#its seas are swayed by the will of the moon

[twottie-m8]

I often see comparisons of y/n as the stars to sun and moon's, well, sun and moon

However, I've always thought about it as y/n is the earth, the planet of this metaphorical solar system

[naffeclipse]

Sea Tears

Reader x Selkie!Moon

Commission Info

Thank you to the darling @cipher-the-sidhe for commissioning me to write about Selkie!Moon! The setting and the scenario are absolutely delightful. It's a shame I haven't written a selkie until now but I'm so glad I finally did!

Content Warning for mild injury and blood.

———

You tread carefully through the salt-tinged darkness and listen. A low hum plays along the moonbeams brightening the Salish Sea coast in an ancient voice you cannot translate. The fish and the seals might understand it as it thrums like insects on the wind or the constant, murmuring dance of the waves. You wonder if it is simply the sea. Perhaps it is something hidden along the dark inky waters now softly lapping up in the high tide.

Bends and sharp juts of coves shelter the rocky beaches. Further inland, a dense forest of coniferous evergreens conceal the beautiful shore and thrive in high levels of salt spray. You descend to the water, minding every step knowing that a slick, ocean-stained rock could easily lead you into a stumble and your head could crack open like an egg on the wave-smooth stones. 

These beaches are not for sunbathing and sand castles. They are to stand and admire the great breath of the Salish Sea and the bumps of crags lining the dark teal ocean—if the mist and cold don’t form an avid deterrent.

You rub your arms over the sleeves of your jacket and breathe a crisp scent. Driftwood dots the edge of land and water, and heaps of bull kelp sway farther out in the sea, lurking like guardians just along the surface to whatever might wander from the depths. 

Tonight, the fog is wonderfully parted by the silver-fingered light of the full moon. You scan the crevices in between dark, angled but blunt rocks, seeking the smooth fragments of seashells. In your years, you have rarely discovered a whole heart cockle or horse clam shell. There are only remnants of what was whole. 

The sand is firm and brown. The water gushes between stones before receding gently back with a frothy lace edge, bubbling and tumbling over itself just to do it all over again. You spy a fragment of a castoff shell, bleached and pale. You bend carefully down to scoop up its shard like a piece missing from a puzzle you wish to finish.

You hold it between your fingers. A curve or perhaps half of a spiral of a shell, sculpted by the waves now, softened by the time of being broken. Still, it is beautiful.

Carefully, you straighten while you slip it into your pocket. A soft understanding fills you to the bottom of your rib cage. A kinship, perhaps. You cast your eyes around you for a moment, admiring the moonlight until it shines upon a texture that is not often found here. 

Fur. Silver and speckled in blue-gray, it sits, slumped and hunched between two rocks, lying lifeless.

A seal. The dawning comes upon you in a moment of the rushing tide, and then, your feet are moving towards it. Your heart twists while you watch it sharply. How it could be so still and thin? Is it injured? You don’t have your phone with you—you left it in the car parked beside the oceanside road. Who would you call? Wildlife service? Perhaps it’s already too late.

No. You pray it isn’t.

You weave between sand and stones. Where the unmoving figure lies is thick with rocks, with almost no beach to speak of other than what is buried beneath. Your sandals slip on the slick edges of the rugged terrain. Wobbling, you catch yourself before you sling your body along a craggy boulder. You pass over the harsh edges and corners of the rocky shore, almost within reach. The fur hasn’t moved an inch at your rash approach. Your throat bobs for a moment in the horror of coming upon a long rotted seal—then your sandal-clad foot slips. 

A whip of sea and wind, and you fall. You throw your elbow down to catch you and it scraps sharply down the side of rough rock. You gasp when you bounce and slide, splashing into a thin strip of the tide slipping between cracks and crevices, but hold your chin high, away from any fatal head injuries.

You inhale slowly, eyes wide in the relief that you are not currently dripping your brains out of your skull like spilled yoke. A thin, stinging pain erupts along your forearm. Prying yourself off of the ground, watching where you place your feet, you get back up. A glance at the fur confirms it is still there. Slowly, you twist your arm to examine a fine, ragged cut slicing towards your wrist. A mix of sand, salt water, and blood spread across your skin. 

You breathe as it flares with pain. You close your eyes and convince yourself that you’ll clean and bandage it once you get back to your car.

First, the seal.

You lower your arm. Blood drops into the water as you at last reach the two stones the fur is wedged between, and tentatively, you reach out with the vain hope it might be warm and move with life. Your fingers stroke over the beautifully silver shade of the coat, dappled with blue-gray markings and a few, lovely rings at the end. But strangely, it’s cool with mist and bunched like fabric. Your mind turns the conundrum over slowly as if examining a broken seashell before you tug on it, higher, higher, until you hold in your hand the thin skin of a seal.

A pelt.

There is no blood, sinew, or otherwise, much to your relief. It carries a smooth sleekness on its underside. The strangeness of it tugs at a part of your mind, a memory of folklore and tales spoken around a table late at night. The beautiful pelt fills your vision with its starry silver shade and the Pacific ocean-deep hue of its markings. Carefully, as if handling platinum and sapphires, you caress the fur with the back of your fingers. A drop of blood from your arm threatens to stain it and you quickly shift the hide to your clean arm. You can’t ruin this beautiful coat with your crimson.

You lift your head. You gaze out over the ocean, rippling with the incandescence of the moon upon its onyx surface. Your heart bobs within you. Your eyes seek, and your ears strain.

The hum of the ocean which has filled you since you first arrived in the darkness grows. It is no longer a muffled, soft sound carried from behind closed lips but a soft melody lifted upon a voice. It rises to the sky. Over the driftwood and waves, you turn to face it, clutching the seal skin to your chest.

A man sings.

A part of you, undeniable and filled with longing, strides towards it. Following the curve of the rocky beach, you watch your every step. A plea in your core echoes with the desire to find the one singing. The crystal vibrations of the siren call rings through your bones. 

A rocky cove crops up on the side of a bluff, cutting off the beach but resuming with a swell of the tide into its darkened alcove. Once you near the mouth, you stop to bask in the lovely timbre. 

Then, with your fingers tangled in the soft, sleek fur of the seal pelt, you stand upon a rock just out of reach of the oceanic tide and peer into the cove.

In the glow of the night, a man stands in the icy shallows. You can only gaze at his striking figure wrapped in moonbeams. He steps lightly, his movement rhythm. The water ripples softly underneath him. He waves his arms, his limbs flowing over his head and down, like a wind sweeping the rocks and ushering the mist higher onto land. He turns, and one leg sweeps over the inky surface before stepping back. 

His body is long-limbed and slender, blue-gray like the speckles on the fur you hold. Upon his face is a marking of a silver crescent. His rich copper eyes flash in the dimness and are half-lidded in his homage to the great sea. Your breath stalls in your throat caught upon his visage. His face is wide and flat. Draping behind his head is an appendage much like a seal tail, an even darker blue with spots of glimmering silver-like stars.

His voice carries a song you have no name for but that which you hold only the most reverence in its echo. Your lips part unwittingly in adoration. He sings to himself and dances to an audience of the black sky filled with the moon.

But you twitch a hand forward as if you might catch a note of his lullaby and cradle it close to your chest. The man’s head snaps towards you. You freeze.

In a second of time and starlight, he holds your gaze, and you slip into the coppery irises that fill his wide eyes. His attention slips to what you clutch. You glance down, admiring the fur anew before you find your voice, hollowed and soft.

“Is this yours?” you ask.

The man stares, motionless like the bluffs the waves beat against. A few heartbeats pass within you. The man gently dips his head. The tail on the back of his head sways slightly like a nightcap.

“It is,” he speaks. “Please return it to me. I cannot return to the sea and my brothers without my coat.”

His voice rasps through the salty air and brushes the shell of your ear as if he whispered it to you. 

The word emerges in your mind like the fall of dusk. Selkie. One who has shed his fur to take a faintly human form under the full moon. The tales you’ve caught murmurs of were always of women, beautiful and naked, who begged for their seal skin back but spent the rest of their days held captive by the man who kept it hidden, forced to become a bride and carry his children.

An ache takes over your heart at such a cruel fate.

You answer with a gentle, “Of course.”

You slowly step into the icy waters. A shiver rolls up your body and you catch your tongue between your teeth to keep from gasping out at the shock of the brine. The selkie watches you, his eyes unreadable, his hands poised with his fingers half furled—as if you intend to dangle his seal skin in front of him before yanking it out of reach.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe. You wade far less gracefully in the echoes of his dance and song to reach him under the cove’s mouth, “I didn’t intend to keep it. I only meant to return it to you.”

You find the truth along your tongue. Even if you didn’t catch a glimpse of his beautiful melody, you would have left the coat where it lay, too afraid of stranding a selkie without her or his skin.

He says nothing until you present it to him. Carefully, you hold it out to him and his long fingers grasp it. A soft breath leaves him. His shoulders lower while he turns his coat over and examines it, stroking the fine fur before leveling an unreadable gaze over you. You’re small before his tall figure. You feel clumsy and cumbersome in comparison to his lissom body. 

A true selkie, right before your eyes.

“So you did,” he at last murmurs as if he were dreaming. His copper eyes glide over you. His blue-gray body shimmers with a galaxy-like illumination. He carefully folds his coat over his arm before holding out his other hand and bidding you closer. “Come here. Sit with me.”

You stare at his offered palm. A few thoughts cross your mind of danger and temptation, a selkie ready to snatch away an unwary human, but would he have asked you so kindly? You slide your fingers into his grasp. He holds your hand before gently tugging you down until you cross your legs and sit in the icy cove water beside him.

“Is it true?” you ask, then flush slightly with the bluntness of your voice echoing in the alcove.

He tilts his head at you, the appendage at the back of his head slipping over your shoulder. His silence coaxes you softly into asking, “Do humans really steal the coats of selkies and force them into marriage?”

The selkie’s eyes lower, somber, before he dips his chin. “It is true. But not always.” His eyes find yours and hold them softly.

He has yet to release your hand, but slowly, he lifts your wrist and turns it slowly. You almost forget the sting until the sight of the bloody cut down your arm strikes you once more. Your lips twist at the sight, glancing at the selkie and fearing his judgment. How human you are, bleeding in his ocean.

“What did this?” he asks in a low voice, his eyes outlining the edges of your wound.

“A fall,” you say sheepishly, “I thought your coat was an injured seal.”

A laugh, rolling and deep, loosens from his lips. A not unwelcome shudder fills you in the sound. Mischievous and sincere, all at once.

“You must be more careful,” he says, his laughter dying as he leans closer.

You curl your fingers. Pressing back in the slightest as he hovers over your torn flesh, you hushly ask his name.

But he doesn’t answer. You watch in the quiet of the tide as the selkie blinks, and a tear falls onto your sliced forearm. A soft tingle spreads through your flesh. You glance down, and another tear falls, mingling with the sand and ocean salt, but the tingling becomes a gentle sensation knitting and stitching the skin together. In stunned silence, you observe seven tears in total bind your wound as if you never fell.

“This is my thanks for returning my coat.” The selkie releases your arm to gently wash it with a touch of brackish water. Blood and sand wash away, leaving your skin as it once was. He lifts his head and smiles. “I am Moon, and I must go.”

“Oh.” The sound is so small coming from you. “Moon…”

You echo your name. It feels so weak in comparison to his, but he takes it within his mouth and he sings it once. Your heart bobs within your chest as if floating upon a storm-tossed sea. 

“Goodbye,” he rasps. He holds your gaze, soft as seafoam, and tugs his coat over his body. He slips down into the water. A flick of velvet flippers emerges, and a large seal lifts his head above water. 

You gaze at the beautiful copper eyes of the seal. Whiskers twitch and a wet nose presses closer to you. Slowly, carefully, you stretch your fingers and stroke the soft fur of his head. Your palm runs down the slippery slope of his neck to his strong, blubbered back. The selkie holds beautifully still.

“Goodbye, Moon,” you whisper.

The selkie eyes upturn, somehow grinning in an animal form. In a sharp splash, he turns and dives into the water. The sleek dappled fur of his pelt mingles with the moonlight reflecting upon the black ocean before the waves reclaim one of its own. 

You stay in the cove for a time you cannot account for, watching the waters, wishing to catch the echo of his song just one last time.

Gradually, like the moon beginning to shift across the darkness, you get to your feet. Water splashes back into the cove. Your heart grows heavy and forlorn, and you rub your fingertips together as if still stroking his fur.

Perhaps you might return in search of broken seashells but find the selkie again.

[suguwu]

moon eater I four

"But truly, Master Diluc—why am I here?"

"I would wed you," he says, flexing his hands in his lap. "If you are amenable to it."

minors and ageless blogs do not interact.

masterlist

pairing: diluc ragnvindr x f!reader

notes: thank you to everyone who sponsored this fic for fics for gaza's initiative! i appreciate it more than i could ever say. enjoy the chapter!

content: marriage of convenience, politics, some manipulation, pining, jealousy.

wc: 4.5k

The afternoon lengthens. The sun’s rays stretch across the vastness of the Dandelion Sea, bathing the fields in light, catching in the crystalline fluff of each flower, nature’s finest prism. Diluc watches as you kneel among them, carefully plucking a few flowers that haven’t yet faded into fluffballs. Their blossoms shine golden in your hands, little suns fallen from the sky. You gather them gracefully, piling them up in the cradle of your arms. 

He’s not sure what you’re doing; you haven’t bothered to inform him. Still, he’s content enough to watch you work. There’s something hypnotizing about the way your hands move, slipping through stems to pinch the blooms off with deft surety.

(The riverbank was muddy. The water swelled at its edges, cold and clear. Diluc saw the shadows of fish just beneath the surface, their fins swaying gracefully with the current, scales flashing like fireworks when they caught the light just right. The summer sun shone hot, the scalding rays making sweat bead up at the nape of his neck, but the mud was cool against his bare feet. 

You crouched on the bank, scooping up mud with careful fingers. He settled beside you, balancing on his haunches, but you didn’t look up. He watched as you shaped the mud deftly, building a structure he couldn’t quite make out. 

He almost asked, but when he glanced at you, the look on your face stopped him in his tracks. Your eyes were knife-sharp as you concentrated, but joy shone through you, the sun cutting through clouds. He subsided, content to simply watch your delight.

You worked steadily, sometimes letting the mud drip into wavy patterns, as sinuous as a snake, winding through the structure the way the river cut through the mountains. Diluc liked the way your hands moved, delicate but sure. 

He thought he could watch you forever.)

You hum as you pick another sunny bloom, running the pad of your finger over the petals of it. Then you push to your feet and head back to where Diluc is leaning against a tree. The dandelions sway as you pick your way through them, a few loose seeds rising through the air.

Diluc shifts as you settle on the blanket you’d spread out. The dandelions tumble from your arms to pile up like fool’s gold, glinting brightly even in the shade. You pick up a few blooms and start to knot them, weaving them together, your fingers a loom. Your wedding ring glints with each movement.

“Will you help?” you ask, not looking up.

Diluc stiffens. “How?”

You glance up at him, that rosebud smile blooming on your lips. “Come sit,” you say. 

He hesitates for a breath. You watch him serenely, your face a still pond, not even a ripple to betray your thoughts. With a sigh, he uncrosses his arms and pushes off of the tree. He settles across from you on the blanket.

“Give me your hand,” you say.

He balks. “Why?”

“So I can cut it off.” 

He rolls his eyes before he can stop himself; you laugh, the sound catching in the breeze and swirling around him. 

“C’mon, then,” you say, reaching out, palm up.

He stares for a breath. He thinks of an altar carved of flesh and bone, a place to lay everything he has to give. Then he reaches out, setting his gloved hand in yours.

You curl your fingers around his. He wonders if your skin would be cool against his, a snowmelt touch. He thinks it likely, but he’s glad for the protection of his glove. His hands are gnarled with scars and burns, his sins made manifest; they would catch against your softer skin, scrape across it. He doesn’t think he could bear it. 

He watches as you start to wind a dandelion stem around one of his fingers, weaving another stem through it before pulling them towards yourself. You do it again. By the third time, he realizes what you’re doing as a dandelion chain—made thick by the way you’ve woven it, three blooms across—starts to wind around your wrist, each golden blossom a small sun against your skin.  

“A crown?” he asks.

You peer at him through your lashes. 

“It could be,” you say. “I haven’t decided yet. It’s for Anatol’s daughter. I promised I’d make her something.”

“Anatol?”

“One of the Fatui diplomats,” you say, still weaving dandelions together. “He was stationed in Liyue previously, so we know each other well.” 

Diluc tenses. He almost curls his hand into a fist, but he catches himself at the last second, unwilling to ruin the flower you currently have wound around his finger. “I see,” he says. “You work closely with the Fatui delegation in Liyue?”

You hum. “From time to time.” 

“How often?”

You glance up at him again. Your eyes gleam in the sunlight, knife-sharp, an autopsy cut. “Thinking of taking up diplomacy, are we? I must say, I’m not sure you have the temperament for it.”

“Merely curious.” 

You thumb at the stem wound around his fingertip; it vibrates softly, a plucked harp string. He can’t parse your expression. The smile on your lips isn’t a rosebud curve. It’s something harder, the edge of the crescent moon, a fishhook of a thing. It sinks into him, buries itself beneath his skin. 

“It’s funny,” you say softly. “I think you’re more curious about my work than you are about me.” 

Diluc winces. “That’s not—”

“It’s fine, though,” you say. “I know that it’s just a marriage of convenience. Though I hope we can be friends.”

His stomach twists. “Friends,” he echoes.

“If you’re amenable to it.”

He nods, a little sharper than he means to. “Of course.”

Your smile softens. “Good.”  

Before he can say anything else, you hum, tying off the end of the dandelion chain with nimble fingers. “There,” you say. “That should do it.” 

He pulls his hand back as  you wind the chain securely around your wrist, a bracelet of little suns. There’s still a pile of unused flowers on the blanket; you scoop them into your arms before setting them to the side.

Diluc helps you fold the blanket up. Your fingertips brush and he wonders again what your skin would feel like. He shakes the thought loose and concentrates on helping you pack up. It doesn’t take long between the two of you.

“Let’s bring these,” you say, gathering up the extra blossoms again. They spill across your arms in a golden river, sweet and bright. “Lisa uses them for potions, sometimes.”

“There’s room in the saddlebags. My mare’s at the edge of the Sea.”

You nod and the two of you make your way through the Sea. Diluc’s mare huffs as you come into view, tugging lightly at her tether. He murmurs to her, stroking along her flank before checking that the saddle hasn’t loosened. 

“What’s her name?” you ask.

“Daybreak.”

“Pretty name.”

“My father named her. He said I couldn’t be trusted.” 

You laugh. “Really?”

“Apparently I’m bad at names.”

“What would you have named her?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

You look like you’re going to say something, but Daybreak noses at you, searching for treats, and you coo over her instead. Diluc makes a note to give her an apple in the stables; he’s not sure he could bear to admit his chosen name to you. He lets you pet her for a bit before he nudges her away. 

“We should be off,” he says. “The sun will start to set soon.”

“Alright,” you say, tucking the rest of the dandelions into the saddlebag carefully. “I’m ready.”

Diluc helps you up onto Daybreak before taking her reins to start to lead her down the path.

“Diluc,” you say. “Surely you don’t expect me to ride while you walk.”

“It is what I intended.”

You peer down at him. The sun haloes you, crowning you with divine fire. He has to look away.

You sigh. “If you’re walking, I might as well walk too.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“Then ride with me. At least then we’ll get to the city before dusk.” 

He hesitates. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

He sighs and hands you the reins. He swings himself onto Daybreak with one graceful movement; he hears your breath catch. He settles behind you, stiff in the saddle to try and keep from pressing up against you. 

It’s not enough. He can feel the curve of your ass between his thighs, the swell of it soft against him. He sucks in a breath. Your scent billows over him, your perfume lingering on your skin even after hours in the sun, lush and inviting. He shifts; you glance over your shoulder at him. He focuses intently on the sweep of your lashes instead of the curve of your lips. 

“Are you alright?” you ask.

He nods, flicking the reins lightly to set Daybreak into a trot. 

You eye him for a moment before turning around. You settle back into the cradle of his hips again, and Diluc bites down on a curse.

It’s going to be a long ride.

—

By the time the two of you arrive in the city, the sun is cracking open over the horizon, bleeding crimson and orange. Cider Lake is afire as you ride across the bridge; it glows golden, a molten pool. 

Daybreak snorts as Diluc brings her to a halt just before the city gates. 

He swings down off her back and offers you a hand. You slip your fingers into his grasp; he grips them carefully as you dismount. He almost thinks he can feel the heat of you through the thick leather of his gloves. 

He lets go once you’re safely on the ground, though his fingertips linger. He pulls back when he realizes, flexing his hand. You don’t seem to notice. You’re already rummaging through the saddlebags to collect the dandelions you’d gathered. Some of them are a little worse for the wear, but they’re burned copper by the setting sun, gleaming in your arms. 

“I’m going to find Lisa,” you say. “Will you be at Angel’s Share?”

He nods. “Come to the tavern when you’re ready to leave,” he says. “I’ll accompany you back.” 

“You don’t need to trouble yourself.”

“It’s no trouble.”

You examine him for a moment; he doesn’t know what you see, but it seems to satisfy you.

“Alright,” you say. “I’ll see you then.”

You’re off before he can respond. Lawrence salutes to you as you spare him a small smile, your lips a sweet curve. Diluc watches you sail through the gates of the city; he breaks free of his trance only when Daybreak nudges at him, nuzzling up against his shoulder.

“Good girl,” he murmurs to her, stroking a gloved hand along her neck. “C’mon, let’s get you stabled.”

He waves off the stable boy when he tries to take Daybreak from him. He sequesters himself away in an empty stall, carrying in water for the mare and stroking at her flank as he takes off the saddle. The light fades as he works, slanting through the window, a melting patch of gold. 

It’s dusk by the time he leaves the stable, faint fingers of light still lingering on the horizon, blending with the darkening velvet of the sky, a watercolor thing. The full-bellied moon is beginning its steady rise. He pauses in front of the stable, glancing towards Angel’s Share.

Then he heads the other way.

The Grand Goth Hotel gleams in the moonlight, rising high into the sky over the courtyard. It should be intimidating, but there’s something quietly graceful about it, like the curve of a dancer’s back. Vines trail over it like lace, tatted over the wood and dotted with bright pops of flowers. A lone Fatuus stands guard in front of the grand doorway. 

Diluc’s fingers twitch.

He longs for the weight of his claymore, for the way the pommel rests in his palm. It would pacify the thing that lingers behind his ribs, a yawning maw that always hungers. He’s never been able to satisfy it; in the darkest hours of the night, he sometimes fears he never will. 

The Fatuus yawns. Diluc steps closer, until he can feel the faint mist of the fountain’s spray. The faint scent of the fountain’s planters rises, stirred into something lush by the water. It’s a little musty, but he doesn’t care; the hotel has his full attention. He scans the building and zeroes in on a moving curtain. 

There’s a figure just beyond it, made misty by the distance, a ghostly outline against the window. The curtain flutters again, flicked shut, and Diluc huffs out an annoyed breath. He watches for a moment more, but the fabric remains still.

When he returns his gaze to the guard, his shoulders stiffen.

You’re chatting brightly to the Fatuus, who has a slight flush on his cheeks, visible even from across the square. Diluc grits his teeth. You’re turned just enough that he can’t read your lips, that he can only see the corner of them, a sweet curve. 

Whatever you say, the guard steps aside. He pulls open the door for you and ushers you inside with a hand on the small of your back. He returns to his post as you disappear behind the massive door of the hotel, the building swallowing you down. 

Diluc’s gloves creak as he curls his fingers into a fist. He strides towards the hotel, his boots echoing against the cobblestones. The guard sees him coming; he pales a little but stands firm at his post. 

“The Goth Grand Hotel has been reserved for the Fatui delegation alone,” he says, though he can’t quite look Diluc in the eye.

“My wife just went inside,” Diluc says, crossing his arms over his chest, knowing it emphasizes the breadth of his shoulders. “I’m meeting her.”

The guard wrinkles his brow. “No access for unauthorized persons!”

“She’s authorized?”

“That’s not information I can share.”

Diluc raises a brow. The guard flinches.

“My wife,” Diluc says, “is inside. I will be joining her.”

“You’re not authorized.”

“Do I look like I care? Take me to my wife. Now.”

“Sir—”

“I’m not asking.”

The guard wilts at Diluc’s authoritative tone, but he holds firm. Diluc would be impressed if he wasn’t so annoyed. His fingers itch for the weight of his claymore again; his Vision is warming against his thigh. He shifts, but before he gets far, your voice rings out in the square. 

“Luc.”

He goes still. Even as children, you’d never taken to calling him by a nickname; to hear it slip from your lips now makes something in him swell. He hadn’t thought—

“Yes, Miss?” the guard asks.

“It’s ma’am,” Diluc says, petty. “She’s married.” 

“I’m sorry about my husband,” you say, sliding out from between the heavy oak doors of the hotel to lay a hand on the Fatuus’ arm. “Diluc, stop tormenting Luke.”

That feeling in his chest deflates like a pierced Anemo slime. His brow knits into a thundercloud expression; the guard—Luke, apparently—flinches. 

“I wasn’t tormenting him,” he says drily, staring at where you’re still touching the other man. “If I was, everyone would know.”

Luke pales.

“Ignore him,” you say. “He’s just grumpy because I’m late.” 

Luke just nods, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. You sigh and turn to Diluc. 

“Shall we?” you ask, and Diluc finds himself raising his arm for you to take hold of without thinking. You slip your hand into the crook of his elbow; he thinks he can feel the heat of it even through his coat. 

You make it just a street over before Diluc can’t help himself.

“Are you often allowed into restricted areas?”

You blink, confused, and then your face clears. “Oh,” you say. “It was just because I was going to see Anatol. It wasn’t going to take long, especially since he met me in the lobby.”

“Still.”

You hum. “It’s because of child,” you say, as if that makes any sense.

“A child?”

The laugh that leaves you is bright; it echoes through the street, lingers shimmering in the air. “No,” you say. “Childe. The Harbinger. We’re quite friendly. It allows me small exceptions at times.” 

Diluc tamps down on his automatic reaction. This is not new information. If anything, he should be glad for it. But it stirs something in him that he’s afraid to name. He breathes out through his nose, a slow, steady flow of air that serves to put out the embers smoldering within him.

“I see.”

You glance at him; he can’t quite decipher your expression before you turn away.

The rest of the walk to Angel’s Share is spent in silence. 

—

The two of you do not spend long at Angel’s Share; Diluc speaks to Charles as you greet a table full of Knights of Favonius. Diluc watches as they stand to greet you, looking far too pleased to have your company. He huffs.

“Master Diluc?” Charles asks.

“It’s nothing,” he says, returning his attention to the bartender. “Please, continue.”

Charles nods and goes on to detail a few small issues that have come up since Diluc was last in the tavern. Diluc listens intently, but his gaze occasionally wanders to the knights’ table. 

You make a sight, sitting primly at one of the tavern’s rustic tables, your hair shining in the flickering lantern light, as if stars are scattered within it. You’re a queen holding court, your mouth a sweet curl. The knights’ cheeks are cherried by alcohol; they’re stumbling over themselves to tell you stories of their trips, their fights, their bravery. 

Diluc wonders if any of them could even take care of a few slimes.

You laugh, covering your mouth with one hand. Your wedding ring glints in the light, and something satisfied curls through Diluc’s chest. 

“Is there anything else?” he asks Charles.

“That’s all, Master Diluc.”

“Thank you, Charles. I’ll take tomorrow night’s shift as planned.”

Charles nods.

Diluc gives him a sharp nod in farewell before stalking over to your table. You glance up as he approaches, your mouth still curled into that rosebud smile. 

“Is it time to go?” you ask, pitching your voice just loud enough for him to hear you. You don’t wait for an answer, starting to push to your feet. Next to you, one of the knights starts to rise to his feet as well.

Diluc lengthens his stride. He reaches the table just as the knight starts to extend a hand to you; he offers you his hand before the knight can fully reach out. You blink as the knight freezes. He sinks back into his chair as Diluc extends his hand further, an obvious prompt. 

You laugh, though Diluc is not sure why. Still, it doesn’t matter, because you slip your hand into his and he closes his fingers around it, helping you from the table. He lets go as soon as you’re by his side. 

“Goodnight,” you say to the table. “Thank you for keeping me company.”

“Of course!” one of the younger knights says, grinning widely. “Though it’s a shame the captain missed you!”

You laugh again, eyes sparkling in the dim light. “Don’t fret,” you say easily. “I’ll see him soon enough.”

Diluc frowns. 

“Travel safe,” one of the other knights—Anselm, Diluc realizes, the one who had escorted you earlier—says. “May Barbatos protect you.” 

“Thank you,” you say, giving him a little smile.

Diluc clears his throat. “It grows late,” he says. “We need to be off.” 

“Of course,” you say. “Goodnight, sirs.” 

The knights chorus a series of goodbyes, somewhat clumsy with inebriation. You laugh again, but don’t linger, heading towards the tavern door; Diluc lengthens his stride once more and opens the door for you. 

Your lips curve sweetly, but you don’t say anything.

