#men in collars series coming up perhaps

[nullians]

Celebratory Ryuusui for the exams season wrap ✨

Congratulations @crazymadredfox for making it through! -w-

[sehaedazokla]

he that dares

part two

premise: Cregan Stark's arrival in King's Landing has brought a new type of chaos to the capital. Lady Tyrell is determined to use the Northern lord to her advantage, but the task might not be as straightforward as it seems. 

tags: slowburn, tension, angst, comfort, eventual smut, court politics

word count: 8k

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Cregan Stark finds himself with much waiting to be done. Waiting for different ravens to be sent, and then for the replies to return. Waiting for the arrival of lords whom had been summoned to King’s Landing, and for the answer of whether or not the war will continue. He seeks justice to be distributed to all those whom it should fall upon: whether they had been allies of Rhaenyra or Aegon, all parties who acted dishonorably within the conflict ought to face their rightful punishment. But what the Lord of Winterfell does not find himself waiting upon is the Lady Tyrell.

The very morning after their conversation in the gardens, Cregan pushes open the door of what had once been the small council’s meeting chambers. It has been turned into a temporary headquarters for the Northern lords who are holding court, and for the additional powers at play. While the other lords file out, discussing in hushed and heavy whispers amongst themselves about the political matters that weighed their minds, Cregan pauses.

He is the last to leave the room, pulling the heavy wooden door behind him, and his eyes drift to the girl lingering in the corner of the hall. She curtsies to a pair of lords who look up to see her, and the two men pause their conversation briefly as their eyes rest upon her, hastily bowing in return. But when her eyes meet Cregan’s, they remind him more of a hawk’s than a girl’s. As if they have landed on a mouse she intends to hunt for supper.

But just as it had been the day before, Cregan wonders if he imagined it. As she walks up to him, the expression on her face is nothing short of saccharine. She folds her hands delicately across the front of her gown – today she wears a shade of blue similar to the sky on the clearest day, with white lace at her collar and around her sleeves. There is gold silk embroidered about her waist in twisting florals, with small pink rosettes weaved in between. The dress is reminiscent of others Cregan has seen her wear, but perhaps he thinks so because of its signature plunging neckline.

“A moment of your time, Lord Stark?” Lady Tyrell’s voice floats in the air between them as clear and bright as a morning bell as she approaches. Birds can be heard chirping from a nearby open window. The sun has only just settled in the sky, hanging lazily after its absence the day before due to the storm that had washed in overnight.

Cregan is in a rather poor mood after the lack of developments from the morning meeting, but offers her a dip of his head. He stands before her, chin downturned to look her in the eyes, his own eyes narrowing a moment.

“Of course, my lady.” His tone is gruff yet not altogether unfriendly. It has that detached Northern politeness that she has come to associate with him. There is the ghost of tension about his shoulders, but she cannot discern whether it is from the conversation Cregan had just taken part in, or if he simply lived his entire life like there were rocks upon him.

“It is the court, my lord,” Lady Tyrell begins, sighing quite deeply in a breath that uses her entire upper body. She clasps her hands together tighter, shaking her head gingerly. A few of her loose curls bounce at the movement, and Cregan’s eyes drift to the sides of her face as they do. She takes a step forward softly, clearing intending Cregan to begin walking alongside her.

Cregan has been starving for the last hour. He wants to return to his chambers to break his fast with sausage and poached eggs and whatever else could be found.

He follows her.

The castle is alive and bustling at the early hour, maids rushing about with baskets of fresh linen and pages scurrying off with errands from their lords. A few of them cast their eyes to Lady Tyrell, who smiles at them sweetly. Most return the look with soft smiles of their own. Cregan wonders how many of them she knows personally.

“As I was saying, the state of the court has been weighing heavily upon my thoughts,” She continues, a look of concern once again settling upon her features. Her skirts rustle softly as she walks, and her heels click on the cold stone floor of the hall. Daylight streams in through the open courtyard that they walk past. “You see, the lords and ladies grow restless. What with their being confined to the capital.”

The girl presents the matter of concern slowly, tenderly. As if she wishes to plead her case yet not offend. She gazes up at Cregan after she speaks, meeting his stern look with a flutter of her wispy lashes. Her lips seem to form the perfect subtle pout as she finishes her sentence, and her eyebrows have knitted together to express gentle worry.

Cregan’s jaw tenses the tiniest bit as he hears her words. He is not ignorant enough to think that the nobles enjoy being forced to remain at King’s Landing, but there is not that he can do to remedy it until it is decided whether or not the war will continue, and justice is dispensed.

“Until the investigations and trials are concluded, no one can be permitted to leave.” There is a sense of stoic absoluteness to his tone, as if the matter being up for debate is not even a fathomable thought. His eyes narrow as he peers into hers, searching for a hint of annoyance or frustration. Cregan finds only a gentle amiableness that he believes better suits a deer than a girl.

“A prudent choice, my lord,” Lady Tyrell acquiesces with a dip of her head, her eyes falling to the floor in front of her demurely. Her hands are still folded over top of her lower stomach as the two make their way through the castle. “It is only…discontent often takes root in the gardens of boredom.”

Her eyebrows raise as the words float between them, remaining higher as she casts her gaze still to the stone floor beneath them. To make her words seem like a sad yet true observation. Cregan’s eyebrows draw lower, twitching a bit at her resigned wisdom.

The Lord of Winterfell stops, the last of his heavy steps echoing in the hall. The girl turns around after a moment, facing him. When her eyes lift to meet his, they hold that same softness she has been offering him since she arrived. They observe each other for a moment, before Cregan opens his lips to speak. Warning is dense in his tone as his gaze darkens, the serious look on his face becoming impossibly sterner.

“You take issue with the way I hold this court, then?” It is a quiet phrase yet so heavy when wrapped in his thick Northern pronunciation. Cregan does not need this girl commenting upon the way he has taken and managed the court since arriving; he has more important matters to worry about than a few discontent lords and ladies who whisper scathing things behind open fans and palms.

With the grace of a dancer, she takes the sides of her skirts in between her forefingers and thumbs and draws them upward. Her chin lowers gently, her gaze dropping so Cregan can only see her lashes. She lowers herself into a curtsy, her center of balance remaining perfectly overtop her left leg as her right one slides outward elegantly. Her back is as straight and tight as a drawn bow. 

“I would never presume to, Lord Stark,” Mellifluous and humble, the words drip from her lips as drops of honey from a hive. “I would only suggest, as someone who believes in your cause, that there might be a better alternative that would keep them amused and lift some of the weight from your shoulders.” 

As Lady Tyrell draws herself upright, Cregan feels a dry swallow in his throat at the slow, sensual motion. She does not miss it. Her humble expression melts into a candied smile.

“Of course, should my lord not wish to hear it, I will hardly take offense.” The girl tells him with a sheepish, almost embarrassed cadence, her head tilting down as her shoulders lower. She releases her skirts, the embroidered fabrics flowing down to the floor in waves of silks and satins.

Cregan looks to the side for a moment, his eyes falling to the open courtyard next to the hall. When he turns his head back to face her, his eyes downcast as he finds the words, the softest sound of breath can be heard before he speaks and raises his gaze.

“You have spent much time here at court, Lady Tyrell. You understand it much better than I. I will not be too prideful to hear your counsel.” Cregan retains the gruff quality of his speech, but there is a note of wary respect in the words. He lowers his chin to look at her directly, his head moving slightly as he speaks.

She does her best to not glow with the amusement of such a small yet important victory. Instead, she lowers her gaze again, nodding elegantly. 

“I am honored by your ear, my lord.” There is a pleased rhythm to her words. She does, however, make the mistake of looking up again to note the way the sunlight from the open courtyard next to the grey hall has filtered in just enough that the edges of Cregan’s red hair have caught the light and appear as gold as the embroidery on her dress. It additionally falls upon his broad shoulders and his left arm, which her eyes do, regrettably, land upon for a heartbeat.

One of the maids hurries by, giving both Cregan and Lady Tyrell a rushed curtsy. As the maid’s steps echo down the hall, she gestures for Cregan to continue to walk with her. They maintain a distance of expected propriety between them as they continue, making it rather hard to communicate in a softer tone.

“You have a great many problems that have fallen into your lap, Lord Stark,” She points out with a languid gesture of her arm, her hand hanging elegantly before them for a brief moment. “Least important of all the boredom of the nobles. And yet,” A deep breath is taken from her chest. “It is still an issue, no matter how miniscule.” Her head moves with each fragment of her words, indicating how seriously she takes the problem.

Cregan’s strides beside her are long and heavy, but slower than they had been the day before, in the garden. As if he had noticed that she had been taking larger steps to try and match him. 

Lady Tyrell’s hair bounces enticingly with each phrase and movement, the loose curls and waves that had escaped being swept up into the pinned arrangement that adorned the top of her head free to move about as they pleased. Cregan’s eyes have once again begun wandering. 

“But you are quite fortunate in that it is rather easy to provide them with entertainment.” Her reassurance is offered quite gently, with a sage nod. “Why, anything as simple as a feast serves the purpose quite well. Give them an opportunity to bring out their finest silks and jewels, with the promise of wine and meats and what they crave most: gossip.” 

They turn a corner, Cregan nearly running into a squire who is unable to see due to the amount of armor he is carrying in his arms. He wonders with a flash of irritation just how many people are employed in the castle; there is no shortage of servants running about even at this early hour of the day.

At Lady Tyrell’s words, a dry look wrenches its way onto Cregan’s face while he considers her proposal. The last thing he wants to do at this moment is to oversee the planning of any sort of event, nor did he have the time to spare for it. With a heavy sigh, his brows draw closer.

“I haven’t the time to spare for organizing a feast, my lady.” His words are curt, but he does attempt to soften them, not wanting to offend her.

Lady Tyrell is not offended by him. She simply thinks him rather foolish. There is not a hint of this on her face as she quickly gazes up at him with shock, her loose curls flying as she shakes her head with quick worry.

“Oh, no, my lord, that was not the implication at all,” The correction comes with a soft, apologetic smile and lift of her shoulders, causing her collarbone to catch the light from a nearby window. She holds his gaze steadily. “It was an offer of my services. I have seen many a feast organized here; I could have it arranged by nightfall this very evening.”

When they reach the large main staircase of the castle, they come to another pause. Cregan looks down at her with thinly veiled disbelief as she blinks up at him.

“You would do that?” He cannot help the suspicion sneaking into the corners of his voice. She is volunteering her time to assist Cregan with an issue that did not truly concern her, no matter how worriedly she had acted when she’d raised the matter to his attention. Yet he could not discern any malicious intent, save for her using this an as opportunity to vie for his favor. This, she seems to want greatly, yet Cregan still does not know to what end.

“If it should be of assistance to you, it would be my honor.” Lady Tyrell speaks with gracious acceptance, delicate and poised as she stands before him. Closer, this time, than she had been when they’d stopped before. Cregan can smell the lingering of rose water and some other floral oils. He considers her words, thoughts rolling over them like marbles in a hand.

“Do as you wish, Lady Tyrell. If you can ease the daggers in their eyes, I will be all the more grateful for it.” Cregan’s sigh is weary with exhaustion, and the pressures that only seemed to be added each and every day that is spent at King’s Landing. 

A sparkle glimmers in her eyes.

“I will see to it at once then.” She bids him farewell with a soft smile, and the scent of her perfume drifts over to him as her hair and skirts fan out in a delicate cloud with her turn when she hurries off. His eyes close briefly as he inhales it.

It is with great haste that Lady Tyrell begins her planning for the feast that evening. She gathers all her handmaidens and maids to assist with various messages she needs sent to those who are to be involved in the preparations, as well as to contact other staff to invite all of the lords and ladies who ought to be there. The information mill that is comprised of servants proves quite useful in this instance, and while she would usually take it upon herself to handwrite every invitation, the girl wishes her involvement in this endeavor to be kept quiet yet not secret for now. 

House Tyrell had not spent too much gold during the war, which resulted in her having quite a large resource pool to dip into to convince florists and musicians to cancel their previously scheduled arrangements for that evening and offer their presence in The Queen's Ballroom. Although smaller in size than the two large halls, the room need only host the nobles currently being restricted to the castle. She prefers it, anyhow; the way the candlelight catches against the large mirrors that comprise the walls of the room provides a magical quality to the ambience of any gathering. It makes the overseeing of the decoration a much more manageable task, which would reflect positively on her in the end.

She begins with a visit to the Kitchen Keep, discussing with the chefs and pâtissiers as to what dishes could be made and served on such short notice. They whisper in low, worried tones amongst each other, deep frowns and nods as they page through thick tomes of recipes. Lady Tyrell waits with her hands folded in front of her and a pleasant smile on her face, willing her eye not to twitch at the irritation of having to stand so long in the kitchens when there are other matters to be attending to.

The kitchen staff propose a few different options to her, and after providing a gentle suggestion of her own and more gold to run to the markets with, a menu is agreed upon for the night. When the kitchen door swings closed behind her, she pinches the bridge of her nose and lets out a sharp sigh that she has been holding back for some time.

Her next stop is to ensure that the correct dinnerware is being brought out to the ballroom – her head whips around with an unladylike speed as she watches in horror as a maid begins bringing the plateware with the green decorative motifs down the hall. As Lady Tyrell rushes back down the hall to catch the girl, another brief flash of frustration at the foolishness of the choice flits through her mind but there is nothing but sweet concern in her eyes as she recommends gingerly that the plates of a more well-associated color are brought out. 

The maid gasps and nods quickly, as Lady Tyrell squeezes her arm comfortingly and rushes off to find the florists. This she would have to stay and observe during the entirety of the arrangements. Her mother would be beside herself if a daughter of House Tyrell allowed for flowers of improper meaning to be presented at an event she hosted. Even if her mother will not be present that night, the girl smiles with exasperated fondness as her mother’s words ring bright and clear in her head, no different than if the woman was standing right in front of her. 

She guides the florists about the hall, nodding with a pleased glint in her eyes as the flowers stream in through the doors in the arms of boys and girls. Her decision has come together nicely; the apple blossoms, honeysuckles, and white lilies form a delicate and demure profession of innocent devotion and pure intent. Still, she must have her fun.

As a page rushes by with a bouquet of flowers in his arms, she plucks a single snapdragon and inhales the scent gently with softly closed eyes. They would be placed throughout the hall scarcely, likely not to be noticed by too many of the guests. 

It is a lovely flower, brought into the ballroom in colors that reflected those around it. Their heavy association with the concept of truth often leads many to interpret their presence as a promise of honesty. 

Those from House Tyrell recognize the bundles of fragile petals as a warning of deceit.

Her eyes open as she runs the stem between her fingers delicately, gazing down it at fondly. Lady Tyrell presses it to her chest as she leaves the ballroom, her shoes echoing amongst the voices of those finishing up the floral and plateware arrangements. There is still much to be done.

Despite the chaos that stems from such late preparations, the Lady Tyrell manages to both finish the arrangements and ready herself for the feast that evening. The Lord of Winterfell had not been expecting much when she had offered to organize an event that night, but the opulence on display within the hall is nothing short of wonderous. Decadent, but not obnoxiously so, and a clear testament to an effective and practiced hostess despite her young age.

As she glides into the Queen’s Ballroom, Cregan’s eyes land upon her.

She has entered the room slightly later than most of the guests, leading to the turning of many a head as the doors are opened for her. The blue gown she had been wearing that morning has been discarded in favor of a dress of baby pink, with a neckline reminiscent of a heart that plunges low as the two curves meet in the center. There is her signature golden embroidery at the top of the bodice, as well as up the side of the puffs at the top of her sleeves and down her corset. Stitched roses and vines snake down her arms, overtop of fabric of that same pastel color. There are more layers beneath the gown, fanning out in an elegant circle about her when she walks.

Cregan hears the whispers and sighs from some of his men around him as they shake their heads at her beauty, but he can scarcely judge them in good faith when finds his eyes are drawn to her and cannot be torn away. He has never noticed so much about a gown before; he takes note of the thorn detailing amongst the vines at the cuffs, of the pearls stitched into the bottom of the skirt that brushes against the floor, of the way the fabric creases at her elbows when she curtsies to one of the ladies she greets. 

So little of her figure can be seen and yet Cregan is left with a slow inhaling of breath and the flicker of the low candlelight dancing in his half-lidded eyes, his tongue briefly wetting his drying lips.

Lady Tyrell does her utmost to not look too self-pleased as she surveys the room. It is a beautiful, elegant scene. The musicians play string instruments in bright yet slow melodies from the gallery above the ballroom, and the expansive trestle tables have been covered in delicate fabrics. Upon their surfaces rest heaps and piles of meats, fruits, and pies. Their scents waft deliciously though the air, and vases overflowing with flowers are nestled in between the mountains of food. The warm candlelight from the candelabras reflects in the mirrors of the walls in the dreamy way that she loves so.

She makes her way about the room, making polite conversation with various lords and ladies. Asking after their children, husbands, wives, and siblings. The nobles light up and rest a hand on her shoulder gently when she recalls little details they had mentioned when last they spoke, of various illnesses or injuries or marriages or pregnancies.

Many of the guests have already sat down, reaching for thick cuts of meat and having their cups filled with the finest Arbor reds as hearty, half-drunken laughter echoes through the hall. She turns her head the slightest bit, intending to scan the room for the Lord of Winterfell, but discovers his eyes are already on her when she spots him.

His gaze is intense and does not waver when she catches him staring. He is leaning forward in his chair, his heavy brows low, his jaw tight, his mouth pressed together in a thin line. Lady Tyrell feels the remainder of the room dim for a moment, the voices and laughter and candlelight fading slightly in her senses.

She does her best to not show any surprise on her face: she has been seeking to capture his attention after all. It is only that she did not realize how heavily that attention would be placed upon her. It makes her eyes narrow a moment, her nature to challenge such a forceful look. 

Her hand closes into a ginger fist, the pressure of her fingertips in the soft skin of her palm drawing her mind back to civility. She blinks, her eyes soft and wide again, and she offers Cregan a smile before she turns back to greet others. 

One such conversation with one of the Northern lords leads Lady Tyrell to the head of the table, nearer to where Cregan is sat. He watches with an unreadable expression as the lord pulls out her chair, and she thanks him sweetly with the utmost grace and gratitude. Wine is immediately poured into her cup, and the golden goblet is raised to her lips as the lord speaks animatedly in regards to their conversation topic, to which she leans over to whisper something that sets the lord off with a hearty laugh.

The man leans over to Cregan, eyes drooping slightly with the effects of drink, and Cregan lends his ear a moment, watching the Lady Tyrell raise the glass to her rosy lips yet again.

“Here my lord,” The Northern man speaks to Cregan with a deep nod, swaying slightly in his ornate wooden chair. “Lady Tyrell was just telling me of this incident with the –“ His eyebrows knit together with confusion as he loses his train of thought. He gazes down into his goblet, as if to find the answer floating about in his burgundy liquid. When the glass fails to produce the response to his pondering, he turns his head to her.

“The boar, my lord.” Lady Tyrell supplies gently, raising her glass a little, swishing the contents around with a languid motion of her wrist.

“Yes, the boar!” The lord repeats with great enthusiasm, looking to Cregan as he laughs once more. The girl’s gaze settles upon Cregan, and there is a sparkle of knowing in her eyes as the other man drones on. “We shall have to hunt in the King’s Wood ourselves if the events are as amusing as she says…”

Cregan lets the rest of what the man is talking about fade out to a distant murmur, as well as much of the additional conversation in the bustling ballroom. The musicians have switched to a slower piece that floats elegantly throughout the room, and the laughter has grown loud. One can spot ladies cooling their flushed faces with their fans, and swaying lords eyeing the serving girls who rush to refill their quickly draining cups. The candlelight seems to have grown warmer and lower, flickering delicately throughout the ambient room. The wine has been flowing for quite some time, and the effects are evident in abundance.

But when he steals a glimpse of Lady Tyrell’s glass, he pauses as small flecks of golden light swim in the red liquor. Despite having witnessed her lift the goblet to her mouth a few times, the wine is no lower than when she had sat down. 

She has turned to participate in yet another animated conversation with a Northern lord seated to her right, and Cregan cannot help but observe the ease at which she slides from one topic to the next, even with his bannermen. He thought her to be skilled at engaging with Southerners, but her charms do not seem to be hindered by differences in homeland. A soft exhale of breath leaves his mouth as he returns to eating the food on his plate. The edges of the plates are decorated with tiny red flowers.

Later in the evening, the high sound of a fork tapping a metal glass can be heard echoing tinnily throughout the hall. One of the lords stands up from his seat, red-cheeked and grinning, to offer a toast to the Lord of Winterfell for his kind hospitality and planning of the event. Cregan pauses as many sets of eyes find their way to him, and he realizes there is an expectation that he say something in kind.

He rises, dropping his heavy shoulders and lifting his glass. It is a duty he is used to completing at the head of the hall in Winterfell, and it feels odd to do so in this foreign ballroom, with these strange faces staring back at him. Many of whom dislike him, or at least the way he is demanding they remain in King’s Landing until justice has been carried out. They watch like vultures, the easy and amiable air from earlier all but gone as they remember the presence of the Northern lord. But fortunately, Cregan need not keep the attention on himself for long.

“Your kind words are appreciated, my lord,” Cregan begins, his voice low and gruff. His eyes flicker to Lady Tyrell for a moment, perhaps to give her a second of warning with which she can prepare herself. But when their eyes meet, she is already gazing up at him as if she knows what he is going to say. Her hand resting gently on her goblet of wine, ready to lift it. He should not be surprised. “But in truth, I cannot take any credit. It was only thanks to the efforts of Lady Tyrell that this came to be.”

As the pairs of beady eyes drift over to Lady Tyrell, she rises up with a poised posture. Her chin is lowered, her eyes wide and almost shy as she holds the stem of her golden goblet between her fingers. The pairs of eyes that had beheld Cregan so coldly, soften. Here is one of their own, someone they know and can truthfully give gratitude to. She gives a soft dip of her head, the golden jewelry at her collarbones shining when it draws the glint of firelight.

“It is the least I can do, and hardly enough still,” The words ring out softly through the ballroom with the bright clarity of one used to speaking to a crowd. A girlish smile splashes to her lips and brings rosy color to her cheeks as she lifts her glass with her right hand, her left hand resting gently overtop the lacing of her corset. “So here is to you, for gracing my little party with your presence. It is with your laughter that these halls feel like home again, and I am ever so grateful to you for it.”

The hall erupts with whistles and clapping and cheers. Sounds of glasses clashing together in hearty toasts and the bringing out of the dessert at that very moment makes the scene bright and jovial, so much so that an outsider who had no knowledge of what had occurred in the recent past could not guess that the capital had just been plagued with a bloody succession war.

And in the center of it all, akin to the sun in the sky and glowing as such, is the Lady Tyrell. Cregan can bring no glass to his mouth as he watches her, coy and sweet as she once again raises her cup. He knows she is not drinking from it. But her face has the softest glow as she stands above the rest of the nobles seated at the long trestle tables, many of whom are still gazing towards her fondly, murmuring their approvals for the young lady and her gift to them this night. The candlelight dances across her figure, illuminating the lace of her gown, the expanse of her skin above her neckline, the pearls that hang from her ears. 

She shines like she is made to. Dazzling as any star in the heavens, radiant as any fire in the night.

If she were any other woman, Cregan might approach her when the moment presented itself, asking her to meet him as he had that time in the gardens. To walk with her, to learn more about her, to know her. To see if her heart is as lovely as her appearance. But he knows well that this would be more difficult than it seemed: perhaps even impossible. Even as she lowers herself back into her chair, smoothing down her skirts as she settles herself to dine on some of the pastries that have been piled onto the table with whipped creams and fresh fruits, he does not believe he is seeing anything of truth.

Lady Tyrell excuses herself as many of the other nobles begin to trickle out the thick oak doors, off to their beds or to some form of intoxicated debauchery. She wishes to avoid the strong yet firm grasp of a few of the elder ladies, who take her hands into their aging ones and remind her poignantly of the eligibility of their bachelor sons. Now that she is not betrothed, she has felt the hungry eyes of nobles as those of carrion birds circling overhead. Eyeing her body and her title and her family’s gold. It makes her blood hot with irritation and her nerves fraught and spiked. 

There are only so many excuses she can offer as she tries to slip out of the conversation topic with an apologetic smile.

And as the night grows to an end, so does her ever-thinning patience. One more ask upon whether or not her mother has read their proposals sent by raven, and she might simply hurl her still-full glass at the wall to cause a scene and be done with it. To the end of being shipped off to live as a Septa, but she doubts she would be graced with that. No, she is too young and too eligible; even in the face of abhorrent behavior she imagines excuses will be made by ambitious lords and ladies to still have her married to their sons.

The reminder fills her throat with a bitter acid that stings. She pushes it from her mind. The show is still ongoing, and there is one last act she must perform in to consider this day a success. And she takes pride in her thoughtful scripting. 

As she begins to walk towards the doors, she hears the scraping of a wooden chair on the cold stone floor as another starts to leave as well. She folds her hands in front of her lower corset, her arms straight and her palms gripping each other only the slightest bit too tightly. The tilting of her chin down allows for the hiding of the small, wry smile that has wrenched its way onto her lips at the sound of heavy footsteps behind her.

Her hand raises gingerly as she catches her handmaiden following her out of the corner of her eye, signaling for her to wait. The girl, Adelin, takes note of the gesture and nods delicately, giving her lady room with which to carry out her schemes. Instead, she slips out the side of the room to prepare Lady Tyrell’s bath for that evening.

The music has faded to a lazily played waltz, bidding farewell to the guests. The tables are covered with the crumbs and other remnants of the feast, and the flowers have sank lower into their vases. She walks gracefully out of the ballroom, leaving the rest of the nobles who remain to the questionable indulgences that are promised by lingering about.

The halls of the Red Keep are lined with the warm glow of torches, and yet they are never overly bright. She passes stone pillars and wooden doors and knights guarding different rooms before she hears the clearing of a throat behind her. 

So he has given them ample space to speak in private, yet he did not choose to follow her to her chambers.

While she would not have allowed him inside, she had been curious as to where he would initiate the conversation. She wishes it to feel like it is on his terms, after all.

Lady Tyrell turns quickly, the baby pink skirt of her gown billowing out around her as she does. She brings a hand to her chest in a rush, fingers pressed to the exposed skin between her collarbone and the neckline of her dress. A quiet inhale of breath hurries past her lips and she lets her eyebrows raise.

“Oh – Lord Stark.” The words have a quality of breathiness to them, as if she had been startled by the noise behind her but is relieved to see it is only him. She gives him a smile, her hand lowering to her side. It smooths over her breasts before it drops to rest elegantly. Her brows furrow slightly, with good-natured expectation, as she waits for him to speak.

Cregan does not know entirely why he followed her. He wishes to speak with her, but upon which manner? To thank her for the effort she had imbued into the feast that evening? To ask if she truly enjoys speaking with his bannermen, or if she hates the Northern presence in the capital as others do?

His stance is solid and heavy, his wideset shoulders lowered as he casts his gaze to the torch nearest to him on the wall, and then down to the grey floor beneath his dark boots. The stern expression on his face does not waver, as he searches with noble patience for the words he wants to say.

