#plot: fools gold

[tehcherrya]

LOTR Fool's Gold AU

Okay hear me out on this one, because my natural inclination towards alternate timelines is running full speed with this one and I just needed to share it somewhere.

Ignoring all prospects of Frodo "being the only one to who could have beared the Ring"-- What if Pippin was the Ringbearer? (Hence where the AU gets it's name)

It's akin to a swap AU where instead of Frodo & Sam taking the Ring, it's Pippin, whom, not wanting to go alone, took Merry. Assuming that Sam & Frodo still came-- Frodo wanting adventure, and wanting to accommodate his cousins, and Sam tagging along if not to see the elves and out of the same sort of loyalty for Frodo.

How Pippin would actually receive the Ring is a bit of a work around-- as Bilbo still would have adopted Frodo. So either Bilbo was more generous and sociable in this AU, gifting a number of things to other relatives other than Frodo, OR more fittingly, if Bilbo had lost the Ring by some riverbank, unable to find it again, and long after Bilbo's retirement to Rivendell, Pippin unknowingly finds it, takes a liking to it, though with no strong desire to use it's power, but is only told later by Gandalf that it needs to be destroyed. And much to Gandalf's chagrin-- it has to be Pippin.

Anyway, there's so much narrative potential! Especially when you think about the parallels between this and Sméagol's timeline-- where Sméagol killed his cousin for the Ring at the riverbank, and now a similar duo is working to destroy it together.

It's also narratively relevant for a Took to go on a journey such as this, seeing as Bilbo was also half-Took! I originally debated the possibility of Merry as a Ringbearer, and while that is another interesting thing to think about, I grew attached to this version because of this reason. (That and I feel as if Merry would be a better bodyguard than Pippin would be tbh, he'd try to keep Pippin out of trouble)

It would be heartbreaking to see Pippin's spirit slowly crushed by the end of the story, but that's sort of the point. The Ring could break the spirits of even ones most spirited. I imagine there would be a small arch in the beginning (probably the time of the Fellowship) where Merry has to remind Pippin constantly of the seriousness of his own mission, and that this is no time to be reckless. Scolding him sometimes in an almost big brotherly way. But by the time they are at Mount Doom, Merry's heart breaks. As he would have done anything if not to see Pippin smile again.

Merry and Pippin going on the journey together is a different path, for sure, but is powerful in a different way, considering how close they've been since they were boys.

If you also wanted to go a little deeper into it and discuss the possibilities of Frodo and Sam being the ones to meet Treebeard, and become Knights of Gondor and Esquires of Rohan respectively, be my guest. I personally have the awesome image in my mind of Sam riding in with Eowyn to kill the Witch King to be honest!

But yes, anyways, I will more than likely do more with this, but I just wanted to put this out here because I have been thinking about this A LOT

[semi-entropy]

out fit......

[chubbydino]

Hi Cazio!

I recently came across this clip of Max going to Lewis after SG quali to chat with a proper smile on his face. And that's one of the many instances of them having a decent enough relationship now, a lot of times going even beyond just the cordial (that press conference for example where Lewis was laying on the couch and Max jokingly called him old).

Got me wondering if FG Max and Lewis also have a better, improved relationship given that now Max would have only Lewis and Nando who reallyyyy know what it's like and maybe bond over it or maybe for some other reason over something that happened in their universe?

(to be clear I'm talking about this in the context of FG here lol)

It's an interesting one. In my mind, Lewis never wished any ill will on Max as a person, but Max definitely wished it for him. Max won't apologize for it either, and Lewis knows it. But Lewis also knows he "won" in the sense that now Max understands that he was fighting to protect him, in a way (though he certainly wasn't fighting for Max personally).

I think they reached an understanding, and probably had an epic moment or two when the FIA turned on Max, who was their golden child in 2021. Max was force-fed humble pie, and is now drowning in it as he tries to maintain control of the championship in 2024.

I don't think Max will ever fight as hard for a championship again, especially since RB just dealt the ultimate blow in ripping Daniel away from him after he probably used every ounce of leverage to get him back. Max is probably not in a very good place rn in FG, but he's showing it differently.

Lewis and Max are on better terms... or is Lewis just waiting for the chance to return the favor for 2021?

Or maybe he just did.

[fizzyghosts]

Anyone could be on the receiving end of *gestures vaguely at Briar*, its not exclusive to Everett, bc Briar is someone who's entire motivation is life is to hang out with his friends. He doesn't care about school or work or family. He has no interest in moving his way up in the world. If left to his own devices then he just goes through life doing what's expected of him with no real interest in the world. With his friends, he makes whatever they want into his goals in life bc if they're happy then he can hang out with them more and also it gives him something to do.

His interest in Everett stemmed from Ev being so different from the people he had met before. Up until college Briar's life was decided by his parents and peers. He got perfect grades because it was expected of him. He had a nice girlfriend because it was expected of him. He was a good boyfriend because it was expected of him. He had the friends that were expected of him. He was popular because people thought he should be. He wore the clothes his parents bought him, listened to their music, and did what they wanted. He didnt enjoy it, but he want unhappy about it either. It was just bored acceptance. Everett though, is odd and seems to revel in that fact. He loves horror and talks too much too loud to anyone who listens. He sings in a god awful punk garage band and wears makeup to class and laughs off being called names and he's terrible at lying. He's friendly and extroverted but nervous and awful at interacting with people. Briar is drawn to him like a moth to a flame.

[non-un-topo]

The plot for this fic is getting WAY out of hand but we keep chugging along

[ij16]

Aeneas honestly needs a raise

(Almost) Every time Aeneas shouts for Paris to get down from the mast in What Could Go Wrong: A Compilation (with bonus Paris falling off the ship and screaming at the end because why wouldn't I also include that it's hilarious)

[xervn]

melatonin | 2

two-shot | enemies to fuckers sevika x reader

pt. 1

ao3 link

summary: the aftermath.

18+ MDNI | 3.5k words | tags; canon divergence, sevika is a little mean, reader is a brat, angst?, very light sub/dom, vaginal fingering, semi-public sex, porn w/ plot-ish, no use of y/n

i rewrote this so many times, but here we are... mama i made it..

It’s not what you were expecting. It’s not how you saw things moving forward—not at all. 

Anyone would agree that you two shared a passionate night. Sevika fucked the insomnia out of you. 

So how’d she manage to make you hate her more?

When you woke up, Sevika was on her side of the room, adjusting her deep red poncho. She noticed you were awake and went straight to barking orders at you and proceeded with her thousandth attempt to get you to follow her schedule, which never worked.

It was as if last night didn't happen, and it was all a lucid, raunchy dream with deep moans you could still replay in your head. However, you woke up missing more clothes than you remembered taking off, so you knew that wasn't the case.

You decided to pass her crankiness off as stress, since it was a big day and all, but she only seemed crankier after the meeting. 

Don’t be fooled; you aced it. Your negotiating skills have always been top tier, and you’re incredibly personable, especially with good sleep on your side. You were so buddy-buddy with the Bilgewater traders, they invited you to their pub that night for drinks and karaoke. Exactly your style, a fun offer, but you declined. Declined because you were positive Sevika was going to give you congratulatory sex. Wrong. She gave you nothing but pure silence. 

You can hear hints of humor or sarcasm weaved into words, but you can’t hear any of that in silence. Was she mad at you? Jealous of you? Annoyed by you? 

It reminded you of when you first met Sevika, a time when you tried super hard to impress her, but everything you did ticked her off. You were so good at making friends with clients; total strangers, but not Sevika, even after months of trying. It hurt especially more since you had a massive crush—one everyone but her knew about; Ran still teases you about it from time to time. 

When you think back on it, you’re embarrassed. It shouldn’t have taken you a year to finally get on her case about it, but when you did, there was less judgmental silence and more words. Not the nicest words, but at least it created a semblance of balance—honesty that wasn’t outweighed by one-sided affection. But after that meeting, it was like it all reverted to square one. Silence and one-sided affection. 

That triggered you. 

So, what was it that you were expecting? Marriage? A gold medal? 

No, it was something much simpler. Kindness. The smallest amount of chivalry would’ve made you swoon, but she didn’t give you any. She continued to be the dickhead you were used to, and what did you do? 

You continued to be the dickhead she was used to, obviously. Amplified it even. There’s no such thing as being the bigger person in your dictionary. Not for this. If there’s anything you were bigger at, it was being a bigger cunt. If she was going low, you were going lower—and you stuck to it.

-

Days after the trip, you still haven’t talked to Sevika out of solidarity with yourself. Nothing but surface-level words have been exchanged between you two since that day. No witty remarks, no unnecessary teasing, no fruitless arguments. 

To be fair, there’s nothing you want to talk about. You’re too upset and ashamed. At the time, you couldn’t even discard the little dignity you had left to ask her to “help” you one last time because she factory reset you, and you slept like a baby all night. 

That is until now. Sevika’s magic has worn off, and you’re falling back into your regular routine of staying up late and getting wasted so you don’t have to watch the sunrise for a third time in a row. It wouldn’t be such a bother if you weren’t thinking about her every single night. 

Or during the day when someone says her name and the hairs on your arms stick up. Or when she’s a glance away and your body starts to think you're in a sauna. 

It was undeniable; you still have a crush. As obnoxious as the day it blossomed. You hate it. You should be hating her now more than ever, but your heart is fucking you over, and you’re sleep-deprived and pent up on top of it.

You’ve found yourself fantasizing about and craving a woman that has most likely moved on. It’s pathetic, and it shows you have no backbone, meaning it’s only a matter of time before you do something you will regret forever. 

You couldn’t back down, not after your dramatic promise to yourself that you weren’t going to let her play you again. 

Thankfully, fate graced you with an opportunity to redeem yourself. Silco put you on another short trip back to the port city, and he assigned Sevika to accompany you—expecting her to, since he didn’t bother to call her to his office because of how often you work together.

That meant the ball was in your court, so you did something neither you nor Sevika had ever had the guts to do.

You protested. 

Well, you lied. You told him that Sevika didn’t want to work with you anymore and that it’d be better for you to go with someone else. It’s probably not far from the truth anyway, but honestly, you thought he’d give you a speech about life or ask you to tell her to get over it. Maybe even a ‘fuck off,’ but instead he said, “Very well,” and shooed you out of his office. 

So now you’re at a loss because you didn’t think that far ahead. You didn’t really give it much thought at all and figured, realistically, both of you should be happy in the end. You knew it meant you’d see Sevika less, but you managed to convince yourself you were fine with it; that it was for the best.

“It’s probably the best decision I’ve ever made,” you tell Ran, who’s fiddling with the straw in their drink as they listen to you talk. Laughter, drinks clinking, and jukebox music makes for good background noise. “I’m just shocked, y’know? If I knew he’d accept it so quickly, I would’ve asked earlier.” You laugh half-heartedly. 

Ran twirls around the straw in their cup. “Didn’t I tell you it was that easy?”

You freeze. “Yes, but…”

“You still wanted to work with her.” They grin, going in for a sip.

“No! I genuinely thought he’d be against it.." You grumble.

“Right, right… Well, it’s good news then. You should be happy. Maybe we’ll be assigned together.”

Your eyes light up at the possibility. “That’d be great! There’s this pub I wanted to go to, but…“ You trail off when the bar goes incredibly quiet. There are a few whispers here and there, some more frantic than the others.

Loud, heavy footsteps pound against the wooden flooring, and you notice the pace picking up as the sound travels closer to you. 

You’re not allowing yourself to get ambushed at a time like this, so you turn, and, great heavens, there’s Sevika. 

Your chest, down to your stomach, twists uncomfortably. You’re surprised to see her, and she looks irritated to see you. Her face is plain, but there’s still a prominent frown on her lips.. 

“You.” 

You look around, pretending you’re not sure who she targeted that towards. By now, the bar has resumed its chatter, but Ran has moved three seats down. They give you a little finger wave before turning to the bartender. 

You slowly look up at Sevika, pointing to yourself, “Me?” You question jokingly.

“Get up; let’s go.” She gestures for you to start moving.

You laugh sarcastically, turning away from her on your stool. “Fuck off.” 

A large hand lands on your bicep and pulls. You stagger backwards and onto your feet before you fall over. “What the f—? Let go of me!” 

Sevika says nothing and makes her way to the back of the building, forcing you to walk haphazardly through chairs and tables. Your face warms and contorts in embarrassment, given you’re being dragged to who knows where like you’re a misbehaving toddler. 

You begrudgingly follow along, not that you had much of a choice, and she stops in front of a supply closet. 

“Open it.” She commands monotonously.

You don’t know why, but you do it; you open it. You don’t even question it, and you deserve it when she shoves you in there. 

Her mechanical arm whirs as you stumble in, and it makes a short appearance to slam the door behind herself. Then everything turns blurry in a flash, and your back is suddenly hitting the door. 

“What did you do?” She asks through her teeth.

You try to yank your arm free, but she doesn’t budge. “What did I do? Why are you so angry? Can you fucking let me go?!”

“What did you tell Silco?”

Your heart drops, and your expression must’ve shown it because Sevika groans. You interject, “I told him what you couldn’t.”

“And what is that?”

“You don’t want to work with me.”

Sevika looks at the ceiling for strength, shutting her eyes. She takes a deep breath in. “When did I ever say that?” 

“You don’t have to; I can read it off you.” 

Sevika’s eyes suddenly meet yours, and you flinch. “Yeah? What are you reading now?”

You frantically search, and you stutter, “You’re—you’re pissed?”

“Yes, I’m fucking pissed, Einstein. Did I ask you to make decisions for me?” 

God, you have no idea why she’s so mad about it. Your breathing is picking up, and you don’t know if it’s because of conflict or the fact she hasn’t been this close to you in what feels like ages. “No, but you can stop acting like you’ve never wanted to.” 

“Why do you care? If I wanted to, I would.” She states.

“Sure. You must’ve loved working with Jinx then, huh?”

Sevika looks away to sigh loudly. “That’s not the same thing.” 

“Isn’t it? You don’t like me either—“

“What is your problem? Why don’t you just admit that it’s you who doesn’t want to work with me? It’s you who doesn’t like me.” She spits. Her jaw clenches as she calms down. “I’m ‘difficult’ now because of you. I’d like one day—one week—without Silco complaining when I’m doing my best.” She sighs.

Your mind goes blank. “I’m—I didn’t know he’d say that… He seemed okay with it, and I didn’t know you’d be upset.” You utter, completely guilt-ridden.

“I swear—you only think about yourself. Fuck everyone else living, right?”

“What? No, I didn’t…”

“Didn’t think? Do you think?” She exasperates.

It works, and you huff. “I thought you would be jumping for joy. Why aren’t you fucking ecstatic?” You ask angrily.

“Nothing about this is good for me. Or you. Unless you think Dustin can protect you.” She scoffs.

“Dustin? Well… well…” You didn’t think about that. 

You abandon the sentence. “You can be mad, but not this mad. I should be this mad. We did things together. Things you don’t try to forget about, and that’s what you—looked like you did.” You say, correcting yourself because you’ve learned your lesson from assuming things. 

Sevika looks heavily perplexed. “You’re the one who stopped talking to me.”

“No, actually, you are. Not to mention your first words to me the morning after we fucked were, ‘You have twenty minutes.’”

“You had twenty minutes. Did you want a ‘good morning, baby’ first?” She scoffs, shaking her head.

Your stomach does a somersault. “I don’t know.” 

Sevika pauses, making what feels like judgy eye contact with you. “You don’t know?”

“I don’t know, but I do know that you acted like nothing happened and went straight to being bossy.”

“Huh. I thought you liked that.” She replies, and there’s something in the way she said it that makes your legs falter.

“When did I ever—“ The air changed, you notice. “When did I ever like that…?” 

Sevika studies your face for a few seconds. The silence is unnerving. It’s like time slowed, because you have no idea when she’ll speak or what she’ll say. “Somewhere between you moaning my name and cumming on my fingers.” She bluntly states.

You choke on your spit, coughing. There were a million different ways that could’ve gone. Most of them sounded like that, but it still caught you off guard.

“What? You said I forgot about it. I’m trying to jog up my memory,” she teases.

You frown, but it comes off as endearing, so much so it makes Sevika awe. “Don’t you want me to remember? I’m remembering.”

“That’s not what I meant. I meant you acted no different from the day before, and you never, y’know, came to me again after that either.” 

Then regret starts rushing in. You used to curse your friends out when they got back with their shitty situationships. You know what it feels like now. You can’t believe you alluded to sex, let alone wanting it at a time like this, but she did it first, to be fair.

You two stare at each other for several beats. 

“Came to you?” A smile begins to form on Sevika’s lips.

You shake your head, as unconcerned as you can make it. “Shut up. Forget I said anything.“

Her head tilts slightly. She looks you up and down. “I don’t think I will.” 

You exhale loudly, "I'm so serious."

"No, really, tell me what you meant by that. "

"You know exactly what I meant."

She perks an eyebrow at you, and you roll your eyes in response. She huffs out a laugh.

Sevika swivels you around so you’re facing the door, so fast you have to catch yourself with both hands so you don’t face-plant into it. "What are you—!"

Her flesh hand slides across your waist, and then she suddenly jerks you towards her, making you bend over just enough for you to poke out.

In contrast to how she was manhandling you before, she slowly presses herself against your ass but makes sure to hold her place firmly, like she was planning on leaving a print there, rolling her hips into you as if she doesn’t wanna miss a spot. 

Leaning over you, she whispers, “This is what you wanted, right?” So close to your ear, you can feel her words brushing against it. Your whole body shudders, and all your sexual frustration starts to unravel.

You peer back at her with a glare that’s too clouded with lust to be intimidating. “You’re so full of yourself.” 

“You love it,” She replies, so surely, because you haven’t noticed how desperately you’ve been backing into her, chasing the sliver of friction she gave you a moment ago. She drifts her hand towards your front, and between the legs you immediately begin parting for her. "But I could stop..."

"Don't." You interrupt. You don't have to see her to know she's got on an egotistical grin.

Four fingers feel down your covered cunt, then back up, lingering at your clit with purpose. Your thighs threaten to close around Sevika’s hand, and you pathetically whine out her name. 

She hums questioningly, knowing she wasn’t getting an answer from you. She finds the waistband of your pants, shoving her hand underneath, panties and all. The warm heat and slickness of your wetness meet her palm. “You really love it.”

You inhale sharply, placing your forehead against the door. “ I hate you...”

She laughs darkly, and her fingers part meticulously over your folds, massaging your clit between her fingers. “Is that what we’re doing? I 'hate' you too,” she says, “I’ll show you.”

You moan at that, and Sevika harmonizes. You don’t feel an ounce of shame. All your self-respect left when you opened the door. “Please.” 

Sevika's finger presses against your entrance teasingly. It doesn’t take much longer before she slides two fingers in you; her middle and ring, and scissors them in you so you adjust to the size of them properly. You groan, muffling yourself into the back of your hand. The heel of her palm is so close, yet so far from your clit, and you still need it there. 

It was as if she read your mind. Sevika brings her hand closer, and her fingers curl in you as a result. They slowly straighten out, then curl again, straighten out, curl in, and now she’s restlessly fucking her fingers into you while you needily hump into the palm of her big, scarred hand. All that movement makes it messy, but messy feels so good. 

So much heavy breathing and pitchy whines. You’re trying your hardest not to make noise, but all your best attempts are strained and guttural. It drives Sevika insane. They’re better than she remembered. “Stop trying. Let them hear how much you hate me.” She murmurs against you.

You lightly shake your head, refusing to do something so mortifying yet so fucking hot—in theory. Until cold metal fingers appear under your jaw. “C’mon, baby, please?” She coos.

There’s the first crack in your metaphorical dam. Your legs start wobbling. “Fuck—I h—hate you.” You pant out, not entirely because she asked you to; you were a little upset with how well she threw that pet name in there. 

It makes her chuckle. “You said I never ’came to you,’ but I’ll tell you a little secret,” she says, breath staggering from her constant movement, “I came to the thought of your fucked-out face last night,” she confesses. You sob out her name, and she soothes it with a full kiss on your cheek; so unexpected, you can feel your heart lurch forward. “And the day before, and the day before that, and—you get it, yeah? I couldn’t forget you if I tried.”  

You’re getting closer; pussy tensing, and your heart is racing. So much to process in such little time. “… I missed you.” You breathlessly whisper. You missed her tangents, her nagging, and the dumb fucking arguments. You missed her; it was true, and you admitted it to her before you admitted it to yourself.

“Did you?” She asks softly. You can tell she’s really wondering. Her fingers still haven’t slowed down a bit, however.

“Mhmm—shit—wait.” You’re on the brink of undoing, and you don’t know if you can speak any further.

Sevika presses herself closer to you. “Tell me one more time.” She gruffly demands, like it was a need. It may as well be.

Your anticipated orgasm fills up to the brim; your eyes press shut. “I m—I missed you so,” you come; your moans are barely controllable, and your hips are stuttering against her hand, “s—ugh—much, Sev...”

Sevika’s mech hand turns your face towards her, and your heavy eyes momentarily widen when her lips meet yours in a fervent kiss. She removes her fingers from you, and when you cry at the loss, she slides her tongue across yours—that shuts you up real quick. She leaves her hand there, just so you can grind out your orgasm a little longer. 

Sevika stopped letting her brain control her; she wasn't going to let it get in the way of this. She's been dreaming about kissing you since she realized it was an option.

You didn’t know how badly you needed to kiss her. You weren’t sure you’d ever, but with how perfectly her lips feel on yours, this can’t be the last time. You really hope it’s not the last time.

But you pull away. “What is this...?” You ask shakily, trying to catch your breath.

Sevika’s eyes keep flickering to your kiss swollen lips, clearly drunk on them; she doesn’t understand what you’re saying yet. “What’s what?”

“This. What are we doing? Is it just—just sex like you said it was?”

Sevika zones back in, and there’s a lump in her throat. She can’t say she never said that, because she did. She swallows hard, retracting her hand from between your thighs, and gently turns you around so you’re facing her. 

She says your name, “It has never been ‘just sex.’ It would never be that with you.”

You try to assess the validity of that, staring at her doubtingly. “You ignored me the entire day after.” You mention.

Sevika’s face warms up, and she looks to the side. “I got jealous.”

Your brows furrow. “Of what?”

“You were so friendly with those Bilgewater folks, and it pissed me off,” she grumbles. “Then I got frustrated with myself, because I’m the reason you hate me. At the time, it made sense to go back to how it was before,” she exhales sadly, “I’m sorry.”

You awkwardly play with your hands. Sevika frowns, hoping you say something soon. “The reason why I stopped talking to you wasn’t because I hate you; I thought you did, so I... I don't know what to say other than I’m incredibly petty and childish. I’m sorry—and I shouldn’t have said anything to Silco either.” 

“I wouldn’t let you go without me anyways.” She looks so serious when she says that, but you can’t help but giggle. It’s going to take a while for you guys to get through all your apologies properly, but this is a good start.

“I do prefer you, so...” You add, smiling up at her coyly.

She has a grin—the big win kind—and you gravitate towards her for a kiss, wrapping your arms around her shoulders. It’s much gentler and warmer than the first time. You’re sure there’ll be more where that came from. 

—

“Ran, hey.” You take a seat by them, wanting to wrap things up before you go. Quickly too, since Sevika is waiting.

“Hey,” they reply, eyeing you oddly, “I went to check on you earlier; make sure Sevika wasn’t dismembering you or something, but it sounded super scary in there, like you really hated her, so I ran away…” They pretend to cower in fear before sputtering out a laugh.

“Alright then. Goodnight.” You silently get up and start walking out. Ran’s laughter doubles.

[thekinslayed]

Finally A Targaryen

summary | The nature of your marriage with Aemond is shaken when you are caught kissing the gardener.

pairing | modern!aemond targaryen x wife!reader

tags | 18+, MINORS DNI!, unprotected sex, exhibitionism, voyeurism, semi-arranged marriage, neglected wife, infidelity (it's one kiss lol), reader's into sweaty guys ?, jealousy, possessive aem, mention of drug use

wordcount | 3.5k

note | whoever can guess which satc episode this is based on gets a cookie and a kiss on the forehead... <3

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

The cicadas buzzed in the late midsummer haze, holding your hand as you wandered the gardens of Dragonstone Manor all alone. Your husband was on the tennis court with his brothers, as he always was most afternoons you’ve spent in his family home. Not that he cared much for what you busied yourself with, but you were sure to face the disapproving sharpness in his eye when he found out you were once again missing from the aperitif his mother was having on the veranda with the other ladies. Alicent was sweet, but gods, you couldn’t stand sitting through another bout of her re-telling of Targaryen history despite being married into the dragon’s den herself. You have heard more than enough of dragon lore, medieval inbreeding, and the many Aegons, including the current one who snuck bumps of snow before each family meal to keep his sanity. If you were any less careful, you would’ve given in to his invitation long ago and huddled next to him in the powder room sink for a line.

These people were rich, that was to be sure, of insurmountable wealth well before democracy had even been established. Your family, on the other hand, was new money. Your father had struck gold when he made his way up the corporate ladder of his real estate firm during his tenure, making himself the top dog with a key to a 12th-floor office and another to the secret world of the rich.

It was how you met Aemond. 

Walking through the step stones across the manicured gardens, you couldn’t help but sigh at the memory of your life before him. He had been so sweet at first, lovely enough that you couldn’t deny the inevitable push of fate into his arms. What a fool you had been, too starry-eyed over that unmistakable silver hair and the smooth timbre of his voice to realize it was not fate at all but the expert machinations of Otto Hightower and his desire to add your father’s firm to Valyria Corp.’s extensive belt of partners. Your friends warned you a million times— the perfect man didn’t exist. Your heart used to beat a little faster with every man who held the slightest potential of being the one, thinking him perfect until he wasn’t. Now your husband, he was just… there. Courteous enough to see you well taken care of but out of your reach when it really mattered. 

Love was a fallacy in this world. Who needs love when you can have so much more with enough power and money? Loyalty was an even bigger farce. Marriage simply served as a means for business, you’ve seen it now. It was no wonder that Helaena seemed more than happy to be without her husband, Cregan, on this summer getaway. Wolves don’t do well in the southern sun, she simply said when you asked about him, apparently stuck to his father’s firm in his hometown of Winterfell. Aegon and his wife, Mirella Lannister, were no image of a devoted marriage either, both were consistently caught with other big names by the press. They seemed to get along well, however, if the loud thumping from down the hall nightly was anything to go by.

Heavily occupied in your thoughts, you reached the edge of the multi-acre plot without realizing it. The estate overlooked a quiet river on the back end, though surrounded by an impressive topiary for privacy, with rose bushes littered all around. There was always something to work on in Dragonstone, always a leaf out of shape for the gardeners to trim and keep them busy. 

One of them took care of the roses. Young, strawberry-blond curls, and a well-built physique that glimmered with sweat under the blistering sun. Danny, you heard them call him. He was pretty, not in the sleek, highly tailored way that Aemond was, but his rugged edges held a charm that made any simple girl blush. You’d seen him throughout your stay, always so diligent at work in the gardens every time you spotted him on your walks. He would greet you with a respectful, dimpled smile as he asked about your day, and it would take effort to keep your composure as he wiped the sweat off his brow with the edge of his shirt.

There was no harm in it. You were simply… admiring. Just because you were now a married woman didn’t mean you couldn’t appreciate a fine-looking man when you saw him, it was objective. His arms were nicely rounded with definition, as was his back, muscles ripping beneath his damp tank. You wondered what else those hands could do, perhaps he could plow something else, something left neglected and wanting…

“Afternoon, ma’am.”

You jumped at the sudden low tone, finding yourself unknowingly staring like an idiot. Danny leaned his weight on his shovel, a crooked smile on his sweaty face that made something flutter deep within you.

“Hi,” you greeted awkwardly, cheeks warming up like a sudden heat wave had blazed the area. 

“All on your own again, ma’am?” he queried, naturally resuming his work while giving you his attention. You tried to play it cool by leaning on the tree right by him, though fidgeting with the sparkling stone on your ring finger. Shit, he wasn’t catching onto you, is he? What an embarrassment that would be, the boss’ new wife sneaking around for the gardener’s attention.

“Yes, just needed some air,” you responded as casually as you could, and Danny nodded in understanding. 

“That house can get stuffy, doesn’t it? As big as it is, nobody ever wants to stay there for long,” he said, slightly panting as he worked on the soil. Closer than you had been, you could smell him from where you stood. He had such an intoxicating scent about him, a mixture of sweat, musk, and something else you couldn’t put your finger on. It made you dizzy with a newfound heat. You wanted more of it. You wanted a taste of the salty tang of his sweat on your tongue against his hot skin.

What were you doing? You’re married! Okay, perhaps your sex life had become a little pedantic compared to when you were still on the market, but you had made a vow!

“I’m still getting to know my way around it, I’ll admit,” you chuckled. Danny’s smile widened at the sound, grabbing his shears to snip off a blooming rose and offering you a stem. “Oh! How pretty,” you smiled up at him, pressing the soft petals to your nose to inhale the sweet scent. 

“Forgive me, madam, for being too forward, but this doesn’t seem like your type of crowd,” he said, taking a bold step closer. Your brows slightly dipped in confusion, head tilting in question.

“What makes you say that?” you asked.

“You’re not like the rest of them rich folks. To anyone else, I’d be invisible.”

You looked up at Danny, words lost on your lips. You weren’t so different from him, both outsiders in the impenetrable world of the elite. The transition had not been so easy, not with a husband who felt like a stranger and a family who barely tolerated each other. It all overwhelmed you, and to be seen by a man like Danny…

You didn’t know what had gotten into you, but the next thing you knew, you were grabbing the collar of his shirt and smashing your lips against his from the overwhelming blossom in your tummy. He tasted salty and sweet, of hard work and grit. You were hungry, as was he, tongues dancing and gliding as he pressed you against the aged oak. 

Dinner was long, and cocktail hour even longer. Aegon and Aemond were bickering about who won the last round of tennis despite the youngest Daeron keeping score. You were nursing a pinot grigio as the conversation shifted to circle around the events of everyone else’s afternoon— Helaena and her new cradle of newly hatched creepy crawlies, Alicent’s ever-growing ire with the new neighbors and the scandal they brought with them. The lady of the house seemed to know everything, from the happenings in the staff room to whatever lay beyond the vines crawling to the next house over. What went around this place came back around the sitting room. The dry sweetness of the wine coated your tongue with every sip as you listened on quietly, mind still stuck in the gardens, under the grand oak with a certain warm blonde. Your lips still carried the salt of his sweat despite the rich lamb you had for supper. It was sinful, a taste of another man on your tongue while your husband sat on the opposite end of the couch.

“I’ve had quite the day myself,” Mirella spoke up, sharp blue eyes sweeping across the room. “I took a nice long swim in the morning, then I took a walk in the gardens in the afternoon—”

“Went hunting for your next feed?” Aemond snickered, earning a sarcastic smile from the lioness.

“Mh, yes, and after that I saw your lovely little wife kissing the gardener!” 

The heat rushed to your face at once, eyes widening as Mirella’s jaw dropped in mock surprise. You ducked your head in utter humiliation, awaiting the flurry of gasps of disbelief coming your way. It was silent, which seemed to be worse. The only sound was the chiming of the grand clock at the turn of the hour, broken by the sudden shrill of Aegon’s cackle.

You looked up at your in-law’s faces, finding little shock in their features but rather amusement, especially so from your husband’s mother. Though you didn’t dare to look in your husband’s direction, who suddenly turned rigid at the news. 

“Well, my dear, you are now finally a Targaryen,” she quipped, surprisingly nonchalant as she lifted her glass to be topped up. Your eyes flickered to Criston Cole, her closest personnel, who poured her wine in a flash, and everything started to click.

It was bizarre. Publicly outed in front of your in-laws yet met with no repercussions. In fact, it seemed you were now more welcome after such news. It should please you, make you feel closer to your new family, but Aemond was now colder than ever. When he was once mindful of getting you drinks at cocktail hour or making sure you were pleased with the garden access you had from the room you were staying in, he now actively avoided being alone with you. He indulged his brother in staying well past the appropriate hour and drank, sneaking back to your shared room only when you were asleep. It made things harder when neither one of you wanted to move into one of the spare rooms lest they wished to face his mother’s incessant prodding, the tail end of your summer turned into a sudden dance around not having to face each other. 

This was your life now, perhaps. An irreparable marriage. A distant husband. So much for the fairytale romance you prayed the gods for. 

With avoiding your husband came a shift in the daily routine you had established in Dragonstone Manor. You would usually be awake the moment you felt Aemond shift around to start the morning, the light sleeper that you were, but now you’ve taken to feign sleep until he left the room. Your arrival to breakfast would come a few minutes later than his, all nicely covered up with a smile towards the lady of the house.

On a particularly balmy morning, you took a nice jog around the property, narrowly avoiding your spouse, who was on his way to the steam room. You worked up a decent sweat, swiftly jumping into the shower right before breakfast. You took your time, thinking yourself wise, if you managed to avoid facing the family altogether. It was tiresome to keep up the persona you held in front of them. In some ways, you were glad you were getting more time to yourself with Aemond’s avoidance, a brief reprieve to drop your mask and loosen the tension in your shoulders.

Your little bubble of isolation burst when you found the man himself in the room when you exited the shower. You let out a small gasp in surprise, tightening your hold on the towel wrapped around your form when he turned to face you. It seemed your husband had been caught guard as well, the unmasked look of surprise on his handsome face at the sight of your undress. He composed himself in a blink, clearing his throat before turning to leave the room and shower in the other guest room instead.

“Are we never to speak anymore?” you spoke up, unable to stop the words from escaping your lips. Aemond stopped in his step, one hand on the doorknob and the other clutching the towel swung over his bare shoulder. 

“Is that how you want it?” he responded. You scoffed at his indifference, ire starting to grow restless in the state of your marriage. 

“Of course not,” you refuted. “But we have been living separate lives despite the fact you and I are married. I know you’re mad at me, husband.” 

Aemond was silent for a long minute, and it made your heart thump loudly you feared he would hear it. He turned to face you, his gaze dark and sharp like a dragon provoked. 

“You think it amuses me to hear my wife was kissing the fucking gardener, hm? In my own home, no less,” he said, his words slow and deep like a slithering snake. It should have you more scared than you were if it weren’t for the fiery frustration that made you bare your teeth back.

“I didn’t expect you to be bothered so much, seeing that seems to be the way all marriages work in this world,” you muttered, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. 

“What did you say?” he snapped.

“You don’t care about me, Aemond. There’s no need to start pretending now,” you said, keeping your chin lifted high as your husband approached with a menacing glint in his eye.

“You carry my name. I would not have my wife acting like some harlot,” he seethed, pointing an accusing finger in your face. If you had the courage, you would have slapped his hand away and perhaps another across his cheek for thinking so low of you. He had quite the gull to blame it all on you, not when he had kept his own wife an outsider.  

“Titles alone don't mean much. Haven’t we already established that?” you pointed out, turning to head to the closet when your husband grabbed you by the elbow to pull you back around. 

