes in your mouth.

Me too Me too Don’t stop Don’t stop! You think in response to Floyd’s brief … well, he probably meant it as a warning but you take it as a blessing, knowing you get to swallow his cum soon. An involuntary moan from just the mere thought bristles around Floyd’s dick. Bobbing eagerly, you suck harder and harder with each passing second, feeling the heartbeat in his dick pulsing.

There is a smidgen of lightheadedness seeping in, fracturing your body into pieces. You are doing a poor job on remembering to keep your breathing even. That dizziness makes you feel like a stretched plain of cotton until you congeal together, hard and fast, rushing into an orgasm when Floyd zig-zags his tongue roughly on your clit.

It is almost poetic how you both cum at the same second. Because as soon as you realize that feeling of snapping in your viscera, a tidal wave bursts up into your mouth.

You gasp and cough around his cockhead, relishing the warm liquid in your mouth. Almost completely off his shaft, you take the head in your mouth and lap up everything he is giving you. It comes in forceful squirts and you have to hold down Floyd’s bucking hips to savor the moment.

You swallow all of it, gorging yourself on your boyfriend’s salty-sweet tang essence. Even then it is not enough for your appetite; thus, you begin to lap at his shaft, making sure you clean up everything.

So enamored with the taste of him, you do not even realize what is happening behind and beneath you until you hear a choked out “To - uuk — Too sensitiveeee!” Floyd groans, his hands squeezing and lifting up your ass as you nurse at his cock. You almost get a knee to the forehead when one of his legs involuntarily pulls up in pain with the overstimulation.

You keep eating until you’ve had your fill.

DEJA VU. floyd leech

requested by: anon / cake details: genoise sponge (specific to requester: time loop AU) with fresh fruit compote (hurt/comfort) and sprinkles (specific to requester)

Unusually, Floyd Leech took a shine to you right away – and with no difficulty either.

It almost seems like he has been waiting a long time to become friends with you. The nickname Shrimpy! slides out his mouth easily. His dominant left hand repeatedly finds your shoulder as if the two pieces of flesh were magnetized together. He shows up when you need help most, as if your body pulses out distress signals directly to him.

You didn’t know what to make of this at first. To you, the dimensions of Floyd Leech are off kilter like puzzle pieces of a picture forced into wrong spots. When you squint at him, an innate stomach-ache makes you feel something is off with how he presents himself.

It is the oddest and strongest sensation of déjà vu.

His face will shift and morph into some expression — laughing, scowling, craving — and you can swear you’ve seen him make that exact face before. It is like seeing copies upon copies of his face, stretching into nebulous creams and teals, yet never being able to identify where you first saw him make such a face before.

A melting, water paint portrait of creams and teals is what greets you again because you’re crying hard enough to distort your vision and you can’t make the expression on Floyd’s face. You’re sure it is one you’ve seen before.

“It’s just so sad!” You bawl out. The small paperback in your hand is squeezed tight enough to crinkle the pages. “I’m never gonna read another book again!” On the verge of hysteria, you slam your borrowed library book on Floyd’s desk.

In response to your despair, Floyd offers nothing more than a musical, high-falsetto laugh that winds itself around the dormitory like one, long note. He is rather unsympathetic to your plight. Though, he does wish to reach out to scoop up the tears on your cheek and taste them on his tongue. He won’t … yet.

“Ya such a crybaby, Shrimpy. It ain’t nothing but a story.”

The hacky sack hits his palm, emitting a sharp crunch of beads. Floyd throws it up to the ceiling, emitting a sharp thunk of wood. In the underbelly of this repetitive sound is you sniffing to yourself. You are trying to be as silent as possible, but the tears keep coming steady and hard.

“To just keep forgetting like that,” you hiccup into your uniform sleeve. “I wouldn’t wish that upon anybody. It’s just too sad.”

“You’re really moved by this, aren’t ya, Shrimpy?”

“Mmm.”

The book you rented from the library – because you were almost always in the library, nose in books, mostly ranging from teleportation spells to opening gates of the Underworld to anything resembling interdimensional travel – was five short chapters. Something about a pair of sappy lovers. Something about one of them being immortal and the other reincarnating in a cycle. Something about memories. Floyd can’t remember it fully; it wasn’t interesting enough for him.

His gaze simply had skimmed over the summary when you handed it to him. It’s not like Floyd was going to read a book like that. Action novels reeled in his interest, not romance. His heterochromic eyes glide over the arch of his pillowcase to view your meek visage.

It feels like some kind of cavernous hunger of Floyd’s is fed watching you cry. Slow droplets thread down your face like molasses out of a bottle’s mouth. Back arched like a shrimp’s, you cry in his desk chair yet don’t rub away those tasty tears. Mournful of something you never experienced – weird.

Floyd catches his hacky sack without checking its angle of descent and comments, “Humans are always forgetful. Half of the Lounge’s lost and found goes to me and Jade because no one remembers anything anymore.” Even his new hacky sack is from those pyramiding stacks of boxes of forgotten objects.

You sniffle, nose scrunching like a snout. Hands are folded stiffly on your lap, cold and dry, cracked like crocodile skin. “What? So you’re some kind of perfect being?”

“Yep. Couldn’t get more better than me, hehe.”

“More better?”

“I’m better than better.”

That at least makes you crack a tiny smile, wobbly as it may be. The bottom of your eyes are still puffy and those snail trails of slow saltwater have yet to stop. Flimsy eyes glance away from Floyd’s gaze to the swirling, tentacle pattern on the dorm floor. “It’s just so sad … and odd. That sensation of being in a room and being able to swear that you’ve been there before. Even the conversations … seem identical to another time.”

“And the people?”

“Yes, the people too.” Tearful eyes search the violet tentacle as if you expect it to unravel and reveal something.

Suddenly, you spring forward on Floyd’s desk chair, as if in revelation. The back legs lift slightly off the ground as you lean in close. Still untouched, the warm trails are visible on your face. “And, isn’t that so odd!

“I just can’t wrap my head around it. You spend time creating memories. You spend time having conversations and creating relationships. You spend time being. And, all that time just, what? Goes and slithers down a drain, and you don’t get it back?”

Floyd blinks at you. Spots of flushed skin rest in the center of your temple and on each cheek. Your skin glistens in hot hues. “Eh, some things are just more important to others.” Floyd untucks his arm from behind his head, reaches out with his index, and wipes under your right eye.