The walk to the stables is quiet. True night has fallen, a dark curtain lit only by the lantern of the full moon, casting its light in a perfect halo, blotting out the stars. It grows darker when a cloud crosses the moon, a ship cutting across the sea of the sky. 

Diluc, though, is used to it. He leads you to the stables carefully, keeping to the main roads in lieu of his darker paths, of the murky alleys that not even the moonlight pierces. He stays close by your side; sometimes he thinks you might even lean into the warmth of him. 

When the stables come into view, still lit by multiple lanterns and humming with life, stablehands settling the horses for the night, Diluc pauses. “Did you bring the carriage?” he asks.

You shake your head. “I didn’t want the fuss,” you say. “It seemed easier to just ride.”

He nods before guiding you into the stables. Your horse—Sunsettia, if he’s remembering correctly— is stabled next to Daybreak; he slips into her stall and starts to tack her up for you. He smoothes a hand over the mare’s flank before he tightens the saddle. Her tail flicks and he pets her again.

When he steps out of the stall, you’re nowhere to be found.

Then Daybreak nickers inside her stall. Diluc glances into it and blinks. She’s perfectly saddled, nudging against you in a quest for apples or some other treat. You meet his gaze over the stall’s edge. You smile, a crescent moon curve. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says.

You tilt your head. “Neither did you.” 

He huffs but inclines his head to you. Your smile softens, the edges of it smoothing into something sweeter. You slip out of Daybreak’s stall and take Sunsettia’s reins instead, leading the mare outside and calling out a quiet goodbye to the hovering stablehand.

Diluc leads Daybreak out of her own stall and presses his face into her flank for a breath, then he follows you.

It’s a long ride home.

—

“Master Diluc.”

“Yes, Adelinde?” he asks, not looking up from the document he’s reading. He flips to the next page, mouthing along with the numbers as he does, sketching them down on a scrap piece of a paper. 

She clears her throat. 

He pauses. He sets down the paper and glances up at her. She smoothes down her skirt and his brow furrows. Whatever she’s come to tell him, he won’t like it.

She meets his gaze steadily, her shrewd eyes gone to seaglass in the morning light. “Your wife is preparing to leave,” she says.

“I’ll be down in a moment.”

“She is insistent on not taking any personnel from the winery.” 

“She needs to take at least an attendant with her.”

“She has one, she says.”

“One of ours, Adelinde.”

“I understand,” she says. “She disagrees. Quite strongly.”

Diluc pushes to his feet. “I’ll convince her.”

Adelinde studies him for a moment, her green eyes flickering, all St. Elmo’s fire. “If I may, sir,” she says, “I’m not sure that you can.” 

He pauses. “That I can? Or that I should?”

Her eyes soften; her mouth curls into something tender, a still-healing bruise. 

“Both,” she says.

He sighs. “I’ll take it under consideration, Adelinde. Is there anything else?”

“That’s all.” 

Diluc inclines his head to her before he strides from the room. He makes his way to your room, but there are only servants in there, stripping down the bed and throwing open the bay windows to air it out. He moves on to the rest of the winery, but it’s not until he steps out into the warm glow of the mid-morning sun that he finally finds you.

You’re petting one of the winery’s ratters, stroking along its head and laughing when it tries to lick you. The dog is a beautiful one, sleek-bodied with short-cropped fur the color of burnished copper coins. It sees him coming and pulls away from you, trotting up to him instead and nudging its head against his gloved hand. Diluc obliges, skating his fingers behind the dog’s ears and scratching.

“Yours?” you ask, standing from your crouch. 

He shakes his head. “One of the workers’,” he says.

“I suppose I can’t take it with me, then.”

“No,” he says. “But you can take one of the attendants with you.”

You sigh. “I already told Adelinde that I have no need of another one.”

“It’s different now,” he says. “You’re a Ragnvindr.”

You raise a brow. “I assure you, my current attendant meets Ragnvindr standards, despite what you may think.”

“My staff is vetted.”

“So is mine.”

“It’s—”

“This isn’t up for debate, Diluc.”

He’s about to argue when a whistle rings out, long and low and fluting, and the dog’s ears perk up. It arrows off into the distance, pausing only to snap at a crystalfly that had fluttered a bit too low. The two of you watch it go.

When Diluc glances at you again, you’re already watching him. You’re unreadable, a new moon’s outline in the velvet sky, and he sets his jaw.

“Alright,” you say. “If I accept your attendant when I’m in Mondstadt, will that pacify you?”

He frowns. It doesn’t get him what he needs—one of his people in your office—but it’s a start. “I’d prefer that you take them with you to Liyue.” 

You study him for a moment. Your eyes are knife-sharp and slip beneath his skin, but Diluc is used to being sized up by worse opponents.

“Very well,” you say, sighing lightly. “I’ll take them with me to Liyue.”

He blinks, startled by the sudden capitulation, but he recovers quickly. “Thank you.”

You hum as he beckons to a nearby worker, sending them into the winery to alert the attendant he’d picked out. It takes a bit to sort everything out, but you’re ready for departure in a timely manner. Diluc approaches you at the carriage’s side and clears his throat.. 

“You are prepared?” he asks.

“I am.”

“Shall I?”

You nod and he hands you up into the carriage, where your new attendant is waiting. You settle into the seat gracefully before glancing at him once more.

“Thank you,” you say. “For your hospitality.”

He shakes his head. “It is your home too, now,” he reminds you. 

“Still.”

Silence descends, pulled taut like a harpstring. It’s broken by the driver’s arrival. 

“Safe travels,” Diluc says, a little bit stiff. “Send word when you arrive.” 

Something crosses your face, a lightning-strike expression. It’s too fast for him to parse. 

“I will,” you say. “Goodbye, Diluc.”

“Farewell,” he says as the driver closes the carriage door. Your eyes are the last thing  he sees, gleaming in the morning light. Then the driver is up on their post and clicking the horses into movement down the road. 

He watches until the carriage is out of sight. Then he turns around and heads back into the winery.

Somehow, it feels a little emptier inside.

[missisjoker]

Into the Storm

Pairing • Cregan Stark x Wildling!Reader

Tags • mentions of violence, threats of violence, smut.

Rating: Explicit - 18+

The reader infiltrates the Night's Watch castle with a purpose, but it doesn't go according to plan.

Wind-swept mound of the Eastwatch-by-the-sea creeped up on the horizon, dwarfed by the solemn colossal of the Wall stretching as far as the eye could see as you steadied the swaying boat and stepped on the shore.  The grey and green waters of the Bay of Seals were snarling at your feet, treacherous whirlpools dancing and sea foam licking the salty rocks, and the horizon darkened in anticipation of a storm.

You dragged the dingy boat between the boulders ashore, fastened the knot to a nearby tree, and huddled your leather coat tighter around your chest. The soft sheepskin protected well from the summer chill, but the cold winter gusts bit right through it and gnawed at your bones. You downed a sip of water and started climbing up; there was no time to waste idly, unless you wanted to freeze to death and have your eyes picked by seagulls.

Track to the crows’ nest took less than half a day – the dirt road was still dry, pine needles making your walk springy and fast, and you met no stray fishermen or men of the Night’s Watch patrolling the coastline.

Your heart ached- the plan was borderline suicidal, to sneak into the Crows castle and steal the maps of the Wall – but you had no choice; the merciless King-beyond-the-wall deserved to die, and your resolve to see it through settled in your bones like cold settles in the dead of winter.

You waited until dusk, hidden away from the prying eyes and piercing winds behind rotten logs and piles of stone at the castle’s foothill, watching centuries on the walls change and working out the pattern.

When the moon came up, full and pale like goat’s milk, you climbed up the wooden walls past the sleepy guards and hid yourself in the overhead crawlspace above the pathways. The space was narrow, musty and muddy, but you were called the Wild Cat for a reason.

Stealing food from the kitchens was fun no matter how meager and disappointing the bread and stew was; but even more entertaining was taking a hot bath in the cellar while you could’ve been discovered at any minute- and then gleefully watching two young crows fight about the missing hot water.

The outlay of Eastwatch was simple to remember- four watch towers marking each side, training yard and stables in the middle, the great keep with an armory adjacent to the dining hall, a kitchen, a medicinal room, and sleeping quarters squared around them in the form of a horseshoe, all connected by the timber walkways. And, most importantly, the study. A vaulted room in the southern tower, full of dust, books, scrolls, and maps of all kinds.  

It took you three more days of lurking in the shadows like a ghost to learn the shifts and movements, the change of guards, and to single out the “Maester” – a fat, bald man with a flock of greasy white hairs sticking out of his double chin that spent most of his time looking through books and drawing maps in the study. He, too, was easy to learn- after days of work and bossing younger crows around, when the sun set beyond the sea, he’d take a cup of spiced summer wine and a bowl of stew and leave the study empty until the morrow, giving you enough time to roam through the piles of scrolls in search of your target.

You perched in your hiding space, tasted the salty air on your lips, and shivered; the unmoving stillness that stayed in the air for the past few days dissipated; the harbinger of the storm left, and in its place, the winds were picking up again, relentless. The thin, dark line on the horizon was rolling closer, growing and covering half of the sky; even the daylight seemed to dim a little as a winter storm slowly crawled in from the sea.  

A sound of horses neighing and men talking in the yard tickled your ear and your curiosity peaked, but you couldn’t see around the dark logs of your hiding space, and decided not to crawl closer to look – the walls of the castle were wet, century-old pine logs weeping under the prickly wind, and with each dewy tear the movements became more and more unforgiving. Likely, it was nothing to worry about- perhaps they all were feeling the approaching storm and, just like you, were uneased by it.

Finally, the twilight followed the grey, muted dusk, and when the first torches lit up the courtyard, you went in for your target.

The heavy wooden door of the study didn’t have a lock, just a hook from the inside- and the bald master brazenly kept a stick right below the step to pry it open. You creeped into the room and squinted, trying to see in the dark.  By this time, you already knew the room well enough to move around without a light, you could still make out silhouettes and shapes in the dark once your eyes adjusted; an extinguished fireplace at the furthest wall, a heavy table and chairs in the middle, shelves covering the perimeter, and a sleeping bench near the window. Something felt different though, wrong, and made the hair on your neck stand up. It wasn’t just the sweet and mushroomy smell of the old parchments, spiced berry whiff of master’s summer wine, and smoke from the dead fire; no - you felt a faint hint of fir, rosemary, cedar, leather and something unfamiliar that made your heart beat faster. You reached out for a flint when a pile of furs on the bench shifted slightly, and a voice rough from sleep grumbled,

“What are you doing here?”

You froze for a brief second, blood rushing to your face and throat, then took a deep breath and conjured the most soothing and lulling voice you could master, a sweet lullaby tone you heard from women putting their babies to sleep;

“I’m but a dream, my dear, a shadow in the moonlight. Pay me no mind, precious child, lay your weary head to rest and sleep.”

Your feet tip-toed backward toward the door, heart hammering at your ribs, and for a moment, you heard no movement; you breathed out, thinking that your little trick worked, until your back hit something solid and the same voice, clear and fully awake now, growled right above your ear, sending goosebumps across your skin,

“Do you think me a dimwit?”

You yelped and tried to bolt- but your arm was caught in a vicious grip.

You pulled and twisted, tried to wriggle yourself free, but it did nothing; the grip only hardened, surely to leave bruises by the morrow- if you were to live that long - and the man started to pull you closer. So, you twirled on your heels and swung your free arm to slap him - he caught it effortlessly, cuffing your wrist with his hand, but released your other arm in the process- and you gleefully clocked him with it. The impact him stagger backward a step.

All that rowing did make my arms stronger,

You chuckled to yourself, but the humor was short-lived, as the man launched forward and grabbed you again, harder this time;

“Do not hit me again, boy, or I will break your arm.”

You did what you were told and bit him instead.

He cursed and released you again, more out of surprise than pain- but that gave you the needed moment of freedom to dash for the door.

You almost made it when strong arms snatched you by the by the scruff of your neck and hauled you back as if you were a ragdoll; the bastard was too fast and too strong and seemed to see perfectly in the dark, like an animal.

 In desperation, you reached for a knife and put the blade to the man’s throat.

“Unhand me at once.”

“Nay,”

The man grabbed the blade and twisted the knife out of your hand with ease, as if he was prying a toy out of a babe’s grasp, kicked your feet from under you, and threw you on the floor.

Your back hit the hardwood; you winced at the impact and a cracking sound your head made, and then choked out a whine as you were pinned down, the heavy weight crushing your thighs while an iron grip forced both of your arms above your head.

One hand.

That heathen was holding you down with one hand.

You felt anger and fear swirl together into acid, setting fires to your veins.

“What is this, a toothpick?”

His voice was laced with irritation as he examined your knife and ran a thumb along its dull rigged edge,

“An arse scratcher, perhaps?”

Fury rushed through you like boiling oil, as you thrashed and tried biting him again,

“Release me, and you’ll find out.”

You heard him chuckle as he shifted his legs and pinned you down harder,

“Settle down, you little waif.”

You allowed contempt to seep into your voice,

“I’m do not fear you.”

You could hear a grin on the man’s face as he spoke in a low, husky, taunting whisper laced with a touch of amusement,

“Now that is foolish”.

The knife thudded on the floor as the man threw it away like a broken toy and put his free hand on your throat, not enough to strip you of air, but enough to keep you fully under control.

“How many of you are there?”

“Just me.”

The fingers on your throat squeezed harder, pushing you deeper into the floor,  

“How many more?”

“It’s just me! Why do you need more? You can’t even handle one.”

A thumb pressed into your jugular vein, blocking the flow of blood and sending the sound of your own heartbeat echoing in your ears,

“I’m handling you well enough”.

Your fingers twitched with want to free your hand and scratch that arrogance off his face.

“How did you get in here?”

“I walked…”

The man’s hand suddenly left your throat and started roaming your body. You let out a hiss through gritted teeth,

“That desperate, are you, for a free folk to warm your bed? Your crow brothers don’t pleasure you enough?”

The man tsked disapprovingly and continued patting you down.

“I’m looking for weapons.”

His hand was big and warm, and you hated how it burned a trail of heat through the thin leathery coat and pants, barely suppressing a shiver when it slid down your chest right across your tit.  

It suddenly stopped on your waist.

“A woman?”

Realization barely a whisper from him, but it made the blood in your veins run cold, and you coiled, bracing for an assault that never came.

The weight suddenly shifted off your legs, still restraining, but not enough to hurt, and the man flickered something in his pocket and threw it into the fireplace.

You turned your head on instinct at the crackling sound of emerging fire and watched as the first licks of flame ate away the darkness until a strong hand forced your face straight.

You stared at your captor and, oh, the bastard was handsome.  Strong, sharp features framed by a mop of silky brown hair tumbling down broad shoulders that looked like they could shrug off a mountain, corded muscles, soft lips, and piercing eyes that changed color from blue to the stormy grey.

In another life, you would’ve fought other spear wives for a piece of him.

He grabbed your chin and tilted your head to the side, then to the other, observing;  his eyes traced over your body, you felt a traitorous blush creep up your cheeks, as if you were laid out naked under him, at his mercy and under his touch, and you hated yourself for the reaction. Your body was a wild thing, just like you- and it wanted to live, even if your mind has made peace with soon being dead.

“By the sea, then.”

“What?”

“You have salt marks on your boots. Did they run out of the men to send up here, so they risk a woman?”

“Busy with important things,”

His brows furrowed,

“Like what? Getting piss-drunk and fucking wild goats?”

Your eyes narrowed in frustration as you stared into his steel blue ones,

“As if you’re any better, fraternizing with the enemy in the middle of the night.”

“Aren’t fraternizing yet, lass, just getting acquainted.”

Your stomach did a weird jump at the way words rolled off his tongue, and you noticed a faint blush dusting his cheeks.  

“How did you get across the wall?”

“By flapping my arms.”

He braced himself on the free arm and bent closer to you,

“Why are you here? And do not jest; you’re at the end of my patience, a woman that you might be.”

“I need weapons.”

“How much can you fit into your coat?”

“It’s more spacious than it looks.”

He considered you for a moment while you tried not to move, and definitely not to think how the heat of his body was warming you up from head to toe. You must’ve hit your head too hard, because all you could think of was how good he felt on top of your thighs, and how much better he would’ve felt between them.

“Why not trade with the townsfolk?”

 “They don’t have enough castle-forged steel. And yours are better, sharper. They sing when they hit other steel. They sing when they hit the ice. What’s the secret? What do you put in them, crow?”

“Virgin blood. And I’m not a crow.”

“Must be hard to come by.”

He nodded in agreement,

“Aye, very toilsome. And what do you want them for?”

 “Winters are unforgiving. Bet you know nothing of how hard the winters can get up north.”

His mouth tightened, voice sounded controlled, which made it frightening for the lack of emotion in it.

“I know enough, and your hardships are of your own making.”

The fury bubbled in your chest again as you hissed back at him, craning your neck so your noses were almost touching,

“Yes, we were banished beyond the Wall by the Starks simply because we didn’t want to live on our knees.”

He threw you a dirty look,

 “Instead, now you live on your back.”

Blood rushed to your cheeks, and in a newly found bout of strength, you bucked your hips violently enough to throw him off on the floor. 

He landed with a surprised thud as you scrambled to your feet and rushed to the door, but he was faster, again, and stronger - always has been. He grabbed you by the waist and pushed you into the wall, brought you face to face, his arms and his body caging you in. 

You felt goosebumps of fear crawl over your skin as he snarled at you,

“You think you can just prance in here, take what you desire and leave with impunity? Perhaps I should give you to the guards; they will whip the right answers out of you.”

You braced on the wall as your knees almost gave up under you;

“Please don’t” – barely a whisper.  

His sneer was taunting,

“Afraid of a little pain?”

You suppressed a shiver and looked him straight into those cold eyes, battling back treacherous tears,

“Half of your crows are rapists and murderers, whatever they do to me, it won’t be whipping.”

He froze for a second, then his features darkened as he straightened up, a full head taller than you, muscles rolling under the shirt, dwarfing you by his presence. His voice dropped lower,

“I would never allow that”, and for a brief second, you believed him.

Which gave you a crazy idea.

A violent roar of thunder rattled the glass window, and that was enough for you to slip from his hands and dash away, but not to the door.

You sprinted to the table in the center of the room, grabbed a piece of stale bread from the plate the maester left behind, and started vigorously munching.

The man stopped in his tracks and stared at you with undiluted confusion, 

“What are you doing?”

You chewed faster, and then grabbed a cup and gulped it down in one go.

 This is not summer wine.

Your throat burned, your voice coming out as a rough hiss,

“What’s in there?”

“That’s my chamber pot.”

You choked while the bastard had the audacity to laugh.

“I invoke the guest right.”

Now it was his turn to choke.

“You what?”

The incredulity looked funny on him, almost endearing, the crease between his brows smoothed, leaving behind a pleasant, handsome face of a young man as he tilted his head and looked at you like you’ve just grown a pair of horns.

“You’re uninvited.”

“I invited myself. “

“This is not my house.”

“And yet you move around like you own it. So, will you honor it or not?”

He mused on it for a moment,

“Alright. But it goes both ways. You will answer every question I ask of you truthfully, yes?”

“Agreed.”

“And, don’t try to run again,” – his voice dropped lower yet again, sending a shiver through your spine,

“Because I will catch you.”

There was a hint of a threat in the tone, but also something else – amusement, perhaps, or even enjoyment, as the corners of his mouth trended upwards in a barely concealed smile.

An unexpected knock on the door.

You jerked at the sound and looked back at the man, fear flooding your chest again, as he looked at you for what felt a very long second, then made a decision and motioned you to come forth;

“Here, now!”

You moved closer and allowed him to grab you by the shoulders and gracefully move you around the room as if in a dance,

“Not a word.”

He maneuvered you behind the doorframe while holding your wrist, shielded you out of sight with his body as he talked to the man on the other side.

“M’lord, the preparations are done. Stables locked; food lockers secured. Orders?”

“Double the centuries, wake up the captain, and send a patrol through the castle, we might have uninvited visitors.”

“Yes, m’lord”.

As the heavy door screeched shut, you stared at each other.

“M’lord? I’ve never been with a Southern Lord before.”

“Southern?”

“We are south of the Wall, yes.”

A lord, here, at the wall? The Eastwatch… Must be… Lord Umber? What a strike of luck.  

His hand was still on your wrist, thumb rubbing a careful circle on your pulse. You felt your cheeks color again under his gaze, and heard yourself speak before you could stop your own mouth, fighting to keep yourself from purring;

“I heard all southern lords are wanton, have some… strange pleasures, quirks even. Are you one of those? Or the opposite, boring and unbending?”

He leaned in, hot breath tickling your ear,

“I’ll gladly bend my knees for the right woman.”

You steadied yourself with a hand on his waist and gods be damned if that small contact didn’t make heat coil between your legs.

“What is your name?”

“Cregan.”

He didn’t resist when you pushed him into the wall… and thrust a dagger you kept well hidden from his curious hands into the wood right next to his neck.

“Impressive”, he gritted out a little less composed as he pretended to be.

“You should’ve checked better, my lord. “

 Steel bled into your voice as your knife traced a scar on his cheek, then went lower, blade scraping his jaw and following the line of the vein on his neck, pricking the skin just enough to make a dent but not enough to draw blood.

He watched you with an unreadable expression, eyes dark and gleaming. He could easily snap you like a twig, he’s fast and strong enough to do that with ease. Yet he stood there unmoving, like a living statue, steady deep breaths making his chest rise and fall, something akin to hunger burning deep inside the stormy eyes of his, following your every move like a wolf watching his prey.

Excitement thrummed through your veins as you saw his carefully crafted façade crack, little by little.

“You’re threatening me again, guest.”

You traced your fingers over his cheek and jaw and his lips parted in a quiet sigh.

“I have much more to offer.”

He caught your free hand and pulled you even closer,

“You’re going to play a wench now, while you hold a blade to my throat?”

“And what if I’m not playing? Why are men allowed to want and have but gods forbid a woman does the same?”

“Because men can fuck and forget about it the next morning while you might die on a birthing bed.”

There was pain and sorrow in his voice even though his stoic face betrayed almost no emotion, and you wanted to reach out and cup his cheek again to give him comfort.

“Fear of death shouldn’t stop you from living.”

You pulled the knife away from his neck,

“Now, please allow me to explain, I have a lot to tell you.  Think you can do that with a free folk, Lord Umber?”

You flipped the blade in your hand and offer him the hilt as he arched an eyebrow at you. It was a huge gamble, it could easily end up carved into your heart, but…

He took the hilt and nodded.

 “I can do that, yes. What is your name?”

“Y/N, but everyone calls me Cat.”

“A little feral Cat? How very fitting.”

“I’m not little.”

He tilted his head to the side and moved into your space, making you angle your head to look up into his eyes as he almost dwarfed you.

“But you are.”

You flinched, and he moved back, motioning you to move,

“Sit down, say your piece.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, and moved to take a chair at the heavy oak table at the center of the room. Your heart was racing, trying to hammer its way out of your chest, and you had to take a breath to steady your voice. This Lord was a blessing sent by the gods, a strike of luck you never dreamed of getting, and you had to make it work no matter the cost.                

 You told him about your people and the new King-beyond-the-Wall Merzymir, the reason of your visit, and the target of your plan.  Merzymir was unhinged and violent man, cruel beyond measure who took pleasure in unrestrained and public brutality. You told Cregan About his sacrifices “to the Others” - gruesome and unforgivable, little suckling babies left in the carved-up mouths of the weirwood trees in the night, with nothing left of them by the morrow but some bones and a red paste. Whole families fed to rabid bears or left outside to freeze to death, doused in water. Men tied up to trees and ripped limb from limb for speaking up against him. About your own family and what he did to them, and how he made you watch. About his plan to find a tunnel under the Wall and cross South, spreading chaos and death wherever he went.  

Cregan remained silent, face betraying little emotion but his fierce eyes were now soft, with a certain gentleness to them, with a trace of sorrow hidden in the deep of the blue and grey. He was hard to read, this lord, so you pressed on with another argument to get him on your side.

“The King-beyond-the-wall has a farther reach than you think. He’s been negotiating with your own kin, and while you sit idly in your pretty castle and think you are safe, the war is coming to you.”

His brows furrowed as he leaned closer,

“I need names.”

“I don’t know the names, but when they met with him, spoke about flaying the Starks and making new coats out of them.”

You watched his lips twitch into a barely concealed snarl and his hands curl into fists; his lithe body twitching with barely restrained fury. 

Suddenly, your heart filled with dread,

“You’re not one of them, are you?”

“No, I’m the one they want to flay”.

You blinked.

Then you blinked again, and twice more, while the cogs in your brain turned faster and then screeched to a halt.

A Stark.

He is a Stark.

A fucking Stark.

He noticed your stare and chuckled,

“I never said I was an Umber.”

You finally closed your mouth,

“Right.”

“What do you want of me?”

“I need a map”.

“Of what?”

“The wall. The tunnels beneath it.”  

“That doesn’t tell me much.”

“I want to get him into a tunnel and kill him there. I want to watch him choke on his own blood, I want to watch his life go out in his eyes, and then I want to piss on his grave. Does that tell you enough? You should want the same, Stark, for he will get across one day, and on that day, your people will be in for rape and slaughter.”

“And you want me to believe you didn’t know I was coming here? That it was all a coincidence and not some wretched plan of yours?”

You let out a tired sigh,

“Some would call it fate. And no, you were not in any plans of mine, but I’m glad you were here.”

He looked at you with those eyes that changed color in the dim light of the fireplace, his fingers tapping on the blackened wood of the table, and you felt like you haven’t convinced him.

“You’re safe now; why risk going back?”

“I made a promise.”

“You promised the dead, they will forgive you for staying alive.”

 “He has my little sister.”

The silence thickened and draped around you like cold summer fog. He looked away for a long moment as the room fell quiet, silence broken only by cracking of the fireplace and your own heartbeat.

Finally,

“So, you were going to steal the map, and get him to cross the Wall, and then what? How would you escape?”

“I didn’t plan that far.”

He stilled.

“Your plan is shite. You’ll get yourself killed before you even reach him, and your sister won’t be any better off for it.”

“I’m not you, m’lord, I can only risk my own life to do justice. Don’t have an army to do my bidding for me.”

“You do now.”

“What?”

“I won’t allow a savage to cross the Wall, nor would I fight on two fronts. You will have your map.”

He got up and dug a map from a pile of scrolls, rolling it out in front of you, and motioned you to come closer. 

“Here’s a tunnel we can lure Merzemir in. There is another tunnel ten miles to the west, but it is well-protected by the Umbers, stay away from there. I will not give you the others. But this one, this will be perfect. It is far enough from the manned castles to be watched properly, and it is not collapsed in, yet.” 

He guided your hand to a small dot on the parchment, and you burned under his touch. His hands were big, rough and calloused but warm and surprisingly gentle, and you wondered how they would feel like caressing your breasts, and thighs and what’s between them.

By the gods, I want to survive, I want to live.

You swallowed a lump in your throat and watched instead how his hair fell off his shoulders and blocked half of his handsome face. You barely restrained yourself from moving the hair out of the way,

 “You should braid that.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Pay attention.”

“So, this is where I kill him?”

“This is where you lead him.”

You threw him a confused glance as he started explaining.

 Cregan’s plan was so simple and yet so clever, and you didn’t know whether to laugh or cry- you shouldn’t have expected anything less; Starks didn’t hold the North for over 8 thousand years because it was given to them, but because they could keep it. You thought when you first saw his face that he was green as the summer grass and never seen the war- but now you knew there wasn’t a mere boy in front of you, but a ruthless and seasoned warrior, and it filled you with dangerous hope.

He sat beside you, the wooden bench creaking under his weight, explaining the plan further. You couldn’t help but steal glances, saving his face, his voice to your memory. The room was cold yet you feel burning, as if he were a furnace, enveloping the space around you into a warm embrace. It was almost suffocating, but you couldn’t get enough, you wanted to roll yourself in it, rub it into your skin until it seeped through your pores and became a part of you.

Was it because he was so easy on the eyes and his rough hands handled you with ease, making you feel alive? Or was it because he just threw you a lifeline and gave you hope that you could actually win?

Perhaps, both.

He broke you out of your daze by reaching behind him and putting a hunting knife next to your hand.

“What is this?”

“Your weapons are shite, but this is castle-forged steel. Take this with you to the Wall to protect yourself. Or, give it to your sister. You said she’s too soft for the wild space, too kind? Then send her to Winterfell with it so my men know who she is, and she will be safe there.”

The emotional turmoil in you picked up, promising to swallow you whole, and you barely bit back the tears.

“You would have her?”

“I would have both of you.”

He reached out and grabbed your chin between his thumb and index finger, and stared through your eyes down into your very soul.

“You’re a little feral Cat, are you not? Then use one of your nine lives and bring it back to me.”

The true meaning, the weight of it all, made you close your eyes to stop your head from spinning, and you can feel his thumb gently caress your jaw and trace along your lower lip.

You shifted back, and take a full breath of air, without looking at him,

“I will do my best, I promise.”

The moment was broken, Cregan lowered his hand and moved back, giving you space, as your body cried at the sudden lack of warmth. Hope was addicting. He was addicting, this Lord Stark.

“I will get going now,”

“The storm ‘s not over.”

A roll of thunder shuddered against the castle walls as if to give the truth to Cregan’s words, but you persisted;

“I’ve already overstayed my welcome,”

“Is everything going to be a battle with you, lass? You’d know by now I will not hurt you, so what are you afraid of?”

