#red ruby and diamond ring

[thejewelryhut]

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[heartnosekid]

chatham ruby & black diamond cosmos ring ✨❤️🌙 | swankmetalsmithing on ig

[star-stimz]

could you do a stim board of Taash from dragon age with teals and reds and fire and gold/jewel/treasure stuff 🫶🫶🫶🫶🥺🥺🥺🔥🔥🔥

TAASH STIMBOARD

||| w/ teal, red, fire + jewel stims! |||

1--2--3--4--5--6--7--8

[chasingrainbowsforever]

SusanB. ~ Simulated Diamond and Ruby Stackable Bands

[merrymoonjewelry]

Bright Red LAb Grown Ruby set with natural Diamond in Solid White Gold.

$675

[cosmiic-world]

jealous, jealous, jealous girl — love and deepspace men

when someone tries flirting with your boyfriend in front of you. or when someone tries flirting with his girlfriend.

content: fluff, jealous!reader, rafayel gets jealous, very lighthearted, sylus’ is slightly suggestive toward the end, maybe kinda ooc?, some might be longer than others i do have favorites unfortunately, sorry 😞, colonel caleb mentioned EHEHHEHE

sylus

sylus had invited you to accompany him to an auction in the N109 Zone, to which you had agreed. of course, he already had a dress picked for you, fitted perfectly with all your measurements.

it was a beautiful black dress with red accents, totally sylus. you were adorned in stunning red jewelry, from blood red teardrop diamond earrings, to a stunning red heart pendant necklace.

as you walked beside sylus through the hall of the auction place, his arm was around your waist the entire time, not one second spent away from you.

unfortunately, that wasn't stopping any of the women there from staring at your boyfriend. nor did it stop one from approaching.

you watched silently from sylus's side as she tried talking to him with stupid small talk.

"you're so tall!" the woman squealed annoyingly. her voice was like glass shattering in your ear drums. "how tall are you exactly?"

"i believe his height is none of your concern..” you spoke up finally, fed up with her attitude. seriously, you were literally attatched to him and she’s paying you no mind at all! your eyes hardened, glaring at her with the most nasty look you could conjure.

sylus watched with an amused smirk, his heart almost skipping a beat at how possessive you were being.

“and who are you?” the woman says, crossing her arms as she finally looks at you.

“i’m his wife.” you said, lifting your hand which was adorned with a ruby ring. though it was just for show, she didn’t have to know that.

sylus’s smirk widened, if that was even possible, as his heart soared. he could’ve sworn his pants were suddenly a tad bit too tight now.

“i don’t appreciate you flirting with my husband right in front of me, so i’m kindly asking you to leave.” you said, using two fingers to flick them in her direction as an act of dismissal, as if she were staff.

you grinned triumphantly as the woman scoffed and stomped away.

“my wife, hm?” sylus said, leaning down to mutter in your ear. you could just tell he was so turned on just from his tone alone. “what a feisty kitten.”

“she couldn’t tell who you were here with. i had to make sure she knew.” you said, giggling as you cupped his cheek with one hand and kissed him deeply.

sylus couldn’t help but groan against your lips as you pressed your body against his. his hand grabbed your waist tightly, almost desperately, as he kissed you in the middle of the room. “we’re leaving immediately.”

“but what about the protocores? the auction?” you said as he grabbed your hand and began to drag you out of the building.

“there are more urgent matters to attend than protocores.” he said, almost growling mid sentence.

rafayel

another “masterpiece” painted by rafayel, another boring exhibition he had to attend. it was all the same. he had to talk about his pieces, what inspired him, what the story is behind the piece, blah blah blah.

this exhibition was different because he had you by his side to distract him from all the boring stuff. he stood by on the side, watching as you walked around, admiring each of his new paintings, which were all inspired by you.

all was fine until a man approached his girlfriend. his eyebrows instantly furrowed and his smile turned into a deep frown. just who was this guy??

“big fan of art?” the man said as he stepped into the spot beside you, a little too close for your comfort.

you looked at him slightly wide eyed, a bit startled from the sudden interaction. you smiled politely and nodded as you slightly stepped away from him, putting space between you and him. “yeah, i’m uh, close to the artist, you could say.”

“oh really? i happen to love rafayel’s works.” he said, smiling at you widely.

you nodded with a small, “ah, nice.” as you looked back at the painting in front of you which showed the silhouette of a woman standing in front of the ocean, capturing the essence of joy and warmth. little had you known the woman was yourself and rafayel had painted it simply from his memories alone.

“i’d like to take you out sometime-“

“sorry babe, i got held up with talking to some people back there.” a familiar voice sounded from behind you.

you turned and smiled widely as your boyfriend wrapped his arms around your waist. you couldn’t see but rafayel was glaring daggers at the man behind you, forcing him to walk away.

“rafayel! hi, i missed you.” you giggled as you hugged him. “say, who’s that in the painting?”

“you seriously don’t recognize her? come on, you of all people should know who that is.” he said with a chuckle.

“i should?” you said, blinking owlishly as you racked your brain to who that could be.

“it’s you, silly.” he said, kissing your forehead.

“really?! when did you paint it?” you gasped, looking back at the painting and leaning your head against him.

rafayel rested his chin on top of your head, smiling fondly as he recalled the memory. “i painted it a couple days after i took you to the beach. remember? you almost got stung by a jellyfish.”

you gasped and giggled at the chaotic memory. “oh i remember now!”

zayne

a friend from the association had invited you to a party and you were able to bring zayne with you. though he usually didn’t like to spend his days off like this, if it was for your enjoyment, he’d do anything. even if it was sitting through slightly drunken babble of hunter work.

zayne knew you could handle your alcohol, way better than him, but he still mentally counted how many glasses of wine you’ve had before it was time to call it quits for you.

unbeknownst to him, one of your female colleagues was staring at him, watching his every move like a hawk. it wasn’t until she sat next to him that he paid any attention to her.

“hello~ i’m ava.” she said, smiling and practically beaming at him.

“hello.” he said with a curt nod, before turning his attention back to you who was engaged in a conversation with other hunters, listening.

“oh my god, i’m so sorry. i don’t mean to be so rude! what’s your name?” the male hunter asked zayne.

“i’m zayne. i’m her boyfriend.” he said with a small polite smile.

“you’re the boyfriend we’ve heard so much about? wow!!” he said, astonished.

zayne chuckled softly. “it seems so.” he said, looking at you with adoration.

“you’re one lucky girl!” he said to you, giggling before turning back to zayne. “i’m tyler, her colleague.” he introduced himself.

you looked at him and smiled widely, wrapping your hands around his arm and leaning against him affectionately. “he’s a doctor, so he always takes care of me. especially when i get injured from pesky wanderers.” you said, smiling.

“can you take care of me too~? my doctor is too busy sometimes.” ava said from beside zayne, pouting and slightly leaning towards him.

zayne’s expression steeled as he turned to her. “maybe you should get a different doctor then. i too am busy most days so it wouldn’t be any different, if i were your doctor.” he said in his usual formal tone.

you whipped your head to look at ava, glaring at her. you never got along with her, and zayne knew. she was usually the topic of your conversations when zayne listened to your end of the day rants.

tyler began to ask zayne questions, moving the topic away from her, though it didn’t stop her from butting in and making her own comments, to which you were quickly getting fed up with.

“how long have you two been together for?” tyler asked you both.

“almost a year. our anniversary is coming up soon.” zayne said, holding your hand in his, his thumb gently rubbing your hand.

“a year is practically nothing! i bet i can make you happier than she ever could.” ava remarked, taking a sip of her wine.

everybody quieted down at the comment.

as zayne opened his mouth to speak, you stood up and slapped ava.

“i’m getting sick of you flirting with my boyfriend, right next to me. but disrespecting our relationship? nobody likes you ava, and i suspect this is why. i gave you a fucking chance because i wanted to be nice, but i have had enough.” you spat out, the anger sobering you up a good amount.

you immediately grabbed your things from your chair and zayne followed suit. “i’m sorry tyler, but i have to go. i’ll see you at work, yeah?”

“y-yeah..” tyler said, almost stunned. you could tell he was trying not to laugh. “see you at work, girl!” he said.

“come on zayne, let’s go.” you said, grabbing his hand firmly and walking out of tyler’s house.

once you were outside of tyler’s house, zayne had stopped you. “let’s rest here for a bit. you’ve had a lot to drink and i don’t want you to fall and hurt yourself.” he said softly, holding you by your waist as he leaned against the wall of the house.

you smiled widely as you leaned against him, your hands resting on his shoulders. “my zayne.. you always know how to take care of me.” you giggled out.

“of course. as your boyfriend, it’s my job to make sure you’re okay.” he said, smiling softly.

“you’re a bit too charming though,” you said with a pout, “you make women swoon too easily.”

“ah, but i have a very skilled ms. hunter to make sure they know i’m happy in my relationship.” he said, his hand coming up to cup your cheek.

you couldn’t help the giggle that escaped you as you put your hand over his, your fingers feeling his bare ones which made you pout. “maybe i should get you a ring so even when i’m not around, they know you’re taken.”

zayne chuckled softly, nodding. “i assure you, they know. but we can still go get rings, if you’d like my love.”

“i would like that very much.” you said, smiling widely before kissing him.

xavier

you knew xavier was a very jealous man, but he couldn’t help it! almost everywhere you went together, he kept you close to him, an arm always around you. what he didn’t expect was for you to be the same kind of jealous, almost worse than his even.

you were out grocery shopping with him when you had separated from him to look for something you needed for tonight’s dinner plans. he was strolling down the produce section when a woman walked up to him, seemingly lost.

“excuse me sir, do you know where i can find the meat section?” the woman asked him, her painted lips fixed in a pout.

xavier looked at her, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. the meat section was right behind her. he simply pointed behind her with his finger. “it’s right behind you.” he said with an almost dumbfounded look.

“oh silly me! thank you, mister…?” she trailed off, discreetly asking for his name.

“xavier.” he said, with a small nod and a polite smile.

“what a cute name for a cute guy!” she said, giggling.

“oh, thank you miss. but i have to get back to m-“ she cut him off before he could finish.

“i’m stella! say, would you like to accompany me to dinner?” she said, smiling widely and batting her eyelashes.

“oh, i-“

“he would not like to accompany you anywhere.” a familiar voice rung out, and suddenly the atmosphere became chilly. xavier almost startled as you sauntered up next to him, wrapping your hands around his arm.

“he’ll be too busy with his girlfriend.” you said, shooting an icy glare at the woman.

“oh! i didn’t know he had a girlfriend. sorry.” stella said before walking away from you both.

xavier let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, thinking he was finally in the clear. but he wasn’t. “thank-“

you cut him off, pressing a finger to his lips. “don’t. speak.” you said coldly, grabbing the shopping basket from his hands and walking to the check out lines.

“did i do something wrong?” xavier asked.

“you talked to her. you might as well have been making out with her or something.” you said as you sulked.

“my love, it didn’t mean a thing.” he said, trying to reconcile. “i promise you.” he said, wrapping his arms arouns your waist.

“i’ll poison your food as revenge.” you said, pouting angrily.

“i’m sorry, i really mean it.” he said, pouting back at you.

you sighed as you turned to him. “no fair!” you said before shaking your head. “fine. i forgive you. but i’m still angry with you!”

xavier couldn’t help but laugh softly. “i’m perfectly fine with that.”

caleb

after making up with him after his sudden reappearance, you found yourself at home, missing caleb more than ever. how could you not?

so you decided to pay him a visit at the farspace fleet headquarters. you got there once, you could do it again, right? right. and you did, with ease.

what you didn’t expect was a cadet in front of his quarters, folded note in her hand, her other hand in a fist, hovering over the closed door. “excuse me, cadet. what’s your business here?” you spoke with authority you didn’t have. (but she didn’t have to know that.)

her head snapped toward you, fear flashing in her eyes for a brief second before venom replaced it. “i came to give colonel xia an important document.” she said, shoving the piece of paper behind her.

you couldn’t help but let out a condescending chuckle. “a document so important it had to be folded like a love letter?” you said, trying not to laugh.

at your teasing tone, her expression soured further. “who even are you? i’ve never seen you around here.” she spat out, looking you up and down.