She takes the time free of his piercing eyes to observe him with a neutral expression, roaming over the way a few strands of red hair fall across his face when he tilts his chin down. It looks soft, despite the rugged nature of the rest of his figure, even more so as his hair is tinged with orange and gold in the torchlight.

Cregan has felt an indisputable pull towards her since the moment they first saw each other when he had arrived at the Red Keep. But the more he saw of her, the more unsettled he became. Is he so foolish as to lust after a woman whose character is so inclined towards deception and manipulation? It is as if he is a lad, with an inclination to being blinded at the sight of doe-like eyes and soft lips. 

But no, even as he stands there in front of her, her beauty clear as can be, Cregan knows he is not that susceptible to womanly charms. It is that flash of something in her eyes that he has seen that continues to draw him back. The frustration of want in the face of illusion; of yearning for knowledge that is kept purposefully yet barely out of his reach.

He pushes down the flames of frustration deep into his chest and looks up at Lady Tyrell with a serious yet neutral gaze. 

“What game do you play at, Lady Tyrell?”  There is a rumbling quality to his voice, yet it is not unpleasant on her ears. And despite the forward nature of the question, it is not asked roughly, nor brashly. It is posed with a stern politeness, reminding her once again that he has, the few times they have spoken, acted the perfect gentlemen if she could overlook his Northern tendencies. 

She finds herself pleased. It is rare she is met head on, and still with his maintaining all the expectations of civil discussion. Yet, she will not give Cregan Stark what he desires. “I beg your pardon, my lord?”

Her lashes flutter with gentle confusion when she tilts her head gingerly, as if trying to discern what he is referring to. Cregan beholds her visage, his own features still serious as he studies her.

“If you wish something of me, tell it to me plainly,” Cregan’s frustration is not altogether dispersed, simply pressed down. The low tone of his voice echoes deeply between them. His eyes narrow a fraction. “There is no need to put on any sort of act.”

Lady Tyrell blinks at him again, before she casts her gaze downwards. She reaches up to move a strand of hair from her face daintily, her nails brushing against the skin of her forehead. The sigh that leaves her parted lips is reserved and almost ashamed. When she meets his eyes again, Cregan sees the sweet shine of apologetic embarrassment.

“…I had no intention to be dishonest with you, my lord,” Lady Tyrell lowers her voice to a gentler tone. She draws closer towards him, lessening the distance between them as if she is letting him in on a secret. Her steps are gentle, heels clicking on the floor, the sound muffled beneath the heavy skirts of her gown. Cregan feels himself stiffen as she stops in front of him.

She is close, but not overly so. He can smell warm scents of vanilla and amber drifting up from her soft skin. Cregan holds her gaze steadily but his eyes narrow further, his head drawing back subtlety, involuntarily. It is not the reaction he would normally have to a beautiful woman, but one of wary confusion of her intention.

“And yet I am met with your dishonesty each time I speak with you.” It is not an accusation but an observation, one he offers to her with the expectation of her explaining herself.

It pains her to be this near to a man she does not know, with no one else in sight. She steadies her mind, reminding herself of the unique opportunity that has been presented to her in the form of the Lord of Winterfell. Her mother’s wishes flash before her eyes in the form of a parchment scroll and dried black ink. 

Her lips part before she speaks, a rose opening in the flickering torchlight. The storms of his eyes lower to them, a heavy breath in his lungs. There is a shift in the air, a heavier, charged atmosphere in the empty hall. For all of her acting, all of her schemes: she knows there is no falsehood in the way she reacts to him. It is a maddening truth, one that Lord Stark seems to be wrestling with through equal frustration.

Perhaps it brings her comfort to know that he does not wish for this want either.

“I hope you will not condemn a lady for what she does in the face of interest.” Her eyelashes lower over her eyes, and she swallows softly, her lips rolling over each other. Hands are brought together nervously, pressing together in front of her, her thumbs rubbing apprehensively on her palms. An almost imperceptible inhaling of breath sends Cregan’s stomach twisting into a pulsing knot he wishes to undo. 

It is almost inconceivable to him, how deeply she excels at this.

Still, Cregan has come here with the intention of figuring her out at least partially, and if he has to do so through a twisting forest of more lies and manipulation, so be it.

“Is that what this is?” Cregan asks lowly, eyes heavy and lidded when they fall across her face. Across her demurely lowered eyes and cheeks flushed with faux embarrassment and pink lips. The tug in his chest is low and getting lower, his blood hot. “Interest?”

A thick breath of a question. He steps towards her slowly, trying to gauge her reaction. Her eyes dart up as he brings their bodies closer, the heat from his own nearly perceptible now. The wideness of his shoulders and his imposing height are not lost on her then. If one were to stumble upon Cregan from behind him in the hall, his figure would completely conceal her own. 

Cregan catches it then, while his eyes are searching hers. An emotion, raw and pulsing. Lady Tyrell’s lashes flutter as her eyes quickly flick up and down his face, and her breath catches rather violently in her chest. Sharp enough that Cregan can hear it and see the way her ribcage stutters with the force of it. Her eyebrows twitch, raising and then lowering at the intrusion to her space.

And there, for the first time, the Lord of Winterfell thinks to himself that there is truth in front of him.

Her shoulders pull back, like she means to draw away from him. The left one raises slightly as she angles her torso to at least retreat with her right side, her arms coming together in front of the bodice upon her chest. Cregan looks down in the space between them to see the way the nail of her right thumb has pressed so deeply into her pointer finger that the skin is turning a ghostly white.

“Forgive me, my lord,” Her eyebrows raise upwards as she tries to wrestle with her sweet tone, but it is less sure than it had been before. The smile upon her lips is not as pronounced as is typical of her, but rather tight. “I did not mean to offend, I only…”

Her lips open once more after she trails off, but no sound escapes them. It brings Cregan pause.

“You desire me, that is what you are telling me?” Cregan feels the need to lower his voice, to take some of the gruff edge from it. He does not understand why.

It takes all that Lady Tyrell has to not jerk back. She takes a slow breath, eyes still not able to meet Cregan’s directly as she settles to stare at the dark fabric of his clothing. It takes her a heartbeat to pull the words out. “I only wished to express my favoring of you.”

It is a quiet phrase, and it does not seem to want to come out of her mouth. Like she had reached into her throat and pulled it out reluctantly with her fingers. Finally, her eyes slowly gaze up to meet his again.

“If you do not want it, I will take no offense, Lord Stark.” There is a silence that falls between them, in which Cregan should very well tell her that he wants no part in her scheming and manipulating and court games. But he finds his throat rather dry and instead says nothing. 

Taking this as the end to their exchange, Lady Tyrell presents him a curtsy that is not as precise as her last had been, and takes her leave from his presence. 

She knows that her steps are slightly too fast, echoing in rapid succession of each other as her shoes click down the halls. The fabric of her dress has been gripped in her hands so that she can move with greater ease, her knuckles almost white. 

Cregan stares after her for a moment, left with far too much to think upon. He had seen a fragment of something genuine, although he could not discern its nature, and he imagines she is leading him slowly towards the thing that she wants. And if she is feigning desire, aside from whatever instinctive and primal tension that drips from their every exchange, then Cregan feels with almost certainty that it is marriage she seeks. To be the Lady of Winterfell and secure an alliance between the Reach and the North. 

Ambitious, he can acknowledge that. He turns, retreating back down the hall towards his own chambers. Yet something unnamable tugs at the back of his mind.

As soon as her door closes behind her, Lady Tyrell lets out a strangled gasp, the sound clawing its way up her throat viciously. Her hands bring themselves to push down on her chest, but to her frustration, she finds them trembling. Shaking, her fingers pale, and she balls them into fists before ripping them forcefully through her hair, yanking out some pearls as she does so. They clatter to the floor and roll about beneath her feet.

The pacing that she begins is with the intention of calming her racing heart, and she bites at her lip deeply as she strides back and forth before the fireplace, opening and closing her hands. 

It had been some time since she had needed to charm a man like that alone. It was necessary, she knows this, as she wants his favor and now does not have the added hindrance of her honor and betrothal as a shield. She can no longer murmur reminders of her royal intended when a man draws too close to her space.

It is a shield she misses dearly, guilty at the thought of missing her late betrothed’s imposing shadow more than the boy himself.

And this is a dangerous game. She knows its nature well, which is why she does not like to play it. She has seen many women do it, and the consequences of when it goes awry. Cregan Stark is a stranger to her. 

A stranger of great importance, a stranger she is attracted to, but a stranger nonetheless. Her eyes remain downcast to the fire, lost in the warm depths. There is no light in her eyes.

[catsoupki]

當你不在 / when you’re not there (satoru gojo x reader) PT. 1

Summary: Satoru Gojo is slowly being backed into a corner by his father to pick a bride if he wants to inherit the throne, as his royal guard, you just want to protect him.

Warnings: prince gojo x royal guard reader ! soft FLUFF!!! for now anyway, since this is only the build-up for this 3-part (?) miniseries, i’m planning the angst and the smut 😛 stay tuned hahaha

wc: 850

Today is cold, the winds of autumn come knocking at the walls of Oculos, you’re kept warm, however, by the layers that shield your skin from the nipping chill— a tunic in sapphire blue covers your torso, a grey cuirass of dragon skin keeps your posture upright, and a bearskin cap tames your hair kempt. Perhaps an onlooker would’ve found the series of leather that strap around your shoulders and waist to be constricting, but your movement has grown within these boundaries— you were born for this duty.

Every day begins with leading a drill for your brigade. Whilst you stand under the wilting willow tree, you’ll pretend to not hear the soft hums coming from the prince’s chambers as you allow the wind to mess up your neckband.

Roughly an hour later, Your Majesty will finally decide that he shall leave his bedroom to come greet you by the dried leaves.

By then, you will have rounded up your men in two single-file lines to salute the prince. He never spares them an eye, maybe not even a breath. But it’s routine that he comes over to you, blue eyes one entire head above yours, looking down at you with a glint that is softly familiar, and he’ll fix your collar everyday without fail.

Afterwards, he’ll enjoy his breakfast in the hall, while you continue training your soldiers on wielding the katana with sparring and beatings. Breakfast, for you, always starts on an empty and aching stomach.

Today was meant to be no different, your steps periodic as you head towards the first meal of the day, but General Getou stops you in your tracks, “Commander y/n, report for duty in the grand hall. Satoru is looking for you again.” He sighs, “I’ll save some breakfast for you.”

“Thanks.” You say, the wind carrying your voice to him while you begin trekking in another direction.

When you enter the room, it seems that a ball has been going for some time already, despite it being only just the afternoon. Goblets of alcohol litter the tables, and a variety of fruits cover every surface. You return to your post— behind Satoru, on his right. He notices you right away, sneaking past the noisy wooden doors that you never liked, he’ll apologise later for making you skip breakfast, but he can’t be bothered to look at all these women parading themselves in front of him.

“Y/n, do I look fine today?” Satoru teases, cutting off a princess from the neighbouring country, simultaneously ignoring the glare that his father sends him from atop the throne.

“You look just as well as you had yesterday, Your Majesty.”

Out of the entire royal family, the only people who never held a distaste for you were Satoru and his mother, and now that she’s dead, you dare not speak in the presence of Satoru’s father, but you are the captain of the royal guard.

“Son, don’t you think the lady in red is just dashing? I think she’s much worthy of your attention, she’s of noble blood, at least.”

You remain stone-faced at your post, because the duty that you have learned to love comes with the acceptance of people’s spit: you are no more than the dirt on the sole of his shoes.

“Hmm, I think not, thanks father, and thanks ladies, but it seems that I have other more interesting matters to tend to. Have a safe trip home!”

Satoru is used to sending kings and the like home with red, glowing faces. He doesn’t care, he just drags you with him as he takes his exit. And you? You just follow him like a sunflower to the sun.

“You think I could just act super rude obliviously to drive them away?” Satoru asks, white hair blowing in the sea-salted wind.

He looks at you, but you look at Suguru, as you’re still shovelling the cold bites of food into your mouth.

“Their fathers are definitely willing to overlook that as long as they get to have your powers. Satoru, you seem to forget the reason why they’re even here to court you in the first place.”

Loneliness is a cold, unforgiving feeling. It’s not the same as breathing in winter air that makes your throat itch, loneliness doesn’t make rounds like the seasons do, it stays, stubbornly and mulishly rooted at the base of every step that he takes, it’s—

“It’s been three years, won’t my father just give up? Three years, no kingdom ever woos me for real, anyway.”

“What if you just marry someone and divorce them after you get the throne?” You ask, eyes bugged as you finish the last of your meal.

“I don’t want to consummate with a woman I have not a single tittle of feelings for.” You and Suguru meet eyes as Satoru continues to deliver his tirade to the calm ocean. You two will never be able to understand his life, a life of one million suns.

“I’ll figure it out.”

—it’s when you’re not there.

tag list: @hatsukeii @staraxiaa

[mermaidgirl30]

✨Crimson Tango: A Dance of Diamonds and Revenge Chapter 2 - It Always Ends Badly✨

Series Masterlist

A/N: Me and @mountainsandmayhem are having so much fun writing this Moulin Rouge au! We hope you enjoy chapter two ☺️ Comments and reblogs are always appreciated ❤️

Word Count: 5.7k

Pairings: Joel x fem! reader

Rating: Explicit (18+ Only)

Chapter Summary: Joel and reader finally meet. Things get a little heated till reader’s uncle interrupts. Plans take a turn for the worst when your uncle introduces you to Terrance, the man you absolutely loathe.

Chapter Tags: Flirting, feelings, fluff and thoughts of smut, angst, longing, grief

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

In the bright lights of your room, you notice things about the handsome stranger that you couldn’t quite see while you were up on stage. Like his eyes… They aren’t just dark brown. No. They’re lighter than you expected, almost the color of honey and copper mixed together. Light flecks of warmth reflecting off them. It almost reminds you of sunlight. Beautiful, warm. And just for a second you swear you can see home in those bright brown eyes that call to you. And his face is so beautiful. So smooth, tan, angelic.

“I - I’m sorry,” Joel stutters, using every ounce of self preservation he has to tear his eyes away from you.

You turn your back to him to put the dressing gown on properly, tying the satin pink sash in a bow to make sure the gown doesn’t slip off. The spike of adrenaline from performing always seems to cloud your mind and you must have forgotten to lock your door again. You glance over your shoulder to see Joel's wide brown eyes looking at your guitar and pottery wheel. “It’s okay, I should have locked the door,” you reply shyly.

You spin back around to face him, and in the sensual lighting of your bachelor style living quarters he might be the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen. You wonder how old he is and if he’s married. You find yourself hoping he’s not. A married woman wouldn’t let her husband work in a place like this.

“Perhaps I should come back another time,” Joel says hesitantly.

“No, no please. Stay.” Your heart thunders in your chest, you’re sure he sees you as others around town do, a whore. That title has never bothered you before, let them think what they want to think, you know what you are. You are the Sparkling Diamond. The one that all men want, but can never have. You’re their fantasy, and unbeknownst to them you’re an untouchable fantasy. But Joel’s opinion feels like it should matter, you can’t explain why, but you want him to know that you aren’t like the other girls that work here.

“Alright,” he murmurs out, tugging at the collar around his shirt that is starting to feel too tight. “I just need to fix that dripping faucet for you and replace that light and umm, then I’ll be out of your way, ma’am.”

You say your name and his right cheek lifts slightly as he repeats it back to you. It’s never sounded sweeter coming out of someone’s lips. He glances quickly at your guitar and pottery wheel again before walking further into your room to inspect the sink.

“You’re Mr. Miller, right?” You had heard some of the women talking about the handsome new handyman your uncle had hired earlier.

“Yes, just Joel will do, ma’am.” His heart is hammering in his chest, he wouldn’t be surprised if you could hear it across the room. He opens the cabinets under your sink and sees a pipe with a steady drip running down to the floor.

You repeat your name again with a laugh.

“Sorry, that’s not how I was raised, darlin’.”

Darlin’. The nickname gives you butterflies low in your stomach and warmth floods your body. You feel your cheeks flush as Joel glances over you slowly.

His breath gets caught in his throat with how beautiful you look with a slight pink blush lighting your cheeks. His mind flashes to you on top of him, that blush spreading down your neck and chest slowly. Soft breasts in his palms as you bob up and down on his cock.

“Darling,” you repeat back dreamily, “you could just call me that if you like. I like it,” you blush crimson as you flutter your long eyelashes at him.

Joel is thankful his face is now hidden under the sink, the big grin across his face would definitely give him away. You watch his strong arms flexing as he tugs and pulls on the hardware under your sink. Watch the way his bulging biceps cling to the flannel every time he reaches and flexes his muscles. The sight alone makes you gulp with desire.

“Okay, if that’s the case then,” he raises his head to lock eyes with you, “can you please turn the water on, darlin’? Let’s see if I’ve fixed this.”

You pad over to the sink in your barefeet, toes painted the same red as your fingernails. You lean over Joel's outstretched body to turn the water on. Everything happens all at once; first, the water sputters and then shoots out of the faucet with much more pressure than usual, then the pipe underneath pours down on Joel. Before you can even comprehend what’s happened, Joel has you scooped up in his arm, while the other reaches to turn off the tap. He’s completely soaked now and when the two of you lock eyes you both start laughing. Neither of you can really remember when you’ve laughed like this. Warm, genuine laughter as he walks you away from the wet floor of your kitchen area.

“Shit,” you laugh, ‘I’m sorry! You’re soaked.”

Joel places your feet gently on the ground at the foot of your bed. “I think we need to replace that.”

You stumble slightly when he puts you down, like a few minutes of his touch has already made you weak and boneless. He grabs the hem of his shirt and lifts it up to wipe his face. You should look away, but instead you let your eyes wander down to the exposed skin of his abdomen, your bottom lip sliding in between your teeth. His flat abdomen has a little trail of hair that leads to the one spot you haven’t been able to stop thinking about since you saw him. Between that and the v shaped divots of his hip bones, you’re mesmerized. You want him, need him. Badly.

His brown eyes lock with yours as he lowers his shirt slowly, keeping his eyes intently focused on you. Your breaths come out shallow, causing your breasts to rise and fall rapidly. His eyes dart to your parted lips as you step closer to him. His warmth and mahogany smell wraps around you, enveloping you in a thick fog. He’s taller than you, much taller. You have to crane your neck up to look at him. One of his hands grazes against yours and you suck in a nervous breath as you feel electricity run through your connected skin. His fingers are soft and warm, but also rough and scalding all at the same time. The hands of a hardworking man.

“Darlin’?” He says in a cracked whisper.

“Y-yeah?” you coo, fingers reaching for his, your pointer finger linking gently with his pinky.

Joel hears Edward’s voice, don’t touch my girls. But his hands seem to have developed a mind of their own as he finishes intertwining your fingers with one hand, the other tracing a gentle line up your arm towards your shoulder.

“You have to stop looking at me like that…” he says, pushing your soft curls off your shoulder, brushing your exposed collarbone, his delicate touch causing your clit to throb. He’s so handsome, so… gentle. Soft.

You hold in a moan, his strong, thick fingers feeling like heaven on your skin. “Like what?” you ask quietly, locking your fingers with his as calloused fingers drag along yours smoothly. It’s like fire burning your skin. Warm, tempting, smoldering, life ending.

He steps closer, so close that if you could take a full breath your barely covered breasts would graze against his body. Your nipples are hard and sensitive against the silkiness of your dressing gown, begging to be released from the material.

“Like you want me to kiss you, baby girl.”

Baby girl, fuck.

His gentle touch continues up your neck and you can’t hold it in anymore, a moan slips from your lips as you lean into his touch. His eyes haven’t left yours, and they darken as he watches your body responding to his fingers. He traces your jaw line, stopping below your chin and lowering his face to yours. “Do you want me to kiss you?”

A breathy ‘yes’ starts to come past your lips when a loud knock on your door has you both jumping apart like you had touched a live wire. Joel rushes into your kitchen, grabbing a towel to clean the puddle of water on the floor quickly. You tighten your dressing gown and head to the door, opening it just a crack.

“Hi, petal,” your uncle says, “just checking on the sink situation. Did Joel stop by?”

You open the door the rest of the way and gesture for him to come in.

“Sorry, sir,” Joel says from his crouched position on the floor. “I think we’re gonna need to replace it. The one pipe is stripped and you can’t get a good seal without the threads.”

You smile at Joel from behind your uncle. He appears to be rambling. Nervous rambling.

“Do what you need to do, Joel. This is the room of our most prized possession. If she wants it, she gets it.”

If she wants it, she gets it. The words run through Joel’s head over and over again like a broken record on repeat. Like how you were practically begging him to kiss you seconds ago. Those smooth, glossy lips tempting him to dark places he shouldn’t go. He shouldn’t, he knows better. But he’s beginning to realise he has no sense of self preservation when it comes to you.

Joel notices the way your eyes glaze over with sadness when Edward calls you a possession and that’s when he feels it again. The connection, the tight string that pulls him to you. He can tell that you hate that, that you want to be seen for you and not just the fantasy you put out there for those sick men.

He can’t say no to you, he’ll never say no to you. To hell with the rules, he’d already broken them the moment he saw you. He wants to know you, he wants to play guitar with you and maybe you can teach him how to use that pottery wheel. He’s truly, royally fucked. Ruined. But so be it. As long as he could have you, he didn’t care about the consequences because all he wanted was you. His Sparkling Diamond.

“Petal, come to my office when he’s done here, please?”

You nod and smile sweetly, “Of course.”

After he leaves, Joel sighs and leans against your porcelain counter, crossing his strong arms across his chest, his soft chocolate eyes staring back at you. His eyebrows knit together and you can see him grinding his teeth together while his jaw clenches into a tight fist.

“Sorry.” It comes out of your mouth instinctively. You don’t know what you’re sorry for but it’s certainly not for almost kissing him.

“No, I want to, darlin’. I really want to. It’s just…” he walks towards you slowly, almost hesitating before he reaches for you. He’s known you all of twenty minutes and he already can’t stand being in the same room with you and not touching you. As his hands come up to lightly cup the back of your head he continues, “It’s just that doing that will get me fired.”

“Didn’t you hear him? If I want it, I can have it.”

You let your hand roam over his chest, and he can’t help but melt at your touch. “Fuck, baby girl. You’re so…I’m just…”

“Are you feeling flustered, Mr. Miller?”

“Very,” he says before crashing his lips into yours.

His lips are soft and fit perfectly against yours as they nip at your bottom lip and devour you nice and slow. You run a hand through his soft tousled curls and hear him groan against your mouth. He likes that, likes your fingers wrapped around his hair.

He slides his arms around your waist and pulls you tight against his broad chest, making your head spin with want and need. You can smell every inch of him, feel the mahogany and woodsy scent seep into every crevice of your skin. It’s intoxicating, electrifying. You want him, you need him, crave him like you’ve never craved anything else in your entire life. It’s him, it’s only him.

It takes everything inside you to break the kiss, and both of you whine out when you part. Joel fights the urge to readjust himself, he doesn’t want you thinking he’s like every other guy in here. He’s not looking for a quick fuck, he never wants to do anything quick with you.

“Fuck,” you say breathily, “I have to go. I don’t want to go, but he’ll come back.”

“It’s okay, I’ll be back tomorrow.” His thumbs graze the sides of your waist affectionately as he pulls back.

“Can I see you again?” Joel didn’t realise the elation that could come from those five little words. You step into him, resting your cheek against his chest, hands roaming his broad back. “Please?” you almost beg.

Joel groans at your touch, “Nothing would make me happier, darlin’.”

Before he steps out of your reach, you look to your acoustic guitar and back up into his warm brown eyes. “I saw you looking at my guitar earlier. Do you play?” you ask with your eyes focused on him intently.

“Mhm. Been playin’ a long time,” he replies and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, making you want to melt into his touch forever. “And you? I’m guessin’ you also play?” he asks with the cock of his thick eyebrow.

“Yeah, a little. I kinda taught myself as a child,” you say shyly.

A low whistle escapes his lips. “Taught yourself, yeah? Smart girl.” A smirk curls against his lips and it nearly knocks the breath from your body. “I could give you lessons, you know. If you’d want, that is.”

You don’t hesitate at all before you squeak out. “Please! I’d love nothing more,” you almost shout with a huge grin on your matted red lips.

“Perfect. It’s a date then…” he says as he slides his hand through his tousled curls nervously, making his brown flecks of color pop with his shy smile. You nearly explode at the thought of his strong arms around yours, his calloused hands guiding you along the strings as his smooth lips trace your neck line, whispering praises to you each time you learn something new.

Good girl. Doin’ so good for me, baby girl. Learnin’ so fast. Such a good girl… The thoughts nearly take you down to the floor.

“Well, guess I should let you get to Edward,” he sighs, already starting to move his arms from your waist. The feeling of him leaving makes you feel empty, hollow. A lost void in the darkness. You don’t want him to go…

After managing to pull yourselves out of each other's arms, Joel slips out of your room slowly, sending you a flirtatious wink and a small smile before closing the door gently. When you peel your eyes off the now closed door, you throw on a pair of pink lacy panties and a wrap around dress before heading out to your uncle's office.

When you open your door, you enter back into the chaos and madness of it all. You forgot that all of this was happening all around you when you were alone with Joel, almost like being locked in his eyes turned off the whole word. The burlesque is still hustling and bustling with men, dancers swarming them on the dance floor as they grab and take what they want from the women. You decide right then and there that you are done with this place and then roll your eyes bitterly as you make your way down the grand staircase, then down to the wooden floor, clicking your heels across the wood as you saunter your way to your uncle’s office.

You can feel the eyes roaming over your body, hear the cat calls the men make as they whistle and call your name. You tune them out, pretend you don’t hear the barbaric things they yell at you.

What could your uncle possibly want to talk about that couldn’t wait till tomorrow? Was he letting you come up with a new routine, maybe let you coach some more of the children on how to do kicks and twirls and little dance numbers? You liked the children, loved seeing their faces light up when you showed them a dance move or two. Maybe that’s what this was about. You hoped it was.

When you cross the dim lit hallway with red wallpaper and dark wooden floors, you turn the golden doorknob into your uncle’s spacious office. “Hi, uncle! You wanted to see me?” you ask brightly. As you turn you stop in your tracks, the door shutting quietly behind you. There’s a strange man standing almost menacingly near your uncle.

“Oh, uhh. Who’s this?” you ask cautiously, taking in the tall stranger that stands at the corner of your uncle’s long, wooden desk.

“Oh, petal. So happy you made it. This is Terrance. Terrance, this is our Sparkling Diamond.” Your uncle says your name to Terrance and he smirks at the mention of it.

Something about him makes your skin crawl. You can’t place what it is, but your gut and intuition are telling you to be afraid of this man and to run. Bile rises in your throat from questions that swirl violently in your brain.

Why was Terrance in here alone with your uncle? And why were you being introduced to him? Something wasn’t right. Something was off, very off.

Maybe when you’re 18, you can join them. No, that wouldn’t be it, he promised you that you would just be a dancer.