He licks up the saltwater on his finger’s side like licking residue off a fork as you say, “I could never forgive myself if I did something like that to someone.”

The hunger to recapture past moments. It is quite an intense craving. Floyd takes his thumb and smears a crescent smile in the water under your left eye.

“C’mon, Shrimpy.” He licks his thumb. “You’re just the type of person that would do that to someone.”

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #floyd leech #floyd leech x reader #twst floyd

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danibee33 · 11 months ago

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The Queen’s Guard

*COD medieval au - Simon Riley x reader

cw: arranged marriage, dark themes, attempted sa & non-graphic sa but pls *read at your own discretion*, gore/violence, sexual themes, etc.

word count: 1.1k

“Again.”

You can’t help but to flinch at the sound of swords being drawn; it rings in your ears, echos in the recesses of your brain. The piercing, metallic clangs resound throughout the room-

How long had you been here, anyway? Judging from the sunlight that peers through the high transom windows, its golden rays giving the great hall an ethereal sort of glow, it must be nearing time for dinner-

“I’ve seen enough, thank you.”

With a dismissive wave, you rise from the bronze throne and turn on your heel, eyes focused straight ahead, fixated on the intricate carvings in the doors, your escape just within reach-

“Your Grace..”

General Leon’s voice is laced with exasperation and warning, and your long history with him is the only reason you halt, your handmaid nearly bumping into you as you turn again- the young woman struggling to rearrange the ridiculous train on your gown as the man speaks,

“You cannot continue on without a Queen’s Guard- His Grace demands the position be filled.”

Oh, of course. How thoughtful of your kind husband. The husband who only sees you when the physicians deem you fertile enough to produce an heir. The husband who you’re not even sure could pick your face in a crowd because he only ever fucks you from behind, your face pushed down into the animal furs beneath you.

The husband who killed your last guard, gods rest his soul.

Yes, I’m sure he’s very concerned for my safety..

You give a heavy sigh, fighting the urge to roll your eyes as you feel the placating smile tug at your lips; the one you’re so, so good at. The practiced smile that puts everyone in the room at ease, the one you’ve perfected in your relatively short existence of being groomed for this very life.

The life everyone dreams of, a life of royalty, of the highest privilege and power- how little they truly know.

“Of course, please, let us meet the next one then.”

Taking your place upon the throne once again, you sit properly, prim and demure, just like you were taught. The very picture of perfection in your emerald colored silks, not a single hair out of place-

Yet, inside, you were wasting away, your thoughts boiling and raging, your anger smoldering just under the surface, like a vein of coal in the earth that’s been lit aflame- the embers never dying, but never able to turn into the inferno they so wishe to be.

You don’t bother to spare your gaze when the doors open with a low groan, the quiet footfalls that enter the space only really given away by the shifting of chainmail and armor.

They’re confident strides, you notice- long and steady, and without even seeing him yet, you can feel the energy shift around you, his presence seeming to fill every available void,

“Ser Simon Riley, Your Grace.”

With one look, you’re utterly struck by the imposing man walking towards you- shoulders and hips swaying with each deliberate step, left hand resting lazily on the hilt of his long-sword.

His armor plates are dark, obsidian in hue, so different from the usual flashy silver you see everywhere you look. He is a looming shadow in front of you, somehow as wide as he is tall, if that were possible- and his eyes. The skin around them have been smudged with kohl, making the mottled amber of his irises look preternatural, his unmoving gaze entirely focused on you, even when he bows,

“Your Majesty.”

Your mind screams danger, much like it would if a fully grown wolf had just sauntered through the doors, looking for its next meal- and yet, for as much fear as he inspires, there’s something that draws you in- like a siren singing to sailors lost at sea.

Returning his gesture, you gently nod, holding his eyes until the General calls him back to assume a fighting stance; and even then, you swear you see his head tilt just so, just enough to flash you an arrogant look as the guard takes his place across from him. Ser Simon must easily stand a head and a half taller than the other man, you think, his figure even more impressive than it was before.

The men exchange nods before drawing swords, their dance beginning the same as all the others, assessing and calculating each other until the guard makes the first move-

The heavy whoosh of his blade is dodged with little effort, the giant wraith of a man moving far faster than any of you expected. He gracefully ducks under the other’s still outstretched arm, placing himself in the perfect position to swing his own sword towards his opponent's exposed neck- a maneuver surely meant to behead if this were anything other than a mock duel.

“Reset-”

“No.” You stand abruptly, stepping down from the throne much to your own surprise, “Ser Simon, what experience do you have as a Royal Guard?”

“Your Grace, this is-”

With a raised hand, you quiet the General, watching the mysterious knight sheath his sword once more, bowing again as he faces you,

“None, Your Majesty.”

Well, at least he’s honest.

“What experience do you have then?”

His head tilts to the side, and you watch the other guards tense when he takes a single step closer, those damned eyes gleaming down at you with a hunger you’ve never quite seen before,

“Battle, Your Grace. I’ve seen far more than most.”

This time, it’s you moving towards him, and when you step closer, the Kingsguard follows suit, though it seems nothing goes unnoticed by the towering specter.

“Well, Ser, I do not go into battle.. You might be better suited for my husband’s army, no?”

You watch the very corners of his eyes crinkle slightly, his gaze narrowing in amusement, and you’re positive you would see a devilish smile on his lips if he removed the helmet,

“I might.” He says flippantly, broad shoulders shrugging as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, “But, I came here to serve you, My Queen.”

A deep and burning chill blooms in your core at his words and the resolute way he says them; it lights every nerve on fire, every cell and molecule, every atom in your being vibrating at a frequency you’ve never felt as the title rolls off his gilded tongue.

No, you’ve never met a man quite like this, and part of you questions if he truly is just a man at all- because no man has ever felt like this, no man has ever been able to pick you apart so quickly, make you feel bare with just his gaze alone.

He terrifies you as much as he excites you, and oh, how you’ve longed to feel something other than loathing, and boredom.

There is nothing practiced or placating about the smirk on your lips now as you nod toward your General, your handmaid once again adjusting the cumbersome fabric of your gown as you move forward-

“Well, you’ve gotten your wish, Ser Simon.” You coo as you breeze past him without a parting glance, “General Leon, make sure my guard is taken to his new quarters, will you?”

They fall into a sweeping bow as you exit, a quiet acknowledgement being the last thing you hear before the deep pulsing of your own heartbeat fills your ears.

What in the seven hells have I done..

