#sleeps-the-crimson-petal

[flawedandfatteengirl]

If anyone is interested in books where half of the time you don’t really know what’s going on and you’re fed crumbs until the glorious moment where you piece it all together?

Then may I introduce you to Michel Faber. He is a Dutch writer living in the uk and every single book of his I have picked up have been literal page turners.

I randomly picked up his book the 199 steps at a yard sale and ever since I kid you not I have been obsessed with the way he writes. Their all different genres like the 199 steps is fiction, the crimson petal and the white ( which have been made into a series) is historical fiction about a prostitute in the 18th century who gets taken in by a wealthy man. And gets closer and closer to daughter and deranged wife.

Anyway do yourself a favor and pick up one of his books, you will not regret it.

[mercurialparamnesia]

climbing on top of Jason as he reads a book, settling on his lap with slow, slight hip movements that if he didn't know you so well could be mistaken as accidental.

"will you read for me, love?" is followed by a ever soft "of course, want me to start over?"

as he starts to read, voice practically caressing the stanzas, you press kisses into the lovely skin of his torso before nuzzling the bits of curly black hair that peek out of his sweatpants. your soft humming against his body makes him smile, so content that you can hear the soft look that has no doubt taken over his face.

eventually after ignoring the growing need for a while you finally tug down the band of his sweatpants and boxers to slide slowly down the length of his cock. neither of you rush though, he continues reading out loud softly while your hips move slowly, enjoying the relaxed and lazy atmosphere.

soft moans and little hums accompanied his slowed reading of the ending lines of Now Sleeps the Crimson Petal, Now the White, "Now folds the lily all her sweetness up, / And slips into the bosom of the lake. / So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip / Into my bosom and be lost in me."

[leyiorr]

i wonder what i look like in your eyes.

gojo ⋮ geto ⋮ sukuna ⋮ toji ⭑ how they see you and what you are to them.

¡! wc: 1.1k

¡! genre: tooth-rotting fluff, awful + contagious cases of lovesick men, you're literally their reason for existence

¡! an: i dropped this on another account but then abandoned it so its being posted here lolz!

☆ - satoru gojo ⋮ a nebula

when it comes to satoru, he's always been alone in his orbit. a level of his own. he's a god among the mortal race; both blessed and cursed to walk the earth. he's his own galaxy - the brightest and the boldest.

yet his galaxy is unbearably lonely. it's expansive, a cosmic canvas of infinite possibilites. it's an inky black celestial wonder, one that leaves a hollow feeling in his chest.

until he meets you, and you become the only being in existence allowed to orbit with him. you're his nebula, chaotic and disorted yet so effortlessly the most beautiful element of his galaxy.

you blaze in brilliant, radiant light; core searing it's permeant place in the midnight backdrop. you illuminate the space with shades of the deepest indigo and violets, mingled with wisps of turquoise and teal. crimson and oranges are vibrant in your centre.

the colour stretches into the void forming intricate patters, ones he finds himself untangling to better understand you.

in the silence of space, your nebula spoke volumes; comforting him at his worst, lulling his mind into dreamless sleep. your edges are softer, the colours more muted as you bleed into him. no one can tell where you begin and he ends.

you are so so small in comparison to the void, but so unbearably bright that you light it all with practiced ease. he tends to watch in awe as you decorate his solar system; nursing new stars to weave into his soul.

with you there, his universe becomes easier to live in, easier to navigate. you're a cloud of interstellar stardust - held together by the gravitational attraction of satoru's galaxy.