“Perhaps I should make my point clearer.” You were barely spared a moment to retort when Aemond’s lips smashed straight into yours, claiming in a bruising kiss. He tasted different than Danny, an addicting mix of tobacco and mint that kept you wanting more. His strong hands pulled you flush to his chest, the towel slowly slipping off from your bare body. You grounded yourself by gripping his shoulders, warm and damp from the steam room. 

He was all over you before you could gather your bearings. All the times you both had spent in the bedroom were respectful, mild even, but never like this. He had flung the towel off your body in one swipe, leaving you bare in front of him. You crossed your arms to cover yourself, but his firm grip kept you uncovered.

“Don’t be so shy now, it’s just me,” he smirked before dipping to capture your pert nipple into his mouth. Your sounds were shy, though growing in courage as your husband sucked on your tit and fondled the other. His large, warm palms explored every inch of your bareness, squeezing with a firmness that left your skin tingling. When he switched his attention to your other breast, his fingers slithered their way to your heart, trespassing your folds despite your attempt to squeeze them shut. “For a woman who hates being my wife, you sure are wet for me.”

You had to blame it on the prolonged lack of satisfaction, but the way he was caressing your folds and circling your clit was breaking your resolve with ease. You grabbed his nape to pull him back to your lips, kissing him with a plea for more. Desperation growing, your hand descended his chest to his shorts, palming his growing hardness.

“Please,” you mewled, slightly pouting up at your husband.

“Please, what, love? Tell me nicely, and I might give it to you,” he teased, shallowly dipping two fingers into your cunt before swiping them back out.

“I need you, husband, please,” you pleaded, eyes starting to well up in frustration. You peppered persuading kisses all over his jaw and neck when he let your hand slip past his shorts to grab hold of his cock, hot and stiff in your smaller palm. 

“Poor you,” he frowned in mocking before his lips returned to their natural state of a smirk as his fingers continued to work your dripping cunt up. Hope bloomed in your chest as he turned you around to face the bed frame, pressing on the small of your back to bend you over.

You braced your arms on the soft mattress as you waited, tuning into the rustling of his shorts being dropped. The anticipation burned in your chest, making you gasp when you felt something hot and blunt press against your folds. It swiped up and down your slit, gathering slick and teasing your pearl. It made you whine, hips wriggling back in impatience.

Behind you, your husband chuckled darkly. His warm palm ran down the length of your spine, squeezing your waist, before leaving a hard smack on your arse that lurched you forward on impact and made you yelp. Heat bloomed beneath your skin, his mark no doubt left on the imprint of his hand. 

“You know what that was for, don’t you?” he asked, his voice growing gravelly with a heated desire. You nodded, obedient and pliant, as you turned your head to look at him. His eyelid was heavy as he looked down at you, his hand lazily stroking his cock. You stared at it as though you were starved, craving it like none else you had wanted before.

Aemond would think himself kind to finally end your torment. He lined up his cockhead to your hole, pressing into your walls and burying himself to the hilt in one breath. It knocked the breath out of you as your husband rocked into you with vigor, his pace bruising and unforgiving from the start. You fisted the sheets to keep your balance, tits bouncing with every harsh slam. Soon enough, your arms gave out, and your face smushed into the soft mattress while Aemond grabbed hold of your hair. He forced your head to the side, where you faced the double doors leading out to the garden, covered only by the sheer curtains. Despite the hard jolts that left your view scrambled, you could see an outline of a figure in the gardens, the light shadows of a certain head of strawberry-blonde hair unmistakable, and you wondered if he could see the precarious position you were in.

“Look, it’s your little sweetheart,” Aemond cooed, holding you up by the elbows to speak in your ear. “Why don’t you show him how well your husband fucks you, hm? Let the whole fucking staff hear you.” His hand snaked down your front, rubbing your clit with urgent circles to barrel you straight to your end. Your back was arched against his chest, your moans reverberating against the centuries-old walls as you came— hard. Your thighs quivered with fatigue, knees buckling while he continued to ram into you to chase his end, holding you steady with a firm grip on your arms. You had started to see stars when Aemond came with a harsh groan, warmth spurting in your pulsating walls. 

You collapsed on the bed, breathless and broken in, while Aemond disappeared into the bathroom. As he returned with a warm towel to clean you up, you watched as the figure walked away from your view, leaving you alone. Something sparked in your chest when your husband softly caressed the harsh mark he had left on your rear, bending down to kiss it softly before placing another on your temple. You craned your head to meet his eye, and you let yourself hold out hope when you found him looking at you differently than before.

“Best get dressed; don’t want to keep them waiting,” Aemond said before turning back into the bathroom. In the silence of your isolation, with nothing but the faint sound of the shower keeping you company, you pondered on the aftermath. Others may call you foolish, but as you looked out to the perfect garden in your perfect husband’s perfect family home, perhaps you were still to find the perfect connection in your imperfect marriage. 

[twistedpink]

Mc inserts x TWST characters pt.2 (OG post) (Pt.3)

(non-yuu pairings that fit into the plot of twst, if you like this then you might want to look at the first part!)

Savanclaw!Mc x Cater Diamond

Enemies to lovers with your favourite diva!! The two of you compete constantly through magicam and spelldrive, getting progressively pettier until the only solution is to kiss it out.. You’re trying to keep an ear out for your junior, and it just so happens Cater’s sniffing out your plan to go for gold in this year’s tournament. You might as well take the chance to mess with him! It’s so easy to love the face he makes when you give him the slip, and you’re totally making it your wallpaper when this is all over.

“Yo, Babe! If you’re in the same dorm, then you know Ruggie, yeah? We need to have a chat”

“Ohmigod you totally think all beastmen know each other, don’t you?? cancled :)”

Shroud!Mc x Vil Schoenheit

Ids attached himself to engineering and gaming pretty early, but your passion is fully unattainable. You’d clung onto pop idols and the art of stage makeup from an early age. Your longest running interest by far is Vil Schoenheit,, He rescued you from destructive habits and encouraged you to value self improvement. You’ve probably invested millions into his career (every thaumark sent anonymously, you’d die if he started to recognize your attached messages). Supporting Ortho in his SDC audition is your official reason to talk with him, and all the teasing from Idia will be so worth it when your Schoenheit debut palette gets signed! You’ve kept it in mint condition behind glass for years admiring it- and waiting for THE day.

“Mr. Schoenheit? My younger brother performed for you today, and uh, your signature please?”

“Normally I’d send both of you home for this. I’m sure you’re well aware of my paparazzi policy, However, I haven’t seen this particular relic in years! Just what have you done to preserve the quality?”

Pomefiore!Mc x Ruggie Bucchi

You’re #1 in the business of pissing off your parents- shopping copious amounts and then going to school across the country satiated you for awhile, but they’ve done something particularly revenge worthy now. The best scandal you can think of is getting a trashy boytoy to bring home for the break, but you’re not really into idiots.. Ruggie can be a very good actor given the right motivations, and he might even fool you into a real relationship before next semester.

“C’mon it’s not like I’ll need a script, sugar. I’m a natural, scout’s honor!”

“Either way, it won’t hurt to rehearse for convenience :/ Kiss me now so we don’t look stupid later.”

Scarabia!Mc x Floyd leech

God you hate that fish faced idiot >:( It’s bad enough that the housewarden’s moodswings guaranteed your holiday plans were all shot, but now Jamil’s getting hounded by the mafia! It’s your responsibility to get them off his back, but it’s not like you’re enjoying it. Somehow it’s even worse to watch Floyd when he’s playing dumb, and his emotional roller coaster keeps you walking on eggshells. The show must go on though, and if you’ve gotta play “wrestle until the biting stops” then you’ll do it :/

“Floyd, it’s dinner time, and I will tear you a new one if it means you’ll get moving.”

“PLEASEEEE tiger sharky just one more round :( I’ll even give your pen back!!”

Octavinelle!Mc x Kalim Al-Asim

You’re probably one of the most talkative of octavinelle students, and definitely a solid salesman. Kalim’s a prime target for resales and marketing practice, so naturally you join the pop music club. A year of “playing nice for the jackpot” leads you to lie awake at night, terrified that he’ll see through your facade and ditch you- it would cut off your best friendship, you’d be forced to leave the club! At some point you realize you’d stopped selling him things months ago, and your worst nightmare happened right under your nose. You fell in love.

“Hey, that solo was so inspiring! You’re really making progress!”

“It still isn’t on par with yours, though. Are you available to keep practicing after school? I’m sure Jamil would appreciate the break, and I would enjoy the company..”

Staff!Mc x Lilia Vanrouge

Of course your first job would come with some pet bat, it was too good to be true :( Full time at a bits and bobs shop near one of the best schools in the country WITH flexible hours? You must’ve been desperate to accept without reading about your babysitting in the footnote. He comes in everyday during your shift (regardless of the hours you take, it’s like he has a sixth sense), and has the audacity to exist in your space! It’s not like he even does anything to get banned!! He just stands there. Menacingly. You’re waiting for the day where he leaves convincing evidence that he’s there to traffic you or something- because if you didn’t know better you’d think he has a big, fat crush on you.

“Darling, how is the shop? I’ve taken care of those juvenile delinquents for you!”

“Taken care of? Whatever. Get back to class, kid.”

[gyuswhore]

Never Shall We Die (1)

«« Nothing is too outlandish when it’s a life of liberty on the line. »» 

PAIRING: kwon soonyoung x reader

PLAYLIST: right here!

pirate lingo glossary (pls refer!)

SYNOPSIS: Deadliest pirate on the high seas or a damn fool? The stupid King and his men have snatched Hoshi's precious pirate ship with their too clean, too soft hands; grounds to question his own vices. Except, when he and his crew land in the quarters of a navy ship, revenge on their roster, they stumble across a princess in its gallows. Hoshi wonders if he's just struck gold, or if you'd become the final tread to his downfall.

GENRES: pirate!au, enemies to lovers, slowburn, angst, fluff, smut [minor dni], some pirates of the carribean vibes but ? idk

WORD COUNT [full fic]: 48.1k

Part 1: 17.07k | Part 2: 15.2k | Part 3 [final]: 15.8k

@highvern's out of context comment box: new fear unlocked: hoshi with explosives, victorian ankle moment, HATE HIM (need him carnally), hoshi covered in soapy water would distract me enough, strip for me pirate mingyu [hes litrally taking off his jacket], your honor hes a bitch, freaks!, mingyu crushes hoshi's head like a grape, WONWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO, massive dick, the way i literally gasped like an old scandalized woman

masterlist

WARNINGS: slowburn, plot heavy, happy ending bc no angsty endings in this household, being taken hostage, knives, bombs, and guns, mentions of blood, mentions of SA (does not happen and it is not explicitly mentioned), alcohol, mentions of death (patricide), hoshi is ✨selectively moral✨but kind of moral nonetheless, side character death, [pls lmk if im missing something its alot] smut tagin following parts

[AN]: thank you so much to @highvern for betaing for me and helping out with the plot so much, this fic would not exist if it weren't for her!!!! and thank you reader!!! for clicking on this and reading it, this one's been about 7 months in the works and I would love to hear what your thoughts are when you're done, plsplspls leave a rb or a reply with your brainrot lol <3 happy reading

HOSHI’S BOOT IS STUCK in the ground. 

No, that’s a branch. 

Or is it a plank? 

He doesn’t try to find out as he yanks his foot out of whatever stopped him from moving. A tree root, he finds as he kicks the remnants of jungle rubbish from the surface of the shrouded root. He kicks it to satisfy himself. 

His crew resides on the beach; where he can see them attempt to build a fire before sundown, the mound of discombobulated twigs making up most of the sad pile of wood. Hoshi trudges up to it and drops another handful of puny branches into the mix. 

Exhaling loudly as Mingyu calls for him, he falls to his bottom and sits cross legged on the sand. Mingyu trudges up next to him to inspect his pile, sighing when he realised this was all he had to work with. He picks up two hefty looking stones and begins to strike them together, putting his faith in the primitive fire. 

Hoshi stares into the horizon, watching the died down waves drift onto the shore, moving closer by the minute. 

Hoshi thinks, which he can’t say is something that he does very often. Perhaps that’s why he was sat on this nature-overrun island as a shipless captain of his shipless crew. He chews on his tongue as he thinks of his Tigress, his beloved hunk of wood and metal; the beloved hunk of wood and metal that he could not see on the shoreline, because she was taken by the royal navy. 

He wonders if Tigress would ever forgive him for letting that happen to her, for letting those clean, soft handed soldiers rip her away from his grasp. 

Hoshi needs to start thinking more often.

Mingyu is frantic over the small flame that erupts in the middle of his leaves, dropping his rocks to blow into the fire, encouraging it to grow. 

“Captain, it’s done! We can rustle up those fish we caught, have supper sorted.” 

“Hm.”

The bustle of the entire crew lasts until night has fallen and they’ve gotten food in their stomachs. Hoshi hasn’t moved from his spot for hours, something the others noticed very quickly, but decided not to mention for fear of waking something dangerous. They understood he was suffering from a broken heart. 

It isn’t until the first of the crew had begun to doze off that Hoshi speaks. Chan is propped up against a tree while Seungkwan laughs at the dangerously low coconut that hangs above his head. Mingyu readjusts his trousers after a full meal. Minghao stretches onto the sand, feet facing the water. 

His voice isn’t loud, nor is it commanding, nor does it have his usual edge of jest—in fact, it sounds nothing like Hoshi at all. 

Or does it?

“Who wants to steal a ship?”

YOU'RE AWOKEN BY THE sound of yelling. Which is never a good sign in any case, but especially not when it’s pitch black outside and you’re on a ship in the middle of the ocean.

The grogginess is quick to fade as you try to understand what’s going on outside your quarters. Your room isn’t a mess, all the trinkets and royal seals remaining in their places on the walls and shelves. Nor is the ship lurching or moving in odd angles to indicate an unexpected spat from the skies. A quick peek outside the window shows you clear, calm water amidst the mostly dark expanse of ocean. 

There is only one other answer in your head that would cause this much commotion—especially on a boat where the admiral resides (and a princess). 

Slipping out of the covers, your feet hit the cool hardwood floors of your quarters, a small shiver going through your spine from the cold, with nothing to cover you but your thin nightgown. You’re in the middle of tying your robe to see what the ruckus was about outside when a particularly loud thud hits outside of your door. You immediately freeze. 

Staring at the doorknob, you attempt to move backwards in the space, heart beating faster as you watch the knob move slightly. The back of your knees hit the bedside table with a thud, the sound has you gasp out loud. Whoever it was outside your door jiggles the knob harder, the force exerted having you scan the room for something you could use as a weapon. 

Spotting the letter opener on your desk, you lurch across the room to grab it, holding it in front of you as you back away from the door. The knob continues to bang against the wood as you refuse to take eyes off of it. There’s sounds of men outside, loud and rambunctious, momentarily halting the grievances. 

Until the knob moves again, slower this time, a light click that could be heard as it unlocks itself, opening into the low light of your quarters. 

You recognise the frazzled looking soldier at your door. 

“Lieutenant,” you voice in recognition. “What’s going on?”

He eyes the letter opener that you hold defiantly in front of you from across the room, and it has you retracting your force slightly. 

“Pirates, your Highness,” he breathes out. “We must get you to lower deck—”

“Where is the Admiral? The Captain?” you ask as you take a couple steps forward. 

“They’re handling the situation, your High–” 

An arm has come up behind the soldier that pulls him into a headlock, a swift pull to have him dragged away from your vision. You would’ve gasped if your voice hadn’t been caught in your throat, refusing to make itself known as fear brews in the pit of your stomach. Your hold on your makeshift weapon is tighter than ever before, yet you doubt how it’s going to help you as the culprit finally steps over something to appear in your doorframe. 

His clothes are in a disarray; slashed, torn and covered in grime. There’s a deadly looking machete in one hand, the blood that coats it has you eyeing the trail that drips onto his hand and on the floor. His forearms are perched up on the doorframe as he inspects you, tongue to cheek as he stares. 

Threatened as you feel, there was less hunger in his gaze as you had expected, more like he was trying to figure out who you were. He eyes your tiny letter opener you hold like a knife and lets out a little exhale you think might be a laugh. It has you gripping the handle impossibly tighter. The man moves his face into the hallway, to where you know the staircase to the main deck is. 

“Hoshi!” he yells loudly. “How’s this for bait?” 

Your back is pressed inexplicably against the wall, wanting to sink into the wooden boards as you attempt to gain your bearings amongst the nauseous bouts of mortification that surge through you. Your only exit is blocked.

No. You have one more option. 

The sound of more men bounding down the hall has you praying there were more soldiers here, but the calm regard the man has for the approaching people has your heart sink to the depths of this very ocean itself. 

More faces peer into the room, men with the same haphazard, grimey clothing complete with  equally sinister weapons in their grasps. One of the men breaks out into the biggest grin as he lays his eyes on you. You nearly throw up. 

For the first time in your life, you wish you’d listened to your father. 

“Jun, you savvy motherfucker,” the grinning man explodes, slapping the man who found you on the back. 

Another voice speaks from behind him, “Ships cleared, captain.” 

“Perfect. Bring a spring upon ‘er. Get as far away from those cleans as you can, let them fend for themselves in a tiny boat for once.” 

Captain. The grinning, stupid looking one is their captain. 

He regards the rest of his crew as he finally steps through the threshold, waving them away as he enters your quarters.

It was taking everything out of you to not buckle your knees as you stood, every step he takes is turning your strength into dust. He keeps his eyes on you, eyes on your sorry excuse of a weapon. He registers the mix of fear and determination in your eyes. 

He stops a few feet away from you, looking directly at you past the makeshift knife you hold. 

He says nothing as he drops the knife in his own hand to the ground with a loud clang. He removes a pistol, a couple more knives, a grenade and a sword. Weapons drop to the floor one after the other, emerging from all over his body and clothes. All in a pile on the wooden floors. He puts his hands in the air.

“No weapons on me. I merely wish to talk.” 

The look on his face is not ordinary, some strange combination of mock innocence and jest. You don’t answer him.

He continues, “You can keep your… scalpel… if you so wish.” 

“What did you do to the soldiers?” you finally rasp out.

“They’re not dead, if that's what you’re asking.”

“Yet?” you ask with a slight tremble to your voice. 

“They’ve been shoved into a boat with a map and a compass to fend for themselves. I’m not entirely ruthless,” he adds with raised brows and a hint of a smile. “Admiral, were they calling him? You must be his wife.”

“W-what?”

“Oh, guess not. Daughter? Captain’s wife, Captain’s daughter?”

Your previously stagnant brain is now running a derby with all the thoughts galloping across your mind. He doesn’t know who you are. Yet, anyway.

He’s scanning the room now, nodding at the trinkets and trophies scattered across the place. “Can’t imagine giving a lieutenant’s anybody quarters like this.” He circles back on you, eyes sharp. “Who are you, darling?”

You don’t think you have anything that should give you away, but the way he starts pacing the room has your anxiety going through the wooden roof.

He has his back turned to you. You’re not sure if he’s confident or careless considering you could drive your weapon into his back and make a run for it. But then what? By the looks of it there’s an entire crew of pirates pacing the deck. Perhaps the soldiers haven’t gotten that far; they know you’re still on board, they know it’s their heads on a pike if they leave you here. 

He’s reached your desk during your thinking, inspecting your stationary, picking at the bejewelled quills and paper weights as he mutters nonsense to himself. 

“Oh!” he announces, a little too enthusiastic. “What’s this?” 

He brandishes the loose leaf of paper, and you recognise the print on the back immediately. It was a letter from your father, the King.

“How on Earth did you read this, the writing is illegible.” He flips the paper over, double taking when he sees the royal seal on the back. He looks into the letter closer now. 

You wait with baited breath. 

“The kingdom needs their princess…your father…ah.” 

Should you plunge the knife into him anyway? You almost do it, but stop when he begins to turn around to face you again. His eyebrows are raised, a slight hint of exasperation on his face when he begins to laugh a loud, loud cackle. 

It’s mortifying, especially when you don’t understand what on earth was so funny to elicit a reaction like that. The man is downright hysterical. He wipes a lone tear from the corner of his eye as he drops the letter back onto the desk.

“W-what’s so funny?” you try to sound brave.

“It seems, miss princess, that we’ve gotten more than we bargained for,” he says, looking straight at you as he sobers up. “You’re the King’s daughter, now, are you? What are the odds the first ship I hop onto with a royal seal slapped on it, held the crown jewel of the kingdom in its gallows.” 

And then he starts walking, towards you, for that matter. Imperative because you know for sure that this is how it all ends. 

You know you still have your one last option, the option that is now pressed against your back as you shimmy to it with miniscule movements. The window is cool on your hand that rests on the glass, you know the lamp will be enough to break it, enough for you to push through and fall into the abyss of the dark, dark sea. He knows who you are now, and you’d rather drown than die at the hands of a pirate—or go through whatever it was that’s curling the minds of all the men on this ship. 

He takes another step forward, hands on his hips. “He’s not going to like this, is he? His dear daughter in the hands of the Kingdom’s favourite degenerate captain.” 

What?

He then adds in a whisper to himself mostly, “Or least favourite with all the wanted posters off the churches and brothels.” 

Hoshi. Hoshi. Hoshi. 

The man who had found you had called him Hoshi. Hoshi the pirate. Hoshi the pirate that’s been giving the Kingdom and its court absolute hell for as long as you can remember. 

The man that you are now trapped alone with on a ship is the most feared pirate the Kingdom has ever seen. 

You don’t doubt your face has gone grey, feeling your breathing turn near erratic. “Oh God.”

He smiles wryly as the life is sucked out of your very soul. 

This was bad. Very bad.

“Now, fear not, you will soon be returned to daddy dearest,” he places a mildly dramatic hand over his heart. “Pirate’s honour.”

He paces back to pluck the letter off the table, pocketing it. “All you need to do is relax and tell me a few things so we can part ways as soon—”

“No.” The word blurts out of your mouth before you can stop it, horrified at the thought of giving information to any pirate, let alone this one. 

“No?” Hoshi looks genuinely shocked, his eyes wide, eyebrows raised. He laughs a little incredulously, “Oh, I see, can’t tell all the delicate details to a scary ol’ pirate.”

He smiles a little bit, “Worry not, miss princess, we shall only need a few minor details. Just enough to have your father sprinting to get you out of here. We all win.”

He stares at you almost expectantly, and you wonder if you look as confused as you feel. 

“Well, I’ll be bidding you goodnight now, I’m sure we’ve interrupted your beauty sleep enough. Rest assured we won’t be bothering you for the rest of the morning.”

Hoshi begins to make his way to the door, picking up his pile of weapons off the floor before wrenching the door open. He’s calm as ever, but your mind is in a disarray.

A ransom, but whatever for? Gold could’ve been retrieved by raiding any ship, and it sounded like he’d chosen to hop on a ship belonging to the navy. Come to think of it, as much of a nuisance this man has proved himself, you don’t remember a case where he’s directly meddled with the Kingdom. All of this can’t just be for gold. 

Steeling yourself, you bet your odds against your voice and asked him, “What do you want from my father?” 

You watch as he halts in his tracks, halfway through the door as he finally looks over his shoulder. The look on his face has you wanting to break open the window immediately and let the water flood in, once and for all as you take these bastards down with you. 

“Your father has something of mine. And I intend to take it back,” he says, before finally slamming the door shut. You hear a shuffle and a thud, and you do not doubt that he’s locked you in. 

Your knees give out almost immediately, dropping to the ground as you breathe in quick, shallow breaths. Trying to look past the dizziness, you try not to think about the last thing he’d said before he left, moreso the look on his face as he did. 

The first rays of morning sun are beginning to shine through the windows, casting the beginnings of a glow in your quarters. You think of the supposed assurance he had given you, that they wouldn’t hurt you, that they intended to return you. 

The thought leads to a faraway memory, yet one that’s tucked itself into a front corner of your mind, you can almost hear your father's voice as he says it; never trust a pirate.

You remain on the floor, and you remain wide awake. 

THE SUN IS HIGH in the sky by the time you put your limbs to work. 

The first hours after the pirate locked you in your quarters were spent trying to reign yourself to earth. You can’t be entirely sure your soul has come back to your body, but whatever little of it that has landed is whispering some very dangerous things. 

The lamp remains, the ornate jewels glinting almost enticingly in the afternoon light. The flame inside it has long died, but you itch to give it another purpose. You don’t note the trembling of your hand as you reach for it, pushing yourself to your feet as you get a feel for the heavy hunk of glass and metal in your hands. 

If there was a level of regard before, it disappears when you set eyes on the bright window and the creases of crystal blue water. With all your strength, you don’t think twice when the lamp makes hard contact, a loud thud erupting as a result, but no damage when you pull away. 

You go again, harder this time, and only vaguely register the glass of the lamp that shatters into your hands. Gripping the metal bit tighter, you swing for the third time, pulling back for the strongest blow yet. 

A hand wraps around your elbow and you’re yanked backwards, landing on the floor. There’s a kick at your hand that’s flown into the air, the one that holds the bludgeoned lamp. It goes flying across the room as you retract your hand into yourself. 

You don’t register a thing as you’re suddenly being pulled back up to your feet. Face to face with the pirate captain, your soul finally clicking back into place. 

“Didn’t think I scared you this bad.” He’s made a joke, but all you can see is his face that’s a mask of rage.

The initial instinct is to move away, pulling your elbow out of his grasp in an attempt to flee. You fail as he tightens his grip to a painful degree, hauling you towards the ajar door of the quarters. 

It’s only then that you realise that there’s more people in the room.You note another big, burly man next to the window you just assaulted, inspecting it with another shorter man. You don’t get to note more as you’re pulled into the narrow hallway, begging the saints he doesn’t take the turn towards the lower decks. Instead you find he leads you upstairs to where the main deck is. 

Walk the plank? Did navy ships have planks to walk on? Not that you’d mind too much, you were trying to drown yourself and this ship in any case. But then there’s a settle of dread in the pit of your stomach, realising death may be the most merciful thing this man could give you. 

The pirate captain pushes you against a mast, one of his other minions rushing in with coils of rope on his shoulder. The sun beats down on the deck, not a gust of reprieve from the wind. 

“Keep the ropes tight, she’s got less wit than I’d thought,” the pirate captain says with a grunt, huffing as he lets go of you. He takes a few steps away, hands at his hips, the image of vexation. 

The person who ties the cords around your hands whispers slowly, “Stop moving.”

But you can’t, not when the panic is near the lip, not when all the possibilities are flashing gore filled images into your vision. It's scary to blink. 

“Why won’t you let me die?” you ask to the back that’s turned.

He turns around, not even bothering hiding the exasperation that paints his face, mouth opening furiously before closing again. “Why won’t—Because you were trying to take us all with you!”

“Kill me!” you all but scream. “They won’t know till you’ve gotten what you want, I’d rather be dead than let you try whatever’s brewing in all your sick heads!” 

He’s silent for a moment, noting your defiant gaze, your pull against the ropes, the heaving of your chest. Taking a few steps forward, Hoshi seems to be attempting to bring the boil in his blood to a low simmer, “Listen, princess. We’re pirates alright, but me and my crew, we keep to ourselves. If your daddy the king hadn’t decided to meddle and steal my fucking ship, you would’ve been home in your pretty palace, asleep in your bed of gold by now.” 

The pirate captain’s face is closer than you’d ever be comfortable with, seething in a way that has you pressing further into the mast. “We may be degenerates but we keep our own morals, as twisted as your people heed them to be.” 

When he finally pulls away, you take a breath and thank the air that simply exists, eyes downcast as you attempt to look braver than you feel. 

“I’m not pushing you overboard. I’ve duped your people once, they’ll be more prepared next time. We need you alive while you’re in our hands.” 

“How are you going to summon a ransom? You sent away your only messengers,” you ask, a sad attempt at a mock, but also because you wanted to know what his plan was. 

“Your useless Admiral’s taken up that job.”

“By lifeboat? You’ve left them all for dead, how do you expect this genius plan to work?” 

“They could’ve swam to shore if it came to it, we were close enough.”

“How are you so sure?” you spit.

“Do I need to gag you too?” he gives you one last irritated look before stalking off towards the lower deck. You’re left alone in the cooling afternoon heat, the sound of the sea keeping your ears company along with your own slowing breaths. 

Everything he said has a good enough chance to be a complete and utter lie. Never trust a pirate. No weapon to cut yourself out of your impossibly tight binds, nothing to protect you or give you reassurance besides a pirate’s word—the worst pirate’s word. 

Your battered thinking leads you straight through the setting of the sun, the orange glow of the sky shrouding the ship in the dreamiest backdrop while you live what you can only sum as a nightmare. Perhaps not, for you doubt your mind could ever conjure up a terror like this. 

This was life, the most terrifying nightmare of all. 

Having managed to wiggle your tied hands downwards, you had seated yourself with your head against the wood of the mast, staring into the translucent skies. So much freedom that taunts you in its illusion of proximity, yet so far still. 

There’s murmurs below deck, the only semblance of life you’ve heard in the past few hours after the stupid pirate captain stormed off. It seems to be on the stairs, a heated argument. 

“Obviously this wasn’t part of the plan, the chances were supposed to be zero to absolutely none. We landed with that scumbag’s successor, that’s just our piss luck and nothing more.” 

“You wanted a woman for bait, this should work the same.”

“Hao, I wanted a woman for bait to trigger a lukewarm reaction, this princess could either doom us all or make our job a fat punch easier, and I’m not betting on the latter.”

There’s a pause. 

“If only she’d cut it with the random hysterics and creepy-staring-at-the-sky we could actually get something useful out of her.” 

“Pray that window holds up or any chance of a miracle is gone to the wind.”

It’s like you’ve woken up with the way the stupid idea begins to form in your head. You think of your father, the kind of man he is, the kind of ruler he is. All the ‘if’s are guiding you to a conclusion. One that gives you a fighting chance, one that may go beyond this massive navy ship and clear into the rest of your life—if you make it that far anyway. 

Your father and his men would come, give this unhinged pirate what he desires so dearly, you know that for sure. But you also know it wouldn’t be for you, but for the crown that’s destined to fall upon your cursed head. 

If it’s his ship that he wants…

The next time you see one of the pirate captain’s goons on the deck, you ask for an audience. 

“DID YOUR STUPID FATHER drop you on your head as a baby?” 

Hoshi stands before you under the light of the midnight moon, an incredulous expression on his face. You try to keep the scowl off your own but it proves difficult when his voice pierces your skull. 

You ignore him from your position on the floor, “I know my father, and I know he loathes you enough to finally want you and your incompetent crew gone for good.”

He scratches his chin, “Can’t be that incompetent if he hates us so much.”

“I can help you.”

“You were ready to die than to be on the same ship as us a few hours ago. What’s changed?”

“Perspective,” you shrug in an attempt to remain nonchalant. 

“Are you gonna go back to wailing in the morning then?” 

God, this was going to be the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do. 

“You want your ship back and you were hoping for someone less important to exchange it for. But you’re stuck with me and you know it’s not going to end well for you. You need my help.” 

“Why so merciful, miss princess? Are you not on your father’s side?” 

You gulp as discreetly as possible.

“I want something in exchange.”

He raises his eyebrows, staring at you to continue. 

“I want you to kill my father.”

If his eyebrows were raised before, they’ve broken for the skies now. He leans his head back, eyes closing for a moment before reopening, reigning back to you before asking very gracefully, “What?” 

“I want you to kill my father.”

“No, I got that bit,” he snaps. “Your father as in, the King?”

“Yes, as you’ve pointed out far more times than anyone ever has.” You can’t help but roll your eyes despite the weight of the situation and the hammering in your chest. 

He stares at you in an expression you can’t quite read, and it unsettles you deeply. For a moment, you wonder if you’ve gravely miscalculated, watching as he moves around the mast you’re tied to. Out of the corner of your eye you see the metal glint of a dagger, and you nearly short circuit. 

Is he about to cut your hands off?

You feel a distinct tug at your wrists, the sound of slicing, and the voice in your head asking why it didn’t hurt. 

Suddenly your hands are free, intact and free as you achingly bring them in front of you, wincing audibly at the pain of moving them after so long. 

“You can jump into the water if you’d like, I won’t stop you.” He walks back over, sitting cross legged opposite you, at eye level. 

“What?”

“You’ve clearly gone mad, I’ll find another way to get my ship back.”

“I’m being serious.”

“Of course, and I utterly enjoy having a kingdom’s worth of blood on my hands. Shall I take the entirety of the court down while we’re at it? Carry out a fucking waltz with Jack Ketch?”

“Why are you acting like you’re above murder? Another part of your strange moral code?” 

“No, no, not above it at all. But I like my head and rather not have it guillotined. They might skim over the death of some too-nosy soldier but I doubt they’d leave me be after I put a bullet between the King’s eyes.”

“I’ll protect you.”

He looks at you for a moment, “Quite reassuring.” 

You sit up straighter, licking your lips as you prepare yourself. “My father isn’t a good man.”

The pirate captain snorts, “Oh, I’m well aware.”

You try not to stare too hard at the still unsheathed dagger that he digs into the floorboards, knifing out splinters in disregard. 

“My father doesn’t want me home, he wants the crown home. He wants me to be a carbon copy of himself, he wants to be in control long after he’s gone.” You try not to grind your teeth too hard but it’s difficult when your father’s face burns behind your eyelids. “I want control over the throne, full control.”

“And your conclusion is to eliminate him.”

“I don’t have another choice.”

“Then what? You’ll pardon me and my crew after we get our hands dirty for you?” he asks, eyes wide in mock hope. 

“Yes. You can do whatever it is that you sail about doing and no one will be of bother. I might ask you for sparing favours. For a wage of course. But other than that, you can live as lawlessly as you wish.”

“You’re asking me to become your personal lackey?”

“Having a queen’s favour is no small feat I hope you’re aware. Besides, it's a leap better than the hoops you’ve been jumping through during my father’s reign.” 

You realised his face had been shrouded by the dark between your negotiating and the clouds that had veiled the moon. Every moment that was supposed to strengthen your understanding of the man that sat across from you only brought you more confusion. 

“You want your ship and freedom of land and sea,” you continue when it’s silent for a beat too long. “I only ask for a small favour in return.”

“I’d argue the miniscule nature of what you’re asking from me,” he scoffs.

“Nothing is too outlandish when it’s a life of liberty on the line.” 

There crawls in the silence once again, the same one that seems to grab you by the throat for every moment that ticks past undisturbed. 

“We’ll have to see to that,” he says, huffing as he gets back on his boot clad feet. You follow him with your eyes as he walks towards the creaky stairs that lead to the lower deck, utterly confused. 

“Where are you going?” you ask, bewildered at his strange behaviour. 

Turning around, just as he had a mere day ago in your quarters and you feel yourself suppressing a shudder. “I have a crew to consult.”

So he was considering it. 

“But you’re the captain.”

“And?” 

THE SKY IS A lighter sheen of blue, leaning towards the premature hours of the morning. He’d left you untied, and as you gaze into the duned waters in the minimal light, the urge to jump in and create a ripple that goes beyond just the water is less tempting than you’d thought. The prospect of having a dead father, and a dead king, was enough to snap you out of your hysteria despite it being a plot of your own devising. 