“i’m colonel xia’s girlfriend.” you said matter-of-factly, crossing your arms and pointing your nose up.

the cadet suddenly burst out into a fit of laughter, making you falter slightly before you felt irritated. how dare she laugh in your face like that??

before you could mutter another word, you felt a strong presence appear right beside you. “cadet.”

the girl in front of you stopped laughing almost immediately, her body rigid as she looked up at the man who just walked up next to you. “c-colonel xia..!”

“care to share what’s so funny, cadet?” you looked up to see caleb practically glaring at the now shaking girl in front of you, his jaw tense. you swore you could see his blood vessels about to burst.

“it was nothing, colonel xia.” she said quickly, her eyes now set toward the floor.

“get out of my sight cadet. the next time i catch you disrespecting my girlfriend, i will find a suitable punishment for you.” he said coldly before dismissing her, grabbing your hand and taking you into his quarters.

as soon as the door closed, caleb hugged you with the most warm smile that you’ve come to known, as if nothing had happened. “what are you doing here, pips?” he said, relishing in your giggles as he buried his face into the crook of your neck.

“i missed you, silly. isn’t it normal for a girl to visit her boyfriend at work when she misses him?” you said, smiling as you wrapped your arms around him tight.

“boyfriend, huh? now i like the sound of that.” he said, kissing your cheek gently.

“i have to fend off these girls somehow.” you said, smiling widely.

i’m sorry if this is lowk ass, i didn’t know what to write for caleb 💔💔

[nanivinsmoke]

❥ DADDY’S DEALINGS

patch!wolverine (logan) x fem!reader

summary ❥ dont fuck with him while he’s working. you knew that, but what happens when you try to fuck on him during work?

warnings: telekinetic reader & code name is diamond, mentions of blood, semi-public sex (in an empty casino), multiple orgasms, creampies, hair pulling, choking, spanking, teasing, rough sex

note: round two, enjoy! wc: 2.7k, m.list here

men in suits sat at the round poker table. laughing, smoking and having a grand ole time. it seemed like a regular poker night with friends, however it was not. all these men were successful businessmen, but one of them was tonight’s target.

and the two of you were here to uncover who that was. patch sat at the table, keeping a blank face while playing the game. however, he was really reading the room. trying to find one slip up so he could take whomever out.

and he couldn’t do it alone, that’s why you were here. you were the distraction, a man’s weakness was a beautiful woman and that you were. the ruby red spaghetti strapped dress clung to you like another set of skin, catching the eyes of the men in there when you walked in. the gleam of your jewelry blinded them, but the scent of your perfume as you passed by only made them want you even more.

you sat at the bar, ordering something light, not wanting anything to get you drunk, but enough to give you a little buzz. you turned in your and watched the game of poker progress, while glancing at patch.

he looked so good sitting there. muscles flexing each time he moved a chip, thick fingers covered in rings—which you wished were deep inside of you, splitting you open—and the eyepatch that was slapped across his face and covered one of his beautiful hazel eyes; still made him even more sexier than ever.

you couldn’t help but to press your thighs together, mind starting to cloud with lewd thoughts of him bottoming out inside of you. until you were snapped out of your daze by the bartender handing you your drink.

you sighed, sipping on the fruity drink you ordered and taking in your surroundings, hoping the target for tonight’s mission would fuck up and show themselves; so you could finally go home and have hot sweaty sex with patch.

however, as time passed, you realized you were going to be here for a while. the game still went on and nobody moved an inch, boring you to death. but, as you sipped on your third drink for the night, you were hornier than ever. you were dripping, aching for some attention and you were going to get it.

the mission was far from your mind as you got up from the bar and sashayed over to the table, standing between patch and another gentleman , before bending over—your cleavage catching the attention of the other man, while your presence gained the attention of your partner. “mind if i join in?” you asked and the stranger got up from his seat in a hurry.

“you can take my spot miss. im losing anyways,” you smiled and sat down, taking his spot and looking down at your cards. you could feel patch boring holes into your face, but you paid him no mind. you knew you weren’t supposed to interfere with his mission unless he wanted you to, but you didn’t care. you had your own mission to worry about.

“you look a little empty there, can i buy you a refill?” you asked him, leaning over to get in his personal space, so you could whisper in his ear. “ ‘m horny. take me home?”

he glared at you before throwing out one of his cards, “no. busy, working.” you whined and sat back in your chair, following suit and throwing out cards as well. you flagged down a waiter and ordered a margarita, telling him to keep it coming before trying to focus on the game in front of you.

however, the more you sat next to him the more aroused you became. it didn’t help that his cologne turned you on, you wanted to pounce on him right then and there. you slid your heeled foot next to his, teasing him by rubbing it against him—only for him to pull his away. he grunted in response, but never turning to look at you.

you weren’t going to give up either. using your powers, you made the waiter bringing your drink, trip causing him to crash into another waiter, making a big commotion; which distracted the other players. using this as an opportunity to speak to him again, you whispered in his ear—voice soft and sexy.

“please, fuck me. need you so bad” he could smell how bad you wanted him, the moment you sat down, but he didn’t have time for that right now. a new scent took over his nose and he glanced around the room, spotting an older man walking in the room; with two girls on each of his arms and two guards behind him. “they’re here. focus.”

by now the waiter had cleaned up his mess and came back with a fresh drink, handing it to you and apologizing for the first one. you sent him a smile before dismissing him, sipping on the cold drink—watching the new player join the game. he sat across from you and you flashed him a smile, immediately gaining his attention.

the male whispered to his guards, before one of them came over to you. “the gentleman over there wants to know if you could sit next to you and could he buy you another drink?” you glanced at him and he winked. smiling at him, you nodded your head and the guy made his way over; dismissing the women.

he sat next to you and you smiled, taking a look at every detail of his face. he was attractive and you couldn’t help smirk to yourself. you knew exactly how to get patch to pay attention towards you.

“what can I get you to drink?” he asked and you slightly turned towards him, putting out the last of your cards, losing the game. “scotch, on the rocks.”

he smiled in amusement, not many of the girls he came across liked dark liquors. “not good at poker?” you shook your head and he smiled, motioning for the dealer to bet him in. “i’ll teach a pretty lil thing like you how to play. name's richard, but you can call me, dick.”

“diamond,” you moved your chair closer to his, glancing over at patch an evil glint in your eyes. you were playing a dangerous game and you were ready for the consequences. as he taught you how to play, patch watched with a clench jaw. he wanted to rip the guys head off for even talking to you, but he knew what was at stake. all he needed was the guy to touch you and he’d take him out right then and there.

“got a boyfriend diamond?”

“complicated,” that slipped off your tongue too fast for patch’s liking, making him grunt loudly, gaining the attention of dick. “is there a problem?”

“focus on the game, bub.” dick chuckled and stared at patch, wondering who the hell he was. and before he could fix his mouth to say something, your drinks came; gaining his attention. you thanked the waiter and held up your glass, lipstick spreading when you smiled.

“you gonna teach me or what?” you got up from your seat, the frame of your body being outlined by your dress, made his breath get caught in his throat—eyes glued to every curve, watching as you sat down on his lap. the way you sat gave you full view of patch, who was seething. and when dick placed his hand on your hip, he had enough. he jumped up, claws unsheathing, sticking them into richard’s guards—their blood splattering against his white suit.

the people in the private casino scurried away in a hurry, trying to make sure they’re not next to get taking out. more of dick’s guards came running in, guns in their hands, ready to attack—until you appeared in front of them. “sorry boys, you’re not getting through.” you sent them flying into the other room, crashing against the slot machines; knocking them out cold. and for good measure, you picked one up and dropped it on them.

one’s that slipped past were slice up by patch, their bodies dropping at dick’s patent shoes. patch huffed, eyes glued onto richard’s.

“you fucking b—.” his head was sliced clean off, dropping next to the pile of bodies. the rugged man didn’t have time for monologues, he was pissed. pissed at you. the people that were still hiding in the room, peeked their heads out; hoping that it was safe, yet there were proven wrong by the feral looking man in front of them.

“GET THE FUCK OUT!” his claws retracted and they all ran out, not trying to be the next person to piss him off. you tried sneaking out with them, only for him to grab you, slinking you over his shoulder. “baby! wait—fuck!” he said nothing and sent a hard smack to your ass, the vibration from it made the stinging sensation linger a little longer. oh you were in for it.

he slapped everything off of the poker table before propping you up on there, your hands and knees pressing into the plush green surface. he hiked your dress up to the middle of your back, grunting when he seen the wet spot in the middle of your black panties. with another powerful smack to your ass, you yelped out, only for him to grip your hair—pulling you towards his chest.

“like having that jerk feel up on you. he makes you wet?” his hand massaged your cheeks, easing the stinging sensation he caused. you whimpered and shook your head, “no baby—only you.”

he slapped both of your cheeks, the wet spot on your panties growing by the second as he took his frustrations out on you. it was one thing to try and sabotage the mission, he’d deal with that later, but to sit on another man’s lap in front of him? oh you deserved this punishment.

you were practically drooling, from both sets of lips, while he continued the torment on your ass—his hand prints now molded on your cheeks. he moved his hand from your hair and slid it down to your cunt, pressing two of his fingers against your clit; your slick immediately seeping through the fabric and onto his fingers.

he grunted and massaged his finger on your clit, eliciting whines from you. you backed your ass up in his palm, trying to add some more friction to your cunt, but he stopped you.

“ ‘m in charge here, doll.” you could hear the clinking of his belt buckle and it excited you. from the way he manhandle you and forced your back down, deepening your arch, you knew he was going to fuck you so good.

your panties were pulled down, exposing your bare—slick coated cunt to him and he let out a low groan. he took your panties and brought it up to his nose, smelling your arousal; his cock becoming stiff behind his boxers—before he reached around and placed them into your mouth.

your moans were muffled as you turned your head slightly to see him pull his underwear down, revealing his fat beer can shaped cock. he fisted his cock for a bit, globs of his precum coating his hand, before he pushed through your entrance; your juices coating his dick immediately.

he didn’t even need to prep you to take him, you were beyond soaked, making it easier for him to slide ride in—rubbing right against your spot. “fuck. gotta keep this pussy to myself.”

you moaned into your panties, while he gripped the side of your hips and began to pound your pussy, splitting you open with each stroke. your ass rippled against him and you struggled to throw it back on him, causing him to smack one of your plump cheeks.

“f-fuck me back…..atta girl,” you started to bounce back on him, the poker table shaking with each thrust. your eyes rolled back into your head, the pleasure so unspeakably intense. he knew exactly how to hit your spot with each thrust, which made your legs shake uncontrollably and an orgasm course through you prematurely.

he felt you clench around him and he stopped his movements, pulling out of you slowly; your bottom lip trembling as you turned to look at him. “did you just fucking cum?” you nodded and his eyes darkened. before you could even process what was happening, you were on your back with ankles pointing up to the ceiling.

the red dress that was hiked up was now on the bar not too far away from you both, and your soiled panties were finally removed from your mouth, allowing you to finally moan freely, as he plunged back into your sopping wet cunt.

he was abusing your cunt each time his cock pistoned in and out of you, cock bullying your walls, sending bolts of electricity towards your clit. you reached down and tried to rub the sensitive bud, but he slapped your hands away causing you to cry out. “nope. you wanted this dick, so that’s what you’re gonna get. got it?” you nodded your pretty little head, earning a powerful smack to your cunt—making you gush around him.

“words. i wanna hear it.”