You blink away your thoughts and take in his appearance. He stands maybe six feet high, he’s built but somehow frail at the same time. When he takes his black top hat off and nods his head at you, you see the thinning hair that sits atop his head. It’s ash blonde with grey streaks running through every other strand. And his mustache is almost slimy looking, wet and slicked over with a grease like gel to hold it in place. You find yourself comparing it to Joel’s soft, trimmed beard and mustache. It’s nothing like this man’s. This man is… unkempt.

You take in his wrinkles, see the way his leathery skin pulls at the evil smirk that encases his chapped lips. This man is much older than you. Much, much older. Maybe the same age as your uncle or even older. You can’t tell, but he was way too old to be after a girl like you.

“So good to finally get to meet you, m’lady.” He takes your hand and brings his lips over your knuckles, planting a wet, sloppy kiss on your skin that makes you cringe. When you drop your hand back down, you run it over the back of your dress as you wipe the drool off your hand.

My lady? Just who did this guy think he was?

“Are you here to meet some of the dancers?” you ask him cautiously as you watch his grey eyes turn cold, calculating, and vindictive, but most importantly lust filled.

You watch his eyes scrape over you like sharp glass tearing through your skin, see the way he looks at you like a fresh piece of meat. He hones you like a hawk, piercing eyes scanning every inch of your body. You feel as if he sees right through the thin dress as he undresses you with his glazed over eyes. You cross your arms over your body and wrap the dress tighter around you, pretending as if that’ll make you feel slightly less exposed. It doesn’t help, not one bit.

“Not exactly,” he says, the vowels getting caught in between his teeth as he draws it out, words hooking on his annoyingly proper accent.

“Ummm, about that,” your uncle says nervously. He wipes at a bead of sweat on his forehead as his green eyes become big and wide before he says his next words. “He’s here for you.”

Your blood runs cold, veins constricting as you feel ice run down your bloodstream. You repeat the words in your head, almost positive you misheard him. He’s here for you. Here for you. But you hadn’t misheard. You heard him just right.

Maybe when you’re eighteen, you can join them.

“For me?” you whisper out, wide eyes looking over at Terrance as he runs his rough tongue along his bottom lip seductively, grey eyes hounding your body as he nearly combusts from his desire for you.

You see the way he looks at you, like a dog would a fresh bone. You see the way his fingers dig into his top hat as he stares at your breasts as they sit halfway exposed from the dress. There’s nothing but lust and desire in his eyes. Nothing but the mere inkling to rip your dress off and expose every inch of your body for him to indulge in. He doesn’t look at your eyes, or face, doesn’t even seem to care that tears are burning in the back of your eyes as he manages to violate you without even touching you.

Your uncle is selling you to him…

You hold your head high and bite your cheek before you say something hasty. You tear your watering eyes off Terrance, not able to look into the lust filled pits of his eyes anymore. Joel… Joel would never look at you like that, would never make you feel as small and feeble as Terrance just did. Joel looked at you with passion, need, like you were the only girl in the entire world. And that’s all you could think of now was him. Joel… the one you wanted.

“That’s right. For you,” Terrance smirks out the words as you stare distraughtly at him.

Your uncle looks between the two of you, the lines of his forehead wrinkling into worry lines. He looks nervous, sad even. And you know then this had to be a sick joke. He couldn’t be serious. He wouldn’t.

“Terrance, can you wait outside for us at the bar? Maybe go grab yourself a scotch? Need to speak to my little petal here,” your uncle says. Terrance nods and moves toward the door, sliding up behind you as you feel his hand brush up against the back of your dress, dangerously close to your ass. You suck in a breath and let him pass through the door, waiting a few seconds till you can’t hear his light footsteps down the hall anymore. Then you attack.

“What do you mean he’s here for me?” Your voice is raised, anger biting back as you snarl down at your uncle sitting calmly in his leather office chair.

“He’s…. uhhh he’s….” he stutters, nervous drips of sweat falling from his forehead as he takes a hand towel and dabs at his drenched skin.

“Just tell me!” you demand, almost screaming at him as your red polished fingers slam on top of his desk with a jolt, making a stack of thick papers fly down to the floor.

He sighs and nods before telling you. “He paid me money to have you…” he whispers out defeatedly.

“You sold me? To him?!” you yell loudly as your face floods with hot heat, anger and broken trust filling your insides like hot lava.

“Petal, I can explain,” he pleads as he holds his hands out, begging you to let him speak.

“Don’t!” you cry out, pointing your index finger in his direction as you see the shiny red polish shimmer back your way. “Don’t you dare call me that!”

Silence fills the air and you have to swallow the sob that creeps up your throat. Your hand falls to your side, “You lied to me,” you say quietly, hurt seeping through you as you feel your heart shattering. He was the one person you always counted on to be honest with you.

“Sweetheart, I didn’t lie,” he says defensively.

His defensive tone comes out cockily and you feel the anger bubble back to the surface, “You lied to me the day you started making me entertain those men! The day you made me sit on their laps as they looked at me like I was just a wet hole for them to fill.”

Your uncle cringes but you aren’t done, “You lied to me the moment you promised I’d never have to be fucked by any of those men! And now look. You fucking sold me to an older man, who spent the whole time looking at me like I wasn’t even a fucking person! Like he just wants to use me till I’m no more, until I’m nothing!” The words get caught on a choked cry as you feel a wet tear slide down your cheek. You swear with how quietly still the room is that you hear it splash on the floor.

Your uncle just looks at you with sad, distant eyes. Eyes that say they’re sorry all on their own. It makes you burn hotter, the betrayal cutting a clear knife down your back. You trusted him. You fucking trusted him. And look what he did. Sold you out to get fucking paid. Pathetic.

You turn toward the dark door and reach for the gold handle, but he stops you before you can twist it open. “Please, wait. Let me explain,” he begs as he stands from his chair, nearly knocking over the large picture of the Eiffel Tower off the back of the red walls.

You drop your hand from the door and walk back over to his desk, crossing your arms tightly over you as you wait to see what good excuse he gives you. “So, tell me. Go on. Tell me why you did this to me. I’m waiting,” you say coldly, eyes burning into his as he gulps and runs a hand through his sandy overgrown hair.

“I got a visit from some government people today. They don’t like what we’re doing here, petal. They threatened to shut us down. They found out it was more than a bar. Found out exactly what goes on here every night, and they don’t like it. Not one bit.”

He takes a large gulp of his brandy drink and shakes his head as he continues. “They’re making us pay double the property tax now. Says they’ll let us stay open if we keep that agreement. But do you realize how much money that is every year? And then Terrance walked in. I offered him any other girl, multiple girls if he wanted. I tried introducing him to other dancers, but the only one he wanted was you. I saw no other way, sweet pea. I was desperate.”

You take a step back and peel your eyes to the floor, your eyebrows knitting together as you take in his words. Your eyes grow wide at the information he just told you, but you can’t say anything. You’re too shocked from everything he just said, the words hitting every single nerve ending in your body like a freight train crashing right into you.

“They wanted to shut down the Moulin Rouge…” you barely whisper, your voice coming out as quiet as a helpless mouse.

“That’s right, petal. I had to strike a deal or they would’ve shut us completely down tonight. We would’ve ended up on the streets. All the women and children of this place; unsheltered and without work or food. Can you imagine?”

“No… I can’t imagine that…'' you say starstruck, your mind in a thick cloud of haze as you slowly face him again. His face is so sad, so drenched with apologies as he looks right at you with eyes that scream to you to forgive him. And you can’t say no, you can’t deny him that. Not even if what he did was cruel and selfish. But it wasn’t really that selfish because he was saving the Moulin Rouge. He was saving everyone that lived here, even you…

He comes around the desk and steps in front of you, taking one of your hands in his as he looks at you with sincere eyes. “You know I’d never do anything to hurt you on purpose, right?”

You stare at the floor and purse your lips, deep in thought as you gulp down tears and meet his eyes again cautiously. You nod your head slowly as you continue to listen to him.

“I love you like my own daughter. And I promise you, if this incident didn’t happen today then I never would’ve taken him up on his offer. I never would’ve sold you like that, but I was desperate. I saw it as the only way out of this deep hole I got myself into. And I’m so sorry, so very sorry…”

You drag your tongue over your pristine teeth and look at him with hurt eyes, but you understand why he did it. He was desperate, only trying to save the ones he cared about. But that dark, nagging thought at the back of your head continues to scream at you, trying to tell you that he would do it anyway. If it was a large sum of money, would he still have sold you out? Without the government getting involved? You’d never know…

“How much?” you ask thickly.

“How much what?” he asks with furrowed eyebrows.

“How much did he offer you for me?” you ask coldly, choking back tears as you stare up at him with hurt written all over your face.

“$300,000…”

Oh.

Your eyes go wide at the large sum of money. $300,000? Holy shit…

“That’s a… wow. That’s a lot,” you gasp in shock.

“It is. It’s enough to save us, petal. Enough to keep it all going,” he smiles, eyes turning a bit brighter as he says it.

“How long am I supposed to entertain him or be with him or… whatever this is,” you ask in disgust, not wanting to think about his sloppy hands and greasy moustache on your clean skin.

“It’s not forever, petal. He’s much older than you. Maybe a few years with him, if that.”

“A few years?!” you shriek in surprise. “But he… but I don’t…” The words leave your mouth in choppy stutters. Your throat feels dry and constricted, and you can’t find the strength to finish your sentence.

“I know, petal. I know. Again, I’m so sorry. I know he isn’t your first choice. But he’s got a lot of money. He can take care of you. Maybe in ways I never could…” he says sadly, eyes dropping to the ground. He means he couldn’t save you from your impending doom. He couldn’t save you from the grimy hands of Terrance, the man that came and wrecked your life like a ship caught in a raging storm. But he’s the one that sold you… your uncle. The man you used to see as your hero.

“I don’t want him to take care of me. I get along just well on my own,” you say proudly with your chin raised high, trying your best to sound brave when your entire world is getting flipped upside down like a coiled up ball of yarn, no way of untangling your way out.

He sighs and shakes his head sadly. “I’m sorry, petal. I did what I could. Why don’t you just go back to your room and take a nice long bath. Don’t worry about Terrance tonight. You can see him tomorrow night.”

Tomorrow night. That meant he’d expect to sleep with you, show you off like his prized possession amongst all his rich friends. You feel a wave of nausea roll over your stomach, feel the backs of your eyes sting with fresh tears waiting to fall like raindrops down your face, feel the pure need to run to Joel, have him wrap you in his strong arms where it’s warm and safe. Where you belong. Where your heart burns.

You don’t turn back around to say goodnight to your uncle, you just place your hand on the cold metal knob and twist, stepping back into the loud hallway as men chant and girls twirl and dance for the men vulgarly. You walk past them lifelessly, holding in your tears till you reach the staircase, making yourself walk faster as the anxiety starts to crush you.

You grip the cold railing of the staircase and climb up each step with the weight of the world on your chest. It’s hard to breathe, hard to filter in fresh air when you feel as if you’re stuck underground with no escape in sight, suffocating on dirt and the stench of Terrance, weighing yourself down as you remember him carving his cold eyes over your body like a hyena ready to make you his dinner.

As soon as you enter the dark hallway, you turn the opposite way of your room. Your body almost having a mind of its own as you head to the dance studio. This room where you teach the children, a place of innocence and laughter. You close the door behind you, slide down the back of the door and end up on the floor as you curl your head into your knees, feeling the wet tears hit the pink material of your dress. You choke out tears knowing what you’ll have to do tomorrow, grab your silky hair between your polished fingers as you think of his dirty paws all over you.

It’s not forever. You can fake it. You can do this.

But you aren’t sure you can because every time you even think of Terrance your mind goes to Joel. Joel, Joel, Joel. He’s the one you want, the one you need. And you want him so badly that even thinking about him hurts.

Joel. He can’t find out. Not yet. What would you tell him? What would he do? You’d have to keep it to yourself. At least for a few days. Yes, just a few days. You could do that… right?

[nathanbatemanfucker]

Boy Meets Cat, Boy Meets Girl

pairing: steven grant x f!reader

prompt: kid fic or pet fic

contents: the feelings that come w/ temporarily losing a pet, meetcute, flirting

wc: 1,334

an: another promotional fic for @moonknight-events! steven is just…one of the sweetest, cutest men ever. written w/ the Marc’s girls server in mind, iykyk!

DISCLAIMER: as a event runner i will not be entered in the drawing for prizes. this is promotional only.

SP BINGO 2024 | moonknight masterlist

She’s sitting on the steps one day outside the museum after Steven’s shift. He almost walks right past her, bumbling down the steps with a soft hum. It’s been a long day of being yelled at atop getting sleep that just isn’t restful. He’s exhausted. He’s unobservant.

He’s nearly past her when he hears it— a loud, scratchy meow that catches his attention. Steven stops in his tracks, blinking rapidly.

Had he just heard a cat? On the museum steps? Sleep deprivation really was getting to him, wasn’t it?

He turns towards the sound, sure that there will be nothing there, that he is just hearing things. But there she is, perched on the museum steps as if she owns the place. She looks like a little heap of snow— her fur is fluffy and a stark white color that contrasts with her dark eyes and pink nose. He lets out a little sound of surprise, and then she meows back as if she’s answering him.

He laughs, a bright and cheery sound. “Well, hello there little one. Lost are we?”

She meows again, this time a little softer and if Steven wasn’t mistaken, a little sadder. He softens, taking a few cautious steps toward her so as not to spook her. When she does seem skittish, staying in place despite him closing the gap he simply sits beside her on the steps.

“Do you have a name, little one? Can I look at your collar? Promise I’ll be gentle,” He says, reaching his hand out to her.

She leans forward on her front paws, sniffing at the back of his hand before giving out a soft purr. She bumps his hand with the top of her head, nuzzling.

Steven takes this opportunity to reach under her chin, scratching gently before he leans in to peer at her collar.

“Iris— what a pretty name for a pretty cat.”

Another meow as Iris bulldozes her way into his lap. Steven gives her a series of pats, setting off several purrs that he feels vibrating through her spine. She's so fluffy, so soft. He could pet her for all his days. It’s nice to have this companionship, even if it’s just a cat. Hell, it beats talking to the statuer at the fountain in the park and Iris hasn’t spoken a word.

You know for a moment there, I wondered if you were the goddess Bastet,” He whispers playfully, like he’s keeping a big secret. Iris simply meows, using her paws to slip down and lay across Steven’s thighs. “Aren’t you cold? Is that a silly question given your fur coat?”

Steven lets himself sit, idly petting Iris as he watches the sun slowly disappear behind the London skyline. He’s completely charmed with this cat, with the peaceful feeling her company brings. Part of him selfishly thinks about taking her home and keeping her as his own. But, he knows if he’s this fond of her in a short period of time her owner is probably grief-stricken to be without her. He’ll take her home for the night and use his off day to pursue leads on her owner. Perhaps Marc could help with the tracking. For tonight though, he has some company and the idea has Steven rising to his feet, Iris in tow.

“How’s about we head on home and watch a movie? Are you a fan of Meerkat Manor? Or will seeing them scurry about get you revved up?” He whispers, ignoring the weird glances he’s getting from passersby.

As expected, Iris simply gives out a soft meow, snuggling further into Steven’s hold. He grins, raising a hand to pet her head as he rounds the corner, effectively running into someone.

“Iris! There you are. Oh my god, thank you. Thank you,” You gasp, reaching out to squeeze his arm.

If Steven thought he was charmed by Iris, he must come up with a word that holds more meaning at the sight of you. Your cheeks are tear-stained, eyes a mixture of happiness and guilt. Your brows are pinched together, and he has the urge to reach up and smooth out the wrinkle between them. The urge to soothe you. Even during the short walk, Steven had imagined his reluctance to give Iris back to her owner, but that’s all melted away now that you’re right in front of him. So, so beautiful.

“You’re Iris’ mum?”

“Yes. Fuck, thank you so much. I can’t– I don’t know what I would’ve done without her. I owe you.”

“Ah, don’t worry about it. I simply stumbled upon her outside the museum after work. I was gonna start looking for her owner tomorrow, imagined it was too late. But look at you, as diligent as ever.”

“The museum? What were you doing there?” You ask Iris before looking up at the man to whom you practically owe your life again. He’s very handsome, a little tired-looking but his eyes are warm, and his hair is fluffy curls. She’s everything to me,” You explain, squeezing Iris to your cheek, doing some nuzzling of your own.

Iris has clearly learned her affectionate manners from you.

Steven’s mind quickly wanders, wondering what it would feel like to be on the receiving end of your affection. He bats the thought away, flushing. “I can imagine, she’s a little charmer. Plopped herself right in my lap.”

“I’m surprised she got this close to you, she’s incredibly picky. She must sense that you’re a lovely person.”

“Well–I– I’m glad to live up to Iris’ standards. She seems to have good taste. Animals sort of choose their owners don’t they?”

“Thanks,” You murmur shyly, feeling your own cheeks fill with warmth. “I know that folks can say being a pet parent is cringy, but I really am lucky to be her mom. She has such an energy to her.”

“Warm. Calm,” Steven supplies, reaching out to pet Iris’ head, if only for the last time. She nuzzles into his hand and he smiles.

Your eyes track his hand, still a little surprised at how easily Iris is letting him pet her. She had hated almost every person you’d brought back to your apartment except a handful of friends. But, any romantic prospects had quickly made themselves scarce given your mean, overprotective cat.

“Exactly.”

“Well Miss Iris, I guess we won’t be getting to watch Meerkat Manor after all will we? Perhaps your mum could show.”

“Meerkat Manor?”

“It follows a little family of meerkats through the desert. Their struggles, their connections, their enemies. All sorts of things.”

“I’ve always been a fan of animal docs.”

“Yeah? I could recommend you loads of them.”

“I would really like that. I don’t think I got your name?”

“Steven.”

“Steven,” You repeat softly before giving him your name. “It’s really lovely to meet you. This is bold of me but…maybe we could see each other again?

Steven’s mouth drops open, eyes wide in surprise. “Really?”

“I told you I owe you and well– Iris seems to like you a lot. Maybe I could make you dinner as repayment and we could watch some meerkats live their lives.”

“I– yeah. Yeah, alright, I would love to.”

You and Steven quickly exchange contacts. He gives Iris a few more pets before rocking back and forth on his heels.

“I’ll call you tomorrow. Sound alright?” He asks, voice hopeful.

“Sounds great,” You confirm.

You shift Iris into the crook of your elbow, and to Steven’s surprise, wrap him in a one-armed hug as you whisper him a soft thanks. His response is delayed but he hugs you back, surrounded by your warmth and soft scent. After a few beats you pull away, giving him a smile as the two of you exchange temporary goodbyes. Steven makes his way back to his flat with a wide grin, grateful that Iris had brought the two of you together. Cat in arms, butterflies in stomach you walk home feeling much the same.

moonknight taglist: @ninebluehearts, @rmoonstoner, @hotchs-bitch,  @later-gators12, @foreverinwanderlustt-blog, @aleeb , @eyelessfaces, @marc-spectorr, @missdictatorme, @toracainz, @mccn-bcys, @campingwiththecharmings, @whatthefishh

[hearts-hunger]

Chapter One: A Flash of Steel and Silver {Series Masterlist | Series Playlist ♫}

Series Summary: You've been called the Jewel of the Bay, a lady born and bred in one of the Royal Navy's most profitable ports of call. On a fateful summer night, taken aboard the pirate ship Starcatcher, your world is turned upside down. To survive, you must put your faith in the honor among thieves and learn to trust the devotion of a pirate to his most precious treasure.

Pairings: Jake x Reader, Sam x Danny, Josh x Reader | Chapter Word Count: 4.7k | Warnings: AU-typical violence, harassment, historically accurate misogyny

A/N: My sweethearts! This is my very first time doing an au like this, and I'm very excited to share it with you. I have no concrete plans for this series, and no update schedule - I'm just seeing where the wind takes me on this one. I know it's different from my other fics, but I really hope you like it! ♡

Pirates. 

The word alone struck fear into the hearts of the people of Sapphire Bay, sending them inside to lock their doors and close the window shutters with a firm crack. Those devils marked by the branding iron were hated and feared, considered with a mix of awe and horror and morbid curiosity. To meet one meant certain death; for the superstitious, even to speak of one meant the calling down of hell’s rapacious wrath upon the new world’s fragile kingdom of islands. Everywhere, in hushed voices and cautious glances at the western horizon, people dreaded the coming of those demons. Pirates.

You had learned to fear them just as much as anyone, the threat of them always lingering in the back of your mind, but there was an insatiable curiosity that held you captive any time you so much as heard them mentioned. Your late father, the former governor of Sapphire Bay, had spoken of them often; you’d grown up on snatches of conversations heard from the other side of his study door, tales of murder and thievery and drunken escapades, stories of freedom and bravery and adventure.

Those stories had continued to fascinate you even as you became a woman, and you were more interested in them now than you had been as a child. Lucky, then, that you’d been betrothed to Commander Kit Drake of the battleship Black Smoke; his own closed-door conferences about the pirates that roamed the seas provided an endless diversion to your hungry imagination.

Hearing those stories was perhaps the only lucky thing about your betrothal, and you reminded yourself to try and think of other silver linings as your lady’s maid dressed you for dinner at the Commodore’s estate. 

“He’ll tell me how beautiful I look,” you said to yourself, touching light fingers to your lightly rouged lips. “Surely he will.”

“Indeed he will, miss,” your lady’s maid said as she styled your hair. “You’ll be the jewel of the bay this evening, all sparkling in the candlelight.”

You met her eyes in the mirror. “Thank you, Tabby. You’re very kind.”

She smiled. “Have you decided what necklace and earrings you’ll be wearing tonight, miss?”

You brushed a hand over your deep blue bodice. “I suppose the sapphires would be best, wouldn’t they?”

“As you say, miss. Commander Drake will surely be pleased to see you wearing his gift.”

Tabby finished your hair, a relatively understated crown of curls, and spangled you with trinkets from your jewelry box that could have fed and housed a family for several months. You touched a hand to the blue gem that rested in a swath of silver, the centerpiece of the heavy necklace that felt more like a collar for a dog than a gift of love from your fiancé. 

“There you are, miss,” Tabby said when you were ready. “I’ll tell the footman to bring the carriage ‘round.”

The Commodore’s estate was right on the bay, a sprawling mansion that put even your father’s estate to shame in sheer grandiosity. Several carriages stopped outside the main doors, ladies in fine dresses and men in naval uniform stepping out to join the group that filed into the golden, candlelit hall inside. Your attention was drawn to the sea as you waited, watching the way the moonlight dashed itself to bits across the glittering surface of the water.

“My dear. You finally made it.”

You looked over from the bay to the door of your carriage. “Kit.”

A frown tugged at your fiancé’s expression. “You mustn’t call me that here, dearest, you know that. Commander Drake or ‘sir’ will suffice.”

You flushed, wishing you’d remembered that rule. “Of course, sir.”

You accepted his hand when he offered it to you, and you looked up at him with girlish eagerness to see if he’d comment on your appearance.

“I wore the jewels you gave me at our engagement,” you said quietly.

He gave you a distracted glance. “Oh. Yes, I suppose you did.”

“Do you... do you like them?” you asked, crestfallen.

He breathed a short sigh. “They’re lovely, my dear. Let’s not tarry, shall we? I’m afraid you’ve already made us late.”

He offered his arm, and you hung off of it as a good young lady should. Your head turned back to the sea, just for a moment, and you thought you caught a glimpse of a shooting star reflected on the waves.

“We’ve got to double our presence on the coasts of the southern isles. We’ll rout them simply by being there in force. They wouldn’t dare to try and attack any of the ports there if we made our presence more obvious.”

You took a sip of wine and tried to look bored, knowing that the quickest way to get navy men to stop talking of pirates was for a lady to show an interest in their conversation. If they didn’t consider you too delicate or stupid for that kind of talk, they’d fear for some kind of longing to spark within you, the same kind they allowed to rage unchecked as they sailed on their mighty seafaring vessels.

“No corsair in these waters is a match for any of our fleet,” Kit argued. He gesticulated and narrowly missed your wine glass as you set it down. “I say with conviction, gentlemen, that there is no need to add even a single ship to those we already have out of port.”

“Maybe they’re not a match for your ship, Commander,” said a lady on the opposite end of the table. You glanced over with mild panic, wishing you could tell her merely to listen, but the gentlemen she was interrupting didn’t seem to mind.

“I’ve heard you gentlemen say the Black Smoke is the fastest ship in the Royal Navy,” she said, and there was a flirtatious intonation to her voice that drew the men in like moths to the flame. “However, I’ve also heard it said that there is a pirate galleon in our waters that can match it for speed.”

“Name the ship,” a lieutenant challenged.

The lady smiled. “Starcatcher.”

The name caused a flutter of excitement to stir in your breast. Starcatcher. It certainly sounded like a fast ship, and no vessel in the Royal Navy had such a wonderful name.

“Nonsense,” Kit said, waving her remark aside even as he trained his attention on the coy curve of her mouth. “The Starcatcher is a myth told to frighten new deck hands. No such ship exists.”

“No?” the lady asked with an elegant lift of her brow. “And what of its sister ship, the Indigo Streak? Some men say it can disappear into thin air.”

“Some men are fools,” Kit said, and his smirk betrayed his arrogance. “No doubt you’ve heard these same men claim to have seen the witches that serve as the figureheads of each ship.”

“They’re not witches,” another man protested. “I’ve heard they’re meant to be Nike and Themis, goddesses of victory and justice.”

Kit scoffed. “Victory and justice, indeed. Even if these ships did exist, what victory and justice could be won outside the King’s authority?”

“Pirates don’t consider the King’s authority legitimate, though, do they?”

All gazes swung to you, and you felt a wash of embarrassment follow the heady flush of having impetuously offered your own opinion. Kit’s face went pink with anger.

“What a pirate thinks of the King’s authority means little,” he said sharply. He took your hand under the table and gave it an uncomfortable squeeze, leaning close. “And what a woman thinks of it means even less, my dear, so I suggest you keep such foolish thoughts to yourself.”

He released your hand with disdain, and you shied away from him as far as you could. You understood perfectly well why the lady with the deep red lips was allowed to speak and you were not; her comments were meant to incite men to braggadocio and pride, and yours only called into question their self-assurance. You would not speak merely to stroke a man’s ego, pirate or King’s man or anyone in between; most at the table considered it better, in that event, for you to keep your mouth shut entirely.

You took another long drink of wine and tried to keep your hands from shaking. Of a sudden, everything was overwhelming; the sound of tittering laughter and silver forks against china dishes, the smell of dozens of different perfumes, the heat of the candles that cast flickering beams onto jewels and gold buttons and silver sword handles. You felt pressed in on all sides with an extravagant meal you couldn’t hope to finish in front of you, men to the right and left of you, servants behind you to tend to your every need should you so much as wave an indolent hand. 

You took a deep breath, as deep as you could with your stays laced as tightly as they were, and dug into the reserve of feminine gentility and self-control that had been trained into you since birth.

“Commander,” you said quietly, touching your hand to his sleeve. He ignored you, and desperation clawed at you.

“Sir,” you said in a pleading whisper.

With a frustrated huff, he turned away from his companions and met your eyes. “What is it?”

“I beg your pardon,” you said. “I — I suddenly feel quite ill. My head, it’s...”