You’ve been alone for a while, little indication that there was other life on this ship at all with the lack of human activity. There wasn’t much that you knew of sailing or ship handling, but leaving the deck unmanned for this long gave you the vague impression that you were on a vessel with poor practising pirates. If they’d thought you’d be equipped to handle any hiccups, they’d either find out the hard way, or whenever it was that you could find the wit to bring it up to the pirate captain and his strangely attached crew. 

Something that sounds distinctly like boots are thudding gradually up to the main deck, the unmistakable blond of the pirate captain himself coming into view. You aren’t quite sure what it is, but the low thuds are sending your heart racing, panic overcoming your senses for a brief moment before you recalibrate. It’s only then that you realise it’s been more than 24 hours since the ship was hijacked. Somehow, you could have believed it was a lifetime. 

He’s disturbingly nonchalant, hand at the sheathed hilt of the dagger at his hip, a casual glance around at the empty abyss of ocean and sky. When he reaches the far end of the deck, right above the prow, he stops. 

“Are you going to push me off the rails?” you ask, half genuine, half trying to fill the silence as you face one another. 

“No.” He said it plainly, the single word reply leaving you even more uncomfortable. 

“Have you thought about what I said…with your crew?” you ask, hand coming up to grab the railing for support. 

“I did.” 

“Do I sense an objection?” you ask, swallowing the lump in your throat

“Not exactly,” he says. “We want to hear your master plan for this heist before we agree to anything.” 

He’s asking for a plan, a plan that you do not have.

You aren’t sure how he figured it out, perhaps it was the slight darting of your eyes as you thought of a response, but he seemed to read you like a book. He snorts loudly, “You don’t have a clue, do you?”

“You’ve done this before, you’d know better.”

“And if I led you astray?”

You look at him, this time right into his dark eyes, “Then you lead me astray.” 

“Your contentment with death is wildly unsettling.” There’s a ghost of a sneer at his lip. 

“I’d rather be lounging in the bottom of the ocean than live with a prospective future with my father.” 

“So I’ve heard.”

There’s a huff that leaves you as you steel your voice. “I’m not trying to set you up if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

“I doubt you’d have that capability,” he says as he leans his forearms over the railing. You briefly consider pushing him over but think better of it. 

As much as you wanted to be a sneaky link, you simply didn’t have that trait. You blame all the dependency your father’s fostered into you, ensuring that you couldn’t rule without his influence. 

“Are you willing to brew a plan or not? I need to time my dip in the ocean accordingly,” you say, sounding almost disgruntled.

He lets out a big sigh, “Follow me.”

He’s made himself familiar with the ship, you soon realise, as he leads you right downstairs to the lower deck towards the war room. When he opens the door, the room is lit with lamps, casting a golden glow on the reddish interior, warmer than the rest of the ship. 

“Stay here, and don’t do anything stupid,” he tells you as he shuts the door behind him, leaving you alone in the cabin. 

You only exhale in response as you turn away from the door, towards the large table in the centre. It’s slightly cluttered, studying the scrawled notes as you realise they’re all from the Admiral, his directions and plans of course littered across the table. Turning towards the map on the walls, you lift a finger to trace the lifted ridges of snow capped mountains, trailing towards the dipped shallows of the blue water. 

It was an exact replica of the tactile map in the war room back home, and you’re suddenly hit with a pang of nostalgia. Not that you’d been away from home for too long, but the end result of what you're about to do, regardless of the outcome, would change your life forever. 

You feel yourself breathing in the lingering scent of mildew, a strange comfort in the warm quarters.

There’s a creak at the door, and you quickly retract to find the pirate captain back at the door, walking in with a trail of men behind him. You recognise them by their faces, watching as they all take their places in the edges of the room. They look relaxed. You note the pirate captain taking his place behind the main drawing table. 

“Your throne, miss princess.” He gestures exaggeratedly towards the lone cushioned chair across from him. You’re hyper aware of all the eyes that are trailed on you, and you feel almost embarrassed to take the only seat. 

It only lasts for a moment. You walk up to the chair with what you hope exuded confidence and take your place across from the pirate captain. His men circle the edge of the room, and you count five other men. 

He sighs, “I think introductions are in order.”

“Mingyu, Minghao,” he points to the two men that had inspected your window right after you tried breaking it open. 

“Jun,” he gestures to the one who had found you in your quarters the night it all went wrong. 

“Seungkwan and Chan,” you recognize the latter as the one who’d tied you to the mast at his captain’s command. 

“They’ll be helping kill your dear father.” 

It’s silent for a moment as you attempt to moisten your mouth. You’re reminded you haven’t eaten or drank for hours, not since one of them had come up with a tray of whatever they could find for you from the reserves. 

“I know I may not be the most admissible person to trust, or vice versa—” You hear someone snort but choose to ignore it. “But I’m willing to make myself useful to you if it means you would help me too.”

“Would it not be easier to lock him up instead?” someone asks, and you turn to find Seungkwan asking the question from next to the tactile map. 

“He has too many people indebted to him, too many that are too loyal for their own good. I cannot truly rule for as long as he’s alive and well.”

“And how do you expect his loyal court mongers to let you bid favour to the people who killed their king?” the pirate captain asks with a raised brow. 

“Which is why it needs to look like an accident.” 

“How do you reckon we go about that?”

“What message have you given the Admiral?”

“You don’t answer a question with another question—”

“We need to be transparent with each other if either of us wants to make it out relatively unscathed.”

He doesn’t look too happy but he answers anyway, “My ship and five hundred thousand for all our trouble. Two months from now at the Green Islands up north.”

The Green Islands were anything but green, the glaciers being near uninhabitable owed to the ruthless weather. It was smart enough, it’d be near impossible to bring as much violent power that far north, no matter how influential anyone is.  

“Is five hundred thousand all I’m worth?” you feel the beginnings of a sneer rise up your mouth. You aren’t sure what prompted it but you don’t want to fight it either. 

“Didn’t know I was bartering for a fucking princess’ case, did I?” he snaps. “Now tell us how you want us to commit the undetected homicide of a King.”

“We need to blow up his ship.” To your surprise (and maybe even a little horror), the pirate captain breaks into a slight grin. Neither do you miss other bits of his crew releasing a bit of a snicker. 

There’s a flare of defiance within you, “Do you have any better ideas then?” 

“No, no. Go on,” he says with his head hung. You’re surprised he has the character to shield his smile. 

“He doesn’t frequent the seas but I’m almost sure he’d be present at the exchange.”

“Almost?” he questions.

You hesitate. The combined chance of needing the crown home and seeing to the downfall of his enemies would be enough warmth to send him to the greenlands himself. You were confident, but your father could also be unpredictable.

“He’ll be there. I’m sure of it.” 

The pirate captain lifts his head, locking eyes with you. You try not to look as weak as you felt, as unsure as you felt, pooling all the remaining confidence into your face. 

He swallows before looking away, addressing one of the crew members. “How big are we talking?”

Jun looks up like he’s only just begun to pay attention, fumbling over the revolver in his hands as it thuds to the ground like a theatrical mistake, “What?”

His captain sighs before replying, “Explosion. How big does it need to be to blow up a naval ship with a King on it?”

The man brings a hand up to the back of his head, scratching his nape. “If it’s anything like this one, we’re gonna need a lot of ammo.” 

“Just enough to sink it,” you speak before you could decide not to. “Even better if they don’t realise it’s happening.”

He thinks for a moment. “We could plant it in the bilge somehow.”

“But how do we get on that ship? When they’re giving us a tour of the lower decks?” The man you recall as Seungkwan scoffs. 

“Throw a grenade on board somehow?” you hear one of them suggest. 

“Real subtle, Chan,” you hear another mock. 

The war room is in shambles before you know it, loud voices talking over threats to slit throats and to shove people overboard. The room is humid and it feels as though the light from the oil lamps are fading. You close your eyes amidst the utter chaos, rubbing the heel of your palm on your temple in an attempt to soothe the throbbing vein. 

“Enough!” The pirate captain has spoken and you have the urge to ask what took him so long. 

Tranquility once again and you almost thank the man. Before anyone can say another word, nausea begins to build in your stomach. 

It takes you a minute to realise the room was spinning and that you weren’t completely losing your mind. The ship begins to rock harder as the seconds tick by, everybody in the room seemingly still as they perceive the change.

“Batten down the hatches,” the pirate captain says to no one in particular.

Chan is the only one who moves to the door to leave before he’s interrupted. 

“All of you. Those clouds weren’t looking too nice up there, we’ve got a storm on our hands.”

By everyone he surely did not mean you, because as the room rushes out and you hear the thuds of boots clamouring up to the main deck, you’re left alone with the captain. Yet again.

It’s becoming increasingly difficult to keep steady, and you wonder how he’s able to remain balanced while on his feet. It isn’t long before your chair begins to slide as well, the legs croning as they slip on the hardwood. You spring up on instinct, hands coming to the bolted down drawing table to stabilise yourself. 

The pirate captain seems unphased, moving the curtains on the far end to try to get a glimpse at where the water breaks. He steps like he knows exactly where the evermoving floor would be, barely glancing below to gauge his footing. 

“Shouldn’t you be up there?” There’s effort in your voice, your grip on the table as hard as ever as the ship banks to a hard left. He barely grabs the wall in support. 

“Huh? They can figure it out themselves, they’re big boys,” he grunts.

“Your big boys were at each other’s throats a moment ago,” you grunt back, stumbling at a particularly forceful lurch. 

“If you weren’t so ill prepared they wouldn’t need to use their brains, that’s always dangerous,” he shoots back. He’s on the other end of the room, pushing the unbolted cabinet back in its place 

“I gave you a job and it's up to you to see it done, I’m not—ah— I’m not supposed to be planning at all!” 

“Are you?” He’s turned to look at you know, mouth hitched in a snarl as his forehead reflects a light sheen. “Because trying to murder a—”

“Trying to murder a King isn’t a normal task,” you finish for him in a hiss. “Yes, as you’ve reiterated a million times.”

“Great, so you know!” Sarcasm is a deadly look on him, you realise as he walks over from the cabinet to where you were in the middle of the room. The waves have given in, the rocking becoming significantly slower. “Now do you mind telling us about a plan that actually has better odds?”

Your white knuckles have relented, the hands that gripped the table coming loose as you stare back at the pirate in defiance. “I should just hand you over.”

“It’s sweet you think you’re in charge here,” the grit in his voice is evident. “This isn’t your turf anymore, miss princess.”

“You don’t trust me, and you don’t give me reason to trust you—ugh.”

The waves seemed to have decided she hadn’t had enough just yet, this particular lurch sending you hurtling backwards into the wall, back hitting the hardwood as the stable pirate himself loses his footing. You could almost believe you’d landed sideways with the gravity that’s lost its way beneath your feet. 

The chair you were once sitting on is hurtling towards you with a vengeance, gaining momentum as you simply watch it approach like a wooden bullet. A boot clad foot kicks it to the other end and you realise the pirate captain’s gotten hold of his bearings before you have. 

“What happened to being transparent with one another?” he huffs, breathless and wide eyed as he attempts to pull himself to his feet. 

There’s another lurch that sends you both skidding towards the table, just short of grabbing on before you’re hurtled into the cabinet that had moved again, and now slams back into the wall with the weight of the sea and two humans with a bang!

“Fine. You give me your ammo to blow up the bilge, let me on the ship with my dear father and one of you scoops in and saves me before I drown with him,” you yell over the sounds of clanging and banging of everything on this cursed ship, and the whooshing and thunders of the skies, winds and water. “And if I riddled the chances of you letting me drown with my father? Where does that leave me?”

“On the bottom of the seabed,” he deadpans. “But that also leaves me without my freedom.”

You find the opportunity to look at him for a moment, and he’s looking at you too. He looks away towards the door, already making moves to walk out and join his crew above deck. The conversation was over, and it was evident in your lack of reply.

Mother nature, however, sends another one in as a surprise and you're both sent flying to the other end of the ship, yet again. 

There’s a cushion to your blow this time as you find yourself landing right into the pirate captain’s chest, hand above his heart in your instinct to save yourself any more bruises. Between your bickering and the staggering of the ship, his shirt had flown open nearly down to his navel. 

Your eyes barely register the nasty scar across his left pec, instead moving upwards to lock eyes with him. It’s insanity, how you instinctively dart your eyes towards his half open mouth. 

“If you wanted me that bad, miss princess, you could’ve just asked.”

Whatever airborne drug that’d been willy nillying in your noggin seems to spin into a rage as his words register a moment too late. Clenched jaw and a vice grip on his shirt, you spit back. 

“I don’t ask for things. They come to me.”

There’s a crash above you and you realise the oil lamp that was suspended above has shattered, raining glass over your forms. 

Expect you don’t feel it, because he’s ducked over you and suspended his arms in the air to catch the crystalline. 

Before you can decide whether it was instinct or not, you hear a yell at the door.

“Captain! One of the—oh.” 

A barely balancing Mingyu, is staring into the now dimly lit war room, his captain and their supposed prisoner pressed against one another in a dark corner of the room. 

Your instinct forces you to take a slow step backwards. 

“Get back up,” he snarls, already pushing past you to stalk towards the door. He actually makes it this time, shoving Mingyu into the hall towards the stairs. 

Not as much as a glance back before he slams the door shut, leaving you in the tattered war room alone, shards of glass at your feet.

THE STORM SEEMS TO have done its damage as it calmed itself for the rest of the morning and well into the day. 

One of them had come down and escorted you to your quarters, Chan telling you that you could keep it while the rest of them adjusted in the other cots and quarters aboard. Changing out of your ragged, days old clothes felt luxurious, the familiar scent of your quarters putting your tense shoulders at ease; or at least a semblance of such. 

Neither you nor the captain have attempted to speak to each other after the incident in the war room. Having berated yourself for letting your guard down enough, you chalked it up to the lack of food and sleep and put the matter to rest in some deeply buried chest in your head. 

For now you board up the door of your cabin (because you haven’t completely lost it), and burrow under the covers for some much needed shut eye. 

You aren’t sure how long the universe lets you rest, because unless you’ve slept all the way to the Green Islands the banging on the door seems incessant enough to warrant an arrest of its own. The sleep is slow to leave, and it’s hard enough to push an entire drawer against a door, the bleariness paired with whoever the fuck was outside the door isn’t making it easier to push it away from the entrance either. 

By the time you’ve wrenched the door open, you’re thoroughly annoyed, and met with a very alarmed Seungkwan. 

“Oh thank goodness, I was about to try opening it,” he says, looking genuinely relieved. “I thought you might’ve….anyway.”

“You weren’t trying to break in before?” you ask.

He only thrusts a tray of rations and water towards you, “Captain said to give this to you.”

Accepting the tray, you try to balance it in one hand with furrowed brows, “Oh.”

“Um. That’s it, sorry for waking you up.” He makes a move like he’s about to turn around and leave but falters. “If…if you need anything a bunch of us are on the main deck.”

And then he’s gone. 

You take it as your cue to shut the door, kicking one of the heftier pieces of furniture against it before moving back inside. 

When you peer up your tiny window, it’s late afternoon and the beginnings of orange on the surface tell you the sun is beginning to set. You decide it was a good enough amount of sleep. Setting the tray down on the smaller than usual desk, you find that these pirates do not have a knack for subtlety. Many of your letters and papers are haphazardly stacked and shoved into one corner of the table, very obviously sifted through. 

Not that you care too much, there was nothing awfully important that you wouldn't have told them yourself. Ripping off a piece of bread from the tray, you take pleasure in chewing as loudly and as open mouthed as you wished, plucking the parchment at the top of the pile to study. 

It’s another one signed by your father, not a question of your wellbeing in sight as he scrawls ink on paper all the incorrect things you did in the Southerner’s banquet last month. If anything, you were glad the stupid Admiral was away from your presence, his incessant habit of reporting your every breath and turn to your father was becoming too much to handle. 

This was one of his tamer letters, less insults attached to his criticisms but a pain to read anyway. You don’t brush away the crumbs that fall onto the parchment. 

There is not a diplomatic bone in your body. Perhaps move on from drinks and dessert and into more important territories besides the Duke’s son. Our kingdom needs a ruler that’s strong, not one that forgets where she is after a sip of brandy!

If you squint hard enough, it almost reads as a parent scolding a child for a spill, like regardless of what you did, he might just love you the same. 

You wonder how good of a mood he was in when he wrote this. 

Sifting through the rest of the papers you take a mental note of every reason he’s given you to believe that you’d be a hopeless ruler, a few years ago you even questioned why he kept you around before realising his contradicting intentions. As you read, letter by letter, you think of reasons you know are going to make you a better ruler, better than him and better than his stupid court of old men.

These pirates are a blessing, you think, and you aren’t about to let this chance from the universe drown in these waters.

HOSHI ISN'T IN TROUBLE. No, he isn’t. On his butt on the sleek floorboards of the ship, his own golden dagger glinting in the sunlight as it's held in a threatening hold, except it isn’t in his hands. 

It’s pointed right into his jugular vein, held by some grimy sailor who considers himself something akin to a pirate. Perhaps the stench this sorry excuse of a crew carries around may be their idea of a criteria, but as Hoshi remains inches away from death, all he can think about is the atrocious fingers around his dagger, and all the scrubbing he’s going to be doing after this is all over. 

Mingyu had warned him, told him to take down the flag of the navy from the mast, the royal seal in the smack middle of the ginormous thing. He brushed it off. He wasn’t quite sure if he was tipsy, hungry or just plain exhausted when he made that decision, because he’d forgotten just how stupid some of these simpleton sailors could get. 

They were taken by surprise, their only weapons mops and buckets of soapy water as they were ambushed by some overlooked wherry that had suddenly thrown hooks over their railing and climbed up like uninvited sewer rats. 

In the initial confusion, interrupted mid-chorus of some pretty siren and her pirate prince, the first few intruders had simply crumpled over onto the slippery deck, a few slipping overboard completely from the suds and water on the wood. His crew, and Hoshi himself, could only stand and watch as the newcomers sabotaged themselves for a few incredulous moments before they gained their bearings. 

Chan and Seungkwan swang their mops right into the necks of a couple, sending them into the ocean without waiting for a splash. 

Hoshi slips out his dagger with practised ease, swinging the butt of the hilt over the head of another ambushing intruder, right on the head as he crumpled to the floor with a loud thud. He kicks him over for an indication of where he came from. No ink that shows an alliance, no brooch or jewels with a crest. 

New guys, ones that were clearly still learning the ropes. 

Hoshi’s crew had better senses than required for him to yell out orders, and it only took a few more disgruntled minutes to disable the remaining extra men aboard. 

“Where the fuck did these guys come from?” he asks no one in particular, mostly just annoyed that they were disturbed. 

Minghao, who’s peeking over the railing replies, “It’s a tiny thing. They either lost their actual boat or didn’t have one at all.”

He vaguely registers him making a jerking arm movement over the exterior before he hears a wail and a splash. “Disgusting.” Minghao holds his hands away from his body like he didn’t want it anymore. 

Hoshi’s mistake was keeping his guard down, because before anyone could warn him, the dagger that he held loosely against his hip had slipped out his palm. The next thing he knows, his neck is in some grimy sleeve’s grip, and the point of his dagger is lodged into his own throat. He holds his breath, afraid he might pass out completely from the stench alone. 

“Not a move.” He sounds like a boy more than anything, but his grip indicates a harsher life. “Everybody into that fishing boat. I’ll throw this one in when you’re done.” 

He sounds unstable, but that only makes him more dangerous. Hoshi can’t try to wiggle his way out of this one, one wrong move and it’s the end. His crew can’t do anything as they stand with broken mops and empty buckets as their weapons. 

It was stupid of him to even allow himself to be cornered like this, not when he’s weaselled his way out of more dangerous situations with more ease than this. 

His crew looks at him, and he can only close his eyes in encouragement. He watches as Jun steps over one of the defeated bodies to reach the hooks that’ve lodged into the railing. His movements are slow, and he can tell he notices the unhinged nature of this boy that he doubts is barely over 17. 

Chan follows, then Seungkwan as Jun double checks the integrity of the ropes. He’s stalling. 

“Hurry!” It was supposed to come out as a threat, but it sounded more like a plea from the boy. 

And then Jun stops completely, his eyes trained on Hoshi. His eyes are wide, his grip on the rope so tight he can see the whites of his knuckles from the other side of the ship. 

No, he wasn’t looking at him, he was looking behind him. Before he can register, there’s a loud bang of a gunshot, and Hoshi feels the body of his captor slump against his back, his dagger dropping to the ground with an ominous clang. He falls with him, turning over to push the dead weight of the body off of him. 

There’s smoke in the air when Hoshi looks back and it takes him a moment to realise who just basically saved his life. 

You stand in your nightgown, shawl over your shoulders, and a revolver, Jun’s revolver, clenched tightly in both hands. It remains frozen in the air, hovering as he takes in your face. Eyes wide, mouth open slightly, the colour drained from your face. 

Hoshi scrambles to get up as the rest of the crew swarm both him and you. He grabs his dagger before anything else, looking back to see a bullet lodged in the back of his captor’s skull, blood pooling the deck. 

He looks back at you shoving the revolver back into Jun’s hands eagerly, like you didn’t want to feel the warmth of the metal any more than you wanted to make that shot. 

He looks back at the cooling body, and then back at you, an undeniable warmth overcoming his chest. 

You just saved his life.

“Are you alright?” he hears Chan ask you. You nod slowly, and then quickly. 

“Where did you find this?” Jun asks. 

“Uh, in one of the quarters. Downstairs. I went down because I thought it’d be safer, you were handling it and I didn’t want to get in the way. But then…all your weapons were there.” 

Your voice sounds airy, like you were in a daze. Hoshi comes to the stark realisation that this may have been your first time with a weapon, and then even more horrifying, your first kill. 

“I’m sorry, I just thought it was getting out of hand and—” 

“It’s alright,” Seungkwan says. He watches as you let him lead you back down the stairs below decks. 

It was like the shock turned you into a different person, complacent, less defiant. Seungkwan clearly had more of an emotional range, because it certainly took Hoshi too long to realise you might be on the edge of panic. 

Hoshi doesn’t say a word as you disappear, the smell of gunpowder from the singular shot wafting through the deck. He doesn’t realise he’s staring into space until Mingyu interrupts. 

“Should we—”

“Throw them overboard,” Hoshi says, voice flat. 

“But, this one seems like he’ll come around. We could question him and drop him off wherever next—”

“He’s a shit seaman, if even a pirate, he’s got what came for him. Throw. Him. Overboard.” Hoshi is out of breath, yet grits the words out through clenched teeth. “All of them.”

Hoshi slips his dagger back into its sheath at his hip. All he can think about is your blown pupils and you in your nightgown. All he can think about is how they were almost bested by a child. All he can think about is how you had to make that final shot to save his ass, that he couldn’t do it himself. 

Mingyu senses his mood and asks no more questions, simply pushing the remaining bodies out into the water. He vaguely registers Minghao sending the men a prayer into the sea. Mingyu’s already trying to get the stupid naval flag off the mast, stripping off his jacket and disposing of it at the base to start climbing. 

Chan pushes a clean rag into his chest, and he looks down to receive it and notes a tinge of blood at his collar. Right, he was bleeding. 

They go back to cleaning, except it’s a lot more silent. 

Jun walks back up to help, but this time he has both of his clean, black revolvers strapped at his hip.

THERE WERE FEWER PEOPLE in the war room this time around, the captain sits beside Mingyu, Jun and Minghao as they attempt to sketch out a crude rendition of your discussion. The pirate captain does nothing but use his dagger to pick under his nails, barely speaking as he listens in on the conversation. 

Not that you cared, you and the rest of his crew seemed to get along better than you did with the captain anyway. Saving the man’s life seemed to hold no weight to him, not that you expected it but a ‘thank you’ would have sufficed. 

“Keep the grenade til the last minute if it makes you feel better, so you’ll know I’m not trying to sink the wrong ship,” you sigh as you clarify. Minghao doesn’t reply as he scribbles the details. Jun rolls his eyes at his meticulous nature. 

“We need to port in the next couple days if I’m gonna finish this grenade in time,” he says, looking at his captain pointedly. 

“We can stop at Port Ash,” Hoshi says. 

Port Ash was no man’s land, which also meant it was every man’s land. 

Being mostly occupied by pirates and other thieves and criminals it was considered dangerous territory for anyone who didn’t speak in lies, deceit and fists. This crew would fit right in, but you worry for yourself. 

“That’s not gonna be till a week and a half,” Mingyu interjects. 

Jun frowns as he looks at Mingyu and then back at his captain, “I can’t wait that long.”

“We’ll pick up what we can at Hasry when we stop for rations,” Hoshi replies. 

“But—”

“Deal with it. There’s nothing we can do about it.”

Jun looks like he wants to say something, and Mingyu has the good sense to interject again to ask more questions about the plan. 

“How much manpower do you think the king’ll have?” he asks.

You sigh, crossing your arms as you lean back in your chair. “I have no idea. Could be five, could be fifty.”

“Not even an inkling?”

“Considering how he wants the lot of you gone, it’s probably on the larger side. But…” you pause. 

“But?”

“He’s smart. Always seemingly one step ahead. I wouldn’t be surprised if he catches us blind.” 

“I know enough about that,” Hoshi snorts. There’s a glint in his eye that suggests something, but you don’t press.

“I was wondering…we should probably change course even if it takes us longer. My father might intercept—”

“Did that. Didn’t take the obvious alternative route either,” Mingyu replies, and you note that he looks proud of himself. “We can take our time too, the ransom note suggested we took the way past Scarsfield.”

“We should be careful of other boats anyway,” you say, gulping down a lump in your throat before continuing. “Those other sailors could’ve been my father’s men too, for all we know.”

“They were on a smaller boat too,” Hoshi adds, he looks like he’s making connections in his brain. “What’re the odds they were dropped farther back into a smaller boat?”

There’s a pause as you absorb what he’s implying. “Are you saying they’re on our tail?”

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” he says, exhaling heavily through his nose. “He’s done it before. It was a sorry attempt then and it was a sorry attempt now.”

“How did you shake him off last time?”

The panic in your chest is barely there, but as you register the possibility, you find yourself breathing increasingly heavy. 

“Circling farther out before going the opposite way so we wouldn’t cross paths.” He shakes his head. “But we can’t do that now, not when we can’t afford detouring. The port stops are as late as I’m willing to go.”

“What if we skip Hasry? It’s our more obvious stop, we’ll just stop at Ash later,” Minghao suggests. 

“We’ll starve, we’ve got no food,” Hoshi gruffs.

“Portwater?” 

“Too far.”

It’s silent yet again as everyone racks their brains. You feel very useless all of a sudden, you didn’t know the names of harbours or ports this far out.

“We’ll just port at Hasry and be extra careful, there’s nothing we can do.” Hoshi sighs at his own ultimatum. 

He gets up and walks around the table to the door, “I’ll update the others.”

You glance as he walks past you, his figure leaving a gust of wind in your face. He smelled nice, which was saying something considering the state some pirates are known to be in. As he brushes past, your gaze is met with the other side of the war room, an empty oil lamp bracket on the wall. 

The memory of the storm floods your mind, and suddenly your cheeks are burning. Snapping your head back, you're thankful they’re all absorbed in the papers and plans on the table, oblivious to the memory that’s flashed before your eyes. Mingyu was the one who saw you in your compromising position, and you didn’t know him well enough to decide whether he’d do something as dumb as dish out his captain’s ‘affairs’. 

You file out the room with them. They don’t escort you to your rooms, make sure you stay in one place, restrict your wandering anymore. Perhaps they’d realised you weren’t actively attempting to sink the ship anymore, or that if you jumped off the edge it didn’t matter to them that much, but you appreciated the space anyway. 

Briefly catching Seungkwan filling Mingyu in on the past couple hours they’d been below deck, you turn over to catch his eye. He waves, and you wave back. You don’t realise what you did till it already happened, noting the smile on his face as he did it. You choose to move past it and find the captain. 

There was something you wanted from him. 

There’s no trace of him on the main deck, eyes scanning the area to no avail. A movement from above catches your peripheral attention, eyes squinting as you crane your neck up to look. Hoshi has leaned his back against the railing of the crow’s nest, arms crossed, visible hand occupied with a brass telescope that glints in the sunlight. 

He isn’t using it though, merely gazing at the horizon with furrowed brows. As though he could see better without the device in his hand. In the few minutes that you’re looking at him, you notice the muraled, multicoloured shirt that blows with the wind, a kaleidoscope of beiges, greens and reds. The crop of his blonde hair blends in with the clear blue-white sky. 

Briefly wondering how he’s managing the impossible heat, a hand coming over your own eyes as a visor, you simply look back down. Seungkwan is next to you. You aren’t quite sure how he got there, but he stands next to you, hands on his hips, a pleasant expression on his face. 

“Is there anything you want when we dock? We’re trying to make a list,” he says. Somehow, the prospect of pirates making lists boggled you a little. It was a little jarring, not quite sure why he asked a captive anyway.

But then again, were you a captive anymore?

“I don’t think so, no,” you reply and then juggle whether you should push it with another measly formality. “Thank you for asking.”

“That was your first kill, wasn’t it?”

“What?” You knew what he was talking about, but you weren’t expecting him to bring it up in the moment when he’s asking you about restocking supplies. And especially not with a smile on his face. 

“That day, when you used Jun’s revolver to shoot the lad.” 

A kid. He was a child. 

“I…yeah I’d never done it before.”

“What made you do it?” he asks, remaining as nonchalant as ever. 

“I—I don’t know, it looked like there wasn’t another option,” you say, not quite sure of yourself either. 

Why did you shoot him? You’d never laid hands on a gun before, your father forced you into the category of archery and crossbows, not that you were very good at them either but it was also because you simply wanted to spite your father by being plain bad. It worked, because it only took a year and a half and an arrow straight into his study window to retire from the sport entirely.

Even then, your targets had been apples, barrels and tree trunks. Never a person. 

You’d heard of what people tended to do in pressuring situations, and with the way the aftermath unfolded, it didn’t seem like you made the wrong decision to pick up that revolver anyway. 

But the feeling lingers, the same one that you saw as you gazed into the back of the boy that held the captain of this ship hostage. It felt wrong. Like watching the pirate captain cornered was a picture you couldn’t quite make sense of in your head. 

So you pulled the trigger. 

“In any case, we’re glad you made that decision. We all owe you for it.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you gulp, inhale and press your lips in a line. “That’s a lot for a pirate to say.”

“I know.”

BY THE TIME YOU manage to corner Hoshi it’s already the next day, and you’re only a couple hours away from docking at Hasry. 

It’s an anxious ordeal, the crow’s nest constantly occupied by someone trying to catch sight of a possible tail. There was no sign, yet anyway. 

“I want to learn to use a knife.”

He was piling coiled ropes when you’d said it, pushing the heap to the side, sweating through his clothes. There was a flash of confusion on his face as he registered you. 

“Why? So you can slit all our throats in our sleep?” he grumbles as he pushes a barrel against the railing. He’s too aggressive, and the force has the splashback soaking his clothes in freshwater, tsk-ing audibly. 

You ignore the way his previously loose shirt now sticks to him, ignore the way the droplets land on your boots when he shakes his sleeve. 

“We’ve discussed what we might be up against, I don’t want to be useless when the time comes.”

“Seemed pretty alright with that revolver.”

“Anyone can shoot a gun,” you say, getting the sudden urge to fidget with the front of your shirt. You try to make your voice sound as declarative as possible. “I want to learn to fight. With a knife, with a sword, with my hands if I have to.” 

He doesn’t say anything as you look down, fiddling with the tassels on your shirt. Your excuse was the sun and the way it was beating down on the deck this afternoon, getting tired of squinting to simply look straight. When the silence prolongs you look up to push further, juggling with bringing up the fact that you saved his life and that, as Seungkwan very graciously told you, he owes you. 

The sound your throat makes is unhuman, because when you look up the captain's soaked shirt is now off his back. 

The skin is near white from the glare of the sun, remnants of glazed water that’s somehow made its way to his back as well. The dip in his shoulder blade reflected a dark marking, one that you couldn’t make out. 

He wrings it as you can only watch, mouth gaping like a fish. Hanging it over one of the suspended ropes to dry, he mutters as he walks to the lower decks. 

“Fine,” he says nonchalantly. “We’ll get you a knife at Hasry.”

Hasry. Right. 

The port is quiet, at least as quiet as a port can be. There’s not much to see but fishermen both returning and leaving for another week's worth of fish supply. Minghao manages to pay and convince the harbourmaster that they were merchants on their way back to the Kingdom, stopping for supplies. The naval make of the ship helped, and then the crew pulled lines and ropes secured from masts in ways you couldn’t quite decipher. 

You assumed you would stay on board, yet when Chan knocked and brought you some roughspun clothes from the town, you were informed you’d be joining them. 

Hoshi deemed it safer, keeping the rest of the crew on board while he, along with you and Seungkwan, ventured into the village to get what was needed and leave before the sun fully set. If they really were being followed, the ship was going to be the first thing they seized. 

Pulling the grey shawl further up your head, you attempt to look as blended as you could, Chan pressing down your shoulders to force you into a slouch. 

“Stop walking like you're important,” he had said. 

“I’m a princess,” you snapped back, but he wasn’t listening, only jabbing at you to keep the haughtiness out of your tone before it caught somebody’s attention. 

The town was a quaint little place, something out of what you were read from storybooks, reminiscent of the paintings that you’d run past on the walls of the palace. The streets cleaner than you’d expected, the faint scent of baked goods in the air mixed with, onion soup, was it? In any case you were glad you were past the fish market, the yelling and the stench nearly sending you to the pavement, gagging. 

When Hoshi returns, you and Chan are looking at a jewellery stall that’s selling necklaces, bracelets and anklets that look like rosaries; colours of deep ocean blue and sunset pinks, beautifully vibrant against their grey canvas backdrop. 

You can only observe from afar, instructed to not interact with anyone while he was gone. Hoshi was gone to get food supplies, but returned empty handed. Systems were in place, that the crates would be on their way to the “big naval ship” at the docks for the rest of the crew to receive.

“They said there was a blacksmith up this alley” Hoshi says, eyes also trained on the uncharacteristically colourful jewellery stall, but he does nothing to move towards it. “We can get your knife there.”

“Knife?” Chan asks, confused. 

“Miss princess wants to learn to fight—”

“Don’t!” Chan hisses, eyeing the men in black uniform that patrol the market from the shadows. 

“It’s fine, they’re too far,” Hoshi says. “Let’s get this over with.”

You do find a blacksmith, an older man with a greying beard and bloodshot eyes that presents Hoshi and Chan with an array of knives and daggers. Either they were able to give an excuse, or he gave no mind to the third woman that trailed behind, the blacksmith continued to deal with the two men as they haggle over prices. 

There’s another seller a ways away, and she’s laid out her goods on the floor on what looks like old drapes. It’s a woman, not much older than you were, unravelling a long string of leather cord. She cuts it, strings a charm through and seals the frayed end with a candle flame that burns at her side. 