[chapter 2 >>>]

#knight!ghost #medieval au #call of duty #simon ghost riley #cod fandom #cod modern warfare #alternate universe #simon x reader #fem reader #all hail the queen

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eternalsams · 1 year ago

Note

I'm in the mood for some Jake Hangman Seresin like marriage fluff

fem!reader

like that?

or maybe like that?

Jake knocks at the door and waits until your best friend appears, holding closely the door so he can't see what's inside. Who's inside. "The photographer is ready, if she's still up for it." He says and he can hear your giggle from inside. "I'm still up for it, cowboy." He smiles, nods and takes a step back. "I'll be in the hall." He says before turning back and joining the photographer. The timing was perfect, the sun was giving a golden light to the hallway where Jake was waiting for you. His back was turned to the photographer who started taking some clichés of the groom. He looked radiant, the sun rays creating an angelic aura all around him. Jake almost turned around when he heard your heels clicking on the wooden floor. But as he was about to ruin the surprise, you stopped in your tracks and he remembered what exactly he was standing there for. The first looks.

The clicking started once more and he couldn't help the grin stretching his lips. He could hear the photographer taking pictures and he never felt more jealous than at this moment. When you were just a few feet away from him, he started shaking from excitement. This was definitely the best day of his life, there was no doubt about it. "Honey?" You call for him and he knows it's his signal to turn around. When his eyes finally land on you, he cannot suppress stretching his lips. "Oh, baby..." He scoffs, not believing his eyes. You were just perfect, the long white dress fits perfectly your body. "Do you like it?" You grab the skirt of your dress and move it a little bit. Jake softly groans and rubs his face with his left hand, the one where you'd find a ring at the end of the day. "If I like it? You- Can you give me a twirl, baby?" You happily comply with a giggle and he almost tries to reach out for you. "Tut tut tut! No touching, Mr Seresin." You take a step back and he sighs, trying to charm you with puppy eyes. You chuckle and take another step back, knowing it's almost time for you to walk down the aisle.

"I'll see you at the altar?" You smile at him and his lips stretch in a smirk. "I'll be the handsome guy trying not to cry." He says and you laugh once more. "I'll be the pretty lady in white, definitely crying." He sends you another smile and blows a kiss in your direction. "I love you." He says as you open the door to leave him alone in the hallway. "I love you more." You answer without hesitation. "That's not possible." He only says before you disappear from his sight. He keeps staring at the door you just closed behind you with a silly smile before turning to the photographer. "Was that good for you?" He asks him as the man checks his clichés. "Perfect. You're gonna love them." The man smiles. "I'm sure we will." Jake nods and joins Javy in the lobby to hear his best man instructions.

#Jake seresin #Jake seresin x reader #hangman #hangman x reader #Jake hangman seresin #Jake hangman seresin x reader #top gun #top gun maverick #Glen powell #top gun fic #hangman fic #Jake seresin fic #fluff #hangman fluff #Jake seresin fluff

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whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk · 2 months ago

Text

Hold Me Like a Knife (iv, ao3)

Chapter four: News of a recent attack has the Danes on edge, and when Tomas sends Nesta into the heart of Viking territory to carry a message for Rhys, she finds herself sitting at a table, alone, with perhaps the most dangerous Dane of all. (Previous chapter // next chapter)

“How grave is it?”

The door sealed behind them with a soft thud, the lock sliding into place with a hiss as Tomas slid the bolt across. Nesta turned to face him, finding only his back to her as he looked at that door, as if studying the strength of the planks it was comprised of. As if wondering, perhaps, how many Danes it would take to bring it down.

Her husband made no sign that he had heard her speak.

Nesta glowered. Tomas had already begun to remove the golden rings he had slid over each of his knuckles before the king had assembled them all in the lord’s hall— the rings he had worn, knowing all too well that Alfred was leaving, and they were to be left behind. Nesta scowled again, huffing as Tomas finally looked up at her. His face was entirely empty of feeling as he blinked at her, unimpressed and unwilling to entertain her questions.

Well, she thought, to hell with his disapproval.

“The queen,” Nesta pressed, her lip curling with the force of her irritation. “Just how ill is she?”

Concern lined her throat, thick and unpleasant. She wasn’t particularly familiar with the woman, despite living in such close quarters for over a year now, but surely whatever ailed her was serious, given it had dragged Alfred back to Wessex so suddenly. Her stomach twisted at the thought.

Yet Tomas only rolled his eyes and scoffed, depositing his golden rings into a small dish with a musical clink.

“The queen isn’t ill,” he said, as though it were the simplest thing in the world, and Nesta the most stupid. He snorted as he dragged his eyes over her, the twist to his lips letting her know that he had been searching for something to commend her, but had come up empty. After all, what man wanted a curious wife? “The king has business to attend to in Wessex. Word will reach the other kingdoms soon that he has gone beyond our borders. Leaves us vulnerable to attack.”

Tomas took a breath, a sneer drifting across his features like a cloud that passed across the face of the sun.

“He can’t tell Rhysand that, though. It would make us look weak.”

Nesta snorted.

“So he lied.” Deadpan, she added, “A perfect foundation for the lasting peace between us. Lies and deceit.”

Her husband’s eyes were sharp when he turned his head to her, so fast she wondered if he’d pulled a muscle in his neck. “You are one to speak of lies and deceit, wife, when your father robbed me of your dowry.”

Silently, Nesta cursed.

This again.

With a shrug she turned to the small window. It infuriated Tomas when she turned her back on him; it was precisely why she did it. Her father had promised Tomas one of his boats, laden with stock, as part of the agreement when he sold her hand in marriage. Like she was just another sack of grain to be bartered, another pelt of fur to be negotiated with. Tomas hadn’t forgotten; Nesta doubted he ever would.

“It’s hardly my fault or my father’s that the boat went down before it could reach you,” Nesta reminded him.

But Tomas crossed the distance between them, his sudden rage palpable in the close confines of the bedroom they’d been allotted. His hand landed hard on her shoulder to turn her back, but Nesta despised his touch, refused it whenever she could. She wrenched herself away, leaving his hand hanging in midair.

“Convenient, isn't it?” he hissed. “That the boat intended for me ends up at the bottom of the sea. How do I know it wasn’t all a filthy lie in the first place, a trick to get me to the altar?”