He snapped his fingers, and a footman came to his side to await his instruction in perfect silence.

“Attend the lady,” he said, gesturing to you with impatience and contempt. “She’s taken ill, apparently.”

The footman bowed his head. “M’lord.” He pulled your chair out and gave you his hand; you took it, offering a feeble excuse to those few who noticed your departure and cared to comment.

“Shall I show you to one of the guest chambers, m’lady?” the footman asked when you were safely outside the dining hall.

You shook your head. “No, thank you. I wonder... could you help me find the gardens? I would be so grateful for a breath of fresh air.”

“Very good, m’lady,” was the man’s response. He escorted you to the gardens. “Shall I ring for a lady’s maid to accompany you?”

“That won’t be necessary,” you said. “Thank you for your help, sir.”

He bowed. “M’lady.”

A bit of the peace you so dearly needed was found out in the garden, and you wandered in the cool darkness of the shrubs and trees blossoming with flowers of every hue. You took a deep breath of the warm night air as you walked over the cobblestones, closing your eyes for a moment to drink in the quiet of birdsong and the ever-present hush of waves upon the shore. You longed to go down to the water, if only for a moment; what relief it would bring to feel the cool waves lapping at your ankles, to feel the salty breeze skim over your cheek with all the tenderness of a lover’s hand. You opened your eyes and felt its dark, silver-scaled presence call you like a mother to a child, begging you to leave the world you knew behind.

“Foolishness,” you whispered, pressing your hand against the merciless shackle of sapphire and silver that hung about your neck. You could never leave. You would be here, always, looking out upon the water, wearing its color on your breast, never quite close enough to touch.

You heard your name called from a direction opposite the ocean. Footsteps sounded behind you, and you did not allow yourself to breathe the sigh that waited ever-ready at your lips.

“I only needed some air, Commander,” you said without turning to him. “I’ll be well enough to join the ladies in the parlor after dinner.”

Without warning, Kit grabbed your wrist in a punishing grip and spun you towards him.

“Turn to me when I call you,” he said in a low, dangerous voice. “Do not presume to speak to me with an air of indifference.”

Your blood ran cold at the anger in his face. “I didn’t — I wasn’t trying to — ”

“I knew you weren’t ill,” he said, squeezing your wrist tighter. “You left because you wanted to shame me, didn’t you? Or perhaps because you were petulant about my correction?”

“No,” you said weakly, trying to tug your hand from his grip. “Please, Kit, you’re hurting me.”

He took your jaw in his other hand and squeezed it. “I told you not to call me that. Do you mean to respect me at all tonight? Or shall I have to teach you a lesson in obedience?”

You paled. You tried to find your voice to try and calm him, to apologize, but another man’s voice broke in before you could.

“Take your hands off the lady.”

Kit released your jaw, more out of surprise than any desire to obey. You tried to pull out of his grip, but he held fast to your wrist.

“Who spoke?” Kit asked into the darkness of the garden. “Show your face.”

“Take your hands off the lady, as I said,” the man repeated. “I’ve got a pistol aimed straight for your heart, Commander, and I assure I won’t miss.”

Kit’s face flushed an angry red. To your surprise and relief, he let you go, and you put a few steps of distance between you.

“How dare you speak to me in such a way?” Kit thundered. “I demand that you to come into the light and show yourself.”

No sooner had he spoken than a man sauntered out of the shadows of a copse of palm trees, a flintlock pistol held in an almost lazy manner in Kit’s direction. The hilt of a cutlass on his hip caught the light of the moon.

“You demand it, aye?” the man asked. His long hair was dark, his frame lean and hard-muscled; he was practically indecent, his cotton shirt unbuttoned to reveal a collection of necklaces that rested against his tanned chest. You blushed and averted your eyes when he looked at you.

“Makes you wonder,” he continued conversationally, turning his attention back to your fiancé. “Perhaps your King ought to call you Demander rather than Commander.”

Kit put his hand to the hilt of his saber. “What are you, boy?” he said derisively. “Beggar? Thief? Be on your way before I arrest you for harassing an officer.”

The man’s mouth turned up in a crooked smile as he returned his pistol to its holster at his waist. 

“Go ahead, Commander. Though I doubt if you’ll find there’s any jailhouse to throw me in by the time you do.”

Kit looked the man over in confusion and absolute fury. He opened his mouth to speak, but an explosion from the outskirts of town effectively cut across him.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Kit raged. He looked to see the billow of smoke from the direction of the jailhouse, then whipped his head back to look at the man.

“You’re a fool to attempt a prison break,” he said. “There’s plenty of brigs in the fleet to throw you and your worthless comrades in once we collect all of you.”

Kit drew his sword, and the man had drawn his and disarmed Kit in a flash of steel and silver quicker than you could see it. Kit’s sword clattered across the cobblestones and skidded to a halt at the man’s feet.

“I’d be careful who you draw your sword against tonight, Commander,” the man said. He kicked the saber back towards Kit. “You won’t find my men as forgiving as I am.”

“Your men?” Kit blustered, shame and fury mottling his face. “Who the devil do you think you are?”

A cocky smile lit the man’s face, and you found it somewhat maddening and almost alluring. Confidence radiated from him like warmth from the sun, and you watched in fascination as he took a step closer to Kit.

“You don’t know me?” he asked. He lifted his sleeve; just above the white bracelet he wore was the scarred mark of a pirate.

“You gave me this, Commander Drake,” the man said. “Though I suppose you were only a lieutenant back then, weren’t you?”

“Scum,” Kit spat. “I should have known. I’ve branded enough of your kind that you all run together into one wretched mass.”

“I see,” the man said. He sheathed his cutlass again even as Kit bent to retrieve his, seemingly unconcerned with the possibility of a duel. He tilted his head towards the Commodore’s house.

“In that case,” he said airily, “I’d love to be the one to tell you that the wretched mass is running together in your Commodore’s estate as we speak. Taking your jewels, your gold, your spit-polished swords that have yet to taste blood. It’s only a matter of time before they interrupt your little dinner party, I fear.”

As if on cue, pandemonium erupted from inside the house. Doors burst open, sending a flood of screaming party guests outside with pirates right on their heels, each of them armed to the teeth and crowing with delight.

“Filthy pirate!” Kit howled. “I’ll have you and every one of your men hanged for this!”

“Oh, Commander,” the man said with a winning smile. “You’ll make me blush with that kind of talk.”

Bang. A bullet whipped past the three of you, slamming into the trunk of a palm tree and sending out a shower of splintered wood. You flinched and raised your arms to shield yourself.

“Aye, watch yourself,” the pirate called to whoever had fired. He sounded only mildly annoyed rather than fearful for his life, and you wondered if it was bravery or stupidity that made him so calm.

Suddenly, Kit grabbed your arm and snatched you close to him. For the second time that night, he held you in an iron grip, and there was little you could do to fight him off.

“You’ll tell your men to let me go,” Kit said, panic crawling into his voice. “You’ll order them not to shoot me, because if they do, they’ll hurt the lady.”

You startled at the knowledge that your fiancé was using you as a human shield, offering you as a bargaining chip to a pirate. You tried to wriggle out of his grip, but he held you fast.

The pirate scowled. “Coward,” he spat. “What sort of man are you, Commander?”

“One not condemned to death,” Kit said, a maniacal glee in his voice. “Not tonight.”

He started to drag you with him as he made his way out of the garden, heading with slow steps towards the docks rather than the house where screams and gunfire still rang through the air. You kicked and clawed, begging him to let you go, terrified that a bullet meant for him would kill you too.

“Let me go, Kit!” you pleaded, tears streaming down your cheeks. “You worthless coward, let me go!”

“Silence yourself!” he hissed in your ear. “Once we’re well away from this, we’ll both be safe.”

He clapped a hand over your mouth, and it only made your panic and anger worse. You had to get free of him — he was squeezing you so tightly, you couldn’t breathe — 

In a last, desperate attempt at freedom, you bit down, hard, on the soft junction between his thumb and first finger. He bellowed in pain and released you.

“Bitch!” he howled, backhanding you across the face. The force of it made you dizzy, and his signet ring cut your cheek; you stumbled backwards, falling in a tangle of blue skirts to the unforgiving stone walkway.

“Right, that’s it.”

You heard the pirate’s voice as if from somewhere far away. You looked up with a bleary gaze; he stood next to you, his pistol held aloft and pointed right at Kit.

“No!” you shrieked.

You grabbed at his leg to try and stop him, somehow, blind devotion for Kit urging your forward. The pirate didn’t even seem to notice you, and your whole body flinched at the sound of gunfire. You squeezed your eyes shut even as sobs wracked your body.

“Come on, lass.”

You felt the pirate's callused hands reach to help you up, and you reacted in terror-stricken instinct.

“Don’t hurt me!” you begged, trying to get out of his reach, woozy with fear and pain. “Please, don’t hurt me. Let me go. I won’t tell anyone you killed him, I promise.”

“I didn’t kill him,” he said harshly. “Quit fighting, lass. I won’t hurt you, but you have to come with me.”

You looked up at him, and his face was blurry through your tears. “But you’re a pirate.”

“Aye,” he agreed. “And your only chance of making it out of here alive.”

He offered you his hand, and you didn’t see any other choice but to take it. His grip was strong and steady, firm enough to help you but gentle enough to keep from hurting.

“Attagirl,” he said when you were standing. “Steady, now. Can you walk?”

“Yes,” you breathed. For some reason, you didn’t let go of his hand. “Where are we going?”

He nodded towards the bay. “My ship. You’ll stay there until all this settles down, and then I’ll take you back home.” 

Shattering glass brought your attention to the house momentarily; a raging fire billowed out of the broken window, sending great clouds of smoke up towards the sky.

“Unless you live here,” the pirate said. “In which case, you’ll have to find other arrangements.”

You could do nothing but stare at him for a moment, bewildered and dazed. “But... why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you helping me?”

He looked over your shoulder towards Kit, who lay groaning and weak in the grass with a bullet wound to the shoulder. His expression held nothing but disgust and contempt for your fiancé.

“I don’t like to see a lady mistreated,” he said. He gave your hand a gentle tug. “Come on. This way.”

You followed after him, helpless not to, feeling outside of yourself as you tried to think past the pain in your jaw and the overwhelming fear that still held you captive. He led you through the garden and down to the Commodore’s private docks where a skiff was waiting.

“Wait.” You stopped and tugged on his hand, and he turned to face you.

“What is it?” he asked, a touch of urgency to his voice. 

You looked to the skiff and then back to him. “How — ” You swallowed nervously. “How do I know you won’t hurt me?”

He looked a little lost for a response. “I don’t know, lass. I believe you’ll just have to trust me.”

“Trust a pirate?” you asked, choking a little on the words.

He gave you a grim half-smile. “Could be worse.”

“How on earth could it be worse?”

He didn’t answer you, distracted by the sight of several more skiffs approaching the docks. You followed his gaze and saw they were coming from two huge galleons further out in the bay.

“Heavens,” you breathed. You didn’t know how you could have missed them, but they suddenly loomed like two great monsters on the surface of the water.

He pulled you towards the boat. “Come on, lass,” he urged. “The second wave’s coming in soon, and they don’t mind me as well as I’d wish them to. I’d rather you not be out here when they come.”

You met his gaze. “Second wave? There’s more of you?”

He huffed a short, mirthless laugh and ushered you into the skiff with little grace. Your became hopelessly tangled in your skirts and sat uncomfortably on the opposite side from him.

“You may wish to take off some of those cumbersome overskirts, lassie,” he said, taking the oars and rowing you out to the giant ships. “You’ll get them caught in something and get hurt.”

You blushed vividly. “Take off my skirts?” you repeated, incredulous and mortified at the idea, though you noticed you didn’t sense any salacious undercurrent to his suggestion. “I certainly will not. Just because you run around in a state of undress does not mean I will.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

You sat in silence as you came ever nearer to the twin galleons, feeling a caving pressure in your chest as they loomed closer. You looked around for something, anything, to distract you; against your better judgment, your gaze landed on the movement of your pirate rescuer’s strong arms with each pull of the oars.

You looked away, chastising yourself for such foolishness in the face of everything else that had happened.

When you reached the closer ship, you looked up at the cargo net that hung over the side with more than a little trepidation. How were you ever going to climb it in your dress?

Your pirate — when had you started to think of him as your pirate? — gave a theatrical gesture to the net. “Ladies first.”

You huffed, feeling anger at your situation start to override any other emotion. All you’d wanted tonight was to have a nice, unexciting dinner, and yet here you were, standing before a pirate and about to board his ship in the middle of the night.

“Very well,” you said tartly, dredging up some reserve of courage and feistiness from whatever was left in the hollow of your chest. With some difficulty, you reached under the waist of your blue overskirt and untied the two underskirts and hoop skirt underneath. He had the decency to avert his gaze, at least, but your face was still hot with embarrassment as you shimmied out of them and slipped off your uncomfortable shoes.

When all that was left to cover your undergarments was your overskirt and bodice, you stepped in your stocking-feet onto the first loop of rope on the cargo net.

“Mind your gaze, pirate,” you said, managing with a fair bit of exertion to climb the net. He scaled it with you, quick and nimble, and gave you a grin when he reached your perch.

“Pirate sounds such a dirty word when you say it,” he said, and there was a teasing lilt to his voice that gave you the strangest fluttering sensation in your chest. “You’d better just call me Jake.”

Oh, but you didn’t like knowing his name. Not one bit.

“Fine,” you said, tearing your gaze from his. “Mind your gaze, Jake.”

He grinned. “Only if you mind yours, lass.” He stepped up another rung and climbed the rest of the way with ease. You gave a dejected sigh and continued your laborious ascent to the railing of the ship.

When you reached the top of the net, Jake was waiting for you. He offered you a hand up, and it was only with his help that you managed to get aboard without falling on your face.

You looked up when you were steady. “Oh, dear.”

Several pirates stood frozen along the deck, watching you with a mix of shock, hostility, and undeniable interest. Each one of them was armed, sword hilts glinting at their hips and pistols tucked into belts that looped over their barrel-sized chests.

“Easy, lass,” Jake said, taking hold of your arm again. You barely registered that you’d made a sudden, jerky movement to flee the ship and go back down the net, but he’d stopped you before you could go anywhere.

“None of my men will hurt you,” he promised, and when you met his eyes with a terrified glance, you saw that he meant it.

“I have to trust you on this, too?” you asked feebly.

His mouth curved in a smile. “Aye. You’re getting the idea, lass.”

He let you go, a testament to his trust in you not to try and run, and nodded to the stairs before you.

“Allow me to escort you to my quarters,” he said.

You flushed. “Y-your quarters?”

“Indeed. Where I shall leave you to your own devices and come back out to be with my men.”

You gave a shaky sigh of relief. “Oh. Very well.”

You’d taken no more than two steps towards the stairs when another man appeared at the top of them, his features strikingly similar to Jake’s but done up in dark makeup that matched the black clothes he wore.

“Why, my dear Jakey,” he said with a glittering smile. “What have we here?”

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[perseidlion]

Cat and Ghost (39371 words) by perseid_lion Chapters: 15/15 Fandom: Dead Boy Detectives (TV), The Sandman (Comics), The Sandman (TV 2022) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: The Cat King | Thomas/Edwin Paine | Edwin Payne, Edwin Paine | Edwin Payne & Charles Rowland Characters: The Cat King | Thomas, Edwin Paine | Edwin Payne, Charles Rowland (DCU), Crystal Palace (DCU), Desire of the Endless, Death of the Endless Additional Tags: Touch-Starved Edwin Paine | Edwin Payne, Edwin Paine | Edwin Payne Loves Charles Rowland, the cat king - Freeform, Seduction, Teasing, Flirting, Magic, Touch-Starved, Forehead Touching, Touching, Overstimulation, Guilty Pleasures, Canon Compliant, Post-Season/Series 01, First Kiss, Slow Burn, Dating, Boys Kissing, Gentle Kissing, Case Fic, Secrets, Secret Relationship, Catwin - Freeform, First Time, Non-Graphic Smut, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Minor Crystal Palace/Charles Rowland, Coming Out, First Relationship, Detectives, supernatural mystery, cat king's name is not Thomas in this because it's not canon and I don't think it suits him, Jealousy, Cat's background in this is about 85 percent my own creation, Started off writing a cute story and whups suddenly a lot of plot, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-Typical Behavior, Platonic Soulmates Series: Part 1 of Perseid_Lion's Dead Boy Detectives, Part 1 of The Ballad of Edwin and Cat - Catwin Continity Summary:

A few months after their return to London from Port Townsend, the Cat King shows back up in Edwin’s life. He’s bent on courting Edwin, and has somehow acquired a magical collar that allows them to properly feel each other. Edwin meets him in secret, unsure of whether he’s ready to tell Charles about the relationship.

In the meantime, business at the Dead Boy Detective Agency continues. They receive a case where a woman is trapped between life and death, tethered between the mortal realm and the beyond by a cursed sorcerer.

But there may be more going on than meets the eye, and an Endless pulling strings from the shadows…

---

Part Edwin/Cat courtship, part casefic. Now complete!

Chapter 1

The night was thick with fog and drizzle as the remnants of a storm made its way out of Port Townsend.

Detective Edwin Payne made his way down the dock toward the throne of The Cat King. The large colony of said King’s subjects that milled around kept a wary eye on the ghost detective, but neither spoke nor approached. They did keep a wary eye on him, dozens of furry faces following him as he walked.

Edwin worried the invitation printed on rough stationery between his fingers. The invite had come through Dead Mail from the Cat King himself. He’d debated answering it, but when he’d mentioned it to Charles, he said he’d come along. It was a good opportunity to stock up on a few things from Tragic Mick, whose prices were far better than shops in London for certain items.

Edwin suspected Charles simply missed Port Townsend, or perhaps he didn’t trust the Cat King. Not that he could blame him. The feline spirit was as difficult to pin down in motive and allegiance as the creatures he ruled. That mystery intrigued the scholar in Edwin, even though his abundance of caution told him that he was bad news and likely to get him into trouble.

But, as much as he tried to deny it, Edwin found he missed the attention of the admittedly very attractive Cat King. As a ghost, he didn’t sleep and therefore didn’t dream, but he did find himself daydreaming about a gently predatory smile, split pupils, and bared calves and thighs in kilts and skirts. 

No matter how attracted he was to some other men, the bulk of his affections would always remain with his best mate. Charles had taken his love confession with all the kindness and understanding that had made him fall in love with him in the first place. Things had been…a little awkward since returning to London, but the pile of cases waiting for them had kept them busy. They had grown closer now that the air had cleared, but there was an awkwardness there as well. Charles didn’t say he returned Edwin’s affections, but he hadn’t said he didn’t reciprocate, either. 

Edwin thought it best to give his best mate some time rather than push him for any kind of answer. 

But then, the letter and its intriguing invitation came, sprawled in inky handwriting as if written with a quill and inkwell, which Edwin read again.

I have a surprise for you. You know where to find me.

And then a pawprint dipped in the same ink. 

For a moment, Edwin considered fleeing and finding Charles at Mick’s shop. His curiosity and a newfound surge of confidence after escaping Hell a second time made him straighten up (which, considering his posture was always immaculate, was a feat) and he passed spectrally through the door to the empty warehouse.

The space, which was usually dilapidated, decaying, and full of the scent of fish guts and damp wood, was barely recognizable. It had been transformed with fairy lights and draped fabric. Wooden palettes had been artfully arranged, and the space almost looked…clean. The most obvious new addition was a bed made out of wooden palettes on the platform where the Cat King’s throne normally stood. 

If Edwin still had a heart that beat, it would be thundering in his ears. He swept his eyes around the space. More cats milled in and out of the shadows, but all kept a distance that almost felt…respectful.

“You came.”

Edwin spun around to find the Cat King standing there with a Cheshire grin. 

He was shirtless and bekilted, with a fur-collared long sweeping coat made of what looked like patched-together deer hide. He was short enough that the coat dragged along the floor as he stepped up to Edwin and lifted his chin. 

One corner of the Cat King’s mouth curled up in a half-grin, and for the first time, Edwin noticed that his canines were subtly pointed. 

“I did. I received your invitation,” Edwin held up the piece of paper that he was still holding. 

“I wasn’t sure you’d come.” The Cat King prowled around him, sweeping his slitted yellow eyes up and down Edwin’s body with absolutely no shame or attempt to hide it. “I’ve missed you. How’s London? Damp?”

“We’re in the Pacific Northwest, the absolute gold-standard for damp and rain,” said Edwin as he tugged down the edges of his tweed coat. “London is practically the Sahara by comparison.” 

“Ahh, that’s that English wit. I’ve missed it,” drawled the Cat King. He held up his arms and gestured around. “Well?”

“I like what you’ve done to the place,” said Edwin in a manner that came out far more sarcastic and dry than he’d intended. “Is your home renovation the surprise I’ve come all this way for?”

The Cat King was not a creature to stay still. He kept moving, at first in a circle around Edwin, then forward and back again with slinky steps. “Not quite.”

Edwin opened his mouth to say something, stopped, re-thought it, and then got the words out. He managed to say them confidently despite the sudden bundle of nerves in his stomach. “I’ve been wondering what to call you. The Cat King is quite a mouthful. And Your Majesty seems quite pretentious and unequal.” 

The question seemed to please the spirit, who sauntered back and slinked within Edwin’s personal space. He slid a finger along his collar and gave it a gentle tug. “Well, that seems quite hypocritical for someone whose country is holding onto the monarchy like it’s a liferaft.” He tilted his head, lifted his eyebrows, then said, “Why don’t you just call me Cat?”

“Cat,” said Edwin as he tested the name. He wobbled his head. “All right. Cat it is.” 

Cat sauntered back toward his throne-turned-bed and sat on the end of it, arms splayed out, legs apart. Only the length of his kilt kept the pose from being wholly indecent. His body was an invitation, and Edwin’s name was sprawled on every inch of it. “I won’t bite. Or scratch. Unless you ask me to. Come closer.” 

Edwin took a few mincing steps forward.

Cat looked at him expectantly.

Edwin summoned courage and got closer. He had spent so much of his life and a good chunk of his death denying how he felt about other men. But recent events and confessions and his second brush with Hell had made him face those parts of himself. “I’m…not quite sure why I’m here. Do you have a case?”

Cat slid a box from behind him. It was wooden and engraved and looked quite old. “No, no case. This is strictly a social call. But I think you know that.” He stood up again and stepped down toward Edwin. He opened the box and swung it around for him to see.

Inside was a leather collar that looked quite old but in excellent condition. The leather had been recently conditioned and it was shiny and full of character. It had brass finishes, and in place of studs were a series of white gems. It was also fixed with a small brass bell that tinkled in a deep, almost meditative chime. 

Cat pulled it out and with a wave of his fingers, the box vanished in blue light. He unfastened it and then held it up against his neck expectantly.

Edwin swallowed as he realized Cat was inviting him to fasten it around his neck. He wasn’t sure what was happening, but his curiosity burned deep in his gut. Now it was his turn to circle behind his host. He slid the leather strap into its space on the loosest hole.

“Tighter,” purred Cat. 

Edwin, ghostly fingers shaking, did as he was told and fastened it until there was only a finger of space between the collar and Cat’s neck. As he was finishing the job, his fingers brushed the back of his neck. The sensation that trickled up his fingers made him pull back in alarm and stagger to the point where he fell back against the bed. 

Cat spun around, hip cocked, golden eyes full of cat-got-the-canary pleasure. 

“I…I…” Edwin stammered. He looked at his fingers, then at Cat. “I felt you!”

“Neat, isn’t it? Took me forever to source the stones. Then I had them set into this collar. I got that from somewhere else. Felt it needed to be a bit extra. Just for you.” Cat slid his fingers over the gems, then braced his hands on either side of Edwin’s hips and leaned in. He didn’t touch, but it was clear that he was inviting Edwin to do the touching.

Edwin stared in disbelief. Ghosts could interact with the world around them, but they couldn’t feel the world. But when he’d been fastening the collar, he’d felt the warmth of Cat’s skin and the tiny hairs on the back of his neck. “How?”

“You’re the detective. You know that just about anything can be found with a little tenacity and the right connections.” Cat shifted forward and the bell sounded again. “Besides…” he sucked air between his teeth. “I felt like I needed to make it up to you. When Esther had you, your friends came to me for help.”

“They mentioned,” said Edwin, who was barely able to contain himself. But he dug deep into his well of English decorum and did his best to school his face and body into one of control. “You turned them down.”

“I…” Cat balled up his fists and punched the ends of the makeshift bed. His temper surged. “She’d just beaten me to death and threatened to do it again. I’ve only got so many lives, you know.” Then he pulled himself back and forced his tone into something softer. “But I gave them information that helped them. That’s got to count for something, right?”

“It does. Not a lot, but there’s a reason I haven’t cut you out. And…why…” Edwin lifted his chin, “...why I’ve come here now. How did you find those gems? They must be magical in nature. Something that taps into another plane, or a simulacra of skin-to-skin touch. It’s utterly fascinating. I haven’t even read of such a thing.”

Cat slid his fingers over the collar, “I’m not sure how it works. I’m sure with that big brain and all those books, you could figure it out. But that doesn’t matter to me. All that matters from my perspective is that it does.” He sat back and reached out to take Edwin’s hand. He sandwiched it between his own and rubbed slowly and gently. When he spoke again, his voice was quite low and intimate. “I thought you deserved to feel something other than pain for the first time in a hundred years.” And then he gently kissed his fingertips while keeping eye contact. 

Edwin closed his eyes to savor the sensation of warm hands and soft lips. When he did, he also realized he was able to feel the heat thrown off by Cat’s body. After a moment of eyes closed, he opened them and stared as he continued to kiss his hand and sandwich it, creating warm currents of sensation that skipped down his arm and through the rest of his spectral body. Slowly, he shifted back to sit more properly on the end of the bed. 

Cat gently nudged Edwin’s knees apart with his legs, then stood between them, gazing down at him with radiant affection. He slowly guided the hand he was holding up to his face. “Go on.”

Fascinated, Edwin set his hand on Cat’s cheek. He slowly caressed, feeling a series of fine hairs that weren’t even visible. His fingertips trickled up to his hairline, then along the side of it. The texture was not human, but instead like the thick fur of a black cat. It had once been more ginger and wavy, but his reincarnation after Esther’s attack had changed it. His other hand then joined the first, cupping Cat’s face. He bent his fingers under and slid them around the curve of his jaw and the planes of his face, picking up all the information his fingers had forgotten they could gather. He could feel a pulse thrumming beneath his fingers. 

“I’ve been missing so much,” said Edwin breathlessly.

Cat rolled his shoulders back and dropped the fur-collared coat off his broad shoulders, putting his fit and lean body on full display. He pressed his thumb against Edwin’s bottom lip, then touched it to his own. He licked the edge of his finger, then slid it along Edwin’s jaw.

The slick of saliva might have seemed a move of pure kink, but what it did was change the temperature of Edwin’s skin, revealing that the collar’s power was affecting them both. 

Edwin found himself deeply overwhelmed. Every part of him, including his scholar’s mind, urged him to explore more directly, to touch Cat and to feel and to be felt. The ache of existing with attraction to other men had been tempered by decades of pain and the barrier between the living and the dead. But now, it came rushing back to him, and for a moment he almost felt alive again. 