☆ - suguru geto ⋮ the artist

to suguru, you're the best thing that's happened to him. ever.

anyone who sees him with you knows. they know he's infatuated, enamoured. he's so far gone that people often think that he's been blinded by love, but he has simply never felt an emotion so intense.

with you he thinks he truly sees the world in all it's glory, innocent and pure. with you he traverses unpolluted by the atrocities of the world, you who colours his world.

he looks at you like you personally hang the stars in the sky when night rolls around, like you paint the sorbet sunsets by hand. he stares at you adoringly, as if you chose the colour of the sea and dusted white on the peaks of mountains to keep them warm.

he peers at you like you solely gift the flowers with their petals, dipping them in shades you deem beautiful enough. like you create the sand from scratch and lay it in pretty semi-lunar shapes next to the ocean.

he gazes at you like diamonds were invented in tribute to your tears, like you drew the prettiest landscapes alone in the quiet, before the age of humanity.

he studies you like you've sculpted the very shape of his heart - every ventricle and atrium handcrafted with your pretty fingers. as if his very existence was molded by you, hence why you fit so perfectly together; two pieces of a puzzle.

he could stare at you for hours and days on end, eyes full of love for the person who introduces him to a plethora of hues and tones that he imprints on the back of his eyelids when he sleeps.

☆ - ryomen sukuna ⋮ the breath of life

sukuna is not a good person. everybody knows that. he's taken innocent lives, sapping their energy like it's nothing. he's all-powerful; he stands amongst the deities - gods who have the capacity to bend fate to their will.

but after millennia of having everything under his rule, he's gotten bored. he has servants to order as he pleases but nothing they do entertains him. the god of death is bored, embarrassingly so.

until he acquires something known as a significant other, the other half of his soul as the humans say. you're his breath of life, a release of old, stagnant energy. it's as if you breathe vitality into everything you touch, all life forms flocking to you naturally.

you're so much softer than he, touch delicate yet profound, an ethereal caress that lights sparks in his eyes. he tends to linger quietly by your side when you walk in the garden he constructed just for you - though he would never tell you that.

wildflowers are coaxed into bloom with you around, their colours a testament to your nurturing touch. the dew-laden grass basks in your presence, gleaming a shade brighter than before. even the trees seem to gravitate toward you, branches reaching for you as you pass by, their leaves sighing in contentment.

sukuna's convinced the waves follow your pace, each push and pull matches your breathing.

you were the essence of renewal. his world had found it's pulse, it's rhythm, as you dance the unending dance of life in the centre. you sustain his beating heart, so sukuna's oddly content with merely watching.

☆ - toji fushiguro ⋮ a lover

toji sees you as not only a lover, but the lover. the only one he will have in this life and the next. there's no after you. it's a forever kinda thing.

something so simple as the title of 'lover' is so complex for toji, a man who's a veteran assassin, a man who previously had no regard for anyone else.

you're the only person toji promises to protect, to never lie to, to make happy for as long as his heart pumps and his chest rises with each breath. you're a miracle gifted to him by the gods - though he doesn't know what he's done to deserve it.

he's rough around the edges but with your standing as 'lover', you smooth him out.

he subconsciously thinks of you, always worrying for your satefy. you must be a deep ocean of the emotion known as 'passion' because he's willingly drowning, not even looking for shore.

toji looks at you like you're an extension of himself, the other half of him that the deities intended for him to find. he can't remember times before you or imagine a future without you.

he makes a deal of reminding you that you are his, just as he is completely and utterly yours. as his lover you hold his bloody, beating heart in your hands; he knows you'll keep it safe.

he stares at you like you'll disappear; like he's not even sure you actually exist. you love a man like him after all - that's a miracle in itself.

[chucapybara]

alright arlecchino hopping around in my head still so soft mornings with your darling knave!

oh, arlecchino being so utterly enamoured with you. she tends to wake up earlier than you do; a harbinger has many things to go about doing in a day, after all, and being one who manages the affairs of different house of the hearths across teyvat, it's no easy feat.

but on the off days, after a long night of making love to you, she finds herself trapped in your orbit, unable to escape. (not that she'd ever want to.) your soft, radiantly divine figure rests curled beside her, your breath tickling her cheek, and she loves it.

in the respite that comes, in this calm between the noise of her nightmares and of her day work, she finds that all the world is still when you are. an absence of howling, the absence of shades are substituted, if only for those few moments, with the gentle sunbeam that kisses your skin.