The curtain she’s laid her accessories on is patterned with bright colours, and you realise you can’t make out any of it from where you stand. 

Glancing behind you, the men are still occupied with their bartering, seemingly forgetting of your presence. Taking a step back, you pretend to skim through the neighbouring stalls, glancing breezily at woven baskets, layers of folded fabric and towers of painted ceramic cups. 

You stop before the laid out array of more necklaces and earrings, scanning the ground. The vendor looks up and gives you a big, crooked toothed smile, urging you to come forward, to take a look at what she has to offer. 

Something does catch your eye, and you immediately crouch down to see it better. Picking up the necklace from the charm, you let the gold and red rest on your fingers as you study the make. 

“That one’s new,” the woman says. “Practical too.”

The small brass letter opener that’s looped through the cord looks like it could do its job just fine despite its miniscule size. 

“It’s quite popular among the busy merchants,” the vendor speaks in a rough tone, almost like she had a perpetual sore throat. “Easier to use this instead of looking for those bulky ones in their neverending drawers and—and in their cabinets.”

She lets out a laugh, “Quite pretty too.”

You stare at it for a moment, “How much?”

“Ten coin.”

You sigh, setting the necklace back down onto the cloth. Standing straight, you turn to walk away before she yells again. 

“I’ll do seven!” 

You consider whether you should speak, but you also doubt you’d be recognized just by the sound of your voice.

"I don’t have coin,” you rasp. 

“How about that pretty thing on your finger then?” she asks. 

The ring on your middle finger is a simple band of silver, a coming of age present from your father’s court a few years ago. You stare at the band, worth boatloads more than what this woman in an alley was offering you.

But you find yourself moments later, middle finger empty, and pocket lined with the long leather necklace with the miniature letter opener charm. 

By the time you return to the blacksmith’s shop front, Chan is handing the man his coin as Hoshi holds an object sheathed in fabric. They turn around just soon enough to make it seem like you never left. 

“Why are you standing so far away?” Chan asks. “Come closer.”

You listen, moving closer to the both of them as they get ready to make the trek back to the docks where the ship waits. 

“The crates have probably been loaded too,” Hoshi says, his hands suddenly empty. You assume he’s pocketed the knife somewhere. “Let’s hurry and leave before—”

“Princess?”

It was your mistake that you turned around to acknowledge the title, something you realise as soon as you register the man that spoke to you. 

Henley was a stout man, dressed even now in the finest suit of a berry colour, hair white as a ghost. There was no reason for a merchant so rich he had ties with the royal family to be wandering in a harbour market, but he also had every reason to be here. 

If it was the recognition in your eyes, or the fact that they were just being smart, you feel one of the pirates wrap their fingers around your upper arm and pull you to walk away from the alley. 

“Princess!” Henley yells and you cringe at his volume. People are looking now, and you briefly wonder why you aren’t running yet. 

Your heart is pounding against your chest so hard it’s deafening any other sound in your ears, you still don’t know which one has a hold of you, but you let them guide you into a speed walk as you exit the narrow alleys of the main market. 

The shawl above your head is pushed further down, shielding your face in a shadow. There’s nothing in your mind other than Clarence Henley and his rich suit, his gold pocket watch, his trimmed, white hair. His face that you only ever saw within palace walls, always accompanied by your father. 

There’s a good chance you’re shaking, because you can feel your body rejecting it with the pain in your palms that you can only consider to be your own nails pressing into your hand. 

The stench of the fish market helps, bringing you back from your daze as you finally register the ground beneath your feet. It’s only a few more minutes till you reach the docks and you’re suddenly being pushed up the ramp that leads to the main deck of the ship.

It’s immediate comfort, the familiar brown of the floorboards, the scent of saltwater and warping sounds of the sails. You’re led to your quarters, where you finally let the makeshift hood and cape fall. 

“Are you alright?” 

Snapping your head up, you’re met with Seungkwan and his concerned gaze. 

“Oh, erm.” Your voice sounds…not like your own. 

“It’s okay, breathe.” It helps, because it really did feel like you’d forgotten to breathe. 

“We’re leaving in just a few, everything’s been loaded. Nobody followed you on board, don’t worry.”

Right. You were on the ship, you were in your quarters with some of the most feared pirates on the seas. 

The way Seungkwan is easing you through your gulps of water suggests legends in the mix, but you appreciate it regardless. 

When you’ve come round, feeling more like yourself, the ship has already left Hasry Harbour, sailing into the deeper waters of the ocean. 

“Captain said they couldn’t run because it just would’ve been more suspicious,” Seungkwan informs you as you nod. “Did you…did you recognise him? The man at the market.” 

The thoughts come flooding back, the colour of his suit, the jarring nature of a man of such wealth standing in a rundown port market. 

“He’s a merchant, one of the wealthiest. A friend of my father’s. If he even has any friends.” 

You pause as you think about the near blackout you’d had, the way the panic more than boiled over, taking over your senses and your rationality. 

“I think…” you trail off. “I think I just felt like it was the end. I finally had an opportunity to get rid of that tyrant and seeing something that was from home, felt…it felt like I was going to end up right back where I started.”

Seungkwan doesn’t say a word as you digest your own words, accepting your own fear that had rendered you useless in the time it probably mattered most. 

“Do you feel better now?”

“A little,” you answer. 

“Maybe a weapon can help.”

At the door stands Hoshi, a stern expression on his face as he looks directly at you on the bed. In his hands, the same fabric covered knife he acquired at the market. 

You know that you asked for this, but the jolt in your stomach still makes itself known. 

“He’s right,” Seungkwan says, lifting from his chair. “Blades have a way of calming you in any case.”

You note the glinting hilt of Seungkwan’s sword sheathed at his hip, remember Hoshi’s own daggers that he seems to be emotionally attached to. 

Lifting your head back to Hoshi, you ask, “Can we start now?”

He smirks. 

ALL NIGHT, THE STUPID pirate captain had you taking swings at the air. 

“Your opponent’s baked a fruit cake by the time you were done with that swing,” he comments, continuously unhelpful. “Swing faster.”

It’s nighttime, nothing but a few oil lamps on the floor of the deck keeping you and Hoshi in the light. Your shoulder burns, your forearms are liquid, and your non-existent opponent remains forever stronger than you. 

“I’m done,” you huff, thoroughly spent. Crumbling to the floor, you bring your non-dominant hand up to your aching shoulder in an attempt to massage it. 

It’s been a while, the moon high up in the sky when you finally decide to quit it for the night. He lets you go without a fight, and you doubt you’d have the energy to if he decided to do it anyway. 

The following day, he’s tweaked his regiment a little, and you find that you’re finally swinging at something tangible; him. 

He leaves himself open, an invitation to strike wherever you want. You feign for his shoulder, but he sees you coming from a mile away, already deflecting your flattened blade that comes for his thigh.

“Don’t look where you want to strike, you’re giving yourself away.”

Furrowing your brows, you dislodge your knife from his own and back away again. He’s immediately cocking a brow, telling you to come at him again. You go for his middle, slashing your knife in an arc as he simply deflects. 

“Come on, find a pace,” he grunts. 

Coming down with your knife again, he blocks you but this time with his forearm, pushing you back by the wrists. It was a battle of strength, as he forces your wrists down. He was stronger than you, and there was no way you could push away, so you dispel your own force. He stumbles from the sudden forward force, and you pull away to take a swing from above. 

He recovers faster than you thought he would, already coming up when you’re ready to swing. He raises a hand to deflect, half a moment too late as your blade slashes across the heel of his hand. 

There’s a brief splash of red against the blue backdrop of the sky, and you gasp on instinct, immediately moving away. 

There’s an apology ready on your lips, mouth gaping as you watch him inspect the wound. You don’t get to say anything because he beats you to it. 

“Deep enough,” he comments, like he was inspecting a painting. “Keep this up and you might actually be good by the end of the week.”

Oh. 

“Alright,” he says again, moving back into position.

“Are you gonna wrap that?” you ask, referring to the bloody hand. 

“It’s fine, I’ve fought with worse,” he says. 

You blink as you reluctantly get back into position, bracing yourself as you continue to look at his hand dripping blood onto the deck. 

“You’re getting the hang of pacing, but you need to start considering your blade as an extension of yourself—JESUS!”

You’ve swung at him faster than you ever have, putting everything into that single tug of your knife. He wasn’t expecting it, still talking over your glances at his palm. He had his guard down, and you took the chance. He ducks on instinct, but it could’ve been another scar for him to remember if you’d made it. 

You stumble as he circles you to the other end, flattening his blade on your back.

“Nice try,” he says. “Really nice try. But you never turn your back to your opponent.”

“I lost my footing,” you defend, but even you knew that wasn’t an excuse. 

“And I just stabbed you in the back. And now I’ll have to present your corpse to your father and hope he’ll accept it and give me my ship. We all lose.” 

The pressure of the blade leaves your back and you're suddenly left looking stupid despite doing something somewhat right. 

“You’d just swindle another poor sailor off his boat and move on,” you say. “You’re a slippery thing.”

He has a smile on his face that borders a smirk yet is innocently mischievous enough. It’s a strange sight, bloody hand, relaxed face. There’s a clean-ish rag on a nearby closed barrel that he uses to wipe the excess blood off his hands. 

“I keep going because I live without regret.”

You can only roll your eyes as a scoff leaves your mouth before you can stop it. You simply turn around, settling to the floor, going back to massaging your still aching shoulder. That last blow only made it worse.

“I don’t regret things, miss princess. Ask me why.”

You remain silent. 

“Come on,” he urges, that silly smile remaining on his face. He’s washing the wound now with freshwater from the barrel.

Sighing, you ask him, “Why?”

“Because I don’t ever do things I’d regret.”

“That insinuates you think before you act.”

“Right-O,” he declares, wrapping another torn cloth on his cleaned wound.

“Funny,” you answer. “Because I dont think I’ve ever seen any hint of light behind your eyes.”

He turns around to you, sheathing his dagger at his hip, a dangerous look in his eye.

“You’ve looked into my eyes?” 

The clench in your jaw must have been visible, or the look of disgust on your face might’ve been apparent just the same, because the pirate captain simply laughs out loud before retreating towards the stairs to go below deck. 

“I’ll send Jun up, practise with him.”

You wanted to send your knife, point first, hurtling into his retreating form. 

Never turn your back to your opponent, my ass. 

But you don’t, mostly because he’d probably manage to deflect that too. So you resort to sitting cross legged on the deck, staring at your dagger while waiting for Jun to meet you upstairs. 

Hoshi said he picked the knife based on a number of things you’d already forgotten, something about carbon steel and having a good grip. It’s quite pretty, you’ll have to admit. It’s plain silver, but the reflection it makes in the sun makes it difficult to look away. You’d gotten used to the handle and how it fit in your palm, Hoshi assured you that the more you used it, the more the hilt would mould into your grip. 

Jun stomps onto the deck, revolver-less and instead equipped with an array of knives that he deposits on the deck. 

“Should’ve picked a plain old gun,” he grumbles as he holds one of the longer blades in his hand. “Job’s done and you don’t need to get within ten feet.”

“Don’t have to reload a knife, do I?” you comment, taking the first swing. 

Jun may have an affinity for guns and explosives, but his handling with a knife was still nothing below an expert level. He pushes your arm off before spending you into a ballroom spin, flatting his blade at your collarbone. 

That could’ve been your throat.

“No, but by now I could’ve shot you, thrown you overboard, and been on my way to a nap,” he says in your ear, before releasing you as you get back into position again. 

That could’ve been your throat.

THE FOLLOWING WEEK PASSES with your days and nights muddled into a strange mixture of swinging knives and taking breaks slumped against the deck of the ship, unmoving. 

It’s a particularly hot day, the giant glowing orb beating down on the deck with no mercy. Not that it stops you, because the sun remains unwavering, high in the sky, and you remain unwavering in your wide legged stances as you lunge for Chan again. 

Chan’s entire being glistens in the afternoon light, the beads of sweat that he wipes off his forehead only seem to reappear every couple minutes. His clothes cling to him like a second skin, taking long breaths through his teeth amidst the difficult, humid air. 

You don’t doubt you look the same, one hand in your hair suggesting you just took a bath in your own sweat. But Chan seems accustomed to the heat, and while you weren’t, you couldn’t deny your growing comfortability with it all. 

It’d been a while since your meal, hence your sluggish movements were slowly turning increasingly sharp, having cornered Chan multiple times in the duration. You’re determined to not be the one to call for a time out, so you find yourself pushing beyond what you’ve been doing for the past week or so. 

There’s a particular punch of heat at your sides, and you can feel yourself slowing. 

One deep breath, a slow exhale.

It’s all clangs and reflections of knives, tiny droplets of blood as evidence of both of your tiny, unintentional nicks and cuts. You’re succeeding, pushing the man further and further back. 

“You’re getting sloppy, aim for the blade not my tendons,” Chan seethes through his teeth. 

“I’m trying,” you grunt through the effort. 

You’re set back for a couple minutes before you go back to pushing. Your lungs burn, your entire side is numb from exertion, but you give more than your body is made for, and you succeed—kind of. 

Chan back is against the railing of the deck before he realises it, and perhaps it was momentum, or sheer exhaustion, because one minute you’ve got eyes on Chan’s hands and his blade, and the next he’s gone. There’s a loud splash, and you suddenly realise what you’ve done. 

You just pushed Chan overboard. 

You scream before you can help it, dropping your knife with a loud, resonating clang. Pushing against the rails, you peer down to find a giant ripple on the surface of the ocean, whipping your head around to the stairs leading below deck to find Mingyu and Hoshi bounding upstairs. 

“What? Where’s Chan, he was supposed to be with you,” Hoshi asks, whipping his head around the deck. 

Your wide eyed, horrified response from near the edge tells them all they need to know. 

By the time Chan’s pulled himself on board, soaked and dripping like a wet poodle, you’ve sat yourself the furthest away from the railing to prevent any more trouble. He drops onto the floor, creating a human sized puddle. 

With the way the two men had merely sighed and threw the ladder over the exterior of the ship, you concluded that this must happen enough for them to be beyond the point of concern. It only adds to it when you see Mingyu nudge Chan’s unmoving but heaving body with the toe of his boot, giggling at his expense. 

You make your way over, crouching beside Chan sheepishly. 

“Sorry about that, got carried away.”

He’s sitting up now, quickly pulling himself back to his feet and you spring back from your crouched position. 

“It’s fine, happens.” He has a small smile on his face as he says it and you conclude that he may find the situation laughable as well. 

“Now, Chan,” Hoshi says, not letting Chan move into the deck any further from the railing. “What’s the first thing you learn about brawling on a ship?” 

Chan looks slightly embarrassed as he answers, “Be aware of your surrounding—ARGH.”

Hoshi pushed him into the water. 

You jump as you run back to the rails, watching as Chan’s head re-emerges at the surface after his second dip in the ocean. 

Just as you���re about to say something to Hoshi, he’s stuck his head over the railings as well, yelling at Chan in some singsong voice. 

“One time was a mistake, twice is a problem!”

To your left, only adding to your horror, is Mingyu doubled over in his fit of laughter, heaving as he giggled uncontrollably. He’s also holding onto the railings for dear life, but clearly, for reasons completely different from yours. 

The situation resolves itself as both you and Chan learn a few lessons of practicality. Deciding you’ve done enough damage to your body, you announce that you’d be retiring for the day. 

“Thank goodness, I was about to confiscate that stupid knife, I’ve been hearing clanging in my sleep,” Mingyu mumbles as he pulls the rope ladder back up to the deck. 

In any case, you have the urge to take a dip in the ocean yourself, feeling increasingly uncomfortable in your drying sweat. 

Grabbing a clean washcloth, you fill a bucket of freshwater from one of the barrels on deck and lug it into your quarters. The soaked washcloth does wonders for your overheated body, feeling enormously better after a change of clothes. 

Your scalp, however, remains itchy and burning, so you decide to go back up to the main deck, hoping to manoeuvre a hair wash situation without needing to mop the floors of your quarters. 

Refilling the bucket of freshwater, you set it down before scanning the empty deck for another spare bucket. You try not to scoff at the unwavering determination of the pirate crew to keep the deck unoccupied for such long increments, that last altercation teaching them absolutely nothing. You wonder how they’ve managed to survive for so long like this. 

Shaking the thought, you use the spare bucket as a way to deposit your waste water as you pour cups of clean water over your aching scalp. The feeling does wonders for you, letting the water wash away weeks worth of grime, sweat and stress. 

You’re almost back home in your quarters when the whiff of your hair salts hits your nose, the ones you’d packed for yourself, closing your eyes for a moment as you rub them into your scalp. You don't expect the clench that seizes your chest, but you falter when it happens anyway.

It’s nostalgic, and you hate it. 

It smells like the palace, like the incense your ladies in waiting always burned, the stench of citrus having made its way into your bones from the years of exposure to the scent. It’s too much as you blink back tears, owing them to the suds that have made their way into your eyes. 

The sting helps bring you back, opening your eyes to an orange glow and the waft of seasalt  hitting your nose. You’re more aggressive when you dunk your cup into the bucket this time, too aggressive as you feel the half full bucket tip over and spill water all over the deck as you cause yet another accident. 

Cursing loudly, you try to blink away the suds from your eyes, soap still in your hair as you try to figure out how to get another bucket of water without ruining your fresh change of clothes, mentally kicking yourself at not thinking this through.

“You realise we have to make do with that freshwater till we make it to Ash?” 

Wet hair still in your hands, you attempt to peer up at the voice, only to find Hoshi standing above you, arms crossed over his chest with a funny expression on his face. Huffing, you grumble out in response, “Can you just get me a fresh bucket?”

“Hm, I don’t know, can I?” He removes his gaze and begins to pretend looking over at the horizon and the setting sun. 

Chiding yourself for even bothering to ask, you reach for the tipped bucket yourself, deciding you’d figure it out yourself if this dumb pirate was choosing to be of no help. But before you could latch your fingers on the handle, the bucket’s snatched away. 

At first you think he’s being funny, taking the bucket away to watch you struggle even further. “You—”

Except you watch him as he dunks the bucket back into the barrel of freshwater, lugging it back to where you could reach. “Try not to paint the deck with it this time, I’ve already mopped twice.”

The thank you freezes on your tongue, and for some reason you can’t say it to him. So you make a scene of splashing into the bucket with vigour, sending spills over the rim and taking mild satisfaction in hearing him sigh at the sight of more mopping. 

He’s already gotten hold of the worn mop by the time you’re done as you remerge with clean hair, wringing your own mop of hair to deposit the excess water. Straightening out your back, you take hold of the spare cloth you brought along with you, patting your hair with it. 

The sun remains in its mission to cast its golden glow, but only illuminates Hoshi’s grumbling form as he mops up all the water you’ve spilled. 

“You know, I should really be making you—” He halts as he makes eye contact with you, your hands still occupied with patting your hair dry, flicking the wet strands. You have a rebuttal already prepared, waiting for him to finish his jab. 

“Make me what? you grind. 

You can’t make out the look on his face, somewhere between constipated and on the edge of a yelp, he keeps staring at you. You note a slight trickle of water making its way down your neck and chest, bleeding into your shirt as yet another water stain. 

“Nothing,” he says, to your surprise. 

And with that uneventful climax, you trudge back down to your quarters, a strange brewing in your chest.

[AN]: congrats you made it to the end of part 1!!!!! reblog ur thots and opinions or send me an ask, id love to hear the turmoil in ur minds lol

[tswwwit]

Widower part One is over here.

And the second part is here!

Bill pulls him out of the party early, which might be the only cool thing he’s ever done.

The rest of the demons busy themselves drinking, dancing, and getting into fights. Dipper hears the cacophony fade as he’s dragged out of the reception hall and through a door that seals itself behind them. Once shut, the noise drops from a din to distant rumble and the thudding of bass.

Good riddance. The last hour was loud and chaotic and bright, with enough alcohol in the air to make him feel tipsy just by breathing. Getting the hell out of there is so great he barely minds who’s guiding him out.

Besides. He doesn’t have much of a choice.

With his hand held tight in Bill’s own, there’s no way out. Trying to pull it away or shake it off is futile; the demon only tightens his grip until his knuckles ache. 

Dipper keeps his eyes on this monster’s golden surface. Any sudden movement. Any twitch, and next thing he knows he’ll be a burst of molecules, or frozen in stone - or something else entirely. 

Whatever evil plot is going on here, it’s so secret Dipper’s never heard a hint of it. Not in all the rumors, not in all his research. No demons have mentioned it in interrogations; thought to be fair the questions were likely the wrong ones. No scouts have ever delved into the Fearamid. Nobody else has seen what he’s seen.

Those pictures. 

If Dipper hadn’t stared at the damn things himself, he would have thought it was crazy. But those paintings were made with skill and careful brushstrokes, held in solid paint and canvas, too real to be anything else, and wearing his face. It’s…

An illusion, maybe? Dipper has that talent, he’s hard to fool. But it could be crafted so well it even messed with him. Or maybe mental magic, instead? A creation that left a blank space his brain filled in with whatever Bill wanted. 

Something’s up, anyway. A trick. A ploy. What Bill did back there with the eye-mouth… thing, is a distraction from what’s really happening. 

Dipper shuts his eyes against the memory, but he can’t seem to push it out of his head. Metal lips on your entire face will do that. 

“Alright, that’s far enough.” Bill says, stopping so abruptly that Dipper nearly walks into him. He whips around with a dangerous gleam in his eye. “Here we have a little privacy.”

Dipper says nothing. He glares with all the fury he can muster, though he’s pretty sure bewilderment leaks out around the edges.

Time to learn Bill Cipher what really has in store for him. He steels his shoulders, preparing himself-

And metal slams against his chest, forcing the air out of his lungs with a ‘thump’.

Dipper wheezes, clutching at his chest. Then pats it. Solid gold pushes into him, warm to the touch. A tightness around his waist. This is - 

He stares down at the golden point of a demonic triangle. Bill’s got a hold of him again, gripping the back of his shirt instead of looping arms around him like ropes. The top hat floats just by his face, tilting when he bumps his cheek against it.

For a moment he thought - but no. Nobody else is in the hallway. The party rages onward in the distance. The low buzz of the crowd hums through the Fearamid like the sound of appliances, and no horrible new monster turns the corner to devour him.  

Then this isn’t a distraction for another demon. And whatever Bill’s doing doesn’t hurt. Dipper isn’t clipped in half at the waist, even though the arms are uncomfortably tight. Bill’s warm too, but water-bottle temperature instead of boiling oil. 

Bill’s just stuck to him like the biggest, most godawful sticker. His grip adjusted a few times, there’s an intermittent squeeze - but it’s not harmful.

Dipper waits for a short, heart-pounding half-minute, and still nothing happens. Slowly, tension seeps out of him as it continues being… not bad. 

…Okay, even for a demon this is weird. Something’s up.

“Hello?” Dipper asks. He taps Bill’s metal surface with two sharp raps. 

“Mhgh,” comes the response. One of those strange small hands tightens on his back, balling up the fabric of his shirt. 

Dipper feels his mouth thin into a line. Partly from irritation at this demon, and, okay. A little at himself.

Man, he really needs to work on this. Even now, when all rational thought says he should be terrified, that there’s a malevolent force close enough to obliterate him - all he feels is annoyed. And not even as much as he should be. 

“What the hell, Bill?” It’s pretty much the only thing Dipper can say. It’s not like he’ll just figure out the answer when he’s dealing with the weirdest guy in the world. “What’s going on?”

Bill speaks again, but it’s muffled in shirt fabric. His arms tighten; vibrations rumble through Dipper’s chest and into his skin. And how the hell does that work, when he doesn’t even have a mouth.

Great. So helpful. Dipper’s not trapped in place, thankfully. He can turn around and even walk a few steps unimpeded, with Bill floating along. Retreating doesn’t gain him any space, though; his back merely hits the wall with his involuntary armor plating still stuck to him like glue.

Not dangerous, then. Just awkward. It’s almost a running theme with this creature. 

The attachment has already gone on for several minutes without stopping - but not painful doesn’t mean not uncomfortable. Between unnatural body warmth and the flannel shirt that he’s wearing, Dipper’s sweating from heat, not fear. 

And Bill’s still talking, in an overly-long ramble. One Dipper can both hear and feel, with that odd vibration of his not-mouth. Fingers twitch against his back, and - oh god, is Bill drooling? That horrible multipurpose eye could ooze any kind of fluid.

Cursing under his breath, Dipper gets a hold of the top point, pushing it away even though the corners dig into his fingers. Getting a grip on smooth, angled metal is hard, especially when it’s fighting against him.

When finally he peels Bill off by an inch, the demon’s single eye is slightly bloodshot and staring fully forward at his torso. “-burrow into your chest and live where your lungs used to be, right next to your-”

Dipper lets go, and Bill snaps back into place like a rubber band. Okay. Really didn’t need to hear that. Thankfully it was just a metaphor; he would have felt it if Bill was trying to core him like an apple.

…Though Bill is pressing pretty hard. Between that and his weird magic, who knows? Maybe he could lodge himself into Dipper’s organs without him noticing. That’s definitely not alarming or horrifying or - god, he needs to get out of here. 

Dipper shoves at this asshole, cursing under his breath. Goddamn it, he should know better than this. The stupid party threw him off, along with his own shock. He almost forgot where he was, and what danger he’s facing. Who, exactly, he’s dealing with. 

Grimacing with effort, Dipper digs his fingers underneath the metal plate on his chest and pushes. He avoids touching the hat. He has a gut feeling that would be a huge mistake.

“Mgh!” Bill complains, still muffled by the shirt - but his resistance wanes with the unrelenting pressure. Eventually he pops off like a disconnected suction cup, floating a few feet away.

Dipper backpedals, hitting the wall again and bracing his palms against it. His chest is fully intact, other than being slightly damp from unnamable fluids. His legs still work. If he needs to take off running, he… likely won’t get far, but he could be annoying to catch. 

Bill blinks a few times. Then his lower eyelid curves up again. The bloody intent from earlier in his sclera has vanished, leaving only mild amusement. 

“Looks like you’re in tip-top shape! For a human that is. All the bits in order!” Lower eyelid rising, he pats Dipper’s chest. “Lungs heaving, blood pumping. All anxious and tense. The whole shebang!”

Yeah, he would like that. Torment. Terror. Bill thrives off every drop of the stuff. 

Dipper says nothing. His nails dig into his palms. 

 “What’s the matter, sapling?” Bill tilts to one side, looking oddly… confused. “How ‘bout a smile? A hug? A long, tortured speech about how much you missed me?”

“I’m not giving you anything.” Dipper grits out between clenched teeth. “You’re an asshole.”

Bill rolls his eye, a long dramatic motion. As if Dipper’s protest is less a roadblock than a speedbump. “Yeah, yeah, I know I am. Now how ‘bout that hug?” He spreads his arms wide, wiggling his fingers in a come-hither gesture. “Double points for a smooch, but I’m not particular!”

The face Dipper makes must speak clearly enough, because for the first time in a while, Bill’s eye stops smiling. His arms drop to dangle along his bottom edge.

“Hold up.” Eye narrowing, Bill examines his captive with considered slowness. His gaze focuses on Dipper’s face, like he’s trying to burrow into his brain instead of his chest. “How much do you remember?”

“What’s there to remember?” Dipper asks. Why does everything this monster does have to be weird? ”What the hell is going on?” 

His words come out tinged with hysteria, which is… not the look he’d daydreamed about. If he ever met this creature in the flesh, he wanted to be cooler than this, damn it. He just didn’t account for how fucked up it’d be. 

“Ah. Right.” Bill says, enthusiasm dimming along with his surface. He’s almost plain gold now, with only a hint of light. For a beat he simply floats there, eye focused on something distant. “There’s always a catch, huh?” 

One black hand reaches up as if to touch Dipper’s face. Smacking it away, Dipper scoots sideways, keeping his back to the wall. Then moves little further when Bill follows, arms tucked behind his back and eye-smiling again.

“So! Look at you! A fresh young mortal delivered right to my door, and a feisty one at that!” His upper eyelid wiggles in irritating amusement. “You worried what I’m gonna do to ya?”

Dipper stands stiff, arms at his sides. “Not even a little.”

Hearing Bill laugh again is annoying, but - okay, Dipper can see where it’s coming from this time. Pulling the defiance card in the presence of Bill Cipher is possibly the stupidest move ever. Second only to doing it in front of a crowd. Or maybe cursing him out in the same venue. So overall, it’s only third place stupid in a slowly growing list. 

Still, Dipper won’t budge. He’ll never cower. It’s simply not in his nature.

While demons bother other people on sight, Dipper’s… never really gotten the big deal. Sure, they’re dangerous. But a lot of things are dangerous, like lions or spiders or snakes. The safest way to handle those creatures is to learn their behaviors. And while demons are strange, upsetting, and much more difficult to handle on average - there’s still an internal logic behind their actions, if you can figure it out. 

Dipper’s always had a knack for that nonsensical brand of sense. A useful instinct, one that’s come in handy dozens of times, and helped him take risks others wouldn’t. It’s hard to fear what you understand.

Hell, he should be terrified of Bill Cipher. Everyone else is, for extremely good reasons. Rational, intelligent ones. And Dipper is afraid, in a rational, intelligent way, with the urge to run or fight or freeze tugging at his thoughts, and a tight, bright energy in his chest. 

But he’s not going to panic like your average guy. That’s just dumb. 

The Lord of Nightmares, Bill Cipher, is powerful  - but he’s still a demon. Still just a guy, of sorts. A really insane, sociopathic guy from a totally different realm of existence, who could turn Dipper into fleshy salsa in a snap. 

A fine sweat is building on his neck and running down his back. Dipper isn’t sure if it’s nerves, or residual heat from the too-long grasp. 

Right now, his instincts say Bill isn’t pissed off. That he’s safe-ish, possibly because he’s more amusing than annoying. 

But they also say: Tread carefully. 

“Everything else seems in order. Tip-top shape, like I said!” Bill floats back and forth, examining Dipper with a critical eye. Then the top lid lowers as he starts to frown. “But the memory situation? Ugh. You shoulda demanded an exception to the rules, kid. It’s not like you didn’t have leverage.”

“I don’t - what the fuck are you-” Dipper cuts himself off before he starts shouting. He takes a deep breath, and holds it for three seconds before letting it out. 

Anger has a place, but this isn’t it. Right now he needs answers. 

“Tell me what’s happening.” He says, finally. “Please.”

It comes out weaker than he’d like. He sounds deflated, or maybe just tired. Hell, he feels pretty tired, come to think of it. The trip to the Fearamid was short on comfy places to sleep. 

“Oh, that’s simple.” Bill beams, glowing brighter as he throws his arms out in celebration. “You’re back from the dead, kid!” 

Dipper stares for a long, long second. Then he shuts his eyes, rubbing at them briefly. Bill tries to pat his arm, but he jerks it away.

He can’t have just fallen asleep on his feet. He’s not that tired. So unless being dragged to Bill’s throne room incurred an invisible, painless, and extremely severe head injury - he must have heard that right. 

“I’ve… never died though?” He turns it into a question at the end. 

Maybe he did hit his head on something. Maybe he’s dead already, and this is a strange new form of afterlife torture. Not pain and suffering, just sheer confusion. 

“No, you definitely did. It was real mortal of you. And really rude.”  Bill glares. Truly glares, a look that has Dipper leaning back from the banked anger behind it - then he shrugs, dismissing the whole thing with his strange smile. “But since you decided to show back up, I’ll let it slide. Water under the bridge.”

Such a quick dismissal, for such a… tense topic. Dipper fidgets, not sure how to respond. 

It’s one thing to know that Bill Cipher’s a madman, and another to see him flicker through moods like a flipbook, with no rhyme or reason to it.

“You know that’s insane, right?” He asks. Then grimaces.

Okay, probably a bad choice to mention it - but he has to bring it up. Bill Cipher might be self-aware enough to know he’s crazy. 

”Man, the rules you must have broken to get out of the afterlife - whoo! Tell me all about it when your brain catches up to your spirit.” Bill says. His gaze is focused over Dipper’s left shoulder with his pupil dilated, looking out into some ancient memory. “It’s the second coolest thing you’ve ever done.”

…Or maybe he’s not. 

Either way, he’s ignoring the comment. Or hell, maybe he literally didn’t hear it, lost in his own insane thoughts. Dipper’s known this guy for less than an hour, and he’s pretty sure it could go any which way.

“But man, oh man, we have got a lot to go over once you’re back in the memory business.” Bill taps a foot in the air, looking impatient. “See, I have-”

“No. Back up.” Dipper interrupts, adding another entry to his ‘stupid move’ list. He waves rapidly before Bill can start rambling again. “Start from the beginning.”

Thankfully, he isn’t blasted into particles. His flesh stays meat and blood instead of granite. Bill even adds another check on the ‘insane’ list by looking amused. 

Dipper guesses his instincts are still working correctly; one relief in a day full of weirdness. Hell, of the many demons he’s encountered, Bill’s astonishingly easy to read. 

“Sure thing! There was a summoning, a curse, buncha near-death experiences, yadda yadda yadda -” As he lists them off, Bill rolls his wrist around in a ‘and then y’know’ gesture - “So to make a long story short, you’re my husband!” 

Having said that, he sets fists on his angles. His glow brightens as he quite literally beams with pride.

Dipper opens his mouth. Then shuts it. 

Head injury is looking more and more appealing. He pats the back and sides of his head, but it just messes up his hair. When he checks his hands for blood, Bill laughs at him. Thus making things infinitely worse.

Oh no. He was so, so hoping he misheard that, too. Bill Cipher’s weird enough, it could have been ‘harm plan’ or ‘harp fan’ or ‘horse band’, but it’s not any of those. Just the common, context-proper word of -

But that means Bill Cipher was married at some point, to a human apparently, and - Demons do that? Is that actually a thing? Why would - how would - and Bill’s a shape, for fuck’s sake, shouldn’t he be after something more… angular? A human wouldn’t-

Again Dipper opens his mouth, searching for a response. He looks Bill right in his gleaming, pleased, eerily huge eyeball, and fails to come up with anything. 

This - that can’t be right. It’s too weird.

When Dipper finally manages to speak, what emerges is, “Nuh-uh.”

“Yuh huh.” Bill retorts. He sets fists on his sides, eye shutting. “I can prove it, too. You-”

“No, you can’t.” Dipper snaps before Bill can start yammering again, like the jerk he is. “Because that’s insane. Anyone who would marry something like you would be-”

“Completely mad! Totally off his rocker! And you’re right!” Bill interrupts in turn, glowing bright. A wallet appears in one hand, and he flips it open to reveal a long, long scroll of photos. “I mean, just look at this nerd! Does that seem sane to you?”

“What-” Completing the question is out of the question; Dipper has to back up as pictures keep tumbling down in a connected line. They pile in front of him in violation of every rule of physics. 

In the first of the reel, a man flips off the camera, glaring at the taker. In another he’s asleep, hair tousled and resting on a yellow pillow, in the next he’s fleeing from something with a terrified look on his face. Dozens upon dozens, a never-ending flood.

And in all of them, each and every one. Printed on glossy paper and carefully kept -

A doppelganger smiles back at Dipper, wearing his face.