Nesta raised a brow, her face flat as she contemplated why her father would have set his sights so low if that had been his intention. Why settle for a landless thegn if it was all some elaborate hoax— why not sell her off to someone with even a little more influence? She fought the laugh of derision that gathered in her throat; knew it would not serve her to laugh so boldly in her husband’s face.

Still, she kept that brow raised. “So what shall you do with me, Tomas? Send me to a nunnery? Have the marriage annulled?”

The scowl that darkened his face made her smile saccharine. He could do nothing; he was just as trapped in this as she was. So Nesta brushed past him as she made for the door, making sure that she didn’t look back as she gathered her cloak from where she had draped it over the back of a chair and tied it around her shoulders. Dimly, she heard Tomas calling after her, asking where she was going— what she thought she was doing.

In truth, Nesta had no idea.

But it didn’t matter, not when the distance between them grew with her every step. As Tomas’ voice faded into the background, Nesta tucked her hands beneath the heavy folds of her blue velvet cloak, and stepped back out into the streets of Jorvik.

***

“And where were you this morning?”

Rhys’ voice crawled along the empty tables of the hall, his low drawl dancing through the space that was so quiet now, with the Saxons gone. Only a scattering of Danes remained inside, the rest of them finding other places to be as soon as Alfred and his entourage had left the city, leaving Rhys to lower himself into the carved wooden chair atop the small dais, sitting in a puddle of molten sunlight with his head propped lazily on a fist. His eyes danced with amusement as Cassian turned his back and made to leave too— perhaps to go and seek out a certain Saxon woman, whom the gods had seen fit to throw into his path.

He grinned as he turned and looked over his shoulder, giving Rhys a small, innocent smile.

“The river,” he answered simply.

Rhys scoffed. “You came back with a look on your face that seemed to have been put there by Loki himself. You forget, brother. I know that look.”

“And what look is that?”

“The look you get when there’s a woman involved.”

Cassian turned to face his brother, folding his arms over his chest. The shrug he sent his way was casual and easy, but the smile he gave him was sharp and full of teeth. In his mind he saw a woman, gilded by the early morning sun, with a scowl on her face to bring even the strongest of men to his knees. Gods, she was remarkable.

“There might have been a woman involved.”

“And who is she?” Rhys pushed, crossing an ankle over his knee.

It was smooth, the movement. Just like every gesture, every move Rhys ever made. It was easy for Cassian to forget, sometimes, that Rhys was just as lethal as the rest of them. Cassian might have been better at winning them victory in the field, more willing to bloody his hands or cave in a man’s skull with just the flat edge of his shield, but Rhys, so suited to the ruthless world of politics and no stranger to battle himself… oh, yes. He was lethal, too.

Cassian’s grin was feral. “Oh, you’ll have an axe at my throat if I answer that question, brother.”

Rhys groaned. “Odin’s teeth, Cass. Don’t tell me this is like the blacksmith’s daughter all over again.”

The grin on Cassian’s face didn’t fade. The memory came back to him in a haze, its edges softened with too much mead. The blacksmith’s daughter— a mistake made once, years ago. A woman he’d once thought was the most beautiful he’d ever seen, so beautiful that he hadn’t been able to resist. She had begged Cassian to take her to bed that Midsummer, and who the fuck was he to ever refuse an offer like that? She hadn’t wanted to wed him, and he hadn’t wanted to wed her either. But she was already betrothed and… well, Rhys had been the one to deal with the fallout when her intended had happened upon them in bed together.

But the Saxon - Lady Mandray, Cassian corrected himself with no small amount of pleasure; it wasn’t her real name and wasn’t enough to sate him but still… he had some name to call her by and it was enough for now - wasn’t the blacksmith’s daughter.

There was something, some instinct, telling him that it wouldn’t be a quick fling with her.

Perhaps it was the way she had glowered at him by the river, or the way she had held her ground in that narrow street, when Kallon had been ready to slit her throat. Cassian’s grin faltered at the reminder of that bastard, whose days were even more numbered now than they had been before. Oh, Cassian would relish that kill soon. Would make it slow, painful. Would let the blood pool between his fingers, just so he could feel it when Kallon’s life-thread unravelled before him, beneath his hands, in a way that even the goddess Skuld would shudder to witness.

Soon.

His smile returned in full force, his mind turning once more to those silver-blue eyes, so formidable he almost thought he would bring down entire kingdoms in her name, just so he could present her with a throne. Crown her with gold. Kneel at her feet, as he’d never kneeled for anybody before.

“She’s a beauty, Rhys.”

“I couldn’t give a fuck about her beauty if it means trouble for me.”

Cassian only shrugged again. Thought of those eyes, and all the lives he would end, the worlds he would destroy, if only she asked.

And he’d only spoken to her twice.

“Who is she?” Rhys asked again.

His tone was light, but suspicion lined his eyes, like he had deduced far too much already from the look Cassian had shot his way earlier, when the king had announced his departure.

Rhys hadn’t questioned it, the way Cassian had seemed so readily inclined to agree with Alfred’s proposition. Like he would ever give a fuck about such things, were it not for the fact that it happened to keep the most stunning woman he’d ever seen just within reach for a little while longer.

And after all, he had been raised as a warrior— a thief and a murderer.

So let Mandray stay, Cassian thought. Let him be an ambassador between them. And let him stand there and watch as Cassian stole his wife from him, right before he cut the bastard’s throat.

His fingers twitched towards his blade, as if imagining it already. How he’d make the man beg for his life before the end. Cassian had watched the way his hand had curled around his wife’s wrist in the mead hall the other night; saw in that single touch the depth of the man’s character.

And he had found it wanting.

Pointedly, Rhys cleared his throat, dragging Cassian from all thoughts of violence and vengeance. Still he awaited an answer, and Cassian knew his brother well enough by now to know that Rhys wouldn’t let this go, not until Cassian delivered him a name. So he shrugged again, every line of his body loose as he said, like it was nothing,

“Lady Mandray.”

His tone was only deceptively casual. Already, as the words left his mouth, he was waiting for Rhys to throw a dagger at his face. Indeed, his lord’s lips had thinned, his hands curled tight around the intricately carved arms of his chair.

“She’s a Saxon,” Rhys bit out, but Cassian only rolled his eyes.

“Have you seen her, Rhys?”

“Yes,” his brother gritted out, like the words were grinding on his tongue. “I sat in a peace meeting with her husband for four fucking hours.”

“Her husband is an ass.”

“So are you,” Rhys countered, incredulity heavy in his tone, his voice carrying across the emptiness of the hall and echoing all the way up into the rafters, like it might reach the gods themselves.