That if I stay much longer, I might not leave at all.

He considered you for a moment, then sighed in surrender,

 “Fine, here.”

A black wool coat wrapped around your shoulders as you threw Cregan a confused glance.

“It’s one of the watchmen’s, cover yourself and walk fast. I’ll lead you out.”

***

The mother of all bad ideas slammed into your face with the first gust of wind; the storm outside was raging, painting the whole world around you dark grey. The torches were all blown out and the rain slashed at the walls relentless. You hid behind Cregan’s back as he shielded you with his body, and followed him through the passage way.

You didn’t get far when the beams above you cracked and moaned and buckled under the weight of the storm, and crashed down onto you.

You threw yourself forward, pushing Cregan out of the way and down the stairs; you both tumbled and landed hard on the lower platform.

“Y/N!”

“I’m alright,”

And you were, except for your right foot that was now screaming in pain. You tried to move, but every time you put even a little of weight on it, a scorching bolt of pain shot through, making you hiss. Wind didn’t help either; you were swaying on your feet like a young silver birch, failing to find your balance.

“We’re going back.”

“I’m fine, just go, I’ll find my own…”

He hauled you up into his arms as if you weighted nothing, holding you so tight you couldn’t wiggle your way out of his grasp even if you wanted to,

“I wasn’t asking.”

His commanding tone left no room for arguing, so you kept silent and wrapped your arms around his neck instead.

He placed you carefully onto the bench and discarded both of your coats. You wheezed  in pain as he took off the boot and examined your ankle, kneeling in front of you and placing your bare foot on top of his thigh. You leaned backwards, allowing him to work his hands over the sensitive skin, kneading the muscles and soothing away the soreness.

“It’s just a strain, but you shouldn’t walk at least until tomorrow.”

Then he noticed a bruise from the rope sneaking and coiling around your calve, old and faded, already turning green and yellow, and traced it with his fingers up to your knee.

“He did this to you?”

“It’s almost healed.”

“He will pay for it.”

The silence thickened while his hands were firm on your thighs, your skin burning through the clothes under his touch. He hesitated,

“Do you…”

Your hand cupped his cheek and caressed his face, making him look up at you, and smiled,

“Do you want to take me up on my other offer?”

“And if I do?”

Your eyes flickered to his mouth and you felt like a desperate, starving woman, the need to touch and to taste crawling under your skin and curling in your chest; his hands rested on your waist now, caging you in, and you wanted to be caged, to be taken and devoured, you wanted him to place you underneath him and do whatever he desired, without mercy. And when your eyes met his, you saw your desperation mirrored in them; you were both starving animals that wanted to feast, so you finally snapped.

The first kiss was angry, but almost chaste; just pressing your lips into his, melting into the warmth. You let out a sigh and ran your fingers along the side of Cregan’s face.  That was enough to get him to move, to grab the side of you neck and maneuver you to deepen the kiss. His mouth ravaged yours, tasted your lips, your tongue, placed a careful nib on your lower lip, traced your jaw and the side of your neck. You felt ablaze, alive, by the gods, you were trying to survive so hard and so long you forgot how to live. You wrapped your arms around him, curling your fingers into his hair to keep you steady, and tilted your head, letting him kiss the other side of your neck down to your shoulder.

You gasped in protest when he suddenly pulled away and drew a steadying breath, avoiding your gaze.

His body vibrated with barely controlled restrain as he finally looked up at you,

“If you want me to stop, say it now.”

You grabbed a fistful of his shirt and leaned back onto the bench, wrapping your legs around his waist and tugging him on top of you, looking into his eyes with pupils blown with lust you were so eager to satiate,

“Don’t you dare.”

That’s all it took to break the last of his resolve. Cregan pressed his mouth into yours, much rougher than before, licking and biting moans out of you, your mouths molding into the shape of each other.  You sighed and arched into his touch, pride swelling in your chest for you just did the unthinkable- you set the stoic, composed Lord of Winterfell free from his lordly chains.

You didn’t have to be quiet, thank the Old gods, the storm outside drowning your moans from unwanted ears, so you let it pour out. Cregan’s hold on your waist tightened as he kissed you harder and nipped on your bottom lip, then pushed your legs open wider with his knee, rocking between your thigs with his arousal, creating perfect friction and stealing another moan out of you.

His nimble fingers made a quick work of your coat and shirt, and then your pants, and you were splayed bare, blushing as he ran his hands over your sides and looked over your body with something akin to reverence, taking it all in.

You grabbed onto his shirt and tugged,

“Take it off”.

He complied immediately, pulling the shirt off in one swoop and lowering himself back into another deep kiss, his chest rumbling with an approving groan as you whined into his mouth at the contact.

He’s burning hot, and your body curled into the heat and melted under it, nipples perking up at the friction of skin on skin as you ran your nails down his back.

He wrapped his hand around your throat and tilted your head, giving himself full access to your neck, kissing all of it, hot breath tickling your ear and lips sucking at your pulse. He pecked on the sensitive skin in the crook of your neck, making you whine and buck your hips, and went lower, cupping your breast as he slowly kissed his way down to the other one.

You wriggled underneath him, wetness pooling between your things and your cunt clenching at the emptiness so desperately it was borderline painful.

“Just fuck me already, what…”

Cregan ran his tongue over your nipple cut your protest short; sucked on the little bud, and wrapped his lips around it, making you whimper louder underneath him.

“Patience, my little cat, we have time.”

 His kissed a trail lower, to your belly, to the dips of your hips, to the sensitive skin of your inner thighs.  You shuddered as his fingers finally reached your folds, inquisitive, sliding through the damp heat as he cursed,

“Fuck, you’re dripping wet,”

“Damn, Stark, I’m not one of your blushing virgin maidens, I don’t need you to… “

His tongue lapped at your folds and you let out an obscene moan, hips involuntarily jerking up but he pushed them down and kept them in place as he licked and prodded and nibbled, circling your pearl in a teasing repetition, sending shock through your spine, making your back arch and hands desperately grab the furs.

You slapped your hand over your mouth to keep you from moaning louder as the pleasure crested and your body tingled in anticipation. Suddenly, he reared back, watching you whine and struggle at the loss of friction from between your thighs.

“Why’d you stop?”

You protested in an outraged whine, but he just smirked, lifted himself up and entered you in one move, the burn of the stretch and the sudden fullness making your mouth fall open and you letting out a string of curses. You buckled your hips against him like you couldn’t stop yourself, grinding and pushing yourself split open on his cock as he stilled your waist with a heavy hand and simply watched your desperate thrashes. The friction was enough to send you over the top, and you clenched violently around him, your thighs struggling to close around his waist while your heels kicked on the furs, riding your orgasm. As you came down, he rubbed your belly and kneaded your meaty thighs and buttocks.

’t was to your liking then?”

“you bastard!”

He was smiling, and it was the most beautiful thing you’ve seen in a long time.

He ran his hands over your body, thumbs playing with your nipples, caressing your waist, rubbing your thighs as you slowly adjusted to his girth inside you;  he was big, almost too big, but your cunt sang being filled up to the point of bursting.

He whispered, “spread ‘ll more for me, love” and you immediately spread your legs wider, allowing him to sink deeper in you. He moaned quietly, sheathing himself fully in your body, and it’s the sweetest sound you’ve ever heard.

His hands grabbed your waist and lift your butt up to rest your thighs on his. He picked up an achingly slow pace, savoring every moment, making you feel every inch of his cock sliding in and out of you, sweet torture with each claiming roll of his hips. You tried to mirror his movements, arching your back and pressing into him, as he let out a soft appreciative laugh,

 “Such an eager thing,”

 He picked up his speed, sinking himself into you with fast, powerful thrusts, reducing you to a moaning, whimpering, withering wench fully under his control.  You dragged your nails over his bare chest, his arms, his back, as the sound of wet skin slapping skin filled the room. The sensation was maddening, but you couldn’t get enough of it, of him, of being filled up and being alive.  

Cregan dipped his body onto yours and caged you between his arms, kissing your mouth, your jaw, your neck as he continued  to thrust inside of you, until the pleasure coiled and burst and your vision whited out. You felt his hips stutter, losing the rhythm, shortly after, as he chased his own pleasure, cursing and moaning your name into your ear.

He dragged his nose along the line of your neck, inhaling deeply, voice rough and raw,

“You’re here to steal my sanity, aren’t you?”

You ran your hand on the side of his face, looking into his eyes,

“Would it be such a bad thing?”

He looked at you almost in awe, the sheen of sweat glistening on his brow, and then pressed his forehead to yours,

“No, it would not.”

You curled closer to him, soaking his warmth and feeling his heartbeat echo under your skin, as he caressed your face and your jaw,

“You have to stay alive, y/n.”

The softness of his voice clawed at your heart and made it bleed,

“Cregan, I…”

Your eyes met his, full of understanding and resolve, as he whispered against your lips,

“I know.”

He said nothing else for a while, just tracing his fingers along the lines of your body, rubbing his thumb over a spot where he sucked on your skin just before.

“Admiring your work?”

Your tone was teasing, but he replied in absolute seriousness,

“And what if I am?”

That prickled you and your brow arched at his shamelessness, as you pushed him down and crawled on top of him,

“You know, two can play this game.”

His hands instinctively grabbed your waist while you wasted no time and started kissing his mouth, his jaw, down to his neck, and then sucked a hickey onto it.

A deep sigh he let out encouraged you to continue,

“You shouldn’t”.

“What? You don’t like it?”

You felt him writhe under you and knead your ass as you peppered his body with kisses and small nibbles in revenge,

”Kitten, stop.”

You persisted, kissing and sucking as his hands roamed your body, and then found the tender skin in the crook of his neck, and bit down, not enough to draw blood but hard enough to leave a mark by the morrow,

“Fuck!”

Cregan suddenly surged up, lifting your hips and lowering you on his hard cock, drawing a maddening moan from both of you,

“Oh, so you do like it”.

 “I do.”

His voice was rough as he started fucking you face-to-face, at a frantic pace, almost desperately, hands gripping your waist as he moved you back and forth on his cock.  You mirrored his movements, griding down on his hips, grabbing a fistful of his hair, cupping his face to kiss.  He fucked you like he owned you, or like you were out of time- and he was right at both.  You threw your hands around his neck and brought the two of you even closer, bracing on his arm and pulling his head down to your shoulder, letting his soft moans fill your ears as his hardness mercilessly filled your cunt.

“You are as feral as I am,” you whispered, realization hitting you hard and his hot breath tickled your ear,

“You’re right in that”.

The admission was open and vulnerable, and you forced yourself to look into Cregan’s eyes, at his face, beautiful and disheveled, and thought for a second that maybe he was as much gone for you as you were for him, even if only for just one night.

Cregan lifted you up once more and lowered you on your back, pushing your legs to your chest, allowing him deepest access. Your toes curled as he fucked you senseless, each stroke getting harder and faster, and you came with his name as a prayer on your lips.

When his movements became erratic once more, you wrapped your legs around his waist and pushed him deeper into you, grabbing him by his hair,

“Spill in me, Cregan, I want ALL of you. Make me yours.”

He groaned at the sound of it and closed his hand around your neck as he slowed down his hips and savored every thrust, filling you with his hot seed and sending you over the edge, again.  

You’ve never been on such a high before, body floating, mind whiting out in euphoria like an open field shining in the sun under the first cover of snow. Cregan draped over you, keeping you caged in and warm, and you curled into him, soaking it all in, taking his warmth, his smell, his voice to memory for future cold-biting nights, catching them in your mind like you’d catch fireflies to keep you company in the dark.

You knew by then, that whatever the future held for you, he ruined you for any other man. It would never be enough; nobody would ever be enough - and you made your peace with that.

As you both drifted to sleep in each other’s arms, your fingers found their way into his hair.

“’t are you doin’”

“Braiding your hair.”

“Hmm… I’ll allow that.”

You barely stopped a laugh as he nuzzled into your neck and let your fingers do their job.

***

You left at dawn, while he was still asleep, taking a moment to look over his peaceful sleeping frame and take his handsome face to your memory, placing a soft kiss on his brow.

The storm had lifted up, but the gusts of wind swept through the air, making you stumble.

You hid in the forest for a while, waiting for the last whirls of the storm to dissipate and yearning for… what?

Him.

You finally saw him ride out the castle with a small group of men, with your braid still in his hair. It made your throat itch and eyes sting, but then you took a deep breath and straightened up.

You were the Cat of the North. You were going to do what you planned, you would survive it, and then you would make your way to Winterfell.

[grogusmum]

A Dark and Stormy Night (oneshot)

werewolf!FRANKIE MORALES X F!READER

W/C: 3500ish

RATED: E (18+)

WARNINGS: well, monsterfucking, oral sex (f recieving), rough sex, unprotected PiV sex (it's a fantasy y'all you know what to do!!). As always, if you see something, say something. Message me in my DMs, I'm happy to add something I missed.

SUMMARY: You stumble into a lighthouse to get out of a storm, and meet the handsome light-keeper, who has a secret, but is irresistible.

A/N: Oberyn and the Merling was technically my first foray into monsterfucking, but that was like teenagers humping in the back of a car...this is, well, it's as no holds barred as I've ever gotten. I hope it doesn't suck, lol. Anyway wish me luck! 💚

This was posted as a multipart fic, but when I finished the second part it made more sense to be all one piece. I may write more for these two, but as it stands, it is a oneshot.

You follow a boardwalk that becomes a path as the clouds roll in, obscuring the moon. You know you need to find cover before the storm.

Focusing on the shifting sand under your feet, as the rain begins, you speed up. The skies continue to darken; soon, you reach the first rocks of the jetty while the rain comes down in sheets. Looking up, you find yourself at the base of an old lighthouse. The lens swings across the black water as it lights up the dark and stormy night for those lost at sea.

Beach rose thorns tear at your sweater as you race up the slope. Beyond, scrub pines and pin oak trees create a small amount of cover; the wind picks up, but not before you hear the baying of a wolf… no, not a wolf. A coyote, there are no wolves in these parts. But there's something different about the howl; you speed up and bang on the door of the great beacon.

"Hello?" You shout, "please! Is anyone there?"

As if in answer, another howl rings out, making you jump. After a crash of lightning for good measure, you try the latch and push the door open, willing to disregard good manners. Looking for a switch or a lamp, you find only a candle in a heavy brass holder on a small shelf and a black matchbox holder attached to the curved wall. 

Running the wooden match across the strike pad, it sputters to life, and you light the candle. Slipping your finger into the brass ring of the candle holder and carrying it before you, the Gothic horror mood of the whole situation is not lost on you. With a sigh and a shiver, you wind up the spiral stairs.

"Hell-lo? I don't mean to intrude, but…" you call again and then with a chuckle in an undertone, "Our car broke down a few miles up the road. Do you have a phone we might use?"

Shivering in your soaked clothes, you reach the first level, which contains the living quarters. You can't help but rush to the woodstove, which warms the round room.

You hear a creak below as you take off your shoes and socks. Did you forget to latch the door entirely? Biting your lip in worry, you continue to listen; bracing yourself, you pull a poker from the coal scuttle.

You wait and wait. Time spins out—the only measure is your heart’s tattoo, like a rabbit's. As the adrenaline clears your system, you become exhausted. Swaying where you stand, the iron poker clangs on the pine floor, bringing you back. Deciding it must just be “old house sounds,” you move to the bed and sit, and without so much as a yawn of warning, your eyes slip closed.

In the middle of the night, you feel a weight on your chest, soft and warm. Your eyes flutter open, and blocking the light coming from the woodstove is an enormous shape pressing on you; as your eyes focus, it huffs a breath, and you recognize it as a sleeping dog sound. It's huge, with pointed ears. How did you not see or hear it when you came in? Whether a watchdog or not, wouldn’t it have come to investigate? The trunk of the animal is on you, its muzzle at your collarbone, a front leg on either side of you, fully caging you in. Your hand comes up, fingers sinking into its plush fur, like a wolf’s… you shake your head, not a wolf, of course, but those dogs that look like them. Its steady heartbeat and relaxed breathing lull you back to sleep; elk-hound, that's what the one, you think, as you drift under again.

Waking again at full light, you find yourself tucked into a patchwork quilt, your shoes placed under the stove, warm and dry, no dog to be seen. The smell of eggs and bacon draws you up the stairs, halfway up you can hear the food sizzling on the stove. You feel this need to check yourself over, but you seem fine. You fell asleep on the bed of a stranger, who is apparently back- you shake your head at how unbelievably dangerous that was. Then you remember the dangers outside… it's a calculated, if hastily figured, risk.

His back to you, in front of the stove, you presume, is the light-keeper, a cable knit sweater stretched across his broad shoulders. 

"He-hello?"

He turns, soft brown eyes, brown curls standing up as though he’d run his fingers through them just a moment ago, a sharp nose that suits him, with crease of his bottom lip that accentuates his mouth’s natural pout. Not that you had any real expectations on what a lighthouse operator looks like but... maybe like some old-salt sailor type with a beard and pipe. Silly, of course. You remind yourself that you are not a cod fish and close your mouth.

"Morning," came his rich baritone voice.

"I'm so sorry, I- I - the storm-” you stumble as you try to pull yourself together.

"Don't worry about that. I hope you slept alright. "

"I did, thank you, but  I- should get going." You start putting on your shoes, “ I really didn't mean to fall asleep, " ...on your bed.

“'S not problem, really; that was one hell of a storm last night.”

“I should go-”

Well,” he says, bringing breakfast to a simple pine table, “that's the tricky part…” 

“W-why?”

“The roads are impassable and there's more rain on the way.”

“Oh.”

“Nothing to be done about it right now,” he says, “have something to eat.”

You begin to eat, and after a bite or two, you introduce yourself.

“Where are my manners- I’m Frankie. Spending too much time on my own, I guess.”

“Are you kidding, I burst into your house like Goldilocks! Found sleeping in your bed.”

“And was it just right, Goldie?” He smirks.

You fluster a little; he is very handsome after all, and broad and was that flirting… 

“Better to be Goldilocks than Red Riding Hood, I suppose.” He says you get the feeling it wasn’t meant to be out loud. “I guess that depends on who the huntsman turns out to be…” 

He notices your eyes widen and smiles apologetically, brushing his comment aside. “Sorry, like I said, spend a lot of time on my own.”

"S-speaking of Red Riding Hood, where’s your dog? It came and slept with me last night.”

“Hmmm?" Frankie murmurs as he sets the table, "Oh, he’s- around.”

“Well, he kept me very cozy last night. What a cuddle bug; what’s his name?”

“His, um - it’s Cisco. You better dig into those eggs; they're gonna get cold.”

“Right,” you take up a fork of scrambled egg, “I will be able to leave today, though, right?”

“We’ll have to see,” is all he says before digging into his breakfast.

Frankie goes about his light-keeper duties, including hunting for his lost skiff. You aren't sure what to do with your time-

“Is there something I can do to help? I kind of feel weird just sitting around-”

“Well, the weather isn't going to let us do much outside safely, but-”

Frankie pulls off his ball cap, ruffles his hair, and plops it back on his head, thinking, “I mean, you could help clean the lantern glass …”

“Really?” You stand, excited to do a real lighthouse job. 

“Sure, hard to mess up… no offense, and safe.” 

You take no offense; on the contrary, you clap happily to yourself, to which Frankie chuckles.

After showing you the supplies and giving you a quick demonstration, he starts down the stairs to continue with his other duties and then stops and turns-

"Thanks, Goldie," he winks and then descends the stairs.

After a time, you see him out on the rocks despite the wind starting up again from the east. He must be looking for his rowboat. You decide to scout the circumference of the lantern room, looking out the windows to see if you can see the craft. 

To the northwest, you see something red against the rocks. It doesn't look good.

You step out onto the gallery. Luckily, this isn't a particularly tall lighthouse, but it's tall enough, and the iron balcony was small enough that you feel a touch of vertigo looking down. It doesn't help that the wind's really kicking up now, reminding you that this is just a break in the storm. Closing your eyes, you take a deep breath and open them.

"Uh, Frankie!" 

Frankie looks up, hand going to the bill of his cap.

"Is that your skiff?" You point to the red “something” half in the water. 

He hollers his thanks and jogs over to where you are indicating, and you can see his frustrated huff as his hands hitch onto his hips in a disgruntled fashion.

Cleaning all that glass takes time, and your shoulders can feel the real work of it. You stop only when your stomach screams for lunch, and you find a sandwich under plastic wrap for you, but you haven’t seen Frankie, Lighthouse Keeper, the rest of your time working on it, nor Cisco, the Lighthouse Dog. 

He had brought the boat to a shed and disappeared inside it. When and if he came out, you didn't notice. You also realize you haven’t seen any signs of a pet anywhere; no bed or bowls. When you come down the spiral steps, you smell of the concoction used for cleaning the glass and lens; watered-down isopropyl alcohol and Woolight - but mostly the alcohol. 

“You'll want to wash your hands with this,” Frankie hands you a bar of soap at the first landing of the spiral stair. “It'll take care of the rubbing alcohol smell and keep your hands from drying out.” 

Frankie gives a crooked smile of apology at your startled jump. Murmuring your thanks, you take it and smell the bar that looks so small when in his hand. Fresh. Your mind wanders to how this fresh scent might mingle with Frankie's natural one. The bubble of revery is just a millisecond and pops like one the moment your eyes land on Frankie, who looks like he knows exactly what you're thinking.

When you join him in the kitchen, where he is again standing over the stove, the delicious scent of savory soup reminds you of coming home after a long chilly walk from school. The wind is howling now, and you can hear the crash of the waves, as high tide approaches, the pound of them like rumbling thunder. Its only rival is the whip crack of the actual thunder chasing the lighting strikes illuminating the windows. 

“Where’s Cisco?”

“Weather like this he likes to be below,” Frankie says after a beat, back still turned, “I have him set up with his bed down there so he doesn’t get anxious.”

“Oh,” you feel a little more at ease about not seeing neither hide nor hair of the beast of a dog all day.

“It'll be dark early due to the storm, and I’ll have duties up above. I’m going to ask you to stay in the living quarters. I’ll sleep up there, so, um, just - make yourself at home.”  

You do your best, but your mind is on Frankie in a way that makes what you would be doing at home, not at all appropriate, even when told to make yourself at home.  His dark eyes, big hands... him calling you Goldie. How many times your mind has gone back to him asking you if his bed was just right, you dare not admit, even to yourself. You don't know him, you remind yourself.

Suddenly, there's a bang and scuffle. Then you hear a yowl.

“Cisco?” You go to the door, preparing to go down to where you assume he's been set up, but a second sound confirms it's coming from above, not below… where Frankie is.                   

You turn and look up the spiral stairs. “F-Frankie?”

Your foot hesitantly lands on the first step -

“D-did Cisco follow you? 

More shuffling and a loud thunk on the floor bring you up short. Frankie asked you to stay below, but maybe he hurt himself, or Cisco made his way up there and was scared of the storm. Your feet start moving again up the winding steps. 

You pause, your head just above the landing, eyes adjusting to the strange light of the lantern room. Instead of finding a dog, on the floor is a pile of clothes, folded neatly, with Frankie's cap placed atop it. As you look up, you see Frankie from behind, sitting in the one chair the room affords. His skin gleams with a layer of sweat, and he gives a sudden quake.

“Frankie! A-are you alright? I heard-”

His head whips around and then down as you are still only partway up the stairs. 

“I told you to sta—” the lightning flashes, and you see Frankie's eyes have changed. They are no longer warm, sweet brown but glowing amber. 

“Wh- you- you're-” Everything in you screams to run as far away as possible, but when Frankie contorts in a new wave of pain, you scramble up the stairs. He almost wails in despair as you approach the chair. “Frankie, what is happening? How can I - hel -”

“ C-can’t, go G-gold-ie, please!” 

“I don’t understand, Frankie. What’s happening?” 

The light-keeper takes a steadying breath as if fighting every molecule of his changing form, Though he knows it’s too late. Too late to shield you. 

“C-come here,” he breathes.

Lighting flashes again, the boom of thunder right on top of it. When your eyes adjust yet again, you go around the chair to face him. Frankie takes your hand; long claw-like nails have sprouted, and you have cottoned on. Frankie is - 

While he has a firm grip, he causes no pain. Your brows knot as he pushes up your sleeve. 

“I will remember,” he says, as much for himself as for you. Then he presses his nose to your wrist, inhaling deeply, and his eyes flick up to yours. The storm rages, the lens does its steady turn, and Frankie continues to smell you. He stands, eyes never breaking contact, his bare skin glistening in the light.

 You had tried not to look down at his body. But he's so close, and when he stands, your resolve breaks. Frankie is strong and somehow more broad across the shoulders than when in the confines of his fisherman’s sweater but has a trim waist. His Adonis belt is so enticing, as is his soft belly. Below that, his uncut cock has an enticing curve. Your eyes travel back up. You find his waiting for yours; he lifts his head away from your wrist and pulls; you stumble a step closer, and his face burrows into your neck. He breathes in your scent.

“Didn't harm you last night, I won't… I’ll remember, promise. You smell so good, Goldie.”

The warmth you feel low in your pelvis is combined with a shiver as you clench on nothing.

“S-so, you-your…” you stammer as his clawed hands wrap around your waist; he tastes your collarbone, licking a long stripe as he finds his way below your ear. Your knees buckle, but Frankie has a firm grip on you. “Cisco?”

“ ‘m ssorry,” he slurs, his nose nestled where your ear and jaw meet. “You taste as good as you smell, Goldie… I wonder-” 

What Frankie is wondering is interrupted by a long canine whine as he pulls back, face contorted in pain as his teeth elongate into fangs.

The blood has surely left your face, and you're shocked as you become aware that it has rushed to lower regions. You can feel the wetness between your legs, and  Frankie, closing his eyes, breathes in how your scent has changed. 

The sinful look he gives sends more heat between your thighs; you know you're soaked by now. You can still see the handsome light-keep though his eyes glow, his ears are now pointed, and his hair is shaggy. A hungry tongue moves over sharp teeth. Teeth made for tearing your throat out.

The next thunderclap shakes the lighthouse, and it's only then that he breaks his grip on you. He cries out as his body continues to transform. It snaps you out of your trance. You run down the iron stairs, passing the kitchen, down to the living quarters, and you're brought up short by a full wolf bay sounding from above. 

“What am I doing? What am I doing!?” you look up the stairs, and almost against your will, you look through the doorway to the bed—the bed where Frankie had lain atop you as the wolf. Then your eyes drift upward again, biting your thumb in indecision. Or perhaps fear at the decision you're apparently making. You slowly undress, leaving the door open; you spread out on the soft bed and wait to see what happens.

How much time before you hear the click of canine claws on the treads of each step, you aren't sure. You only know the twist of arousal you feel arches your back, and Frankie hasn't even touched you. Are you afraid? Not as much as you think you should be. It's there; this danger lights up your brain and sends adrenaline coursing through you. But he didn't hurt you last night, and he said- he-

The wolf growls around the door; he is not on all fours but hunched, one front paw occasionally touching the floor. 

“F-f-” you stammer as his front paws press heavily on the bed. He is enormous, and he hulks over you. His snout investigates every crease and crevice. You close your eyes as he noses at your mound. “-fuck.”

The wolf's tongue dips between your legs, and you gasp as your legs open like an involuntary response, and Frankie seems to seize the opportunity to open you further, pawing at your thighs, opening them, holding them where he wants them. Claws press on your sensitive skin as he laps at you.

“Frankie!” Your fingers dig into the thick, soft fur as the twist in your womb tightens and you pulse. 

How much of the man is still present, you have no idea. You are, of course, banking on it, and you figure praying to every deity that he is there, keeping the beast from tearing you to shreds, can't hurt. 

You can feel the rumble from deep in Frankie's throat, and when his long tongue breaches your pussy, he is immediately rewarded with a gush as lights pop behind your eyelids and the coil in your belly snaps.

You cry out, and he drinks sloppily at your entrance. He doesn't stop until you start to come down from your high, your chest’s rise and fall finally slowing.

Then the beast towers over you, his cock weeping. In one swift move of inhuman strength, he's suddenly flipped you onto your stomach. His large paws holding your hips, he brings your backside up, and in one fast motion, he's sheathed himself to the hilt. 

As ready as his tongue had made you, you still are stretched beyond anything you've ever experienced. He is deep inside, and his snout nuzzles into the juncture of your neck and shoulder, making you feel utterly consumed by him. His brutal pace lifts your knees off the bed when he begins to move. His rhythm takes your breath away, his length hitting that delicious spot inside you that most find elusive, and it isn't long before the telltale swell of another orgasm begins to crest.

When you clamp down around him, he howls, and you know he has come right along with you. His rhythm stutters and slows. Frankie's tongue lazily drags over your shoulder blade, and he whines as his nose nudges at your hair.  As you both float back into your bodies, opening your eyes, the round room is drenched in moonlight. The storm has passed. 

The beast allows you to roll onto your side before covering you again, as he had the night before. He gives a chaste lick to your cheek, and you huff a laugh, wondering if you will even be able to look him in the eye in the morning. But you're too exhausted and drift to sleep before shame can take its turn to feast on you.