“I know. It’s a lot,” Cat lifted his hand and then gently slid his fingers through Edwin’s hair in a soft stroking motion. He trickled gentle touches along his temple, but also occasionally tugged his hair to prove that all levels of sensation were now available to them. “I had to turn in a lot of favours and a fair bit of cash to find this little trinket. But what can I say?” he leaned in and whispered right into Edwin’s ear, “I’m a sucker for good boys.” 

Edwin felt Cat’s breath hot against his ear and heard the long, almost moaned exhale. He looked down at his torso, at the sculpted pecs and abs. He summoned courage and flattened his palm against his chest, pressing firmly, feeling the tension of muscle and the yielding bits of soft flesh. He felt the gentle pulsing of his heartbeat deep in his ribcage. 

Cat lingered near his neck and pressed a soft kiss just below his earlobe. Then he nibbled the ear itself and extended his tongue to slide around the base of it. He kissed again, moving around his jaw, then he cupped his face and looked him in the eye. “I find it’s very sexy to check in on your partner. So…how are you feeling, champ?” 

“Overwhelmed, if I’m being honest,” stammered Edwin. “But you will note that I am still here.” 

“Yes, yes you are,” said Cat as he smiled with feline delight. “You’re being very brave. I commend you.” He slid a hand up his own knee and pulled up the bottom of his kilt, revealing a thigh just as well-muscled as his torso. 

Edwin had a moment of panic a second before Cat’s motions would reveal just what he was packing between his legs. He reached out and grabbed his wrist, then pulled it down, head dipping and breath he didn’t actually need to inhale suddenly ragged in what felt like lungs. It was all suddenly far too real and too powerful. His mind didn’t know how to process the flood of sensations that had been unavailable to him for so long.

“Ah, I see,” said Cat after a moment. “Not quite ready for the unwrapping, are you?” He sighed dramatically. “Fiiine. I can be patient.” He dropped the edge of his kilt and stepped backward. He walked away a few steps, then spun on the spot. “Maybe next time.”

Edwin sat there on the end of the bed, his hair ruffled and his bowtie askew. His whole body was tingling from just being near Cat, and the parts he touched were still exploding with sensation. “I’m sorry, I…I…”

“No no, no need to explain. It’s been a long time for you. I get it.” Cat smiled. “I’ll give you a little time.”

Edwin scrambled to his feet and tried to close the distance between them. Now that he’d touched and felt, he was like a man in the desert who’d forgotten what water tasted like. A drop had hit his tongue and now he was dying of thirst. “Wait. I was just, I needed a moment, that’s all.”

Cat swung around, his kilt’s many pleats flaring out around his legs before slapping heavily against his knees. “This is my fault. I should have started a little bit slower. I’d imagine it’s sort of like jumping into cold water on a hot summer’s day. Too much sensation all at once. Overwhelming. Or so I imagine.” 

Edwin realized then that Cat was toying with him, and he knew the power the collar had given over him. He had realized that the teasing was a form of payback for not returning his affections all those months ago. “Cat. Are you really going to leave it like this?”

Cat looked Edwin over, tapped his foot, then leaned his head back and whuffed in annoyance. “God! Why do you have to be so handsome and adorable and…” he made a face, then bit his fist. He spun around again, then marched with purpose up to Edwin. 

Before Edwin could fully process what was happening, Cat had an exceptionally strong arm wrapped around his waist, and the other braced against his cheek. He pulled him in for a deep, soft kiss and rocked side to side. For all his pent-up feline energy, the kiss was surprisingly sweet. 

Edwin had only kissed Monty, and that was quick and without sensation. In contrast, he tasted Cat, and felt the warmth and wetness of his mouth. He felt his body as they pressed against each other, each muscle flexing and relaxing as he moved and changed positions. It took him a moment to understand the rhythm of a kiss, but then he returned it with absolutely no experience but plenty of enthusiasm. 

Cat pulled back and grinned. His strange eyes glinted in the ambient light, his normally split pupils much more saucer-like. He looked utterly pleased with himself. “Happy now?”

Edwin, who had gotten up the courage to rest his hands against Cat’s hips, nodded. 

“Good.” Cat rested a hand against Edwin’s collarbone, then tweaked his chin. “That’s still all you get for now. I want you to daydream about me. And about what we could do together. I don’t want you rushing into this because you’re all high on new sensations. I want this to be real for you, not just the byproduct of magic.”

“Oh do not worry. It feels quite real to me,” said Edwin in a droll manner.

Cat bit his lip and lifted his chin up at the much taller Edwin. “Still.” He pushed off his chest, bell collar tinkling as he moved. “You know where I’ll be when you’re ready for round two.” 

Edwin reached out toward Cat, trying to catch his shoulder, to feel one more time. But before he could, he disappeared in a ripple of blue energy, leaving him alone in the warehouse with not even cats for company. He stood there for a long moment, mind racing, cataloging the shape and hue of the stones, searching his memory for mentions of similar gems. That academic exercise was a distraction from the powerful feelings Cat’s kiss and his touch had unearthed in him. 

Finally, Edwin smoothed his hair back into place and passed through the wall of the warehouse back onto the docks. He was startled to see the shape of Charles up ahead, who was flipping a coin, backlit by the streetlight. He cut a handsome, lean figure.

“Oi, mate. I was wondering how long you’d be in there for. What did old whiskers want, anyway?” 

“That’s not your business,” said Edwin defensively. He straightened himself once more. “Why are you waiting out here? We were supposed to meet at the remains of Jenny’s shop.” His words were slightly stammered and he was struggling to put himself back into the box where he’d spent so many years.

“All right, all right. No sense getting your knickers in a twist,” said Charles as he held up his hands. “Just thought it might be related to a case, is all.”

“No case,” said Edwin as he marched past Charles. “Let’s get home, shall we? We didn’t pick up any work here, but there are plenty of cases at home that need our attention. I trust your trip to Mick’s was fruitful?”

Charles hefted his infinitely expanding backpack on his shoulder and pointed to it. “Loaded for bear. We should be good for quite a while. Didn’t have a few things on him, but said he’d ask around. So we’ve got a reason to come back later.” His eyebrows lifted as he fell into step beside Edwin. 

Edwin stole a look at Charles’ grinning face. He had to look away immediately, lest his mind go places that would distract him from walking, let alone holding a conversation. “Well. Good. Better to support a small business than to give money to the magic cartels of London after all.”

As enticing and intoxicating as the interaction with the Cat King had been, Edwin couldn’t help but imagine what would happen if one of them wore the gems. Could he feel Charles? Could he caress his cheek? Could he hold him as a storm raged outside? Could they feel the things they missed out on in life with one another? 

The thought had already begun to haunt Edwin, and pierce his guts with guilt. Guilt for wanting more from Charles. Guilt for wanting less from Cat. Guilt for wanting them both for different reasons and in different ways.

As they reached an old mirror tucked into an alleyway ready to be hauled away for trash, Charles cast a look back toward the dock. He caught sight of Cat standing there before he disappeared in a roll of fog. 

“C’mon,” Charles beckoned and held out his hand, part of his body inside the mirror.

Edwin reached out and gripped Charles’ hand. When he did, he felt nothing. 

And everything. 

Continue reading.

[apocalypticavolition]

Let's (re)Read The Dragon Reborn! Chapter 10: Secrets

Secrets come in a variety of forms, and one can argue that the later parts of a story are secrets from everyone who hasn't read that part of the story yet, or at least looked them up on a fan wiki. If you don't want those kind of secrets when it comes to The Wheel of Time series, from book 1 to book 14 plus a prequel, don't keep reading.

This chapter starts with a Whitecloak symbol because they're going to cause Egwene grief.

I will never be collared again! She pushed the thought away, but it came back turned end about. I will never lose my freedom again!

So, as we can see, Egwene has not magically recovered from her months of trauma after months off freedom. Indeed, she will never fully recover and frankly I expect that even if she'd survived the book series she'd have issues for the rest of her life.

Anaiya would be there. And Galad, too, perhaps. She blushed in spite of herself, and banished him from her mind entirely.

Jordan was probably still laying groundwork for the finale that didn't happen with her and Galad pairing off after Gawyn's death. I'm not quite sure when that ending plan would have gone away.

“I swear I will never wear gray again, Bela,” she told her shaggy mount, patting the mare’s neck. Not that I’ll have much choice once we’re back in the White Tower, she thought. In the Tower, all novices wore white.

And of course she'll soon be wearing the seven-colored stole of the Amyrlin, which represents the Gray Ajah as much as the others.

“Do you wonder how Moiraine is treating Lan?” she asked sweetly, and had a moment of pleasure at the sharp jerk Nynaeve gave her braid.

Egwene thinks that wounding remarks don't come naturally to her, but I don't believe that at all. She's quite sharp-tongued when she wants to be, which is often (she's a Jordan woman after all). That said, I think speaking back to Nynaeve is something newer to her; back in Emond's Field Nynaeve was a respected authority and Egwene's mentor.

Six people, Egwene thought, and how many secrets? They all shared more than one, secrets that would have to be kept, perhaps, even in the White Tower.

Amusingly, one of the secrets in this party that Egwene doesn't know about will be revealed to her much, much later in the Tower.

Nynaeve had always been able to foretell the weather. Listening to the wind, it was called, and the Wisdom of every village was expected to do it, though many really could not. Yet since leaving Emond’s Field, Nynaeve’s ability had grown, or changed. The storms she felt sometimes had to do with men rather than wind, now.

It's rather interesting to me how all the members of the EF5 have their styles of divination (Perrin and Egwene have T'A'R, Mat gets the dice, and Rand has a whole book of prophecies written just about him) and yet they're all very indirect when Elaida-style Foretelling exists. I suppose it's not very dramatic to get prophecies as straightforward as hers was on a regular basis.

She was of the Brown Ajah, and the Brown sisters usually cared more for seeking out knowledge than for anything in the world around them. Egwene was not so sure of Verin’s detachment, though. Verin had put herself hip-deep in the affairs of the world by being with them.

Egwene's ability to see how people don't fit the stereotypes of their affiliation is one of the things that sets her up to be a good leader for the Aes Sedai.

Years of experience seemed to have given him some talent at sniffing out wrongdoers, especially those who had done violence.

Poor Egwene is not actually in the loop about Hurin though. Kinda funny that we can see the truth distorting at a single degree of separation.

Egwene thought he might be uneasy at being alone, for all practical purposes, with an Aes Sedai and three women in training for sisterhood. Some men found facing a fight easier than facing Aes Sedai.

She's not entirely wrong, though her ignorance of his talent means she's not quite understanding his motivation.

“The One Power won’t do you much good if somebody kills you before you can use it,” Hurin said, addressing the tall pommel of his saddle.

Damn Hurin, that's a pretty ballsy thing to say to a bunch of would-be Aes Sedai, even if you can't quite look them in the eyes to say it.

“I wish I had some idea how much she does know. Egwene, I don’t know if my mother could help me if the Amyrlin found out, much less help the pair of you. Or even whether she would try.”

Naturally, Morgase does in fact try to help Elayne when she thinks the Tower is doing her wrong, though she is unable to do much. How much of that is Rahvin's fault I'm not sure.

“I will do what must be done,” Nynaeve said sharply, “if there is anything to be done, and you two will run, if need be. The White Tower may be all abuzz with your potential, but don’t think they will not still you both if the Amyrlin Seat or the Hall of the Tower decides it is necessary.”

The benefit of Nynaeve being unable to be humble is that she treats the other girls as her responsibility and thus would destroy her life for their well-being. Of course, all three of them are being dramatic and would not be remotely in trouble for actual self-defense.

I was Healing before I ever thought of going to Tar Valon, even if I didn’t know I was. But it seems I need my medicines to make it work for me.

Nynaeve has quite a few blocks, doesn't she? I don't quite remember when this one goes away.

“Let me do all the talking, children,” the Aes Sedai said placidly, pushing her cowl back to reveal gray in her hair. Egwene was not sure how old Verin was; she thought old enough to be a grandmother, but the gray streaks were the Aes Sedai’s only signs of age.

At present, Verin is about 150 years old, meaning that she could have a 10 year old great-great-great-great-great-grandchild assuming 20 year generations. She has no children and boy did the White Tower screw themselves over implementing those policies.

“Two Tar Valon witches, unless I miss my guess, yes?” he said with a tight smile that pinched his narrow face.

Dain Bornhald does in fact miss his guess, as he misses most everything.

Verin opened her mouth as if for idle conversation, but before she could speak, Elayne jumped in, voice ringing with command. “I am Elayne, Daughter-Heir of Andor. If you do not move aside at once, you will have Queen Morgase to answer to, Whitecloak!”

This is possibly Elayne's biggest moment of stupidity derived from being a sheltered princess in the whole series. Other moments like the veil are more laughable and of course she makes some other big mistakes at points, but she just went from "unremarkable passerby who was going to be harrassed but unharmed" to "high-priority target" and all because she couldn't obey a simple instruction not to talk.

There’s no more time to wait, Egwene thought. I will not be chained again!

And meanwhile Egwene's trauma is so ingrained that the possibility of violence (the Whitecloaks haven't *actually* done anything yet) immediately sets her off. Poor Egwene.

She fought to keep from being overwhelmed, and focused on the ground in front of the Whitecloak officer’s horse. A small patch of ground; she did not want to kill anyone.

At least she isn't completely gone, because seriously after the Seanchan you'd hardly blame her for still being in "kill kill kill" mode at the moment.

Verin was wide-eyed with astonishment and anger. Her mouth worked furiously, but whatever she might be saying was lost in the thunder.

Verin does not get paid enough for this crap.

“What you have done is an abomination. An abomination! An Aes Sedai does not use the Power as a weapon except against Shadowspawn, or in the last extreme to defend her life. The Three Oaths—”

The Three Oaths don't apply to anyone having this conversation. But this still is slowly setting up the Oaths and the many attitudes that Egwene will have about them going forward. Here they're only an annoyance.

“It . . . it was not really using the Power as a weapon, Verin Sedai.” Elayne held her chin high, but her voice shook. “We did not hurt anyone, or even try to hurt anyone. Surely—”

The scary thing is, this justification, if believed, would let many Aes Sedai sidestep that particular Oath. No wonder Verin tries to shut it down hard.

He was only trying to bully us, child. He knew very well he could not make us go where we did not want, not without more trouble than he was willing to accept. Not here, not in sight of Tar Valon. I could have talked us past him, with a little time and a little patience. Oh, he might well have tried to kill us if he could have done it from hiding, but no Whitecloak with the brains of a goat will try harming an Aes Sedai who knows he is there.

And now, after two books of very straightforward good guys vs bad guys, we finally get some of the complications that will run through the rest of the books. Not in the straightforward shades of gray (the Whitecloaks might not be Darkfriends but they're still dangerous assholes), but through Verin pointing out that they're so utterly outmatched that using the Power against them is just fucked.

“We have come a long way,” Egwene went on, “all the way from Toman Head, and if I weren’t so tired, I would never have—”

Egwene, never content to let someone else be number one, makes a bold play to be the person with the biggest mouth in the party.

“My name is Dain Bornhald! Remember it, Darkfriends! I will make you fear my name! Remember my name!”

None of these people will ever see you again, Dain, let alone have any reason to fear you. Dude is like an angry dog barking at everyone outside the fence

“What did he mean about my mother?” Elayne said suddenly. “He must have been lying. She would never turn against Tar Valon.”

That was before they lost her daughter for four months, Elayne, and also before Gaebril, though really I expect that a normal Morgase would still have had issues with Tar Valon over the incident.

“Now you must truly be on your guard,” Verin told them. “Now the real danger begins.”

Verin's not wrong, since everyone in the White Tower is far more dangerous to the girls than most people outside it. And also the Black Ajah is headquartered here. Not that Verin, the world's least suspicious woman, would know anything about that.

Next time: The chapter that contains our first map of Vagina Island!

[simpingwriter]

Jerome Valeska

x

Faith Wayne/Phoenix

'All you need

is a bit of Faith'

pt.1

___________________

This is the rewritten first chapter of the Jerome Valeska Fanfic. In this one, other than its predecessor...forget absolutely everything you know about the series 'Gotham', only remember the Debut Episode of Jerome and that's about it. Minus the fact that it was Jim and Bullock that had the case, which isn't the case here. I grabbed Jerome's character and background by the collar and put him into the basic future timeline of Batman and his adopted dysfunctional family. 👍

🤙💀🤙

Family Drama is rad.

Enjoy! :)

Word Count: Approx. 3.000 Words

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It was the early afternoon when a figure clad in dark entered the precinct of the GCPD. It wasn't Batman. The figure was much too short to be the dark knight himself.

But the officers knew this figure just as well, nodding their greetings at the mysterious person while the new officers looked at them with a mix of fear and respect, as they had only heard of you yet.

You.

Phoenix, the fiery sidekick of Batman for almost 9 years now. Named not just for your literal use of non-lethal pyrotechnics to take care of criminals. But also because you never stayed down, you would always stand back up, just like the invincible Phoenix itself.

You nodded back at the older officers before walking past them, snatching one of the powdered donuts from the young cadets – maybe your age, maybe a bit older – as you walked towards the office of a good friend. A friend you knew for the longest time, still just the Captain when you were nothing but a case in this precinct.

Commissioner James, but most commonly known as Jim, Gordon.

He is the reason you're here now, knocking against the glass of the door to his office. "Come in."

His aged eyes light up behind his glasses as he realizes you're here already, on time like always. "Phoenix, perfect. I got a very important request for you, something Batman cannot help me with, I believe."

-

"An undercover mission in Arkham due to a murder that was witnessed just outside the damn courtyard? Why don't you just take the inmates one by one and ask them about what they saw?" Phoenix asked him, already irritated, pacing up and down in the office as the older man sighed, he expected you to answer that way, "We already tried it that way, believe me. They all clammed up when they saw my men, which is kind of expected if we think about it…"

Right, most of these men and women in Arkham were criminals arrested by Jim's officers after all. You wouldn't talk to them either if they cuffed your ass perhaps just two months prior for something you maybe can't even properly control. "...Fine. But if Batman asks why the HELL I'm not doing my patrol rounds, that's on you to explain. Just give me the file of the persona I'm supposed to take on, I'm ready in about ten minutes, I'll be at the Coffee shop across." You accepted the offer, quickly explaining your next steps before already leaving his office once again, you didn't like idling on things like this or Patrols for long. All these things all chipped away at your free time to either train or take care of yourself.

Back out of the precinct, you vanished into the alleyway next to said coffee shop, changing back into your normal street clothes before leaving through the other alleyway on the other side. As usual with this quick living city, nobody watched you, Nobody saw Phoenix disappear and you appear.

Faith is the Phoenix.

Your backpack was stashed in a spot Jim could find later, so it wouldn't get into the wrong hands or get eaten by rats again. So with all the precautions out of the way, you slip into the coffee shop to start reading into your new persona for who knows how long. You knew of Arkham very well and boy you hoped the case was as easy for you as they usually were, because you sure as hell didn't want to spend even a night in there. But not even Bruce is that quick, especially with absolutely no equipment but your own wits.

Ordering some black tea with sugared condensed milk, – well no, the staff looked a bit confused at your order, so it was normal milk and normal sugar, this isn't Alfred making your tea after all… – you throw yourself into the empty corner booth at the window, diving into the file…

Ten minutes passed quicker than expected when the entrance door's bell rang and you looked up, seeing Jim, looking for you. "Over here, old man!" He recognized you not just by the voice, but also by the teenaged audacity, sliding into the booth with a bitter smile, "I like you with the mask on more." Mask, no mask, who cares. What matters is getting this mission done, you promised something to Damian.

Right, now you remember why you were in such a defined hurry: your youngest brother asked you to show him how to use one of his new gadgets more efficiently. What else was a sister for…

"The mask is just as the name tells you, a mask. Not really me." Bruce has always made you promise to not act too sarcastic and snarky while under the persona of 'Phoenix' so the citizens don't think 'A maniac gets captured by another maniac'

Maniac your ass, Bruce is simply oversaturated with your type of humor after nearly 14 years of living with him. Alfred sometimes tells you to just be you regardless of what Bruce tells you, but it's difficult to be if Bruce is everything you have in a father figure. Literally…

"Can you match the descriptions in the file, or should we change-" "No, actually it's pretty easy. The disorder isn't something impossible to match because hell, sometimes that is one of my own problems." The Commissioner raises one of his brows, it being apparently news to him, "Impulsivity? You usually seem pretty collected to me, despite your very brash humor. Sarcasm does stand for a high IQ after all, right?"

That and about 100+ other things, yeah.

"I take something called medicine for it. I guess you haven't heard of it yet, there is no Ibuprofen or Tylenol for Dinosaurs." His tired eyes say nothing more than 'Again? Again with the Dinosaurs?' before nodding, sighing to himself as he hung his head to wait for you to get ready to leave, "So I will stop using them while I'm in there." You continue though, sounding way too casual for what you said, his head snapping back up and mild panic in his eyes, "You shouldn't, you can act the symptoms just as well, if you know how they feel, can't you?"

That's the unfortunate problem with Impulsive Thoughts. Without your medicine, you never know what comes next, how they hit, when they hit. Your just thankful that you have a very mild version of it, you don't have such thoughts 24/7 when off your meds, just enough to bother your everyday life and your hero life. Not even you could act them out well, as only the beloved nut in your head knows what kinda dumb thoughts you're going to get and act out. "Not in front of Staff, they might not care about the inmates overall, but they sure as hell can see it when someone is faking their disorder or sickness. To sort out the idiots that think the Asylum is less of a punishment than the actual Prison of Gotham."

But surprise surprise, the criminally insane, despite often being the ones needed the most help, are the worse treated ones. Gotham is stuck in the ages where the insane are seen and treated as lesser humans still. And you would've hoped that with his massive influence on most thongs around Gotham, Bruce would try to change that old sat in thought for the better at some point.

But he just left it like that, maybe he was perfectly fine with watching a Robber that only did so during a Bipolar mania episode rot with a serial pedophile rapist that killed and molested all his victims a second time all because the voices told him so. The difference is quite fucking obvious and some inmates themselves even feared a big part of the rest for exactly those differences. Some could've been helped with the right therapy or medication, some, in the same building, were mental fucking lost causes, ticking time bombs.

"Are you certain?" "Very, and don't worry, it will take a while before the symptoms return fully anyways. I took my meds yesterday afternoon, I should've taken a new one by now, so now its effect will slowly diminish in my body until it used up everything. Give it two days before I am fully medicine-free and showing symptoms of doing stupid shit…and I hope I got your witness found out till then."

And that's how you ended up in a police van, already pre-dressed in the usual black and white stripes since Jim wanted to avoid the Staff being overly…touchy…with you being a female first arrival and still dressed in street clothes. Cuffed, you fought against the potholes shaking the whole van around on the way to the Asylum, cursing under your breath. Back at the Manor, you would fill the Swear Jar all on your own right now. But the jar obviously was only useful when Bruce or Alfred were nearby, under siblings, no one cared if a 'fuck' or 'asshole' or worse was used in everyday conversations.

Even Damian cursed already, the little shit the whole damn reason the swear jar exists by now, but if Bruce or Alfred ever found out, you and your siblings were fucking toast.

They just parked at the Inmate-Admittance Entrance and opened the doors when you turned and leaned over to Jim, "Once you get back here to get me out…keep your Lighters to yourself, Commissioner." A guard already roughly pulling you by your collar as you grinned at Jim with mischief. If there was one thing you were amazing at, it was acting. Well except said Impulsivity. That made you so good for undercover jobs, though usually Bruce would have to change your appearance just a bit so it didn't get suspicious with the amount of times you were used to doing it by now.

"Ha, you're not getting back out of here, not after all the messed up shit you probably did!" The guard laughs as he hears your in-act goodbye to Jim, who waved slowly and worried at your clearly true warning with the Lighters as you also waved with a smile. He had to ask Batman about that problem of yours and what the hell Lighters of all have to do with…wait, is it fire? Is her Hero-Identity as literal as he thinks it is?

With that out of the way you're – still quite roughly – being pushed towards the register, the doors of the entrance shutting you away from the outside world as they compare your information to the one they got an hour ago from the police, the file they made for your fake identity, matching them as you told them "your name", "Magdalena Carols? What kinda stupid name did your parents curse you with??" The same guard from before asked your scowling form as he pulled you away from the register again. Are they going to let you walk on your own at any point?!

"I don't know what you mean, Officer…Donut. How fit- UGH!" One bad joke later, you already received your first fist to the face, stumbling away from the impact as the clearly hot-tempered, full-figured Guard glares at you, "It's Donten! Doesn't surprise me at all that a psycho like you can't even read properly. Were too busy burning your school down, weren't ya?"

You kept your further comments to yourself, feeling like it be a waste of energy as you used your still cuffed together wrists to clean the blood from under your nose. Fuck, you wanted to spit it as his feet so badly. Well you cou-

No. Don't.

The rest of the walk down the bleak hallway was quiet until you stopped in front of a door, two guards stationed at it unlocked the barred steel door, sliding it open to the day-room. It was filled with inmates, some you unfortunately even recognized. They probably wouldn't recognize you though, you always wore your mask when you took care of all of them.

"Have fun with your new friends. Some of them are real fans of fresh, young meat like you. In the way you think and the hungry way, hahaha!" Great that he could laugh about that idea of it happening so much, an inmate being raped or eaten by another inmate, literally even more criminal offenses, while he is on shift,…stupid idiot, Officer mcFucking Donut…

Once he removed your Cuffs through the bars, you rolled your shoulders, groaning under the fact of how uncomfortable Cuffs can be if some idiot makes them too tight. While doing that, you missed the fact that everyone stared at you. Well, you wouldn't for long.

And it wasn't everyone either, just some stray inmates sitting on tables at the edge of the room. All the others seemed much more invested in a commotion near the middle of the room…

In that ring that formed out of inmates alone, the tallest man in the room was incredibly obvious, even when he was clearly kneeling down. When he raised his massive fist, fresh blood of some other inmate smeared onto them, you realized you probably should try to stop this. This fat mountain would kill an unknown Inmate if he continued, maybe…maybe he already did and he is beating nothing but their Corpse to mush!?

But either way: you had to think about the slim possibility of the target of these attacks being the potential witness to the murder outside the courtyard! And helping him or her out of this situation would most likely put you on their good side. Still, it was probably mostly your savior-complex as your body moved basically on its own, walking with determination towards the ring of people before squeezing your way through. During which you noticed something, something terrifying: they all chanted the same name, that must belong of the mountain of a man, telling them to be louder for him. They chanted for him to kill the other inmate.

How could one inmate be so hated??

Finally arriving at the inside of the ring, you had to realize with horror that whoever he was beating up was a cornflake compared to his size. A young ginger boy, your age probably, not exactly buff but not scrawny either, more in the middle. But even then, definitely not capable of defending himself from whatever that was even if he had been prepared!

You had to help him!