(she wishes she were the sun, for a brief time. oh, how her blood almost boils with envy for that heavenly star which gets to kiss you every morning before she does; and were it not for the fact that she loathed to wake you in such peaceful sleep, she may have done so already.)

arlecchino shifts, resting her head on her arm, facing you, observing every rise and fall of your unrobed shoulders, chest. her mind is quiet, silenced, lacking of any other thought except for you.

you, who is so precious to her, that she would rend heaven upon earth and bring down cities and crowns in your name if you asked her to. she who would raise armies and queendoms worshipping you—if she did not already dislike the thought of sharing you with another. (the notion of others gazing upon you with reverence to match hers is preposterous in its nature, so she strangles the thought in its crib.)

as she ponders her prayers for you, she notes how the blanket of your shared bed has dipped below your waist. arlecchino almost has the mind to tuck you back in, to preserve your comfort—all the more when she catches how you shiver, ever so slightly, when exposed to the naked air—but she realises doing so may only wake you.

and so she unfurls her wing of balemoon bloodfire, its crimson feathers catching the sun's rays, illuminating it as sunsets are wont to do. she drapes it over you in replacement for the blanket, mentally chiding it for doing a poor job at keeping you warm.

though, perhaps, this in and of itself was a blessing, too.

your expression eases, and so too does arlecchino's scarlet-eyed gaze soften. her wing rests soothingly around you, almost ticklish, exuding the hearthfire's homely coziness.

and it is this same ticklish sensation that rouses you, slow, steady. your lips part in a yawn, and you peek open a bleary eye, finding your sweet one already long having been observing you. your soul sings.

"good morning, lover," arlecchino murmurs fondly, pressing close. now that you're awake, she has no reservations about pulling you close. she loops an arm around your back, blackened hands ever gentle, ever soft.

you smile, still half-asleep, but savouring the affection. your own palm finds its way to arlecchino's spine, tracing delicately up and down, making your darling knave shiver.

(oh, how weak she finds herself at your touch. let all other things to which she be impenetrable, but for you, she spares a key.)

arlecchino is strong, and it shows in the grooves of her muscled form, tensing in the wake of your drowsed touch. she is especially vulnerable in the space just beside her wing, where you pay special attention, massaging lightly there and leaving tender brushes of your lips. fluttering kisses, with all the softness of rainbow rose petals on the gentle wind.

"morning, arle," you mumble in a wispy breath. you graze your fingertips some along the curve of her side, to the cursed ink on her arm (that is no more a curse than it is a part of the woman you love), tracing them as though you didn't already have every inch of arlecchino mapped out in your memory.

your eyes flutter closed, and your hand goes still, relaxed now on arlecchino's back once more as you are quickly returned to sleep's embrace—arlecchino cradling you, bloodfire wing secured around your form.

but this time, sleep itself has no choice but to share you with her.

all the time in the world could not compare to these tender, infinitisemal moments—your limbs tangled like vines, hair strewn across the pillows upon the bed that is only both yours to own, with you in her arms.

arlecchino's lips draw forth like a magnet, pressing tender kisses along your brow. "rest well, my dove."

and when she speaks, she hopes her faithful prayer follows you into your conscious, to warm your heart and remind you always of the devotion only your sweet knave holds, just for you. only for you.

[novaursa]

Hi Novaursa! I just saw that you're taking request. Your writing is beyond awesome and I'm wondering if I can make a request with Gwayne Hightower and Female Reader? The two decided to marry in secret when the reader's parents arrange her for another man? Bonus point if they get to have a short happy marriage before Gwayne leaves for King's Landing (and we know what awaits him there T-T)?

I might have mentioned it before but I love your writing! ^^

A Rose in Oldtown

- Summary: Gwayne steals a rose and allows it to grow strong in Oldtown.