The morning sun blazes as it has a way of doing after a storm; shorebirds herald the day, and again, you wake to the smell of breakfast, sausage, coffee, and eggs. You're again tucked into the worn but well-cared-for quilt. Your eyes rove the room as you try not to overthink, and just as you reach for your clothes (which are neatly laid out at the end of the bed), Frankie, the man, comes in with a tray heaped with food—the smell of his delicious cooking filling the room.

“ ‘Morning, Goldie.” he smiles shyly. His eyes are not quite meeting yours, and he keeps himself busy with the breakfast tray. You return his smile, somehow his sweet bashfulness making you feel less self-conscious- 

“G’morning, Fran- Fran-cisco!”

Brown eyes sparkling as Frankie's smile widens.

Taglist @pedrostories @beecastle @katareyoudrilling @elegantduckturtle @practicalghost @amneris21 @batdarkladyvampir @miraclesabound @greeneyedblondie44 @fan-of-encouragement @browneyes-issac @mswarriorbabe80 @nissameta1782 @seasonschange-butpeopledont @heavenseed76 @oonajaeadira @harriedandharassed @geekrenaissance @tintinn16 @deadhumourist @littlemisspascal @wannab-urs @animejunki5 @writeforfandoms @tae27 @chaoticgeminate

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[fanaticsnail]

Chapter 8

Masterlist Here, Moodboard Here

Sapsorrow Masterlist

Word Count: 10,700+

"Whom so ever fits the ring becomes wed to the warlord who owns it" 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.

Starlight

(Image Source: https://www.pinterest.com.au/pin/462322717990096069/)

Tag List: @maybe-a-bi-witch @fuzzyfestcat @sordidmusings @writingmysanity @gingernut1314 @since-im-already-here @feral-artistry @be-good-please @little-bunnybabe @sukilovesyou @acehyacinth @andriannag @one17 @canthebest1 @khaleesihavilliard @hungrhay @sentieence @lebanese-afg-ya @captaincupio @szired @sexc-snail @alphaash99 @mfreedomstuff @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @mrs-wolfwood @jaguarthecat @marsbars09 @vespidphoenix @cinnbar-bun

Notes: Thank you to @i-am-vita for her banner! Oh, boy. This is a big chapter. Next chapter will be MDNI, 18+. Thank you for your patience with me working at this. Two more chapters to go!

Song Suggestions: Young and Beautiful - Je suis Parte & Por Una Cabeza - Carlos Gardel

The ship swayed over the cloudy swell of darkened waves, shepherding the vessel away from the Kuraigana port and to a location your captain deemed appropriate for a newlywed bride to be hidden away from her husband. 

Captain Buggy D Clown was not one to shy away from anything, especially not when something as interesting as causing drama and theatrics at the expense of Lord Dracule Mihawk was present. He was eager to present this challenge, whether you or Mihawk were also eager was a completely different tale entirely. 

Within the Captain’s quarters aboard the Big-Top, you struggled with the back of your dress: uncinching the rigging your ward managed to tie for you to keep your body contained within its material. A huffed and agitated smile awoke on your face, picturing this struggle in comparison to the one to come after your starlight ensemble. If the moon was as difficult to rid from your body, you could not imagine how taxing the sun would be over your skin and concealing you from your husband.

Husband. You have a husband now. A husband that would be more than agitated to know you were now out to open seas and venturing to unknown horizons, away from the celebration he carefully curated for you. 

“-Everything alright in here, Starlight?” the nasally crack of Buggy’s voice cut through the wooden door, “‘Ya need help?” You chuckled darkly, attempting to pry the material from you to no avail. 

“Actually, Captain,” your voice held a frantic wave within its tone, “I think I do. The back is snagged, and I can’t get the damn thing off of me.” The door slowly creaked open, after a gentle rap alerted you he was to do so. You turned yourself away to conceal your exasperation from him, the stutter in your hands giving away your agitation as you continued to fumble over the ribbons at the rear of your dress.

“Do you trust me, Doll?” you heard his voice alarmingly close to your body, enough to cause a hitch in your throat. You glanced over your shoulder, witnessing Buggy’s teal eyes glancing up through his eyelashes and lips parting in concern. 

“Considering you have robbed me of my wedding night with my beau,” your warning tone cut through the air as swift as a guillotine, “Spirited me away from the unity celebrations, and-,” you huffed, turning back around and glaring out of the bay window, “Confined me to spend this time alone and isolated from all those I hold most dear: I hardly deem you worthy of my trust presently, Captain.” 

Buggy’s gasp was melodical and pitched up two octaves higher than his usual cadence. You could feel the waves of anxiety rising within his shoulders and expressed through several strangled breaths. 

“I-I’m sorry, Lady Dracule. I didn’t think of it from your perspective and how my actions would-.” Whatever else Captain Buggy D Clown spoke after the first four words meant very little to you. Your mind looped them repetitively, the call and roll of the words felt both surreal and magical, you could hardly think about anything else. 

“-Would’ve rather stayed on shore, it would be less flashy and make the chase all the less desperate. We could turn back if-,” Buggy’s words halted as he glanced back into your eyes, noticing the distant expression with a melancholy sorrow eclipsing your painted features. “...-Are you alright, my Lady Dracule?” he asked you.

“Lady Dracule,” you repeated, your brows forming a pillar at the center of your forehead and causing a small swell to mist your eyes, “I’m Lady Dracule, now.” Buggy took a moment to glance over your features, noticing this shift of emotion permeating through your stance. 

Apprehensively, he reached his hand forward and gently caressed your shoulder. The gentle squeeze broke you out of your circulating mind, looking down and meeting the eyes of the cerulean-haired captain. 

“Can I help you out of this dress and into the assortment I crafted for you, my lady?” Buggy asked softly, watching as you nodded in affirmation for his fingers to set to work. 

“I’ll get this off in just a minute,” he whispered, his index fingers hooking through the loops in your back and slowly releasing the garment’s hold over your body, “And then we can think about your hair, and retouch your makeup. I’ll get Cabaji to bring us a bottle of the wine we swiped from the reception, too.” 

You allowed a soft giggle to fall from your parted lips, the relief from being rid of the tightness of your dress while knowing you were in capable hands. As Buggy’s fingers aided you in being free from your garment, while respectfully aiding you into the new dress, your mind wandered to your husband and what he was doing in this moment. Did he notice your departure, or was he enjoying your joint celebrations in solitude? 

-

“Where,” Mihawk’s yellow eyes glared accusingly around the guests through narrowed lenses, “Is,” he advanced, Yoru drawn with the pointed tip threatening the jugular of the Captain of the Red-Force, “My wife.” 

Lord Dracule Mihawk, distracted momentarily by his guests and acquaintances upon exiting the ceremony space, sought out your hand to claim within his. He blindly reached beside him, outstretching his desperate hands to shepherd you to his side, his fingers brushing nothing but air in its wake. 

He noticed your absence immediately.  

“Easy now, mate,” Shanks raised his arms, noticing several members of his crew withdrew their concealed weaponry and aimed it at the enraged former warlord, “Easy, easy. She’s safe, I swear this to you.” 

“Where is she?” Mihawk spat, his feet sliding into an assaulting stance, interweaving his body to draw closer to the red-head’s teasing face, “What have you done with her?” 

“She’s with Buggy- Oi, relax,” Mihawk’s pupils narrowed, his eyes wide and wild at the knowledge departing from Shanks’ lips, “She’s safe, it’s all a part of appeasing the tradition.” Shanks attempted to soothe over the growing temper Mihawk was steadily elevating, gesturing for his crew to holster their weaponry. 

“What tradition?” Mihawk barked, pressing the sharpened tip of Yoru deeper into Shanks’ neck, not quite puncturing the skin. 

“We just wanted it to be perfect, Hawk-Eyes,” Shanks’ hazelnut eyes bore with no utterance of mistruth within his orbs, “And you’re a native to Kuraigana, born and raised here. This is us following your traditions to the absolute letter: crossed ‘t’s and dotted ‘i’s, mate.” 

“Y-You’ve,” Mihawk stumbled over his words, darting his frantic eyes between Shanks’, “You’ve kidnapped my bride?” 

“You want the map to her, Lord Mihawk?” the rational voice of Shanks’ first mate rumbled through the tense air, “I had the clown make one up, for all our sakes.” Mihawk snapped his eyes away from Shanks’ to bear into the soul of Benn Beckman. As their eyes met, Beckman fished out the tanned envelope and offered it out gruffly towards the broody and aggravated newlywed groom. 

“And, are you all to just sit here and wait until I bring back my bride?” He barked at the Red-Hair crew, “Or are you coming to witness me suffer through this act of degrading humiliation?” Mihawk growled, eagerly searching through the crowd to see any contenders to refute his beckoning challenge. 

“You should take your wards,” Shanks suggested, weaving his body away from the steely tip of Yoru’s point, “Your two witnesses to view your wooing.”

Zoro leant down into Perona’s ear, his brow knit with puzzlement and concern. 

“I don’t follow, what is going on? Where’s our governess now?” Zoro quietly grunted into Perona’s ear, a giggle arising with her retort.

“Are you truly not following, or are you just saying that to be an imbecile?” Perona smirked, glancing up into Zoro’s serious eyes, “O-Oh, you’re serious? Okay!” Zoro patiently awaited his promised explanation, Perona thinking of the simplified version of this complex tradition to relay to him.

“In Kuraigana culture, the bride is either stolen or whisked away at a point in the evening - generally after the reception feast so the food doesn’t get cold. It looks like it’ll be a while yet before we get something to eat-,” Perona’s train of thought was broken with a growl from the green-haired apprentice.

“-Get on with it, Perona,” Zoro’s voice cut through the air gruffly, his eyes darting the surroundings for a clue of his governess’ whereabouts. 

“Oh, alright. Sorry, Zoro,” Perona giggled, shaking her head and preparing her words to present once again, “The bride is then hunted by the groom and they share a moment where he must perform a task or a demonstration of artistic skill to woo and entertain his new bride. Considering she is no longer under the shroud of her own family name, but a whole new person in this case: Lady Dracule, he must win her heart under this new banner and usher her into her new life with him.” 

“So, what? Is he gonna dance or something?” Zoro asked, puzzled and taken aback by the absurdity of the tradition, “Or is he gonna challenge her to a sword fight? What can he do that would woo her?” 

“Zoro-...” Perona again giggled, shaking her head with a warm smile drawing her cheeks up beneath its radiance, “...-Mihawk sings.” 

“Mihawk sings?” Zoro snapped his eyes over to Dracule Mihawk, watching as the lord of Kuraigana’s lips curled into a sinister snarl and brows furrowed deeper into rage. 

“Two witnesses, no more,” Mihawk growled, placing the mighty blade upon his back and rolling his neck, “And we shall return within the hour.” 

“Only if she’ll have you, mate,” Shanks’ grin playfully split his face, “You have to woo her. Humble yourself before her. This is your opportunity to actively pursue her,” the redhead stepped forward, clapping his right hand over Mihawk’s left shoulder. 

“You never got the chance. Use this time to show her how much you want her, and then,” Shanks’ grin turned sly, glancing at Beckman who shook his head and fished out a cigarette from his breast pocket, “That’s when we can show you how radiant she is, all wrapped in sunlight.”

Mihawk’s rumbled growl cut through the air, turning on his boot heels and gesturing to Perona and Zoro with his index finger, “You two, with me. Let us depart and reclaim my bride.” 

“Aye, sir,” Perona and Zoro spoke in unison, immediately springing into action and readying themselves for a short journey to find, woo and claim you with your title as Lady Dracule. 

Mihawk’s fuming rage catapulted him into a near frenzy, working with haste to unroll the sails and weigh anchor, using the tide to carry his small ship and snarling at the crudely crafted map.

“This better be accurate for your sake, clown,” Dracule Mihawk spat, scrunching the map and thrusting it into his shirt pocket with his left hand. Upon withdrawing his hand from his pocket, he hovered it above his face, staring at how delicately the band of unity was glimmering under the light of dusk.

It felt balanced, as if this broad band was awaiting the day he would finally wield it atop his finger. As if his life was waiting for this moment to start, for this new role and purpose for his life to fulfill. He hardened his resolve, throwing off his outer coat and withdrawing his sleeves to his elbows. He will find you, and find you quickly. 

And when he does, he will woo you. 

-

If the moon-dress was the prelude to a masterpiece in composition, this dress would be a symphony to stand the test of time. Material as pastel as the celestial rocks littering the night sky sporadically danced across the midnight material depicting the sky at nightfall. In the dim light within the cave Buggy had chaperoned you into, the dress almost looked as if it was producing its own light. 

“This is the most extravagant thing I have ever done with my life,” Buggy huffed a chuckle through his comment, “And that’s truly saying something, my lady. I’ve never done anything like this, and I’m almost jealous that I won’t be the one wearing it.”

“You’re more than welcome to borrow it for a performance, Captain,” you giggled, looking down at your arms that had been ornately decorated with chained droplets of beaded glass, “It is simply breathtaking.”

Glancing over at yourself in the reflective walls of the cave you had found yourself in, your hair was now softly falling in waterfalls against your back and your makeup retouched by the clown and his enthusiastic crew. You could hardly recognise the woman gazing back at you. 

“As breathtaking as you are, my lady,” Buggy whispered while adjusting your hair over your shoulders, “And hopefully enough to get me back into your good graces?” He shifted his eyebrow upwards, glancing hopefully over your shoulder with widened eyes and fluttering eyelashes. 

“You’re not out of the thick of it yet, dear captain,” you playfully taunted him, nose scrunched and smile growing, “It’s not only I you need to appease.” 

As if on queue, a small commotion was occurring outside the cave. Elevated voices, a shuffling of feet and the clang of harsh metal meeting rock reverberated within the cave mouth: silence following such an abrasive sound. 

“Okay, okay, okay,” Buggy repeated hurriedly, excitement and anxiety dancing in a dangerous fight for dominion over his cadence, “You take a seat on your throne and look all pretty,” he gestured with his hands flailing outwards, “I’ll finish lighting the candles,and then I’m gonna flee as fast my legs can carry me to give you two some privacy.” 

You laughed at his excitement, turning and drawing up your heavy skirts to fan out atop the velvet-covered throne Buggy had placed down for you. Frantic clicks of flint and steel, a string of nasally curses, and a shifting of boot-heels tripping over themselves as Buggy set the final elements of his role in the ruse awaiting your spouse. 

“Okay, I’m gonna-... woah,” Buggy’s words halted as he turned to view you on your throne, sitting with the elegance and radiancy that you had drilled into your many students over your career as a governess.

“‘Woah’, what, Captain Buggy?” you huffed out a small laugh, watching his eyes shifting over each element of your ensemble. 

“Y-You know,” he stuttered, shifting his feet as if under the spell of hypnosis, “You’re not technically married if you haven’t consummated your union. You can always run away with me if you want to-.”

“Buggy,” you scolded him, your laughter now falling unwithheld from your lips, “For one: I am not cut out for a path of traveling piracy,” your smile continued to decorate your lips with its radiancy, “And two: I am in love with Dracule Mihawk, my husband.” That final confession shocked you, not admitting those words aloud to yourself or another before this very moment. 

“Right, right, of course,” he laughed at himself, studying his handiwork as your skirts pooled over your feet and down the slight elevation over the rocks. The voices within the mouth of the cave continued to draw ever nearer, the agitation and anger almost tangibly felt the closer they came. 

“This is where I take my leave, my lady,” he nervously chuckled, looking to the cave mouth with his lips split into a straight wincing line, “If I stay, the broody asshole will likely attempt to take my head and throw me into the sea.”

“In that case,” you smiled, bowing your head low to the clown, “This is where I thank you for the part you played in ensuring this day was a possibility.” Buggy gasped at your bow, taking a final moment to study you as you rose from your seated curtsey.

“You are so beautiful, my lady,” he whispered, bowing to you before turning on his heels and uttering a final sentence before picking up his sprint, “Congratulations on your successful ceremony. Save me a dance at your reception.”

Chuckling at his fleeing form, you were left in only a butterfly’s wing of solitude before three figures almost stampeded within the decorated hollow of the cave. Each of them halted, eyes wide and jaws slack as they took in their surroundings. 

The ground was littered with candelabras, all lengthy wicks lit. Lighting a pathway towards the throne, tealights scattered the floor beside a long stretch of the softest white carpet. Upon the edge of the carpet, the material of your skirts pooled and the unnatural light of several stones attached to the hem illuminated the floor. Dark material shifts into soft lights at each subtle movement from your body, the stones on your arms providing a small ringing melody as you offer them a small, coy wave.  

Perona’s smile rose on her cheeks, recovering the fastest of the three as she offered you a similar wave in return for your own. Zoro snapped his lips shut, smirking as he glanced between you and your beau who continued to be stupefied beneath this new radiant presentation. 

“I have found you,” Mihawk whispered after taking a small moment to recover, “My bride, my beloved.” You smiled wider, taking a moment to study your husband as he began taking small and intentional steps towards you. 

Perona hastily and quietly ushered Zoro over to the side, taking a seat on a large boulder and tapping the surface beside her in a gesture for Zoro to sit beside her. Without removing his eyes from the scene unfolding before him, he quickly sat on the stone and awaited Mihawk’s every chosen moment. 

Electing to remain silent, you watched and hung onto every movement, utterance and breath produced as he continued on towards you. Before he fell within your proximity, he halted and inhaled a shaken breath as he humbly knelt with both knees on the floor, his hands laced and placed within his lap. Your breath hitched, eyes darted between his honey-coloured eyes which then immediately snapped shut. 

He deeply inhaled a breath, his eyes remaining closed as he focussed on his movements. He lilted a rumbled hum, a tune unfamiliar to you produced from his nose and serenading you with its melody. Mihawk was singing, and he was singing for you. 

“Never I’ve known love like this,

As vibrant as the seas.

I’ll sheathe my blade, and disarm my shield,

For a chance just to please.”

His eyes remained shut, lips almost cautiously relaying the lyrics as he produced them. After the small verse produced, his words waved more confidently through his lips and enunciated each spoken lyric. 

Perona attempted to silence her elation by slapping her hand over her lips, her other hand finding Zoro’s knee and giving it a firm squeeze to express her excitement physically. Zoro was not faring much better, his own shock written on his face he could barely notice Perona’s hand on his knee as he gripped his thighs to stifle his surprise at Mihawk’s skillful melody. 

“The way your lips summon me,

The way your eyes hold promise,

May your bed never be empty,

Should dawn be upon us.”

Mihawk’s eyes opened, his breath hitching as he witnessed the longing gaze you were offering to him. Your eyes swelled with emotions, lips parting and drawing up in a melancholy smile. Mihawk offered you a small, bashful smile as he continued to sing to you. 

Your eyes never left Mihawk for a minute, watching as he knit his brows together and continued to utter promises through melody towards you.

“I will share my days with you,

For this to you I swear.

Nightfall I be by your side,

For it’s not yours alone to bear.”

He rose his knee from his kneeling into a lunge, bowing his head down and removing his hat from his head. A final promise uttered lyrically from within his skilled melody, you holding onto each word. 

“The seas and sword were my first love,

The training alone be vast.

Although you were not my first to love,

May we both be each's last.”

Mihawk sucked in a baited breath, awaiting a small reprimand or disciplinary comment regarding his abilities. He was no singer nor composer, the lyrics produced alongside the melody were spur of the moment. His skills were of the sword, not of poetry and lyricism. 

“Do my words and melody please you?” Mihawk whispered, his eyes holding firm to the floor as his dark curls bobbed to a lower bow, “Will you allow me the luxury of my heart, my body and my soul joining with yours, Lady Dracule?”

He elevated his head, his eyes softening and rapidly blinking to stifle the rising beat of his heart as he remained in his humility. A man such as he was not accustomed to humbling himself before anyone, doing precisely as he pleased and when he pleased to do it. With you, this was uncharted and untested waters. He was in love, and would spend the rest of his days romancing you should you ask it of him. 

Truthfully, he was prepared to offer his adoration, praises and romance to you at all hours whether you asked it of him or not. 

“You may have me, I am yours,” you answered him after several moments of pregnant pause, rising to your feet and offering him your right hand to take with his left, “Just as you are mine.” Mihawk released a breath he did not know he was withholding from his chest, the weight rolling off his shoulders and having him relax beneath your admission. 

He took this moment to study your carefully painted lashes, noticing the subtle hints in tints and hues decorating your skin at the hands of the genius jester. The stars were reflected in your eyes, the pigments complimenting the change in darkened material pooling over your dress. 

“C-Can I,” he fell over his words, closing his eyes and mentally scolding himself for his stumble, “Can I kiss you, my lady?” A small squeak from the corner of the room had you both break from your illusion that this corner of reality was not yours alone to share. You also had two witnesses. 

Mihawk snapped his eyes over to the two words sitting happily on the boulder beside the decorated floor, scolding them with a single pointed look. At his momentary shift of focus, you used the opportunity to rise from your sitting position on the throne Buggy sourced for you and stooped down to collect Mihawk’s chin between your index finger and thumb. 

You shifted his face back, witnessing the momentary shock as he gazed into your eyes. With a soft smile, you lowered your face and collected his lips with your own. Although he was kneeling, Mihawk was a tall individual. This position did not have your neck aching at its stoop, but was comfortable as you slowly pressed more of yourself against the former warlord. 

Mihawk wrapped his arms around your waist, bunching the fabric within his hands and holding you firmly pressed against him. He parted his lips, his tongue darting out to dampen your bottom lip as he squeezed your hips within his wide fingers. You hummed against his lips, your fingers raking over his beard to entangle within his curled locks. He smiled into the kiss, rising from the floor and fully bracing himself against you with his forearms circling your waist. 

The ruffles of the skirts below you illuminated several of the rocks littering the material, a gasp fleeing from Perona the longer she stared at the balled objects adoring the fabric.

“The rocks light up when they move!” she hushed her whisper to Zoro who waved his hand to silence her as he witnessed the loving embrace between his lord and lady. Although Zoro would never admit it aloud, he was enjoying every minute of witnessing such joy between two people he held most dear. 

Breaking from the kiss, your eyes half lidded as they gazed up at your husband. His expression mirrored your own, gazing lovingly down at you with a soft smile gently creasing the corners of his eyes. 

“Let’s go home,” Mihawk whispered, pressing a gentle kiss on your forehead and hovering his lips over your skin as he cradled your head against his chest, “I hope Shanks and his crew have left as some wine.”

“I’m more concerned about the food,” you giggled, prompting Mihawk to break away from your forehead and smooth his hands over your hair, “All I’ve had to eat and drink today is that single piece of honeycomb, a glass of wine for breakfast, that small sip of unity wine shared with you, and a glass of wine with the clown when he prepared me in this ensemble.” His eyes widened, looking into your smiling face in shock. You laughed up at him, raising your hand up to caress his cheek.

“You’ve only had wine and honeycomb for the whole day, my beloved?” his tone held a small air of caution within.

“Yes, my heart,” you huffed out a small sigh of laughter at witnessing his agitation. Although his anger never left, the small twitch of his lip and hitch in his breath indicated his pleasure of receiving such a high honor of that title. 

“Well that will simply not do,” he growled, shifting you in his grip to slip his arm around your waist and usher you through the cave mouth, “I have some sourdough and salted butter on the ship. We’ll break into that before we partake in the reception feast.” You smiled up at your husband, watching as he wordlessly gestured for your two wards to follow behind you. 

Where Perona could not stop staring at your dress, the only thing within Zoro’s focus was how you looked up at Mihawk, and how Mihawk looked down at you. The love you held for each other within that expression alone had a pang sound within his heart, and caused soft doubts to shift his perspective. 

Whether spoken aloud to you or not, Zoro’s quest in becoming the world's greatest swordsman would one day rip this fresh union apart. He would kill Mihawk to claim that title, and that would surely mean the destruction of your happiness.

As you made your way through the sandy coast and onto Mihawk’s vessel, Zoro continued to seek out different ways to achieve his goals and leave you both to thrive in your happiness. 

-

From the peaceful drift into the Kuraigana port, to the reunification with your guests, Mihawk would not allow you a moment to break away from him. Hollars and cheers at your arrival were quickly silenced as they took in the next aspect of your ensemble. 

Now exposed under the light of the moon, at each small movement of your legs beneath the dark skirt, the illumination of bioluminescent rocks shook and roared to life. The fanning material danced at your feet, the weight of the many layers of broad skirts heavy upon each footstep. You truly appreciated Mihawk’s presence at your side to enable you to lean against him for support each time the gown pulled at your waist and hips.

Your bodice was encrusted with similar trails of glassy stones, the overlaying chains from your neck to your waist forming the unity of constellations between both yours and Mihawk’s birth signs. Buggy had put an excessive amount of thought into such a piece, pooling all his knowledge to provide you the best reiteration of starlight he could truly muster. 

The outdoor reception space was littered with soft strings of light, a circular wooden floor elevated a step up as a makeshift dance area. Several clusters of seats were available off to the sides of the wooden floor they were standing on, where a small quartet of musicians lay off to the side of the area and softly painting the air with their melodical portraiture. 

Mihawk paid his guests little mind, other than a curt nod or a subtle smile to your former students. The many staff continued to present platters of bite-sized ensembles, each small taste of food attuned to both yours and Mihawk’s refined palates. Each time a tray was presented to you, you would break your conversation away from your guests and thank the staff with a warm smile on your face.

As he showcased you to his guests, he watched as the fatigue of the day was slowly catching up with you. The little stumble of your feet under the weight of the dress, the small waver in your smile when you assumed none were watching, the way you clung to his side: he was observant of your every moment and there at your side to catch you should you fall. He was yours to do with what you will, clay awaiting molding into the husband you desired him to be. 

Music began to play at a more elevated volume, the guests encouraging you with a soft cheer to get you to open the dance floor together. Mihawk looked subtly off to you, noticing you were struggling beneath the layers of your skirts. No matter how vast your training in becoming a debutant yourself, nothing could have prepared you to carry the amount of weight from rocks of various shapes and sizes. 

“Beloved, are you-,” Mihawk began, his short question being stolen from him by the nasally interruption of Captain Buggy D Clown. 

“-If I may, my lady Dracule,” Buggy’s broad, painted smile laid brilliantly over his lips, “I have a small surprise for you.” 

“Oh?” you asked, brows elevating up your forehead in curiosity. 

“Your resume presented to the world government several years back indicated you were an excellent dancer, trained the best of them attending here today, in fact,” he complimented you bowing in a low and crouched stoop.

“I am a competent dancer, yes,” you admitted, eyeing him curiously as he picked at your hem with his gloveless fingers, “And I do enjoy the movement when the moment is called upon.” 

“Then it would be such a shame should the moment be taken from you under the weight of this dress, my lady,” Buggy smirked up at you, a silver object playfully juggling between his fingertips. Before you realized what the object was, Buggy precautioned both you and Mihawk, “Bird-Boy, stand back. My lady, close your eyes and hold your breath.” 

Immediately doing what you were told, you heard the ignition of a flint-lighter and the warm flash of open flame illuminating your eyelids to a deep crimson color. Gasps and screams from your guests informed you of all you needed to comprehend at this moment.

Captain Buggy D Clown had lit your dress on fire. 

A wild rush of heat expanded over the base of your skirt, the tongues of blaze lapping at your skin and immediately cooled with bursts of icey air. As you felt the rising warmth begin to die down, you opened your eyes to witness the small, illuminant rocks burst and break to soothe over the licks of flame. Upon each burst of impact, the color of your dress would change to a crisp white, to a warm blue, down to a dark hue of red, all the way to a dim purple. 

At the last burst of rock sparking and spurting over the gown, the arrangement that remained was a softer, pale dress that halted just below your knees. The slit from the hem on your left side tastefully elevated to just below the angle your thigh met at the curvature of your hips. The dress fanned out, dipping in at your waist and cinching in your bust. There were no remaining rocks nor combustive fabric on your body, much to your delight. 

After you adjusted to your new weight distribution, feeling lighter and more energetic already, the picture you were left with standing before you was Buggy’s throat being impaled on the smaller blade formerly hung around your husband’s neck. Your eyes widened and your body moved faster than your mind did to halt the scene unfolding before you. 

“First you kidnap my wife, now you light her on fire?” Mihawk barked, slashing at his throat while Buggy stuttered over his words, “It seems as if you are trying so desperately to get me to kill you, Clown. I should have you flogged and cast into the seas for your idiocy-.”

“-My heart, I am unharmed,” your voice broke him away from his heavy threats, his hands immediately withdrawing from the clown to cradle your cheeks within his palms. You kept your face calm, reassuring him with your expression alone that you remained unaltered and unharmed. 

He floated his eyes between yours, briefly dipping to your lips before withdrawing back up to your eyes. You nodded within his hands in an act to reassure him further, your smile never faltering. After a hushed moment’s pause, Mihawk could no longer contain himself.

Hastily, he dipped his face down, lips colliding with yours and drawing several cheers from your guests. He hungrily consumed your lips, molding and shaping them beneath his with the desperation you were yet to see its equal. He swooped his hands behind your head, collecting the soft waves Buggy had created for you in fistfuls as he desperately joined his lips with yours. You slowly raked your hands over his waist, holding him close and reassuring him with soft circles against his body with your thumbs. 

Squeaking against his lips at a small tug of your hair, Mihawk immediately loosened his aggressive grasping of your against you, and softly traced his fingertips over your jaw and set to cradle the scruff of your neck. The world faded from existence the longer Mihawk held you against his lips, folding himself against you and holding you in momentary blissful stasis. 