He stares with growing anxiety, along with an odd twinge of embarrassment. Having so many pictures of anyone would be weird, but it’s twice as bad when it seems like him.

Near the bottom of the pile, Bill himself makes an unusual appearance. The photo taken at arm’s length, camera held out for a selfie that captures the grin of his eye and the specks of blood on his surface. A gold chain trails down from one of his corners, an oddity that Dipper nearly misses - 

Because next to him, that same man is pressing lips on Bill’s side, with his palm resting just under the tie. Some of the blood on Bill’s surface is smudged by his fingers.

Smooches, Bill said. The word didn’t seem real until he witnessed it. Even now it doesn’t quite compute. 

Why Bill would want that is beyond Dipper’s comprehension. Metal can’t feel anything, right? And Bill himself feels nothing in his cold metal heart except amusement, boredom, or anger.  It’s probably the attention he craves, and - who the hell would ever give him a peck on the angles? Especially when he’s speckled red with -

Dipper’s stomach churns, imagining the scene just out of frame. The body that must be lying below, and the twisted shape of it.

“See? One mortal, totally mad for me. Proof.” Bill says with triumph. The photos fold back up into his wallet and get tucked away into the same abstract space. “And I got even more where that came from.”

More than this? Is there more gore, too? Things Bill hasn’t shown off yet? More smug satisfaction in his eye, and more of of Dipper’s face worn by a stranger, doing the unthinkable?

“I- no. Look, I’ve never met you before.” Dipper finds his voice, though it’s thin and reedy. Folding his arms over himself, he rubs at them. Feeling cold and warm, in odd flashes, like his body can’t decide how to react. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“In this life.” Bill wags a finger, as if chiding him for forgetting. “But that’ll change! See, you and I are thick as thieves. Married as hell! The most intertwined interspecies couple this segment of the multiverse!”

Despite himself, Dipper glances down again. The photos are gone, but the memory remains. 

Bill, and blood. Those two are constant companions. He kind of expected those, and thought he’d see more than his fill of the latter.

The unexpected addition to the horrors is printed on photo paper, and painted on canvas. A monster who would touch Bill after someone clearly died right there. There’s zero context that makes standing near a corpse romantic.

“Shocked by your luck, huh? And you should be with a spouse like yours truly!” Bill drifts closer, hands clasped together. He tilts towards Dipper with what might be nuzzling intent. “You won the jackpot, kid.”

“Fuck off,” Dipper says, flat. Then, as Bill doesn’t take the obvious - shoves the bastard, sending him drifting through the air. “I said, fuck off.”

“Aw, calm down, sapling! I’ll even get you a ring this time!” Bill dismisses his protest and floats right back into his personal space. “We can do all the human ceremonies and costumes, have a party - then really get down to business.”

Whatever ‘business’ is, Dipper doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t want to be here. He was kidnapped, he didn’t have a choice. Then Bill Cipher took him as tribute - the asshole - hoping he was the kind of person who would - 

“Now,” Bill says, floating dangerously close. His arms spread as if to capture him again, eye wide and pupil blown out. “How ‘bout that kiss?”

Oh. Dipper is not doing that.

Knuckles to eyeball is a squishy sensation. Like punching a huge goddamn stress ball, only one that’s warm and wet and distinctly alive. Surprisingly gross too; Dipper wants to wash his hand immediately. 

But the triumph of watching Bill Cipher recoil, swearing and clutching at his closed eye, is a dream come true. 

“OW- you- Ugh, right in the cornea.” Bill says, with feeling. Dipper’s next punch lands in his palm, and the hand grows as it closes it around his fist. “Hey hey, you only get one of those for free. Next one’ll cost ya.”

“Fuck you.” Dipper tries to retrieve his fist to no avail. Damn it. A second punch was a bad idea; he’s given Bill another hold on him.

Using his other arm turns out just as useless - and more alarming. Bill merely sighs, sounding tired, just before grabbing him around the torso with one comically huge hand and shoving him back a step.

“Yeesh. Okay, okay, you’re mad. Great.” Bill says, more seriously. He floats up without releasing his hold, looking Dipper over. “And actually mad at that. What gives?”

The sheer audacity has Dipper spluttering. How could - Bill should know why nobody in their right or their wrong mind would ever. That.

“What are-” He starts, trying not to grit his teeth too hard. It’d make yelling at Bill more difficult. “Okay, I could go over a whole list of horrible, fucked-up things you’ve done in the last two decades.” 

“Yeah, yeah, forget those! I’m not talking abstract moral arguments,” Bill says, setting his other fist on his angle. “This grudge seems personal. What put your boxers in a twist?”

Right. Dipper was distracted earlier. Under the barrage of total insanity, he almost forgot what really mattered. 

He pushes against the constraining hold, sneakers squeaking on stone. If only he could get a little closer, that eyeball would be in punching range again. This bastard should know his crimes. Why Dipper will never do anything. 

“You turned my sister into a statue.” 

“Oof.” Bill dims, eyelid lowering in a frown. He almost looks chagrined. “Yep, that’d do it.” 

Dipper lets him know exactly what he’s like, with several choice curses. A quick kick using Bill’s grip as a backboard doesn’t land. Damn this bastard for dodging. 

Bill ignores his struggles. One massive thumb pats Dipper’s side as he thinks, rubbing under his eye. 

“Say, I think I know the gal you’re talking about! Got caught in that errand I ran a year back. Long hair, right?” He waves over his point and under his hat. “And a big sweater! Looks like she got her braces off recently and forgets to use her retainer! I wondered if something was up with that one. Seemed real familiar.”

“Great. You remember.” Dipper grits out. So Bill noticed his sister. Out of thousands of anonymous statuary, she stood out. He isn’t sure whether that makes it better or worse. “All the more reason to kick your ass.”

This awful, evil, bastard laughs at his threat. Like it’s nothing. Dipper sucks in a breath through his teeth, muscles tensing as the boiling anger in his chest sings a song of ‘punch this asshole right in the eye again’.

“Oh, you,” Bill watches him struggle with that same awful amusement. Almost fond. “Whatd’ya know, it’s my lucky day! Once I get this sorted, we’ll be back to married bliss inside a month. No harm, no foul.”

“I’ll show you harm.” Lurching forward, Dipper strains against this preternaturally powerful asshole to no effect. Goddamn demonic powers. Stupid shapeshifting. He hates it.

“Eh, you’ll be less worked up in a bit.” Bill rolls his eye. Another arm pops out and he claps hands together, rubbing them with glee. “And then we can get to wedding planning! It’ll be the biggest bash of the century!”

Dipper groans, a mix of anger and frustration. Bill’s deluded. Insane. Totally distracted. Isn’t Bill Cipher supposed to be smart? 

The distraction, though, gives him just enough leeway to worm an arm out of Bill’s grasp. Fist thumping on the thumb, he hisses out the obvious. “I’m not marrying the guy who killed my sister.”

“Good thing I didn’t kill her then, huh?”

Dipper’s jaw shuts with a click. His fist stills in midair - probably for the best, it was waving around uselessly - and lowers a careful inch. “What?”

“Nobody in the garden’s dead, kid. They’re just trapped in an eternal dreamless sleep!” Bill glows brighter, waving down the hallway towards another corridor. “One five-minute walk, a little magic, and bam! You get your sister back.”

Dipper mouths the air, but comes up with nothing. Bill’s words bounced into the gears of his mind like an expertly thrown wrench, grinding them to a halt.

Get her back. Then. It’s - wait, but everyone says that’s not - how would it even work.

“Ha! Didn’t expect that, didja? That’s adorable!” The giant fist releases Dipper, disappearing into nowhere. Bill claps lightly as if watching a delightful little show. “So, you interested? It’s no big deal for me to refleshify her, but if you prefer a more rocky relationship-”

“No!” Dipper blurts. “No, I do want her back. But…” He gives Bill the dirty look he deserves. As scathing as he can manage. “I think you’re lying.”

“Fair, it’s kinda my thing. But this offer’s legit, kid! Pinky swear.” Bill sticks out his little finger, waggling it in Dipper’s direction. “One intact, healthy, perfectly alive sister, for one hand in marriage. Whatdya say?”

Dipper says nothing, turning slightly away. Ignoring the insanity of that offer, along with the little finger slowly encroaching on his personal space. 

There’s more info to slot into the many mental files he has on Bill Cipher, the liar, monster, and so-called snappy dresser. He’s truly after something, if he’s offering deals to a human. Usually that’s a lesser demon thing. 

Kind of a shame, in informational terms. If Bill did offer deals to people, maybe they’d know more about him. As it stands, nobody knows how Bill does… most of the magic he does. Animating objects, summoning creatures, manipulating the world around him. Impressive by any metric, but too weird to get a grip on. 

The most study has gone into his human statuary habit. Preventing more victims from being zapped away has had tons of money and time thrown in its path, to no effect. It’s incredibly hard to transmute living substances into anything else. The power it’d take to reverse the process - changing from one solid material back to the complexity of life - that’d be insane.

The thought makes Dipper hesitate. Insanity is Bill’s thing. 

And his magic is weird, too. It doesn’t work like most magic should, just as bizarre and nonsensical as its master. It defies definition almost by definition; Dipper knows at least five scientists who have torn hair out trying to make it math properly. 

So it’s possible, maybe. That when Bill turns someone into a statue, he could change them back. 

Dipper glares at Bill’s offered hand. Taps his foot on the floor, looking around, then lifts his chin in defiance. “Prove it, first.”

“Yeah, you would want proof. Skeptic,” Bill says, in that same irritatingly fond tone. “Out to the rock garden then! I think I remember where she’s stashed.”

This time when Bill seizes his arm, Dipper pulls it back slowly instead of jerking it away. It gets a huge eyeroll, but Bill floats forward and beckons him along. 

Dipper watches him drift down the hallway for a bit. A few meters on, Bill turns back and waves him on again, looking annoyed - and Dipper sighs. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, and follows. Not like he has a choice.

The corridors of the Fearamid are just as convoluted as he’d imagined. They twist and branch and shift in noneuclidean directions, and odd angles. Dipper could swear they’re upside down at one point as Bill leads him on a merry trail to an outer edge.

One thing has been clarified, at least. Why he’s here. 

Bill Cipher, at some point, married a human. Some jackass who bargained with this jackass, probably for power. Who knows what schemes and scams they got up to. What torments and terrors they caused, what the fuck made a person smile at a triangle like that for crying out loud - Anyway. Bad things happened.

But that, as all things, came to an end. Bill’s partner in atrocities and nightmares did the mortal thing, and got away from his insidious grasp. He must have forgotten that mortal beings have an expiration date. Super disappointing for the demon. Annoying, even. Bill said as much himself, it was really rude to leave like that -

But it’s all better now. Isn’t it. 

He’s found a replacement.

If anyone needed further proof that Cipher was completely off his rocker, that would be the final fucking straw. 

Dipper grimaces at the thought, and ignores Bill’s curious look. They can’t be far from the statue garden now, and he’s not taking any of this demon’s obvious conversation bait. Tuning out the questions and commentary and keeping his trap shut, even when it’s really tempting to argue with some stupid, arrogant statement. 

That’s demons for you. They never leave well enough alone. Always causing trouble, getting into what you least want them to get into. Bothering decent people for kicks. 

So as fucked up as this… reincarnated dead husband thing is, it’s very demonic. The backwards, flipped-around logic they use fits it to a tee.

Like, yeah, okay. Dipper can admit the pictures are damning. No wonder Bill was thrilled to see him, it was like finding an exact copy of a favorite mug that got broken. A resemblance that’s downright eerie, almost enough to make him wonder - 

Except the guy in question was simping over a triangle. 

Absolutely not. Never in his life, or any life, ever. Bill’s dead husband and him are nothing like each other, not where it matters. 

Plus, there’s the obvious.

Reincarnation isn’t a thing. 

For as long as magic has been studied, scholars have tried to get at the nature of the soul. Kings and emperors have sought the secrets of immortality - which has never panned out. Prophets and madmen have claimed to be so-and-so reborn, only to be disproven. 

Souls are unique. The personal fingerprint of the individual, written in energy and riddled with life. Even now it’s hard to pin down exactly what it is, other than there’s something.

And as far as anyone can tell - after thousands of years of research tackling the facts, over and over - once a soul’s gone? It’s just gone. Out into the ether or afterlife or whatever. Maybe just vanished entirely. Leaving the mortal plane and coming back is unheard of. 

Bill comes from another dimension, though. Maybe he doesn’t know it works?

Dipper glances at Bill’s back, glowing bright again. He’s humming a tune to himself, breaking out in patches into quiet, joyful song. “...don’t know where, don’t know when!” Before trailing off again. 

…He definitely, absolutely doesn’t know how it works. 

Dipper’s the captive of a bizarre, bored madman, looking for any puzzle piece to shove into the annoying gap in his picture-perfect life.

This delusion isn’t going to be easy to dispel. Considering Bill’s excitement, he won’t want to drop the idea, he certainly gives no fucks about human opinions, and the eerily similar features are a huge sticking point. Not to mention he wasn’t exactly sane to begin with. 

So Dipper holds his tongue, and clamps his lips together tight for good measure, even though the questions burn in the back of his throat. The ‘why’ and the ‘how’ and the ‘what the fuck’ will have to wait for later, once he extracts himself from this bullshit. 

He’ll hold off on correcting Bill, just for a bit. Right now, a white lie and a lack of denial are on track to get him what he wants.

Shutting up for ten minutes is more than a fair price for his sister’s life.

The sunlight appears well before they arrive outside. There’s no door at the exit, just an open gap at the bottom edge of the pyramid, leading out into a wide expanse of neatly trimmed grass.

Dipper pauses at the threshold. Staring out at a sea of grey shapes against green, extending in a curve along the corner of the Fearmid. It’s bigger than in the aerial photos made it seem. It looks like it goes on for a mile. A yawning expanse of human life trapped in granite, as far as his eye can see.

Which Bill drifts through without blinking, humming his stupid tune. After a moment, he beckons Dipper to follow again, rolling his eye.

“C’mon, your sister’s not far, kid.” He says, drifting towards Dipper with a tilt to the side, like he’s confused. “What’s the holdup?”

Dipper hesitates a moment longer, then ducks in between two frozen shapes. One cowering in a tiny ball, one with his arm flung up in a shout of rage. The weather’s warm, but he still shivers.

“It’s nothing,” He says finally, before Bill can grab his hand again. He brushes his shirt off, and strides forward. “Lead the way.”

Bill leads him through the horrors with total nonchalance. He zigzags among frozen humans like he’s stepping around a messy bedroom floor. His erratic course heads towards a hill in the garden, the only rising point in an otherwise flat landscape, surrounded by tall conifer trees. 

The slope to the top is steep, and there isn’t a path or stairs. For convenience’s sake, Dipper snags one of Bill’s arms - ignoring the cackle - to use his unstoppable floating like a ski lift, letting it pull him upwards. 

“Here we are!” Bill exclaims, slowing to a stop in the middle of a wide swath of grass. “Right where I stashed her.”

Dipper glances around. Tall pines surround the clearing, shading it from the sun with their wide branches. Behind him would be a great view of the statue-spotted field, if he was into that kind of thing. The middle of the clearing has a massive golden statue, ornate and gaudy like all Bill’s dumb bullshit - 

But his eyes skim right over the features, landing on a small stone figure beside it.

“Mabel!” Dipper bursts out of Bill’s hold, crossing the clearing in seconds. The turf kicks up under his shoes as he skids to a stop in front of his sister. 

The stone face of his sister looks back at him in perfect stillness. She looks over her shoulder as if having caught sight of something, and she’s not sure what it is yet. The confused expression is trapped eternally in smooth grey rock.

He almost can’t believe what he’s seeing. Part of him believed he’d never see her again. Written her off like she was a missing person. At best he’d be able to look at the latest distant photos, and wonder which speck she was in the crowd. But she’s here, and intact. Albeit a little stiff.

Dipper reaches out, then thinks better of it and lets his arms drop. Not daring to touch, not wanting to just stand there. It’s so clear there's nothing he can do - but there should be. This sucks.

“As you can see, your twin’s totally intact.” Bill brushes past him, giving him a wry look. “No cracks, no breaks, not a speck of damage on her!” He adjusts his tie, eye shut with apparent pride. “None of my lawn ornaments get messed with, even when-”

“She’s not my twin,” Dipper says, irritably. Both to shut Bill up, and to correct his weird statement. “She’s two years younger than me.”

“Huh,” Bill rubs under his eye, looking thoughtful. “Yeah, she would be, wouldn’t she? Oh well!” He glows brighter, circling Mabel’s statue before retreating a few yards away. “Take a step back and watch the show!”

Since there’s still nothing Dipper can do about this, he reluctantly backs up. But not too far. He has to let Bill do his magic, but who knows what he’ll get up to after? Best to be nearby, just in case.

Clearing his invisible throat, Bill adjusts his tie. He clicks his fingers together twice, then points forward. Light zaps from his finger, engulfing Mabel’s form, too bright to stare at directly. The magic bursts in Dipper’s senses like a furnace flame, like a bomb going off - he tenses, sucking in a breath. 

And when the light vanishes, Mabel whips around in a whirl of pink sweater, completing the motion she was trapped in. The movement also screws up her balance; she flails her arms, squawking as she falls backwards.

Dipper’s glad he stuck close. Before she hits the ground he catches her under the arms, hauling her upright. He gets bonked on the nose by her skull, and curses. He nearly drops her because the overly-large, soft sweater that only his stupid sister would wear is too damn loose. 

His sister. Holy shit. 

Dipper stands frozen, stiffly holding her upright until she rocks back up on her heels. Mabel shakes her head, making a ‘blugh’ sound and sticking her tongue out in annoyance.

She’s actually - Holy shit. 

“Whoa, wait.” Mabel turns towards him, surprise painting her very alive features. She brushes her bangs back, squinting in confusion. “Dipper? Where’d you come from?”

Dipper merely shakes his head. His arms tremble until he steadies them, shoving them down by his sides.

She’s back. She’s actually, truly back, because whatever Bill did worked, and. Wait - how did it…? 

Mabel glances up - makes a face at the bright afternoon daylight - and shades her eyes against it. The soft pink sweater bounces as she shakes herself, full of color and motion. Then she yawns like she just woke up from a short nap, looking at her surroundings like she’s never seen them before.

Because she hasn’t, really. Confusion’s a reasonable reaction when you’re in a very odd new location.

Mabel waves at him, waiting for an answer to her earlier question. Dipper manages a shrug, and gets a full-on sister eyeroll for being a useless older brother.

This is supposed to be impossible. Was impossible. 

For so long he held that fact close, clenched tight in his hands. Mabel was gone, because of a monster - and it filled him with righteous rage. Driving him forward, lending him strength to fight against horrible odds. He was going to make Bill pay for what he did. And for everything else, too, sure, but mostly for being the bastard who messed with his kid sister.

But now. As Dipper watches his sister move and awkwardly smile, waving a hand in his face - that built-up fury trickles out between his fingers like sand.

No mistakes, or mutilations. No parts missing, no bruises, nothing has gone wrong. She’s here and whole and alive.

Bill just. Brought her back with a snap. Like it was easy.

“So… where are we?” Mabel asks. Her waving hand gets too close to Dipper’s face, and he leans back. “How’d we even get here? Where is-”

Whatever she was going to say next gets cut off as Dipper hugs her so, so tight. 

“Oh! Uh, hey, nice to see you too!” Mabel says, with greater confusion but a return of the hug. She pats him twice on the back. Then again when he clings tighter, making a surprised sound.

It’s sentimental, he knows. But he made a promise: If he ever did see her again, she’d get one not-awkward sibling hug. The pins on her sweater catch on his shirt, and he’s pretty sure residual glitter is getting on him and he’ll never complain about either of those, ever again.

Mabel coughs, once. Then, with a gentle push, she holds him at arm’s length, patting his shoulders. The smile has changed to a look of concern. “Not that I don’t like hugs - But bro, I saw you like, yesterday. What’s up?”

Yesterday. Yeah, he did see her the day before. Left like everything was fine, not knowing or even thinking she was in danger. But she’s here and fine, now. After all this time. Thank god Bill could -

Dipper jerks his head up as he remembers where he is, and who’s here with them. 

“You alright?” Mabel asks. The expression on his face must not be great, because she trails off. Concern turns to worry. “Jeez, you look-”

“Great, right? Almost as handsome as me!”

Mabel jolts in place, whipping around towards the new voice. 

Dipper sighs, and runs a hand down his face. Oh boy. This is going to be… a thing, isn’t it.

Bill, fists braced on his sides, wiggles his upper eyelid. He lifts a third arm to wave at Mabel. “Heya!”

The startled yell Mabel lets out makes Dipper’s ears hurt. Good thing he’s still got a hold of her; that’s the second fall he’s prevented today. 

“Bill? Not cool.” Dipper glares at this asshole for the billionth time today. He’s ninety percent sure that interruption was timed to freak her out. 

“Nah, I’m always cool.” Undeterred, Bill floats closer, spreading his arms wide. “Nice to meet ya more officially, Shooting Star! How was your nap? Voidlike and existential, I’m betting.”

Mabel laughs nervously, backing up a step. Then another. “Um. Maybe? Ha ha, that’s very-” Seizing Dipper by the shirt, she tugs him close to hiss in his ear. “What is going on.”

“It’s fine.” Dipper says. Then adds, because Mabel’s gone stiff as a statue again, “Mostly fine.”

His instincts say it is, at least. Bill’s not interested in torture or ‘games’ so much as his… matrimonial target. For better or for worse, Mabel’s going to be fine. 

Glittery painted nails dig into his arm. The look Mabel gives him could be generously described as ‘skeptical’, but lands closer to ‘have you lost your freakin’ mind’’. Dipper turns away, clearing his throat. 

How to explain? There’s a lot she doesn’t know. Hell, there’s a lot Dipper still doesn’t know, he’s floundering only half as much as she is. Where the hell does he start?

“He’s right, you know.” Bill chimes in, wagging a finger. “I’m not gonna hurt ya when you could be useful. You can help with the wedding decorations!”

“Wait, wait.” Mabel tilts out of Dipper’s shadow, suddenly curious. “Wedding?”

Dipper groans, stepping between his sister and the clearly evil demon. Of course that would get her attention. Why did Bill have to get her attention? 

“Yep! And as one of the stars of the show, I gotta make this the biggest bash of the century.” says Bill, primping his tie with pride. “No holds barred, no one leaves sober, and more than the average amount of survivors!”

“You’re getting married?” 

Dipper lets out an ‘oof’ as his sister barges right past him. Mabel skips right up to the evil, demonic mastermind, clapping her hands in excitement, and he feels his shoulders slump.  Welp. He can at least say he tried. 

“Oh my gosh, congrats!” Mabel almost reaches a hand out - then remembers what a bad idea that is, and wrings hers together instead. “That’s so exciting!” 

“Thanks, Shooting Star!” Bill accepts her congratulations with a bow, doffing his hat with a flourish. His eye-smile is surprisingly sincere. “I’m pretty hyped up myself! It’s been a long time coming!” 

Mabel starts giggling. Bill starts cackling. Dipper, for his part, wishes they weren’t getting along at all. 

Thank hell it won’t last long. Mabel’s pretty goddamn thrilled about a maniac’s marriage scheme for the moment, but she was enstatued less than five minutes ago. Once she comes to her senses, she’ll realize -

…She hasn’t realized, has she. What happened to her. 

All Mabel knows is she was minding her own business one moment, then popped back up in this garden the next. A full year passed by without her noticing. Being zapped into a lawn ornament doesn’t bother her because she doesn’t remember. 

Which means Bill was, unfortunately, telling the truth. Eternal, dreamless sleep. The statues aren’t posed like that because they’re in pain. He just scared the shit out of them first.

“-have the best outfits, the best drinks, the best everything!” Bill says, catching his attention again. Dipper grimaces, watching as Bill waves off whatever Mabel just said, hovering right next to her without a care; it’s like he never zapped her into a lawn ornament. “See, we missed the chance to throw a real ceremony ages ago. It’s about time we made up for it!”

“Awww,” Mabel breathes, eyes wide. Her hands are clasped together under her chin. “That’s so romantic!”

“Hey! Nothing about this is- that. No.” Dipper points at his sister, then at Bill. “Both of you cut that out.” 

“So,” Mabel says, traitorously ignoring him. She nudges Bill’s side with one soft sleeve, winking like she has something in her eye. “Who’s the lucky gal? Or, um… demon?” A pause, biting her lip as she thinks. “Extradimensional entity?”

Uh oh. 

Dipper backs up a step. Then another. 

Checking the perimeter revels… no escape routes. Damn it. The clearing’s too wide to have someplace to hide, and darting behind the golden statue would take him right through his twin and his tormentor. 

“He’s human, actually! A real feisty cutey! In fact,” Bill says, bright. His pupil widens slightly as he turns towards Dipper, odd glimmers flickering somewhere in the depths. “I think you know the guy!”

Dipper shakes his head, backing up. As both of them focus on his face, he feels himself slowly turn red.

Mabel’s mouth forms a perfect ‘o’ of surprise, eyes going just as wide as Bill’s. Darting looks between him and the demon, hands reaching up to flutter at her mouth. Bill gives her a thumbs up, lower eyelid rising, and she gapes even harder.

No, wait. This is all a misunderstanding. A mistake. A maniac’s delusion, powered by boredom and driven by madness.

But it’s really hard to explain that. Mabel doesn’t know the context, and Bill isn’t going to be easily convinced he fucked up. If he can be convinced at all.

“So here we are! The happy couple!” Bill darts over, taking Dipper’s hand in his. The resulting struggle to escape flaps his arm in a wiggly wave. “I’m thinking a summer wedding. Y’know, wildfire season! We can-”

“Nope.” Dipper says, popping the sound at the end. Getting his hand back is a lost cause, but he can fold his arms over his chest anyway; Bill’s arm extends like a bungee cord. “Not happening.”

“Hey! One sister, one ring on your finger.” Bill reels on him, glaring now. He jabs a finger at Dipper’s chest. “Fair’s fair, a deal’s a deal, and this was more fair than ninety-nine percent of ‘em.”

“What deal?” Dipper turns his most skeptical look on his so-called suitor. Nice try, Bill - but he knows the rules. “We didn’t shake on it.”

“I- Hm.” Pausing in the middle of raising a finger, Bill lets his arm drop. The scowl of his eye is remarkably petulant. “Fine. Ya got me on a technicality. Pedant.” 

Now it’s Dipper’s turn to be smug. Bill didn’t think he knew about demon deals, did he? They aren’t complete without signing the dotted line - or in Bill’s case, palm-to-palm contact. 

For a supposedly clever entity of terror, fooling him was easy. If getting things his own way all the time has left him unable to anticipate tricks… Dipper can use that. 

“So…” Mabel speaks up. They both turn towards the interruption, and she points between the two of them. “Are you two…?” “No,” Dipper says, at the same time as Bill’s, “Absolutely!”

Two eyes meet one, equally conveying ‘I can’t believe you said that, asshole’. 

“Seriously? Still?” Bill asks, with surprisingly genuine confusion underneath the annoyance. It’s a decent lie; he even squints. “You got the sibling back. Problem solved! We can-”

“I said I had a list,” Dipper interrupts, stepping forward. It doesn’t intimidate like he wanted, though. The bastard almost looks pleased. “You know, the atrocities? The conquering? The…” He pauses, frowning. “Cut that out.”

Bill stops flapping his hand in time with Dipper’s speech, making a ‘pfft’ sound. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, heard it all before. You gotta get more specific, sapling! Communication’s a big deal in relationships!”

“Oh for- Look at this!” Dipper gestures vaguely. He doesn’t need to be specific. Waving his arm in any direction covers at least a hundred statues. “How many people did you turn into lawn ornaments?”

“Couple thousand, give or take a few.” Bill replies, as nonchalant as if he was stating his shoe size. “What about it?”

Instead of shouting again, Dipper takes a second. He breathes in slowly, then out again. He’s gotta focus here. Stay calm, and clear.

Okay. Demons. Demon rules, demon logic, and one demonic mastermind who has a totally different set of morals, in that there’s none. There’s ways to get through that, even if he has to use a verbal sledgehammer.

He rubs at the bridge of his nose, hoping the direct route will work. “Bill. That’s bad.”

“That’s a collection,” Bill objects, because of course he does. He shuts his eye, huffing haughitly. “Just ‘cause you have bad taste doesn’t mean it’s not art.” “It’s not art! It’s wrong and bad and -” Words fail him. Tact goes out the window. Dipper flips this bastard off, getting right in his face. “I’m not marrying someone who keeps human lives in his sculpture park.”

“What?!” Bill’s eye goes wide. He blinks rapidly, then shakes himself, glaring right back. “You can’t be serious.”

“Dead serious,” Dipper states, hoping the reminder of a certain expired human hits home - and it does, because while Bill doesn’t flinch, there’s a brief twitch that’s similar. He follows up on the blow, adding, “We’re not getting together. Ever.”

Oh. And that is absolutely a flinch, as Bill jerks back a half-inch in the air. His fingers flex as if wanting to grab again, before his arms fall and dangle off his lower edge. 

Guess he didn’t like that. Good.

Dipper savors the sight, squaring his shoulders in defiance. Take that, asshole. 

Before he might have kept playing along, if only to find a way out. But Bill screwed up. Mabel’s back, Dipper has what he wanted, and now it’s gloves off. Bill’s ‘reincarnation’ insanity will need multiple whacks before it starts to crack, so he better start now.

This monster wants another human toy. The old one broke too early for his taste, ruining his fun - so he thought he’d replace it with another. 

But the last guy cooperated. Fawning over his bloody surface, smiling at his crimes. A human on easy mode, basically. 

If Bill wants to pretend his ‘husband’ is back? Fine. Let him try. 

His delusion doesn’t stand a chance against Dipper.

Bill mutters to himself, eye narrowed. He glances around the grounds, then at Dipper. Briefly at the golden statue, then at Dipper again. A long pause as his gaze drifts between his captive and the courtyard, thinking his triangular thoughts. 

It takes a while, too. Whatever he’s going over, it’s giving him a lot of trouble. His pupil flickers through several symbols before it snaps back to normal, and he snaps his fingers with an idea.

“Okay. I see how it is,” Bill says eventually. “Say that, maybe, a few more humans could go ambling about in their miserable, short, fleshy lifespans. Would that make you less-”

“You know what it’ll take.” Dipper snaps, glaring right back. “All of them, Bill.”

A moment later his brain catches up to what came out of his mouth. He thinks the internal screaming doesn’t show, but it’s a close thing. 

Why did he say that? It’s amazing Bill suggested freeing any people - something he’s never, ever done - and the moment that singular miracle happened, Dipper botched the followup.

Stupid move. Even with leverage, he’s asking for way too much, way too fast. He’s arguing with a demon who never offers any favors, doesn’t care about morals, and he hasn’t even been nice to him. There’s no way that -

“Cripes, sapling. You don’t do half-measures, do ya?” Bill complains, sinking a few inches in the air. Even his limbs seem to droop under his bottom edge. “Do you know how long it took to collect this many? To get ‘em posed just right? I’ve curated the best horrified expressions, and it took like, over twenty years! That’s so much work!”

Dipper watches Bill sink midair, and says nothing. Hears the whine in his voice, like a kid complaining about not getting his favorite toy, and hums to himself. He taps his fingers on his bicep, mouth creasing into a line.

“All of them.” Dipper repeats, more firmly. Now that he’s seen a crack in the armor, he digs in the crowbar. “Every single person walks out of here alive and safe, or you’re out of luck.” 

Far too much to ask for, infinitely too much to demand, and he’s doing it anyway. It’s only the third dumbest thing he’s done today, and something tells him there’s a chance. 

“Those are my terms.” Dipper tries to stand firm, in a manly, confident way. It takes more adjusting than he’d like, but he thinks it looks decently cool. “Take it or leave it.”

“Ughhhh.” Bill groans, running his hands down his surface. His eye rolls so far back it comes around again, pupil narrowed to a single line. “You’re outta your mind, sapling.”

Which isn’t a no. Dipper perks up, leaning towards this asshole. With the right tactics -  a nudge, a shove, or a slap in demon terms - his chance might hold. 

“You already said you were bored with them, Bill.” He adds, tapping his foot on the ground. He swears Bill darts a glance at the field, very briefly. Yes, this is working - “And it’s tacky as hell.”

“Pfft, what do you know,” Bill turns away sulkily, arms crossed. “I’m not taking ‘tacky’ opinions from Mr. ‘Flannel’s my favorite’, here.”

Dipper grits his teeth against the impulse to respond. He can’t take the bait when he’s almost there. The right angle might give him just enough leverage -

Wait, didn’t Bill say his husband was insane? He probably wasn’t lying about that. Anyone who married a demon would need to know their crazy version of logic. That’s the key, isn’t it? Human reasons and basic morality would never work on Bill - but Dipper knows how these things think. 

“Fine. Whatever you say, Bill.” With a casual shrug, he turns away. Not looking back at Bill’s sudden, strange look of apprehension takes effort, but he gazes over the statue field instead.  “You can use the courtyard for shelving, I guess. I just think it’d be better for, y’know.” He waggles a hand, as if uncertain or disinterested. “A ceremony of some kind.”

A long, low complaining groan echoes through the clearing. Dipper hears a few curses, a few thuds that sound like a stomping foot, but doesn’t look over. Even though it’d be so, so good to see Bill frustrated, he can’t act like he cares.

“You’re the worst. The absolute worst,” Bill says, after his overly long groan stops. “You got way more annoying after dying! What’d they teach you in the afterlife?”

Dipper finally turns, raising an eyebrow. Bill flips him off. When Dipper still says nothing, he huffs and he puffs and fiddles with his tie, adjusting his hat - then apparently comes to a decision. 

“Fine. Fine!” Bill says, throwing his arms in the air. “But you’re not dodging a bargain twice. So if I pull this favor - you gotta quit giving me such a cold shoulder. Deal?”

Dipper blinks rapidly. What, the perfectly warranted, reasonable distance he’s keeping? The one any sane person would maintain between themselves and the literal Nightmare King? What does ‘cold shoulder’ entail, and how comparatively ‘warm’ is he supposed to be, it’s way too vague. 

He raises a hand, about to argue - Then hesitates. 

Rationally speaking, it’s… not the worst bargain in the world. Maybe. If he doesn’t have to kill or mutilate, but just not insult the guy, then… 

But this offer can’t be real. 

While his instincts tell him Bill’s kind of sincere, that he’ll put in a little effort to get what he wants -There’s thousands of people. Reversing that many will take way too long, and far too much power. Once Bill’s tired and bored he’ll wander back over with excuses, maybe a dozen freed at best.

…And that’s a dozen that can be saved. 

The garden is filled with people who’d been written off as lost causes. They’ve had funerals, been mourned and commemorized, tears have been shed over their ‘deaths’.

But Bill could bring some of them back. A dozen families would see their loved ones again. A dozen people could live their lives. An amazing rescue against absurd odds, because Dipper managed to convince the most insane being on the planet it was a half-decent idea. 