"HEY! Mess with someone who can actually handle your fat fucking ass, Dumbo!" You shout the words without much thought put into them, and when the mountain's head snapped into your direction, you accepted your mistake. Now you definitely had to deal with him, running away won't save you after what you just said, but he wasn't the first of his size that challenged you. Killer Croc for example. That scaly beast was about 9 ft tall…and so is this inmate it appears, at least once he stood up from where he kneeled over the beaten up ginger, who barely had the strength left to look towards your voice as well. The one eye that wasn't swollen shut grew wide in horror as he saw the massive man stomp towards you, your 5ft frame looking like a tiny snack in comparison, even smaller than a Cornflake, if you already kept that comparison running.

You proved many times that size didn't matter during a fight, it was the training and determination to fight back that did.

The inmates around you suddenly thinned out in a panic when they saw the 9ft tall man walk towards you and them, giving you enough space to spot your weapon of choice, running towards it while backwards, keeping him in your line of sight the whole time while also making sure no one else began to beat into the ginger on the ground. If he caught you, he could quite literally wrap his hands around your head and squish it like a overly ripe watermelon, so you had to use your agility to your advantage.

"And you're that someone?" He laughs at his own question loudly, sounding almost too deep to actually count as a laugh to your ears. Jumping onto one of the tables, taking one of the chairs with you in the same motion, you swing it out towards his head just in time, the table giving you a bit of height to reach it better.

The chair hit him directly, he couldn't even see it coming as you smashed it against his dome with enough force that the chair, made of literal steel, bent under the force. "Yes I am…" For your luck, the fight was as anticlimactic as Dick's Speech last week, his eyes widening at your audacity, mumbling something, "You're going to regret…choosing his side…" before collapsing to the side with a dusty, heavy thump.

Discarding the chair to his body – adding basically a second beating to his face – you jump off the table and run over to the ginger on the cement floor. There was literally blood everywhere on him, his heartbeat extremely elevated and his breathing labored.

You didn't waste another moment to even think about talking to him now, he was only able to mumble some incoherent words as of right now, so you pick him up from his position on the floor, having to ignore his pained but subdued wincing for now. You need to get him to the Infirmary before he-

Just finished with getting him on your back, you could only feel the hard, cold impact against your temple and hear the shattering of glass during said impact and when it fell to the floor in shards before the dull pain set in near immediate afterwards. A glass bottle. Who the fuck let mentally unwell inmates have THAT of all forms of possible fluid transportation?!

Stumbling and staggering a bit from that, you get back steady as you turn to the direction the bottle came from, "Throw even one more and I'll come back for you lot as well. If I can fuck him over, you're all child's play to me!" It came out just as threatening as you wanted it to be, the inmates one by one inching away from you and the boy on your back. Until you had enough room to see a different guard from before at a barred steel door near the far corner of the room, waving you over to him. Over the door was a steel plate sign: Infirmary and Solidary Holding cells.

Thank God you're going to the first one, the second one would put a bit of a pebble in your mission. Well, more of a Boulder.

"You're more than just crazy for throwing yourself into the ring with him! Morgan could stomp your lights out in a sec if you aren't careful from now on!" Why did he care, to him, you're an inmate like everyone else in here. Just like Morgan, like the ginger he beat up…

You wonder what he did to end up in here, what he did to get nearly all the Inmates rooting against him in such an unfair confrontation. He didn't even look like he belonged here, from what you at least could see through the blood coating his pale face, slowly drying up by now…

"Why…"

Huh?

"Why did you…save me?"

Because that's what Phoenix does…and so does Faith. They save people, no matter who…if their lives are in danger, she will try her best to help them.

"Because I don't know you yet."

___________________

[roguestorm]

Given this data (the pictures in the previous reblog), what can we actually say about Illyana's style? And how much of that can be attributed to the character, instead of to other factors, like the changing artists or the styles of the 80s?

I don't want to say, for instance, "Illyana wears a lot of collared shirts" because it seems like all the New Mutants wear a lot of collared shirts. It was the 80s, I guess?

What we can say about her style is largely in reference to other characters. She isn't, for instance, drawn like Lila Cheney or Storm, who at this point both have very distinct styles. She also isn't drawn like Rahne, who is always going to be uncomfortable in revealing clothing. Illyana's taste in clothing seems to be pretty mainstream. She's comfortable in bikinis, but she's not wearing revealing clothing outside of that context. She likes dressing up for parties, and her dresses for that are neither super conservative nor scandalous. She doesn't wear a whole lot of jewelry, unlike Amara, who is often seen in jewelry. She does wear a lot of pink, in the same way that Rahne wears a lot of green.

You would have to do an equally deep dive into her contemporary fashion to really understand how it's changed, but as a taster, let's look at her 2022 and 2023 Hellfire Gala looks.

I mean, the 2022 one is just, What if the Darkchylde but high fashion? And that's certainly a break from what we see in the New Mutants series. It relies on her not only being comfortable being seen that way but even more than that feeling like she wants to be seen that way at the event of the year.

The 2023 one is in some ways more similar to what we see in the original New Mutants series, in that it's a dress, and it's colorful. Younger Illyana preferred simpler silhouettes -- all of the draping would have been more Amara's style, but it is a different decade and she has grown up. But this outfit also shows off her mutant power, although it's her soul armor instead of the black stuff. It's less demonic and more martial, and paired with the dress it gives an impression more of sophistication than of the danger and shock value you get with the 2022 look.

Both of these rely on Illyana being able to control her other form and her soul armor and not have it be something that happens to her. Incorporating the mutant power into the costume is very in line with the mission of Krakoa and mutant pride but also is an interesting choice with Illyana specifically because this is not merely a mutant power but also a representation of her inner darkness.

The Hellfire Gala looks are not really representative, so perhaps I picked poor examples, but I do like them because they are both so strikingly different from the outfits we see (even when she's dressed up) in New Mutants.

There is something else interesting I noticed, which is that the original New Mutants series suggests that Illyana is interested in fashion and style. It isn't merely that she comes off that way because of how she's drawn; it's in the writing too.

Here she is complimenting Betsy's hair:

Here she is smirking evilly as she threatens... to give Rahne a makeover! The terror!

And, most damningly, here she is saying that she loses all track of time when she's out shopping:

It's hard to imagine Illyana being written with such a blatant interest in fashion now, although she certainly didn't protest against the idea of shopping when she and the rest of the women and girls on Scott's team went out together in Uncanny X-Men #15.

illyana having a more girly aesthetic in old new mutants is fun bc she’s like. i am evil incarnate. look at how cute i am in this dress.

there are a lot of things you can say about like illyana then versus now, and one of them is that she no longer worries about how she’s perceived and that’s why she dresses so goth. she’s not trying to hide the way in which she doesn’t fit in with the world. but another one is that she’s actually significantly more depressed as an adult than she was in that era of new mutants. that’s why she’s less playful and that’s why she goes for the more goth look instead of the cuter more colorful clothes she might prefer.

[wkemeup]

Sky Full of Song (7)

series summary: Despite the bitter resentment of the crew, you found a home on Captain Barnes’ ship. But when course is plotted for a legendary island, the secret that has kept you alive for years is threatened to be revealed. Pirate/Siren AU

pairings: pirate!bucky x pirate/siren!reader

chapter word count: 7k

warnings: canon level violence, a moment of confrontation, shit goes down 

🏴‍☠️ series masterlist // series playlist

You woke with a crick in your neck.  

Sleep took you swiftly after Dugan retreated up the stairs, your body depleted from rush of ocean currents over sore muscles and the use of the siren’s song. You wouldn’t regain its power again for at least another week – and that was assuming your recovery time was the same as it was as a child when you’d used it without understanding its consequences on your muddied mortal blood.  

It was an awful feeling to strip someone of their free will. Your father had warned you once that it would entice you, that it would draw you in like the shiny gems you chased across the seas, that it would ravage your mind like a disease. It was an addiction, he’d told you. An addiction to the power it would give you over another – to bend their will to your own making.  

There was no piece of you that did not feel unnerved and shamed for the use of the siren’s song. No shred of satisfaction in the power it lent you – power that sought to destroy you as easily as it would its victim. You’d broken the will of the one man who risked everything to give you a chance aboard his ship, who had sought to save your life despite knowing his own path would lead him to the depths of the water.  

There was no coming back from that betrayal.  

The siren’s song never held an appeal for you before. It had only been something you coexisted with, learned to ignore within yourself. Now, it felt like a plague. A weapon you could not shake from your body. A shameful burden you would carry with you for the rest of your life. No matter how short that may be.  

You groaned as you pushed yourself upright, leaning against the outer bars of the cell. Hay stuck into your still dampened hair, clinging to the sweat on your skin. Fragments of the straws caught within the barbed necklace laced around your throat – prickles of fresh blood bubbling over the dried bits around the barbs. Your shoulders ached from where your arms were constricted at the base of your spine, bindings still wrapped at your wrists. Raw and bloodied skin rubbed against the ropes.  

Slowly, your eyes began to adjust to the dim light of the brig. A single candle was hung in the far distance beyond the cell, offering only a glimpse of light. The darkness it carried seemed to leave behind something under your skin – an uneasiness, an awful sense of loneliness despite the dozens of men stomping their boots about the deck.  

You’d never once felt lonely on this ship. Not even under the knowledge that most of the crew resented your place amongst their ranks. No – you had the ocean, you had the small group of friends you’d made of good, decent men. You had your captain.  

Had.  

You swallowed back a lump burning in your throat, tears threatening your eyes. The sharp edges of the barbed collar pierced your skin with every strangled inhale. It hurt no less than the splintering in your chest. 

A slight shift of movement within the brig stilled you to stone. You held your breath, wondering whether Lawrence had snuck into the cellar to be rid of you before the captain could carry out his own justice.

Would that be better, you wondered. Easier, perhaps? To never have to see the look of disgust in your captain’s eyes? 

A figure was sitting on the barrels of rum, just outside the cell. You weren’t sure how you’d missed it before – shadows covering his face, his hands busy cleaning a trusted revolver. Blending into the darkness as if he were made for it. As if it welcomed him home. As if he’d been there for hours, waiting patiently in the solitude.  

“My men are intent on throwing you overboard,” came the voice of your captain.  

Your heart stumbled on its beat.  

Slowly, Bucky leaned into the soft reflection of light from the nearby window. It coated over the lines on his face, the sharp clench of his jaw, sinking into the startling blue of his eyes. Still – he gave you no read on whether he was among those same men readying to end your life for your betrayal.  

“I know what the crew believe you to be,” he continued, standing as he pulled the keys to the cell from his pocket, twisting them among nimble fingertips, “but I also know what they thought of you before we crossed paths with this damned island. I’m not particularly inclined to trust their judgement.” 

You watched his every movement as Bucky slid the key into the lock and unlatched the door. He paused for a minute on the threshold of the cage and you wondered if he was carrying lingering hesitancy for his innate compassion towards you, if he chastised that part of himself that may still care for the monster locked away in the cell. Still, he opened the door, the hinges crying as they parted. 

“I know I what I saw, Y/n,” Bucky said sternly.  

Your stomach dropped as he admitted to your worst fears. Of course, he remembered. That foolish inclination towards hope would be the end of you far before the men above deck anchored you and threw you to the seas.  

“My memories are not clear, but I know enough,” Bucky continued. Though, there was a sliver of uncertainty in his voice, a slight shift of a question at the end of every word – as if he was looking to you to confirm what he already knew to be true.  

Bucky raked a hand through his hair as he paced through the cell. “I remember jumping ship. I remember being... stripped apart – like that siren had burrowed a hole into me and tore away everything that ever made me who I was. It made me forget my men, my life on this ship... you. I was going to die at that siren’s hand.” 

His gaze met yours, blue eyes searching for answers. “I know Lawrence took the wax from your ears and I... I panicked. I don’t– I’ve never felt like that before. The thought of losing you to the sirens...” Bucky shook his head, as if to rid the possibility from his mind. He exhaled a slow, steady breath to calm his racing heart. “But you didn't fall prey to the song, did you? Too many seconds passed by without it claiming your mind.” 

Tears blurred your eyes as you watched him riddle out his own disbelief, trying to make sense of what you had done. He paced over the creaking floors, wringing his hands. You wondered how long he waited in the darkness, wrestling with the vague pieces he remembered of his time under the water and the woman he thought he knew. Wrestling with the godawful sting of betrayal that came with it.  

Your father hadn’t had glimpses into his time with the siren like this. He had barely been able to retain a faded memory of what happened to him. Your captain should not remember as much as he did. You could blame it on your dirty blood or a connection shared between you that held beyond even the power of the siren. It didn’t matter, you supposed. He knew enough to condemn you.  

Bucky ceased in his pacing, his back to you. Slowly he turned over his shoulder, truly looking at you for the first time since he opened the door to the cell. The slight flicker of his gaze to the bloodied marks on your neck did not slip your notice, nor did the flex in his fist as he squeezed it tight. He appeared to force himself to look away, pulling his focus to your eyes.  

“But somehow, still in control of your own will, you followed me into siren infested waters. You killed the creature intent on taking my life,” Bucky went on, softer this time. He swallowed then, as though the coming words were heavy upon his tongue – drying as sandpaper. Still, he continued.  

“But then, you started singing and that same feeling pushed into my soul again – like it had burrowed into my basic instincts, shifting them to a will I didn’t recognize,” Bucky said, surely condemning you. Lead solidified in your stomach, in your chest, in your lungs, until you could hardly breathe.  

“Only,” Bucky continued, a startling tenderness in his voice that nearly shattered you, “I didn’t feel unmade like I had before. It didn’t feel like an invasion. It... it just felt like you.” 

Slowly, Bucky sank to his knees at the barrel where you sat. His gaze carefully looked over you, taking in the new bruising and cuts he hadn’t seen above deck amongst the chaos, and his jaw clenched. A darkness clouded over the blue in his eyes but it wasn’t anything like how the siren’s song laid claim to the striking color. Instead of it closing him off from you, they offered a glimpse of vulnerability, a crack in his armor. 

He looked away, the stone fading from his features. 

“You kissed me,” Bucky said simply and your heart nearly shattered on impact.  

He shouldn’t have remembered that. He couldn’t. Because that would be your undoing. It would spell your end. If he hadn’t been convinced of the monster in your blood, then the siren’s kiss was all the proof he needed.  

But he didn’t flinch away from you in disgust. When he looked at you again, a strange weight clung to his features – a heaviness, an aching, you couldn’t quite place.  

“Much of it is a blur to me, but I...” Bucky sighed, brushing his fingertips over his bottom lip, as if to touch the memory itself, “I remember the kiss.” 

His lips parted and swiftly closed, making you wonder whether there was more he left unsaid. If he remembered the taste of your lips, how they molded so perfectly against his own. If he remembered how your body felt pressed against his – his hands snaking around your waist to brush the skin of your lower back. Because you remembered. You remembered every second of that kiss. 

His eyes flickered back to the collar around your neck and his jawline flexed. He took in a steady breath and then, carefully, began to reach a hand to you – familiar, and still, you could not trust it. Not after every warning your father had instilled in you of the men who would sooner slit your throat and dissect your remains should they learn of your truth. Your breath hitched as Bucky’s hand drew near to your neck, your body tensing, and he froze.  

His brow pinched at the center and what appeared to be a deep, unsettling sadness crossed the blue of his eyes. You weren’t sure what you were expecting him to do. It had never once crossed your mind before these Isles that he might try to hurt you, to silence you himself with his own bare hands, but still your body reacted as if he might.  

He’d promised to interrogate you, hadn’t he? You’d seen how the darkness crept into the captain you knew when he crossed the threshold into this cell – how he’d beat his knuckles raw in search of information more times than you were able to count. It was an effective method; well proven in his many years leading this crew.  

And yet— 

Bucky held up his hands apprehensively, giving you a moment to recognize the lack of malice in his eyes, the ginger nature of his touch. You could not find a trace of the darkness you prepared yourself to find. Instead, Bucky dipped his head in a reassuring nod as he carefully reached for your neck again – slower this time, allowing you to watch his every movement.  

His fingertips grazed your skin and you nearly whimpered at the touch – the gentleness of it. Holding your gaze, Bucky unlatched the barbed collar from around your neck, carefully prying the sharp edges from your skin and granting you the levity of the stale air in the brig. You drew in a shallow, shaken breath.  

Bucky exhaled tensely as he settled his thumb to the cuts on your neck, the deep scratches where the pronged edges of the necklace had jabbed to your skin. He touched you as if he might be able to wipe the wounds away as easily as he did the blood, as if he could heal you himself. He tossed the collar to the other side of the cell with force. It clung against the metal of the bars.  

“You saved my life, Y/n,” Bucky admitted to the silence of the cell. His hand remained along your neck, examining the marks there. You were certain he could feel the pounding race of your heartbeat through his fingertips.  

Slowly, he allowed himself to meet your gaze again. “None of it makes any sense to me. These things I remember... What the men insist happened... What we know to be true about the sirens... I need you to tell me the truth. I need you to trust me with this, to help me understand.” 

You stared helplessly back at him. You’d never trusted anyone the way you had Bucky, but you’d sworn to keep this secret your entire life. Men would kill you out of fear or ignorance or sport if they learned what you were; might try to use you to evade the sirens or tear you apart in search of what made you born of the ocean. You father had made you promise to never tell a living soul of the siren’s blood in your veins – not even those you believed you could trust.  

Because no one trusted a siren. 

No one.  

“Y/n,” Bucky tried again, a strain etching into his voice. Desperation, maybe. “Talk to me. It’s only us down here. Only me. You know that I would never...” 

He forced out a tense breath as if he could hardly say the words aloud: the very possibility that he would hurt you.  

“Please...” he whispered, begged, “just say something.” 

You parted your lips, trying to force out the words your captain wanted from you – to confirm what he already knew, to give name to the monster you were. But it lodged in your throat, muffled as if you still wore the barbed wire around your vocal cords. You’d spent too many years suffocated by this secret, by the paralyzing fears of what it meant to trust someone with it, and now—you were drowning in it.  

Tears slipped over your cheeks. Burdened in shame, you looked away. 

Bucky exhaled, his head dipping. Defeat drew lines along his face.  

He didn’t say anything as he rose to his feet and brushed the dirt from his knees. Disappointment weighed on his shoulders as he left through the open cell door. He closed it behind him and locked the bars, lingering just beyond the barrier in hopes you might change your mind. But the silence was crippling and he turned away from you.  

Perhaps it was too painful to look at the monster he once trusted, to see betrayal personified in the women who would have done anything for him. 

Or— 

Or maybe, he was as lost as you felt. Confused. Uncertain. Greiving the loss of what he thought he knew and desperate to understand what fell in its place. Maybe he wasn’t like the men your father warned you about. Maybe... your father was wrong.  

Because even if you knew little else, you knew Bucky was a good man. You knew his compassion outweighed the rumors of his ruthlessness. You knew he trusted you with things he would not dare show the rest of the crew. Perhaps, he would not see you as the monster his crew argued you to be. 

He’d always been different, hadn’t he? You'd known that from the first moment you saw him on that pier, smirking at the little girl who’d chased down her bully with a hairbrush in hand. If anyone was to be worthy of this truth, of this secret that would surely spell your death to any other man, it would be your captain.  

And you let him walk away.  

He neared the stairs, almost out of view, and fear lurched inside you.  

It was crippling, agonizing – the panic that you might lose him not to the sirens or the muddied blood in your veins, but to your own volition, to your own cowardice. 

“Wait,” you called after him, but your voice was too shattered, too broken by the song to be heard above the creaking of the ship. He continued his ascent up the stairs, each step cleaving a fracture through your heart. 

Your hands began to shake.  

“Wait... stop...” you tried again, your voice slowly gaining back strength. But it wasn’t enough. You could see the weight pressing into Bucky’s shoulders, the heaviness of each step. He was nearly to the top.  

You sat up straighter, determination drowning away the burning ache in your chest, demanding strength to your voice. 

“Bucky—” 

He stilled dead in his tracks.  

It wasn’t that you’d spoken, or that your voice was tarnished from the song and the collar. No – he stilled so suddenly because it was the first time his name had come from your lips. Not ‘Captain.’ Not ‘Barnes.’ 

Bucky.  

Slowly, he turned. His lips parted; breath heavy in his chest as he studied you. Something in him softened under the weight of his own name in your voice, a shiver in his bones. His hands clenched at his side though he made no movement toward you.  

“Wait.” You swallowed back tears; the distance between you physically aching. “Please... don’t go. I’ll tell you everything. Anything. Just... don’t... don’t go.” 

A sob cut through and before you could wipe your eyes on the shoulder of your damp blouse, Bucky had rushed the remaining distance and reopened the cell door, his strong frame kneeling in front of you. Your hands began to tremble violently against the ropes and he set a comforting hand upon your knee, urging you to speak.  

“It’s true,” you whispered, your words still broken and raspy in the effort. “It’s all true. I’m... I’m so sorry.” 

There was no flicker of surprise on his face. If anything, there was a level of relief you couldn’t quite understand. His hand rubbed tenderly along your thigh, drawing the trembling from your muscles and the shakiness from your hands.  

“How is this possible?” he asked steadily, softly.  

“I'm only half blood.” You drew back the taste of bitterness on your tongue. “My mother was a siren. So little of me is made of her, but it’s enough for others to fear me. I only used the song once before when I was a child, when I didn’t know any better. I never intended to use it again. You have to believe me. I never wanted to use it again.” A rock burned at your throat, threatening to choke you, to suffocate you. “But you... you jumped and I had to do something. You kept swimming after the siren, even after I killed her. You would have drowned if I hadn’t used the song on you and I couldn’t let you—” 

"You hid this from me,” Bucky said, his voice laced thick with remorse as the words died upon your lips, “all these years. Why?” 

You stilled, stunned by his question until you absorbed the sincerity in his words. His thumb brushed gentle strokes along your knee, a tenderness you’d hardly been able to grasp before he knew what you were and now... He did not flinch from you, did not revolt in disgust. He still showed you the same kindness, the same trust and care.  

But you had needed to protect yourself and your secret – even from him. It was the only way your survived.  

“Look where I am,” you exhaled, gesturing to the bars encasing you in the brig and the ropes tied at your wrists. “Can you blame me? The crew already distrusts me as a woman. If they knew what my mother was... it wouldn’t just be taunts and dirty looks. They would have killed me.” You looked out to the window where a glimpse of ocean water crashed against the foggy glass. “They still might.” 

“I won’t let that happen,” Bucky retorted sharply, his words coated in a stern determination that made your heart clench. He squeezed your knee. “Do you hear me? I won’t let anyone hurt you.” 

He flinched as his gaze dropped to the dried blood on your neck.  

“I won’t... I won’t let them hurt you beyond what I have already shamefully allowed,” Bucky carefully amended, guilt pressed heavy on his features. “I have failed you. You saved me and I... I failed you. I will never deserve your forgiveness, but know that I will do everything in my power to ensure you are safe from those men. To my last breath, I swear that to you.” 

Your lips parted, trying to find the right words – to understand how he could possibly still look at you the way he was now, how he could so easily rush to your defense despite the years you spent lying to him of your true nature, of the monster you were under the surface. All this and still – he found a way to carry the blame himself.  

All you could force beyond your lips was a disbelieving “...what?” 

Bucky stroked his hands down your arms and gingerly took his pocket knife to the ropes binding your hands. As they slid from your wrists and the cool touch of air coaxed over the burns, you shivered, hissing at the burning sensation left in its wake. He helped to ease your hands to your lap, careful of the soreness in your shoulders from keeping your hands locked at the small of your back for so long. You winced at the tenderness, the dull ache, though it was long forgotten as Bucky drew your hands to his mouth and tenderly kissed the wounds. 

Your breath soon left you entirely.  

“I have always cared for you, Y/n. More than I should,” he admitted, the warmth of his lips lingering over your skin. “You risked everything when you jumped in the water after me. You saved my life. Whatever blood runs through your veins does not usurp the woman I know, does not take her from me and morph her into a creature I can easily despise.” 

You watched him as he held your hands in his own, how easily he touched you. It felt like a dream, one where you were not the monster your mother made you to be.  

“You’re... You’re not afraid of me?” 

Something sank in Bucky’s eyes at your question. The ocean blue currents cracking as his gaze flicker to your swollen wrists. A lingering guilt rose to the surface, painting into the lines on his face.  

“My fear is not for the siren in you,” he said simply, with such sincerity it nearly broke you. “It is for the blade of our enemy that comes too close to your neck, for the recklessness you are so often prone to, for the overwhelming pull I feel towards you that renders me helpless beyond what I can take. That is what I fear, my love. Not you. Never you.” 

“But I— I lied to you,” you argued though your own tears, unwilling to accept his easy forgiveness, unable to understand how he could so blindly trust you when you’d spent years hiding from him. “I betrayed you. You should be lining up to throw me to the sea with the rest of the crew.” 

“You think so little of me?” Bucky questioned, pained as his lips curved to a frown. “You truly believe me capable of laying harm to you? That I would disregard your years upon this ship and every time you have saved my life and the lives of these men? Why? Because you carry siren’s blood? Because you have an incredible – albeit, terrifying – power? You were protecting yourself with this secret. I know that. As much as I wish you had trusted me with this, I know why you couldn’t. I’ll admit that I don’t quite understand it all, but I don’t need to. I know you. I trust you. That is enough for me.” 

Bucky’s fingertips ghosted along your cheek, brushing away the tears as they slid over your jawline. “I swore once that I would protect you. I meant that.” 

It shattered whatever remained of your doubts, of the guilt and shame you carried for hiding the truth from your captain. This impossible man who had granted you far more than he could ever know. He saved you – in more ways than one – the day he agreed to take you aboard his ship. You’d never known loyalty and quiet affection until you met him.  

“This is why you sought to keep us from these waters, isn’t it?” Bucky said quietly, the realization heavy. “All this time, you knew what we would find here. That it might expose you. You knew it could end like this, even as I pleaded for your blessing to travel to this island. You agreed to train the same men who would turn against you in a moment if they knew your truth. You did this... because I asked it of you.” 

The guilt weighing in his voice bottomed in your stomach. And still, you nodded, unwilling to lie to him a moment longer. “I only wished to keep you safe.” 

A sad smile lifted the edges of his lips. Beautiful, even amongst the dim lighting of the single candle and the faded sunlight marked by clouds and stained glass. Always beautiful.  

"Then we have that in common, don’t we?” There was a breath of laughter in his voice.

His right hand gently pushed the dampened hair from your face, tucking it safely behind your ear. His smile began to fade the longer he looked at you – sinking not into a frown, but into something else entirely. Something that resembled awe. Longing.  

“Bucky...” you exhaled his name and you watched as a shiver trembled over him.  

Your gaze flickered to his lips – the full pink restored in color from his time under the water. His hand cupped at the side of your face, holding you steady, gently, as he drew you closer, as you neared him. Heart pounding, skin thrumming in anticipation. His lips were but a breath from yours.  

“Captain!” a voice shouted from the stairs.  

You pulled apart as footsteps bounded down from the deck. You turned to find Morita and Jones rushing into the brig with wide, panicked looks in their eyes. They did not seem surprised by the lack of the collar and bindings, nor the captain’s close proximity to you.  

Bucky jumped to his feet, his body quickly shielding yours. “What is it?” 

“The crew,” Morita replied, panting as his worried gaze shot in your direction. “They’re growing restless. They’re gathering chains.” 