“yes! yes! fuck—daddy. you’re so deep!” rough calloused hand found its way around your throat, turning you on even more. the look on his face, the way his cock filled you up and how he treated you like his fuck toy, had you wanting more.

the squelching sound that followed when he was balls deep inside of you, made that knot in your stomach become tighter. you were so close and with him twitching inside of you, you knew he was too.

with the help of your powers, you brought him closer to you. his white, blood stained blazer pressed against your breasts, adding some stimulation to your tender nipples; which helped speed up your orgasm. you whimpered, staring into his uncovered eye, cumming for the second time; without him.

specks of white blurred your vision as you came undone. the grip around his shaft, tightening with each thrust that hit your spot over and over again.

he was pissed. first you tried to ruin the mission and had some guy all over you, but now you came twice? oh he was more than pissed.

his grip around your neck loosened and he moved his hand up to your cheeks, gripping them; causing them to puff up in his hands. his stroke was faster and deeper, practically kissing your cervix—making you whine out.

“ ‘s too much! please daddy, can’t take it.” you were able to huff out, but he ignored your pleas, still treating you like a common slut.

“gonna breed this pussy. have you dripping cum for days when im done with you—let everyone know who owns this pussy.” he pounded deeper, his vision getting blurry and his stroke becoming sloppier; before he let go—emptying himself deep inside of you.

he let out a primal growl, sporadically twitching inside of you, before pulling out, globs of his cum slowly starting to pool out; until he plugged it back in with his fingers. you squirmed, but he held you down, making you take the extra pleasure—leading to squirting against his palm.

the wet gushy mess, combined with the previous fluids, stained the plush green fabric underneath you and the bottom of his blazer. patch removed his fingers and sucked your juices off, before he pulled his pants up and snapped his belt on. he pulled your panties back on and walked over to the bar to retrieve your dress, tossing it at you.

“get dressed. you’re punishment isn't over yet.”

[lilacgaby]

hear me out.. is he proposing or.. with kiri

HEARD LOUD N CLEAR OMG

is he proposing or did you overhear him call mina just to ask for your ring size?

is he proposing or did he drive you to the highest rated nail salon, get a pedicure done with you, and chose french tips with a gel flower on top for your hands?

is he proposing or did he also give you his black card to go dress shopping with your friends, all of them eyeing you knowingly as they helped you pick a perfect array of expensive, pure material dressed?

is he proposing or did he randomly ask you what places you want to travel to, and asked you to take time off?

is he proposing or did he rent out a giant private jet, with beds and everything for an overnight flight?

is he proposing or did he off-handedly mention that he'd went to visit your parents by himself one day, to talk to them about something important?

is he proposing or did he rent out a penthouse for the next week?

is he proposing or did he take you out on an expensive date, asking you to dress in your most favorite dress?

is he proposing or are your friends and close family being inside the restaurant just coincidence?

is he proposing or did he-- holy shit he's down on one knee.

as eijiro got down on one knee in front of you, he scratched his head and smiled softly, realizing that he got so nervous he forgot his whole speech he planned. so instead, he held out the dessert he'd ordered for you, that said 'marry me? pretty please?' in fancy cursive letters. you laughed and nodded, to which he sat the dessert on the table, and placing the ring, which had a huge red ruby in the middle of it and was surrounded by dozens of miniscule diamonds, onto your finger. you pulled him into a kiss, your first one as fiancés.

everyone came up to congratulate the two of you. you two were so happy and smiley, basking in the afterglow that was being dedicated to your one and only. <\3

this inspired me sooo much so like lmk if anyone wants ones with like shoto or izuku !!

[taylorswiftstyle]

Attending Super Bowl LIX | New Orleans, LA | February 9, 2025

Saint Laurent ‘Double Breasted Blazer’ - $3,253.00 Alaïa ‘Sleeveless Ribbed Bodysuit’ - $1,300.00 Effy Jewelry ‘Ruby Royale Bracelet’ - not available online  Effy Jewelry ‘Ruby Royale 14K Yellow Gold Ruby and Diamond Ring’ - $12,739.00 Cartier ‘Panthère de Cartier Medium Watch Diamond’ - $32,200.00 Effy Jewelry ‘Ruby Royale 14K Yellow Gold Baguette Cut Ruby and Diamond Band’ - $5,297.00 Logan Hollowell ‘Eau de Rose Cut Iris Diamond Hand Chain’ - $4,350.00 Lorraine Schwartz custom necklace Monday Denim ‘Crystal Embellished Shorts’ - not available to purchase Givenchy ‘Red Nano Voyou Bag’ - $990.00 Paris Texas ‘Over The Knee Boot’ - $1,120.00

One of my favourite factors of game day fashion is how it creates the perfect vacuum for a style case study. There are constants and constraints when dressing for a repeatable event like this. Factors that make it so you can create a storyline of outfits that unfold over a period of time that each uniquely stand on their own, but that also create an opportunity to have them “speak” to one another. 

A Blazer of Glory: Taylor in a blazer and thigh high boots is my version of winning the Super Bowl. If I were to pick a staple in my own closet - and an item I always get a thrill seeing Taylor wear - it’s a blazer. So I was delighted to see her in one (even briefly) that’s sharp, chic, and that sandwich styles with her OTK white boots. While I personally love it and am delighted we got some footage of her wearing this polished layer, I actually think this look says a lot more without it. Sans blazer, the combination of a white tank and denim shorts immediately brought to my mind the images of her very first Chiefs game ever. Back then - September 2023 - Taylor wore a soft white eyelet trim tank top by Doen paired with washed black denim shorts by Ksubi. This ensemble is like a reference to that. With some distinct elevated upgrades to illustrate how far we’ve come since then, of course. Like some fierce stiletto boots > sneakers and sparkly shorts > distressed shorts. 

I Like Shiny Things: In addition to letting her bejeweled, the shorts reference some of the most significant milestones in Taylor’s tenure as sportsball spectator. Combined with her white tank, the outfit resembles her very first game day ensemble from September 2023. Though her denim then, by Ksubi, was distressed over embellished. They also nod to her 2024 season opener jean shorts by Grlfrnd - thigh high boots included. Most importantly, they make a great year over year comparison to the crystal trim denim pants by Area worn to her first Super Bowl — last year’s LVIII. 

Re-e-e-d: For the minutest amount of red, Taylor accessorized her outfit with a ‘Nano’ bag by Givenchy. According to my archives via TSS, this is a first for her to carry the brand via a bag. As is typical for Taylor’s game day fashion, most of her jewelry was also rendered in stones coloured Chiefs red. The piece that most caught my eye was her hand chain and how it riffs on her recent love of unique chain jewelry, including a certain thigh chain that was repurposed into a necklace here. 

Photo by Gregory Shamus via Getty Images

[yandere-wishes]

which batboy does mittens have a crush on?

₍^𖹭 𖹭^₎⟆ ₍^𖹭 𖹭^₎⟆ ₍^𖹭 𖹭^₎⟆ ₍^𖹭 𖹭^₎⟆ ₍^𖹭 𖹭^₎⟆

Oh, good question!! @fancyfeathers mentioned that Mittens should probably be the eldest of Selina's sidekicks. And is closest in age to Dick Grayson. Which opens up one of my fav tropes of "Childhood friends to lovers" (but make it yancore!!!)

He'd been so sweet once, little boy wonder swinging along the skyline. Pretty like a sunset, decked out in reds and yellows. You'd watch him from your perch atop the scrappers. Arms nervously ringing around a bagged-up bundle of jewels. Your mentor would scuff making comments about fruitless morals and pretty boys.

Kittens chase robins. It's the way the world goes around, just like how black cats chase bats.

You sneak behind him, punching on his back and rolling him around. Robin kicks your ribs out of instinct, aims for your stomach next with his knee. He only stops when his masked eyes meet yours, when he sees the sweet playful smile adorning your lips. This is a game...

It's always been a game.

At least to you...

You'd only learn, years later, that it had always been far too real to Dick.

Your siblings are better than you at the whole "cat burglar" thing. They creep through the shadows and glide through half-open windows. They steal rubies and diamonds and pearls. They leave little scratch marks and lipstick stains on the safes they rob. They spend the nights being chased by bats and birds. And then when the sun threatens to shine once more they steal kisses and love bites.

You'd always preferred the day. The monotone ease found only under the sun's gentle rays. You prefer to give instead of take, your youngest sister always said it was Nightwings fault for that. That the first robin had rubbed off too much on you.

You still keep an old photo of Dick in your apartment, a silly little photo of two kids, smiling with blood between their teeth and haphazard empty gums. Dick's nose is bleeding, you have a black eye.

You can't quite remember who took the photo.

Bruce or Selina.

It doesn't really matter.

Some things are far too deep-rooted. Crystallized in blood. You've long hung up your mask, and handed in your whip. You've renounced the ways of the cat, renounced the ways of a rogues. You spend your days inside a school, teaching the young of Gotham, watching how the trauma seeps in prematurely, coiling and embedding itself into the lady Gotham's children. Hurt them young so they learn to survive.

You feel so guilty...

It's hard to leave lineage rotting in its grave, hard to abandon and reject that which pumps through your veins. You still pick the locks, still, slip through shadows as if they were a second home, you're still more feline than human. More freak than normal.

Only this time you don't have your mentor or your sisters.

You don't have your claws or whip.

There's a security guard with a gun.

Pointed straight at you...

Dick Grayson, Robin, Nightwing. He'd been so sweet once. You're glad to see the saccharine hasn't washed off. The boy wonder stands in front of you, although you guess he isn't much of a boy anymore. His uniform is hard on your eyes, reality glitches, you see him dressed in his sunset colors. Reds and yellows, young and free. Dick offers you a sweet smile,

"Hey, it's been a while..."

"Yeah, it has."

Dick assures the security guard he'll handle you. Still, you don't miss the way his blue eyes burn holes into the other man's back. He opens the car door for you before getting behind the wheel. On the way, you try to reason with him. For old time's sake, you beg. "I really was just trying to get those kids some toys, but there's so many of them and the prices these days are-"

"I know," Dick says, his bright smile sends your heart a flutter. "It's alright, I'll take care of everything." You laugh leaning back, looking at his reflection through the mirror, that broken nose did end up healing nicely.

He doesn't take you to the station, instead he drives to his apartment. Deep down you knew he'd never hand you in, he couldn't, he'd spent his whole life watching that bat excuse the cat. He can't go against his training, he too can't abandon his heritage. He pulls you out of the car and into a tight embrace promising he'll keep you safe. And you hate how he feels all so utterly safe, how he smells like home and happiness. You hardly notice how hard he squeezes and how hungrily his lips hover above your pulse point.

Thus he spoke but you don't remember listening.

He spoke of finally having you again.

Of loving you again.

You only ever catch the odd word.

Utterly distracted by the delicate twinkle in his ocean eye.

It's hard to focus on the words when for the first time in a long long time you finally feel like your old self again.

High off nostalgia.

₍^𖹭 𖹭^₎⟆ ₍^𖹭 𖹭^₎⟆ ₍^𖹭 𖹭^₎⟆ ₍^𖹭 𖹭^₎⟆ ₍^𖹭 𖹭^₎⟆

Okay, so all this being said there is an alternative.

@darkpeppermint had another idea, since Mittens is so different from the rest of her family, then she may not even fall for a batboy at all and just marry a sweet golden retriever farm boy...

And yet, despite the sweet fairytale twist they tried to propose. My sick and twisted brain heard the words "golden" and "farm boy" and immediately thought of PROFESSOR CRANE...

Maybe poor little Mittens ends up getting manipulated by the charming professor, Crane. Maybe they meet one day when she's taking her class on a field trip to Gotham U and ends up bumping into Jonathan.

There's just something so familiar about him. So nostalgic, he reminds her of home, of her family, of her childhood friends...he almost feels safe.

Welp Fancy, it finally happened we've become co-parents again.

Our children's list is Kachina and Mittens so far 🤣🤣 Let's see who gets adopted next lol.