Cassian couldn’t help the dazzling smile that erupted across his face, splitting his cheeks as he gave his brother a wink that he knew might well earn him a knife in the ribs. “Aye, but she likes me.”

“That’s why you gave me that fucking look when Alfred announced Mandray as an ambassador.”

“You know me so well, brother.” Cassian’s voice was dry, but mischief glimmered on his face, lingering in every word he spoke. Rhys huffed, his palms flattening on the arms of his chair. Like he had to remind himself of all the reasons why he shouldn’t start a fistfight right now.

“As if I don’t have enough to deal with—”

It was funny, really.

The way Azriel chose that moment - that exact moment, when Rhys looked like he’d had enough of politicking and peace talks and keeping his people in line - to slam open the doors of the hall and storm inside, a messenger at his heels, struggling to keep up with Azriel’s long, forceful strides.

He’d always had the most abysmal fucking timing.

And his face was grave now, his voice hard as his footsteps thundered across the wooden floor. Fury lit his eyes like lightning as he said, with a rage just barely leashed,

“There’s been an attack.”

If Rhys was the rudder of their ship, directing their objectives, and if Cassian was the oars, using brute strength to get them where they needed to go, then Azriel was the sail, catching the whispers on the wind. And this whisper…

Oh, this whisper had lit a match beneath his temper.

Instantly, Rhys was on his feet.

“Where.”

His voice was cold and flat, echoing in the hall. The last few Danes that had lingered against the walls had stilled; the messenger had the good sense to look nervous.

“The eastern coast.”

Rhys’ eyes darkened. His hands curled into fists at his sides.

“I said where.”

His words were forced through gritted teeth, and when Azriel stepped aside to let the messenger speak, the man - little more than a boy, really, Cassian thought - looked like he was about to piss himself. Cassian stalked across the dais, coming to stand beside Rhys’ only-recently vacated chair and leaning an elbow against the back of it. His stance was casual, but his face, he knew, was murderous.

“North,” the messenger managed, all but trembling as he looked at Rhys’ face and took in the wealth of anger he found brewing there, like an almighty storm. “Reports say Danes sacked Whitby— St Hild’s Abbey.”

Rhys’ eyes were chasms of fury; merciless, unrelenting rage lining his entire body as he straightened. “How much was destroyed?”

The messenger paused. Looked to Az, as if searching for confirmation. Azriel only gave him a grim, firm nod before waving a hand and motioning for him to continue.

“Little,” the messenger said quietly. Cassian’s brow twitched. “They’re saying the Danes came at night. A small band of them, when the moon was at its lowest. They let the Abbess and the nuns escape, but the relics were stolen and a stable block is in ruins. Otherwise the destruction was… minimal.”

Minimal.

Something about that one word put Cassian’s teeth on edge, had his hand drifting towards his blade. Across the distance, Cassian met Azriel’s unscrupulous gaze and saw the same trepidation mirrored right back at him, passing between them like a current. His brother’s brow contained a single, solitary furrow— the only outward sign Azriel would allow of his unease. Rhysand, too, kept his face carefully blank, Cassian noted as he flicked his attention back to his lord. But the words that ran between the three of them went unspoken for now as, with nothing more than a flick of his hand, Rhysand dismissed the messenger and anybody else that still lingered in the shadows.

Only when they were alone and the room had emptied did Rhys begin to pace.

His steps were measured; his voice as cold and as dark as a moonless night. “Azriel. I want to know who, exactly, attacked that abbey.”

“I mislike this, Rhys,” Az said as he stepped forwards, a hand on the hilt of his dagger, like already he anticipated bloodshed. “It doesn’t feel like an attack by Danes.”

Cassian tilted his head, running through the facts in his mind like one might run fingers through wheat— carding through the messenger’s report like there was something there he might have missed. Still, he frowned.

Azriel was right.

Something was off, but…

“That abbey sits right up on that cliff face,” Cassian said slowly, “too easily seen by any ship passing by. Perhaps the messenger was right. Perhaps a band of raiders saw a chance and took it. Raiding is in our blood, after all.”

Az scowled again, casting his eyes up towards the roof and finding the hatch where the smoke escaped from the fire pit below. A slice of cloud-grey sky was visible, threatening rain.

“No,” he murmured. “This feels… different.”

His hand moved to the hilt of his dagger, his scarred fingers tracing a path along the pommel. Cassian recognised each and every one of his brother’s tells, and this was one of them, a move so idle, so thoughtless, it was clear his mind was elsewhere, contemplating something far more serious.

“The place is still standing for a start,” Azriel continued, before lowering his eyes from the roof and finding Rhys still pacing before him. Bald question hung in the air between them. “No lives lost, either. When have you known Danes to take so little?”

He didn’t look down at his hands, scarred by fire. The kind of fire their people set after a successful raid. The kind of fire that was conspicuous in its absence, now.

Cassian leaned more bodily against Rhys’ chair, folding both of his arms atop it. In the silence he studied the curving lines of the tattoo on his forearm, tracing the path until it reached his wrist, where a braided leather bracelet was tied; a small silver charm threaded through in the shape of a raven.

A messenger of the gods. All-seeing. All-knowing.

“Can we be certain it was only the relics that were taken?” he asked, barely letting his eyes stray from that raven for more than a heartbeat.

Az tilted his head. “I can find out.”

Rhys nodded, ceasing his pacing at last. Cassian huffed a breath as he tore his eyes away from that raven and pushed away from the chair, casting a wary glance at the carved pillars of the hall, inscribed with their legends and their tales. He looked to the one nearest, with Loki’s wager chiseled into its surface, playing out before him. The story of the trickster god and the bet he made with a dwarf that almost cost him his head curved around the pillar, disappearing into shadow. Only Loki’s quick wit and wily tongue had saved him that day; Cassian wondered what it would take to save them, now.

“I don’t see why it matters,” Cassian muttered as his eyes followed the story around the curve of the pillar. “If a few Christian relics have been stolen, what business is it of ours?”

Silence answered him.

It didn’t seem to matter that Rhys had just been baptised a Christian. His brother’s commitment to the faith was about as potent as watered-down ale. And yet the attack was too calculated to ignore, too precise to have been accidental.

Whoever attacked that Abbey had done so with purpose.