Your stomach dropped as Bucky reached for you. His arm darted across your chest, acting as a barrier. You both knew what the chains meant – weights to carry you to the bottom of the ocean, to rob you of the air in your lungs and force you to the home you never truly belonged in.  

“I’m still the captain here,” Bucky snarled. “They can’t do a damn thing against her without my say.” 

“I don’t believe the crew recognizes that anymore, sir,” said Jones. “Dugan is trying to keep them at ease, but they will come for her. Soon.” 

Bucky held the steel in his bones for only a moment longer, contemplating his options. A war seemed to rage inside his mind; his frequent glances to the light seeping in through the open stairway lingered before he turned to you. The hardened lines of his muscles began to soften as his gaze filtered over the raw wounds on your wrists, the speckles of blood on your neck, the reflection of tears on your cheeks. He took one final look to the stairs before his shoulders sank, a tired determination rising to the surface. 

“Ready the rowboat,” he ordered. “We shouldn’t be more than a few days journey from land. We’ll need enough supplies to get safely to shore.” 

“What?” you gaped. “No, you— you can’t do that! I won’t let you give up this ship for me. Your legacy is everything to you and I’m not worth—” 

“Don’t you dare.” Bucky grabbed a firm hold of your forearm, still cautious of the bruising, and pulled you close enough to feel the heat of his breath. “Don’t insinuate for a second that this ship means more to me than your life. We’ll find a new vessel. A new crew. Take one if we have to. I don’t want this one if they’re out for your blood.” 

Despite the hardened stone on his features, Bucky’s touch to the edge of your cheek carried such tenderness it drew a breathy gasp from your lips. His thumb eased away the lingering tears on your skin, his thumb brushing dangerously close to your lips. Your argument died on your tongue. 

Bucky let a weakened smile curve at the ends of his mouth. It wasn’t enough to reach his eyes – not with the chaos brewing above deck, but it eased the burden from his features. He pressed his lips against your temple, lingering a few seconds longer than needed before he turned back to Jones.  

“Let’s get out of here. Now. Before they—” 

Heavy footsteps pounded on the old, wooden stairs. One after another. Slow in succession. Determined. Confident. Each stormed like thunder inside your chest, rattling every nerve in your body.  

Lawrence was the first to emerge from the shadows, several of the crew behind him carrying weapons in hand. All of which were pointed directly at you. There was no mistaking the malice upon their faces nor the certainty with which they aimed their weapons. They were here to kill the monster in the brig.  

“Step out of the way, Captain,” Lawrence growled, though his stare remained on you as if it could burrow a hole between your eyes. Disgust was not a strong enough word to contain the glare he carried. 

You longed for the dagger and revolver that had once held home on your hips.  

Bucky inched himself in front of you; his body acting a shield. The flash of surprise on his crew’s faces did not go unnoticed.  

“Don’t do this, Lawrence,” Bucky warned, his stance steady.  

But Lawrence did not tear his gaze from yours. His teeth bared as if he were foamed at the mouth; rabid in his fury. “Do you have any idea the havoc she could wreak upon us? You allowed this creature to be unmuzzled when she could lure every last one of us to our deaths!” 

“She is not what you think she is,” Bucky said slowly – the contrast to Lawrence’s crazed anger stark.  

“She is exactly what we always believed her to be! A curse!” Lawrence roared, spit flailing from his lips. “We must put an end to the monster before it has a chance to do the same to us!” 

Bucky unlatched the safety on his revolver. Stunned gasps echoed through the crew as Lawrence straightened his back. The men behind him held their weapons higher; a stand-off in the middle of the brig. Some of the crew’s weapons were trembling in their hands, fear of their own captain drawing hesitancy to their convictions.  

"She is not your enemy,” Bucky growled as he adjusted the leverage of his gun, “but if you don’t step aside, I’m about to be.” 

Lawrence licked at his lips; a deadly silence masked only by the crash of waves against the rim of the ship coating the brig. “So be it.” 

Gunfire rang in your ears and you were thrown to the ground. Deafening ringing numbed the rest of your senses as you struggled under the weight of Bucky’s body, your forearms scraping against the exposed nails between the wooden boards.  

Chaos surrounded you. Once, you would have thrived upon it. You would have breathed in the rush of adrenaline and smiled – but your body was still weakened from the aftermath of the siren’s song. Your energy was drained; your precision with a blade and a bullet hazy, even if you could manage to get your hands on a weapon. There was little fight left in your body as Bucky, Jones, and Morita desperately tried to defend you from the rest of the crew.  

 Someone managed to wrangle Bucky to his knees and it was only then that you saw the blood dripping down the front of his face. Someone had struck him – enough to break his nose – and your stomach lurched at the sight. Morita and Jones followed, various cuts on his arms and snags in the fabric of their clothing from the blade of their own crewmen. A blade darted out across Bucky’s throat and your heart plummeted far beyond the wood of the ship, deep into the sinking abyss of the waters below. 

“Stop!” you shrieked, though your voice broke in the effort. You held your bloodied wrists out for the crew, panicked. Surrendering. Desperate for someone to restrain you instead. “Do what you must with me. Just leave them out of this. Please.” 

Bucky’s eyes widened. Panic lacing deep through his veins as he struggled to free himself to no avail. Lawrence stepped forward, a sickening grin curling at the edges of his mouth, and Bucky’s gaze narrowed to deadly precision.  

“You lay another fucking hand on her and I swear you to Lawrence, I’ll cut it off!” Bucky roared, caring little for the blade at his throat as it dug into his skin. Tiny speckles of blood dripped from the cuts as he fought his restraints.  

Lawrence wrapped his grimy fingers around your wrists despite the captain’s warning, his thumbs digging painfully into your wounds as he wrapped heavy metal chains where rope had once been. You winced at the friction, which only seemed to delight him.  

He turned to Bucky. “I’m doing you a favor, Captain. I’m doing all of us a favor. You'll see.” 

But Bucky only bared his teeth, his body seething with rage. Blood dripped down to his collarbone.  

With your wrists crossed in front of you, Lawrence grabbed hold of the remaining links and dragged you viciously towards the steps. The momentum forced you to follow as you stumbled over your own feet. You nearly lost your balance on the first step, but the chains dragged you along, even as you bruised your shins against the wood.  

“Get her to the plank! Quickly!” one of the unnamed crew shouted from the deck as you stepped out into the blinding heat of sunlight. You blinked through the startling brightness, trying to adjust after nearly a full day of being kept below deck.  

When you were finally able to see again, you found Dugan tied to the mast at the center of the ship. Jim and Gabe soon followed as ropes were secured around their wrists. But it was Bucky they kept restrained by his arms as they led you to the edge of the ship. They forced him to his knees with a heavy thud, resistance etched to stone in every ounce of his muscle. It took four of his men to hold him down and a blade against his throat before he finally stilled.  

You stood silently at the edge of the ship as Lawrence tied weights to your ankles. Amongst his roughened hands and the latch of metal pinching at your skin, your gaze fixed on Bucky’s. There was nothing left to be done. You’d sealed your fate the moment you dove into the water after him, exposing your song and the siren in your history to the men who were so easily threatened by your presence.  

It was foolish to believe even for a moment that you could have escaped this ending. That your life had not always been meant to end in this way. 

Your heart pounded miserably inside your chest as you held his gaze. His lips were parted, breaths heavy in his chest – he looked as though his heart might have been ripped straight through his ribs for the panic and devastation on his features had all but consumed him. You offered him a small smile, one that barely touched your eyes to simply have this one moment left with your captain – one moment of peace to hold within the kind ocean blue of his gaze. 

But Bucky would not let you go quietly. 

“You would murder one of your own?!” Bucky demanded of the crew, the effort drawing the blade over his throat. Drops of crimson bubbled from the cut on his skin. “She has been a part of this crew for years and never once laid harm to a single one of you! She was the one who sought to protect you from the sirens in the waters of the Aglaope Isles! She warned you of this coast! Does that not give you pause?” 

Several of the crew blinked, some taken back. Others, snarled their teeth – unbothered.  

“Look at her!” Bucky ordered as blood slipped down his collar. “She’s without the collar and yet she does not use the song against you! Not even to save her own life! She is not the monster you claim she is! Stop this!” 

It didn’t matter that you were depleted far beyond your ability to use the song again so soon. It should have been enough that it never once crossed your mind to do so in the years spent aboard this ship – fighting alongside this crew, eating with them, sailing with them. Even among their constant harassment and taunting. It should have been enough.  

“Our captain has been blinded by the siren’s charms!” Lawrence announced to the crew, stomping upon their doubts as if he could crumble it under the sole of his boot. “She is every bit the demons that stole our brothers from us! We will condemn this creature to an eternity in chains at the bottom of the ocean for her crimes!” 

Many still cheered.  

But not all.  

“You’ll kill her!” Bucky warned, his voice growing hoarse in his desperation. His anger quickly evolved to panic. “She’s not full blood, Lawrence! She won’t survive under the water!” 

Lawrence paused, a sinister smirk curving up at the corners of his lips. “Then it is a fitting death for a half-breed.” He turned back to the crew; one hand grasped at the chains around your wrist, the other pushed up above his head in a rallying cry. “I say we let her drown!” 

Applause broke out, sinking a dead weight in your stomach, sealing your fate. Bucky looked out to his crew and something shattered on his face – his eyes wide, his breaths coming in shallow and trembling. 

“Don’t do this,” Bucky’s strangled voice carried through the cheers. “Lawrence... please. You don't have to do this.” 

Lawrence paused, but only long enough spit at the deck. “She’s made you weak. Pathetic. I will free you of her spell and soon, Captain, you will thank me.” 

But Bucky only shook his head, an awful mixture of disbelief and agony warping its way through his features. His knees trembled, nearly giving out under him, and still, he fought against the men securing him with every ounce of strength he had left.  

You met Bucky’s frantic gaze from across the deck – his own eyes brimmed red and reflective with unshed tears under the setting sun – and in an impossible moment, you tried to convey the years of unspoken words you never had a chance to tell him. 

Your appreciation for the day he offered you a place amongst his crew.  

The pride you felt sailing under his flag – the legend of a ruthless pirate who displayed more honor than men of the crown who wore colorful pins upon the breast of their uniforms.  

The aching need to be close to him, to feel the steady pulse of his heart under your fingertips and ease the pain lingering from his wounds.  

Feelings beyond what you had ever been able to put name to; stronger that the rush of panic as Lawrence dragged you to the ledge, deeper than the ocean’s floor you’d soon find a home in. Feelings that ripped through your chest and begged for every inch of him. Feelings that rendered you foolish and reckless enough to expose your nature to the very men who would soon take your life for it. 

But there wasn’t enough time to confess any of it.  

Lawrence shoved a heavy hand to your chest and you began to stumble.  

Bucky kicked out the knee of one of the men holding him restrained in a terrible crack, creating a small opening that let him break free of their hold. They lunged for him as he dove from their reach. Sprinting. Your name a terrible, frantic plea his lips. 

Your feet left the ground, the railing digging into your spine.  

Bucky lunged for you, but a sword swung down in his path. Lawrence.  

Freefall.  

You hit the water. Enclosing around you. Cold. Ice Cold.  

And then – silence.  

You held your last breath of air deep into your lungs. It would last you longer than you should have been allowed as a human; a few extra minutes at most. For what, you weren’t sure. There was no freeing yourself of the chains as you sank deeper into the water.  

This was it. The end. The icy embrace of the waters you had called home your entire life.  

Perhaps it had always known you would return to its clutches. Even in death.  

[spnexploration]

Collared part 1

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader, eventually

Series summary: Sam and Dean save a woman from where she has been held as a slave by a witch. But things turn dark whenever they try to take her magic collar off, leaving them with a slave to look after and a curse to break.

Episode summary: Sam and Dean find you, chained to the wall, but their rescue mission doesn't go quite to plan.

Episode warnings: slavery, hints of past mistreatment, injury to reader

Word count: 1.3k

A/N: This is a fair bit darker than my previous fics! Please let me know what you think. I've already written the first 4 parts in 2 days, so I hope you like it!

Series masterlist | Supernatural writing masterlist

-> Part 2

A pair of men’s shoes entered the room. You couldn’t see more than his - presumably it was a ‘he’, but just a pair of men’s shoes didn’t automatically mean that - lower legs, as you kept your head appropriately bent to the floor. You were kneeling on the hard floor, hands carefully placed in your lap.

The thick chain connecting your collar to the wall was slack, you’d positioned yourself to have a little space to be able to move. Unfortunately, it was likely the man would pull it or move you until it bit into the skin of your neck, but you could always hope.

“Shit,” the man swore quietly. “Are you Y/N?”

The name stirred something deep inside you, but no one called you that here. You didn’t answer.

“DEAN!” The man yelled. You flinched at the sound. Dean wasn’t your name either, but if he wanted to call you that then he could, it’s not like you’d ever tell him not to.

“Sir?” you asked quietly. Normally the client would’ve told you to do something by now, or have started doing it to you.

The man came and crouched in front of you. He reached out and gently touched your shoulder. You held in the flinch, knowing that clients disliked your fear reaction until they’d given you something to fear themselves. They didn’t like to be reminded that they weren’t the only person visiting you.

“Y/N?” he asked again. You didn’t react to the name, you knew from experience that your Mistress did not approve of that name.

“Can you look at me?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” you said, looking up at his face. He had brown hair falling around his face and a concerned expression. You weren’t sure what he wanted you to do differently, so you just stayed silent until he told you.

“Do you know how to get the chain off?” he asked. Ah, you thought, he’s concerned because his fantasy doesn’t involve you staying in the one spot.

“There is an additional fee to my Mistress, sir,” you said. His face darkened, angry. You were used to that expression around you, most people who paid to use you wanted to express their anger in some way or another.

Suddenly, someone banged on the door.

The man went to open it. You returned your gaze to the floor. A second set of men’s shoes entered, perhaps this was Dean. Two clients at once was not unheard of.

“Fuck,” maybe-Dean said. It was uncharacteristic for clients to enter and swear in such a manner, it was as if they were surprised by what they saw. Perhaps someone else had paid for the men, so they had not interacted with your Mistress themselves.

“Did you see a key anywhere?” the first man asked the second.

“Yeah, hang on,” maybe-Dean said, leaving the room. He returned a minute later with the jingling key chain. This was strange, the keys were never given to the clients. One of the handlers would always come in and use them.

He came over to your chain and started trying keys. You remained still and quiet, kneeling on the cold floor. You knew you could get in trouble for this, but you would also get in trouble for protesting the actions of clients. You resigned to your fate.

The chain released and maybe-Dean held out his hand to you. You waited for an instruction.

“Here, kid,” he said. “I’ll help you up.”

It wasn’t a proper order, but he seemed inexperienced so perhaps he thought it was. After a moment’s hesitation you put your hand in his and he pulled you to stand. You kept your eyes on the floor, but from this vantage you could tell that both men were significantly taller than you.

Thinking that things would go better if you showed the men that they had to be more explicit about what they wanted, you hesitantly asked, “How would you like me?” You were much more used to dealing with return clients than rookies.

“Oh, uh, we’re not- we’re not here for, umm, that,” the first, and taller, man stuttered. Why else would they be here, you wondered, quite unable to think of anything else that could happen in this room.

“We’re here to rescue you, sweetheart,” the second man, maybe-Dean, said without a hint of irony in his use of the pet name. You didn’t understand what that meant, your brain stuck behind a fog.

You stayed where you were, waiting for an order.

“Ok, we can deal with this later when we’re not trying to outrun a witch’s potential friends. Come on,” maybe-Dean said, taking your hand and pulling you towards the door.

“Please sir, I cannot leave the room,” you pleaded, dreading the outcome. He continued to pull you towards the door. “Please, sir, please!” He looked at you confusedly but continued to tug you along.

He pulled your arm through the door. And then it happened. The white hot pain emanating from your collar, the blinding light, the screams that you heard and then realised were your own.

Maybe-Dean had shoved you back in the room when he saw it happening, his hands on your waist holding you up before he clutched you to his chest.

“I���m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said in a rush. You were surprised he would apologise to you.

You started to get your breath back. “I’m sorry, sir. I cannot leave the room unless my Mistress orders it,” you said with a trembling voice, afraid of what he would do that you weren’t obeying his commands. But the command from your Mistress overruled anything else.  “I’m sorry, sir,” you pleaded.

“Hey, hey,” he said soothingly, “It’s not your fault.” He continued to hold you against his chest, rubbing his hand on your back. It was very strange and somehow… pleasant.

 “We have to find a way to get this collar off, I think,” said the first man. You had almost forgotten he was here. He bent down to look at your neck. His scrutiny was unnerving but you avoided flinching.

“Looks like it’s spelled,” he said. You remembered your Mistress saying strange words when she put it on.

Maybe-Dean swore again. “I fucking hate witches,” he muttered. Then, he had an idea. “Hey, sweetheart, has your Mistress ever taken the collar off?”

“Y-yes, sir,” you said haltingly. You didn’t like to be reminded.

“Do you know what she said to take it off? Did she need any special ingredients or anything with her to do it?”

You nodded slightly to the first question.

“Can you tell us?” he said gently. You weren’t sure, you’d never tried to say the words out loud so you didn’t know if there would be a reaction. No one had ever asked you before. Besides, it wasn’t an order, you didn’t have to obey him until he said it properly.

You remained silent.

He looked at your face and seemed to try a different tact. “My name’s Dean, and this is my little brother Sam. What’s your name?”

“Room 14,” you responded automatically. Dean’s eyes widened.

“I want to get you out of this room, but I need you to tell me how to get this collar off so that I can do that,” he said.

You felt your need to obey overriding your fear. “Resero opens it, praecludo closes it.”

“Does that seem a bit simple to you?” Sam muttered to Dean. “That’s just plain Latin for open and close.”

Dean shrugged, “Witches, man.” Sam nodded.

“Ok,” Dean said, turning back to you. “I’m going to take the collar off now, and then we’re going to get you out of here.” You didn’t respond, it wasn’t an order or even a question.

You just dreaded what would happen next.

[asukamood]

Previous part

Next part

Extra 01 — Extra 00

This post is part of The Elysium’s Dream series.

TW: Mentioned death and self destructive behaviour? I mean, it wouldn’t kill them but still

So we’re back again with Dream and Nightmare in a lab instead that this time, they are wary of the scientists much to their grand despair but it’s okay, we have a doctor simp with us ready to save the day.

I swear Errormare will come around one day-

***

The crisis was averted, and the consequences came around. The entire staff of the Celestial Conservation Department was gathered in a hurry to talk about who the instigator of the incident was and if 00, as Blue now knows as ‘Nightmare’, should or should not be punished for causing such a ruckus.

Blue sat on the extreme left of the rectangle table, the seat in front of him empty. Error should have been sitting there but due to some injuries caused by 00, the doctor was excused from the meeting and ordered to rest in the medical wing.

On his right, a circular table lay there with the most prominent figures of the military and government all sat there. They all insisted on taking part in this gathering as the latter’s subject would have quite literally affected the entire multiverse if it didn’t end the way it did.

A religious silence dawned on the room, only broken by Ink sipping on a cup of fresh coffee. The latter had a cold smile plastered on his tainted face as he looked at the men in lab coats from the highest seat at the circular table.

“So,” He began, all heads turning to him as he spoke. “Doctor Blue, you were painted as a witness to Doctor Hate’s death.” Blue gulped. He didn’t have any reason to be afraid but having so many people staring at him was quite… disturbing, to say the least.

“That I was.” He acquiesced, his hands tightening into fists on his lap.

“Could you tell us all what you saw? And I don’t mean just how Doctor Hate died, we can all pretty much guess what happened by the state of his corpse,” Several people looked away, probably haunted by the picture of the unrecognizable lifeless body of their deceased colleague. “I mean what happened before 00 arrived in the room. Witnesses had alerted us that they heard you scream at Doctor Hate about something.”

“I don’t see any reason to refuse.” Blue took a deep breath, forcing his body to relax before he started his not-so-beautiful tale. “I got a call from Doctor Error right after the alarm went off, asking me to go fetch 01 to calm him down.”

Some people started taking notes, recording his words. “At the time, Doctor Hate was the one in charge of 01 so when I went into his room I saw him. We talked about something, I don’t quite recall what exactly but that’s when I noticed 01’s state.”

He paused, the image of a trembling Dream in his mind. Ink hummed, motioning for him to continue. “He was in bad shape with a shock collar around his neck, several empty syringes around him…” Everyone knew what he was about to say next but they still foolishly wished that Blue would tell them wrong, that perhaps an intruder had done this.

“Doctor Hate was undeniably experimenting on him.” He finished, much to the rest of the staff’s dismay. Meanwhile, the higher-ups audibly gasped in horror. “I think that is why 00 went berserk, he sensed that 01 was in danger and got furious.”

“I would also like to add that all injuries caused by 00, save for Doctor Hate, were all pretty minor and superficial. The worst one was Doctor Error who has a few broken ribs.” Outer from the medical team added, frowning.

Ink nodded as a roar of whispers broke out at his table. “Very well, I only have one last question for Doctor Blue.” The latter perked up at being called.

“Yes?”

“How could you have let this happen?” Stunned silence welcomed his words.

“… I beg your pardon?” Ink put down his cup on the table with a soft thud and slumped on his chair unceremoniously, smile gone.

“You are the one in charge of monitoring 01’s well-being, am I wrong? So you should have noticed it was happening before Doctor Hate was even able to place a collar on him. Where were you when that happened?” Blue didn’t reply, trying to find an answer to that question.

Where was he? Well, he was drinking coffee, certain that nobody would wish harm upon Dream, but that didn’t quite sound that good, did it? It sounded like he was slacking off… and perhaps he had been.

“With all my utmost respect sir, no one could have known that Doctor Hate would do this out of everyone,” Outer spoke up upon noticing Blue’s lack of reply. The latter sent him a thankful look for backing him up. “He genuinely seemed to care about 01 before so Blue trusted him to take good care of him without having to monitor them.”

“Well, that still doesn’t suffice. He should be keeping an eye out on 01 at any time of the day regardless of who is with him.” Ink turned back to Blue. “You will be suspended from your normal activities for a week, you understand why I hope?”

Blue gritted his teeth as he held onto his coat tightly. “Yes, sir. Before you dismiss us though, I would like to share some pieces of information with my coworkers.”

Curiosity flashed in Ink’s eyes as he gestured for him to proceed. “Go on.”

Blue stood up and looked his fellow scientists in the eyes, orbits traveling from person to person.

“01 and 00 are brothers and originally called ‘Dream’ and ‘Nightmare’. They are also able to communicate but choose who can or not understand them.”

***

It has been six days since the ‘accident’ happened and things… weren’t going too well, to say the least. Nightmare refused to leave Dream’s side and had become even more aggressive towards the staff, growling if they did something as little as stepping within a 3 feet radius from them.

Dream, while looking better than he did the first day, still hasn’t fully recovered even though in normal circumstances he would have been as good as new in two days at most. The reason? Neither of the twins wanted the youngest one to be taken care of by the humans.

Moreover, any food they left for them was left untouched. Did they fear it could be poisoned? Either way, this was starting to get concerning. Radiants and Corrupts don’t need to eat to survive but from their research, it’s still better for them to. The same thing goes for sleep but they haven’t been doing that either.

Dream had lost his cheerfulness, his smile had turned into a mouth pressed thin and his eyes looked dull in comparison to the past. It’s not like they had become completely lightless either but it still hurt to see him like that.

Unlike his twin brother, Dream wasn’t quite hostile to the staff. He has never been one for violence but the way he would just briefly glance at them before leaning back onto Nightmare’s shoulder and staring at the horizon was really out of character to be fair to him, he did still have some drugs circulating in his veins.

The scientists would all look at each other with worry in their eyes, if this kept on, would they be able to do their job correctly?

***

7:00 AM

Blue was woken up from his peaceful slumber by the very annoying and startling alarm of his clock, which kept screeching as if the universe was about to collapse.

“Wake up motherfucker.” It seemed to scream, which it did. Two years ago, his friends decided that it was a great idea to switch his completely normal alarm to a recording of them screeching out that sentence on loop. It was funny the first day and even though he was clearly not having fun at the moment, he was later laughing with them about the silly joke they made.

The laughter soon died down when they told him they had no idea how to change it back.

So here he was, two years later, stuck with the same recording of yelling voices screaming at him to wake up while calling him every curse word inscribed in the English lexicon.

He groaned, rubbing his eyes absently as he sat up. It felt extremely wrong to stay at home all this time when he knew the time was not for rest, it’s not like he could defy what Ink told him anyways, he would be in deep trouble if he got caught.

With the picture of himself being taken away by cops, Blue slammed his hand onto the clock, successfully shutting it up. He should buy a new one but he always forgets because he was so caught up in his work.

Work…

The man was both excited and scared to go back to the laboratory. Excited because he genuinely liked his work, feeling as if he was truly doing humanity a favor but also very scared to discover the state of the twins. For all he knew, they could be ten feet underground by now and he wouldn’t even have been able to tell them goodbye.

He shook the thought away, messy ocean hair tickling his forehead. Stressing out like that wasn’t going to help him at all, he had to think of this as just another day of work, that’s all.

To feign casualness, Blue manically put on his lab coat over his other clothes and munch on a piece of bread.

“Here goes nothing.” He opened the door.

***

Saying that his subordinates were relieved to see him was an understatement, the second he stepped inside the building, many threw themselves on him, tackling him to the ground.

“Thank god you came back!” They cried out. “We need your help!”

Well, that was not a good start.

“What happened while I was gone? You guys look like you’ve been raided by the hunters twice a day for weeks.” He commented as he stood up, pushing them off of him.

“Trust us, it’s worse. 00 and 01–“

“Nightmare and Dream.” Blue corrected, cutting the person off.

“Uh right- Nightmare and Dream have both been boycotting the food and drinks we gave them and they wouldn’t let us take Dream to the medical wing either. Any attempt to move the material needed was met with failure and property damage.” They were pacing back and forth as they spoke, words gaining in speed each time.

Once they were finished, they stopped in front of Blue to look him in the eyes. “Doctor Blue, do you think you can resolve the issue?”

“I’m not sure.” He saw no point in lying. “I can certainly try though. Where are they?”

“They have been staying inside Dream’s room this past week.” Blue hummed in thought.

“Anything else I should be wary of?” He asked, walking in the familiar corridor of the laboratory with its pristine white walls and spotless floor as if he owned the building. There wasn’t anything to be nervous about, after all, it was exactly like walking back to school after the holidays.

“Well, Nightmare has become more protective of Dream.” Blue grimaced.

“That was to be expected.”

***

When he entered the room, Blue was all by himself and didn’t have anything in hand either. No plate, no glass, nothing. The other scientists were watching him nervously from the window, some already biting their nails or ruffling their hair when nothing was even happening yet.

The door collided with the wall and made a tiny noise which immediately alerted the twins who snapped their necks to look at the origin of the noise. Blue gazed back at them and frowned at seeing Dream’s odd look.

That staring contest lasted for a solid minute without any of the party moving a single digit. The witnesses hidden behind a glass window were shaking from anticipation, thinking one of them would soon end up in the medical wing.

Then Dream started moving, slowly letting go of his brother. “Where were you?” Curious golden eyes stared into relieved azure ones, at least he was speaking normally now.