[thejewelryhut]

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[bunbun-mochi]

Jealousy II - Queen of Onychinus

Sylus x MC (Fluff and slightly smut, MDNI)

Warning: threatening of killing, swear words, very suggestive(MDNI)

Word Count:1360, no proofreading

Preview: Sylus isn't a man who's easily jealous. But if someone tries to get his wife's attention by giving her expensive jewelry, he feels unpleasant. His wife shows that she is only for her husband and no one else.

Sylus tapped on the arm of his chair impatiently. The auction was taking their sweet time to pull out anything interesting.

"2 million!"

"7 million!"

Sylus rolled his eyes, the current item, a small pink diamond engagement ring, on stage isn't even worth more than 5 million.

"12 million!"

"12 million! Going once! Going Twice" The auctioneer banged the gravel. "Sold to Mr. Mucker!"

Sylus checked his watch. He had been in this auction for nearly two hours and they had yet to showcase what he deemed interesting.

The lights on the stage switched. Another person walked toward the auctioneer and whispered into his ears. As soon that person left, the auctioneer spoke in the microphone. "We are suppose to have only two items left for auction. But we just received a news that there is another item being sold at this auction."

Sylus sat up straighter. A new item? It surely piqued his interest.

"We will be selling this item instead."

Someone walked onto the stage, placed a black box on the table. Then he slowly opened the box, reveling a black and red thigh jewelry. The jewelry sparkled under the light. It immediately caught the attention of the Onychinus leader.

"This jewelry contains one of the rarest gems in the world. It contains ruby, black diamond, and red diamond."

"2 million!" One immediately called out.

The auctioneer raised his hand, "This one start with 20 million."

"25 million!"

"30 million!"

Many bidders raised their number card, calling out their bids.

"75 million!" Hushed whispers around the auction room. Sylus immediately recognized this voice as Musker.

Sylus can imagine if his wife were to wear that around her thighs. He can already imagine his wife, on his bed, naked but with that jewel around her thighs. He wants to feel that jewel beside his head as he goes in between her legs, with her moaning his name. He wants to see that jewel sparkle as he pounds into her. He licked his lips and smirked. It'll look exquisite on her.

"Is there anyone else?" The auctioneer asked. "Going once!"

Sylus slightly moved his fingers and the catering man standing next to him immediately raised the bidding number card. The entire room echoed with the deep voice, "120 million."

The room falls silent. The auctioneer stammered, "O-One hundred twenty million! Is there anyone else?"

"128 million." Mucker countered.

Sylus narrowed his eyes. Someone dared to outbid him? "150 million."

"155 million."

Sylus smirked. This man clearly isn't qualified to bid. He only went slightly above his, trying to outbid his just by a mere million. Too bad for this man. Sylus is too excited to see what his wife's face would react to when he shows her this piece of jewelry.

"185 million." Some gasps were heard. This is the highest number anyone had bid tonight. Although a lot, it's simply pocket change for Sylus.

"186 million." The man bids again. Sylus clicked his tongue in disapproval.

"220 million." I dare you to outbid this. Sylus thought.

There was silence. Not one single one dared to outbid him. Sylus smiled to himself.

The auctioneer looked at the crowd in shock. "220 million! Going once! Going twice!" He then hit the gravel. "220 million to..." Then he hesitated, looking at his paper. "Going to... Mr. Skye!" Sylus smirked with that fake name.

The room buzzed with noise. Looking around the auction room, trying to see a glimpse of the so-called "Skye". Unbeknownst to them, Sylus was sitting on the third floor where the lights didn't reach. It's nearly impossible to see up here.

Sylus stood up and walked toward the door as the catering man that stood next to him walked toward the stage to receive the jewelry.

As he walked down the stairs, he heard two voices talking that were further down the stairs.

"That damn Skye!"

"Hush! You don't want him hearing you say that!"

"I don't give a shit. That son of a bitch. He stole that jewelry from me!"

"You don't need it."

"Yes, I do. Let me tell you, I found this woman. She is so beautiful. No amount of money or jewelry could ever compare to her beauty."

"I'm sure she'll be more happy with that pink diamond."

A sigh can be heard. "Yes, you're right."

Sylus smirked as he walked toward the party room. He picked up a champagne from the entrance, excited to see his wife. Then he stopped at his track.

His beloved wife is talking to another man. He isn't someone who's insecure that his wife would run off with someone else. But the fact that he immediately knew that man that his wife is talking to is that Mucker dumbass back in the auction room.

Mucker was talking to her while she is trying to back away from him, clearly uncomfortable. Sylus inwardly rolled his eyes. That Mucker boy really need to understand body language.

Then Mucker reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black box.

Sylus widen his eyes in surprise. That son of a bitch. He's trying to give that ring to my wife!

He stride toward her but so many people were between him and his wife that he wasn't able to stop Mucker while Mucker knelt down on one knee. "Marry me please!"

The whole room hushed in excitement, waiting for her to reply. Sylus stopped, eyes glaring, ready to murder that man in front of everyone.

But the response Mucker got was a splash of champagne onto his face. "Get off your knees. I'm married." She answered. "I don't even know who you are. Leave me alone before I bury you alive."

"It's ok, I know you're just nervous! I got you a pink diamond! I payed 12 million for it!" Mucker plead, trying to grab onto her hand while she tries to swat his hand away.

"You better watch what you say and do! If you offend me one more time, I will tell my husband to kill you!" She threatened, pulling her arm away from him.

"C'mon doll," one of the bystanders said. "He brought an expensive ring for you."

MC raised her ring finger, containing two rings, one black and one red, to show to the bystander. "My husband got me this. Each of them costs significantly more than that lowly pink diamond." Then she looked over at Mucker. "My husband is rich, handsome, gentle, patient, respectful, and loyal. If you ever think I would ever lower my standards for you, you're dead wrong. Now, let go of me."

Sylus felt like he fell in love all over again. Seeing his wife standing up for him makes him very excited.

He smirked as he walked toward his wife. "Hello, dear." His deep voice rumbled.

His wife turned around and gasped. "Darling!" A rare pet name she used, just to show Mucker. "You're back already! How's the auction?"

Sylus smiled, "It's actually good. I got something-"

"Hey!" Mucker called out, cutting him off. "I know your voice! You're the one who stole the jewelry from me!"

Sylus clicked his tongue, "I'm pretty sure I got it fair and square. It's your problem when your wallet isn't big enough."

Mucker was fuming at this point. "I saw this woman first."

Sylus mockenly laughed, "I don't care. She chose me. We've been married for nearly an year. Now, excuse us."

Sylus wrapped his arms around his wife, "Let's go."

"What is the thing you got?" His wife asked.

Just as she finished asking, the catering man appeared, handing a velvet black box to Sylus. Sylus handed the box to his wife. "Open it, dear."

MC opened it, revealing the black and red thigh jewel. Sylus kissed the top of her head. "I'm expecting you to wear this tonight."

The whole room atmosphere turned awkward, as the two lovebirds expressed their love.

His wife's face turned red and nodded. Sylus laughed and led her toward the front door. He waved his hand at Luke and Kieran, giving them an order.

Get rid of Mucker.

Luke and Kieran slightly nodded and went straight to work. Sylus took MC home, very excited to see what his wife wearing absolutely nothing but that jewel around her thighs.

Should I write a continuous one, where they are doing to do's while MC is wearing that thigh jewelry?

dividers, templates, headers, and banners are from @uzmacchiato

[cherryredstarz]

Gemstones 💎

A/n: personal Sylus hedcannon: he likes to leave shinies (jewelry, shiny trinkets, etc.) around for you like an homage to his og dragon traits 😱😱

SEND REQUESTS!!

Content listing: (700ish wc) lnds Sylus x afab reader, established relationship, reader being spoiled, loads of fluff

Your boyfriend truly is a sly crow. A cheeky bastard more or less. Going into your shared master bedroom at his mansion in the N109 zone, you find yourself unpinning your hair, kicking off your heels (your core is screaming at you), and shrugging off the red satin dress Sylus had purchased for your enjoyment.

Rifling through his side of the wardrobe, a large teeshirt of his practically sings your name, nearly leaping into your hands-it even smells like him.

Throwing on your newly acquired treasure, some sleep shorts and slippers to protect your poor toes from the cold tile floors of the kitchen, you make your way downstairs for a large glass of water and a late night snack. After a (rather filling) snack of stovetop ramen, cleaning the dishes and getting that precious glass of water, you trek back to the bedroom, only to find the bathroom light on, and hot steam emitting from the shower. It seems as though Sylus snuck right by you for an evening bathing session. You can’t help but pout briefly over the lack of invitation, but the feeling quickly recedes when you notice a small velvet box on your nightstand.

Curiosity killed the cat, as they say, and it definitely gets the better of you as you pick the box up. The navy blue velvet was soft against your fingertips, and a gasp escapes your lips when you open it.

A glittering pair of ruby earrings lay nestled in blue velvet cushion, the same deep, rich coloring as your partner’s eyes. At first, you’re befuddled. Why is this here? Why would Sylus put this here? This gift was too much-you couldn’t accept it, but you didn’t know if you should mention it at all.

And you didn’t, as Sylus crawled into bed with you, clean after his shower. You fall asleep on your back, your very large boyfriend sleeping slotted between your legs, his face pressed into your belly. His hands firmly held your waist, and he inhaled into your shirt.

—————-

3 weeks later, a copious amount of jewelry and shiny trinkets made their way into your collection. A sapphire necklace, silver shirt cuffs in the shape of a dragon, diamond and ruby bracelets, shiny silver rings, rare glittery coins-the list goes on and on. Your previously empty jewelry box was now stuffed to the brim, and you didn’t miss the twinkle in Sylus’s eyes when he saw you wearing the various new pieces he’d silently selected and gifted you.

And you hadn’t said a thing. What was there to say? But you couldn’t help but want to know why. Sure, he had all the money in the world, but why?

By the end of June, your curiosity had practically eaten you from inside and out, and you had to ask him.

You find Sylus lounging on a black settee, his reading glasses low on his nose, and a glass of whiskey in his hand as he read some…naughty book of yours. That will make for a riveting conversation later.

“Hey Sy?”

“Yes Kitten?” Those gem-like eyes watch you with almost a teasing intensity.

“Do you have…a um….explanation…for…the lil’ shinies..that have been all over the house?” You tilt your head, and Sylus just grins. Cheeky bastard.

“They’re just gifts, sweetheart.”

“Yeah but…I can’t repay that. It’s too much.” Your cheeks flush, all peachy colored.

“Sweetheart, love, these are not things to pay back. Ever. I have more money than I know what to do with—more than I could spend in a hundred lifetimes. Let me spoil you with luxury.” He sat down his glass on the side table, before standing up and walking towards you. The enigmatic man gently cups your cheeks before giving you a soft kiss, his lips gently brushing against yours. It was almost teasing. Almost.

“I like seeing my girl all dressed up in nice things.” His nose brushed against your forehead, making you giggle.

“You’re too good to me.” You murmur against his chest.

“There is no such thing.” He whispers. After all, seeing his girl covered with gems makes his heart soar.

“There is no love more pure than mine.”

[honest-moth-of-silver-grove]

I can totally see alucard needing to constantly scare off men and maybe even some women from trying to pursue the malena siren maiden.

It wouldn't surprise me if he wasn't the only person obsessed with her in village Belmont. How do you think he would sort of show everyone that she's off limits or already taken by him? (although I doubt that would stop the other obsessed pursuer)

and in another train of thought do you think that Trevor and sypha would believe that the siren has alucard under her thrall and that their relationship isn't real and it's just her using her siren power to use him and if so would they try to "save" him from her? That would certainly be a interesting way to introduce the characters to each other 🫣😬🤣

A/N: Oooh, two very good questions!  (For all entries in this series, click here for the tag ‘yandere alucard siren reader’.)