Something whispered at the edge of his mind, like the hand of a god had just been laid on his shoulder. The hand of Tyr, perhaps, the god of war. Cassian’s eyes narrowed, wandering to one of the long tables laid out before him— and a map, left behind, still sitting atop it, its corners weighed down with pieces of silver.

England had been drawn in black ink, in stark contrast to the new boundary lines of the Danelaw marked in brilliant, bright red. Like freshly spilled blood.

And suddenly, as Cassian made his way to that table and braced both his palms against the edge, suddenly he wondered if Tyr hadn’t been walking unseen between them in that room. If Loki hadn’t looked down on them with that air of duplicity, because suddenly…

Like a lightning strike, it hit him.

“Unless…”

Rhys’ face sharpened as he came to Cassian’s side. “Unless?”

“Strange, isn’t it. That the king of the Saxons leaves our territory just hours before news of the attack arrives.”

Azriel’s face was as unforgiving as stone when Cassian glanced up, and Rhys’ lips were pressed together in a thin, furious line.

“You think Alfred ordered the attack?”

Cassian smiled grimly, leaning forwards to better study the map beneath his hands. “It would be easy enough to make it seem like Danes sacked that Abbey. Easy, to send a band north to take back their relics and spirit them south. Easy, for Alfred to time his departure— to have the raiders fall back in with his court as they move through our lands, like they’d been there all along.” He dragged a finger along the map’s surface, from Whitby, through Jorvik, and down to the Saxon lands in the south. Alfred’s lands. His gaze flicked back up to Rhys.

“Think on it, Rhys. Would a man as irritatingly pious as Alfred really be prepared to leave some of his faith’s most precious relics in an abbey that now sits behind pagan borders?”

Rhys rubbed a hand along his jaw. Shook his head. “No,” he answered. “I can’t imagine that he would.”

Azriel swore, low and filthy. “He wants to renegotiate the boundary lines,” he said, understanding settling like a veil. “By placing the blame for the attack on the Danes, he can easily argue that we broke the terms of the treaty. He can retaliate— take back the lands he and his people have only just agreed to give.”

Cassian’s temper flared. “Except not all of them agreed.” He thought back to Lady Mandray’s husband— the odious cunt. “The peace is far from universal.”

He scowled as he studied the map again. Rhys followed Azriel’s curse with one of his own.

“Either way, we’re fucked,” Az muttered. Venom seeped into his tone, coalesced with the bitterness that came with being outsmarted. And if there was one thing Azriel did not like, it was being outsmarted. “If we do nothing, the Saxons claim the abbey was attacked by Danes and they raise their armies in self-defence. If we retaliate, they are sure to take it as a sign of aggression. Either way, they have ready cause to break the peace.”

Fucked, indeed.

Except Cassian had never shied from a fight, and his people had never been afraid to bloody their hands. Rhys merely tapped a finger against his chin, even as his eyes roved across that map on the table.

“Take a few days to prepare, Az,” he said, nodding to Azriel who was, once more, toying with the hilt of his blade, “but then I want you at that abbey to figure out what the hell happened.” He paused, his eyes turning sharp and his voice growing sharper, like the lethal side of a blade.

“And if the Saxons are trying to bait us into something,” he muttered, “then you bring me the damned proof.”

***

Two days passed in a blur. A strange combination of trepidation and curiosity became Nesta’s constant companion, and in the hours where her husband disappeared - either slipping away to Rhysand’s hall on the king’s business or slipping away to the whore house for his own - she let herself wander frequently down to the river, and would spend hours in the long grass observing the ships coming in, entirely alone.

She would never admit that she was searching for something. For someone.

It didn’t bother her, exactly, that she hadn’t seen Cassian since that morning in the hall, when Alfred had left. It wasn’t like she wanted to happen upon him by the river again. Yet every spare moment she got, she found herself walking down there anyway, telling herself with every damned step that she was going in search of peace and quiet and fresh air.

Nothing more.

She might have even been down at the river when the letter had arrived, were it not for the rain. The heavens had opened, turning the streets of Jorvik into a swell of puddles and mud, and it was for that reason, and that reason alone, that when a letter had arrived with Tomas’ name on the front in the king’s own handwriting, Nesta had been there to watch as her husband broke the seal and sat down to read it.

It was little more than a note, really. Barely half a page long.

But when Nesta had tried to look over her husband’s shoulder to see the contents of that letter, Tomas had folded it quickly and tucked it surreptitiously into a pocket.

“The king has received news of an attack on a nearby abbey,” he explained as he reclined in a chair by the window. Nothing about him seemed like he had just received troubling, unexpected news. Nothing. “Relics have been stolen. Property destroyed. The Danes preyed upon the abbey in the night and took all that they could carry.”

Nesta wondered how Alfred had managed to fit all of that in the few scant lines she’d glimpsed on that page.

Wondered, too, how word had reached him so fast, when he had only been gone a handful of days.

Tomas was calm as he crossed his legs in his chair, slowly rolling his ankle in a perfect circle. She knew firsthand how unpredictable his temper could be; how quick he was to anger. And yet here he sat, oddly serene for a man who had just learned that his fellow Christians had been attacked.

“How many were killed?” Nesta asked, a hand rising to her chest, as if the press of her fingers might calm her fluttering heartbeat. She looked to the window, to the world outside and the rain that had eased into a fine drizzle; to the Danes she had started to think might not be so different, after all.

“Killed?” Tomas looked up, as if surprised she had spoken. A furrow appeared in his brow before he waved a hand, dismissing her entirely. “None.”

Nesta stilled.

“None?”

“A lucky escape, I am sure,” Tomas said with a shrug. “The Danes responsible must have realised the error of their ways, in attacking a place so holy. They appear to have let the monks and nuns flee as they wreaked their destruction.”

Odd.

Nesta hadn’t ever known Norsemen to leave any alive, and yes, there was supposed to be peace between them now, but…

Odd.

Tomas cleared his throat. “Send a message to Lord Rhysand,” he said briskly, as if she were no more than a servant to run his errands. “I want to see him. Alfred wants an explanation, and he will get one. This cannot go unpunished.”

There was a gleam in his eye, then, that Nesta instantly mistrusted. A small curve to lips, that said Tomas wasn’t at all surprised by the attack, and much less displeased by it. A snake— her husband was a snake, and she wondered just how much of this played into his hands. Still, she watched him raise a brow and nod towards the door as if to say, well? What are you waiting for?

Nesta bit back her questions, her suspicions, and went out into the rain to deliver her husband’s message.