- Paring: tyrell!reader/Gwayne Hightower

- A/N: I had something similar laying around on my hard drive. It was not for tyrell!reader, but I've used its bones for structure and it needed pretty little rewriting. This is why this is posted so soon. And yeah, I'm manic sometimes when it comes to writing. When I have an idea I can't sleep until it's done. Or do anything else basically. If I don't respond to your ask after a few days, then I'm probably starting from scratch. @justdillydally I hope you enjoy this as you did my other works. ❤️

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Word count: 3 000+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @deniixlovezelda @duck-duck-goose2 @aadu2173 @holdingforgeneralhugs

You stand at the front of the Sept, dressed in the finest gown Highgarden could offer—an emerald green masterpiece embroidered with golden roses, the petals dusted with delicate pearls that shimmer in the dim candlelight. The sleeves are long and sheer, allowing glimpses of your skin beneath, while the bodice is cinched tightly, enhancing every curve. The skirt flows like a river of green silk, the fabric whispering with every breath you take. A golden rose sits in your hair, nestled among the intricate braids that frame your face. It’s a gown fit for a queen, but today it feels more like a cage.

The air is thick with anticipation, the weight of tradition pressing down on your chest. House Lannister’s colors dominate the sept, crimson banners emblazoned with golden lions hanging from every pillar. They seem to mock you, roaring silently, a reminder of the fate being forced upon you. Your father stands beside you, his expression unreadable, yet you can feel the iron grip of his expectations.

“Remember your duty,” he murmurs, his voice low and commanding.

But duty is the last thing on your mind. Your heart is hammering, but not for the man who waits for you at the altar. Jason Lannister stands there with a smug smile, eyes gleaming like a cat eyeing prey. You should feel fear—discomfort, even—but all you feel is anger and longing. 

Your gaze drifts past him, searching the shadows of the crowded sept for a pair of familiar gray eyes. You know Gwayne is near, can sense him even if you can’t yet see him. He promised you. He promised he’d come.

The sept doors creak open, and a gust of wind rushes in, carrying the salty tang of the nearby sea. For a heartbeat, the ceremony halts, heads turning toward the disturbance. There, at the threshold, stands Gwayne Hightower, clad in green leather riding armor, a stark contrast to the opulence around him. His hair is tousled from the wind, a few unruly strands falling into those piercing eyes that hold yours with an intensity that steals your breath.

“Are you truly going to allow this travesty to unfold?” His voice echoes through the sept, defiant and laced with a challenge. The guests murmur in shock, eyes wide as they shift between the Lannisters and Hightower.

“Gwayne,” you breathe, relief and something wilder, more reckless, surging in your chest.

Your father bristles, stepping forward as if to block the path between you and Gwayne. “You have no place here, Hightower! You disgrace your house with this insolence!”

But Gwayne’s gaze never wavers from you. There’s a promise in his eyes, a question. And deep down, you already know your answer.

“Disgrace?” Gwayne laughs, sharp and mocking. “The only disgrace is forcing a woman to marry a man she doesn’t love. Let her choose.” He extends a hand toward you, daring you to defy every expectation, every command that’s been drilled into you since birth.

Your breath catches in your throat. The world seems to narrow to this single moment—the choice between duty and desire, between a life of cold gold and a life of burning passion. The rose on your head suddenly feels heavy, a symbol of everything you stand to lose if you step toward him. But the thought of losing Gwayne is a pain sharper than any blade.

“Your duty is to your house,” your father snaps, gripping your arm. His fingers dig into your flesh, as if he can keep you there by force.

“Is it?” you whisper, meeting his gaze. “Or is my duty to myself?” With a sudden, fierce resolve, you tear your arm free, the embroidered fabric of your sleeve ripping in the process. The soft sound is like the tearing of bonds that have held you for too long.