‘The Landwalker’ has a natural hypnotic aura about her. She cannot help it, her species are designed to be alluring, whether she wishes to attract attention or not. Similarly, vampires (and dhampirs, like Alucard) are also profoundly captivating, so too to lure in their prey. 

Thus, Alucard and The Landwalker are at a standstill/equals of sorts when it comes to hypnosis— neither one can supernaturally influence the other. However, just because they are immune to each other’s influence and entrancing natures, the humans of Village Belmont are not. 

Even when The Landwalker has no intentions of charming the folks around her, many weak-willed men, and even some women, find themselves revering her. Even with the uncanny nature of her appearance and the clumsy pronunciation of her speech, The Landwalker finds herself surrounded by many admirers when she socializes amongst the people. 

Such veneration suits her just fine. Personally, she sees nothing wrong with being waited on hand and foot. After all, she is a superior species to the lowly common human. What’s wrong with allowing a select few to do her bidding? 

Alucard on the other hand, finds the concept quite maddening. 

How dare she accept the attention and affection of these other men, these simple-minded human villagers when she has him, the superior, transcendental choice?! 

Alucard puts a stop to it nearly right away. 

He starts with her- taking away various privileges and luxuries she may have grown accustomed to dwelling within the walls of his castle. The third week in a row without a saltwater soak has her finally changing her tune. 

The Landwalker does try, truly she does. But even without using her abilities of hypnosis, and constant shooing away of the men and women who leer, folks still find themselves vying/competing for her attention. 

So The Alucard decides to switch targets, instead focusing his threatening gaze and suggestive words to the human men who can’t seem to stop trailing his beloved like pathetic lost puppies. He talks to them and tells them of her more nasty, inhuman habits. He speaks casually as if blood-drinking and scale-shedding are akin to making small talk about the weather. For those who are not frightened by such details, he decides a physical display of ownership would work best. 

Alucard insists on having matching rings made for him and her. Hell, he goes even further and has a blacksmith make a special diamond encrusted choker-type necklace for his beloved. The silver metal compliments her palor complexion well, and the blood-red rubies within the elegant collar of hers are enough to give more zealous villagers pause. 

Ironically, these possessive actions on Alucard’s part are the same things that give his friends Sypha and Trevor pause. Could it be that perhaps this siren has him under her spell? Despite knowing the dhampir for only a short time, neither Sypha nor Trevor ever imagined that marriage, and ostentatious displays of affection, would ever take place in Alucard’s future. He was much too quiet, too introverted, and withdrawn for that. 

This leads to a particularly malicious confrontation between the siren and the dhampir’s friends. While decorating the nursery for Trevor’s and Sypha’s incoming child, Alucard cannot help but comment aloud how he looks forward to creating his progeny with the 'The Landwalker’ one day. Upon hearing his words, our siren friend ceases her movements and turns at him to bear her sharp teeth. 

“No bahby,” She hisses out before releasing a throaty growl. 

This spurns Sypha and Trevor to take action. 

Sypha immediately lights her hands aflame, while Trevor reaches for his whip. 

It takes their combined efforts, both Alucard and our Siren to convince his friends that neither one of them is under the other’s spell. 

Trevor is the first to realize the actual dynamic at play here, when he hears Alucard’s explanation of their relationship. 

“It’s mutually beneficial,” Alucard assures them. “Besides, it’s not like she has elsewhere to go. Why if either of you met her first on the road, I have no doubt you’d incinerate her before she could open her lips.” 

Trevor may be a monster hunter of the supernatural variety, but his lot in life has also taught him to recognize an asshole when he sees one. 

Trevor tells Sypha to stand down, signaling to her that they’ll discuss more later. 

Surprisingly, this tense encounter only makes Trevor and Sypha closer friends of The Landwalker. Sypha appreciates having someone to discuss magic with, and Trevor appreciates her shared knowledge of monsters of the oceanic world. 

More irksomely however, is where this new dynamic leaves Alucard, which is slightly more edged out compared to before. It only works to cement in his mind his need to continue to show ownership over the siren, lest she, or anyone else for that matter, start to get other ideas. 

A/N 2.0: My apologies for the delays in posting recently. I’ve just been so exhausted from work/life/bs that I’ve had no energy to write, even on the days I’ve managed to find time. It’s been frustrating staying away from what makes me happy for so long. :/ Unfortunately, us adults gotta be adulting sometimes. 

As always, if you enjoyed reading this work, please Like but more importantly, please REBLOG. 

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[theshinazugawaslut]

𝑲𝑰𝑵𝑲𝑻𝑶𝑩𝑬𝑹 𝑫𝑨𝒀 #𝟐 — 💀🎃 "𝑪𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎 & 𝑭𝒓𝒐𝒕𝒉" 𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒈𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒌𝒊 𝒕𝒐𝒎𝒖𝒓𝒂 / 𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒄𝒍𝒆 𝒔𝒆𝒙

tw/cw: dubious consent, mentions of attempting suicide

Don't go, don't go, don't go, don't go.

It's the first thing you had learned as a young bumbling girl, back when you'd clutch onto your mother's cold hand tightly and ask in a high, squealing voice about the woods you had found out were strictly forbidden.

"Don't go in there," your mother had said in a hushed tone, "there are awful people in there; ones who will offer you ruby-red apples with the magick of eternity's youth, but you mustn't ever take them, my baby, and if you even manage to get away from the faeries and witches and wolves, then you will reach the ocean infested with all sorts of monsters. You don't wish to be eaten by a half-bird half-fish now, would you?"

So you'd always been wary of the forest, as a little girl to a lady, living a respectful life at the village.

You spent days embroidering satin gowns with arcipluvian birds and cutting sweetheart necklines with a healer's steady hand and stitching diamond-encrusted bodices into tulle skirts; all the uninteresting things that come with being a dressmaker's daughter.

Though tonight, you'd long abandoned the box of jewels and the slim needle that had become a tender muscle in your mind, left them by the melting candle on your bedside.

Your shoulders donned a blood-red cloak made of velvet, your gown glittering under the night sky; you'd stitched it yourself from the spare fabric of a rich woman who often visited your family's little shop in the village. It was a lovely thing and it was your most prized possession: the bodice was nice and fitted, ivory in colour with rose and aureate embellishments, low and tight so that the clear spheres of your breast were nipped with cold; you'd made your skirts wonderfully layered also — a swelling blood red silk underskirt covered with a sheer, glittering gold fabric, with two overskirts in damask patterns, sable and cream and sun-spun.

When you had sewn it, you'd left it hanging in your sparse wardrobe in hopes to wear it on your wedding day.

Now, all that was left was to wear it tonight and walk straight into death; the tangerine glow of the lantern held up in your dainty fingers, lighting the path to the angel of death.

You had never thought your mother would arrange your marriage to the worst man in the village. Your beauty was sought by every boy and man of the village, and you'd hoped your mother would match you to the sweet butcher's boy across the street.

Keigo, his name is; a boy with hair spun off golden sunflowers and eyes that glitter like topaz under moonshine, sharp as a hawk. He gave you candied cherries once, the tart fruit dipped in hardened sugar water, and he'd smiled so shyly after.

Instead, your mother betrothed you to Touya, the eldest son of the village chief. You had wanted to cry as the man's intense, electric-blue eyes blazed flames into your skin as your mother and his father discussed the engagement.

Everyone knew of Touya, the enigmatic eldest son covered in gnarly, mulberry scars and strange silver rings and snow-white hair, rumours circled like wisps of smoke that he had been set alight with fire by a witch as a young boy. Worse, rumours said that the young man dabbled in dark magic.

You wouldn't marry a man like that, which is why you'll die.

In the forest.

(Don't go.)

Your lantern only illuminates the trees in front of you, just a few steps away into certain death. Webs shimmer like meshed steel in front of you as you take a ginger step inside, the slow crunch of a leaf below your boots is the only indicator something exists inside.

Almost immediately inside the forest, something shifts.

You can't tell what it is but it's there.

Red.

Your eyes become deer-like, large and frightened, and you turn around, wanting to head back but you find that the path back... isn't there, just endless forbidden forest.

That can't be.

Something gets stuck in your throat from panic, like a globe of cloth that makes your throat dry.

You keep walking, your legs a lot heavier now, something akin to logs.

The world around you seems to shift, a sepulchre silence heavier than the cloak on your shoulders. The trees held the macabre stench of blood, speckles of fungied moss glistening like wet witch dust on its mottled bark; the branches twist toward the sky like dark, skeletal fingers, reaching for the stars that winked down from a velvet expanse.

The moon is hideous tonight.

A whispering breath, no, a breeze, shifts through the lines of the forest and your body. It sounds old, perhaps a little sad. It beckons you.

In the back of your head, you can hear the sound of children singing.

Ring-a, ring-a rosies-

There's a beat of a drum, somewhere deep in the darkness where your lantern's weak light can't reach. A drum, a drum- A beating heart.

a pocket full of-

Enchantment twists and coils around you like a serpent, why are your eyes so-?

posies!

The phantasmal gas becomes the damp breath of the forest.

Shadows dance at the corners of your vision.

Your senses begin to reel, ethereal and monstrous and real suddenly not all the same.

A tissue! A tissue!

Flickering shapes form and die behind the trees; those shapes try to reach hands towards you, scintillating and fading.

The sound of a child wailing echoes throughout the forest, haunting the glades, and pouring into some desolate space elsewhere.

When did you start crying? Why are you running?

Someone is trying to hush you, the sound a hollow echoing, more like the ballad of a crumbling cathedral, like fingers of shadow snuffing out the lights.

Why did you go?

Don't go.

We all-

Arthritic brambles catch on your dress for a moment, gnarled with age, snapping like bones as your boots slap through the sounds of the night.

Something spidery slips into your mind, nails sinking deep into the goo of your brain. The distorted image of your parents flashes before your eyes, the grotesque form of the sun-haired boy, the sweetness of electric-blue eyes.

Time loses meaning; minutes stretch into hours as you drift between consciousness and the realm of the lost. In this state, the boundaries of your existence waver like the edges of a dream, fraying like the gossamer threads in your gown.

Fall-

The night sky above transforms into a kaleidescope, the stars becoming blurs of light, something sinister flashing in front of your pupils instead.

In that one moment, you live hundreds of lifetimes, the beat of the drum getting louder, the singing even more so. You see it all: flowery childhoods and fantasies of a lover and children with his blue eyes and your tears at his funeral-

Down!

All you can do is shriek as you fall, dress dirtying.

It's silent again.

You look up and you freeze.

A deep pool of glittering, gemstone-blue expanding here, a stream behind it, most likely leading to the seas. It's stunning; glimmering like star gleam, burbling and thrumming like a child blowing bubbles into a cup. It lights up the rest of the forest around you, ripples reflecting across tree bark.

You reach out a hand just to touch, fingertips trembling just about to touch the surface.

A hand encloses around your wrist.

You don't have it in you to shriek a second time as blood-curdling eyes meet yours.

His eyes are red. Vivid, vibrant, violent.

He's simmering with cruel intent, volcanic and about erupt, but he's strangely calm, something hypnotic in his gaze and bluish hair falling in front of his ashy face.

The hand around your wrist is gentle. Thick, long fingers, and a broad, heavy palm; made to destroy, you don't doubt his touch is decaying.

He's half-submerged in water, the upper half of his body all sinewy muscle and the lower half... beneath the blue water, you think you see black swishing around; pulsating like a jellyfish.

"...A human," he murmurs with a heavy tongue, and you can see the gills flare . "So pretty."

Then everything about him changes, that eerie calmness you had caught before disappears as he smiles at the way your mind screams, your eyes bloodshot and terrified.

There;s something rotten in the way he quirks his lips up.

His teeth have the same glint as blood-drenched bones, like flesh ripped out of a body, like hot red swallowing you whole.

"Why are you here, little girl?" he asks, hissing through calcite.