Plus, if Bill actually goes along with getting them out of demon territory - that’s at least a week where he’ll be away. Time where, say, a very clever guy could evade demonic attention, grab his sister, and make a surreptitious exit.

Tons of opportunity. A rescue. All for a little bit of semantics-based risk. 

When he looks over, Bill’s still staring, eerily silent as he waits for a reply. The way he focuses on Dipper so completely, unwavering, is really kinda creepy.

Dipper clears his throat, and picks his words carefully. 

Lying here won’t work. Bill’s an expert, he’ll spot it in an instant, so. Honesty, then. 

“There would… be a chance of me starting to think about not immediately rejecting you.” 

Technically true: the best kind of true. Dipper can consider thinking about a lot of things. Like if Bill revived literally everyone, and if he wasn’t taking over the world, and if he wasn’t a platonic shape without a single ounce of softness in his nonexistent heart. Hypotheticals are fun.

“Good enough for me!” Bill beams. He darts forward, slapping Dipper’s still-upraised palm in a high five. “Hang back and watch the show!”

Bill drifts back, humming a little tune to himself, and snaps his fingers. There’s a flash of white light.

Then the screaming starts.

Dipper has to cover his ears over the chorus as thousands of voices cry out at once. Voices filled with terror, horrified screeching, a few high-pitched wails and sobs piercing through the cacophony. Beside him, Mabel grimaces, shutting her eyes and covering her own ears.

Over the next minute, the noise dims to a murmur. Dipper dares to check the field  - hopefully everyone’s alive- 

And sees a courtyard filled with color. 

Everywhere he looks, there’s motion. Several fleeing people bump into each other in attempts to run from a foe that isn’t there anymore; Dipper can see one man helping another up. Another throws panicky punches in any direction before a tall woman grabs him by the back of the shirt. Some grab their nearest neighbor and start asking questions, while others mill around aimlessly. 

Dipper can’t see why they stopped panicking, considering where they are. Shouldn’t they -

No, wait. It’s the same as Mabel. Bill freezes people in time when he turns them into statues, catching them mid-scream. Now that they’ve finally completed their terror, there’s surprisingly little threat around. They don’t know what happened.They’ve gone from ‘demonic invasion’ to ‘peaceful garden’ in a relative instant, which is far less terrifying.

But they sure as hell seem confused. 

“There,” Bill says, with satisfaction. “Happy now?”

The question catches Dipper off guard. In all the hubbub, he’d almost forgotten who did this. 

“I, uh,” He says, mouth dry. “I thought that would take you longer.”

“Why?” 

Because everyone knows Bill Cipher only zaps a couple of people into stone at a time. Because transmuting flesh like that takes an incredible amount of power. Because the rational conclusion from those two facts was that it drained him too much to continue, leaving the rest of the town unscathed. 

The evidence in front of Dipper tells a very, very different story. 

When Bill doesn’t get a response, he shrugs. “Whatever, kid! Your cerebral cortex is running a bit slow, but I’m sure you’ll stop being dumb sooner or later!” 

“Hey!” Dipper jerks back to attention, glaring at this asshole. Then, because he should say something, adds, “You’re dumb.” “Eh, save the sweet talk for later,” Bill says, a little grumpily. “Someone got pissy about ‘morals’ in the first twenty four hours of re-meeting, and now I got a courtyard to clean up.” 

Lacing his fingers together, he pushes his arms out as if to crack his nonexistent knuckles. He adjusts his hat, sighs in a long, tired way, then drops with a thump to stand directly on the ground.

Huh. Dipper didn’t notice before, what with the floating at eye level - but for a demon, Bill’s remarkably small. His top point reaches mid-thigh at best, with the rest of his height being hat.

Bill grumbles something, snapping his fingers again. A broom pops out of nowhere and he snags it, stomping down the hillside with desultory tread. As he stalks down the slope, he leaves a trail of muttered complaints behind him.

Okay. This is weird, which means it’s basically normal for Bill. But what the hell is a broom going to accomplish? Has he run out of magic? What is he planning to do without any left? Is he just going to prod people with the handle? 

Dipper glances towards Mabel, hoping she might have some idea of what’s going on. 

Mabel just shrugs, sweater bunching up against her neck. Yeah. He didn’t think she had any answers. But it’s nice to know he’s not the only one. 

Still, Bill slinking off is a sight Dipper doesn’t mind, confusing or not. He certainly can’t complain about the results. 

Two thousand people and change, transformed into stone and back again. The crowd almost looks like they’re gathered for a concert, instead of former captives of a demon lord. The low murmur of a large crowd talking burbles through the air.

So much for Bill’s sculpture garden. It was probably an impressive collection. 

“Everyone’s back, huh,” Mabel says, both surprised and a little alarmed. Patting herself over like she’s checking for shale deposits; she must have realized her own former stony status.  “I didn’t know Bill could do that!”

“Yeah.” Dipper agrees. He wipes sweating palms on his jeans. “I didn’t either.”

What Mabel hasn’t realized is how absolutely, insanely impossible this should have been. How pulling this off would have required immense power, and remarkable precision with delicate magic. The energy required alone was… 

Dipper runs a rough calculation, guesstimating some figures, and the numbers come up with an alarming amount of digits. 

At what point does ‘magic’ change into straight-up ‘messing with the fabric of reality’? Because Bill’s dipping his nonexistent toes into that water and kicking up some friendly splashes. 

But then. If he was working on that level, why did he not change entire cities into - 

No, wait. Bill answered that already. It was a collection, he only wanted the best. Why would he mass produce figurines of human torment? It’d totally ruin their rarity. 

So it’s not about lack of power. Not about having limits. Just the whim of a madman with fucked-up hobbies, trying to preserve resale value.

Bill refrains from mass destruction because he doesn’t care to, not because he couldn’t.

The implications have only started creeping in when a massive ‘thud’ sounds from the courtyard. A vibration strong enough that Dipper can feel it through his shoes, shaking the ground, then repeating in a slow beat.

Also, the screaming starts again. 

Dipper whips around, expecting Bill to be, well. Probably smacking people with his broom like an idiot rather than doing anything productive, and he’s ready to yell at him for being an idiot. Halfway through calling out he stops, open-mouthed.

Bill’s messing with his captives, alright. Wielding the broom, to boot. He’s just also thirty feet tall. 

Within less than a minute he’s grown tremendously in size - shapeshifting, right, Dipper forgot that was one of his things - and now he stomps around the courtyard, sweeping fleeing humans into strange, glasslike bubbles forming on the lawn. While still muttering under his breath, unintelligible but grumpy.

“Oh shit,” Mabel says, in an unusual understatement. She looks towards the closest demon-expert, poking him in the side. “Is that, uh. Normal?”

Dipper simply shrugs. No expert on Bill thought he was capable of this.

Everyone knows Bill Cipher is an incredibly powerful demon. Even if his powerset was mostly unknown, it explained his ironclad rule over horrible demonic forces.

Everyone also knew that while he was the cause of the invasion, he wasn’t the main threat. Compared to roving bands of demons, he was downright convenient. 

Bill rarely leaves his Fearamid. Every month or so he pops out to mess with a few border cities, but that’s about it. He prefers to stew in his fortress like a huge, toothy beast mired in its bog. Sure, it’s deadly. You wouldn’t want to get anywhere near those massive jaws. But as long as you stay out of its range, it can’t snap a limb off. 

Now. With the amount of magic Bill’s throwing around - like it’s easy. Like it’s nothing - 

Dipper feels like he’s watching an ancient, terrifying monster emerge from hibernation. Getting to its feet, shaking off the muck, and, horrifyingly, starting to sprint. 

He rubs at his eyes. Okay, time to reevaluate. Bill’s a bigger threat than was thought, not the first time they’ve had to rerun an assessment. Finding the boundaries of his powers and the limit to his energy is just a matter of time and careful study.

As he and Mabel watch, bubbles filled with floating humans rise into the air.. Iridescent and massive, they swirl in an intertwining ballet. The sight would almost be pretty, if it weren't for all the screaming. And the gigantic triangle crouching in the courtyard, trying to fish the last few mortals out of a nearby crevice. 

Several bubbles, already filled with terrified humans swimming in midair, float up even higher. Some get as high as the peak of the fearamid, while others level off slightly below. They turn in place, as if setting their direction before zipping off into the distance and across the horizon faster than Dipper can track. 

All the equations Dipper had running grind to a halt, gears falling out and springs bouncing until they collapse, smoking, in a pile. 

Fuck it. 

“I,” Dipper declares, raising a finger in the air. “Have no idea what’s going on.”

With that said, he drops down to the grass. It’s soft enough to make a reasonably comfy seat as he rests his chin in his hands. His sister plops down to join him, patting his shoulder. 

No use trying to figure out how Bill’s doing this. Trying to calculate this comes up with really upsetting numbers, and all he’s getting from it is anxiety. 

Might as well let this asshole finish his ‘chore’. Explanations can be demanded after. 

“Aha! Gotcha!” Bill jerks up with a handful of humans, waving them about in a none-too-gentle shake. “Finally. This is taking forever.” 

Dipper rolls his eyes. If anything that was way too fast. Already the courtyard’s empty, Bill stuffing his last squirming fistful into yet another sphere of light.

He wonders what those orbs are. They’re probably not the most comfortable way to travel, but at least they’re getting people out of demon territory - and Bill’s fulfilling his part of the bargain. Hopefully they’re being flung somewhere reasonably habitable, and everyone arrives in one piece. Since Bill didn’t dismantle them beforehand, it’s even likely. 

So really, when you think about it. This is a win. Everything that happened today was a victory over the forces of evil. 

A giant, hyper-powerful triangle released all his captives, returning them to civilization. And not because he wanted to, oh no. Not because of a complicated political treaty, or a greater evil plan. Definitely not because it was the right thing to do.

Because he got yelled at.

“How did that work?” Dipper has to ask, even when the question doesn’t have an answer. “That shouldn’t have worked.”

Bill Cipher doesn’t like humans. He barely tolerates the demons around him, he’s selfish and crass and evil. One little semi-bargian with an angry nerd is too small and pitiful to even laugh at. And yet here they are.

A tap on his shoulder. “Um. Maybe you should…” Mabel looks alarmed. She tilts her head to gesture behind him.  “Dipper, look.”

When she was still trapped in stone, Dipper hadn’t paid much attention to her surroundings. He was vaguely aware that there was a bigger, metal thing behind her, but it didn’t seem like a big deal. 

It was, in fact, a big deal. Huge, in fact.

Behind where she was posed, there’s a massive golden statue of a man lying supine, arm artfully draped over the side of the plinth. Its polished chest gleams in the light, the rest covered in a sweep of sculpted cloth. And the face...

Shoulders slumping, Dipper feels his heart sink. Not more stupid dead husband stuff. Not here too. And why is it so -

Then he catches sight of the words engraved on its plinth, and grimaces. 

It reads:

DIPPER CIPHER THE ONLY WORTHWHILE HUMAN

Dipper stares at his palm. It still tingles a little from the impromptu high-five. 

Realizing, with an odd lightheadedness, that he might be in a little bit of tremendous trouble. 

His sister smiles awkwardly, lifting her arms in a shrug. “I think he’s a little obsessed with you.”

[neferaskingdom]

♡ Love in the Times of Charles | MV1

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Leclerc!Reader [Face Claim: None]

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Summary: Y/N and Max are on a stealth mission to keep their relationship under wraps. But with rumors swirling faster than a car at Monza, Charles's overprotective instincts kick in—cue the concerned brother alarms! Meanwhile, the boys offer about as much help as a flat tire, with plans so ridiculous they might just need a pit crew. Will Y/N and Max dodge Charles’s protective wrath, or will this love story end up in the wall? Strap in; it’s gonna be a bumpy ride!

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A/N: just wanted to ask if anyone feels annoyed or don't like it when smau fics have story parts? like I don't want to do the confessions and some of the things on text and I wanna write about some of the behind the scenes too and the only way to do that is to write it in a story format but apparently some people don't like that? like what is you guy's consensus on this?

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Part 5 of my wheel-to-wheel but still in denial series: Masterlist

y/n_leclerc posted a photo:

Caption: Thought coffee was gonna be the most stable thing in my life but even that got replaced by matcha ☕️💔

Liked by charles_leclerc, maxverstappen1, landonorris, and 420,876 others.

Comments:

maxverstappen1:

Did the coffee leave you for someone else too?

      ↪ y/n_leclerc :

At least coffee doesn’t need a grid penalty to get close to me.

      ↪ danielricciardo:

This roast is hotter than the coffee 👀

      ↪ charles_leclerc:

Don't make me call FIA on both of you.

      ↪ y/n_leclerc :

Charles, pls, I’m still recovering from your last safety briefing.

      ↪ landonorris:

Max back to roasting? Is this the plot twist we’ve been waiting for?

user1:

Why are they roasting each other again? What happened to 'Max is definitely into her'?!

user2:

THE FLIRTING ERA IS OVER?? MAX AND Y/N ROAST ERA INCOMING 🚨

user3:

WE NEED ANSWERS. WHY ISN’T MAX FLIRTING ANYMORE??

DMs between Max and Y/N:

maxverstappen1:

Still thinking about our coffee date this morning. You looked way too good for just a casual date. 😏

y/n_leclerc:

Lol please, I literally rolled out of bed and threw on a hoodie. But I’m glad my ‘effortless chic’ fooled you. 😉

maxverstappen1:

Fooled me? No chance. I knew exactly what you were doing. Strategic as always. 😌

y/n_leclerc:

Strategic? I just wanted caffeine, Max. But if you’re calling my bedhead a ‘strategy’... sure, I’ll take it.

maxverstappen1:

Whatever you call it, it worked. Couldn’t stop staring at you.

y/n_leclerc:

Max. You’re so sappy today, what happened to your 'too cool' attitude?

maxverstappen1:

That went out the window the moment you started dating me. Now, I’m just soft. For you. 🥲

y/n_leclerc:

Soft Verstappen? I never thought I'd live to see the day.

maxverstappen1:

Only for you. Don’t tell the others, though. I have a reputation to uphold.

y/n_leclerc:

Your secret’s safe with me. But honestly, I’m loving whatever this is. Us, I mean.

maxverstappen1:

Same. This whole 'flirting in public and pretending everything’s normal' thing? Chef’s kiss. Watching people lose their minds over it is the best part.

y/n_leclerc:

It’s like we’re living rent-free in their heads. The comments are gold. Especially the ones trying to figure out what the hell is going on with us.

maxverstappen1:

Like the one saying we’re secretly married already? That one almost made me spit out my coffee. 😂

y/n_leclerc:

I saw that! They’ve got theories for days. The one where we’re 'just friends' but you’ve been flirting for a whole week straight? Love that for us.

maxverstappen1:

Right? Like, I was literally flirting non-stop, and now they think we’re back to picking fights with each other like nothing happened. 😂

y/n_leclerc:

We're driving them crazy and honestly, I’m having the time of my life watching it.

maxverstappen1:

Same. But I kinda miss not having to hold back on the flirting. 😏

y/n_leclerc:

Oh yeah? How would you even flirt if you didn’t have to hold back, Verstappen?

maxverstappen1:

I’d take you somewhere nice. Like, I don’t know, a fancy restaurant maybe? 😎

y/n_leclerc:

Smooth. Are you asking me out again?

maxverstappen1:

Depends. Are you saying yes?

y/n_leclerc:

Let’s say I’m free… where are you taking me?

maxverstappen1:

Somewhere where you won’t be able to just wear a hoodie. Gotta dress up for this one. 😉

y/n_leclerc:

A challenge. I accept.

maxverstappen1:

Perfect. Friday night. I’ll pick you up.

y/n_leclerc:

Can’t wait. 😘

y/n_leclerc posted a photo:

Caption: Dinner for one but looking like a 10 ✨

Liked by charles_leclerc, danielricciardo, landonorris, and 420,876 others.

Comments:

carmenmmundt:

You’re killing it! 💅 When’s our next girls' dinner??

      ↪ y/n_leclerc:

Whenever you’re ready to throw George’s credit card on the line again. 💳😉

      ↪ georgerussell63:

Excuse me, why is my financial ruin the theme of your dinners?

lilymhe:

Okay but where’s MY invite?? You look too good to be dining alone.

      ↪ y/n_leclerc:

Lily, your absence was felt, the waiter asked where my better half was. 🥲

      ↪ alex_albon:

Pretty sure he asked that because you flirted for a free dessert.

      ↪ y/n_leclerc:

And it WORKED, Albono. That’s called strategy.

      ↪ maxverstappen1:

Dinner for one? Weird, thought you’d be out there terrorizing other diners.

      ↪ y/n_leclerc:

Terrorizing diners? Max, I’m not the one who scarfs food down like I’ve been starved for days.

      ↪ maxverstappen1:

That’s called efficiency. You wouldn’t know, with how long you take to pick an outfit.

      ↪ y/n_leclerc:

Efficiency? More like desperation. And excuse you, I picked this outfit in five minutes

      ↪ danielricciardo:

Efficiency is just code for ‘I’m hungry and scared of forks.’

      ↪ y/n_leclerc:

Daniel gets it. Max probably uses chopsticks like they’re drumsticks.

      ↪ maxverstappen1:

Bold of you to assume I even use utensils.

      ↪ landonorris:

He just drinks soup straight from the bowl. Classy.

      ↪ y/n_leclerc:

Honestly, that explains a lot.

      ↪ charles_leclerc:

What is happening in these comments?? Also, Y/N, you look great but maybe stop tormenting Max in public?

      ↪ y/n_leclerc:

He does that all by himself, Charles. I’m just here for moral support.

      ↪ maxverstappen1:

Your moral support feels more like public humiliation.

      ↪ y/n_leclerc:

You’d miss it if I stopped, Verstappen.

user4:

Y/N and Max fighting in the comments AGAIN, this is the content I live for.

user5:

Max is trying to pretend like he’s not impressed but we all know the truth.

user6:

Plot twist: Max was the one taking the picture at the restaurant.

alex_albon:

maxverstappen1 Why are you pretending you're not paying for that wine?

      ↪ y/n_leclerc:

EWW who’d go to dinner with him??

      ↪ maxverstappen1:

And yet, here you are, missing me at dinner.

      ↪ y/n_leclerc:

Not as much as you miss your table manners.

user7:

"Max & Y/N: Endless banter, zero chill."

user8:

Y/N is out here eating fine dining alone while dragging Max in the comments, living the DREAM.

user9:

At this point, they should just get married and keep roasting each other forever.

user10:

Wasn’t Max all flirty in the last chapter? WHAT HAPPENED?!

user11:

Max flirting era is over 😭

user12:

Plot twist: Max and Y/N are in a secret relationship where they flirt by insulting each other.

y/n_leclerc posted a photo:

Caption: Monza weekend!! Supporting my favorite Ferrari boy, Charles! ❤️ Let’s get this Win!!

Liked by charles_leclerc, danielricciardo, landonorris, and 320,456 others.

Comments:

charles_leclerc:

Let’s do this!

user13:

President of the Charles Leclerc fan club, reporting for duty.

user14:

As always, our queen is a Ferrari stan first.

user15:

She’s so loyal to Charles, I love it.

user16:

Imagine supporting a guy and then getting spotted at Red Bull later. Sis, pick a side!

user17:

Did anyone else see Y/N on the Red Bull side?? 👀 I smell drama.

landonorris:

Are you hyping Charles because you have to, or because you want to? Asking for Max.

user18:

Girl, why are there rumors you were seen near Red Bull? 👀

user19:

If I see Y/N at Red Bull again, I’m going full detective mode. Like, pick a lane!

user20:

MONZA DRAMA INCOMING 🚨 Did she swap allegiances?!

pierregasly:

Bet Max is gonna ‘conveniently’ miss this post.

      ↪ y/n_leclerc:

He’s too busy finishing ahead of you to notice.

      ↪ pierregasly:

Unnecessary.

maxverstappen1 posted a photo:

Caption: Calm before the storm. Let’s get it. 💪

Liked by charles_leclerc, y/n_leclerc, landonorris, and 420,876 others.

Comments:

y/n_leclerc:

Storm? More like a light drizzle with a 10% chance of embarrassment.

      ↪ maxverstappen1:

Says the girl who can’t walk in heels without tripping over nothing.

      ↪ georgerussell63:

This is the weirdest foreplay I’ve ever seen.

      ↪ alex_albon:

George said what we’re all thinking.

user21:

They fight like an old married couple but without the actual marriage.

f1_gossips tweeted:

SPOTTED: Y/N Leclerc cheering for Charles at Monza, but sources claim she was ALSO seen at the Red Bull garage earlier. Trouble in Ferrari paradise? Or is Y/N just mixing allegiances? Stay tuned for more.

Comments:

user22:

This girl is living her best double agent life.

user23:

Y/N is just here for the drama and we love it.

user24:

I’m convinced she’s trolling us all. A queen of chaos.

user25:

She’s doing what we all want to do—have a Ferrari brother and a Red Bull ‘friend’ 😂.

user26:

Ferrari fans about to lose it 😂

user27:

Plot twist: she’s there for the energy drinks.

user28:

She’s definitely with Max. No other explanation.

user29:

Charles is gonna crash into Max out of pure sibling rage, I can feel it.

user30:

Y/N in the Red Bull garage?! Someone call Charles, this is a scandal!

user31:

This is the chaos I signed up for. I NEED MORE TEA.

user32:

Not Y/N being Ferrari’s biggest fan and then sneaking over to Red Bull. Iconic.

user33:

Ferrari by day, Red Bull by night?

user34:

She’s playing both teams and we stan.

user45:

Charles has no idea his sister is secretly living a double life.

user36:

How long before Charles throws Max into a wall, tho?

y/n_leclerc posted a photo:

Caption: CHARLES WINS AT MONZA! I TOLD Y’ALL 🔥 FORZA FERRARI, FORZA LECLERC 🚀❤️

Liked by charles_leclerc, maxverstappen1, landonorris, and 520,439 others.

Comments:

charles_leclerc:

Best fan out there ❤️ Grazie mille!

user37:

She’s literally the president of the Leclerc fan club.

user38:

Low-key love how Max isn’t even on her radar right now.

user39:

I give it 10 minutes before someone spots her with Max and the chaos starts.

user40:

This is why Y/N is the ultimate sister.

user41:

She’s living her best life as Ferrari royalty, honestly.

user42:

I’d celebrate Charles winning too, if I didn’t also think she was spotted on the Red Bull side.

user43:

Wait, no, seriously, can someone confirm if she was actually with Max at Red Bull today?

f1_gossips tweeted:

BREAKING: Charles Leclerc wins the Italian Grand Prix in stunning fashion! Meanwhile, sources at the post-race afterparty spotted Y/N Leclerc getting cozy with none other than Max Verstappen. Are the rumors true? Check out this pic below!

Comments:

user44:

Bigfoot and UFOs have more clarity than this pic, but I can still see Max.

user45:

Y/N said Ferrari win, but Max is the prize.

user46:

She went from Ferrari girl to Red Bull real quick after that win, huh?

user47:

Charles won the race, but Max won Y/N.

user48:

Y/N’s living her best ‘support Ferrari but flirt with Red Bull’ life.

user49:

Blurry or not, I KNOW that’s Max. The man’s silhouette is unmistakable.

user50:

Y/N and Max cuddling up after Charles' win?? Ferrari fans, we okay??

user51:

Monza afterparty tea is always the spiciest.

user52:

I can’t believe she’s out here celebrating with Max after her brother won.

user53:

Y/N’s like, ‘Congrats, Charles, but I gotta go check on my Red Bull guy real quick.’

user54:

This girl’s got her Ferrari heart and Red Bull eyes 👀.

user55:

Plot twist: Max and Y/N are secretly dating and just troll us all online for fun.

f1_gossips tweeted:

MORE DRAMA: After celebrating Charles’ win, Y/N Leclerc was allegedly spotted again at the Red Bull garage. The blurred lines between Ferrari and Red Bull have fans in a frenzy. Is Y/N really just here this weekend to ‘support her brother,’ or is something else brewing between her and Max Verstappen?

Comments:

user56:

I’m convinced she’s playing us all for fun.

user57:

Y/N’s trolling everyone, and honestly, I’m here for it.

user58:

I don’t care who she’s with, I just need answers!!

user59:

I swear Y/N’s gonna give me a heart attack with these mixed signals.

user60:

Charles winning, Y/N maybe dating Max, and blurry gossip pics—F1 drama is at an all-time high.

user61:

I’m starting to think Y/N is the real mastermind of the entire F1 circus.

user62:

Next race, Charles is taking Max out for ‘unrelated’ reasons. Bet.

DMs between Charles and Y/N:

charles_leclerc:

Y/N. WHAT IS THIS I’M SEEING ABOUT YOU AND MAX AT THE MONZA AFTERPARTY?!

y/n_leclerc:

Charles, relax. What are you even talking about?

charles_leclerc:

RELAX? I’ve seen the pictures! Cozying up with Max? The one guy you literally fight with all the time? What the hell is going on?!

y/n_leclerc:

Oh my god. First of all, I would rather fight a swarm of bees than 'cozy up' with Max. You really think I’d be into that? Insufferable, annoying, always-has-something-to-say Max?

charles_leclerc:

The pictures don’t lie, Y/N. You were standing way too close. What were you doing with him?!

y/n_leclerc:

We were arguing, obviously. You know that’s like our thing. Five minutes in the same room, and he’s already saying something dumb. I’m just trying to live my life, and he’s there, being all Max-y.

charles_leclerc:

Arguing? That’s it? You swear?!

y/n_leclerc:

Yes! We were literally just arguing. You know, me calling him a pain in the ass, him being all smug. Classic Max-and-Y/N content.

charles_leclerc:

Mon dieu, Y/N. You scared the hell out of me! The way these gossip pages were talking, I thought you two were about to get married or something. 😤

y/n_leclerc:

Married to Max? I’d rather shove my head in a tire wall. Relax, Charlie. Nothing is happening. It’s just Max being his annoying self, like usual.

charles_leclerc:

Okay, good. I don’t need that headache in my life. Gossip pages making a big deal out of nothing as always.

y/n_leclerc:

Yeah, chill out. Like I said, I’d rather throw myself into a DRS zone than let that happen. 😂

charles_leclerc:

Good. I thought I was going to have to block you from every race event if something was going on. Max Verstappen... ugh.

Groupchat: “The Snafu Society”

y/n_leclerc:

GUYS. WE HAVE A MASSIVE PROBLEM.

(sends screenshot of her convo with Charles)

What the hell am I supposed to do?? Charles is going to KILL me when he finds out I’m actually with Max and I lied about it!

lando.jpg:

Ohhhh, you are so screwed. 😂 Like, RIP Y/N. 💀 It was nice knowing you.

georgerussell63:

Big yikes. I’m sending flowers to your funeral. What’s your favorite color?

alex_albon:

Maybe you can tell him Max saved a kitten from a burning building? Or like… became a monk? You gotta soften the blow somehow. 🐱🔥

danielricciardo:

Tell him Max is actually a long-lost Leclerc cousin. Boom. Problem solved.

maxverstappen1:

EXCUSE ME?! A Leclerc cousin? Why am I suddenly part of the family? also that's incest?? 😂

y/n_leclerc:

I’m SERIOUS! He’s going to legit lose it! I’ve been stalling but… there’s no way out of this. What if he literally crashes into you on track, Max?? 😳

maxverstappen1:

Okay, calm down. He won’t crash into me… I hope. Maybe. Probably.

lando.jpg:

Definitely gonna crash into you. Like, 100%. F in the chat for Max.

danielricciardo:

New idea! Fake your own disappearance! Hide in a bunker until the season’s over. It’s flawless.

alex_albon:

Or just make Max wear a disguise next time you two are together. Like, put him in a Ferrari hat, maybe Charles won’t notice.

georgerussell63:

Ferrari hat? Genius. Max, you good with that? 

maxverstappen1:

NO. I’m not wearing a Ferrari hat. 😤

y/n_leclerc:

This is NOT helping, you guys! Max, are you just sitting there being all calm about this?

maxverstappen1:

Look, we’ll figure it out. Worst case, I’ll just charm him with my winning personality.

lando.jpg:

Winning personality, Max? The only thing Charles is winning is the fistfight with you when he finds out. 😂

danielricciardo:

Tell him you’re pregnant. Just drop it like a bomb. He’ll be too shocked to kill Max.

y/n_leclerc:

EXCUSE ME? Daniel, you’re banned from giving advice.

alex_albon:

Seconded.

georgerussell63:

Honestly, Charles is probably already suspicious. But Max, maybe send him a fruit basket to soften him up? 'Thanks for not killing me—yet.' 🍍

maxverstappen1:

Guys… Let’s just stay calm. We’ll tell him soon, and everything will be fine. Right, Y/N?

y/n_leclerc:

Fine?! I’m about to be disowned!

lando.jpg:

Don’t worry. We’ll visit you in exile. 😂

maxverstappen1:

Okay, okay. I’ll talk to him if I have to. Just… try not to panic. It’s me. Charles likes me… kinda. Right?

y/n_leclerc:

You wish, Max. He’s gonna use you as a traffic cone.

danielricciardo:

Let’s be honest. If anyone’s gonna crash into Max, it’s gonna be Arthur, just for fun. 😂

y/n_leclerc:

Great. Now I’m even more stressed.

lando.jpg:

And I know the perfect way to destress! drinks on me when we go back to monaco

f1_gossips tweeted:

🚨 Monaco Scandal: Y/N Leclerc and Max Verstappen Caught Kissing! 🚨

Hold onto your racing helmets, folks, because the latest tea is HOT! 🔥 Forget everything you thought you knew about Y/N and Max’s so-called “rivalry,” because sources in Monaco just served up some serious tea! 🍵rumour has it that Y/N Leclerc and Max Verstappen were spotted not only getting cozy while waiting for an elevator, but actually kissing. Yes, you read that right—kissing. 😳

According to eyewitnesses, they looked all kinds of cozy—like, too close for two people who “can’t stand each other.” To make it even juicier, Max was overheard calling Y/N “Schatje” and “Liefje.” Yes, you read that right. Pet names. Dutch pet names. 😱

They weren’t exactly trying to hide it either, full-on PDA while waiting for the elevator at a fancy Monaco Bar. With Max's arms around Y/N and her hand on his chest, it's safe to say things are heating up faster than a Monaco track in July. Is this the confirmation we've all been waiting for? Are they finally going public? Fans are losing their minds, and we are here for it. 👀💋

#MaxYN  #PlotTwistOfTheYear #ElevatorEscapade

Comments:

user63:

 WAIT, WAIT, WAIT. Max calling Y/N schatje AND liefje?!? I’m screaming. 🚨😱

user64:

 My man went from being jealous of the elevator guy to being the elevator guy himself

user65:

This is the enemies-to-lovers plot twist I didn’t know I needed.

user66:

 If Charles finds out, he’s gonna drive Max off the track. 😬

use67:

 Okay but I bet they were arguing over who pressed the elevator button first.

user68:

 What is miss girl’s obsession with elevators?!?!?

user69:

 So Max is soft now? Pet names and everything? I’m unwell.

user70:

I swear this whole time they’ve been pretending to hate each other, and now they’re cuddling in elevators. Someone explain. 😩

user71:

WAIT THEY WERE KISSING?! I was not emotionally prepared for this news. 😳

user72:

So Max’s love language is Dutch pet names and y/n's is elevator kisses? I’m dying.

user73:

KISSING in MONACO? This just became the most iconic off-track moment of the year.

user74:

I can't believe Max Verstappen of all people is out here calling Y/N "schatje" in public. 💀

user75:

Charles is gonna lose it when he finds out his sister is locking lips with his biggest rival. 💀

user76:

Monaco’s about to get real awkward if Charles runs into them... just saying.

Y/N woke up to the sound of soft, rhythmic breathing beside her. Her head pounded, and she felt like someone had stuffed cotton in her mouth. She blinked, trying to get her bearings, and slowly realized where she was: in Max’s bed, in Max’s apartment, with Max’s arm thrown lazily over her waist, holding her like they hadn’t just gotten plastered the night before.

For a moment, she lay there, wrapped in the heavy warmth of his arm draped across her stomach, trying to remember exactly how they ended up in this position. Her head throbbed with the unmistakable ache of too many drinks and too many bad decisions.

Max stirred next to her, shifting slightly but keeping his arm around her like it was a reflex. Y/N turned her head to look at him, his face still half-buried in the pillow, hair messy and slightly wild, looking so annoyingly cute it made her stomach do a weird little flip.

“Morning, Schatje,” he mumbled without even opening his eyes.

Y/N snorted. "Wow, you’re really pulling out all the stops with the pet names this morning, huh? Wasn’t it ‘Liefje’ last night? I’m gonna need a Dutch dictionary just to keep up."

Max laughed, the sound vibrating through his chest. "You should consider it. I’ve got a lot more where that came from. Besides, you’re cute when you’re all hungover and confused.”

Y/N groaned, rolling onto her back and throwing an arm over her face. “Ugh, don’t remind me. I feel like death.”

“Well, I think you look adorable,” Max replied, pulling her closer and pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

She peeked out from under her arm, squinting at him. “You sure it’s not because your head is still spinning?”

“Maybe,” Max admitted, his smile growing. “But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

Y/N giggled, poking his side. “You’re so full of it.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

For a moment, they lay there in silence, enjoying the rare quietness of the morning. It was one of those rare, soft moments—no teasing, no sarcastic comments, just the two of them tangled together, wrapped in the warmth of each other.

“Why did we drink so much last night?” Y/N eventually asked, her voice muffled by Max’s chest.

“Because Lando dared us,” Max answered, sounding almost proud.

"Why do we listen to him?" Y/N groaned, her voice hoarse as she nuzzled deeper into Max’s chest.

Max chuckled, his voice still raspy with sleep. "Because he’s surprisingly persuasive for someone who looks like a lost child."

Y/N groaned again. “I’m never listening to that idiot again. We need to stop letting Lando be in charge of our nights.”

“I agree. Never let Lando dictate our fun again,” Max chuckled, shifting to press another kiss on her temple. “I’m officially banning him.”

“Good.” She sighed contentedly, closing her eyes for just a little bit longer. “I could stay like this forever.”

“Me too,” Max whispered softly.

She giggled, pulling the blanket up over her head to block out the sun. "I still feel like death though."

"Same." Max shifted slightly, brushing her hair away from her face. "But at least I’m dying next to you, Schatje."

"Please don’t," she grumbled, but she couldn’t stop the smile spreading across her face. "Honestly, I blame you just as much as Lando. You were the one who said, ‘Let’s do tequila shots, it'll be fun!’"

"Because it was fun," Max shot back, smirking. "At least until we ended up making out in front of that elevator."

Y/N froze for a second before she groaned and threw a pillow over her face. "Ugh, don’t remind me. I’m still embarrassed."

Max rolled onto his side to face her, pulling the pillow off her head. "Why? You didn’t seem embarrassed at the time," he teased. "In fact, I seem to remember you being very enthusiastic about it."

Y/N’s face turned red. "Okay, okay, shut up!"

"I’m just saying." Max winked at her, then stretched, looking way too good for someone who was supposed to be hungover. "You looked cute."