The tension breaks like a thunderclap. You lift your skirts and run, the long train of your gown dragging behind you like the last vestiges of your old life. Gwayne doesn’t hesitate. He rushes forward, grabbing your hand and pulling you into a tight embrace as you reach him. You can feel the rapid beat of his heart beneath the leather armor, matching the frantic rhythm of your own.

“Are you ready?” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear, sending shivers down your spine.

You nod, breathless. “I was ready the moment I saw you.”

With that, he pulls you toward the doors, toward freedom. The guests shout in outrage, your father’s curses mixing with the indignant roars of the Lannisters. But you don’t care. All you can think about is the wind in your hair and the warmth of Gwayne’s hand in yours as you both burst out into the sunlight.

Two horses stand waiting, saddled and ready. Without another word, Gwayne lifts you onto one, his touch gentle but urgent. He mounts his own horse in a single fluid motion and turns to you, his eyes blazing with determination. “We ride to Oldtown. There, we’ll be married by nightfall.”

Your heart swells at his words. There is no more doubt, no more hesitation. Only the thrill of running toward a future you chose for yourself. You share one last glance, and then together, you kick your horses into a gallop, racing away from the sept, from duty, from everything that sought to bind you.

The road ahead is rough, the path winding and treacherous, but with Gwayne at your side, it feels like the smoothest ride of your life. The wind whips your hair, tangling it with the remnants of your torn veil, but you laugh—a wild, unrestrained sound that echoes over the hills.

“This is madness,” you shout to him over the pounding hooves, but there’s pure joy in your voice.

“Madness is letting you go,” he replies, a grin splitting his face. He reaches over, his fingers brushing yours as you ride side by side. It’s a touch full of unspoken promises and a future yet to be written.

By the time you reach Oldtown, the sky is painted in hues of dusk, the Hightower looming over the horizon like a beacon guiding you both home. Gwayne helps you down from your horse, and you’re both breathless, flushed from the ride. He pauses, holding you close for a moment longer than necessary, his forehead resting against yours.

“I’ll never let anyone take you from me,” he whispers, fierce and possessive, but laced with a tenderness that makes your heart ache.

“Good,” you reply, your voice steady and sure. “Because I won’t let you go either.”

Hand in hand, you enter the modest sept in the shadow of the Hightower. The ceremony is simple, witnessed only by a few loyal friends, but it is perfect. When Gwayne says his vows, his voice is low and rough, thick with emotion. And when you pledge yourself to him, it’s with a heart so full it feels like it might burst.

As the septon pronounces you husband and wife, Gwayne leans in to kiss you, a fierce, claiming kiss that seals your fates together. In that moment, you know that no matter what battles lie ahead, no matter who might seek to tear you apart, you have already won the greatest victory: a life lived on your own terms, with the man you chose.

Life in Oldtown is a far cry from the rigid splendor of Highgarden or the bustling grandeur of King’s Landing. The Hightower looms majestically above the city, its walls steeped in history and tradition. You’ve come to love its winding corridors, the serene gardens tucked away behind ancient stone walls, and the way the sea breeze carries the scent of salt and lavender through the open windows. It’s become your home—a place where you and Gwayne have carved out a life filled with laughter, warmth, and stolen moments of happiness.

This morning is bright and pleasant, the sun spilling golden light across the gardens where you sit with Prince Daeron. The young Targaryen, with his silver-gold hair and lilac eyes, is a delight—sharp-witted and full of curiosity, yet with the unmistakable earnestness of youth. He often seeks your company, and you’ve grown fond of the boy, finding comfort in his easy laughter and unguarded conversations. Today, the two of you are seated beneath a blossoming magnolia tree, playing a game of cyvasse, though it’s clear Daeron is far more interested in the tales you’ve been telling him about the Reach.

“And is it true,” Daeron asks, eyes alight with fascination, “that the fields near Highgarden stretch as far as the eye can see? Nothing but green and gold?”