The hand around your delicate wrist tightens.

Run.

Don't.

"I- I- I-" you stammer uselessly. "I- No, I-"

"Shh, 's okay." His other clawed hand comes to touch the plump of your cheek, talons gently tracing soothing patterns. "You don't have to... say a word."

His voice is sultry, soft... It's almost mesmerising.

The fingers on your wrist dance to the back of your hand as he traces the veins there, as if he wants to rip them out and sew himself a tail from them.

He entwines your hands together tenderly.

"Such hardworking hands," he coos, eyes taking in the sight of all the pricks from needling away at dresses. "You need to unwind." His eyes flicker to yours and he gives a half-smile half-smirk, almost genuine. "I can help with that."

His grin is lopsided, those red eyes glimmer, the incandescence of them illusory. "You want to...?"

Your vision becomes hazy, blurring like it did earlier, only this time it's much more relaxing. Like sleep spindles wrapping around your sore joints.

"You missed me, right? You came here all the way to see me, 'm honoured," he murmurs, mouth against your knuckles before pulling back just a little. Another flow. "You came here to see me, right?"

You can't remember now.

Why... did you...?

Why do you feel so disoriented?

"You're the sweetest, you know." The large, gentle hand on your cheek moves to the back of your head, sinking into your hair and bringing you closer to his mouth. You try and shake your head to fight away the warm haze. It's useless. "I've been feeling hungr- Lonely, for so long."

Both his hands cup your jaw now, thumbs caressing the lines he can find on you.

"You're lonely too, right...?" he murmurs and you find yourself nodding along, the gills on his neck flare. "It'd be nice if... you'd join me, here, in the waters." His voice is a whisper now, his mouth inching closer. "I bet you'd like it. My voice is prettier below as well, do you want to hear?"

You blink, frazzled.

The fingers on your face dig in a little harder.

"It'd be nice, you know, listening to beautiful songs with me," he says, "I just adore singing, especially at deaths, it's why everyone calls me Shigaraki. I bet you have a beautiful name, too."

But you don't say it, all you can hear is his name on repeat, like sea froth and foam on the red tip of your tongue.

"Beautiful girls like you deserve pleasure, you know...?" he whispers. "Do you want to...?"

You don't know why you nod.

But he kisses you. It's cold and his teeth gnash against yours, something in it is desperate as his claws make quick work of ruining your beloved dress.

Whatever he does, it keep the oxygen in your lung as he hauls you into the glowing pool that has become duller below it.

He's gorgeous in the water, in all his tentacled glory, and his eyes are burning red to keep the magick of remaining docile on you.

His lower half is the most bizarre thing you'd ever seen: blacker than squid ink at midnight, obsidian veins creeping up on abdomen and then his lower half splitting into eight meaty tentacles.

He grabs you by the throat this time, kissing you with his forked tongue, fangs nipping into the fat of your gasping bottom lip, the other hand holding your head.

You're entirely nude; soft legs floating in the water, virgin cunt exposed, the plump of your ass glimmering. He pulls back, grinning like a warping shadow as his hands touch your swollen breasts.

It all happens at once.

A slimy tentacle wraps around your leg, the other twinning the action, suckling onto your shins and knees and thighs, and he spreads you apart like a starfish, uncaring for how your hips almost shatter from the pressure.

Another tentacles winds itself like a gutless animal around your stomach and squeezes tight enough that all you'd eaten comes gurgling out in a cloud of yellow. The tentacle is large enough to sheathe around your tits, the suckers across the tentacles are like reverberating mouths on your nipples. Within seconds, your nipples are raw and bitten, expanding to twice their size obsenely.

Shigaraki grins as you let out a strangled moan before he shoves a bulky tentacle in your mouth causing your eyes to almost pop out your skull as it goes down into your thoat so that it almost explodes from expanding to fit the thing.

It's gorgeous how sweetly you let him thrust the throbbing tentacle in and out, even sweeter how you scream around it as he doubles down on your sugary pussy and ass.

It hurts so much you can't even feel it inside your stomach, the tentacle on your breasts moving up to squeeze at your throat.

Your stomach convulses from the gruesome size of him, hammering into your womb like a savage barbarian in a brothel. You catch sight of the merman through your tears; his eyes have rolled to the back of his head, mouth hanging open in a vulgar moan, and he was right, he does sound prettier under water.

Your blood is clear in the water as he fucks you, tentacles and sucker clamping and sucking and thrusting on the inside and out.

You're going to die like this, with this monster making you the prettiest human cumdump-

The flames of dark magic suddenly bleed into the waters, severing the tentacles of your captor, the spell breaking and you screech, watching as the monster flails about, blood gushing and staining the pool red as the cut tentacles float.

All you feel is unfamiliar hands holding onto you and swimming out of the waters.

The last thing you remember seeing is electric-blue eyes.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

In The Gloomy Depths [Chapter 3: Black Opal]

Series summary: Five years ago, jewel mining tycoon Daemon Targaryen made a promise in order to win your hand in marriage. Now he has broken it and forced you into a voyage across the Atlantic, betraying you in increasingly horrifying ways and using your son as leverage to ensure your cooperation. You have no friends and no allies, except a destitute viola player you can’t seem to get away from…

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), parenthood, dolphins, death and peril, violence (including domestic violence), drinking, smoking, freezing temperatures, murder, if you don’t like Titanic you won’t like this fic!!! 😉

Word count: 6.1k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @arcielee @nightvyre @mrs-starkgaryen @gemini-mama @ecstaticactus, more in comments 🥰

💎 Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 💎

You dream that you are made of gemstones: fossilized, crystalized, eons spent beneath the earth, diamonds for bones, onyx glittering in the pupils of your eyes, crimson pebbles tumbling through your arteries, red beryl and rubies and cinnabar. Daemon is breaking you apart with a pickaxe, heaving swings and sweat dripping from his brow. He fills a wheelbarrow with jagged, gleaming pieces of you and carts them away to be cut and polished and sold. Then—in the settling dust, in the silence—the viola player comes to the empty space where you once were and kneels, collects specks of you until his palm is full of them, and stores your infinitesimal, shimmering echoes in the pockets of his trousers. Don’t worry, Petra, he is saying. I’ll put you back together. I won’t let you be lost.

You jolt awake as his hand is skimming over your hip. Then, still lying behind you, he grips you roughly and yanks you against him, shoving the hem of your nightgown up to your waist as he opens his robe, his large hands hurried and impatient.

“Yes,” you whisper into your pillows, a soft pliant surrender as golden sunlight streams in through gaps in the curtains. It’s been so long; it’s been ages down in the subterranean darkness. You are starving for this, even if you fear him, even if you hate him, even if Daemon does not try to satisfy you anymore. When you were first married he left you exhausted and breathless just to prove he could, to draw the stark blood-red line between his skill and yours. Now he withholds pleasure—something you find nearly impossible to give to yourself, perhaps five times in as many years—and takes you like this: unceremoniously, unpredictably, with rareness like a jewel’s. Yet still this taste of being desired is intoxicating, cigarette smoke in your lungs, sparkling champagne gulped until your face burns.

Daemon is panting, effort and urgency. You can feel him trying to push his way inside you; and then, when he is not yet hard enough, stroking himself with one hand, grinding himself against your warmth, your wetness, slick mineral hunger.

You moan pitifully: “Daemon, please…”

“Quiet,” he says, and when you look back at him his eyes are closed like he’s trying to imagine you are somebody else.

He is the only man who’s ever had me, and now I repulse him. What can that mean except that I am unworthy, incapable, broken?

Abruptly, Daemon shoves you away by your hips and exhales in a huff, rising from the bed.

You roll towards him and ask without venom, desperate to know: “Daemon…what am I doing wrong?”

“It’s not anything you’re doing,” he says as he ties his robe shut. His eyes are flinty, his words severe. “It’s just you.” Then he stalks out of the bedroom and you are alone.

You push yourself up on your palms and stare at your reflection in the oval-shaped mirror against the wall. Your hair is wild and your eyes forlorn. Your engagement ring, black opal from Australia, glistens on your left hand. There’s a mark on your throat—a gift from the point of Daemon’s dagger—that you’ll need to conceal. You are ashamed of yourself; you turn away.