“The higher-ups ordered me to temporarily stop working.” Nightmare, who has been staring holes in the doctor’s pockets since the beginning, looked up to watch his face.

“Why?” Dream asked, confusion written on his features. “I thought working was a good thing in your society.”

“And it is. You can say I was… punished, for not guarding you well.” To the ones behind the window, this whole conversation was one-sided. They could only hear Doctor Blue’s speech and while they could see 01’s mouth moving, no actual sound came from his vocal cords.

Dream cocked his head to the side, even more confused. This time, Nightmare was the one who spoke up.

“Funny how they punished you when they’re the lazy ones doing nothing but barking orders like dogs.” Nightmare scoffed. “Your society is truly corrupted.”

“That I cannot argue with.” He started fiddling with his fingers, not expecting the conversation to focus on this topic. “Anyways, I’ve heard from my coworkers that during my absence you guys haven’t eaten or drunk anything.” The question that should have followed that statement never came but the twins answered it nonetheless.

“It can’t be trusted.” They both said at the same time with different tones: Nightmare’s had an edge of salt and anger in it while Dream’s was purely melancholic, how interesting.

“We wouldn’t poison your food, you two are too important.” There was no reply so he continued. “Besides, the food here is to die for, even if it was poisoned I would gladly eat it. At least I would die well fed.”

“Pfft-“ The vibrating Dream had everyone in the room (and the creeps watching from the window) gaped like fishes. Soon, the laughter the radiant was trying to contain got out, little giggles echoing in the room as a crooked smile made its way on his face.

It was still dull compared to his usual laugh but it was something at least. The tiny sparkles of joy that appeared in his eyes were enough for now, baby steps.

‘Wow, he’s pretty.’ Blue suddenly caught himself thinking that and blood gathered in his cheeks as he pushed the thought away. What the hell brain?

To his utmost despair, this reaction didn’t go unnoticed by literally the worst person it could have alerted, even worse than Dream himself.

Nightmare’s eyes turned turquoise as a growl escaped him.

Blue was so screwed.

[beels-burger-babe]

A Little Voice Told Me - Pt.2

Poly! MC Summary: Words hurt and leave their scars. MC learns this the hard way after hearing some not-so-nice whispers about them while on a date with Beel. How are they supposed to be the partner of the seven lords of the Devildom when they just don't measure up? Part 1: HERE, Part 3: HERE ***Good Golly!! Y'all really like the angst, huh? Here you guys go. Cry your hearts out and enjoy! - B*** Beelzebub woke up the rest of his brothers early the next morning. While most of them attempted to flip him off or threaten him at the initial disturbance, all it took was him saying that they needed to talk about you for them to shoot out of bed. In a matter of minutes, all of them, except Levi, were seated around the breakfast table. "If we're talking about MC, why aren't they here?" Satan asked while poking at a piece of fruit. "I don't know about you, but I personally don't feel right talking about them behind their back." Belphie scoffed and laid his head in his arms. "It's not like we're gossiping about them or anything. They were acting off last night, and Beel thought we should discuss what we're gonna do about it." Beel nodded, "They pulled into themself halfway through the night, and was upset but kept brushing me off whenever I tried to talk to them about it." Mammon huffed and crossed his arms. "Maybe they just didn't feel like they could talk to ya about it," he rose to his feet and began to walk towards the door. "I'm the first! I'm sure I can get it out of them, easy peasy! I'll just head in there and-" "Mammon, sit down!" Lucifer hissed. Mammon grumbled under his breath but did as told. Lucifer sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "We've talked about this. Stop bringing up the whole 'first man' thing. MC is in a relationship with all of us. Not just you." The second-born pouted and stabbed an egg with his fork.

Lucifer rolled his eyes at his brother's antics and looked back at Beel. "Something clearly happened during the date. Do you have any ideas at all at what it could've been?" Asmodeus stirred a swirly straw around in his drink. "I mean, I would be pretty upset if I spent three hours of my evening at a barbaric sporting event too," Asmo chuckled and smirked. "The only good thing about sports is that you get to see all those rippling muscles of the athletes in action." Beel scowled at his brother took a bite out of the omelet that was on his plate. "It wasn't because of the game. MC loves coming to my Fangol games and was having a blast with me until halftime. Something had to have happened while I was gone." Asmodeus opened his mouth to counter the statement when Leviathan came rushing into the room carrying his laptop. Lucifer raised an eyebrow at the sight, "What have I told you about devices at the table?" Leviathan shot him an annoyed look as he plopped down in one of the chairs. "This isn't about table etiquette. This is about MC," he looked over at Beel and Belphie. "I think I have an idea on what may have caused them to start distancing themselves." Everyone perked up in interest at the news; each one of them eager to know what was distressing their loved one so much that they felt like they couldn't talk to them. "Well are you going to tell us, or are you just going to sit there?" Satan quipped, his anger beginning to get the better of him as he sat on the edge of his seat. Levi gave him a flat look before he typed a few things on his keyboard. "I was doing a raid last night trying to keep my mind off of what might've happened with MC and decided to ask my party members about it," Leviathan's expression darkened as he began to explain. It was clear to everyone that whatever was said, wasn't taken lightly by the otaku. Rather than reading the conversation out loud, he turned his laptop screen for all his brothers to see. Leviachan: Gaaah! I just can't focus on the game tonight. My partner came back from a date tonight and has been acting kind of sus. There's definitely something bothering them, but they refuse to tell anyone. Ruri-Chans-Husbando: Dude, you're talking about that stupid human right? Why are you even with them? You shouldn't give a Normie like them the time of day. Waifu-Addict: Exactly! Listen, we've all been talking and you need to drop that whore. They're totally just using you and your brothers for your titles and power. The demons read in horror and rage as the chat room filled with messages from the members of Leviathan's party all saying similar garbage about you and degrading you in every way they could think of. Satan stood up and began to pace near the table as he used every inch of his self-control to keep himself from lashing out. "I want names, Levi. Who are they and why do they seem to think it's okay to talk about MC like- like that?!" Satan snarled as he curled his hands into fists. Levi tsked and crossed his arms, as Lucifer took the laptop to look more closely at the messages. "You say that as if I haven't already used my 'title and power' as Grand Admiral to have my men collect and imprison them. They're at the navy base waiting for us to get our hands on them as soon as we sort this whole mess out." Belphie growled, now sitting up and wide awake. "Get our hands on them is right. No one gets away with this shit," Asmodeus glared at the computer as though it had just dyed all of his clothing brown. "Rotten brats. They're all just jealous of stunning MC. Ugh, Diavolo, haters are the worst." Beel pushed his plate away from himself as he frowned deeply. "As disgusting and horrible as this is, what does it have to do with MC getting all quiet during our date?" A low rumble came from Lucifer as he handed the laptop back to Levi. A fiery hatred was burning brightly in his eyes as he gritted his teeth. "If a bunch of anti-social shut-ins are going around talking about our dearest MC like this, I believe Leviathan's point is that others probably are."

"Ouch. I wasn't going to say it l-like that, but yes," Levi winced and continued, "MC probably overheard people saying something about them. I mean, if people said that crap about me I'd probably hide in my room and not come out for months!" Mammon, who had been surprisingly quiet during all of this, had a very serious expression on his face. "Right, and we don't want MC to go through that. For Diavolo's sake, they've left alone to overthink this enough," Mammon stood up and headed towards the door again, Satan hot on his trail. "I'm going up to there to talk with them. Ya'll are welcome to come with, but you ain't stoppin' me." "Actually, Mammon, you're not. We should wait until MC comes to us," Lucifer interrupted. An animalistic snarl tore its way from Satan's throat as what little self-control he had snapped. Wrath incarnate lunged himself at Lucifer, grabbing his older brother by the collar of his cloak. "Are you serious, Lucifer?! You're seriously putting your stupid pride first, now?!? MC needs us!" Lucifer growled and pushed Satan off of him as he stood to size him up. "No. What they need is to not feel pressured to open up when they aren't ready! We can't make them feel like they can't come to us!" Mammon scoffed from where he stood in the back. "Oh, cause that's perfect logic! News flash, oh wise one, They ain't gonna come to us if they're thinkin' they're a burden! But you wouldn't know anything about that would you?!" Lucifer's eyes widen and he took a step back in shock at the statement. "What is that supposed to mean?" Mammon and Satan both opened their mouths to put Lucifer in his place when Beel all of sudden cleared his throat loudly. All three of the angry demons turned to snap at him but froze as they saw you standing in the room behind them. They instantly straightened themselves up gave you their full attention. The air seemed to lay still between you as everyone waited for the other to make the first move. As with almost every situation, it was Mammon who broke the silence. He took a step towards you. "MC, I was just coming to get you actually. There's somethin' we all wanna talk to you about." They could hear your breath catch in your throat as you took a step back. Panic filled your eyes the moment the words left his mouth. "O-Oh. I, um, I was actually just going to grab an apple and then head off to RAD for class. M-Maybe we can talk afterwards?" Satan frowned as you walked past him towards the fruit bowl. "MC, it's the weekend." You stopped mid-step. An uncomfortable tension filled the room as the obvious excuse was exposed. The brothers waited for you to move, to speak, to do something to give them any sort of sign for what you wanted them to do, but you just stood there, still like a statue except for the tremors in your hand. "Come on, Darling," Asmodeus spoke softly. His face clearly showed the hurt and concern that was coursing through him. "Everything's alright, I promise. We just need to talk about a few things." The brothers had thought of a number of ways you could've reacted to them confronting you. Lucifer thought that perhaps you would snap at them and distance yourself further. Mammon, Levi, and Asmo expected a few small tears followed by a cuddle session. Satan imagined a slightly more dramatic telling, like something from one of his novels, that ended him being your hero and massacring all those who dared speak ill about you. Beel thought perhaps you could talk over a bunch of comfort foods that allowed you to remain calm and feel safe. Belphie had hoped that perhaps you hadn't believed what you overheard, and the two of you could laugh at how idiotic even the idea of them not loving you was. But you, breaking down into tears, sobbing the words "I'm sorry" over and over again? None of them had expected, nor were prepared, for that. ***Apparently this is now going to be a three-part series. This part was interesting to write. I fully believe that if the brothers were in a poly relationship with the MC they would definitely bicker and argue about

who knows MC best and who had the better date whenever MC isn't around. Honestly, they probably have a score chart 😅 I hope you guys liked part 2! Keep an eye out for part 3, where MC finally opens up to the boys and we have some hurt/comfort times \uwu/ ***

[demon-of-the-ancient-world]

ASOIAF House Fashion Headcanons : Part 1

So idk if I'm gonna get in trouble for this bc I'm not like, super deep into ASOIAF lore as some people are and might get things wrong, and I'm not very prominent in the fandom, but I'm big obsessed with costume/clothing design so hey, I'll give this a shot.

Basically I've recently been inspired by the art and words of wonderful people such as @persephones-plantpot, @inky-duchess, and @shebsart who have talked about the cultural clothing differences between the 7 kingdoms and I...wanted to do my own? I haven't been brave enough to draw them yet (one day! I'll update when that day comes!), but I do have ~ideas~ for my personal takes on the fashion of Westeros and I'd humbly like to bring them out. Based more on the books (as much as I love the show's costuming!) as sort of an alternative take - not necessarily 100% consistent with what they say about the clothing, but I try to stick to it occasionally. I love hearing different people's ideas on the clothes so I've thrown my own little opinion into the mix.

Warning: I'm wordy. Very.

The Targaryens: So here I'm less talking about Dany and Viserys, because while I'm sure they will have retained some of their cultural heritage through clothing (especially Viserys), they're detached from their homeland and family customs, and therefore have to adapt to whatever clothes they come across in their exile. Daenerys especially I think would adapt quickly, being younger and having virtually no memory of Westeros, and be wearing pretty much only Pentosi clothing at the beginning of the series.

ANYWAY onto the old Targaryen dynasty, pre-rebellion.

In terms of historical inspiration, I actually came up with a weird combination of traditional Russian/Slavic clothing and classical Roman/Greek dress

(Also, @persephones-plantpot drew her version as Byzantine inspired and THAT stuck in my head so, now there's Byzantine touches in my headcanon too *shrugs*).

Lots of Roman-style drapery, but with big yoke/collar situations going on, metal belts, torcs, arm bands and cuffs, hair jewelry and headdresses (similar in shape to the kokoshnik), and of course tons of dragon imagery in a variety of ways.

Big shoulders. Long coats with funky split sleeves for the men and long trains on the womens' gowns, all of it in expensive fabrics like velvet, silk, satin, and intricate brocades - they were the royal house after all.

For all the houses I want to stay away from sticking ONLY to the house colours, but did use them as a base to jump off from. So the Targaryens would obviously have red and black, but instead of a bright ruby red it's a whole swath of darker, more subdued tones. Maroon, burgundy, blood red - they're an old dynasty with a lot of weight behind them, so the shades in my mind would be "older"

Grey and white would also come up, with light draped outer garments in warmer weather

Also - purple. Dany wears it several times in the books, and as it's the traditional colour of royalty I can see them wearing it.

I even wondered if - in true Medieval fashion - they were the only ones allowed to wear purple, or certain shades of it, during their reign (or perhaps only during the reign of certain rulers)

Likewise, I see amethysts being a big part of their jewelry - they can be so polished and soft looking but also raw and spiky and dangerous.

Black stones too; onyx and (possibly raw) obsidian in all it's dragony goodness, and garnets that are such a dark red they're close to black. Diamonds as well. Elaborate jewels and beadwork would be worked into the clothing in a variety of ways.

I also have a headcanon that the majority of their jewelry would be mounted on silver or white gold, but never yellow gold to distinguish them from the Lannisters.

The Starks/North

Like many others, I headcanon a Scandinavian look - somewhere between Viking and traditional Saami clothing

Warm materials of course - mostly a variety of wools, linens, and even some kind of flannel - though I want to honour that velvet and silk are both mentioned as part of the Starks' wardrobe. The northerners tend to value comfort and practicality over aesthetic but the ~fancier~ Starks + allies would wear them for sure

Colour scheme would be fairly limited, mostly grey, white, and shades of blue and brown, but I don't want to ignore the fact that Sansa wears a lot of green in the first few books as well, so I'd like to think there's green in their palette

Not much in the way of jewelry, but a lot of heavy and complex embroidery

I can also see them being masters at pleating and smocking details

What jewelry there is would mostly consist of simple necklaces, brooches, pins and cloak clasps of etched iron and bronze, though I can see amber being used for beads, carved wooden beads as well.

Viking-style tortoiseshell brooches

Possibly walrus ivory used in both jewelry and craftwork along the coasts and in the far north.

Amber is fossilized sap, right? So it wouldn't be implausible to think that ancient Weirwood sap could form a rich, blood-red amber that's considered a Northern specialty and highly valued.

High collars to stave off the wind. Lots of fur.

I feel the common folk (and the nobility to some extent) have mastered the art of visible mending - using patching and stitching on worn clothes as a form of decoration. Northern clothing is durable and made to last, but I feel like the people would also push their clothes past the wearable limit and repurpose them for other uses (i.e. an old dress being cut up into fabric for a shawl or gloves, shirts into skirts, cloaks into dresses, etc.), so you'd see a lot of that

Hats! Hats! Hats! It's cold up there you guys!

Lannister/Westerlands:

Ok here I headcanon an early Renaissance/late Medieval sort of vibe, so like late 14th-early 15th centuries but sort of fantasy-ified

Especially the classic Burgundian dress

The Lannisters are very wealthy, so I'd expect the most expensive fabrics for them and other surrounding nobility - silks, velvets, satin, and lots of damask and brocade

Fancy headdresses, slight variations on those tall pointed hats

Also long veils, not so much covering the face but artistically and elaborately draped over the hair

They're all about house pride, so I feel like their house colours would be reflected more obviously in their clothing, so mostly bright, rich reds and gold/yellow shades, though I can also see some vivid greens and warm coppery browns mixed in

Cloth of gold and even metal-infused fabrics could be a thing

ALL about jewelry. Most of it's gold, but they won't say no to silver, copper, or bronze. Heavy and intricate necklaces, bracelets, rings, earrings, or jewels just sewn right into the clothes themselves

All kinds of rubies, diamonds, sapphires, emeralds , pearls, opals, any precious stone they can get their hands on really

While they like to show off and make a statement with their clothing, I feel like they'd still have a sense of classiness about it - they're just vain enough to toe the line of gaudiness, but still snooty enough to judge those who cross it

Idk I just picture Cersei having bright red fingernails so. Nail polish.

Greyjoy/Iron Islands:

Someone made a post (that I unfortunately can't find) that described the Iron Island culture as being like a cross between Vikings and golden-age-of-piracy-era pirates, and...yeah that's pretty much my headcanon too

I'm going mostly Viking with this one but I can see some flowy shirts and long 18th century-style coats thrown into the mix

They wouldn't be that colourful though; mostly black, grey, brown, some dull greens, blues, and dark gold

Mostly wool and leather, often waxed to make it water-repellent (yes I stole that from the show's costume designer but you know what, it works That Much)

Also, I can weirdly see knitwear being popular. I know it doesn't match with their vibes, but hey, it's warm, and you can't tell me there isn't at LEAST one Iron Islands granny out there insisting her grandson wears the sweater she made for him before going out raiding so he doesn't get cold

Also also: shawls, fingerless mitts, scarves etc

Also also also, complex cable patterns are a big thing in both Irish and Scandinavian cultures, so I love the idea of them as well as having house sigils having like, family knitting patterns that they wear to identify them (or etched into a leather jerkin, that works too)

On that note - the sailor tradition of wearing a gold earring so if they die at sea their funeral can be paid for totally applies here, though I can see wealthier people wearing other ear piercings just for The Look as well

(Part of Theon's Full Hardcore Ironborn initiation in ACOK involved him getting his ear pierced and you CAN'T convince me otherwise)

I've recently seen a lot of people drawing/headcanoning the Ironborn with tattoos and I gotta say I agree

Possibly facepaint too? Like a war paint situation? Eyeliner??? Yes.

I think much of their jewelry/decoration would come from plundering, so there's stuff from a lot of other cultures

However; amber, iron, bronze, mother of pearl, and pearls (I love the idea of them using primarily black pearls) would be their home specialties

I love the idea of some of the more experienced raiders (like Euron and Victarion who have gone all over the place) wearing foreign/ Essosi coins as ornamentation on their clothes or as jewelry

Temple rings? They were more of a Slavic thing but they were a Viking thing too so *shrugs*

I think the women's clothing would have a hint of rural 18th century dress, though less structured, and they'd often cover their hair, more for practicality's sake than modesty though

Like the Starks they're practical, but I think Fancier Islanders would wear sealskin coats and wraps

THat's it for now, there'll be a part 2 soon and I feel really inspired to draw these so you might even get that at some point if I've got time. Feel free to debate or add your own ideas !

[yostresswritinggirl]

Hedonists

@kookieyachi, you little biiiitch, you know I'm damn weak when it comes to youuuu *proceeds to strangle* Here's my drabble for a spicy mfm action with Red and Green Xiao, yes, it's legit them this time.

Pairing -> Red Xiao x Reader x Green Xiao

Word Count -> 1774

Themes -> Spicy, nsfw, go away please

Series -> I'm putting this in Sojourner

Credits : Header by @geeeee_ss from Twitter

Warnings -> MINORS BEGONE

The appearance of this... crimson version of Xiao was an anomaly beyond world's comprehension.

In all honesty, you and Xiao had zero clue on how to deal with this doppelganger of him, but there was only a slight bit of suspicion and not actual hostility between both parties. Perhaps it was because Xiao himself can tell by soul and spirit that this person was truly a copy of him.

From unknown origins. And he doesn't seem to be going back, no one knows how he would even go back at this point.

So, now there are two Xiaos in this world. To avoid confusion, Red Xiao (which was an awkward way to address him, despite the ease) offered to be called Alatus. It was a name bane to Xiao, but this version of him seem perfectly fine with it.

He resembles the public gentleness your Xiao seldom shows, with a permanent soft smile on his person no matter who he meets. Human contact is also something he's not avoidant to and more times than not, you were the victim of his assaults.

Even if Alatus was different in actions and appearance, he still resembles your lover and his soul. Perhaps it was no surprise that you'd gotten to like him, and that he had fallen for you.

"Xiao," you murmured as you turned to the teal one, his eyes lingering at the form next to you before meeting yours. He heard his other's confession and you expected him to lash out, to pull you away, and yet the gentleness seeps through.

You were taken aback as he let out an amused laugh, a sliver of a smile ghosting his lips.

"I am not suprised that even myself from another universe had come to fall for you."

And that was how you'd come in between the love of two adepti, you're thankful that they get along well to the point that they even dare fight back to back when duty calls.

And that's how you find yourself in this predicament.

Upper half of the body bent almost parallel to the floor as you clutched at the wall, gloved fingers interlocked between your right ones as it pins your hand to the wall. Alatus' other arm loops around your waist, clutching it tight so that your back end would meet his crotch in every thrust.

Through hazy vision from pleasure and unshed tears, you can see your tiptoes barely reaching the ground in the height he wants you to be.

Your unending moans had caused lewd drops of drool to drip down to your chin, saliva joining the small pool on the floor with the patch of sensual juices forming below.

His girth grazing against your walls makes your toes curl, pushing you closer to the edge as his pounding becomes more erratic, his grip on you tightens together with growls.

You barely remember what your prior objective was when coming here just an hour ago. And your train of thought is interrupted again as you felt your feet lower down to the wooden floor as Alatus leans down against your back, biting at your neck as a muffled growl travels from your skin to your spine.

You almost stumble when your shaky knees was suddenly tasked to hold your weight. Quickly the Yaksha's free hand finds its way to your stomach to push you back to him, "Mmm, careful, it seems your stamina has been depleted."

His hand pushed up against your stomach had also moved your walls against his length buried inside you, making it graze a sensitive spot you didn't know existed, enough to send you coming undone suddenly.

Your whimpers matched his feral growl as he climaxes in you, spurred on by the convulsing walls from the aftermath of your own orgasm.

"Good, good, darling. You did so good."

"What's going on here?"

A gust of wind sends your half-naked self into shivers as you were pulled up straight against Alatus' chest, the cold forcing you to hug yourself and press you legs together to shield the wetness below.

Coming back from eradicating another camp near the marsh, this was not at all what Xiao was expecting to see.

He'd known about his other self's desires that day before you arrived but he didn't expect the intercourse to happen at the balcony just by the walls of the Inn.

Xiao shoots a glare to the red one, who undoes his arms around your waist to raise it in mock surrender.

This caused your still recovering body to stumble to Xiao, whose aggressive words died down as he catches you in surprise- you felt his hand grip at one of your bottom's cheeks before he quickly moved his hand to grip at your hips instead. The action caused you to groan against for how sore your bum was from the earlier assault.

"Perhaps, some quality time between us three comes sooner than I expected. It's an opportune right now as our darling craves more." Alatus comes up behind once again to give you a gentle hug, slightly leaning you back for Xiao to gaze at.

Perhaps it was the dazed, flushed face from intoxicated pleasure or the way your collar was propped loose to show a portion of your skin and collarbone. Maybe it was also the hint of your familiar scent emanating from below, but his amber pupils dilated in arousal at the thought of taking in this way.

With another man.

He's heard of similar arrangements that mortals participate in, and he cannot deny that the thought had crossed his mind once or twice ever since the three of you entered this polyamory.

His gaze shifted from the mischievous smile of his counterpart to yours, inching closer as he swipes a gloved thumb under your eye, "Is this what you truly want?" Xiao asks meekly as your eye shuts from the contact, instinctively nuzzling into his palm.

Inside him aches from the adoring sight painfullt despite himself. And you simply nod, embarrassment manifesting on your cheeks that puts you to silence.

Soft yet chapped lips found yours almost instantly as Xiao worms his arms around your waist, the forceful kiss easily turning into a passionate one as his tongue pries your lips open. Although Xiao was not fond of touches normally, he's come to be an expert when it comes to conveying his love through kisses.

His tongue with a sweet aftertaste so familiar to your own found its way below, licking the underside of your tongue that coaxed out a muffled moan out of your throat.

Another set of lips came to assault your neck this time, humming against your skin as his hands crosses over, tugging at the cloth and accessories hanging by Xiao's waist to try and pull it down.

The action caused Xiao to pull away with a grumble, pecking your lips one last time before he summoned his polearm. Willing the winds once more, he sends a gale that shuts the doors to the balcony before throwing his spear behind him, the pole accurately fitting through the wooden handles - effectively locking it.

"We don't want any interruptions," he regarded with eyes low and shaded, already pulling off his garments as Alatus works to rile and wake you up to absolute consciousness. His hands roaming over your waist and thighs sends tingles of electricity over how sensitive you still feel, his length pulsing between your cheeks as if rejuvenated by the thought of doing it with all of you.

A mess of limbs later and you found yourself situated on his lap as he sat down at while Xiao supported your weak leg by the thigh to keep them open, the other held up by Alatus. This position felt so scandalous that it had you reeling in embarrassment. Your desperate attempts to hide making both of your men chuckle and pull your face out of hiding.

A light-mannered yet sultry voice coos by your ear, "Beloved, there's no turning back now from your own decisions, enjoy it with us," ending his statement with a bite to your earlobe as he pulls at your limb to spread your hole wider.

The hand that grips your jaw forces you to meet Xiao's golden gaze, "There is no need to hide, we love every part of you. Believe in my words, got it?"

And with an affirmation from you (Xiao is really careful with consent), the first onslaught of movement came.

There was searing pain in the way you're being stretched beyond what you were used to, and both of them did the best they can in being careful, hyperaware of the pained whimpers and rolling tears the sensation produced. The wetness from before and the initial stretch did little in helping, taking a moment longer than you wanted before it became comfortable, pleasurable.

Their precise movements rocked your hips and you're soon overwhelmed by the sensations, their members pushing against each others as they continue to stretch your walls. Grazing against it as it sends your spine into delicious shivers, Xiao's more dominating thrusts pulls you farther down to Alatus', to the point that he's bottoming out behind you easily as the mixed pre-cum coats and spills past your hole.

An unoccupied hand pulls at one of your nipples, experimentally rubbing the sensitive nub between its fingers as you threw your head back, moans reverberating against the wall of the inn before it was eaten by a kiss by Xiao.

"Don't be hngh,, too loud now."

His hand finds it way over your sex, thumbing your most sensitive spot in circles and calculated rubs, pressing down as your knees bucked.

It was so overwhelming, intoxicated by lust as each touch and thrust within you sends the heat in your belly rippling. And soon enough your hole tightens eagerly around their lengths as you cry out your climax, hips snapping and back arching as you ride out your high.

And not even a split second passes as another heat builds up inside you as they both speed up their ministrations, letting the tightness squeeze the pleasure out of them as they practically grind against it.

The pool of thick, transparent juices under you three grows as more wet splotches joins it.

The heavy scent, combined moans and pantings, and the unrelenting thrusts the both of them keeps up tells you that the aching in your legs would persist more than a day.

But as you came a second time at the sensation of their hot seed spilling inside and out of you, you realized you didn't care that much.

Sike, get cock blocked, bitches hehehe

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