***

Nesta wasn’t afraid.

She knew she should be, as she walked through the gathering fog towards Rhysand’s hall. After all, if the attack did anything, it proved just how unstable the peace between them was. How fragile. Yet Tomas sent her alone into that hall anyway, and with the rain and the mist, Nesta was certain it would be filled with Danes seeking shelter from the weather.

She wasn’t wrong.

The doors opened before her, and the noise and the warmth hit her immediately. Still, she wasn’t afraid. Not when there was one laugh booming above all the others, like a beacon to her, the sound so familiar even though she had heard it only once before, down at the riverbank.

She forced her eyes to scan the entire hall first before seeking out Cassian.

What she found surprised her. The long tables were already full of Danes drinking and gaming, with coins scattered across the tables, all of them different sizes and weights, with different languages and different faces inscribed upon the surface of each. Foreign coins, not valuable as currency, she knew, but because of the silver content. They were in small piles around game boards, like the Norse had decided to seek respite from the cold and the rain by coming inside to drink and gamble.

Women surrounded some of those tables, too.

Women with daggers at their sides; women with their hair braided back, laughing and drinking and gambling with the men. Nesta suppressed her shock, but almost paused when one woman in particular met her eye and nodded her head in greeting. Her dark brown eyes were astute, her burnished skin warm beneath the candles, and her smile was knowing as she raised a brow.

There was an empty space beside her— a spot on the bench that the woman nodded to.

An invitation.

But Nesta tore her eyes away, shaking her head as she declined, remembering why she had been sent. Who it was she sought. The woman shrugged as if to say, next time, then, as Nesta tore her eyes away, forcing herself to look to the table at the centre of the hall, right next to the fire that was spitting embers, smoke rising in curls to the hatch in the ceiling.

There, like it was the only place fit for him to be, Cassian lounged on a wooden chair, with one leg slung unceremoniously over one of the arms as he sprawled beneath the candlelight. One of those same game boards sat on the table before him, the pieces arranged in the middle of a game, and though his posture was easy - arrogant, even - Nesta didn’t miss the seax tucked into the belt at his waist. Didn’t miss the dagger resting idly on the table beside him, either. Kept within reach.

Beside him, the Dane with the scarred hands straightened in his chair as he caught her eye; drew his own blade.

Rhysand was nowhere to be seen.

With a languid, indifferent kind of slowness, Cassian turned his head. The glow of the candles skated along his cheekbones, glancing off the silver rings climbing up his ears and settling atop the hastily-tied bun that kept his curling hair back from his face. At her approach his eyes sparked, but he kept his face impassive. Lazy.

With lithe fingers he plucked up the dagger from the table, turning it in hand to admire the way it gleamed in the light. The blade shone like molten silver, like moonlight on the open ocean, and where the first Dane’s move for his dagger had been vaguely threatening - the suggestion of violence, if nothing else - this was wholly different.

This felt like he was… showing off, somehow.

“And what’s this?” Cassian damn near purred as he watched her steps slow. “A Saxon woman coming alone into a Danish hall?”

His voice was a low brush against every single one of Nesta’s senses, like he dragged a finger down her spine with every word he spoke. Even through the noise of the hall, she heard it as perfectly as if he had whispered right in her ear. Yet he didn’t move from his spot on that chair, his leg kicked over the arm like it was a throne and he the most irreverent, irresponsible king in the world. He tutted as she approached, the wicked grin on his face turning devious as he turned that dagger slowly in hand.

“You’re asking for trouble, sweetheart.”

Nesta pulled back her hood. “I’m asking for you.”

If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. He only smirked, tilting his head like a predator observing his prey as he turned and planted both feet on the ground. Still, his fingers played with that dagger, turning and twisting, letting the hilt slide across the backs of his fingers as he flipped it over his hand. Such utter mastery of the weapon— such control, such balance.

He didn’t even need to look at the damned thing.

“Some might say they are one and the same thing.”

Nesta rolled her eyes, but made no further move as he winked at her before leaning forward, bracing his elbows on his knees and letting the dagger hang between his fingers, the blade pointed at the ground.

“Tell me, love. What is it you seek me out for?”

The endearment sent a skitter down her spine, but Nesta let it pass. She blinked as she folded her hands before her. “I have a message for your lord.”

His eyebrows raised in an echo of hers, straightening in his chair as, at last, he set down his dagger on the table. At his side, the other Dane put his blade away, too.

“What message?” Cassian asked. “Better yet, whose message?”

“My husband’s.”

“And can he not come himself?”

Nesta shrugged. “Likely he thinks himself too important to come begging for an audience.”

Cassian’s lips twitched, the mere suggestion of a smile lingering at the corner of his mouth. “So he sends his wife to do it for him, does he? What a man you have secured for yourself, love.”

Oh, Nesta thought she could have drowned in the richness of his voice, then. It was thick and sweet like honey, dripping with suggestion and sarcasm both. His hazel eyes gleamed as he dragged his attention over her, and suddenly she felt flushed, like she’d just stepped into the heart of the fire. With the way he was looking at her, nothing but embers in his eyes, she half thought she had; half thought that the heat that licked at her skin was the fires of hell, consuming her already.

But he only continued looking at her, that smirk playing on his lips— lips she had no business to be looking at so intently. She cleared her throat, pulling her gaze up, but he didn’t relent.

He held out a hand. “Come, sweetheart. Sit. Drink.”

With one foot he kicked out the chair beside him, leaving it open for her. His hand was still extended in invitation and even from a distance, Nesta could see the scars across his knuckles, travelling up his wrists. So many small nicks, forever impressed upon his skin, brutal reminders of how much blood he had already shed. And yet she fought a shiver as she looked at the broad expanse of his palm, wondering how those callouses would feel dragging across the skin at her waist, or sliding up the length of her spine—

She cleared her throat again.

Cassian’s smile was hungry - starved - as he pushed a tankard - his tankard - across the table and added,

“Forget about your husband.”

Oh, Nesta thought wryly, her eyes dropping tho those hands again. You have no idea how much I want to.

And maybe it was that defiant streak in her - the one her mother had tried so hard to stamp out before she died; the one Tomas railed against even now - that made her step forward and slide into that open chair with ease. Cassian grinned, even as she pressed her knees together and kept her back straight, her shoulders back, her head slightly bowed. Just as her mother had taught her.

But her mother had never taught her how to sit like a proper lady amongst Danes.