It’s the morning of April 13th, and Titanic is 1,000 miles from Ireland.

~~~~~~~~~~

You are reclined in one of the pink-painted teak chairs on the Boat Deck and reading a copy of Henry VI, Part 3, which you borrowed from the ship’s small library. You’ve been thinking about the play ever since the viola player quoted it yesterday, here where he was not supposed to be loitering, making his oil paintings and spying on you. You are trying not to glance over at the lifeboats by the railing. You wish you didn’t know that there are far too few to hold all the passengers in the event of a cataclysm. The temperature of the water of the North Atlantic Ocean is below freezing.

“I heard you quarreled last night,” a voice says.

You look up to see Rhaenyra standing in the daylight, blue sky, white clouds, a chilly wind she guards against with a maroon shawl draped across her shoulders. Rhaenyra is dressed like a blood drop: deep gory red, gorgeous but horrible. Strings of rubies dangle from her ears. Strands of her long blonde hair—gradually turning from lemon quartz to a darker, sandier hue—have escaped from her pins and blow in the salt-lashed air.

Daemon told her? Daemon confided in her?

It is just one more humiliation, Daemon unburdening himself to his niece instead of his wife. And whatever version of events Rhaenyra heard, you’re sure it didn’t include him holding a blade to your throat. Reflexively, you touch your fingertips to the thin slice of a wound, covered by several layers of powder foundation and a choker necklace made of diamonds, pearls, and white gold. Your gown is an anemic cream color to match. “Oh?” is all you can think to say at first, inane, pathetic.

Rhaenyra sits down on the deckchair beside you and clasps her hands together, kneading them restlessly. “I believe you could have a contented marriage,” she says. “If only you would allow Daemon the freedom he requires.”

You close your book and scrutinize her with a hard glare. You have not asked for advice; you cannot trust anything she tells you. Rhaenyra will defend Daemon eternally, unflinchingly. They share more than blood. They share a defiance that scalds and singes. You are no dragon, you have never yearned for treasure, prominence, adventure, exceptionalism. You wanted to stay exactly where you belonged. “What sort of freedom?”

“The freedom to make his own way in the world,” Rhaenyra says. “To not be constrained by archaic traditions, or arbitrary bounds of morality, or overcaution, or…or…”

“The freedom to force me to leave my homeland? The freedom to take my child away from me?”

Rhaenyra is stunned. “He’s right here on the ship.”

“And your sons are back in England with the 9th Duke of Beaufort, yet I assure you that you are closer to them now than I’ve ever been to Draco.”

She cannot understand your vitriol. You have cracked the rose-colored spectacles she’s been gazing at the world through. “I’m trying to help you.”

“I have not sought your counsel.”

“Then I’m trying to help Daemon,” Rhaenyra says, flustered, struggling to remain composed. “He is not a young man anymore, and he doesn’t need discord in his own home on top of a transcontinental move and a demanding new position at Tiffany’s.” Her voice goes tender. “I know he does not wish to torment you. Daemon can be headstrong and proud, but he’s not a cruel man. And he’s been so kind while I’ve been mourning Sir Harwin Strong…”

“Kind,” you repeat dully. It is not a word many people associate with Daemon Targaryen.

“Yes,” Rhaenyra insists, as if daring you to contradict her. “Tremendously kind.”

And you notice something strange: one of the rings she is twisting on her fingers is a black opal, huge, rimmed by diamonds. It’s not a stone you can recall ever seeing her wearing before. Your eyes return to her face. Perhaps you have taken the wrong course of action. Perhaps you can appeal to her mercy, one parent to another. “Our quarrel was on the subject of my son. I wish to be a true mother to him.”

Rhaenyra rises to her feet, as if suddenly bored of this conversation. God, she’s so much like Daemon. “Then you will get further by being friends than enemies.” She inclines her head slightly, a dismissive little curtsy, then swishes off in her bloody dress. You watch her go, then open your white handbag to take out a cigarette and your holder. Then you remember you don’t have any way to light it and sigh in defeat, staring morosely at the unplentiful lifeboats.

Can I have one person who’s on my side? Just one?

As if you’ve called for him aloud, the viola player appears. He has added a black wool hat to his stolen regalia, pulled down low over his face. He glances after Rhaenyra as she disappears down the staircase that leads to the Promenade Deck—watchful, anxious—and then turns back to you.

The viola player says, his hands in the pockets of his coat: “You look like you could use a break from your part of the ship.”

You try to resist him, battling a playful half-smile that pulls at the edges of your lips, strings running beneath your skin like the rigging of a ship. “Where else would I go? To fraternize with the third-class degenerates?”

“Oh, we have all manner of degenerates for you to enjoy,” he replies, grinning. He props one shoe up on your deckchair. “The Greeks, the Italians, the Irish. I’m partial to the Irish myself.”

“Good for cheap, expendable labor? Good for dying beneath the railroad tracks?”

“Good for painting,” he says instead. He takes a small aluminum lighter from his coat pocket, flicks it to life, and holds it out to you. As you steady the lighter with one hand, you can feel that there is an engraving on the side of it. You cannot see what it is; as soon as your cigarette begins to smolder, the viola player snaps the lid shut and returns the lighter to his pocket.

You take a drag, peering up at him, thoughtful. “Are you extending an invitation of some sort?”

“I am,” he says, pleased that you’ve asked. “Think you can find your way to the Third-Class Dining Saloon? It’s all the way down on F-Deck. Every night after dinner there’s dancing and card games and…uh…” He gestures vaguely, flirtatiously. “Camaraderie for the lonesome.”

You chuckle. “I see. And do you have an Irish girl down there to entertain you?”

“Not yet. But I’m trying.”

You consider him as you smoke. The viola player waits, though he glances around uneasily, as if afraid his disguise will be seen through like a pane of unfogged glass. “F-Deck, you said?”

He nods. “In the middle of the ship, in between the two main staircases. Right next to the Turkish Baths.”

“Oh, good. I can ask Laenor for directions.”

“I can wait somewhere for you, if you want, and take you down there myself. But…” But people might see us.

“No, it’s better if I go alone,” you say. “When does the most wicked of the debauchery begin? 9 p.m.?”

“9 is sinful,” the viola player agrees. “10 is irredeemably villainous. And by 11 we’ve always begun the orgy, we’re very punctual, you could set your watch by it.”

You laugh, loud and freely, your cigarette holder tucked between your index and middle fingers. “Perhaps I’ll make an appearance this evening, Picasso.”

“I hope so. I’ll be looking for you.” Then he steps down off your pink deckchair and saunters off, soon out of sight, his black coat and hat vanishing into crowds of first-class men—heirs and tycoons and aristocrats and politicians—dressed the same way.

You try to return to your Shakespeare play (now Margaret of Anjou is declaring war on the Yorkists) but it’s no use; the viola player with all his knowing, crooked grins has filled your skull like water pouring into a sinking ship, and for a moment you have forgotten about Daemon, and Dagmar, and Rhaenyra, and this is a feeling one could get addicted to, a warm softness that polishes away barbed edges, a numb haze like too much cider or champagne.

The wind is getting stronger, and you haven’t brought a coat or a shawl. You wander back towards your staterooms—impatient for dinner, and for what will come afterwards—and on your way, down on the Promenade Deck, you find Dagmar sitting on a chair with Draco, bundled up in more than enough layers as his short white-blonde hair blows around chaotically. Dagmar is reading a book to him: Scandinavian, of course, The Ugly Duckling. She has a different voice that she uses for each character; her ancient face becomes bright and animated, as if she is draining the life from them like a vampire. Draco giggles as she reads, and you stop to watch them, standing alone on the deck and shivering in your ivory-pale dress.

Draco spots you, blinks a few times, then smiles and waves with his little hand. You can feel yourself smiling back. “Hi, Mam.”

“Hi,” you say, stepping closer. Dagmar’s blue eyes go frigid and sharp like ice. Her fingers that grip the book are knobby, gnarled, bestial. “Are you enjoying your story?”

“Yeah! The duck is so ugly everyone makes fun of him.” Draco is beaming as he announces this. You are unsure of how to respond.

“Well…maybe things will get better for him. Could I…” You point timidly at the book. “Could I finish the story, do you think? Could I read to you?”

Draco turns to Dagmar. “Can she?” he asks, and he sounds almost…hopeful.

“She doesn’t know how to do the voices,” Dagmar says curtly.

Draco frowns at you. “Do you know how to do the voices, Mam?”

“No,” you confess quietly. “No, I don’t. I’m sorry. But I could try to learn.”

“Maybe next time,” Dagmar says. She flips a page and resumes reading aloud. Then Draco is swept back up into the story, and you are forgotten, and you wait there for a while to see if he’ll notice you again before giving up and retreating back to your staterooms, a kicked dog, an unopened letter.

In the sitting room, Fern is bustling around straightening up and dusting. “Good afternoon, ma’am,” she says when you walk in, peering over one shoulder. “You look cold. Would you like some tea?”

“Yes please, whenever you have a moment.” You drop down onto the sofa, distracted and low. Your gaze drifts to the taxidermied tiger head above the fireplace, dusk-colored gemstones glinting in its eye sockets. Why can’t I make Daemon love me? Why did he give Rhaenyra a black opal ring?

You can hear Fern heating water for tea. Abruptly and vividly, you remember how she wept when Rush dragged you away from Draco and Daemon summoned you to your bedroom to be punished.

“That must have frightened you last night,” you say, still looking at the dead tiger’s head. “I’m sorry you had to witness it.”

An uncomfortable pause. “It’s no trouble at all, ma’am.”

“I bet you wish you were somewhere else. Just like I do.”

“No, ma’am,” Fern says, startled. “Please don’t send me away. Not ever.”

You turn to look at her. She stares back wide-eyed from where she is pouring steaming water into bone china teacups patterned with blue flowers. “You want to work for Daemon? Despite everything?”

“Lord Targaryen is the best boss I’ve ever had,” Fern answers, and she appears to be genuine.

“Is he really?”

“He pays me what he said he would. Doesn’t yell too much. Doesn’t try to touch me. And besides…” Fern is smiling a little now as she brings you your tea. “I spend more time with you than anyone else.”

You are heartbroken for her—where must she have been for Daemon to be a sanctuary?—then move over to make room for her on the sofa. “Pour yourself a cup too, and sit down with me.”

“Oh no, ma’am, I couldn’t possibly. It wouldn’t be right.”

“I’m your boss when Daemon is gone. And I want someone to keep me company.”

“Well, alright,” Fern agrees bashfully, trying not to show how delighted she is. “I suppose five or ten minutes won’t hurt.”

~~~~~~~~~~

At dinner—sweet ham and fatty ribs of beef, green peas and mashed potatoes—Laenor is joined once again by his new Parisian friend Hugo. You ask Laenor the way to the Turkish Baths in case you decide to visit them tomorrow, and he heartily recommends the facilities, sharing a puckish simper with Hugo. You think of Rhaenyra’s three boys and their dark hair, and their pug-like noses, and the whispers that forever swirl around them in the shape of Harwin Strong, and despite all of this Rhaenyra will suffer no consequences: beloved by her father, emboldened by her uncle, cherished by her sons, enabled by a husband who does not crave her attention anyway. She has broken the rules, and you have done everything right, and yet Rhaenyra is the one glowing tonight as she laughs along to Daemon’s stories, her new black opal ring flashing on her hand, and you are all but forgotten as you drink too many glasses of champagne.

Your guests tonight are Benjamin Guggenheim and his mistress Léontine Aubart, a French singer to entertain him while his wife is at home in New York City with their three daughters. Ben’s father made his fortune in mining and smelting, and so like Daemon he understands that one can rule the earth by pillaging what lies beneath it.

You swim up into the conversation from under a warm, numbing sea of amber champagne. Now Daemon is quoting English novelist George Eliot: “These gems have life in them: their colors speak, say what words fail of.”

“Hear hear!” Ben Guggenheim agrees, holding his drink aloft, not champagne but brandy. “Daemon, how old is your son now?”

“He’s four,” your husband replies with obvious fondness, and Rhaenyra seems to bristle. “And a complete terror, a tiny blonde Napoleon, he’ll take over the world someday…”

Beneath the table, you twist your own black opal ring on your wedding finger. You think of the night Daemon asked you to marry him—in the garden of Lough Cutra Castle, bats flapping in the twilight and long-eared owls hooting, not down on one knee but standing taller than you were, his green eyes glinting like the Connemara marble in your father’s quarry—and you wish you could go back and say no.

“Dagmar is a splendid governess, we are so fortunate to have her,” Daemon is telling his audience, and he always seems to have one. “She looked after me and Viserys when we were boys…I was her favorite, of course.” There is a dutiful chorus of chuckles. “She can be bit prickly with adults, but she is entirely devoted to children. She treats Draco like her own. I always wondered about her own family when I was young…I was petrified that one day she would take me aside and tell me that she had to go away and be with her own children now. Surely she had a life of her own out there somewhere. As it turns out, she had a drove of sons with her husband, four or five of them, and then the whole household was wiped out by scarlet fever. Everyone except Dagmar.”

“Oh, how dreadful,” Ben’s French mistress sighs, pressing a hand to her chest that glitters with a massive necklace of bruise-colored Tanzanite, worth a fortune. “But what a blessing for her to have found purpose again with the Targaryens, a lifeboat for her, I’m certain…”

A lifeboat indeed, you think dizzily. Dagmar climbs in and I am tossed out, sinking down into the cold, crushing, miles-deep darkness.

Ben Guggenheim is saying: “I spoke to Captain Smith today as I was taking the air on the Promenade Deck, and he informed me that the last of the boilers have been lit and we are full steam ahead towards New York Harbor. We might even arrive a day early! On the 16th instead of the 17th! Think of the headlines.”

This alarms you. One day less with the viola player? And you realize all at once how attached you’ve grown to him, and perhaps you are learning what it feels like to have a lifeboat too.

As Daemon’s party exits the First-Class Dining Saloon, chatting away carelessly, you tell your husband that you’ve been invited to the Reading and Writing Room to socialize with the other well-bred women of Titanic, and that you probably won’t return to your staterooms before midnight.

“Yes, yes, that’s fine, dear,” Daemon says, barely listening as he escorts Rhaenyra up the Grand Staircase. You linger for a while in the reception area—exchanging bland gossip with the Countess of Rothes and Madeleine Astor, so childlike and yet older than you were when you married Daemon—and then depart, not up the steps towards the Reading and Writing Room on A-Deck but down into the depths of the ship and through the Turkish Baths, closed for the evening and unattended.

You hear the Third-Class Dining Saloon long before you find the entrance and step inside, lively music and raucous laughter that echoes down white corridors. Through the doorway you find low ceilings, exposed support beams, and tables and chairs that have been pushed against the walls to make room for dancing. Men are toasting pints and smoking hand-rolled cigarettes, women are giggling at their jokes and thieving sips of the men’s dark frothy Guinness. Standing on top of one of the tables is a quartet of strings and a man singing, not dressed in fussy black suits but in corduroy trousers and plain half-unbuttoned shirts, the air hot and painted with yellow-gold artificial light. The viola player is with them. He sees you and smiles, but he doesn’t set down his viola. He has to finish the song, of course. They are performing Whiskey In The Jar.