Withdrawing his lips from yours, he gazed into your eyes while briefly panting to catch his breath. Shock eclipsed your features the exact moment you broke away, the cheers from your guests ignited the silence within the ringing of your ears. 

“That was a good ‘en, Hawkie!” Shanks swayed in his speech as he slurred in his stupor, “Do it again!” 

“Quiet down, Captain,” Beckman grunted, gently clapping Shanks on the shoulder, “That’s our exterminator you’re talking about. She deserves a little more respect than you’re offering the both of them presently.” 

“Right, right. I’ll switch to water for a bit, Becks,” Shanks nodded, looking over at his crew and gesturing to the water barrels with his tankard. Mihawk never strayed his eyes from your features, constantly ensuring you were unharmed from the prior blaze. 

“May I dance with you, my beloved?” Mihawk quietly offered, removing his hand from your neck and apprehensively outstretching his hands to you. You smiled at his soft gesture, immediately placing your right hand within his left and allowed him to chaperone you onto the dance floor. 

At the swell of music, you hastily pressed your right hand against Mihawk’s left shoulder while he elevated your right hand to extend to the side. His left hand found the middle of your waist and pulled you against himself. 

You carefully extended your left knee over Mihawk’s leg, the slit withdrawing itself tastefully to reveal your thigh to your guests. At that gesture, Mihawk immediately readjusted his stance: shifting to claim the base of your thigh within his hands as he awaited the appropriate rhythm to dictate his momentum.

“The Clown read your resume,” Mihawk smirked down at you, beginning to shift and maneuver you effortlessly within his arms, “But alas, I have not.” He nudged you with his left hand, following his lead by twirling your body within his arms and releasing his hold over you. 

Both legs now firmly on the ground, you shifted your hips and began to rhythmically follow the melody rising with your feet. Holding your arms perpendicular to the ground, Mihawk collected your left hand and pressed a small kiss atop your wrist before raking his digits over your forearm. 

“You never read my resume before you hired me?” You called over your shoulder, as he raised your left hand to cradle his neck behind you. 

“Never,” Mihawk smiled, placing his right hand over your right and his left over your stomach. He began ushering you both with a rapid sway of his steps, a maneuver you flawlessly followed with each stride. He twirled you away, holding contact with your right arm before reclaiming it in his left hand. 

“Then,” your puzzled expression remained atop your features as you once again faced Mihawk, “Why was I hired here? What drew you to me?” Your beau’s smile elevated, his eyes cracking at the corners as his nose scrunched upwards.

“Truthfully, my beloved,” he confessed, leaning forwards to indicate for you to fall backwards in your steps, “I am not certain what drew me to you. A feeling, I suppose.”

“A feeling?” you elevated your eyebrow and smirked up at him, “Something as simple as a feeling?” 

Mihawk chuckled, twirling you away from him and catching your forearms within his grip, ushering your back to meet his chest. You huffed out a small exasperated breath, shaking your head and swaying with him to the rhythm.

“A feeling,” you repeated in a whisper, attempting to not allow your disdain from presenting too prominently against your features. Mihawk released your right arm, leaning forward and collecting your chin between his thumb and index finger. 

“Allow me the luxury of rephrasing, my beloved,” Mihawk whispered, drawing your forehead to press against his while he moved his body from behind yours to face you once more. 

Drawing up his left hand, he collected your right and his right hand found your back once more. His smile continued to highlight his face, a smile you had come to adore painted on his face beneath his mustache. 

“From the moment I met you all those years ago, I adored you as a skilled governess,” he confessed, stepping backwards while you followed with your forward step, “The way you managed a variety of individuals: debutants, gentlemen and all those in between. Even the witless marines-.”

“-Mihawk,” your warning tone was broken with a small laugh, your smirking reprimand forming a smile over your lips, “Be kind.”

“Apologies, my beloved,” he snickered out a small chuckle, ushering for you to step outwards before hooking you back into his arms, “I never assumed you would accept a job at such short notice in the first place.”

“I had a lull in my waiting list,” you shrugged, turning to face him with a broader smile on your face, “And the stuttering scribbles were intriguing.” Mihawk laughed at your reference to his original summons for you to begin your tutelage of the two wards under his care. 

As the melody swelled, he sighed out a breath, once again placing your forehead against his own and furrowing his brows. In a low whisper, he relayed his final confession to you. There was no room for humor, nor was there a place for the utterance of a lie within his breath. 

“Before there was a possibility of joining with you in matrimony, I simply thought: ‘that was that. Time to live my life as an unmarried swordsman until the next generation rises up to claim that title from me’,” he smiled, halting his movement as the music ended its swell,  “I never thought I would be training that aforementioned generation to take my life, nor did I imagine this twist of circumstances leading you to be within my arms now.” 

You smiled a melancholy smile, only half elevated on your face at his confession. Trailing your hand over his shoulder, you extended it up to collect his whiskered cheek within your palm, soothing over his bottom lip with your thumb. 

“And is this the life you wanted for yourself, Mihawk?” you whispered up at your beloved, searching his eyes for more truth within, “To live in momentary matrimonial peace before Zoro claims your title alongside your life?” 

“This is the life that I have forged for myself,” he whispered against your thumb, pressing a kiss against the padded tip, “And I will hold onto it with every breath I still use to sustain my lungs. I love you, my wife. I am yours, and you are mine, for as long as we both shall live,” he withdrew your hand from his lips and circled it over his neck, “And for whatever comes next.” 

“For whatever comes next,” you mirrored back with closed eyes and lips parted, “Sounds like an awfully exciting adventure, my heart.” Reopening your eyes, you witnessed the smile once again return to Mihawk’s lips. 

At the music’s end, he swooped down to claim another kiss from you. Applause rang through the air, prompting you to part from the oscillation as hastily as you had it begin. The Red-Hair pirate crew and the Buggy-Pirates had begun offering each other their outstretched hands to lead them onto the dance floor. 

You felt a small tap on your shoulder at the exact moment a soft, pale hand with pink-polished fingernails brushed with Mihawk’s own shoulder. You shook your head, confused as you were ushered into the awaiting arms and broad shoulders of Roronoa Zoro. 

His smile was shallow, his mind plagued behind it with the smog of heavy thoughts. Extending out his hand, you took it and curtseyed as he bowed with you. Ushering you to circle the floor with a practiced waltz, Zoro continued to twirl you in silence. 

“You have gotten much better, Zoro,” you complimented him, met with only a single hum in acknowledgement. You furrowed your brows, glancing between his bourbon-hued orbs while he refused to draw his gaze up to meet yours. 

“Did you enjoy the drinks? I have yet to sample the wine presented at the reception-,” you were cut off as Zoro’s thoughts spoke atop your own.

“-I am going to claim his life from him, do you understand?” he gruffly commented, glaring over at Perona and Mihawk as he spun her within his arms with a broad grin and her unwithheld smile mirroring in return, “I intend to kill lord Dracule Mihawk.” You almost stumbled in your dance, recovering quickly as he continued to twirl you. 

After taking a moment to collect your rapidly lashing thoughts, you inhaled a large gulp of breath and extended your exhale slowly through your lips.

“If that is what your destiny is leading you to fulfill,” you reached up your hand and collected his cheek, turning him to meet your eyes, “It is not for me to understand, nor is it my desire to halt you from achieving your goal.” He gasped at your words, stumbling over his feet and barely recovering.

“You won’t ask me not to?” Zoro’s breath hitched on his exhale, searching your eyes for any cause for further stumble, “You won’t plead for me to find a new goal? To settle for being second best and remain that way until we’re all cracked and graying?” 

Giggling at his comment, you extended your arm out and circled it over his head: twirling the conflicted man within your arms.

“I married the ‘World’s Greatest Swordsman’, Dear,” you noted, your smile never wavering as you rejoined him within your arms, “It is an occupational hazard.” 

Zoro’s surprise lingered on his features, his eyes misting over with the swell of emotions he did not prepare himself to express this night. 

“And between us-,” you leant up to his ear, using this opportunity to draw him into a warm and encumbering embrace, “-I would rather it be you. You are someone we both trust,” you withdrew him from your arms and smiled whimsically up at him, “Someone who will grant him the luxury of a swift and merciful departure from this life, should you both be ready to take that step.” 

Where you assumed he would grunt out a gruff groan, you were shocked when he leant further into your arms and circled his forearms around your waist. He nuzzled into your neck, his shoulders beginning to sink against the weight of his confliction. 

“You trust me?” he choked within his soft whisper, “You trust me to give him an honorable death?” His shoulders shuddered within your arms, you immediately drew your hands up to caress his moss-coloured locks. 

“Of course I trust you, Zoro. Just, if you were to grant me one simple favor,” he withdrew from your embrace, continuing to hold your waist as he stared down and awaited further instruction, “Please don’t kill him tonight?” Zoro’s laughter cut through the air, drawing many eyes over to your location as you joined him in his unbridled laughter. 

“I wouldn’t dream of it, my lady,” he chuckled, briefly joining his forehead against your own and scrunching his nose with his smile. 

“Good boy,” you complimented him with a single tap on his shoulder, “And your dancing really has improved.” You nodded to his feet, noticing how effortlessly he was shepherding you throughout the movements.

“I learnt from the best, my lady,” he winked down at you, his golden drooped earrings glinting within the refraction of the lights. 

As the melody crescendoed from one song into the next, you twirled from within Zoro’s arms and immediately met your right hand against a cool piece of metal, curving beneath your fingertips. 

“If I may, my lady,” the cool rumble of Sir Crocodile reverberated within your chest and shot a tingle up your spine. Although no malice was withheld in his tone, the danger was always present with a man such as he. 

“Sir Crocodile,” you nodded, focussing your body on allowing him to lead you throughout the floor, “I would like to take the opportunity to thank you for your beautiful dress you crafted for me.” 

“I do plan on collecting that debt from the both of you, my lady,” he smirked down at you with a broad grin. His eyes held a bored malice within his purple orbs, hunching down to claim your body within his arms. The impressive height he towered over you had you feeling smaller within his grasp, an advantage you planned on gaining back from him with your wit. 

“And what would you ask of me, Sir?” you smiled up at him, twirling within his arms and circling your body around his back. You drew your fingers over his flesh, watching the visible shudder arising beneath the movement, “I am a simple governess-.”

“-You are Lady Dracule, now,” he retorted, gazing down at you through the corner of his eyes, “A lady who has sway and leverage over a lord. A lady who holds the heart of such a man as he, the ‘World’s Greatest Swordsman’. A lady who-.” You hastily pressed your fingers atop the golden hook, your eyes baring dangerously into his own.

“-Who was and forever will be-,” your low tone had Crocodile taken aback at your statement, “-A simple governess.” 

“And what would a simple governess be able to offer me?” his amused grin parted his lips and elevated his brows. The silvery mark over his cheeks and nose had the purple hues holding more danger within their orbs, “Music and dance lessons, I have hardly a use for.” 

“A governess who has done all a governess could do here,” you smiled up at him, leading him into a twirl, your spin prompting almost a laugh to fall from his lips, “Tamed and trained two unruly youths, along with having one of the world’s most powerful men fall to their knees and beg to claim me as their own.” 

The smirk of Sir Crocodile rose on his lips, his words beginning to form behind his teeth only to be halted by a final word of warning from you.

“Whenever you desire such a woman to perform such an impossible and improbable task as this,” you silenced him with your words, “You know where I will be.” 

At that, you bowed a low curtsey to him and attempted to flee from his arms, only for the hook to catch the crook of your elbow and tug you back into his arms for his final words.

“An expert tamer of unruly individuals,” he whispered in your ear, the ghost of his last cigar lingering on his lips as his breath met with the shell of your ear, “I shall keep you in mind for when such a purpose arises.” Unclasping your arm from within his hook, Sir Crocodile took his leave of you with a final bow. 

You shook off his words, the next partner finding themselves within your arms whipped their cerulean hair against your cheek as they spun you on your toes three times in a circle. 

“I truly am sorry about the kidnapping, my lady,” Buggy uttered with a warm smile, “And I am only partly apologetic for the glorious blaze.” Although you had met both Buggy and Sir Crocodile at the same time, you felt much more comfortable being wielded within his arms than the experience prior.

Buggy released you, clapped his hands three times and stomped his feet rhythmically to the music. You laughed, mirroring his posture and his rhythm back at him. His eyes widened, heart swelling at you matching his exaggerated movements and prompting him to produce some far more elaborate motions. 

He was a joy to dance with, his own starlight shining within his teal eyes and reflecting back onto his various assortment of formal attire. Although no longer wearing a frill-neck collar, his cravat had just as many ruffles fluffing at his jaw. 

“I am not sorry in the slightest for either,” you admitted, your own nod and spin on your toes keeping Buggy mirroring your movements first before stepping in again to claim you in his arms. 

“Not even the kidnapping?” he winced out a small apprehensive grin.

“No, it was an enjoyable experience,” you confessed, laughing in his arms as he assumed the waltz position and stepped in time to the swell of music, “I especially enjoyed the wine.”

“Then you have found the perfect match in Mihawk,” he nodded, scrunching up his nose at the thought, “Personally, I don’t know how you both drink that vinegary piss. I prefer the sweets to compliment and mask my saltiness. Rum is best.” 

“I thank you for your compliments, captain,” you smiled at him.

“About the vinegary piss?” his brows furrowed in confusion, his smile scrunching into a soft pout. You laughed at his comment, shaking your head at him.

“About the perfect match,” you confessed, feeling the end of the music calling to you. Buggy chuckled, offering you a small bow before dismissively waving his hand at you and uncharacteristically turning on his heel. 

You were puzzled at that final gesture, not understanding where such an expression was necessary before you felt a hand clasp around your waist.

“‘S not you, love,” the voice of a red-haired captain uttered beside you, “He still is hung up on our old childhood rivalry.” 

“Ah,” you gasped in understanding with a curt nod, turning in his arm to face him. Dancing with Shanks was an occurrence you were privy to experiencing from time to time aboard the Red-Force with his crew. His attitude was always playful and light with you, always a gentleman. 

“You truly look spectacular tonight, Vile Exterminator,” he complimented you, shifting his dancing position to usher you with his right hand in light of his missing left hand. Joining now both of your right hands, you both stepped in and out before twirling under his arm. 

“Thank you, Red-Haired Rat,” you smirked at him, feeling a pair of eyes watching you dance within Shanks’ arms. 

“I think the big man wants a word,” Shanks confirmed your suspicions, nodding over to his steel-haired first mate, extinguishing his cigarette with his boot heel against the gravel road beside the dancefloor. Shanks twirled you twice more before you were flung from his arm and into the awaiting and ill-practiced hands of Benn Beckman.

“Sorry, my lady,” he uttered, his legs awkwardly swaying him from side to side with you within his arms, “I’m no good at this formal dancin’. I don’t do this.” 

“I know, Benn,” you smiled at him with a soft, close-lipped grin, “But I do appreciate the effort.” He hummed with a curt cough in response, truly feeling out of place with this genre of dance. 

“About what’s to come,” he gruffly coughed, attempting to spin you on the dancefloor as easily as he could ask his body to perform such a skill, “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.” You sighed out a small huff of breath, shaking your head at him as he continued to explain to you.

“There’s a lot of knots,” he confessed with a winced, grimacing smile, “I mean, a lot of knots.” 

“I trust you,” you shrugged, feeling his tension rising in his shoulders and stance. You halted the elaborate dance, ushering him off to the side of the dancefloor and opting to sway with him to the beat while he aired his concerns.

“I don’t want you to be uncomfortable with the experience,” he confessed, the gray tint of his eyes holding you firmly within his vision, “Some of the knots are in-... -a few key places.” 

Your rapid and unwavering blink told Beckman all he needed to know regarding his apprehension. 

“It was my own fault for asking this in the first place, Benn,” you confessed again with a shrug, “And, I reiterate: I trust you. We’ve known each other for years, and of all those aboard the Red-Force,” you feigned a small hum of deep thought, before smiling up at the burly first-mate, “I do trust you the most.” 

“I hope your trust isn’t misguided, my lady,” he grunted, your left hand being claimed by a presence at your side. The small, almost invisible smile, from Beckman informed you that the Rat was once again at your side. 

“And, she’s mine again,” Shank’s playful tone cut in, peeling you away from Beckman and onto the dancefloor once more. He ushered you into a skilled twirl, your smile once again returning to your face as the swell of music reached the peak and began its crescendo towards the final. 

As Shanks made to draw you into another embrace at his chest, you felt the tug of your waist pull you back within familiar and comfortable arms. A warm smile and a flush rose to your cheeks, humming as you lent into his chest.

“Missed me, beloved?” the man behind you held an air of confidence, turning you within his arms as you looked up at him through half-hooded eyes.

“Always, my heart,” you retorted, elevating your arms to seek out the nape of his neck. He hummed at your confession, mirroring your adoration down at you, “Shall we have a rest? Enjoy some mead and begin the fire?”

“A fire?” the elated voice of the cerulean-haired clown-captain called out in joy, “We’re having a fire like the good old days?” Shanks hesitantly walked beside Buggy, offering him a small smile and confirming with him.

“Just like the old days,” Shanks nodded, looking between Buggy and Mihawk, “Back when Roger made us collect the wood, but wouldn’t let us near the flint and steel.” 

“And look who’s got the spark now, boys!” Buggy’s crackled cackle and his powerful stance prompted laughs to rise among the guests. Beckman shook his head, wordlessly directing the Red-Hair crew to begin building a fire for you and your husband to enjoy. 

You nuzzled into the warm and exposed chest of your husband, feeling the weight shift from you against him as he slightly elevated you off your feet. 

“I think sitting down is a good idea,” you confessed, looking down at your worn shoes and rapidly swelling feet from the elaborate dancing and carrying the weighty dress.

“Then that is what we will do, my beloved,” Mihawk smiled softly down at you, pressing his forehead against your own as he enjoyed the feeling of holding you in his arms once again.

-

Sitting within the arms of your husband, the crackle of the fire illuminated the guests that remained behind at the castle, some setting up bedrolls and pitching tents within the surroundings. 

Mihawk hooked his arm around your shoulder, drawing you against himself and pressing soft kisses against your temple while whispering sweet phrases and poetry within your ear. His beard tickled at each short utterance, prompting a giggle to fall from not only the words, but the feeling of his beard against your skin.

Shanks was the first to notice the small lull in atmosphere, a fiendish grin finding purchase against his lips as he refilled his tankard from the barrel of mead. 

“Alright, you lot. According to the customs of Kuraigana,” Shank’s stumbling and partially inebriated voice slurred, “We all know what comes next for you two. We’ve ‘gotta follow all of the traditions of the land. You know, so the ghostly hag is happy.”

“What are you implying, Red-Hair,” Mihawk’s prior warm tone cracked under its now icey exterior, “Surely you don’t mean-.”

“-Why the ‘Bedding Ceremony’ of course!” Shanks attempted to rise to his feet, stumbling backwards and momentarily sitting upon the lap of his first mate, who apprehensively caught him. “Thanks big man,” he mumbled, rising successfully to his feet and thrusting out his tankard, “You go up there with your Sunshine bride, and we wait out here and make as much noise as we can while you perform your husbandly duties.” 

A warm flush rose to your cheeks, littering your face with the warmth of blood swelling to the tips of your ears. You could feel the rapid pulse beating in your eardrums, your heart stampeding your racing mind of all thoughts of what was yet to come. 

“Then you come and rejoin us as one flesh,” Shanks concluded, saluting Mihawk with his broad tankard, “And we drink to the happy couple, and carry off our celebrations into the wee hours of the morn.”

“Is this truly a custom of this land, my heart?” you uttered quietly to the broody bearded man at your side, his attention snapping over towards you. His eyes softened as his heart swelled, lips parting while drawing up his right hand to caress your cheek.

“Unfortunately it is, my beloved,” he whispered with a half-smile, “And a custom we need not adhere to should you find discomfort in such a feat.” 

You allowed a small giggle to fall from your lips, leaning into Mihawk’s gentle caress and pressing a soft kiss on the heel of his palm.

“It could be worse,” you allowed the giggle to rise in volume as your smile broadened, “In Germa-Kingdom, the guests watch the act while they throw sugar-coated almonds at the newlyweds in the hopes it will aid in producing male offspring.” You placed your hand over Mihawk’s, his still holding your cheek as his smile mirrored your own. 

“I suppose this custom is not so bad, then,” Mihawk chuckled, rising to his feet and offering you out his hand, “Shall we, my beloved?”

“I suppose it is time,” you smiled in return, placing your hand within his and allowing him to hoist you up from your position on the log. Mihawk’s brows creased, mild agitation forming at the center of his forehead. Before you could ask him what was bothering him, he turned his head to Beckman: who was already rising to stand. 

The blush returned as your eyes widened, almost forgetting what you had requested of the cursed moss-agate ring on your unity finger. 

“Beckman,” Mihawk’s agitation growing in depth as the hoarse growl rumbled in his throat, “In light of the fact this is part of the covenant pact forged with the ring-.”

“-I would not lay a single finger unnecessarily on your wife, lord Mihawk,” Beckman’s whiskey voice hummed as he inhaled his cigarette to the filter end, “Would you prefer it be Shanks in his current stupor using his right hand and teeth?”

“Absolutely not,” Mihawk barked at the suggestion.

“Then I will make it quick and precise,” Beckman reassured him with a curt nod, “Follow up in twenty minutes, and your bride will be awaiting you to unwrap her within your marriage bed.” 

Beckman outstretched the crook of his elbow, a satchel containing what you presumed to be your sun-dress shrugged over his shoulder. You apprehensively withdrew your hand from Mihawk’s, giving him one more longing look before you allowed yourself to be ushered into the halls of Castle Kuraigana. 

You both walked in silence, unsure of what words needed to be spoken between you before you engaged in this next aspect of your night together. The silence was peaceful, the soft tranquility you had not experienced since beginning this venture of matrimony. You were almost thankful this moment was granted to you to share with one of your most respected acquaintances in your time as a governess. 

He chaperoned you into the halls, finding the door that led into the suite allocated to both you and Mihawk as the lord and lady of Kuraigana. In the wake of the soft tranquility, anxiety at the anticipation of what’s to come awoke within your chest. Your heart elevated its rhythmic thundering, your mind beginning to swirl and race as the anticipation only grew.

“Take a moment, my lady,” Beckman’s soothing voice hummed at you, “All the time you need, alright? It’s a lot of changes to adjust to, and I would never dream of rushing you.” 

“Thank you, Benn,” you exhaled, rolling your neck and attempting to stifle the rise in your anxious thoughts. After a few small breaths, you reopened your eyes and smiled to yourself as you felt finally ‘ready’ to begin this new chapter of your life. 

The door shut behind the first-mate of the Red-Hair pirates, you made your way behind the dressing screen. You silently thanked Buggy for ensuring this garment was easier for you to remove than the one prior, but anticipation rose in your chest as Beckman revealed a satchel to you. 

“This is going to be extremely difficult to do whilst blindfolded, my lady,” he gruffly chuckled, retrieving several golden strands of linked chains from within the canvas bag, “Are you certain this is adhering to the covenant you made with the aetherial pest?” 

“To quote my own words, Benn,” you shook your head and straightened your shoulders, “‘Sunlight: a dress that meets the intensity of the sun with its rays of gold and copper. An accumulation of material so outrageously forbidden, it be intended for your eyes alone with its purpose. A dress so scantily designed that you will find none to ever match its equal in both color and provocative appearance’.” Your voice mocked your own recollection, prompting Beckman to chuckle at your tone.

“Well then, there may be a small hiccup in our plan,” he shrugged, taking out a strip of lengthy material and beginning to fold it in half. Upon measuring the half-width, Beckman used his canine teeth to puncture the fabric and tear it into two, thick strips. 

“What do you mean, Benn?” your eyes followed his movements with both intrigue and curiosity.

“For his eyes alone,” he quoted back at you, chuckling as he handed you one of the strips, “Looks like I won’t be the only one experiencing sensory deprivation in this little encounter, my lady.” Taking the fabric from his outstretched hands, your brows knit together before the realization hit you. 

“You’ll have to wear a blindfold too.” 

[cyborg-franky]

Sitting with them in silence just for company

Law x GN Reader Zoro x GN Reader SFW

You knew where to find him, every night the Tang was above water, settled near an island he would spend his evenings outside, staring across the ocean, trapped in thoughts as deep as the sea and just as turbulent as the storms that rolled in.

Pushing the big metal door, it groaned and alerted the captain of your presence, Law didn't say anything, simply watching you make your way over on unsure feet. The ocean was calm tonight but the gentle rocking still made you unsure of your balance, used to being in the belly of the sub or on dry land.

“Is it okay if I come out here? I can’t sleep and I just wanted to get some air,” you explained and he nodded. “Sure,” it might have sounded noncommittal to people who didn’t know him but that was near enough an enthusiastic ‘that’s fine’ as you’d get from Law.

You joined him, sitting down, legs hanging off the side, arms hugging a rail to make sure you didn’t slip and fall. Honestly, the cold metal against your flushed skin felt like heaven compared to the stuffy heat from inside.

The water gently sloshing against the side of the sub sounded nice. You liked spending time with Law like this, neither of you needed to waste time and effort striking up a conversation, just settled in the same calmness as you processed your thoughts.

You sighed, hands in your pockets as you stared at the sky, watching the stars twinkle in the heavens above as the waves gently rocked the ship. The night was perfect. Calm waves gently guided you across the ocean, watched by the moon and stars. A warm breeze filled the sails, ushering the Thousand Sunny to its next destination, another adventure.

The pleasantness of the evening felt wasted, you were bored and alone, and everyone already retired for the night. Save for the swordsman on watch duty, you looked up at the Crowsnest and frowned in thought, would he be happy to see you? Would he want time to himself?

You tapped your foot, fighting with yourself and weighing up your options. Sleep wasn't your friend tonight and you craved the company of your nakama. You clicked your tongue, annoyed at your hesitation when your lonely heart knew exactly what it wanted.

Climbing up to the crows nest and popping open the hatch you saw Zoro mid drink of a large bottle of beer. He stared at you with his brows raised before he took a swig of his drink. “Can’t sleep?” 

You shook your head and clambered up, shutting the hatch behind you and sitting down next to him, leaning against the side of the nest and taking a breath of the salty sea breeze, tinged now with the booze Zoro was partaking in.

Neither of you said anything else, Zoro knew you had issues with sleeping, he didn’t need to pry, your thoughts were yours unless you wanted to share them. He just moved closer, also leaning back with you.

Wordlessly he offered you a sip of beer and you shook your head, he shrugged and gulped down more. Both of you just relaxed in one another's company in a comforting silence.

Two souls swayed gently on the waves of adventure.

[chvnnie]

dunno bout you but i have a thing or two for seungmin's fingers i'm sorry like they look so slender and beautiful and imagine him ruining you with his fingers only while looking at you in the eyes— let me stop here before i combust

i know you sent this a while ago but it’s monday my brain can’t keep up with this—

SMUT — MINORS DNI

It’s just a little habit of his. Hard to break, hard to even recognize unless it’s pointed out. Seungmin’s fingers just seem to move on their own when you’re seated next to him, softly stroking your inner thigh. Sometimes he draws shapes, sometimes it’s just lines. Up and down, up and down. It’s almost soothing.

For him, that is. Sometimes it is for you, but other times it tickles. Then there’s times like tonight, when his cold fingertips are against your warm skin, that it’s doing nothing but building a frustration in your core.

His other hand is holding his chin. Perched on the table, blankly staring at his friend under the guise of listening. He’s checked out a long time ago, distracting himself by touching you.

Perhaps it’s your fault for wearing this dress. It was a little short, but you didn’t think much of it. It’s not like this is a fancy restaurant; a cocktail dress is perfectly in tune with the dark vibes of the ocean side restaurant.

“Oh, Seungmin.” His friend speaks, sparking a light in your boyfriend’s eyes. “Did you hear about—“

Up and down, up and down. Seemingly getting higher as well. Does he notice? Seungmin is tuned back into the conversation, it’s very likely that he has no idea.

His knuckles brush against the opposite thigh, the cold metal of his rings making you shiver. That’s when you catch it; the playful smile that’s tugging on his lips. Then it happens again, confirming your suspicions.

Seungmin knows exactly what he’s doing, and it’s silly of you to assume that he doesn’t.

The restaurant is starting to feel too stuffy. Heat creeping from your belly and making beads of sweat pearl on the back of your neck. No. Nope. Can’t do this anymore.

“I’m going to get some air.” You mumble before standing up, taking your boyfriend’s jacket off the back of your chair in favor of covering your shoulders. It’s the first time Seungmin had looked at you since he started teasing you, and you feel almost nauseous at the look he’s giving you.

It’s only in his eyes, but it’s far more than enough to make your body start to sway. Feral, darker than the sea just outside the large window that spans the restaurant. It’s like the moon is shining in his dark ocean, giving it a little sparkle of mischief.

“Are you alright, darling?”

He’s so frustrating. You’re so frustrated.

“Just a little warm. I won’t be long.”

You don’t give him another chance before you step away from the table, heading towards the door in the corner of the restaurant. The one that leads to a balcony.

The wooden planks creak slightly as you step onto them. It’s too cold to seat customers outside, giving you the privacy you need. At the railing, you groan loudly, head hanging as you try to catch your breath.