Especially not as Cassian hooked one foot around the leg of her chair and yanked it forward in a show of strength that had her all but gasping as her hands shot out, grabbing the edge of the worn table as she grappled for purchase. Her palms flattened against the scarred surface, and when she lifted her head, fury written all over her face, she found herself sitting so close to him that she was drowning in the sea-salt and leather scent of him. His eyes met hers; held her gaze even as fury simmered beneath her skin.

Fury, and something else, too.

Tension crackled between them, thick enough to taste and sharp enough to bite, and God in Heaven Nesta could have sworn she felt his gaze on her skin like a physical touch, leaving a trail of fire wherever his eyes wandered. She looked up into those eyes, the hazel darkened by something that looked an awful lot like desire, and suddenly Nesta felt like the ground had dropped out from beneath her feet. The world she thought she knew, so steady and predictable, suddenly felt like it had been turned on its head— like Doomsday had come early.

He said nothing— Nesta said nothing.

There was only his eyes, boring right into hers, as if he could see through to the core of her; and hers, roving across his face like she was searching desperately for an answer to all the questions she knew she could never voice, the ones that would damn her immortal soul.

And then the unknown Dane on the other side of the table cleared his throat. “Perhaps,” he said dryly, sliding his gaze to Cassian, “we should give Rhys whatever message her husband sent her here with.”

Cassian shot the Dane a glare. He waved a hand. “Oh, I’ll tell Rhys the Saxon wishes for a meeting, don’t worry.” He turned his attention back to Nesta, grinned at her. It was all teeth. “I just might wait an hour first.”

Nesta almost rolled her eyes again, but then Cassian leaned back in his chair, his eyes wandering across her collarbone as his attention snagged, for a moment, on the cross at her neck. His eyes darkened, something unreadable flickering in his gaze, and with a muttered curse, the other Dane pushed away from the table and got to his feet.

He towered above them, a living shadow as he blocked the light from the nearest candle.

“Then I will tell him,” he said, before shooting a pointed look in Nesta’s direction. It was thick with warning. “But he will not like being summoned by a Saxon.”

Nesta met the stranger’s eye. His colouring was so similar to Cassian’s, those eyes only a shade or two lighter, but where Cassian’s beauty was rugged and a little bit wild, his was far more clean, all sharp angles and symmetry. He looked like a man who knew how to kill with cold, indifferent efficiency, and yet there was no intimidation or fear to be found in Nesta when she looked into his handsome face— she’d run out of both a long time ago.

She shrugged. “Tell him to run Tomas through with his sword, then. I won’t mourn.”

Cassian barked a laugh, and without another word the nameless Dane slipped away, melting into the shadows as seamlessly as if he had never been there at all. Nesta could have sworn, though, that she glimpsed something flickering in his eyes before he departed. Something like curiosity, perhaps approval, when she tossed the attitude he gave her right back at him.

“I think I like that one,” Nesta said lightly after the Dane had gone, nodding to the doorway in the corner, half-hidden by shadows, that he had vanished through. Cassian only scoffed.

“Don’t get used to it. Azriel will be leaving tomorrow for a week or two.”

“Why?”

He smirked. “You’re the wife of an enemy lord, sweetheart. Do you really think I’ll give up our secrets so easily?”

She shrugged, even as the word enemy clanged through her like the ringing of a church bell. Of course he was still her enemy— how could she have ever forgotten?

“Suit yourself.”

“You never told me your name,” Cassian said, nudging his tankard towards her with the tip of a finger. When her fingers curled around it, he nodded his approval.

“You know my name,” she countered smoothly, lifting the tankard to her lips to drink. It was heavy, filled to the brim, and this wasn’t the sweet, honeyed mead from the other night. No, the ale was bitter when it hit her tongue, flat and foamy, and Nesta couldn’t help the grimace that twisted her face as she swallowed. Yet the bitterness was secondary when Cassian tipped his head back to laugh, the sound rolling through her like a wave— a current she felt rippling through bone and sinew, all the way through to her centre.

With a scowl Nesta pushed the tankard back towards him, and he wasted no time before he wrapped a hand around it and lifted it to his mouth - drinking from exactly the same spot she had, like he wanted to taste the ghost of her lips against the rim - with nothing more than a wink in her direction.

“Lady Mandray,” he scoffed as he put the tankard down again with a muted thud. He rolled his eyes. “I want your name, love. Not your husband’s.”

She was silent. It felt like crossing a line, somehow, to give a man like this her name— like it was a boundary she shouldn’t even think of breaking. A threshold not to be tampered with.

Still, she wondered what it would sound like for him to say it. To speak it with that rolling, deep voice of his.

“Play me for it.”

Nesta blinked. “What?”

Cassian nodded to the game pieces before them. “If I win, you give me your name.”

God, there was something about the way he said it— something lingering beneath his words. Something that said he’d crawl over hot coals to lay claim to some piece of her, even if it was something as small and as inconsequential as her name. She fought a shudder, fought the heat gathering at the base of her spine as she glanced towards the game between them.

“And if I win?” she asked.

He smirked. “I’ve been playing this game since I was a babe, sweetheart. It’s strategy. Ingrained in us since childhood to help us learn to fight better.” He shrugged, but those damned eyes were on fire again, dancing with so many different emotions Nesta was struggling to keep up. “I doubt you’d best me, but you are certainly welcome to try.”

She leaned forward. The challenge he issued sparked in her blood, made her want to dive headfirst into this— into whatever it was that was making the air between them feel as tight as a bowstring.

“What do I get if I win, Cassian?” she asked again, her voice flat.

In that moment, she realised that it was the first time she had spoken his name aloud. He realised it too— the fire in his eyes flared, the smirk on his lips turning wicked. Slowly, he dragged the pad of his thumb along that bottom lip, as if contemplating how best to utterly devour her, and oh, the line between them was so dangerously thin, now. So, so dangerously thin.

“What is it that you want, love?”

His voice held a thousand unspoken promises; a vow that he’d grant her anything, whatever it was that she desired. As if he had the power to bend the world to her will and hers alone.

Nesta faltered for a moment. Didn’t know what to ask for.

And then her eyes drifted to that shadowed corner, and the door the other Dane had slipped through earlier. A safe answer, that’s what she found there in the shadows, beyond the reach of the candlelight.

“I want to know where Azriel will be going.”

If her answer surprised him, he didn’t let it show. Cassian only grinned and said, as he swept the pieces off the board and into his cupped palm,

“Done.”

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