"Great," she muttered, rolling her eyes but smiling. "Now I’m cute and dead."

Max snickered, then leaned over to kiss her forehead. "If you’re dead, I’m dead too, because Lando definitely spiked those drinks."

"Speaking of Lando, I’m pretty sure I need to blacklist him from my life," Y/N said, stretching lazily. She reached over the side of the bed and found her phone buried in her pile of clothes. "Let me see if he’s alive."

As soon as her phone powered on, it exploded with notifications. Text after text, missed call after missed call, all from the boys…and her brothers.

"Oh no," Y/N whispered, her eyes wide. She stared at the screen, frozen in horror. "Oh no, no, no." She scrolled through the chaos and saw that her brothers were leading the charge in spamming her. There were also dozens of missed calls, mostly from Charles, Arthur, and—“Why is Lorenzo involved? What the hell did we do last night?!”

Max, who was halfway to the bathroom, turned back around. "What’s wrong?"

Y/N held up her phone, showing him the sheer volume of missed calls. "Max, we’re screwed. We are so screwed."

Max’s eyebrows furrowed. "Who’s been calling?"

"Everyone. All the boys. My brothers. Even Lorenzo. And Arthur. This is a nightmare," Y/N said, her voice rising in panic.

Max blinked. "Lorenzo? That’s… that’s not good."

"No shit it’s not good!" Y/N shrieked, scrolling through her messages frantically. "I’m being hunted down by my entire family!"

Max grabbed his own phone from the nightstand, but it was dead. He shrugged. "I guess ignorance is bliss, huh?"

Y/N groaned, clutching her phone like it might explode. "You’re not helping, Max!"

She scrolled through the texts, all of which ranged from "CALL ME NOW!" to "What the hell is going on?" from Charles, Arthur, and Lorenzo. Max peered over her shoulder, his brow furrowing.

"Okay, maybe it’s not that bad—" he started, but Y/N’s phone rang, cutting him off.

"Lando," Y/N muttered. "This idiot better have some answers." She answered the call. "Lando, what the hell did you do?!"

"Me?!" Lando’s voice screeched through the phone. "This isn’t my fault! I wasn’t the one making out with Max in front of an elevator!"

Y/N slapped her forehead, and Max burst into laughter. "Oh my God, Lando, seriously?!"

"Yes! Seriously!" Lando was practically hyperventilating on the other end of the call. "Photos got leaked from last night! You two were caught being all cozy, and now everyone knows. Charles called me at like 6 AM, and I thought I was gonna die. Arthur called next, and then Lorenzo—LORENZO! I had to confess, Y/N! I caved under pressure!"

Y/N’s eyes widened in horror. "Oh my God, Lando!"

"I’m a dead man! You’re a dead woman! We’re all dead!" Lando rambled, his voice climbing an octave with each sentence. "Charles is pissed, Arthur is even worse, and Lorenzo…Lorenzo is probably getting a hitman involved. And now they’re all at your apartment waiting for you!"

"Wait, what? They’re at my apartment?!" Y/N shrieked.

"Yes!" Lando cried. "They’re waiting for you, Y/N! They want answers!"

Max, who had been listening in, leaned closer to the phone. "What exactly are they mad about?"

"MAX! Oh God, Max, you’re so dead," Lando screeched. "They saw the pictures of you two—holding hands, kissing, being all ‘Schatje’ this and ‘Liefje’ that. And now they want to know why no one told them."

Y/N buried her face in her hands. "This is a nightmare."

Lando continued rambling, clearly losing his grip on reality. "Charles was so mad, he almost broke his phone when I told him I knew about you two. And Arthur? He’s got murder in his eyes. Murder, Y/N. I’m not even safe!. Arthur called me ‘an accomplice,’ and I’m honestly afraid for my life right now.”

Y/N exchanged a horrified look with Max. "We’re all doomed," she muttered.

Max, surprisingly calm, shrugged. "I mean, what’s the worst that could happen?"

"Death, Max," Y/N replied, her voice shaking with disbelief. "The worst is death."

Lando piped up again. "You guys need to come up with a plan. Fast. Charles, Arthur, and Lorenzo are about to storm the place like it’s a medieval siege."

Y/N was starting to spiral. "I need a plan! I need an escape route! I can’t face them like this!"

Max rubbed her back soothingly. "Relax, Schatje. We’ll go to your apartment, deal with them, and explain everything."

"Max, they’re gonna skin you alive," Y/N said, glaring at him. "You really think they’ll just let this slide? You’re dating their sister."

"And I’ll just tell them that I’ve got good intentions." Max smirked. "Maybe we can distract them with snacks."

"Lorenzo doesn’t do snacks," Y/N deadpanned.

Lando was still panicking on the other end. "I’m staying far away from this. You’re on your own!"

Y/N groaned. "Lando, you’re supposed to help!"

"I can’t help you if I’m dead, Y/N!" Lando whined. "I’m too pretty to die young!"

Max sighed, rubbing his temples. "Alright, let’s just get this over with."

Y/N looked at him, both amused and horrified. "You’re way too calm for someone who’s about to be slaughtered by my family."

Max winked at her. "I’ve got my secret weapon: my irresistible charm."

Lando’s voice piped up again. “If I don’t hear from you in the next 24 hours, I’ll assume you’ve both been murdered by Charles.”

"Yeah, you’re definitely gonna need more than that," Y/N muttered.

Lando interrupted one last time. "Good luck, guys. You’re gonna need it."

“Thanks, Lando. Very reassuring.” Y/N hung up and looked at Max, feeling the anxiety slowly building. “What do we do?”

Y/N tossed her phone onto the couch. She stood up, pacing the room. "This is bad. This is so bad. They’re probably already plotting my demise."

Max stood up and stretched, clearly unbothered. "I’ll take responsibility. I’ll tell them I made the first move."

Y/N laughed, despite the panic bubbling in her chest. "Oh, that’s gonna go over great."

"Don’t worry," Max said, walking over to her and pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. "I’ll protect you."

She looked up at him, eyes wide. "You’re delusional."

"Maybe," Max grinned, "but I’m delusional for you."

Y/N shook her head, grabbing his hand. "Come on, let’s go. Might as well face the music before they break down my door."

"Or your phone," Max quipped.

Y/N glared at him. "This is all your fault."

Max smirked. "Maybe. But you love me anyway."

She groaned but didn’t deny it, knowing full well that Max was right—about both things.

Y/N ran her hand through her hair, trying to calm herself down. “Okay, okay. We’ll go back to my apartment and figure this out.”

Max stood up, stretching. “I’ll make sure to bring snacks for the interrogation.”

Y/N laughed, despite herself. “You’re way too calm about this.”

“Maybe I like living dangerously,” Max said, smirking.

“Or maybe you just have a death wish.”

“Either way,” Max replied, leaning down to kiss her on the cheek, “I’m with you.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but smiled. “Well, you better be. Because we’re both about to face the firing squad.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

[nerdburritos]

I'm starving, darling

summary: you and Astarion decide to play a little game of hide and seek.

pairing: Astarion/f!Reader | Astarion/f!Tav rating: 18+ (MDNI) tags/warnings: blood drinking, explicit sexual content, porn with plot, predator/prey, smut, bodily fluids word count: 2.5k read on ao3: I'm starving, darling

a/n: english isn't my first language so please excuse any spelling mistakes or grammatical errors!

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"I'm home, my treasure." You slowly rose from sleep as these sweet words were whispered into your ear. You had no idea what time it was or when excatly he came home from one of his important meetings he now had on his schedule nearly ever other say since slowly taking over Baldurs Gate.

It started quietly, in the shadows. Getting invited to important political events wasn't hard now, you were the heroes of Baldurs Gate after all, the rest was fairly easy. Astarion slowly slipped into politics, barely noticeable at first - advising here and there, helping out and funding the restoration of the city. Now he sat in the High Council of Baldur's Gate, slowly filling the remaining seats with his people - his personal puppets, dancing just how he liked. No one noticed how influential he actually had become at first, until it was too late. He had slipped into every important part of Baldur's Gate - politics, finance, jurisdiction.

He was no merciless leader but people respected and feared him and that's all Astarion has ever wanted. The Ascended Vampire, a creature of night being able to walk in the blazing sun, enter homes uninvited and enjoy the pleasures of the flesh - most people didn't even dare to question him, it'd be foolish anyways.

You opened your eyes slightly, seeing Astarion towering over you on the bed, caging you in with his strong arms, the soft black, satin blankets clinging to your frame. He was still wearing his outfit from his earlier meeting - a black doublet with gold embroidery and matching slacks, gods how you loved that outfit on him.

"Good meeting?" you asked while slowly wrapping your arms around his neck, holding him close. Astarion immediately buried his head into your neck, breathing in your scent, placing gentle kisses over your collarbone.

"Mh-hm." he mumbled, still buried in your neck while he placed his hands on your waist, pulling yor body closer to him. "Such fools, all of them." Your gentle giggles were quickly interrupted by a moan as Astarion started to lick from your collarbone up to your ear, where he gently nibbled on your earlobe with his sharp fangs, making you shiver in anticipation - he was eager.

"How about some dessert?" Astarion whispered into your ear, making his way down your neck again, nibbling and kissing… he wanted to feed, obviously. You smirked, quite in the mood for riling him up a little.

"No." You simply said, grabbing his head and pulling him away from your neck. The look upon his face said it all - red eyes wide open in surprise, a mix of "what?" and "how dare you?" written all over his face.

"Oh, my love, your forget yourself. You're in no position to deny me. I know you want it, darling." Astarion whispered again in that deep, rumbling voice of his. You quicky jumped out of bed before he had a chance to pounce on you, making your way on the other side of the room, giggling like a little girl. Astarion smirked.

"Hmm, so you want to play a game, little love? Very well, I'll indulge you." He slowly unfastened the cufflinks on his doublet, sending you seductive looks - by the Nine Hells, this man was a vision. "So, how about this: you run and hide and I'll try to find and catch you. I'll give you a head start of 5 minutes, only within the palace, no gardens." He ran a hand trough his fluffy white curls and you nodded. "And when I catch you, you'll be all mine, like it's supposed to be." Astarions red eyes bore right into yours and you nodded. All his.

"Very well then, run off, my love. I'll see you soon." You immediately took off, running down the hall, figuring out where to hide. You knew the palace inside out but so did Astarion. You had to switch your hiding places after a certain time, that much was clear, you had to win! Astarion was a sore loser, so seeing the absolute disbelief on his face would be priceless. You suddenly heard the door of your shared bedroom shut in the distance, has it already been five minutes or was he cheating already?

You quickly hid in the old storage closet, it was fairly empty with the expetion of some old boxes and a few brooms, a bad hiding spot but it had to suffice for now. Astarion slowly made his way down the corridor, whisteling a gentle tune, already sure of his victory and thinking about all the delectable things he might do to you later. He continued to stroll down the corridor with his hands buried in the pockets of his slacks until he suddenly heard gentle movements from the laudry chamber next to him and smirked. How convenient. Sure it must be his little treasure inside, he ripped open the doors and stared right into the face of a shocked maid.

"Lord Ancunìn! How can I be of service?" she stuttered, right in the middle of folding the bedsheets, clearly not expecting his sudden appearance.

"Have you seen my consort, maid?" He snapped, already on edge. This was most embarrassing.

"I-i think Lady Ancunìn went further into the west wing, my Lord." Astarion slammed the door shut and made his way towards the west wing while you quietly removed yourself from the storage closet and headed into the opposite direction, quite sure of your victory but your inner celebration came to a quick halt as fast steps approached you. It was him but how? How did he know?

You quickly ran down the corridor and into Astarion's private study, the footsteps getting closer and closer. You were pretty sure that he used his vampiric powers to find you - that cheating bastard, he just couldn't bare to lose this silly, little game. The study didn't offer any good hiding spots either but you had no way out, Astarion was propably right behind you, you'd be running straight into his arms and you'd never hear the end of it. You slilently tucked yourself into a corner of the room, casting invisibilty just in time as the door swung open and Astarion stepped in, looking quite confused as the room appeared empty. He slowly shut the door, locking it - he knew you were still here.

"You can come out now, little love. There is nowhere to go." He chuckled, walking across the room and settling himself on the edge of his desk, leaning slightly back, waiting patiently - he knew the invisbility spell you propably casted was going to wear off soon. He proceeded to teasingly unbutton his doublet, eyes glancing across the room. By the gods, you wanted him but you were not ready to give up just yet, you still had about thirty seconds of invisibility left.

You quietly snuck to the door and teleported yourself out of the room - Astarion immediately noticed and ran after you, the doublet now open and his bare chest on full display. He saw you run across the corridor right in front of him as your invisibility slowly faded and let out a dark chuckle, he was enjoing this hunt massively. While your stamina was not bad, you were terribly aware that you could never outrun a Vampire, let alone an ascended one, Astarion was letting you get away with it, he was playing with you. You sprinted around the corner and came face to face with a wall, shit. You forgot that you closed off the entire wing that led down to the ritual chamber, only Astarion was able to enter and said Vampire was now right behind you, slowly getting closer and closer with a predatory smile.

"There you are, my little treat." You pressed your back against the wall, giving him a shy look, hoping you might get away with it. "Now, don't be coy." This was obviously not working, he seemed to be immunue to your charm so you had to beat him at his own game, that was your only hope now so you let him approach, playing the part of the poor, weak consort who just lost their silliy little game, his own damsel in the distress who needed a big, strong Vampire Lord to save her day. Astarion's protectiveness and his need to play your big, strong consort was a major turn-on for both of you. He loved to show off how powerful he was in comparison to you, knowing he could easily overpower but keep you safe anytime.

"Aww, don't pout." Astarion teased. "Don't you dare to give me an attitude now, my pet." He pressed you further into the wall, sure of his victory. You gave him a coy smile, placing your arms around his neck and Astarion was sure you were about to give in but you suddenly slipped down, crawling through his spreaded legs, freeing yourself and running away, laughing.

"Cheeky little pup." Astarion chuckled. "You want to play dirty? Fine, 'cause I love it dirty." He used his powers to teleport himself right in front of you, managing to elict a shocked gasp out of you.

"Cheater!" you yelled, ready to push him away but he immediatly grabbed your hands, pulling you into his naked chest.

"You're quite the insolent little pup today, my treasure." Astarion pushed you into the nearest wall, securing your arms above your head with one hand while the other made his way down your body, immediately cupping the sensitive spot between your legs - you let out a loud gasp. "My my, is this getting you all excited, my pet?" He leaned closer, whispering in your ear now. "Is this getting you all wet?" Astarion pushed his thigh between your legs, settling you down while still pressing you against the wall, making you whimper with need. He grabbed your hips and began moving them up and down his thigh, creating a dangerous friction between your legs and you let the most pathetic moan escape our mouth, Astarion laughed.

"Look at you, precious thing, you do want this." He gently nuzzled your neck, teasing the column of your throat with gentle kisses and the occasional suck while you continued to grind on his thigh, working yourself up more and more. Your sweet moans were nearly enough for him, he quickly freed himself from his slacks, giving his already hard cock a few gentle strokes while he continued to lick that delicious throat of yours. Your breath started to quicken, you were close and Astarion removed his thigh and pushed your dress up to your hips.

"By the Nine Hells…" he breathed as he saw your black thong, all lace, his absolute weakness. He deftly pushed the flimsy material to the side and ran a gentle finger through your folds, gathering some wetness before settling on your bundle of nerves, cicling it slowly.

"Oh Astarion…I'm gonna…" He immediately removed his fingers, one hand cupping your breast instead, gently teasing your hard nipple with firm, circling strokes of his thumb while the other one grabbed the base of your throat, applying gentle pressure, not enough to completly cut off your air supply but just enough to be noticeable.

"Oh no, my love, not yet." The hand teasing your breast moved downwards, grabbing his hard cock once more and slowly guiding himself closer to your aching pussy. He gently coated himself in your juices, letting the head run through your slit, teasing you and making you whine in anticipation before pushing just the tip inside of you. It took all of his strength not to take you hard and fast right now but he intended to drag this out, make you suffer.

"Astarion…fuck…." you whimpered, trying to move your hips closer to his, to slide him all the way inside but he kept you pressed against the wall.

"Tsk, tsk, good girls ask before they take what they want. You are my good girl, aren't you, precious?" he teased, gently cicling your clit with his thumb, biting his lower lip with his fangs on full diplay. You nodded vigorously. "Then tell me."

"Please…please, Astarion…"

"Please what, my love?"

"You've won! Please fuck me!"

"Well, that wasn't so hard now, was it?" He smirked arrogantly, placing gentle kisses on your neck again before finally sheathing his fangs into your throat and pushing his cock inside of you. Astarion moaned gently around your throat, sending shivers down your spine as he took generous gulps of your blood while pushing in and out of you at a tantalizing slow speed.

"That's a good girl." He felt your pussy flutter around him - gosh, the praise was really doing it for you and your blood began to taste even sweeter - your impending climax so close he could practically taste it.

"Fuck, you're being so good for me, my pet." Astarion took one more gulp before freeing his now blood-stained fangs from your neck, licking across the puncture marks to clean them. He now stared right into your eyes with his beautiful red ones, continuing his sweet, sweet praise while he slowly pushed in and out of you.

"You like that, don't you? The way my cock feels inside of you, like you were made for me." All you could do was moan and cling closer to him. "Fucking. Perfect." He slid out and pushed back in hard with every word, he was slowly losing control, getting closer and closer.

"Yes, my love, that's it." Astarion praised as he felt your pussy getting tighter. "Come for me." You saw stars as he started to tease your clit oh so gently once again and shattered around him. You felt yourself gushing, coating his cock with your release and blushed but Astarion seemed to quite enjoy it.

"Oh my pet, you've made such a mess for me, fuck…" His thrust were getting harder, sloppier, his breathing quickened. You placed your arms around his neck, pulling him even closer while resting your forehead on his, gently moaning.

"Please come inside me." You begged breathless, knowing this might send him over the edge. Saying that Astarion had a breeding kink might be far-feteched, he wasn't fond of children, he didn't even particularly like them, not to mention that a Vampire can't sire children, not even an ascended one but the thought of your pussy dripping with his release was enough. You pushed yur hips against his, helping him along and placed one of your hands on his defined chest, gently teasing his nipple.

"Oh fuck, little love, I'm gonna come…" Astarion's moan was the most beautiful thing on earth, you thought, you loved how vocal he was during sex, never above mentioning how good he felt or letting the occasional dirty talk slip in. Sex with Astarion was far from boring or vanilla. "Fuck." he nearly whimpered as he spilled inside you, his sloppy thrusts coming to a halt, his chest now pressed right on yours. You felt his hot breath on our neck as he buried is head into your shoulder, slowly coming down from his height.

You slipped your hands in his soft, white hair, slowly massaging his scalp and playing with his curls, feeling quite content and relaxed.

"Bath, my love?" he mumbled into your shoulder, already grabbing the back of your thighs, hoisting you up into his arms. You nodded, wrapping your legs around his waist as he carried you down the corridor.

[shruiee]

Ruie, my dear, I was re-reading "The Dragon and The Dancer" and if you are still writing/accepting requests can I get a prequel(before the events of "laut ke ajana") where she dances for Daemon (with some nsfw) please?

ugh first of all, I hope your pillow is always cold, your charger cords never break and may you find money on the streets just for funsises.

second of all!!! Saaiyan Hatto Jao would be such a fitting song, of Dancer seducing Daemon so let’s go!

Daemon Targaryen x Martell!Wife!Reader

tw: exhibitionism? kinda misogynistic but bare with me pls 🤭 clit play, fivesome(kinda), breeding kink, humiliation, oral m and f receiving. mf(fff), mentions of underage stuff ekkk

main masterlist

In whatever capacity Daemon had within himself to restrain himself from his pretty wife was surely a bravery the Maesters ought to write in books. He had graced the courts of Lys multiple, multiple times. That's where he’d found Mysaria all those years ago. She was a whore, and dancer but a whore. He visited the city twice in his youth, in all his glory mounted open the ominous visage that was Caraxes yet not once was he esteemed enough to watch the infamous courtesans of Lys. Those women, wretched but entrancing women who invited the ones their hearts pleased, unlike any other establishment that would let in anyone with a coin to throw.

Imagine his surprise when an enticing swan from that very establishment had been under his nose this entire time, part of him cursed himself for not seeing it earlier. Something of such enchanting breeding couldn’t have simply come from the loins of Qoren Martell, and knowing your parentage was from Lys. If you weren’t already an insatiable spirit, Daemon pawed at your skirts even more now. He knew that the matter of you dancing was rather sensitive since your mother’s passing and he would never impose himself onto you otherwise.

Yet it couldn’t help taunt the perverse within him, such was the beauty of the Lysenees courtesans. To entice a man wild with just the melody of their voices and the ancient craft of their dance. Many a man with pockets deep enough to raise kingdoms lost their prospects at the doorsills of these bewitching girls.

You spoke of it at length with him once, sat in a warm bath overlooking the sunset, how esteemed of a pupil you were and come of age, your introductory performance had carriages lined for ten streets. Should the time have come, you might have even become the Madam of the establishment with age. The more you excelled in your art the more you feared of never leaving that place like your mother had wished for you. You not once loathed dancing, you hated the politics— you hated how wars began at the backs of courtesans partaking in spying against the very lords they once served to backstab and plot away at every chance they got for their survival. You rather missed the morning singing lessons and the sounds of your sister's anklets running up and down the halls.

“You keep such things from me,” Daemon muttered against your bare shoulder, peppering kisses up to your “You sing?”

You nodded, lifting your head to look at him with a sheepish smile.

It wouldn’t take a lunatic to envision your sweet voice singing away… singing just for him. He tried, he tried so very hard to not let his twitch cock at the thought of it, he was sure you felt it.

“What am I to do with you.” He groaned.

For a wish he had dreamt of since he was near seven and ten, no amount of gold named to the second Targaryen prince would get him inside that establishment, not after he had claimed Caraxes— a magnanimous beast that could burn all those witches in there all at once and not even after aiding the Free Cities with its odd brawls with one another.

And here the damned gods had blessed him with his wish, perched upon his lap. Eager to please him, vowed to obey and be with him till death do them part. Curious how the world worked.

You were no fool, like an animal in rut you had felt Daemon’s demeanour change since the day he discovered you were an untouched courtesan and caught you dancing in the Mirrored Palace alone. You were no stranger to the allure and aura that followed from being who you were, or who your performative personality is.

There is no harm done you thought, you had no joy in dancing for the men at court yet the sound of perhaps performing— truly performing for your lord husband seemed titillating.

It was the conditioning perhaps, to have a noble lord claim a courtesan all to himself, it showed one of two things. A lord with immensely fat pockets or a woman worth nearly a kingdom and its cavalry.

What were you worth? A fucking dragon-lord, a kingdom can’t be worth much if it’s ash. With your children most likely inheriting dragons too, you would by comparison must have outshone all your sisters back in Lys. Such fortune all for a pretty song and the swaying of one’s hips.

When Daemon had told you about is escapades in Essos, especially of how many times the poor prince had tried to gain an audience at your former court. You internally giggled at the picture of a young Daemon clamouring like the rest with gifts and praises to win the attention of your house Madam at the time. Even when he returned with a dragon he was barred, and it wasn’t unusual. Your Madam enjoyed playing with fire, toying with how far she could push men just to catch a glimpse of one of her girls.

Come to think of it, she might have been trying to grasp for an invitation to the Old King’s court, set up an establishment in King’s Landing. But one thing you’d learned from the stories Daemon told you about King’s Landing. Much of the courtesan's work would be polluted by the lack of affection for its craft.

You couldn't deprive him so, not when he paid you handsomely, ravishing your body each night like a silent prayer. Even having seen you, felt you and taught you things that would go beyond the means of a courtesan’s work. You saw the passion in his eyes when he’d find you fixing your ghungroos or humming under your breath as you worked on your needlepoint. The tests of a true Madam now laid at your feet, not only to devise an elaborate function for your dear husband but to be discreet and the most essential part of it all, for you to be perfection.

You’d pick the night of the coming full moon, you knew your father would have grumbled himself to his chambers rather early, the change in tides somehow always made him ill. Your sisters would all be abed, Daemon’s daughter’s too. The commendable part were your lady’s maids, pussyfooting away orders of flowers from Pentos, the special vials of rose oil from Qarth, at least a hundred candles to light up the arched viewpoint at the Watergardens. Daemon’s favourite foods to be prepared along with fine strong wines from the Old Palace cellars.

The intricacies of this function had been handled with such care and secrecy, that it made you consider moving into the manse your father had gifted you after your wedding for some privacy. Surely, a married— happily married couple engaging in salacious acts with one another shouldn't be unexpected. Lastly your lehenga, unlike the ones you usually wear, was truly a magnificent piece made by the dressmaker. A black velvet blouse with a dangerously low neckline and shoulder embroidered with dragons of red and gold threads, a lighter skirt of silk with heavy gold embroidery and embellishments and a chiffon embellished shawl that did nothing to hide your figure.

Another ruse was set up to hide your true schemes, a quaint supper with just you and Daemon being entertained by folk singers sent by Yi Ti.

The evening had been rather splendid, Daemon had no interest in listening to some fucks sing about in a tongue he understood not, but when his sweet wife insisted upon spending the evening together: he couldn't deny you.

He suspected that you were up to something, with supper being prepared, dishes lined up one after the other which were all those he shamelessly indulged in, the rather aged wine that you had been consuming a little too much of. He did not mind, either way, fucking his wife tonight sober or a sweet slobber mess— all was well in the world. After what seemed like a while, Daemon finally felt at ease, calm with a purpose that he belonged, with his daughters and you.

“Excuse me, dearest.” you whispered against his ear, smiling before pecking his cheek “I’ll be back.”

Daemon smiled back, watching you rise from the floored cushions that the both of you nested on, his eyes very shamelessly admiring your backside and the curves of your hips as you walked back into your quarters. He marvelled at the thought of ripping that very lovely maroon gown of your body. The colour change had been a sudden shock to him when you fluttered your way into the sparring wards in a Dornish gown painted in the dark crimson of his house’s colour. Rest assured the sparring continued later in the evening and the gown alas did not survive.

You had slipped out easily, just as the doors closed behind you, the lot of you bolted the opposite direction to your privy and down the hallways, skirts hiked up as you used your other hand to free your hair of the loose Westerosi braids they were in. Your maids ran with you, two of them already waiting by the Watergardens along with the the whore dancers you had acquired all outfitted in white and the esteemed musicians that played at every one of your events.

Hiding behind the thick shrubbery, your maids hastily stripped you off your gown and small clothes and replaced them with the ensemble made for tonight. You prayed to the gods while calming your breath from all that running, let it be perfect. The four girls would greet Daemon upon his arrival, even though they would be a finer treat than most men have had in this lifetime, you were another anthology entirely.

Daemon had been given his first clue after the Yi Ti performers had finally ended their never-ending song.

“The princess awaits you in the Watergardens, my prince.” the attendant had informed before scurrying away.

Whatever this was, Daemon was truly intrigued seemingly obeying his wife and heading straight out of the gardens without any delay. The show that greeted him there however had him taken aback for a moment, the garden pillars decorated in blossoms and twinkling candles scattered across the stairs leading to the arches. He could hear the mellow music and the serene sound of flute dancing along with the crashing waves.

Just like a dream come true, he was greeted by the sound of ghungroos— a sound he had grown accustomed to. Four girls rushed towards him, lifting their hands to their faces and bowing.

“Good evening, my prince.” one of them spoke.

“We have longed for your arrival, your grace.” said the other. Reaching forward for Daemon’s hand.

At any other time he might have pulled away, but this was surely orchestrated by his wayward wife. He could feel her around but couldn't see, and these girls— preening up at him like willing, wanting whores, they were no courtesans. He played along, letting them drag him along to the shore view where an elaborate arrangement awaited him. An old fire in him arose when his reputation had been so palpable at the many brothels across the Known World. Two of them pushed him onto the plush sete, giggling as one of them plops right next to him.

“Would you like some refreshments, my prince.” One of them said with a bunch of grapes in her hand, the other poured him a glass of wine. The third took her time feeling Daemon up, he thoroughly enjoyed this but longed for his wife— his courtesan. One of them began to unbutton the tops of his doublet, soft fingers trailing across his chest.

His sexual frustrations and anticipation began to pivot to a perverse ire, to find you hiding somewhere and reprimand you with your arse red for teasing him so.

That is when the sound of a heavier set of ghungroos echoed around the arches, there you were. Your glowing face against the moonlit sky and candles, you walked towards, body covered in a thick black shawl. The girls around him lifted their skirts and ran towards you, positioning themselves. Then came the music, a smirk so prominent settled itself on Daemon’s lips as his lifelong dream had now stood in fruition before him.

You seductively, inch by inch let the black shawl drop until it fell to the ground, looking at the shawl and suggestively looking up at your husband. You twirled thrice forward, ending right by Daemon’s legs and lowered yourself. He knew not of what you sang but it was as though a witch chanted spells to bind him to you.

The song you sang was one of innocence, a sweet girl begging her lover to let her return home— for the higher the moon rose in the sky her reputation hung by a thread. Ever so seductively telling him to stay away because she knew his true desires were so very impure.

Stay away my love, I know what you desire

You reached for the rose tucked in your blouse, reaching lower to gesture at your ghungroos, giving Daemona a rather exposed view of your bosom. You acted as if his looking had offended you and flicked the rose at him, you stood to continue your routine still singing without a note or beat missed. You knew within that you were perfection, it is what you were trained for from birth. This one performance should have costed half of Pentos, but look upon Daemon’s eyes was payment enough for you.

Night fades to dawn my love, please let me go home

You pulled your shawl of your head and down you your shoulder, toying with it around your cleavage. Eyebrows suggestively scrunched at Daemon, making him kiss the rose you gave him and throw it back at you which you caught with ease, letting the petal graze upon your cheek and then your lips lowering it further down the sides of your torso and tucking it this time at the lining of your skirt. You turn your back towards him swaying you hips as you walked away, turning once to wink at him and continuing to walk until the hardest part of the number began.

The percussion beats could never be missed by your feet, in a performative haze you smiled at the three dancers who also did an extraordinary job at keeping up with you. You turned one last time.

My mother and sister by law shall poke, where had I been, my love. I will die of embarrassment

You walked towards him this time, an exaggerated sway in your hip as you pulled your shawl out from your skirt lining and let it fall to the floor, you turned once more, performatively reaching for the back strings of your blouse and pulling them to mimic a sensual morning stretch. You turned towards your husband who had settled himself further into the cushion.

You kept singing as he reached his hand out, you took it letting him pull you onto his lap. Your soft finger held his face as you kept singing, leading his face towards your neck and he wasted no time in peppering kisses down your collarbone. You pushed him back there after which startled him, you could feel the hardened mound under his breeches— your payment.

Stay away my love, I know of what you desire.

Daemon had enough, still letting you finish your song, your eyes and eyebrows still expressing away your performative feelings as he reached for your Nath and removed it, a significant indication of deflowering a young courtesan.

Your song ended as you sat straddled upon Daemon’s lap, you gaze never left his— like you were another person entirely. Daemon relished in how he intimidated you, how shy and small you were around him, how receptive but innocent you remained even when he taught you to pleasure him and yourself in bed. Yet this woman sat atop him, you were someone else.

“Was it everything you ever dreamed of, my prince.” Your whispered, your hands caressing his face.

Daemon for a moment couldn’t find his words, that’s when you snapped from your performance growing anxious from the silence. You were about to pull away when Daemon abruptly spun you down onto the cushion so he lay towering over you, caging you under his broad build.

“How am I to pay you, my lady,” he said, wanting to rip the clothing off your body but he looked behind to still see the four girls standing.

“They are yours tonight my prince,” you nervously, your aura slipping back to the former “As am I.”

At that Daemon held no restraint and laid siege upon your body, he figured the lasses could still dance as Daemon would take you apart under the moonlit sky.

You held nothing back, arching your back onto the onslaught of Daemon’s lips. Letting your fingers feel the remaining buttons of his doublet and pushing them off his shoulder. This time you pushed back, the heat on your cheeks so apparent for you’d never thought to be so forthcoming in bed before, Daemon always held the reins, placing you in positions he liked, teaching you ways to pleasure yourself.

Daemon grunted for a moment, fighting against the push of your hands before giving in, letting you lay him back down once more. You straddled him once more, this time slipping back into the seductive performance you’d laid out for him. Smiling down at him as you slipped your blouse off, slowly— inch by inch before dropping it next to you.

Daemon’s lips parted in a gasp, though his cockiness would credit his lessons for confidence in this matter. He was further crazed by how much you appeared to be enjoying doing this. He couldn't help himself, reaching up to tweak at your left nipple. You began to roll your hips against the hardening of his breeches, your bare cunt under your skirt pressed at the girth giving you just a small burst of pleasure.

You did Daemon of his tunic, your fingers tracing his battle scars as you reached lower, letting your lips press against his warm skin— letting yourself inch lower and lower as you shuffled off him.

You both yearned greatly for one another, nearly four moons into your marriage and the passions you shared for one another only seemed to reach further heights with each passing day. A fire that Daemon had lit within you burned so bright for him every day. One might think you were born to be with him, obey him.

Daemon watched as you undid his pants, pulling them down his legs and not once leaving his eyes, you were an ethereal sight, bare-chested with his gifted jewels shining at your neck— so prepared to service him. You reached for his cock and that's when he stopped you.

His hands trailed to your head of wild hair, gently tugging at it. “You want my cock?” he said. Eyes wild and waiting for your response.

You meekly nodded, sticking your tongue out just as he taught you to. Wasting no time further he pushes your mouth onto his cock, letting your head bob and suction at his length. You worked your tongue around his cock, the taste of him so familiar in your mouth. You whimper as he pushes in further breaching the back of your mouth and making your eyes water.

“Who would have thought it hmm, the finest girl Lys could offer kneeled like a whore for me” his words falsely degrading you sending shockwaves straight to you your core.

You whimper, this time willingly taking him deeper feeling your throat want to constrict as you pull up for air— he however stops you briefly before giving you relief. A string of salvia lingering on your lips. He wiped at the tears polling around the corner of your eyes.

“Take the rest of it off girl,” he demanded, eyes ravenous and impatient.

You gathered your bearing before standing once more, pulling at the waist string of your skirts with no haste to tease him yet again. You let your skirt fall as you caught onto the rose still tucked at your waistline. You kissed it and threw it at him. Every look, every action towards you seemed to have been pooling your cunt wet.

Daemon grunted, yanking you back onto him. His lips smacked against yours once more as he took a harsh hold of your tit with one hand while the other held you here. His actions were voracious, seducing your soul rather than your body.

You took matters into your own hands, unable to keep up with this game any longer and reached for his cock— gently rubbing the tip at you folds before lowering yourself onto him.

Daemon groaned into your mouth as you gasped, having never felt him so deep, you held onto his shoulder fingernails digging in.

“You're so deep,” you whispered, your breath hitching as you adjusted to the intrusion.