This is ridiculous. Should a little touch get you this riled up? You almost want to slap yourself. Get it together. That was nothing, stop acting like it’s something serious.

Waves crash against the beams beneath you. The sound lulling you, easing the pressure that built its way up to your throat. A few more minutes, you tell yourself as the breeze hits your face. Cool, misty. Just what you needed to ground yourself.

When the patio door opens, you decide it’s time to return to the table. It’s been long enough.

All you can do is turn around before familiar hands grip the railing on either side of you. And it doesn’t matter how cold it is, how freezing the breeze is.

When Seungmin is in front of you, looking at you like that, you have no choice but to melt.

“Just wanted to check on you.” He lifts a hand, softly stroking your face with his knuckles. The rings catch the moonlight, sparkling like the heat rapidly climbing up your body yet again. “You were in a rush.”

You pull his jacket tighter around you, trying to avoid his gaze. “It was stuffy in there.”

“You think? The restaurant is almost empty.” He’s getting closer, bodies hardly separated. Just enough space for the cool breeze to squeak by. When he notices you’re not looking his way, his hand flips. Cups your cheek, brings you back to him. “Don’t be shy, baby. It’s just me.”

It’s the cold that’s making your lip tremble. That’s it. Not the overwhelming need for those pretty fingers to be elsewhere.

“Why are you doing this?” You whisper, the sound almost lost to the crashing of the waves.

Seungmin smiles at you, leaning in to press a kiss to the corner of your lips. His nose nudges your opposite cheek, other hand now tracing up the outside of your thigh.

“Because I can.”

Some fingers tease your inner thigh, the others stroke your jaw. Push hair behind your ear, draw over the outline of your lips. He doesn’t look away from you once, committing your body to his touch until the fingerprints have burned away and all that’s left is you.

He doesn’t blink, not even as the fingers tucked between your legs reach your clothed core. Pushing the lacy material to the side, the move with ease over you. Collecting slick until he’s satisfied with how it clings them.

“Keep your eyes on me.” He whispers lowly, lining his fingers with your entrance. “Don’t make me stop.”

There isn’t time for a response before he pushes in, almost expressionless as your lips part. Slowly, he goes deeper. Scissoring as he goes, stretching you out to make enough space for a third finger to join the duo.

It’s not an easy fit. You fill full from his fingers alone, head starting to roll as you brokenly cry into the night.

As easily as he gave it to you, it’s taken away. Hand on your face slipping to the back of your head, adjusting it so you’re looking at him once again.

“What did I tell you?” Seungmin looks almost scary in the moonlight, voice a low mumble that’s more chilling than the ocean air. “Eyes. On. Me.”

You whimper, both hands wrapping around the wrist in between your legs. Trying to pull it forward.

“I’ll be g-good.” You earnestly promise, the tears beginning to build. “Just touch me, Minnie.”

He doesn’t touch your cunt again. No, instead he brings his slick covered fingers up. Pushing all three inside your mouth.

“Lick. Clean them.”

Did he really have to ask? Your tongue was already moving around the digits, lapping eagerly at the skin. The rings. Making sure to get every last drop of you off of him.

Seungmin chuckles lowly. “You know, if you would have stayed seated just a little longer,” without warning, his fingers push back, hitting your throat. He smiles when you start to choke, knees buckling at the desperation shoots through your body. “I was going to play with your cunt there. Maybe take you to the bathroom to fill you up.”

Out of your mouth. Untangled from your hair. The hands you’ve been craving all evening rudely taken from you before you could fully enjoy them. When you reach for him, he steps back. Adjusting his tie before giving you a twisted smile.

“What a shame. Impatient little girls never get what they want.”

[penspolin]

POLIN JEALOUSY/ADVICE ONE-SHOT

Colin fights his jealousy after watching Penelope and Lord Debling dancing together at a ball, is teased by Benedict, and seeks advice from Violet.

The silver beads threading Penelope's hair seemed to glow like tiny moons. If he'd had parchment and pen, Colin might've noted the perfect juxtaposition of fiery red locks and sparkling silver. He noticed everything--the way her dress swayed so effortlessly against the floor despite her stiff grip on Lord Debling. Was it only Colin's imagination, or did her gloved fingertips hover an inch from his shoulders?

…perhaps he was only imagining it. He reminded himself that Penelope's stiffness was for the sake of propriety. Of course she’d want to touch Debling. He was a gentleman, for one, and even Colin had to admit that he had his own upper-class swagger. A little posh for Colin’s tastes, but from the looks being cast his way across the ballroom floor, Colin knew the lord had made a lasting impression on this season’s eligible debutantes.

Colin hastened for a sip of wine, only to discover that he had drained his glass. He turned away as a certain red-headed beauty twirled across the floor (more gracefully than he had ever allowed himself to notice). He nearly dropped his glass as he struck Benedict in the chest.

“Steady there, brother,” Ben said, putting a hand against Colin’s heaving chest. “What’s the hurry?” He cast a glance over Colin’s shoulder, and the pieces seemed to fall into place. “I’ll say, your friend seems to be enjoying herself. If ‘enjoying yourself’ is best expressed by a scowl, that is.” He tipped his glass. Colin shot him a glare, even though his heart lifted a bit at this last sentiment.

“Oh, don’t be such a grouch,” Ben said, pushing his glass into Colin’s available hand. “While you’re at the table, fetch me another drink, won’t you?”

“I’m not your waiter,” Colin huffed, stifling the urge to turn back to the dance floor once more. It was like an itch, only scratching it burned like a rash.

“You could do with a break. Somehow my ‘sturdy’ little brother has spent the night looking quite pathetic in the corner.”

“I’m not pathetic,” Colin said, and pain tightened his chest. 

Ben rolled his eyes, still looking across the dance floor. “Say, maybe I ought to have a word with this Debling fellow. See if his eye for art is as keen as his eye for a wife.”

“Give him my best,” Colin grumbled, sounding more pathetic by the second.

Benedict gave him a sturdy pat on the shoulder. “And you, give Ms. Featherington your best while I do it. Now, hurry along now and get those drinks before the dance is over.” With a wink, he rejoined the sea of lords and ladies.

Colin gazed across the open floor once more. The waltz was approaching its conclusion. Pen’s hair looked on fire in the torchlight. His mind wandered to the fragments of a dream—Pen in the garden, her eyes twinkling a magnetic blue, her lips a luscious pink. He had leaned in just enough to catch the scent of her hair—like the wisteria garden, only…newer, fresher, somehow, and then—

“Colin, dear. Are you feeling alright?” His mother’s voice stopped him in his tracks. Her brow furrowed, and he hurried to right himself, as he had taught himself to do long before Penelope had pounded her way into the forefront of his mind.

Some things, it seemed, had not changed. He had a guard up, and even his beloved mama could not crumble it.

“Very well, mother,” he managed, swaying slightly on his feet. “Merely...looking for a refill.”

“Not feeling up to a waltz tonight, I take it?” The look she gave him suggested she knew there was a particular reason for it—Colin was not one for skipping dances. 

He had been avoiding his mother, he realized. Was that a flicker of hurt in her eyes? More than his brothers or sisters, Violet Bridgerton had always had an eye out for these things. And if that was the case, should he not be using her knowledge to his advantage?

“Mother,” he began, aware of the blush suffusing his cheeks. “Forgive me, I know we are in company, but I must ask. Do you believe the best foundation for love is friendship?”

She smiled, crinkling the skin around her eyes. Lovely eyes, so open and trusting. He suddenly hated himself for having avoided her, even if it was unintentional. Perhaps it was because of this conversation that he had kept himself from her. 

And something told him that she knew this as well as she whispered, “I think you already know the answer to that.”

[eldrith]

ғʀᴏᴍ ᴇᴅᴇɴ ; ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴛᴡᴏ.

ɪᴅᴇᴀʟɪsᴍ sɪᴛs ɪɴ ᴘʀɪsᴏɴ ;

jacaerys velaryon x fem!reader words: 8.2k synopsis: jacaerys falls for a woman in aegon's garden. notes: here's part two of my mini series for halloween ! just fyi, this is the longest part that i have planned out of all five parts <3 next chap will include smut. this one goes out to my febu frongers for helping with my sanity (losing it) ily chapter warnings: isolation/loneliness, kissing, grief, eating as symbolism, description of death, fluff, religious themes & symbolism, spooky-ish, questionable morals, jace is a bit bigoted (canon idc), impure thoughts, light corruption kink, brief mention of smut - but once again still pretty tame. series masterlist. masterlist.

“SȲNDOR IS MISSING.” 

The observation comes in a billowed plume of wind to Jacaerys’s face, brushing silver hair against his shoulder as he turns to his cousin mid-step.

Baela’s face is tinted in some mild melancholy at the announcement of the disappearance - Jacaerys’s tilt of a consolatory head is halted only by a slight wince of pain within his neck. His body has not yet fully recovered from the flight, he knows: the Twins to Dragonstone is not a necessarily perilous flight, but as he returned to the island he was greeted by torrential pours from the heavens that left him rather chilled and ached to the bone. 

A sharp salt, some smoky wind; boots, traversing over rocks in a sprawling path towards the castle, swaddled near in a thick blanket of morning fog. The sky is calm, the island sleepy in the midmorning sun- though any quiet day passed upon Dragonstone yields more disconcertment than appeasement these days. 

The sea mist drifts just below cliffs dark down the slope of the Mont; a breeze tugs the hem of his cloak, whipping Baela’s hair, blowing against the dark riding gloves his mother grasps. 

“Sȳndor?” His Queen mother repeats, a faint smile ghosting over her visage.

Her voice is just as absent, distracted as it has been the past few moons - present only when some lick of a leg lifting towards victory flutters into grasp; as last night she had done so, when the idea had sprouted from Jacaerys’s own lips to seek out those who fell from their own line. It is better than death and defeat.  A bird circles overhead; wings spread, it's shadow flickers over Jacaerys’s curls and cuts sharply down towards the outer bailey’s yard, where men sharpen blades and bark to each other in jaunts. 

“Quite a curious name.” 

His mother stares ahead - always, ahead. Around them, wildgrass billows in waves; kissed by black dress skirts, crushed by leather soles. Vermax flies free in the distance, circling the boats which float, no more than fleas upon the horizon. 

A slight lift of her chin as Baela nods. “A stray cat,” She explains, “I found him lurking about the shadows of the kitchens some moons ago.” 

Absently, Jacaerys smirks - Sȳndor. Very fitting. His mother lifts the thick of her cloaked riding gown as she steps - and Jacaerys, moving to aid her movement; a small nod of appreciation towards him. 

After a moment’s breath, the horizon peeks from behind one small hill - and over its wildgrass, Jacaerys strains to find the familiar paint of bright pines that sway in gentle breeze; a floral kiss to the wind, one that lulls the pain in the base of his skull. 

“He’s never wandered far before,” Baela adds, brows drawn slightly, “He only ever eats fish. Perhaps the fishermen have lured him with their catch.” 

Though it would be thought rude to ignore such conversation, Jacaerys cannot help the ache that persists between his eyes - penetrating his mind, leaking in a dull numb throb that carries with each step he takes. From his mother, a nod. “A long way to go for a meal.” She decides, “Perhaps he’s waiting for you to find him.” 

At this, Baela sends the Queen a half-amused glance, aware of the Queen’s preoccupied state, falling into step with her among the swaying swish of weeds which spurt from volcanic soil; Jacaerys slows, his gaze drawn towards the view of the large stretching outer bailey of Dragonstone Castle. 

Such a dull throb in his head - and just there, over the final incline of mounded soil before the descent towards Wind Wyrm Tower: the twisted horns of the large Thorned Dragon statue peeking over the hill. 

Climbing and curling, those jagged gnarled roots black and sharp against the sky - his heart lurches at the sight, recalling the visit nearly a week ago; how it has not since left his mind, those sweet blooms and quiet idyl. 

The world churns around them - the days grow weary with council and strife and death - innocent death; of sons, of mothers and their daughters; the world chews itself over each night when the sun falls and spits out some new solemn omen of conflict upon the first breath of dawn. 

The world churns and Jacaerys’s head aches with the burden of fate; yet Aegon’s Garden rests in its eternal sanctum each day outside his chamber windows. It sings to his weary mind - empty and abundant, bursting over the horizon with green and pinked red, surpassed only by the horns of the Dragon. 

When his mother speaks once more, her own gaze is similarly absorbed with the hooked jags of iron in the distance. “Even when I was younger,” She muses, eyes wary, “It felt those horns grew from the earth itself. It has always been a rather unsettling part of the castle.” 

He can only blink in his memory as Baela humors his mother’s words with her own conversation; words of rot and decay, words which mix into the pot of swirling danger and skirmish; a tumultuous tumble into an ocean colder than that which swallowed his closest blood. And so he falls only a few footsteps behind the women, fighting some odd feeling that the very stone that holds in the garden had always been there, under the turn of soil, waiting for his ancestors to come. 

It is unseen - ever concealed by the stone wall and iron gates, though the Garden does indeed bloom wonderfully. Great clusters of flowers, creeping vines - heavy, but alive nonetheless. The garden, with its honeyed scent and chirping birds, cloying smiles and lingering laughter. 

You - the memory of you, striking a skip in his heartbeat; standing so lovely among the thick growth of blooms, just as inviting as the twisting trees in the distance, as the smiling red anemones which greet the path towards the hedges. 

He’s unsure why the words fall from his lips, though he takes no true effort to halt them as they surge. “The garden is well-tended,” he murmurs. His mother does not remove her sight from the tower ahead, where the Painted Table awaits their company. “Is it?” She wonders. 

He shifts as they begin the descent towards the Tower. “Yes. It’s not nearly as savage as tales have made it seem.”

Baela’s brows furrow, a flash of trepidation in her gaze that slides from his mother and back to his own visage. “You’ve been to the Garden?” 

And though there is no such lilt upon her tongue, there is a wariness - and then, some bristling defense which rises in his chest; his cheeks grow hot as he momentarily recalls that oddly calm grin, those stained fingertips, such wide eyes and lovely, glowing skin. 

“I… visited it a few nights past.” He’s unsure where his hesitance sprouts from, “I met the woman who keeps it.” 

A remote unease has grasped at his stomach, and so he allows no more information - Baela’s eyes have left the hedgeline that peeks over stone walls, her face twisted as she glances expectantly to his mother; waiting for words that do not come. 

His mother has instead set her eyes upon Maester Gerardys, who waits towards the tower’s entrance with a handful of scrolls; her lips are pressed thin, clearly preoccupied with less idle subjects. “-We’ve lingered in the skies too long,” His Queen mother decides as they cross into the yard, nodding as Houseworkers bow. “There are important matters to see. We must propose Ser Steffon.” 

Baela’s stare does not falter; a burning glare into the side of his gaze, a look of unease that brings some breath of irritation crawling through Jacaerys’s veins. 

A WALL OF GLOOM LINGERS IN THE SKY EARLY THE NEXT MORNING. 

Jacaerys does not shiver when his feet meet the cold stone of the chamber floors; instead, he presses palms to his visage, cheeks flushed and warm as he stares absently out the open casement, watching wind stir the pines that gather towards the open bailey below. 

A rare reprieve it is, to not have duties until the sun has reached its peak - and here he’s woken quite early in the day, enough so that the crawling fog has not yet retreated back across the stretch of sea; it lingers, whispering through the island, blanketing sound and licking up the stone walls at the base of the castle below. 

The day’s linen shirt is pressed and crisp; he begins to shed his sleepclothes, blinking away syrupy fatigue and the remnants of restless sleep.

A small burst of morning air calms the clamminess upon his skin, ambered gazes roving the hedgeline of Aegon’s Garden down below - a curling, beckoning respite this morning, when his mind is so dull and sharply pained at the base of his skull. Still lingers a headache that has persisted for days; his skin is bright against the dark morning within his mirror, sullen with the clouding consternation that seems to only grow each day. 

The man who stares back at him is weary, hallowed by the flare of danger that lies for Ser Steffon later in the day - to face the unfaceable, for one who is not a Dragonlord - the circle turns, a voice reminds him. 

Perhaps he will take Vermax out for a ride this morning, to clear his mind. The linen tunic obscures his gaze when he tugs it atop his head, soft against his fatigued skin; though in a flash of white and a startled blink, a sharp movement in the contours of Aegon’s Garden below is nearly missed. 

A flicker, some silhouette - and Jace’s body stills, breath caught in his throat as he tugs the tunic right, grasping at the fabric as he leans towards the sill. 

He could swear he saw…

And in a flicker around a stone replica of the Conqueror’s Throne, he sees it again - a flash of curled hair that catches the breeze, a blue doublet swallowed by the swirled thick of fog. His brows furrow.

Lashes tangle and kiss before his vision, and he raises a shaky hand to rub them - no, he must be mad. But after his hands fall away the figure is back, walking with such a familiar gait, young, slender - moving along a path of flickering roses and poppies which curl back to the earth as he passes them by. 

No. Jacaerys’s pulse quickens, heart rising to his throat; A sinking dread curls along his gut. 

Luke. 

And the wound so delicately healed is torn open in a sharp inhale of disbelief; of unforgiving skies, of jaws which opened and snapped quicker than a final breath - and Jacaerys is staggering back from the window, vision blurrier with each passing moment. 

A cruel, choking sorrow that spurs his limbs into action - a soft knock nearly ignored as his chamber door creaks open, a young handmaid bowing as she carries morning tea. 

His gaze is wide as a doe’s caught in the crosshair of an arrow - and she, floundering for a moment, bending at the waist to set down the tray. “My Prince-” 

“-No.” He snaps, voice harsh as panic races through his mind, “Leave. I-I don’t want it.” He hisses. 

She flinches just slightly as he brushes past her in a flurry; sheath, sword, and the rest of his daywear forgotten, he races through the tower, fingers clenching in a series of shaking gasps. 

It can’t be real. He reminds himself repeatedly as he storms past Houseworkers, tears pricking at his vision, breaths uneven, shallow. The wind pricks at his cheeks and pinks his nose when he breaches the threshold. It isn’t real.

But he must prove it for himself. 

And the iron gates give in to his palms easily, the damp morning dew slicking his hands as fog chokes the air with seabreath. His boots sink into soft earth as he stumbles through the winding path of the garden; eyes darting warily between tall rose bushes and poppies, sucking air into his lungs. Grief curls its slithering tail in the back of his mind, replacing the dull ache which once festered. 

The garden is silent. 

An oppressive, unwelcome silence, save for the rustle of leaves and a very distant call of gulls from the docks below. The blooms seem to still as they watch Jacaerys stumble past, vibrant colors peeking through the fog which creeps behind him; his footsteps falter until he stumbles into a small stone statue, palms curling around its base for support. 

He’s a fool for believing the tricks his eyes played upon him - though it does not make the hollow torment of loneliness ache any less. 

He affords a helpless slump against the statue, leaning towards the stone-carved skirts of what seems to be a maiden with a serpent curling upon her leg; a choked gasp from Jacaerys as he calms his breath, overwhelmed by his bout of childish beliefs. 

Lucerys is dead, he reminds himself, dead. Gone. 

…But he could have sworn he’d seen a boy walking through the path just on the other side of the Thorned Dragon. The stone under his palm is cold against the heat of his body; Only a moment before he takes in the visage of the statue before him. 

With a hitch in his sob, only few tears escape the trappings of his lashes; a sweet curve of cheek, soft jaw, stoned hair which frames a face weathered by time; some serene expression upon the carving that moves in the shifting light above him. 

His heart stutters for a moment - the face’s gentle smile, the arch of a brow - it looks rather familiar; Jacaerys shakes his head, pushing away the sudden tightness in his chest. 

Though uncanny, he supposes it is simply the result of a turned malady of the mind; he’s been thinking of you, seeing you everywhere in the days since you met. 

Intoxicating, you are - a melodic hum that whispers in the wind even when his cheek rests upon pillow; your eyes glinting in the faces of each Houseworker he passes - and how he, despite better judgment, searches each woman he sees with a foolish, desperate hope that it perhaps might be you. 

That he might speak with you again - learn more than just your name, coax that pretty smile onto your lips once again. 

And then, less permissible to admit is a more unseemly desire, one which he suppresses, knowing it is nothing more than restlessness in a war he is forbade to fight; in his dreams, your lips - wrapped salaciously around fig fruits, plucking each thread of his patience, fingers swiping up the sweet juice that drips down your chin and swiping those same fingers upon your tongue. The vision sends a sharp heat through his stomach, stirring some hunger deep within him that leaves him incredibly uneasy. 

It takes a moment to tear himself away from the lulling stone gaze of the statue - and more aimlessly now, with a mind numbed by the ambrosial breath of the Garden, of the lingering possibility of you, he wanders further along the path; pretending he doesn’t leer at any passing rustle with the hopes of glancing that familiar figure around every turn’s bend. 

The morning sun barely kisses over the tops of the hedges when Jacaerys finally finds himself back within the small courtyard of the Thorned Dragon; and there, for a few solitary minutes, he idly traces the vines that curl like serpents around the base stone of the statue, recalling how your own fingers had done the very same those days ago. 

Soft, dainty fingers - the ones which had cupped those purpling green fruits, peeled away to find the meaty flesh beneath; how your hand had fluttered so when he’d greeted you. 

That short hide-and-seek game you’d so unknowingly prompted - and then, at the end; A gaze sharp and minatory from behind the very edge he leans upon now, your hair cascading in tresses that blew in the breath of the garden. 

And when you’d come out from that shadow, skirts slithering and sliding with your glide to stand as awkward as a baby doe - your cheeks warmed and bashful, nothing in your eyes but some anxious interest. Sweet. Beautiful. Divine. 

His thoughts are lost with a distant humming deeper within the garden, one which tugs at his interest and his wariness alike - but when a sharp prick on the tip of his finger sends him a sting of pain, his hand jerks back from the plant. 

The motion drives his eyes in a glance to the upper hedgeline, where a figure stands in the hilltop’s distance - Maester Gerardys, watching with eyes sharper than beaks of ravens. 

He blinks back precariously, unsure why there swirls unease within him at the leering surveillance. A stir in his chest, an ice-cold whisper that fails to penetrate the warmth of soil and blooms around him. 

Jacaerys’s finger throbs, and he pulls his gaze away from the distant, watchful man; With a stare of surprise, he watches dark blood bead upon his fingertip - and the thorn, now smeared with that very same crimson. 

Instinctively, he sucks the blood from the throbbing finger, brows furrowing as if trying to recall some distant memory - though when he looks back, Maester Gerardys is gone. 

“Good morrow, my Prince.” 

He quells his startle with a sharp inhale, turning rather quickly to find the source of the shaded voice. 

His heart gives a traitorous leap when his eyes settle on you - a pale dress, your hair loose and beautiful around a gentle countenance; a deep flush upon his cheeks as his eyes settle over the soft skin awarded to his sore sight, at the sun dancing around your hair and off the skin of your chest. He emits a rather unreal laugh, one which falls fleetingly from his lips, his heart warm. 

He breathes out your name; it comes winded, breathless, eager as a greeting could be - and the sight of your shy tuck of tresses behind your ear makes his cheeks warm. 

“I’d not expected you to return so soon,” You observe - though your tone is so very kind, so pure  - he cannot help but smile back in full. 

There’s something deep inside him that has been awoken in the days past - a restless ache that stirs at your gentleness; Jacaerys yearns to somehow take it, protect it, keep it safe from anything that could harm you - as if doing so would silence the clawing talons of beastly desire within his chest. 

He takes a step forward and your eyes track his movements gently. 

“I suppose I found it hard to stay away from such beauty,” he replies with a heated visage, aware of that desperate rawness in his voice that denies the meager attempt at charm.

Though all the same: Your cheeks flush deliciously at his words, a bashful grin that tugs at your lips. 

In a momentary bout of his own shyness, he glances towards the soil below his feet - though it seems his mind truly is playing tricks on him this morn; as he glances away, he could swear your smile flashes some darkened grin in the swaying light. A startling sight, one which drops a pit through his stomach - but when he blinks back up to you, it is gone - and your seraphic face stares back at him, questioning. 

Had you asked him something? 

In a surge of embarrassment, he excuses himself - you do nothing but giggle, voice trilling and light as the clouds, as the wings of a hummingbird. 

You pace warily towards him, eyeing the bench; to which he eagerly gestures for you, pleased when you heed his invitation, both of you sitting as fog swirls around your ankles. 

For a moment, all is calm - the fog breathes in and out with your chest, and he finds himself transfixed on a thin line of puckered skin which traces its way up your arm; no more than a wisp, a meteor of light against the sky of your skin, silver and delicate as the hair of his kin. 

“I wonder what brings you here so early, Prince Jacaerys?” you muse, fingertips brushing along the folded pale purple petals that crawl up the stone bench out of the fog. 

A flash of skin, soft beneath the skirts of your dress as toes dig into the dark soil. He frowns, though your voice pulls him from the haze of absent thought. “Even the Morning Glories have not yet awoken from their slumber.” 

He is unsure how to answer your inquiry; he lets himself instead roam his gaze over the hedges, brows furrowing as he recalls what’d brought him to the garden in the first place. Fuzzy, the clouds of his thoughts float away from his tongue - and after a moment, his fingers grasp the bench below him, some distant hysteria churning in his chest.  

A morning glory is plucked between your fingers - he hears it like a snap in his mind, jolting his spine upright as he watches you lift the bloom to your nose; it has spread its flesh in the few moments since you’ve sat, and the soft petals paint your lips a sweet indigo as you press it against you in a small kiss. His chest stirs in affection. 

That face… so similar in its stony form just hedges behind him; and with a blink, he recalls the sight from his chamber window, of… unease leaks into his stomach. 

“Have you…” His lower lip is pinned by his teeth for a moment when you come to stare him back - visions of blue, of that gait moving sly between rows of roses, of those curls so similar to his very own. “Seen anyone, in the garden?” 

The words hang awkwardly between you for a few breaths - your head tilts, as though considering something very serious - and your eyes, wide and peculiar in the graying light of morning, staring at the flower in your hands. 

“Sometimes,” You decide almost ominously, lifting the flower once again to your nose. Sometimes - his brows furrow, unsure if you understood what he was asking; though with another shaky breath, he begins to speak again. “Well, perhaps I-” 

You speak once more, as if you don’t hear him - your voice in the sky, churning with the fresh soil beneath, blowing with the vines in the breeze.

 “-I had truly hoped you’d return, my Prince.” Your eyes leave the flower to blink owlishly into his own, and he’s once again rooted to the spot, lips pressing shut eagerly to hear your sweet cadence, watching the light dance in your shy smile. “I rather enjoy your company.” 

And his heart leaps once more, clearing his throat as the words previously leveled upon his tongue leave his mind. “You may call me Jacaerys, if you wish.” He insists, and then encouraged by the sight of your fluttered preen, the twitch of pleasure in your smile, he murmurs, “Or… Jace.” 

“WOULD YOU CARE TO WALK WITH ME, MY PRINCE?” 

Your voice this time is as bare as the day is long; a secret into the sunshine, dappled through tall breathing pines swaying above your head. 

It has only been a day since Jacaerys saw you last; one day, though he has told himself his visits to the Garden are nothing but an effort for solitude in a castle swimming with ears and eyes - a place to think, the garden steeps with quiet amity and the blooms admittedly offer a brightness upon the ever increasing gloom of life on the island. 

Though it is hard to deny that you certainly bring Jacaerys the most clarity. 

His smile is only eclipsed by the bright sun overhead - he means to offer you his arm to accompany you through the garden, though before he can, you’ve already turned and set off deeper into the maze of rose and poppy; your hand kissing over the soft petals that keen to your touch gently. 

Affection stirs in his chest as he watches you, striding to catch up as you whisper quietly to the blooms as if they are your oldest friends. 

And a moth to a flame; he falls astride with you easily, ducking his head just so as your quiet voice melodies with the hum of the garden. 

“The crows have set about their hiding games,” You muse - a peculiar girl you are, and his heart softens at the dazed look upon your face. “The weather has begun to turn.” An odd observation - perhaps he has been too preoccupied with efforts of war to notice such things, though the weather has remained relatively uniform in the last few moons. Your eyes drift to him briefly as you turn around a bend - “How fares the council - the Queen?” 

And he trips on a thickly gnarled root - it rots; dark and sooty, oozing with soiled blood of earth. A sharp exhale as he shakes his boot rid of the spiny thing, blinking back some vision of decay that rises from the ground, climbing tendrils up his legs, grasping for his neck and squeezing. 

A flicker in his mind of flames -  billowing up in angry plumes - and screams, agonizing wails as man and armor were claimed by Seasmoke’s ancient breath. His mother’s stare, the flames dancing in her very eyes as he tugged hard upon her sleeve, warning. 

“Getting more dire each passing day,” He murmurs; it is with surprise he looks at you, searching for some mirrored expression. He had not meant to say that, had not even meant to think it. His next inhale is marred by the scent of smoke and burning flesh; with a resist to retch upon the budding Chrysanthemums, he instead clears his throat, placing a calming grasp upon his pommel. 

You say nothing more on the matter, perhaps sensing his unease; the paths on the northern side of the garden begin to twist much sharper - he’s never ventured past the Thorned Dragon and it seems the fauna on this side seem to grow even more thick than the previous; thistles reach out to poke at his trousers, sticking to the skirts of your dress as you move, birds chirp faintly in the hedges, petals rain from lilac clusters higher than his brow. 