“I went into my chamber for to take a slumber

I dreamt of golden jewels and sure it was no wonder

For Jenny took my charges and filled them up with water

And sent for Captain Farrell to be ready for the slaughter…”

You find a seat in a corner of the room and wait for the viola player to join you. You purposefully wore something rather plain to dinner—a pale pink gown, matching wool coat, and morganite jewelry—but still you are overdressed. The third-class passengers sitting nearby gape and ogle at you. You wave shyly as you shrug off your coat and hang it over the back of your chair. They bring you a pint of Guinness and, when you take it out of your rose-colored handbag, a burly middle-aged man lights your cigarette with a match. You fiddle with your cigarette holder for a moment, then put it away and smoke like the women here do: bare fingers, no niceties.

The viola player has abandoned his fellow musicians and plops down into the chair across from you, laying his instrument on the table. He grins, boyish and sly, like he has won a bet. You puff on your cigarette and act like you are here by pure coincidence. Oh, festivities down on F-Deck? Well of course everyone knows about that. Thought I’d swing by for a half hour or so, had nothing better to do.

“How are you?” the viola player asks, still smiling.

“Impatiently waiting for the orgy to start.”

He laughs and leans across the table, settling in. “Have you picked out a conquest yet?”

“Maybe one.” You exhale smoke and he watches you, intrigued, perhaps a little nervous to say the wrong thing. “How long have you been running from your family?”

“Five years.”

“That’s the same amount of time I’ve been married.”

“I know, I remember,” he says. “Enormous wedding at St. Patrick’s Cathedral in Dublin. Royalty were invited.”

You furrow your brow at him. “How do you know that?”

He shrugs, evasive. “I must have read about it in a newspaper or something.”

“And this is what you do now,” you say, drawing a circle of smoke in the air with your cigarette, meaning the Third-Class Dining Saloon, meaning the sort of people he’s chosen to spend his life with. “You make pennies by playing viola and selling your oil paintings.”

“Doesn’t take much to live on.”

“No?”

“Not the way I live. As long as I have something to eat and a bed to collapse into at night, I’m content.”

“You never get lonely?”

“Well I didn’t say the bed was empty.”

It was a joke, but you don’t laugh. You remember how Daemon pushed you away this morning, how ashamed he has made you of your lust, animal yearning smothered and ignored, an able body gone to waste.

The viola player realizes he’s made a mistake. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you, are you…are you alright…?”

“What line of work is your family in?” you say instead.

“Uh…” He hesitates. “Land ownership.”

This is interesting. “Really? Do they have titles?”

“Um, no, nothing like that.” He shakes his head, his eyes darting around the room. “What about the distinguished Lord Targaryen?” the viola player asks, contempt in his voice. “There must be hereditary defects run amok in his lineage.”

“His older brother is a duke, as you know.” You put out your cigarette in a plain porcelain ash tray and take a slurp of your Guinness. It joins the champagne in your bloodstream, sloshing around until your thoughts are blurry and harmless. “But Viserys is…” You try to decide on the right words. “Daemon thinks he’s weak and indecisive. Maybe he’s right, I’m not sure, I’ve only met Viserys a few times.”

“Viserys stays in England,” the viola player says, sounding more like a statement than a question.

“Yes, with Rhaenyra and her family. They’re very close.”

“And what of Viserys’ other children?”

You cackle. “What other children?” Another joke; this time it’s the viola player who isn’t amused. “After many, many years of neglect in cold dreary England, Alicent Hightower removed herself to Manhattan and lives there in opulence with her father Otto, her loyal bodyguard Sir Criston Cole, and her four Targaryen-blonde offspring, the eldest of whom is poised to inherit the Dukedom of Beaufort, much to his uncle’s displeasure.”

“Aegon,” the viola player says softly.

“Daemon hates him.” Your voice is hushed like a conspiracy. “Idle, useless, cowardly, effortlessly receiving fame and riches that Daemon believes he has rightfully earned.”

“Hm.” The viola player is smiling faintly.

“So now Daemon will gust into New York City like a storm, and capture the fascination of the elites there, and—with his orderly, intact family and jewel-mining dynasty built by his own hands—he will humiliate Viserys in the most brutal way possible. He will prove that he was the more worthy brother, that he should have been born first.”

“And what do you think?”

“I think that he shouldn’t have been born at all.”

You both laugh, sad and cynical. He looks down at your hands where they rest on the table, perhaps at your black opal wedding ring. Then he motions to the room at large. “How does it compare to your usual dining accommodations?”

“Far less caviar and duchesses,” you say. “What do the third-class cabins look like?”

The viola player raises an eyebrow. “Are you asking to see my room?”

That’s not how you meant it; but now that he is teasing you with flushed cheeks and one of his crooked, toothy smiles, you aren’t sure you want to decline. No, no. You definitely don’t want to.

“It’s unoccupied at the moment.” The viola player nods to a group of men dancing on the other side of the rowdy dining saloon. “My roommates are presently trying to convince those lovely Russian girls to get pregnant with their bastard children.”

“What a tempting prospect! Who could resist?”

He waits for you to say more. You stall, fiddling with your rings, gazing nervously down at them. “Hey. Petra.”

You look up at the viola player. “Yeah?”

“Don’t fear. That is not my design. There are no bastard children in your immediate future.”

You chuckle and then stand, smoothing out the skirt of your gown with your fingertips and putting on your pink wool coat. “Alright, show me your cabin. As my only poor friend, it is your obligation to enlighten me.”

“Gladly,” he agrees; and as the two of you are weaving through the crowd of dancing passengers—Italian, Polish, Greek, Syrian, Russian, Chinese, Irish—the viola player takes your hand so you are not separated, and it feels so natural you don’t even think to resist him.

It is a long walk to the third-class cabins, located deep in the stern of the ship. You must pass through hallways reserved for other passengers, first-class, second-class, more worthy breeds of people. The viola player drops your hand as soon as he sees stewards flitting about with armfuls of linens and cups of tea, casting you puzzled looks.

“Ma’am?” some of them ask you. “Do you require any assistance? Can I escort you somewhere?”

But no, no, you politely demur, and follow after the man in green corduroy trousers and a half-unbuttoned white shirt, handknit green vest, messy blonde hair, no coat, no hat, a viola and its horsehair bow in his grasp. At last you reach stark corridors in which no stewards are darting around to ensure the passengers are comfortable, and he opens a door to reveal a tiny space, smaller than your bedroom: white-painted pine wood and pink linoleum floors, two bunkbeds, a single sink with a mirror mounted above it. You can hear the reverberation of the ship’s engines and feel their tremors through the walls.

This is awful. This is unendurable.

“Impressive, huh?” the viola player asks, perhaps a bit anxiously. He hopes he hasn’t horrified you.

“It would be just fine for rats. Humans, I’m not so sure.” You sit down on one of the bottom bunks to test the mattress. “What on earth is this full of? Straw?”

“Yes ma’am.” He’s standing by the closed door with his arms crossed over his chest, not displeased but not relaxed either.

“It’s okay,” you tell him. “You can come over. I won’t scream and have you arrested or anything.”

He laughs. “What a relief.” He walks over to the bed—very slowly, as if expecting you to change your mind and tell him to stop—then sits down beside you as you peer around the cabin. His portfolio and easel are lying underneath the opposite bunk. On the paper clipped to the easel you can see a new painting: a woman too beautiful to be you smoking on the Boat Deck, wearing the same choker necklace of pearls, diamonds, and white gold that was clasped around your throat this afternoon. In the bottom right corner is the name he’s given you: Petra.

You turn to the viola player, bewildered. “Why do you keep painting me?”

He does not answer; instead, he tilts your head to the side to inspect the shadow of a gash on the side of your neck, a shallow gift from Daemon’s dagger, obscured by layers of powder but not erased. His murky blue eyes are haunted, his voice desperate. “I want to help you.”

“You can’t.”

He is watching you, his fingertips still resting weightlessly on the curve of your jaw. You imagine him painting your skin until all of you is covered: brushstrokes down your throat and over the bumps of your collarbones, lines tracing your spine and swirls on your belly, dabbing gingerly at the inside of your thigh.

“I wish you could,” you whisper; and then he kisses you, the roughness of his short beard, the softness of his lips, and you hope he doesn’t mind the bite of alcohol you’ve tainted yourself with to dull all the blades that have ever cut you: disappointment, terror, pain, despair. Now the ship is punctured and the water is rushing in, not freezing and a bottomless inky blue but warm, golden, effervescent like champagne in a crystalline flute, and Daemon has never touched you this way, gentle but burning, wanting you, needing you. Your palms are on his chest; your muscles and tendons and ligaments are opening for him; you are imagining being known by him, this stranger who sees you, this unremarkable man who is somehow so exceptional, who has dug you up from the gloomy depths of the earth and given you a once-in-a-millennium glimpse of the sun.

And then, with sudden torturous clarity: Daemon unable to get hard for you, Daemon shoving you away.

“No,” you gasp, breaking the kiss and shrinking from the viola player. Your voice is so quiet, so weak. “You won’t like me.”

He shakes his head. You’ve hurt him worse than dagger, you’ve aimed for the heart. “Who were you before all of this?”

Seventeen, in the garden with my books, drinking tea with my parents, daydreaming of legends and love. “I don’t even remember.”

“You can’t stay with him. It’s killing you.”

“You don’t understand,” you whimper, thinking of Draco.

“Look, I have to tell you something.”

You rise from the bed, headed for the door. “I can’t stay, I’m sorry—”

He leaps up and grabs your hand, not to bruise you or to scare you but to beg you to listen. He bursts out: “I’m a Targaryen.”

You stare blankly at him. “You play viola.”

“Yes,” he says. “And I’m also a Targaryen.”

“That’s not possible—”

“I’m Aegon,” he insists, pounding on his own chest. “I left my family in New York but I’m one of them, Alicent is my mother, Helaena is my sister, Aemond and Daeron are my brothers, I’m a Targaryen and I know what it’s like to run away and I can help you.”

“No, you can’t be—”

And then he rips his lighter from the pocket of his green corduroy pants and he presses it into your palm and you see what is etched into the side: the three-headed dragon, the crest of the Targaryens. You abruptly remember what Daemon said to him back in Galway: You look a bit familiar, boy. Have we met before? You study his hair and realize it is almost the same shade as Rhaenyra’s.

“You have to stay away from me,” you say, petrified, clutching his lighter. “Daemon hates you. He’ll kill you.”

“I’m not leaving you with him.”

“Aegon, I don’t want your blood on my hands.”

“When we dock in New York, I can help you escape.”

“No,” you sob, a miserable choked wail. “I can’t abandon Draco, and Daemon would never stop hunting me if I took him away.”

“Maybe you can’t save Draco, but you can still save yourself,” Aegon pleads, his eyes huge and glistening. “Maybe he’s a lost cause.”

“He’s four years old!” You tear your hand out of Aegon’s grasp and yank open the cabin door. He goes after you.

“Wait—”

“Do not follow me,” you command him, low and seething as you stand together in the doorway. “You endanger us both.”

“Let me help you,” he says; and they are the last words you hear before you vanish into the maze of hallways, running up the Grand Staircase, ignoring the stewards who offer you assistance, fleeing from the man who makes you want things you didn’t believe were possible.

Aegon, you think, still in disbelief, still clasping his lighter in your palm with such force your hand aches. His name is Aegon Targaryen.

You fly into your staterooms, through the sitting room, towards your bedroom where you can be alone with your longing and your horror, your tears and your treason. You don’t see anyone else. You don’t hear anything over your own ragged breathing and strangled sobs. You are at your bedroom door. Your fingers close around the knob.

The door leading out to the private promenade deck opens and Rush appears with a half-finished cigar in hand, looking shocked to see you. “No!” he shouts, but it’s too late, you’ve already opened the bedroom door. The blood that crashes into your face is scalding and a deep gory red like rubies. The bile rising in your throat is green like Connemara marble.

There on the same bed where this morning he shoved you away from him—revulsion, coldness, impotence you could not cure—Daemon is twisted up with Rhaenyra, passionate helpless moans, deep savage thrusts, her long citrine hair spilling over the sheets and his eyes turning murderous when they catch on you.