His fingers dug into the flesh of your arse pulling you further down and full of him. You felt so close, so one with him. You began to grind your hip, your neck cranked as Daemon’s head dipped lower to kiss your shoulders and up your neck.

“Such a fine prize aren't you, tell me how do I pay you?” he said bucking his hips up into you making you sqwak.

“D-dragonseed… I want your babes.” you whispered, head hanging in a wanting shame.

Daemon smirked, he had forever hoped to make you swell of his children but he never knew your sweet mind craved to be bred.

“Go on then, take what you want.” he rested back on to his elbows, bucking his hips once more to coerce you to keep going.

You rested a hand on his torso using it as leverage to lift your hips to bounce into his cock. Your snug cunt milking him to fill you. Your smaller legs weren't enough to lift you that far off his cock, but you tried nonetheless. Daemon reached for your cunny, his thumb began to rub circles onto your clit sending you into a frenzy— riding him with far more determination.

It felt good, so very good.

“How does it feel darling? How does it feel riding a dragon.”

You let out a strained giggle at that, still unable to help your childish mind. You kept riding him, Daemon’s lips restraining a smile too at your ill-timed humour. Earning you a sharp smack on your left tit.

“It feels so good, so deep.”

Your hips found a steady rhythm against Daemon’s fingers at your bundle of nerves. Your each bounce ore eager than the one before. Your tits bobbing and calling for equal attention from Daemon.

“My prince!”

You moaned, feeling that pinnacle ever so close as you chased it.

“I’m all yours,” you said unprovoked “a courtesan trained just for you.”

Daemon nearly lost his bearings at that, pinching your nipple harder. Seven Hells— he knew you were made just for him.

“Say it again.”

“I was born to be your c- courtesan.” you cried, feeling so very close to completion.

Your thighs begin to shudder, he can feel them clenching— he lets go of your breast and grabs your hips in aid to feel you gush around him. A sudden pitched cry leaves your mouth as you tremble your bouncing coming to a halt as you fight to hold yourself up but Daemon’s fingers on your bundle of nerves don't stop.

He abruptly flips you over, readjusting you within a blink of an eye. Your bare body facing the dancers as Daemon’s solid wet-length rested on the curve of your ass.

“We could get your money’s worth,” he suggested nipping at your ear lobe, his demeanour shifted to the one of you loving husband. “We needn't—”

“I trust you.” you looked up at him, chest still heaving from your peak before and yet you always wanted more of him, more of his depravities.

So many fantasies, much to do.

He gestured them forward knowing they would take much time to shed their clothes, they were whores trained to dance.

All three of of them vulgarly bowed, giggling amongst themselves.

“My prince.” The chorus of their voice followed as they began their performance to reach for him.

He tutted— he’d die happy if he died tonight.

“Not me, her.” He ordered.

You looked back up at him, a curious flare in your eyes that was met with his top protruding at your sloppy opening once more.

The girls entirely shifted their attention onto you.

“Mhmm you have such lovely tits princess.”

“Such soft skin.”

“Such a fine figure, your grace.”

Daemon pushed into you once more, groaning and resting his head onto your shoulder. His palm curled around you neck pulling your back against his shoulder. He knew of the explosive pleasure you were about to discover, even more joy was that he would be the one giving it to you, a fine reward for my girl, the fruits of the lovely exhibition you'd put on for him.

He began fucking into you, small grunts and exhales lingered by your ear and what followed from there on had your mind scattered.

One whore settled on suckling your nipples, twisting and toying with the other. One muffled your moans with her lips upon yours. Your cunny was already sensitive but then you felt a sensation you never had before. The third girl kneeled by the nest and began to lick your bud.

“D— Daemon!”

The sensation so overwhelming you began to pull away, Daemon curled other arm firm around your torso to keep you in place as he continued rut into you.

“Feels good doesn’t it, my love?”

You could barely speak but you nodded, eyes shut feeling yourself so lost in every touch. One of the whores disappeared behind you, settling herself under Daemon to service his heavy stones.

He watched as the whores played with your tits, he too reach further up to tweak a pebble harshly between his fingers. You gasped at the burn of pain. The whore sucking at your teat came to your defence.

“Gentle my prince, breaking a thing so pretty isn’t fair”

“Not this one, her cunt is squelching around me.” he groans.

“Its true!” the girl by your cunt giggles.

Your cheeks burned in shame, they spoke of you like you weren't around. The whore licking your bud pushed at your folds to leave it exposed as she suckled and licked and rubbed away. Daemon’s cock fucked you raw from within and you felt it once more, hurtling towards.

“Go on, wet my cock my love.” he grunted fucking you harder.

His peak chased after as you broke first, gushing around his cock as you screamed his name. Legs and arms shuddering as Daemon grunted to completion himself, ropes of his spent coated your walls. You could feel the warmth within, nearly forfeited by your sensations. He held your body so close, recovering himself as he shooed the whores away.

Letting you collapse in the nest first and then himself. Laying soft kisses at your shoulder, still firmly holding your hand to ground you.

“Well done, my love.”

You lazily smiled at him, dazed in euphoria as you rubbed your feet against his calves.

“What have I done for fortune.” He whispered against your temple.

You shrugged at him, leaning forward to kiss him once more. “I hope you are pleased with my performance?”

Daemon shook his head, begging mesmerized by you. He let his hand rest at your belly.

“If giving you all this love,” he kissed your cheek. “My dragonseed,” he pressed onto you belly. “Isn’t indication of how very pleased I am sweet girl.”

Then you heard a high pitched squeal from the skies, clicks and then the rustle of trees around you. “Then perhaps I should show you what being a dragon feels like.”

Caraxes burst through the horizon behind your circling the skies as he lowered himself onto the white beach. You looked at Daemon puzzled, as he pulled you up to dress you.

“What are you doing?” You huffed putting your blouse back on.

“You want to have my children, it might be time that you grew accustomed to Caraxes.”

You kept dressing yourself to mask the fear that was coursing through your veins. I dance for him and he plans to kill me. You could barely muster the courage to be even ten feet around Moondancer and that beast was a babe. Caraxes is a behemoth, he protects your husband— he told you how the two of them were two halves of whole. It never made sense to you.

“Don’t be scared, halves of a whole remember?” he said as he bent down to lift you up by you back and legs once you finished dressing.

You’d rid yourself of your ghungroos just to not startle the beast.

“I love you, care for you. Therefore he does too.”

You weren’t sure about how sure he was about said theory. Yet you let him carry you to the beaches below where Caraxes sat waiting, when you saw him it almost appeared as though he was playing with sand. Shaking his snout it the sand to bury it and then exhaling to have sand fly everywhere, followed by loud clicks.

“Is he— is he playing?” You asked your husband.

“Told you, he’s harmless.”

That beast also burned dozens of Dornish men but alright.

Just as Caraxes felt Daemon’s presence he chirped up even more, his long neck swaying in the wind. However it only took a moment for his demeanour to flip when he realized there was another. You froze in Daemon’s arms at the low grumble Caraxes let out.

“Dohaeras Caraxes!” Daemon lowly warned the beast.

Caraxes still look unsure but Daemon kept walking.

He put you down a few feet from the beast, don’t run— don’t run. You watched as Daemon walked towards Caraxes without a care in the world that his wife might get fried tonight.

“Konir sagon ñuha ābrazȳrys, ao gīmigon zirȳla syt izula hūra, keligon issare quba.” That is my wife, you have know about her for four moons. I told you.

Daemon sounded like he was scolding the dragon.

He turned to you “Come my love.”

You obeyed, talking small steps towards him. Towards his outstretched hand. Everything would be fine, you trusted him. Entirely— wholeheartedly, with your life.

Just until Caraxes turned his long neck and his snout just with a feet from you. You froze entirely once more, Daemon still petting Caraxes.

“Dohaeras,” he whispered, almost as if he spoke to a child.

Caraxes’s big nostrils flared, sniffing you a couple of time before chirping. Daemon chuckled, you relaxed for a moment until Caraxes gently used his snout to trip you backwards before once more burying his snout in the sand and deeply exhaling, burying you in a thick sheet of sand. Daemon couldn’t help but break into a fit of laughter

“Daemon!”

You were going to great friends he knew it.

eeee I had so much fun writing this. I totally imagine Caraxes kinda being like jealous Lilly from modern family lol

[foone]

whats your favourite narnia book if you have one

Since I grew up as an autistic christian, I have many Narnia Opinions!

So, my favorite book for it's own reasons is probably The Magician's Nephew. I'm always a slut for worldbuilding and backstory and that novel is basically just only that. Some guy we know from another book goes on an adventure and in the process gets to be involved with the creation of one world and the destruction of another? kick-ass.

Best book to adapt? The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe. 1988 BBC version, 1979 Cartoon version, 2005 theatrical? All good, in their own ways. The BBC version is just perfectly 80s and the costumes are amazing (because they are costumes! they did all the monsters by sticking a guy in a big costume and I love it), the cartoon version captures the fucking whimsy of a story where SANTA SHOWS UP AND GIVES EVERYONE PRESENTS and the first person to offer any serious lore about the situation is named MR BEAVER. And the 2005 film has the big battles and CGI and Tilda Swinton as the White Witch which is... so much. I love them all.

But the best book adaptation is the 1990 BBC The Silver Chair. Hands down. It's got Tom Baker's Puddleglum, Warwick Davis playing an owl, 0£ BBC budget greenscreened giants (MULTIPLE TIMES), a group of people discovering IT'S A COOKBOOK and one of them being offended by the cookbook saying they don't taste very good, the bad guy turning into a giant rubber snake. a witch trying to gaslight some humans into believing the sun is a myth, and the ultimate salvation of Eustace Scrubb: a boy who almost deserved being named that.

And since I can't not list basically everything Narnia ever made, BBC's 1989 Prince Caspian and The Voyage of the Dawn Treader is pretty good too. It's a fun "road movie", in that it's an odyssey into a fictional Mysterious Ocean of Here There Be Dragons.

Lotta hits in that one. It's also got a "collect the macguffins!" plot where they're trying to collect the Seven Lost Lords.

But yeah, it's like... the first Island gets them a lord and they get to end slavery. Next up, Dragon TF island (The dragon is Greed... but it's also just a literal fucking dragon). Next, Gold TF island. Gold, it turns out, makes you go insane in your lust for wealth, even if you're already a Prince of a whole country. The gold is Greed, but it will also just fucking kill you because you'll be turned into gold.

Then it's the island of the ugly invisible one-foot guys and it turns out they cast a spell to turn invisible so no one could see how they're ugly but they're not ugly, they just think they are? and then it goes "HEY LUCY COMPARE YOURSELF TO YOUR OLDER SISTER" and she's like "I'm ugly.... unlike her. Maybe I should use magic to STEAL HER BEAUTY?!" and it's like, wow. Is there maybe a theme here about self-esteem in your appearance? and Clive Officemax Lewis is over there going I'LL NEVER TELL.

Anyway it's got the good line about how the Wizard in charge of the ugly invisible one-footed pogo-idiots is that how he eagerly awaits the day that they can be ruled by wisdom, instead of magic. It's a fun approach to magic: it's something that is a shortcut, a crutch, and it's a poor replacement for Wisdom, even when used by "the good guys". Tell me, Mr. FedexKinkos-Lewis, do you have any opinions on the complicated relationship between Christianity and magic? oh, you do? I never would have guessed!

They also find The Island Where Dreams Come True. They don't land there, they just fish a screaming man out of the ocean who is trying to escape it. The sailors hear it's The Island Where Dreams Come True and are like "wow, I could have my own ship!" and he yells no, you fools, not dreams like your wishes and imaginations, your actual dreams come true on this island.

and everyone agrees: Get us the fuck away from this island and lets never return.

Anyway I'm not gonna talk about THE ENTIRE MOVIE/BOOK but it's got a great weirdness at the end where they reach the end of the world (which is flat. It's okay, this is Narnia, a completely different world with different physical rules than Earth), and it's a waterfall, but a waterfall going up?

It turns out Heaven is on the other side of it. They turn around, but the anthropomorphic mouse is like "ehh, I'll take that journey" and becomes the Elijah of Aslan's Country, their equivalent of heaven.

Narnia, won't you?

[saddleups]

Low honor Arthur with a darling who got daddy issues? Please?

★ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 . . . 4.7k

★ 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒 . . . request , complete. LOW HONOR ARTHUR MORGAN X F!READER !! 18+ SMUT MDNI !!

★ 𝐂𝐖 . . . low honor arthur isn't the nicest guy. breeding, i couldn't help it. you're his best girl and he wants you to know that. p_rn w/o a plot !

★ 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 . . . actually proud of this? since working on my short!fic i've been trying to "mimic" arthur's voice better. oddly enough, it's easier for me to do it when he's low honor. he's a bastard and he says the meanest things but good grief! he sure knows how to make it up to you! thanks for requesting, i hope this captures the vibe <3

Sitting alone, waiting. The fire crackled low in the dark, casting faint shadows. There was something raw in the silence—an emptiness that lingered after him whenever he left. Arthur Morgan was no husband, not even close. Hell, he wasn't a boyfriend either. To others in the camp, you were just the "pretty little thing" he kept nearby for his own satisfaction. Sometimes you wondered if that's all you were to him too. Regardless, you stayed, because Arthur was all you had. And for as much as he was a bastard, he was your bastard.

Just as the embers started to die, you caught sight of him stumbling into camp, the night clinging to him like an old friend. He was battered—blood crusting over his knuckles, his face marred with fresh scratches and fading bruises. Each scar, each wound, he wore them like badges of honor, proof of the wild life he led. Yet here he was, staggering over to you with a look in eyes that was almost…needy.

Underneath normal circumstances, you'd run into his arms. Feet gravitating off the floor as Arthur wrapped you up in his arms, you'd sear your lips into his. The groans of commune fading as you stumble into your shared tent. Instead, you remain watching him stumble toward you.

"Hey now," he murmured, his voice thick and gravelly, reaching out for you as he sat down heavily on the tree stump nearby. "C'mon, pretty girl… ain't ya glad t'see me?"

You said nothing, just took a rag and dipped it in the bowl of water beside you. He was watching you, eyes soft in a way they rarely were.

"Oh. That damn look," you say just above a whisper.

"What look, baby?"

Arthur's fingers twitched, reaching toward your hip, but before he could make contact, you slapped his hand away without a word.

“Ow, darlin’,” he muttered, though there was a hint of amusement in his voice. “Ain't no way t’treat a man who's been out fightin’ fer ya, is it?”

You ignored his words, the charm he tried to wrap around them like some fool’s gold trinket. You pressed the damp cloth to his forehead, dabbing at the blood smearing his brow and cheek in silence, ignoring his exagerrated winces and whimpers. His eyes searched your face, almost expectant, but you kept your expression steady, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of your love.

"Well, if yer not gonna say nothin'," he drawled, smirking in that way that made you ache and hate him all at once. "Guess I'll have t'find other ways t’make ya sweet again."

You clenched your jaw, finishing your task with swift, controlled motions. When you were done, you stood, turning away without another word, leaving him alone with nothing but the faint warmth of your touch and the silence that stretched in your absence.

Arthur watched you go, the easy grin slipping from his face as he sat alone on that stump, his fingers curling into fists, reopening wounds he hadn’t let heal.

The firelight flickered as you walked away, leaving Arthur sitting alone on the tree stump, though you hadn’t taken more than a few steps before you felt his presence behind you. His hand wrapped around your arm, firm yet careful, pulling you back against his chest. The scent of leather, smoke, and faint blood clung to him as his low, gruff voice sounded near your ear.

“Where d’ya think yer goin’, princess?” His grip was taut, but there was a warmth to it, a kind of possessiveness that he wore as naturally as the rough coat on his shoulders. “Thinkin' you could just walk away like that, after all I’ve done fer ya?”

You felt his arm snake around your waist, drawing you closer. His calloused fingers grazed your side, holding you there against him, reminding you just how easily he could keep you where he wanted.

“You know better than that,” he murmured, his lips just brushing your ear. “You’re mine, ain't ya? My pretty girl. Ain't nobody else in this world who’d take care of ya the way I do.”

A shiver ran through you as he tightened his grip, his voice dropping even lower, carrying that familiar mix of harshness and something close to tenderness. “Now, how ‘bout you show me a bit of that sweetness I been missin’? Not gonna act like you don’t want me just as much as I want you.”

You turned, meeting his gaze. There was a flicker in his eyes, something unspoken yet undeniable, and without waiting for a reply, he leaned in, his mouth pressing against yours, claiming you in a way that was rough and yet familiar. And as much as you wanted to pull away, his hold kept you grounded, unable to deny the undeniable pull he had over you. His lips felt oddly sweet, despite his demanor. He must've ate those peaches you packed for him. He must've thought of you, right?

Parting from the kiss for air, Arthur's grip remained firm. In response, you twisted in his arms, anger flashing in your eyes.

“Do you even know how worried I’ve been?” you snapped, shoving against his chest. “You disappear for weeks, not a single letter, not a damn word. I thought—” Your voice broke, the fear and frustration spilling out despite yourself.

Arthur’s brow furrowed, his grip loosening as he stared down at you. “Now, don’t start on that,” he muttered, the words defensive. “I been busy, doin' what needs doin'. You know how it is.”

You shook your head, unable to hide the hurt that had been festering in his absence. “What I know is you think you can just vanish and expect me to sit here like some fool, waiting on you. You don’t even care what that does to me, Arthur. Not one bit.”

His jaw tightened, eyes hardening. “Careful now,” he warned, but then, almost like he couldn’t help himself, he muttered, “Guess that’s why you’re so needy, huh? Daddy wasn’t around either, if I remember right.”

The words cut deeper than any bullet. You flinched, the anger giving way to something raw and wounded. A part of your history that was shared in confidence, not as possible ammunition in an argument. Lashes flutter as you look up at him, tears flooding in the rims of your eyes. At the first sight of tears, Arthur’s expression shifted the second he realized what he’d said, the regret visible in the tight line of his mouth as he loosened his hold. He attempted to wipe a tear, you refuse his touch deepening the guilt he felt.

“Hey now, darlin’,” he murmured, voice softer, and this time, he gently took hold of your arms, his touch almost tender. “Didn’t mean it like that. Just… you know I ain’t the best with words.”

You tried to pull away, but he held on, his thumb brushing over your shoulder, almost apologetic. “Look, it’s just—” he took a breath, gathering himself. “You mean more to me than anythin’. I know I’m gone a lot, and maybe I don’t always say the right things, but I keep you here ‘cause I can’t let go. Don’t wanna lose ya, alright?”

His eyes met yours, a hint of vulnerability in them that you rarely saw, and he pulled you closer, his forehead resting gently against yours. “I need ya. Ain’t nobody else who can put up with me like you do.”

The anger softened, though the hurt lingered. Arthur’s hands drifted to cradle your face, his thumb gently brushing your cheek. “Forgive me, darlin’. I’ll do better. I swear it.”

You stood there, the words he’d just said still echoing in your mind, but you didn’t reply. Instead, you reached out, taking his wrist in your hand, and without a word, you began leading him toward the small tent the two of you shared.

Arthur chuckled low under his breath, shaking his head. “Oh, so now you’re givin’ orders, huh? Didn’t take ya for the bossy type, sweetheart.”

You shot him a look over your shoulder but said nothing, and his smirk faded as he followed you, the quiet between you both heavy and unspoken. Once inside, you gestured toward the thin pallet on the ground, barely even glancing at him.

“Lay down,” you instructed, your voice steady.

Arthur’s eyes lingered on you for a moment, the usual glint in them softened by something else, something almost vulnerable. He held your gaze, his expression shifting as he took you in, then, without a fight, he lowered himself to the bedroll. Arching himself up on his elbows, Arthur watches you in silence, as though waiting for you to make the next move.

You settled yourself on Arthur’s lap, your hands resting lightly on his shoulders, watching his surprise turn into something far more expectant as his eyes drifted over you. He looked like he was already expecting something else entirely.

“Listen close, Morgan,” you said, voice low but firm. “Tomorrow, you’re going into town and buying me a new dress. Something nice. To make up for the way you talked to me.”

Arthur raised a brow, a lazy smirk curving his lips as he streched his back, hands drifting to your hips. “Oh, so now I’m runnin’ errands, too? What’s next, princess—gonna have me pickin’ out your fancy shoes?” he teased, voice dripping with sarcasm. His fingers tightened on your waist, and you could feel the shift in his grip, the weight of his gaze that said he wasn’t too broken up about you being here, right where he wanted you.

You held his gaze, unflinching. “If I wanted new shoes, you’d be buyin’ those too. Lucky for you, I’m only askin’ for a dress.”

He chuckled, low and dangerous, his fingers tracing small circles along your waist as he looked up at you, clearly relishing the control he still felt, even if he was playing along. “You’re somethin’ else, y’know that?” He let his hand drift up your side, a smug grin spreading as he spoke. “Bossin’ me around, actin' all high and mighty. But let’s not pretend that dress is all ya came here for, darlin’.”

He looked at you, his eyes dark with that rough, insistent need he barely tried to hide. But you kept your cool, leaning in just close enough that he could feel your breath against his skin.

“You’re goin’ to town tomorrow, Arthur,” you repeated, each word soft but unwavering. “And if you want me to be sweet for you, you’ll come back with what I asked for.”

For a moment, he didn’t answer, his eyes narrowing as if he were weighing his choices. Then, with a quiet grunt, he leaned back, his smirk fading just enough to show a hint of compliance.

“All right, all right,” he muttered, feigned reluctance in his tone. “But don’t go gettin’ any ideas ‘bout makin’ this a habit.”

You gave a small, satisfied smile, and though you could tell he wanted more, he held back, just this once, watching you with that defiant glint in his eye and the promise of what was to come. It was almost like he was relishing in your newfound dominance, proud of his girl for standing up against a bastard like him.

However, his impatience had gotten the better of him. Arthur’s hands tightened on your hips, his fingers digging into the soft fabric of your dress as he pulled you closer. He sat up with ease, adjusting your frame atop his. The rough texture of his calloused palms sent a shiver down your spine, and you could feel the heat radiating off his body, mingling with the tension that hung heavy in the air between you both.

“You sure know how to keep a man waitin’, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice low and gravelly, like the scrape of stone against steel. His eyes locked onto yours, dark and piercing, filled with a mixture of hunger and something deeper—something possessive that made your heart pound in your chest.

You swallowed hard, meeting his gaze without flinching, unwilling to reward him so easily. “Maybe I just like seeing you squirm, Morgan.”

Arthur chuckled, a deep, gravelly rumble that vibrated through his chest and into yours. “Oh, I’m squirmin’ alright, darlin’. Just not the way you think.”

His hands shifted, one sliding up your back while the other drifted lower, fingers brushing boldly over the curve of your rear. “Ever thought ‘bout what it’d be like if I didn’t come back one day? Hmm?” His voice dropped, the hint of a challenge in it. “If I just disappeared, left ya here all alone like some poor, helpless damsel?”

Your breath caught for a moment at his words, but you forced yourself to stay steady. “Don’t flatter yourself, Arthur. You’re not that important.”

His lips curved into a slow, wolfish grin. “Liar,” he muttered, leaning in until his forehead pressed against yours, noses almost touching. “You wouldn’t be stickin’ around this long if I wasn’t.”

You could feel his breath warm against your face, tempting and maddening, but you held your ground, refusing to give him the satisfaction. Instead, you let your hands trail down his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath his worn shirt.

“Maybe I just like having someone to boss around,” you murmured, fingers tracing the edge of his belt. “Or maybe…” You paused, biting your lip before continuing, “Maybe I just like seeing you beg.”

Arthur’s eyes darkened at that, a glint of challenge sparking as he tilted his head back, his smirk widening. “Beg?” he drawled, mockingly. “You think you got it in ya to make me beg, princess?”

You shrugged, playing it cool despite the way your heart raced. “Guess we’ll see.”

Before he could get a word in, you moved swiftly, straddling his lap and pinning his wrists down. His brows shot up, surprised, but he quickly narrowed his eyes, a thrill of excitement glinting in their depths.

“Goin’ down on me?” he asked, voice low, thick with amusement.

You shook your head, leaning in until your lips were just a breath away from his. “Not yet. First, we need to talk.”

He groaned, exasperation clear in his tone. “Damn it, woman, I said I’d get ya the damn dress! Don’t tell me we’re really gonna do this talkin’ thing now,” he muttered, the frustration in his voice barely masking the eagerness simmering underneath.

You ignored his frustration, instead focusing on the way his chest heaved beneath you, the steady rise and fall of his breath. “How many times have I told you to be careful out there?” You asked softly, punctuating each word with a gentle nip to his earlobe. “How many times have I begged you to come back to me safe?”

Arthur’s jaw tightened, his eyes flashing with something that looked like guilt. “I know, darlin’,” he muttered, his voice gruff. “But sometimes it ain’t up to me.”

You nodded, understanding but not willing to let him off the hook so easily. “I get that, Arthur. But that doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to worry.”

He sighed, closing his eyes for a moment before opening them again, looking up at you with a strange mix of vulnerability and strength. “I’ll try harder, alright? For you.”

There was a sincerity in his tone that made your heart swell, but you knew better than to let him off too easy. “We’ll see,” you said again, this time with a hint of a smile. “Now… how about we start with you showing me just how sorry you really are?”

Arthur’s eyes gleamed with a dangerous light, his smirk returning full force. “Oh, you want to play games, huh?” He flexed his wrists, testing your grip, but you held firm. “Alright then… what do you want, pretty girl?”

You leaned in closer, your lips brushing against his ear as you spoke.

“First… I want you to watch.”

As you rise to your feet, the tension between you and Arthur charges the air. The fire outside casts flickering shadows through the thin canvas of the tent, playing across your body. You unbutton your blouse slowly, teasingly, the fabric whispering against your skin as it parts. Your eyes never leave Arthur's, watching the way his breath hitches, his gaze darkening with desire.

You let the blouse fall to the ground, revealing the simple chemise underneath. Your movements are calculated to draw out the anticipation. You reach behind your back, slipping the straps down your arms, letting the chemise join the blouse on the ground. Arthur’s eyes follow every inch of exposed skin, his fingers twitching as if ready to touch but restrained by some invisible tether.

Next, you hook your thumbs into the waistband of your skirt, glancing down at Arthur with a coy smile. “Like what you see?” you ask softly, your voice barely more than a whisper.

Arthur’s throat works as he swallows, his voice rough when he finally replies. “Damn right I do,” he growls, his eyes burning with intensity.

“But don’t think for a second that this is just about lookin’.”

You lower the skirt, step out of it, leaving you in just your undergarments. The cool air touches your heated skin, causing goosebumps to rise along your arms and legs. You stand there, basking in his hungry gaze, feeling powerful and desired.

Arthur’s hands flex on the bedroll, his restraint evident in the tenseness of his muscles. “C’mere,” he murmurs, voice thick with want. “Let me show you how much I need ya.”

You move closer, your hips swaying with each step, drawing out his impatience. When you’re within reach, Arthur’s hands snap out, pulling you down onto the bedroll. He rolls over, positioning himself above you, those same calloused hands roaming over your body with a reverence that takes your breath away.

He kisses your neck, teeth grazing gently before his lips press a tender kiss to the spot. “M’gonna take care of ya,” he whispers, his voice vibrating against your skin. “Keep ya safe, make damn sure nothin’ ever hurts ya again.”

His mouth moves lower, tracing down your collarbone, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your skin. His hand cups your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple. “And I ain’t just talkin’ about buyin’ a dress, darlin’. I’m thinkin’ bout buildin’ somethin’ real with ya.”

You arch into his touch, feeling the heat pooling low in your belly. His words send a shiver through you, stirring emotions that go beyond physical desire. “What do you mean?” you ask, your voice trembling slightly.

Arthur lifts his head, his eyes locking with yours. There’s a raw honesty in them that makes your heart ache. “How ‘bout you change that name of yours to Mrs. Morgan?” he drawled, a teasing grin spreading across his face. “Get rid of that man’s ugly name, show the world ya got someone who ain't ever gonna walk out on ya.”

He kisses the valleys between your chest, his warm breath all too familiar. His hands firmly grip your thighs, massaging the flesh as he punctuates his words.

“I wanna marry you,” he says simply, as if stating a fact. “Make you mine proper, not just in name. And…” He pauses, swallowing hard, “I wanna give you a baby. Our baby.”

The weight of his words settles over you, heavy and warm, filling the hollow places inside you that had ached so long. You reach up, tangling your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer. “You promise?” you whisper, your voice breaking.

“I swear it,” he answers, his voice fierce. “On my life, I swear it.”

With that vow hanging in the air between you, Arthur kisses you again, deeper this time, his tongue seeking entrance to your mouth. The world narrows down to just the two of you, the heat of his body, the roughness of his beard against your skin. He shifts slightly, maneuvering until he’s positioned between your legs, his hardness pressing against your core.

You tilt your hips up, inviting him closer, the friction sending sparks of pleasure through your body. Arthur groans, the sound muffled by your kiss, his fingers digging into your hip as he grinds against you. The pressure builds, a slow burn that you both feed with desperate motions.

Arthur breaks the kiss, his forehead resting against yours, his breath hot and ragged. “Tell me you want this too,” he rasps, his voice strained with need. “Tell me you want me to be your man, to give you everythin’.”

You nod, unable to speak past the lump in your throat, your body trembling with the force of your arousal. With a swallow, you shudder into his mouth, "I'm yours...and you're mine."

Arthur’s grip tightens, and he enters you with one smooth thrust, filling you completely. The coarse hairs of his pubic region scrape against your tender skin, sending jolts of both pain and pleasure throughout your body. You gasp for air, your lungs struggling to keep up with the overwhelming sensations.

"Take all of me," you beg, voice rough with desire. "I want to feel you deep inside."

As he sinks deeper into you, your wetness engulfs him, slicking his shaft and creating a slippery rhythm. Every thrust is like fire, burning through you until you can no longer contain your moans. The thought of maintaining composure for the sake of the camp is a distant memory as you give in to the primal urges consuming you.

"It's been too long," you whisper breathlessly. "I've missed you..."

But Arthur only grunts in response, lost in the ecstasy of being buried inside you again. "Missed ya too, darlin'," he manages to say through gritted teeth. "Missed how tight you always get around me." He pauses, making sure you're okay before beginning a steady pace, each movement deliberate and calculated. "I'll protect you," he growls. "Love you and our baby better than anyone else ever could."

Your nails dig into his back, anchoring yourself to him as waves of pleasure wash over you. His words feel like promises that could actually come true in this moment, surrounded by his love and strength.

Despite the prolonged desire that built up inside Arthur while he was away, he kept his movements rhythmic. Though he was eager, the sensation of you around him was one he wanted to drown in. Your body trembled underneath him, frenzying for release. "Come inside me," you gasp, eyes locked with his.

Arthur's calloused hands moved with surprising gentleness as he took your leg and lifted it, placing it over his shoulder. The shift in position allowed him to angle his cock deeper inside you, making you gasp at the sudden fullness. His thumbs pressed against your inner thighs, spreading your folds apart, revealing the glistening pink of your arousal. He was mesmerized by the sight, Arthur couldn't help but to stare at the way his cock disappeared into you.

"You’re so pretty," he murmured, his voice rough with need. "So beautiful when you take me like this. Just imagine how pretty you'll be when yer my wife, carryin’ my child."

What a thrill it was, the thought of it all. More than a bastard, but a husband too? Right now, all that mattered was the way he filled you, the way his thrusts grew more insistent, drawing gasps and moans from deep within you.

"That’s it, darlin'," he encouraged, his grip tightening on your thigh. "Take it. Take all of me. You’re doin’ so good, so damn good for me."

His praise fueled your arousal, making you push back against him, accepting every inch he gave. The pleasure was building, coiling tighter and tighter inside you, every thrust bringing you closer to the edge. Arthur’s breath was ragged, his chest heaving as he watched you, his own pleasure evident in the way his hips snapped forward with increasing urgency.

"Look at'cha," he whispered, his voice thick with admiration. "You are perfect. My perfect girl, takin’ me like a pro. Soon enough, you’ll be wearin’ my ring, feelin’ my baby growin’ inside you."

The intensity of his words, coupled with the way he was driving into you, made your vision blur with tears of pleasure. You could feel the warmth pooling low in your belly, the pressure building to an almost unbearable point. Arthur’s hands shifted, one still holding your thigh steady, while the other moved to cradle your face, his thumb brushing away a tear that had escaped.

"Almost there, sweetheart," he said, his voice a low growl. "Gonna make you come hard, just like you deserve. Just like I promised."

His fingers dug into your skin, not painfully, but possessively, as if he were branding you with his touch. The sensation, combined with the relentless rhythm of his hips, pushed you over the edge. Your body stiffened, muscles clenching around him as wave after wave of ecstasy crashed over you. You cried out, your voice trembling with the force of your orgasm, your nails digging into his shoulders.

Arthur grunted, his own climax nearing as he continued to thrust into you, milking every last drop of pleasure from the moment. His hand left your face to press against your lower back, urging you to stay close, to keep taking him until he was spent. The combination of his praise and his unrelenting touch was too much, sending you spiraling through another wave of pleasure even as the first one began to wane.

"That’s it," he growled, his voice breaking as he finally reached his own peak. "Come for me, darlin'. Come hard, just like I know you can."

His words, laced with raw emotion and possessive heat, pushed you over once more, your body convulsing around him as you rode out the storm of your climax. Arthur followed soon after, his body tensing as he spilled himself deep inside you, his release marked by a guttural groan that echoed in the small tent.

For a moment, neither of you moved, locked in the aftermath of passion. Arthur’s breathing slowly returned to normal, his hands still resting on you, holding you close as if afraid to let go. You could feel the sticky warmth of his release between your legs, the evidence of his claim mingling with your own wetness.

"Damn, darlin'," he muttered, his voice still thick with satisfaction. "You never cease to amaze me. Always takin’ me so good, always wantin’ more."

You looked up at him, your heart pounding in your chest, the mixture of love and frustration swirling within you. Despite everything, despite the arguments and the hurt, there was no denying the bond between you, the way he owned every part of you, body and soul.

"Don’t get used to it," you managed to say, your voice shaky but defiant. "I ain’t some doll you can play with and put away whenever you please."

Arthur chuckled, low and dark, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your hip. "Oh, princess, trust me. I know exactly what you are. And I wouldn’t have it any other way."

His words meant something to you, the implications clear. He wasn’t just talking about tonight, about this moment. He was talking about forever, about the life you would build together, the family you would raise. The thought both thrilled and terrified you, leaving you breathless and aching for more.

But before you could respond, before you could decide what to do next, Arthur’s hand shifted, moving down to cup your ass, pulling you closer. His cock, already softening, twitched inside you, a reminder of the connection that refused to break.

"Now," he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear. "How ‘bout we see if we can make that baby together, just like we talked about?"

You shivered at the suggestion, the thought of carrying his child both exhilarating and daunting. But before you could answer, before you could even form a coherent thought, Arthur was already moving, adjusting you on his lap, positioning himself for another round.

"Let’s make sure," he whispered, his voice a seductive promise. "Make sure that when I come home with that dress, there’s somethin’ else waitin’ for me too."