He is only pulled from the lulling trance of your hair in the sun when you stop short, his shoulder brushing into your own and sending him chills. 

A tree - gnarled, twisted and thick with time long since eaten; roots slither out, peeking from the earth with mossy, serpentine roots - and small, plump fruits hang from the lower branches that grow thicker than his arm. Jacaerys blinks in awe, a roll in his stomach at the ancient growth, how it provides a ring of thick shade against the sun. 

“What-” He starts, brows lowered over his lashes - it is much too grand a tree to have escaped his notice all the years he’s resided on the island. “I was unaware such a tree grew here.” 

You let out a fluttered laugh, tilting your head. “How do you suspect the maesters and cooks get their oil?” 

From Dorne, his mind answers - but you’ve begun to pace towards the massive olive tree, turning to gaze at him with a rather irresistible glance. “Would you care to lie beneath it with me?” You wonder, suddenly that very same doe-eyed woman he’d met days ago for the first time - upon uneven feet you sway shyly, “I often come here when I need to think.” 

Something tugs the back of his mind, but before he can consider it, he’s stepping forward to follow you under the shade of the sprawling branches. 

The sunlight is even more dappled and muted under olive leaves; the scent is earthy, warm. And slowly, you lie beside him; his body hums with your presence - reduced to some greenboy, heart hammering when your dress skirts ride up just so, providing him a quick glance over smoothed skin marred only with the fresh dirt below you. 

The limbs twist above him; the warmth of the day seeps slowly from the earth and rises equally from the roots which pillow his head and your own. A bird flies in the sky above your heads, hidden by the leaves; he wonders rather ashamedly what he should be doing, if the Housestaff searches for him - he’d skipped training in the yard this afternoon to search for you, though he knows he will have to attend council this eve - there are much dire consequences to face in the wake of Ser Steffon’s death. 

He’s never seen an olive tree quite so large, so alive; in King’s Landing, the road to the Dragon Pit is lined with smaller trees boasting the fruits - though none are so magnificent as this. The memory mars his mind with visions of a future in King’s Landing: boasting banners of black and red, the throne rightly holding his own seat - a far future, where his mother won and has ruled long, peaceful years. A future where his crown is no longer stained with the blood of kin, but restored to its shined, cleansed beginnings. 

A stab in his gut at that thought of after - when the war may be won, but legitimacy remains a shackle that drags him down; which looms within the plagues of his thought-addled mind. A shadow of whispered murmurs his whole life - of Strong blood. 

Some wash of fear - the first of its kind in his heart, at the thought of King’s Landing - of his mother’s legacy, of his own. And you - why does his heart beat with a slow jaunt of dread at the thought of leaving the castle, the garden, you - behind one day?   

It is a disquieting observation as the limbs of the olive tree shift above him. It is my birthright, he reminds himself, and the cycle turns. I will be King, as my mother is Queen before me. 

You shift in his peripheral - perhaps turning your head to look at him, admiring the lined and contours upon his face as he’s done many times past to you - and then your soft voice breaks his reveries.

“Do you ever fear leaving?” 

Ice trickles down his spine at your words. 

With a start, his alarmed gaze bores into one decaying leaf that shakes trepidatiously on a near branch. An eerie accuracy, your words burrow into his chest - and a penetrating thought, one odd and unexpected - as if souls could be made of material; his, soil and yours a seed. 

He must look startled - though your own stare is not upon him but the roots which rise, waves over the earthed ocean you rock gently upon. 

Your fingers pluck figs from a pile that lies beside you; he hadn’t noticed them before - but as his eyes trace the sweet curve of the fruit in your palm, their scent greets his senses with a syrupy hunger. 

His stomach, empty save for his morning tea and broken fast hours before, rumbles in interest at the plump figs - you must notice, as your lips curl into some secretive simper. 

“Where do you get those?” He wonders aloud; in lieu of an answer, you prop yourself upon dainty elbows - this angle provides him ample view of your breasts, sheened with a calm haze of glow despite the respite of shade - he averts his eyes instead to the slope of your nose, the stain dark upon your lips like wine. 

Gods, he thinks - the thoughts he harbors would stop the Septas in their very tracks. 

His attention flutters back to you as you let out a breathy sigh, one that sends warmth through his heart and causes him to clench clammy palms. 

“The crows fly when the season shifts, you know.” you hum, “I like to watch them.” 

An odd sensation then, as the wind blows your hair from your neck; a glowing breath in his chest, affected by the innocence of your words, so very different from the potent words so often levied to him these days. 

In a dreary moment, he strains to recall the last time he and his mother held a conversation that did not have to do with the Greens or dragons; lips so often cracked with the duty of battle, though he is prohibited even from that effort.  

A thick swallow, a lonely feeling - but despite this he feels suddenly very warm when he takes in your lounged form, enjoying a fig gently, eyes trained on the statue opposite the garden from your bodies. 

Two lovers, entwined in what looks like a final embrace - a man, muscular and stern, holding the lovely curves of a woman in his arm - with an arrow lodged within the stoned tissue of his shoulder and one lodged through his throat; she, with one through her own heart. 

He blinks back to you as your voice murmurs again, this time closer - you’ve dragged yourself down to his own level once more, dirt imbuing your frilled dress - you pay the mess no mind, and it simply endears you to him more. “Do you ever think about it? Leaving?” 

Your tone recalls his mind from the clouds. He frowns once more, wetting his lips; in a bout of fluttered heartbeats, he pretends not to notice your eyes track the motion. 

A shaky swallow from him, uneasy with the way your words effortlessly penetrate his very thoughts; The wind blows, you puff air similarly through your pouted lips. Does he think about leaving? How indeed would he not consider it? 

All his life he has prepared for such ascension, though long distant - as Prince of Dragonstone, he’d lord over this very island for many years before leaving for his birthright when the time strikes. It is not a thought he’d openly admit under considerable company; but your eyes, wide and willing, wait for him with a gleaming stare. He would never refuse such alluring companionship. 

“I suppose,” He admits, craning his head to search your eyes - how inviting, open they are - as if you’ve known him for a long life. His lips purse and he finds himself rather pleased to see your eyes flicker low once more with the motion. 

“-Perhaps I grow weary with our efforts in the trials to come.” He sighs, wondering if the words he mutters make any semblance of sense. “I think of it - when I…” He trails off, staring at the gleaming dark of your pupils, swayed as the branches above him as he leans closer. “When I worry mother does not trust me, and the Lords at her council see me as just a boy.” 

A pit in his stomach at such veracious words; though you simply tilt your head, eager to listen - and that loneliness fades, some warmth budding in his heart. 

It spurs some kick of confidence within Jacaerys, that small effort of interest, of empathy - and he is easily melted into your doting nods, the gentle swirl of your fingertips aimlessly spelling letters into the dirt below. “I do think about leaving the island. It’s my birthright,” He murmurs - a flash in your eyes at his words, though he pays little mind as his thoughts trail off, recalling the young servant he’d dismissed quite bluntly the day before. He wonders, in a bout of uncomfortable insecurity, if she resents him for it; if she remains elsewhere in the castle, whispering to others about the unkind Prince of Dragonstone and his loutish disposition.

“Well you must know, the smallfolk here adore you.” A peculiar subject you choose - a nagging alarm that pulses in the back of his mind at your brows, drawn low even over such sweet a face as if you try hard to hide some deeper expression. 

It is a chilling thing, no matter how sweet, that you seem to always read between the words he chooses not to say. 

“You’re their Prince. The King Who Will Be.” 

It is not a title he’s heard, of the many written of him by courtly gossip or maester’s handscribes over the years; The King Who Will Be - shivers cascade down the line of his back, settling an uneasy churn within his gut. Jacaerys sends a lift of a brow as he turns to look at you once more, though words die upon his tongue as he takes you in - an almost discomposed stretch to your smile, some momentary flash of a rather bitter flicker before your visage resumes, warm and full. 

He blinks away surprise, watching as your nails pick at the skin of a smaller fig. Jacaerys shifts on the ground, feeling a tug of unease. “Do they?” He wonders anyways, eager to melt your suddenly cold disposition back into the fluid gentleness of your kind nature. 

Your breath is short as your fingers stop their motions, your gaze flickering to his - your hair is haloed around you, a leaf tangled in one of your wild tresses. “I do.” 

Rather pleased, Jacaerys sends you a smile unbounded, and with a tentative lift of his fingers, he’s plucking the leaf from your hair. 

“You’re not the Smallfolk.” He counters; you simply laugh, that fountain of bubbled giggles which send his heart clenching as you shake your head. 

“Well, Jacaerys, I have always found you admirable.” Your tone is chilled; it arrests him, the fleeting drop of your smile, the reflection of memory which swims in your gaze as you pin him to the soil with your stare. Always. 

You hum, as if confirming his inner thoughts, and then bite into a fig slowly - Jacaerys is transfixed upon your pouted slips, slick with the sweet essence of fruit, of kindness, of you. 

It is only moments, though he seems to have forgotten himself - blank-minded, he resists the urge to reach out to you, to cup your cheeks, to run his palm over the smooth of your skin, to feel the heart he imagines beats so kindly under your breast. 

A bird chirps in the sky and this arbitrarily reminds Jacaerys of the world; the world, which turns outside the walls of Aegon’s Garden. The world of responsibilities which pile up upon his plate stacked much too high, of the dread which drips slow from the flagon of fate with each day past - that nagging insecurity in the back of his mind, the burden of loss, the absence he’s begun to feel shifting each moment he speaks with his own mother-

“I saw a man die yesterday.” 

He blurts it suddenly, the weight of grief forcing words out from his tongue. He once again does not intend to say it; and at the sentence, your features creep in some morbid interest. Unnerved, he swallows thickly and your lips puff out a small coo, turning upon your side as a cat lounges under the sun. 

The glint in your eye is easily tamped out by sympathy, dripping from your expression. Your brows are furrowed in some desperate display of empathy, though the pits of your widened pupils arrest his breath. 

“Death is a heavy burden to carry.” You say rather softly. A simple observation, though it strikes his heart - it is with an effort he strains to recall the last time someone cared to truly listen to his troubles at all. 

He swallows thickly, unsure why tears threaten to gather upon his eyeline; in lieu of his response, and as if you can feel the sudden inclination of his heartbeat, your smile drops, soon visage cooler than the shade under which you repose.

 “Are you afraid of it?” 

He’s taken aback by your question, but only momentarily. “Death?” He confirms - and after your small inquisitive nod, he tilts his head in small jest, squinting one eye against the dappled sunlight leaking through threads of leaves above as he grins. “-Are you not, my Lady?” 

You bite your lip as you always do when he calls you my lady - though fleetingly, a far-off inkling wonders if the effort is not to conceal some shyness, but rather in repression of some vicious laughter. You sigh, then - and you’re so very divine in such an action, with dancing eyes and skirts that slither like serpents in the felled leaves. “I’m afraid I don’t think much about anything outside of this garden, Jacaerys.” 

Some dull desire, perhaps pathetic on his part; but a need nonetheless to know you, to have you know him, spurs his own lilted laugh, hoping you do not recognize his obvious play for your favor. “Nothing else?” He wonders - and it is pushing limits, he knows; rather improper, to act such a way with a lower born girls, and outside of a betrothal - though he cannot bring himself to stop such salacious desires. There is no harm, he decides - there are more important things to be concerned with these days than a Prince in an old garden with a lowerborn girl. 

You’re pleased with his chiding - a flush upon your cheeks, your eyes flicker in interest and something deeper still - “Few things.” You mend with a grin of your own. 

For a moment it is quiet - a peaceful kind, where his heart slams against his chest; There is a bush of forget-me-nots near the ancient olive tree - though they wither and curl, browned by some otherworldly decaying whisper that overtakes any chance of sunlight that might reach them. 

It is odd, how the shade seems to shift with each breath he takes, how the sun warps in the sky - and the earth so moist and fresh under his back, though each time he exits the garden, his boots render immaculately spotless. 

Vines slither over the pathways in this part of the garden; marred by some odd moss that he’d not before seen on the island. “The maesters spoke of Aegon’s Garden when I was young.” His words fall from his lips unbidden, but you seem not to mind. “They believe the soil made the smallfolk sick, that any plant growing within was poisoned.” His brows furrow at such an odd thought, “That it was…damned.” 

At this, you laugh - though there is a piercing sharpness to it that nearly blinds him as his head-ache returns suddenly. His wince is missed by you, as your eyes momentarily flick to the castle - some vicious fervor that dissipates when you turn back to him. “Foolish gossip.” You nearly snap, looking rather upset. “Some may do well to remember how harmful rumors can become.” 

In a moment of regret, he leans upon one elbow, brows furrowing - your eyes have clouded with the passing of clouds over the sun high above; A murmur of your name from his lips as he reaches for you and hesitates. 

He murmurs your name once more, tilting his head and leaning closer to your sweet scent.  “I meant it as no insult.” 

Your lips twist before relaxing, letting out a short breath as you give in, glancing with wettened eyes to him once more. “Men are always quite afraid of what they don’t understand.” 

-Are you afraid of it?-  Your voice lingers a small whisper in the back of his mind; something rather odd about how you know so much and yet nothing truly at all - a wisdom beyond your years. 

And you’re so beautiful, even when blinking away tears; some distant paradise comes to mind at such a sight, though the thought is curbed at your face shifts once more, a sigh echoing with the rustling of leaves dropping from the olive tree above. 

The figs are once more in your palms - and with a growing hunger within his own chest and stomach, he lounges and watches you, if only for a few moments; your lips are plush and shined by the blood of the fruit, and when you tilt your head back, an expanse of soft skin stretches in breath of sunlight. 

And perhaps it will be his downfall one day - but Jacaerys suddenly embraces that searing, reckless impulse; before he can think better of it, he leans down to where you lie upon a gnarled root - and kisses you. 

Pleasure rushes through him. 

A wild thrill that suspends him high into nothingness - a freezing chill, rushing a shiver down his spine when you press so eagerly to him. 

You taste of honey and something forbidden; a wild flavor, one sweetened by the nectar of the gods and your sighs as fingers - icicles - shard their way upon his nape, holding him to you, deepening the kiss in a strangely yearning fervor. with a curl of affection, some intoxicated hunger that has leaked into his mind at the taste of your lips; is it the fruit, he wonders numbly - the fruit, which makes you so divinely enticing? 

And, in an even more debauched thought: Do you taste so sweet everywhere? Shame does not dare lick at his conscience when you are so soft and desiring beneath him - he yearns instead to discover for himself one day, to taste your divinity upon his tongue, feel the puffs of your gasped breath, the smile that paints your features so beautifully against the hollow of his throat. 

He dares not pull away, drawn much too heavily by your sweetness; as if somehow, pressing you into the earth, you might lurch up to consume him in your gentle breaths as a sprout does in soil after a warm sun. 

And you slither beneath him - loose, though sharply tight in your grasp of him, coaxing a thrill through his gut at the way your teeth graze his own bottom lip; a shiver of chills through him as one leg presses against your own, cool under the shade. 

Your eyelashes, fluttering like the kiss of petals upon the apple of your cheeks as you eagerly press your icy lips to his own - a touch marred by the shakiness of perhaps a first kiss; though from the sly prod of your tongue against his own, he begins to doubt even that. 

It is not until you let out a soft noise - no more than a breathy moan, that he jolts back into reality, pulling away sharply from where he’s leant - elbows digging into the soft soil - to press his lips so voraciously against yours. 

His eyes are blown wide as he pulls away just so - and with a newfound deep chill that has settled oddly right into his very bones. 

His breathing puffs out ragged as he leans back further, rather embarrassed by his tenacity as you seem bashful but otherwise unbothered; and his clear arousal, which grows by the moment painting his cheeks a crimson.

The pricked finger of yesterday’s vine begins to throb so very dully - but you’re smiling a heated smile at him, leaning closer to chase his warmth. 

Indeed you are cooler here in the shade - goosepimples ridge his arms and legs below cotton clothing; and along the nape of his neck your fingers gently kiss, eyeing him with some coy hunger that nearly doubles his unease and arousal alike. Your lips, icicles - the snowcaps that peek from cloudy Northern skies aflight Vermax, the whispering winds that shoot off the steep crooks of the Dragonmont during a storm. 

He nearly wonders if you are sick - a chill so sudden is cause for concern well in the recess of summer yet; though your visage shifts beneath his attentive gaze and he is struck immediately thoughtless, wordless. 

You beam. 

A smile so similar to the one you’d shown him the very day you first met; bright, incredibly wide, glinting almost mischievously in your eyes, but yet so endearing - as though it has been quite some time since you smiled last. 

And with the breath stolen from his lungs, he smiles back. 

For a moment, he wonders if he will remember to speak ever again; and with floundering lips, he watches as you shift to sit up just slightly, brushing invisible specs of dirt from your thighs with some practiced knowledge. 

He nearly finds words - some poor attempt at apology for being so unchivalrous and forward - but all at once, a flash of motion startles him backward. 

A giggle is sharp in his mind, and that flash of pain between his eyes flares before disappearing; before him, perched upon your lap precariously and rubbing itself against your breast, is… 

A cat. 

You stroke its fur as it opens its mouth, as if to mewl - yet nothing but some small squeak yields, and you shush it gently with delicate pats behind its ears. 

Jacaerys is struck cold, eyes locked on the little beast - a thud of familiarity that trickles through his muddled mind as its purrs echo out in the very same throbbing rhythm of his finger. A glance to his hands provides nothing but a short respite from the befuddlement that has shrouded his thoughts. 

“Isn’t he so sweet?” You muse, flicking your gaze from the cat to Jacaerys. 

Your stare strikes him - dreamlike, though with that glint that he sometimes wonders if you try to hide - and he swallows thickly, nodding. 

A hand trickled with veins against tanned skin; he reaches out to stroke the small thing. 

Though at the motion, the cat’s tail thickens in alarm - a sharp snarled hiss snapping from its maw as it rounds to him defensively. 

With a jolt back, he stares at the creature, heart pounding in some odd recognition when its cold eyes glint at his. 

“Oh,” You frown in a small, desolate flicker of sadness. “Jacaerys, I am sorry about him. He’s still learning the rules here.” You tut towards the cat, shaking your head. 

A faint alarm rings in his mind, though he’s always had a slight distaste for cats; Lucerys was allergic, and oft would swell like a ripe tomato when one of the strays found their chambers as boys. “You must be hungry, darling,” You whisper to the little black thing, petting softly as it curls into your lap. 

He can only stare as you tear a piece of the very fruit you’d previously bitten into before Jace lost his resolve - and the cat lurches towards it, tearing at it as if it were some prey. 

More bizarre a sight is how you watch on with a nearly transfixed hunger, your eyes flickering with the falling leaves - Jacaerys stares at you with parted lips, bemused and yet genuinely disturbed at your sweet disposition as the bloodthirsty beast in your lap thrashes. 

“They’re so delicious, even he can’t resist.” You giggle, eyes nearly raving in size and focus as the cat tears at the fruit, biting even at your fingers, though you do not seem bothered by such ferocity. There is, perhaps, some kind of beauty he can find in violence. “They’re all he eats. Isn’t that amusing?” You giggle once more. 

It is, he murmurs - though he’s unsure if it is in his head or through his lips; and you pay him little mind besides the knee of yours which presses just so gently, a kiss of butterfly’s wings, against his thigh. 

Your head snaps towards his visage after a sharp breath that startles him from his trance; He’s struck with that same freezing arrest when your eyes bore into his own, reading his mind as you so oft tend to, and smiling so very sweetly, “What shall we name him, Jace?” 

Your voice is grounding, though Jacaerys has been struck with some curling alarm - what has he done, kissing a girl below his station just for the whim of it? 

What would his mother say, if she saw him spilling his thoughts to you, laughing with you, fraternizing with you - tainting you so with his kiss, marring your innocuous disposition, though he can offer no promises along with his company, nor his embrace? 

Where has his pride taken him - willing so easily to act upon each of his basest desires, simply to fill the growing void of disconnect with his family within the castle? Simply because a woman is here, and kind, and caring; simply because it is you? 

In your face, there is no turmoil; a gentle calm, some stoicism that brings his heart back to a normal pace, though it skips a beat when you smile at him. 

“I’m thinking…Shadow,” You hum, watching the cat trail away, tail curling around the stalk of the bark and disappearing into the shrubs once more. 

He’s pulled from his wallowing, watching the distinct pace of the cat disappear, fingers tingling, heart thumping. “Very fitting.” He decides absently, staring at the dark shade through which the creature has slithered away to. 

The name feels ominous, nearly familiar on his tongue - and with a swallow, he nods. “Shadow,” he repeats into the breeze of day. 

Quite a curious name.

translations: sȳndor - shadow. taglist/moots: @softspiderling @lukehughes43 @rhea-ripley @dipperscavern @useralba @writtenapoiogy @fyrewept @oldtowrs @bryscorner @chloe-petrichors @jottositto @solavita @earth4angels @benjinotes @divinesolas @hxtd @astrxq @housetargaryenloyalist @bucksplum @v3lary0ns @princessvelaryon @princessbellecerise @still-jon-snow @cregnstark @vee-mage @elaena-aerrin @mckennah123 @xxselenite @smurfelle @alyssa-dayne @uhnanix @house-celtigar @ficlovegirlie @cregan-starks @manhandlememando @inkandarsenic

[atomicradiogirl]

here are my favorite quotes from dune messiah cause frank herbert cooked so hard

“save your praise for those who can be swayed by it”

“beloved,” she whispered. “have i troubled you?” her arms enclosed his future as they enclosed him. “not you,” he said. “oh… not you.”

“paul saw the moon become an elongated sphere. it rolled and twisted, hissing — the terrible hissing of a star being quenched in an infinite sea. it was gone. no moon. the earth quaked like an animal shaking its skin.”

“the flesh surrenders itself. eternity takes back its own.”

“they’ve blinded my body, but not my vision”

“awakening, she’d found paul sitting beside her, his eyeless sockets aimed at some formless place beyond. chani stilled a fit of trembling when he aimed those eyeless sockets at her.”

“i was baptized in sand and it cost me the knack of believing. who trades in faiths anymore? who’ll buy? who’ll sell?”

“we have eternity, beloved.” “you may have eternity. i only have now.” “but this is eternity.”

“he felt his body through her touch: dead flesh carried by time eddies. he reeked of memories that had glimpsed eternity. Past and Future became simultaneous.”

“you cannot see!” “i don’t need eyes to see you.”

“if you need something to worship, then worship life—all life, every last crawling bit of it! we’re all in this beauty together!”

“this myth he’d made out of intricate movements and imagination, out of moonlight and love, out of prayers older than Adam, and gray cliffs and crimson shadows, laments and rivers of martyrs—what had it come to at last? when the waves receded, the shores of Time would spread out there clean, empty, shining with infinite grains of memory and little else. was this the golden genesis of man?”

“there are problems in this universe for which there are no answers.”

“people are subordinate to government, but the ruled influence the rulers.”

“he is the fool saint, the golden stranger living forever on the edge of reason.”

[babybatss-blog]

EUPHORIA

Link (TOTK) x f!reader, 700 words

Summary: Your dancing at the stable drives Link to a strange realisation.

Cw: written from 3rd persons pov, therefore y/n is used lots. Implied mental health issues in reader.

A picture-perfect serenity, with smoke bellowing out the nose of a cartoonish horse shaped tent, adorned with colourful reds and blues and purples of cloth flowing throughout where Y/n and Link are tonight. This scenic location appears to be the pure definition of stillness, the only sound being the rushing water in a river and the crickets chirping in the grass.

That is until you get closer, and suddenly the true reality unveils itself.

A cacophony of sounds is heard, such as guitar, singing and laughter, displaying happiness between the party of unlikely friends. At New Serene Stable the full moon is high as the many guests gather around singing folk songs passed down through generations of Hyrule, some even Link knows from his 100 years in the past. Link sit’s next to y/n at the campfire, listening to her angelic singing in a choir with the others.

“The seas are calm and blue, so welcoming anew.

The sky a piece of pie, soft and warm tonight.

The captain soars off in his boat its as if he can fly!”

This song invokes a weak memory within Link, a vision of the past where his father sang the very song to him in his tiny bed. It was made of straw, but he slept peacefully after hearing the soothing voice. Y/n on the other hand, remembers it in a very different way. Her classmates would go to the beach and scream the song at the top of their lungs to the boats passing by, giggling and doing cartwheels on the scorching sand. She sometimes wished that she could be a sailor herself, escaping towards a new adventure across the hypnotising ocean.

“The chef cooks up a storm, its tasty in this form.

Its lettuce tastes like water and without it you’re forlorn!”

One old man claps to the beat, swaying with a wide smile. Y/n immediately joins in with the others, an enthusiastic clap coming from them. Link subtly turns towards Y/n, noticing the twinkle in her eyes due to the campfire and pure joy collectively. A thought crosses his mind on how he wishes to see them in this state a million times again, but he pushes it away due to the pit quickly forming in his stomach.

Y/n leans towards Link whispering in his ear intimately. “You don’t know the words?” She asks, seeing a nervous smile appear on his face. “I know the words. I just, don’t like to sing.” He admits. She giggles at his embarrassment, half shocked and half endeared by this confession. They are so different, but also so intertwined in each other. Suddenly, she stands up along with a couple of little kids, who hold hands around the campfire. Y/n turns over her shoulder to look at Link, a grin on her face. “Join us?” He fervently shakes his head in response, seemingly repulsed by the idea. Y/n merely laughs, beginning to spin with the kids to the words resounding in the stable.

“Oh my Hylia said to me, this is where your meant to be.

A captain, chef, and a happy team all like a family!”

Y/n soon feels dizzy, hand in hand with ecstatic children that run around like monkeys. Despite this, her laughter is resounding, a brown skirt flowing in her movements. Truthfully, no matter how happy she is she wishes that Link would join her. Her eyes lock with his momentarily as she stands opposite from him, and some strange moment of connection ensues. She sees him as the nervous child too scared to make a move, and he sees her as the woman hiding away a deep seeding pain within. But they also see a beauty, one that they would never see in themselves but should as it shows their true selves.

And Link wonders… Why is this woman so perfect? Her hair flowing, her cheeks blushed and teeth shining are the definition of unadulterated joy, something he craves forever more.

Is this… Love?

[pickledonyun]

𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙣𝙤𝙬, 𝙄 𝙖𝙢 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙛𝙖𝙡𝙡 - 𝘫𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘶𝘯𝘩𝘰

genre: sad... fluff? (please read the synopsis!)

pairing: gn death!reader x knight!yunho

warnings: mentions of death, blood, war. sort of major character death but also ghosts are a thing so it's not too sad I promise

summary: you are death, come to reap the soul of a pure-hearted knight. you're gentle with him as he goes.

word count: 748

a/n: this is the shortest piece I've ever written??? I didn't know how to describe the genre but my sister told me it was adorable so here's to that. it is inspired by the painting in the banner, but I have no idea whose work it is. if you do, let me know so I can credit them!! hope you enjoy xx

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

a warrior lays in the grass, his armor cold and still amidst a swaying sea of green and yellow and red. he is motionless as a stone, his body smeared with war. flowers stretch up towards the sky around him, desperate, drinking in all of that warm golden sunlight. there is silence aside from the wind and the cicadas. 

you know it; nectar and a bed of poppies for a tired knight.

you’ll paint it if the gods ever let you. 

“you can’t sit with him forever.” jongho says. “you’ll scare him. his soul will stay put if you do.”

“let it.” you respond, knees pulled to your chest. “let him rest a little while longer.” 

“you’re not very good at being death.” jongho observes. he’s not there, but his presence is. his voice. it wraps around you and ruffles your hair in the way that wind does. the way jongho does, because he is wind. 

you don’t bristle. Instead you let the soft breeze kiss your skin, let the cerulean sky settle on you. “so i’ve been told.” you say. your voice is quiet and gentle in the way that good deaths are. this boy, this knight was never made for war. you can see it in the air that surrounds him, the shimmer of energy. you reach forward, brush your fingertips across the knight’s armet, and then you tug it upwards. 

he is beautiful in his expiration. full face and thick eyelashes– rows of them that lay against his cheeks. he would look like he was sleeping if it were not for the unnatural blue color of his lips. an uncomfortable feeling tugs at your chest, right where your heart would be if you had one. 

“i did not want to take you at first,” you tell him, armet cradled in your lap, “but i think your heart is too good for war, and war gave me little choice.”

the knight’s hair shifts, falling delicately across his eyes, and you can almost see it– the faint apparition of jongho as he ruffles his fingers through the brunette tresses. jongho always does that to things he is fond of. 

“let him go.” jongho says.

you shake your head. this boy’s heart, which is pure and rare and precious, has known very little peace in its life. you will let him lie until his soul is ready to go on its own. 

it takes several hours for it to happen. the sun has dipped beneath the horizon, and the last of the light has given way to moondark. but he shimmers, blue and beautiful and made up of all the good things, all the pretty things. he is there but he is not, dressed up in a tunic and slacks, and you know that this version of him never saw battle.

“i did not think death would be patient.” he says, and his voice is gentle. soft. too good, you selfishly think, for life.

you–death– extend a hand. “come, yunho.” you say, “let me take you home.”

yunho’s fingers are warm when they brush yours. his ghost is warm as it was in life, and his skin returns slowly to its natural tone, the blue fading away beneath the light of the moon. “i want to say goodbye.” 

it never gets easier seeing someone bid their body farewell. yunho doesn’t let go of your hand as he ponders it, the breeze in his hair, the preternatural stillness of his diaphragm. “i thought i would feel scared, but…”

“death has no hold on those who can not know it.” you respond. 

yunho bows his head in reverence to his body, the very home of his soul for the past twenty four years of his life, and he thanks it. thank you, and i am sorry for not loving you more, he says, though you pretend not to hear it. 

you stay a while, and then yunho turns and he looks death in the eye. “I’m ready.” 

the afterlife welcomes yunho, gates flung wide, and there is celebration. 

“why are they celebrating?” yunho asks, tentative as a thousand or more souls reach for him. you recognize them, those good things-- a pirate and a healer and a widow and a cellist. they know him, though he does not know them. “i didn’t do anything to deserve it.”

“you were a good soldier.” you respond. 

 the confusion in his voice is tangible. “i never killed anyone.”

you just smile at him. 

[monster-disaster]

[lion rakshasa] Dain

lion rakshasa!Dain x human!Reader Good to know: smut

Summary: Dain needs a massage.

With a sigh, you open the door to let the warm breeze run through the small cabin. The scent of oils, candles, and cleaning supplies mix with the dry smell of the night. The rush of air caresses your cheeks and plays with your hair as you lean against the door jamb. You cross your arms in front of your chest. Your gaze wanders over the view of the resort.

The other cabins around you are closed. Their windows are dark. You are not surprised, though. It's already late, and you feel the tiredness in your bones and the soreness in your muscles. You almost laugh. You could kill for a massage. Rolling your shoulders, you straighten your posture. The familiar throbbing between your legs is almost painful, and you wish for nothing more but a warm bath and your comfortable bed.

Lush greens and colorful flowers bloom on the side of the road, leading to the pools on your left side. There is a small waterfall that falls from one to the other. The sound is relaxing and seems loud in the silence. The crystal-clear water sparkles under the silvery glow of the moon. Your gaze moves up to the sky, pausing on the glinting stars before dropping on the hotel nearby. Light filters through a few windows. One side of the building is covered with greenery. You can barely see the sand-colored wall underneath the leaves, waving in the rhythm of the wind.

And behind everything, there is the desert with its ever-changing form. Under the cover of the night sky and the stars' gentle glow, the endless sea of sand spreads out as far as the eyes can see. It looks like it melts into the darkness at the horizon. In the distance, grand dunes emerge from the ground with elegant edges and slopes.

"Hey!" A deep voice breaks the silence, and you almost jump from the surprise. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to frighten you. You are the masseur, right?" You smile and shake your head. "It's fine," you tell him. "You are Dain, I hope?" He nods, and you step away from the door to let him in.

The male is burly, even for a lion rakshasa. His mane is a few shades darker than the fur covering his body. He is a mix of muscles and fat. His shoulders are broad, but a slight belly is bulging under the white towel around his waist. The fabric stretches around his trunk-like thighs.

He looks good. He definitely looks good.

You close the door behind you with a soft click.

"You can take off the towel if you want to," you tell him. "And lay down on the table." The male grunts, and with a quick tug, he takes off the towel and puts it on a chair nearby. You can see the muscles of his thighs working as he moves. His tail sways to the side in a gentle rhythm. Your eyes are glued to the hard flesh of his bottom as he lies on his stomach on the massage table. "It won't break under me, right?" He asks. His voice is muffled. "No," you assure him. "You will be fine, I promise."

As you start to work, the soothing scent of the oils you use fills your nostrils. The inside of the massage cabin is covered in an orange hue from the candles. Small flames dance on top of them. The dim light makes the color of his fur darker. They are soft under your hands. His tail still sways left and right, and from time to time, you can hear a deep purr rumbling out of his chest. You can feel it in your core.

Using your body weight, with the heel of your hands, you stroke down the line of his spine until you reach his tail. You knead the hard muscles of his back, changing the motion of your hands every now and again as you watch his reactions. Dain's breathing is calm and even, and slowly but surely, you can feel him relax under you. You circle your thumbs on his shoulder blades, going up to his shoulders. Your fingers dig into him, finding every nerve and knot on your way. When you are done with his upper body, you move to his legs, using your thumb to massage and rub his muscles. "I'm sorry," he grunts when his tail curls around your arm for the second time. You let yourself laugh a little. "It's fine." Your finger slides over his tail, reaching the base. You are careful and gentle as you stroke it. He jumps at the sudden contact but doesn't move to get away. Another rumble breaks through his chest. "Is it good?" You ask him. "Yeah," he grunts. "But it starts to hurt." For a second, you panic, letting go of his tail immediately. "I'm sorry," you gasp. Dain shakes his head. "Not that," he replies, turning to the side, then onto his back. "That." "Oh."

Oh.

A lazy smirk pulls on your lips at the sight. Dain's hard cock bobs as he moves. He is thick and wet from the pre-cum that slips down his shaft. A drop follows the line of a vein on the side of his cock. His balls are heavy between his legs.

You continue your session. Moving from Dain's legs to his upper body, you work on his muscles, letting him relax and enjoy the silence. Your gaze lands on his erection every now and again, but you don't make a move yet. You tease him and massage him all over.

His eyes are closed. An amused smile plays on his lips. "You are the devil." His voice is hoarse. "Am I?" You grin, smoothing your palms down his chest. His fur shines under the dim lights with the lotion you used on him. His cock jerks when your fingers brush the base. Another drop of pre-cum drops down his shaft. "Gods, woman!" Dain groans. You laugh but decide to have mercy on him. He was still more patient than most of your guests.

Your fingers curl around the base of his shaft, squeezing the flesh softly. A low groan echoes off the walls, and you can feel him twitching under your hold. Dain is warm and soft under your palm. The lotion and his pre-cum mix as you move up. Your other hand rests on his thigh. His muscles are tense with anticipation. You feel it too. Need burns your insides as you pump his shaft lazily. You use your thumb to smear his juices even more on his cock, following the thick vein on the side up to the head. Your nail grazes the sensitive skin. The rakshasa shudders under you. His breathing is labored. "Are you sure you are not a cat?" He asks with humor in his voice. "You play with my cock like a new toy." You grin, leaning closer. The air escaping your lips is warm on Dain's erection. "But it is my new toy." His deep laugh ends in a snarl when you lick up on his length from the bottom to the top. You flick the soft skin under the head. His taste is strong on the tip of your tongue. It's salty and makes you want more. You lap up on him again, once, twice, three times. "Fuck!" He growls. The sound vibrates through the air, going straight between your legs. Glancing at him from the corner of your eyes, you force a smug grin down and take his cock into your mouth. You go inch by inch, letting your lips stretch around him. Keeping your hand on the base, pumping him slowly, you lick and suck on his crown, pressing your tongue into the tip. You can feel him snapping any second, but you are not done yet. You squeeze him, making him snarl again before his breath is taken away as you slide him down deeper into your throat. You hum around his length, letting the vibration of your throat rush up his spine. "Fuckfuckfuck!" Spurts of pre-cum fill your mouth, dripping down on his cock and balls. His hips push up against you, wanting to fuck your mouth. You hum again in agreement, hollowing your cheeks some more. Tears burn your eyes as he starts to move up and down. He thrusts into your mouth hurriedly, chasing his pleasure in your warm, wet mouth. Your tongue is flat against the underside of his cock. "You born for this," he growls. "A warm mouth for all the monsters who come here." You are slick between your legs. Your pussy throbs with desire even though you are already sore because of your previous guests. "You feel so good around my cock! Fuck!" Your free hand from his thigh slips to his balls. They are heavy in your palm as you start to play with them. His cock twitches in your mouth more often than a few seconds ago. "I'm going to cum," he warns, still pushing his hips. Your jaw and throat ache. You let him use you to reach his high. Your hand on his cock jerks him faster, and you bob your head against his thrusts. You want him to lose his mind when he comes into your mouth. The cabin is filled with his groans and moans.

"Fuck!"

He floods your mouth, and you gulp down everything he has to give you. The work of your throat squeezes his cock even more, pushing him harder and harder into his orgasm.

The male needs long minutes to come back to his senses. "Will you be there tomorrow?" He asks, still panting. His voice is hoarse, and his cock lays soft on his thick thigh.

You really want to know how it feels inside you.

"I will write you up."

- Masterlist Mirage Resort Masterlist Patreon

[b0r3dtod3ath]

hi! could i req lando x old money!reader blurb? maybe like meeting her parents, or going to her father’s annual christmas gala together, i dunno..

thanks!!

A/N: Hii! Omg I love this idea. Actually it popped up in my brain last summer but I never really wrote it so big thanks for requesting! Let me know if any of you are interested in a part two!

Word count: ~1.8k

Saint Tropez - one of the most popular places in French Riviera. Known for its beautiful weather, sun-kissed beaches and picturesque landscape. Every summer Y/N's family would spend at least a month there. Cruising on a yacht and resting in a mansion could get quite boring when done alone so last summer Y/N's parents invited the Norisses. The two families had been friends since the early 2000s, famously attending many high-society galas and events. Their kids used to know each other but haven't met in a long time due to their hectic lives. Lando would be a bit ashamed to admit but he was excited to spend his summer break there. Being with his parents made him feel like a teenager again. Not only that but also the fact that he couldn't wait to meet Y/N. He had heard about her from his sisters but in fact, has little to no memories of her.

As the families met at the dock, the yacht swaying in the background, the two couples hugged and laughed leaving the young ones to awkwardly greet each other. Y/N, taking off her sunglasses that protected her eyes from the sun reflecting in the blue water, approached with a subtle smile that held a hint of curiosity. She extended her hand, a gesture in a formal but warm manner. "Lando, isn't it?" her melodic voice hit her companion's ears. Lando, with his easy charm and green-blue eyes that would make most of the ladies lose their minds, clasped her hand in a firm yet gentle handshake. "That's right. A pleasure to finally meet you." His words were accompanied by a genuine smile, a sigh of relief.

The first evening brought the families together for a two-family dinner on the yacht's deck. The air was infused with the scent of sea salt and the warm sun was just to set. The table, covered with crystal and silverware, glowed in the soft light of candles. Y/N and Lando found themselves seated next to each other, their parents subtly orchestrating the arrangement. At first, they didn't talk to each other much - focusing mainly on the food and wine while also encouraging their parents to tell some stories from when they were young. The two of them exchanged glances and smiles still waiting for the other one to make the first move. After the last course, as the dessert and coffee reached its end, Lando found a moment to break away. Leaning towards Y/N, he suggested, "Would you care for a stroll around the yacht? The night is too beautiful to be just sitting here.". With a subtle spark in her eyes, Y/N agreed. The two of them excused themselves as they slipped away from their parents.

Under the moonlit sky, Y/N and Lando strolled along the yacht's deck, the soft glow of the ship's lights casting a warm ambience. The Mediterranean breeze whispered through the night, and the distant sound of the waves provided a soothing backdrop to their conversation. They paused at the railing, the yacht gently rocking beneath them. Y/N leaned on the side, her eyes fixed on the horizon. Lando joined her, the moon casting a silvery glow on his face. As the conversation flowed, they peeled away the layers of their lives, revealing dreams and aspirations. They went from talking about Lando's work to more deep, secret thoughts and feelings. Y/N wanted to avoid the Formula One subject, she knew who he was but didn't want him to think that it was a category she put him in. She spoke about her love for literature, and although Lando didn't have much to say in this field he was more than happy to listen. He found himself getting lost in her beauty as she shared about her passion. The night held an intimacy, a shared exploration of vulnerabilities. Y/N, confessed her love for the quiet moments, the beauty found in simplicity. It was surprising to her when Lando agreed with her "I know I'm rather a fast-paced life guy but I feel like my lifestyle allows me to appreciate moments like this even more". Y/N finally looked up from the shiny waves crashing to the side of the boat to see the man next to her looking at her with admiration. They held eye contact and smiled in silence, the chillness of a summer night ignored. That night they both felt a connection forming between them.

A few days later, as no clouds hung over St. Tropez, Y/N found herself once again on the terrace. Immersed in the embrace of a plush chair, she was captivated by the ending of one of the books she found on a bookshelf. Lando, drawn to the lovely scene, approached with a warm smile. "Mind if I sit here with you?" he asked. "Of course, Lan. Please, join me," Y/N responded, gesturing to the empty chair beside her. As he settled into his chair, warm sunlight washed both of their bodies. Y/N, bookmarking her page, looked up with a soft smile. "Have you read 'The Great Gatsby' before?" Lando shook his head, "No, but I've heard it's a classic. What's it about?". Y/N went on trying not to say too much and Lando listened, captivated by the vivid imagery painted by her descriptions. After a comfortable pause, the girl looked into her companion's eyes "You know, they turned this into a movie. How about we watch it together later?" Lando's grin widened at this idea, "That sounds fantastic. I'd love to.". "Great, meet me in my room at 9pm, I will figure out some snacks." she said, got up and left him alone.

Lando found himself standing outside Y/N's bedroom door at 9 sharp. The air was filled with anticipation as he raised his hand to knock. A soft sound of footsteps and the clinking of plates hinted at Y/N's preparations within. Y/N opened the door, her eyes sparkling with warmth. "Right on time. Come on in," she welcomed. The aroma of the room was very comforting, Lando couldn't explain it but it reminded him of Y/N a lot. He stepped into the dimly lit space, the flickering light from scented candles creating a cozy ambience. The room was decorated with touches of luxury, reflecting the social status of the family. Y/N, wearing comfortable yet stylish pyjamas, gestured towards the plush seating area she had arranged. "Make yourself at home. The movie is all set up," she said, her enthusiasm evident. As they settled in, the glow from the movie screen bathed the room in a soft luminescence. The cinematic adaptation of "The Great Gatsby" unfolded. Y/N and Lando shared the experience, their thoughts and emotions reflected in the glow of the screen. Throughout the movie, their laughter and shared comments added a layer of connection to the evening. The subtle tension between Gatsby and Daisy echoed in the room, mirroring the unspoken bond developing between Y/N and Lando. As the credits rolled, Y/N turned to Lando with a satisfied smile. "What did you think?" she asked, her eyes searching for his reaction. Lando, his gaze lingering on Y/N, grinned. "It was incredible.". To be honest, he didn't remember half of the movie as a beautiful person next to him captivated his attention. Y/N mirrored his smile. After a pause, Lando asked, "Do you think Gatsby's love for Daisy was genuine, or just an illusion he created?". Y/n leaned back, thinking about the question. "It's a bit of both, I think. Gatsby's love was genuine, but the illusions he created were born out of his desperation to recapture a past that had slipped away." Their discussion flowed seamlessly, weaving through literary analysis and personal interpretations. Deep eye contact was comforting and neither of them wanted to end it. "I'm glad you enjoyed it. Maybe we can make this a tradition. You should pick the next movie" she suggested, her eyes holding a promise of more shared movie nights.

And the days passed just like that. On the last night, as the clock struck midnight, the yacht sailed under a blanket of stars, the moon casting its silver glow on the deck. Lando, overwhelmed with his thoughts, wandered outside. The night air was infused with a sense of bittersweet anticipation. There, on the deck, he found Y/N, a alone figure under the dark sky. The distant sound of waves protected them from the silence. Y/N sat in contemplation, a cigarette in hand, the soft moonlight illuminating her features. "Mind if I join you?" Lando's voice cut through the serenity, and Y/N looked up, a small laugh escaped her lips as she retrospected on one of their first interactions. She allowed him to, the smoke from her cigarette to twist into the air. Lando sensed a subtle shift in Y/N's demeanour, a quiet sadness that hung in the air like the sea mist. "You seem a bit distant tonight," he remarked, his eyes tried to focus on the horizon but seemed to be too curious of her. Y/N took a drag of her cigarette, exhaling slowly. "I guess I've been thinking about tomorrow," she confessed, her eyes didn't even dare to look at him as it would cause even more pain. Lando nodded, a shared understanding passing between them. The unspoken bond they had formed over the past weeks had transformed the usually boring yacht trip into a place of shared laughter, quiet conversations, and stolen glances, making both of them feel like stupid teenagers who would sneak around behind their parents' backs. The impending departure, however, indicated an end to this state. "I'll miss this," Y/N admitted, her voice carrying the weight of unspoken sentiments. "I don't want this to end just because the trip does," Lando confessed, his voice steady. "Maybe we can explore what this could be beyond St. Tropez. I'd love the chance to continue getting to know you, to see where this could go." Sea, once the witness of shared stories and vulnerability, now observed the promise of possibilities.

Weeks passed since Lando and Y/N parted ways. Mornings felt different for Lando, mainly due to the lack of two things: sun and Y/N. He often catches himself wondering what Y/N could be doing at this very moment. Yes, he could just open Instagram and DM her but he felt like he needed to do something more refined. Although they got to know each other pretty well, he didn't want her to think that he was just a cocky, young fuckboy who wants nothing more than just a body. He had to show her that he truly cared about her. Then, one morning, a letter arrived. The envelope was outstanding, decorated with intricate patterns and sealed with a wax emblem. Lando's heart quickened as he recognized Y/N's handwriting, the anticipation building with each passing moment. As he carefully opened the envelope, Lando realized that their story was far from over. Whatever that envelope contained held the promise of a new beginning, a chance to reignite the spark that had ignited in the hot, summer days. With trembling hands, he opened the letter, his heart racing with anticipation.

my masterlist

here's a fic i wrote last summer that reminds me of this scenario

feb 5 2024

[themotherofhorses]

Vic!! I have a request pretty pls hehehe,

Creepy dark! Aemond forcing his way with fem!reader as she sleeps after stalking him for many moons? PWEASEEE

what was mine is still mine, regardless of time.

pairing: soft but dark!aemond targaryen x fem!targaryen!reader

warnings: explicit language. nsfw smut. slight breeding kink towards the end. consented abduction. aemond is (as usual) obsessive and possessive but is actually kinda a sweetheart in this.

notes: ok so small thing: i kinda put my own twist to this request, because this sort of idea has lived in my head RENT FREE since forevvaaa. hope u enjoy it :)

masterlist

Dragonstone was quiet when arrived, the sea tide calm and peaceful.

Aemond Targaryen could not remember the last time he stepped foot in the castle, if he ever did at all, having spent the entirety of his life behind the bronze doors of the Red Keep. He did not care for the damned island, nor did he hold any love for its people, but his twentieth nameday was fast approaching, and his mother was insisting more and more that he take a wife soon.

“Now, where will you be,” he mumbles to himself as he rips off his riding gloves and tucks them into his belt.

The castle hallways were without light, and no houseguards stood afoot. Aemond smirks. It would be much easier for him to find you, tucked away in your own chamber.

Your personal chamber was nicely furnished, in the colors and style of your shared noble house, and had an aura belonging only to a Targaryen princess. Thick wool carpets covered the floor instead of harsh black stone, and your windows were cracked open just a little, with pretty drapes swaying from the light ocean breeze. The walls were hung with different tapestries, all of horses and dragons, and the doors were flanked by Valyrian sphinxes.

And to the corner was your bed, where you, his niece, lay atop, fast asleep.

Aemond wills his heart to continue beating, and for his cock to behave.

He has not laid eyes on you in almost a full decade, ten years too long for him. Both your parents whisked you away to Dragonstone when you were still a child, soft-faced and in the mid of girlhood.

They refused his mother’s offer for a betrothal between the two of you, and broke his heart to the tiniest of pieces that he wondered if they were still scattered around the Keep. But that was so many moons ago, and time slipped by him.

“Gods be good,” Aemond whispers, moving closer.

What has happened to that little girl, that kid niece of his? In her place sleeps a living goddess, too lovely for mankind. You’ve grown beautiful, a mirror image to your mother, his eldest sister. He bends to kiss your bare shoulder- just a simple and tiny kiss- and you stir in your sleep. It is cute, he admits, but he also can not wait another second longer.

Only the gods above know how much he’s wanted you.

With a hard yank, Aemond draws back the bedsheet covers, causing you to jolt up from the bed. You look around, confused and scared and still half-asleep, purple eyes clouding from drowsiness. In front of you sits a stranger, a man- silver-haired and cloaked in black riding leather. Across his eye, an eyepatch.

Your heart quickens at the sight. “Aemond…?” you call out, unsure.

He smiles, teeth and all. “You do not know how happy it makes me to know you are still able to recognize me, my niece. After all, it has been awhile- ten years, has it not?”

You shrug, trying to wipe the sleep away from your eyes. “What…what are you doing here?” you ask, while patting down the bed, looking for the sheets to cover your chest. “Should you not be at King’s Landing? Why are you here?” Your eyes grow as wide as a dinner plate as you soon add, “Oh no, has something happened? Is it my grandfather?”

But Aemond scoots closer, bringing his face to yours. “Do not fret, nice. I’m here on my own wishes,” and he twirls a thin strand of silver hair around his finger, humming as he watches it fall back around your shoulder. In that sheer Dornish nightgown, you look good enough to eat, and the princeling is feeling beyond ravenous.

“I’m here to collect a debt.”

Lucerys…you think, a sinking feeling in your chest. His stolen eye, that night on Driftmark…

Ten years and Aemond still seeks revenge.

“No,” Aemond says, shaking his head. He moves even closer, grabbing at your shoulders. His palms are rough and callous. “I would dare not hurt you. Anyone but you. You…” he sighs, “-you were promised to me, back when we were children. You were meant to be my wife, and they stole you from me. The only good fucking thing in my life, and it was taken away…”

He studies you, his eye running across your face, down your neck and to your chest.

That Dornish nightgown clings loose to your body, and he can see your nipples perk against the fabric. It sends blood rushing between his thighs. “Tell me, niece, what did I do to deserve that?”

“Aemond…”

“No!” he hisses, tightening his grip on you. “No! You have not the slightest idea of the fucking torture I’ve endured these years. The nights I stayed up, begging to the gods that I might have you. I thought…maybe if they heard my pleas, saw my faith, they would…but no. Ten years, and not a single glimpse of you.” Your breath hitches when he meets your gaze, “I dreamt of you, every damned night. Fought the urges to fly over and collect you from here…”

You shake your head. “Aemond…” you say, softly. “I’m betrothed to another, this cannot be.” You press your hand against his cheek, feeling him lean into your touch, and kiss his forehead. “I have missed you greatly, uncle, but it has been years! So many years. I’m to be married soon.” You pull back, “It is best if you return home, and start finding a lady of your own choosing.”

Aemond sighs, and inside his chest, he feels his heart being ripped apart again.

“You are right, my dearest niece. My sincerest apologies for waking you up, it was quite wrong of me. I shall see myself out,” and he kisses your hand, brushing his lips against your knuckles. “I wish you all the luck in your marriage, and may your husband love and appreciate you till the dying days of his damned life.”

You smile at him, though a bit sad now. “Thank you, uncle. To you as well.”

The princeling turns to leave, and you sit up watching as he makes his way to your door, before sinking back into your bed. “Goodbye, Aemond,” you call out, one final time before your eyes close, failing to see him pause and turn around to look at you.

What was he doing? Foolish man, he thinks. Foolish, stupid man!

Was it in his nature to admit defeat so easily, and to some unnamed wastrel cunt of a man? No. Throughout his life, Aemond suffered nothing but tremendous losses, while being denied the goodness and fairness that a child should’ve had. His lips pucker at the thought.

You were right there, close enough for him to finally claim.

And so he did.

“Shhh, keep your voice down,” Aemond tuts next to your ear, a heavy arm slung over your naked breasts as he holds you as close to his chest as possible. It feels as if he is frightened to let you go, worried you would disappear before his very eye, with another ten years slipping by until he finds you again.

His other hand lies between your trembling thighs, fingering you with such an intensity and speed that it leaves you utterly ruined and in tears. “Aemond…” you hiccup, nibbling at your bottom lip as he groans. “Fuck! You sound so good when you say my name like that. Gods be good, you are wet. Absolutely soaking my fingers. Doesn’t this feel good?” he asks, using his thumb to rub at your clit. “Yeah…it does, doesn’t it?”

You sniffle, fat tears streaking down both cheeks as you nod.

Oh, it feels good. So good, but so wrong as well.

You were to be married in less than a fortnight, to a highborn lord of House Stark, handsome and kind. How would you explain this to him? Or to your parents, who proposed the marriage between you two? How would you tell them that you were ruined? And it was your uncle’s fault.

“Please, Aemond…”

Aemond grabs at your jaw, cradling it in his hand before pulling it close to his face. “Shhh, it will be alright, my love. Do not fret. You will be okay, just give in,” he whispers, quickening his fingers as he fucks them into you, curling two to hit your sweet spot. You almost scream, so overcome with pleasure that it hurts. “This is where you are meant to be, darling, make no mistake in believing that. My bride, my love.”

My woman, he thinks gleefully, watching how your face scrunches up. Your eyebrows furrow and your mouth press together in a tight line, and it is the most beautiful sight.

My woman, made for me. Made for my love and protection and seed…

Goosebumps prickle along your arms as wet sounds echo across the chamber, followed by a strew of whimpers and moans. It sounds so dirty, so sinful and wrong that you pray to whichever god was listening in that no one would overhear such, especially your parents and siblings. Your father would have Aemond’s head, no doubt, and your older brother might rob him of his only other good eye.

“Oh, fuck…” you moan, flinging your head back, “-don’t stop, don’t stop, please don’t stop!”

A minute or so later, your vision blackens, the room spins, and your jaw slacks as you cum plenty around his fingers, all with such a high-pitched shriek that Aemond slaps a hand over your mouth to muffle the noise. “What did I say? Stay quiet!” he hisses before chuckling, smearing the mess around your folds while you make an attempt to catch your breath. “Very good, my love. You did so well for me.”

He brings a finger to his mouth, to suck at the taste. “Your taste is heavenly,” he moans, swirling his tongue around it. He then brings two to your mouth, swiping at the tiny bit of drool pooling before stuffing them in. “Suck. Taste yourself now.”

“Dirty girl,” Aemond hums, a smirk curving on his lips as he watches the way you lick and suck at his fingers. “You are digging a grave too deep to escape, darling.”

Ruin me, you want to say. If I’m to die, I rather it be in your hands than anyone else’s…

He lays you back down on the bed next, making sure your head rests comfortably against the pillows. Ten years, Aemond reminds himself. Ten fucking years. He can feel his resolve slowly weakening by the second. You’re too beautiful, too soft and womanly and perfect for him. Every fantasy he dreamt up during boyhood never claim as close as to this. “I dreamt of this for fucking years,” he admits while kissing your pink and pouty lips. “All the possible ways to take you, to fuck this pretty cunt of yours.”

Your legs wrap around his hips as he pushes his cock inside you. It is painful- undeniably painful- yet he swallows every cry and wince and moan that you give. Your fingernails dig into his skin from the terrible pain- the stretch and the sting and the weird feeling growing deep within your tummy.

“It is too much…!” you whimper against his lips. “Hurts!”

“Of course it hurts, darling, it is your first time. Every woman hurts when a man takes her first blood. But you can take it.”

“No,” you whine, trying to shove him away. “No, Aemond, it hurts too much-” But Aemond only kisses your temple, sweet and gentle and lovingly, while rocking his hips against yours. “It’ll feel so good soon, my love, trust me. I would never do anything to hurt you, not my precious and sweet girl,” he coos, leaning to rub your noses together, “-my brave girl.”

Ten years.

He could not stop, even if he wished to. No, not now that he finally has you, underneath his body and wet and ripe for his seed.

“I’ll give you our child,” he mutters beside your lips as he pinches your nipple between two fingers and keeps his thrusts hard, deep, and fast. All of it makes your face twist in a soft gasp, your body tightening as you feel that thick rush of pleasure from before, right before you creamed over his fingers.

“Take my seed and have our child. I promise to take you back to King’s Landing and marry you," he vows through ragged breaths, "and spend the rest of our lives making up for those ten years.”

“Aemond,” you pant, clutching onto his shoulders and dragging his face down for a kiss. His skin is sweaty and flushed, and he has never appeared so beautiful before. You love him. You love him so much, how did you spend ten years without seeing him? It makes no sense. You understand his woes now, clear as day, and you want to rid of them forever.

“I love you! I love you, I love you, make me your wife, please. Please!”

He feels your cunt tightening around his cock, and he is ready to give you everything: his heart, his soul, and his seed.

Come the morning, his son will be swelling within your belly, and he will have you seated atop Vhagar, flying back to the Keep to make you his wife, in both the eyes of the gods and the laws of the land.

The next day, at dawning, Rhaenyra Targaryen’s only daughter does not join her family to break fast together. Her three half-brothers and two half-sisters raise eyebrows as they munch quietly on their meals but keep silent, all until little Joffrey asks where his older sister might be. Rhaenyra does not know, and neither do the houseguards, the men of the small council, and the maesters, and it worries her greatly.

Her husband, though, is quick to remind her that the princess- ever their trueborn child- enjoys morning rides on dragonback. “Give her a few hours and she will surely return with a new story to tell us,” Daemon says, while sipping on his wine.

But a few hours turn into the rest of the day, and soon evening creeps by.

A raven arrives from King’s Landing, bearing the family a note:

“I’ve taken what was owed to me. Such a pity you all forgot that what was mine is still mine, regardless of time.”