You smile at the eagerness in his voice. “Aye, and in summer, the air is thick with the scent of roses. The orchards are heavy with fruit, and the rivers run clear and cool. It’s as close to paradise as one might find in Westeros.”

Daeron leans closer, resting his chin on his hand. “You make it sound like a dream. Perhaps one day, I’ll see it with my own eyes.”

“Perhaps,” you say, though there’s a touch of melancholy in your tone. “But Oldtown has its own beauty, Daeron. Have you grown fond of it?”

He nods, a thoughtful expression passing over his young face. “I have. But it’s different—quieter, more… ancient. The Hightower has secrets, I think, buried deep beneath its stones.”

Before you can reply, you notice Gwayne approaching from across the garden. He’s dressed in simple but well-made clothing, his sword strapped to his side as always. When he sees you with Daeron, a warm smile lights up his face, and your heart skips a beat as it always does when you see him. Even after all this time, the love between you remains as fierce and tender as it was the day he stole you away.

“Prince Daeron,” Gwayne greets the boy with a respectful nod, though his gaze lingers on you, a hint of mischief dancing in his eyes. “I hope you’ve been kind to my wife and haven’t defeated her too soundly at cyvasse.”

Daeron grins, shaking his head. “She’s a worthy opponent, Ser Gwayne. I’ve yet to best her.”

Gwayne chuckles, but then his tone softens as he turns to you. “My love, would you join me for a walk? There’s something I wish to show you.”

Your curiosity piqued, you glance at Daeron, who waves you away with a knowing smile. “Go on, my lady. I’ll study my strategy for our next match.”

You rise, smoothing the folds of your gown as Gwayne offers you his arm. As the two of you walk through the garden, you feel the familiar comfort of his presence, the way his strength grounds you, even in the quietest of moments. You follow him deeper into the garden, past the flowering hedges and beneath the shadow of the towering walls, until you reach a secluded corner where a stone bench sits nestled between climbing roses.

“Here,” Gwayne says softly, guiding you to sit. The sun filters through the leaves, casting dappled patterns on the ground, and the air hums with the song of distant birds.

“What is it you wished to show me?” you ask, though your voice is gentle, already sensing that this moment is less about revealing something new and more about being together, away from the prying eyes of court and the endless duties that come with your position.

Gwayne’s smile is tender as he sits beside you, taking your hand in his. “Nothing but this—just us, here, away from everything. I’ve been wanting a moment alone with you all day.”

His thumb brushes over your knuckles, a familiar and intimate gesture that never fails to send warmth curling through your chest. The world falls away, leaving only the two of you, the quiet rustle of leaves, and the scent of roses hanging in the air.

“You spend so much time caring for others—Daeron, the household, the people who come to us with their troubles. I sometimes wonder if you’ve time left for yourself,” he murmurs, his gaze searching yours.

You shake your head, a soft laugh escaping your lips. “How could I want for anything when I have you? You’re all I need, Gwayne. You always have been.”

His eyes darken with affection, and he lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss to your fingers. “And you, my sweet rose, are more than I ever dreamed of. I often think of the day we ran away together—how reckless it was, how mad we must’ve seemed. And yet, here we are. You, the light in my life, and me, foolishly in love with you every day more than the last.”

There’s a sincerity in his words that makes your heart swell. You lean into him, resting your head against his shoulder, and he wraps an arm around you, holding you close. For a long while, neither of you speaks, content simply to be in each other’s presence, surrounded by the peaceful solitude of the garden.

Eventually, Gwayne shifts, turning so he can cradle your face in his hands. His touch is gentle, reverent, as if he’s memorizing every line, every freckle and feature. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, and there’s a rawness in his voice, a depth of feeling that makes your breath catch.

You smile, reaching up to cup his cheek. “And you are everything I never knew I needed.”

He leans in slowly, giving you time to close the distance, and when his lips finally meet yours, it’s soft, tender, and full of unspoken promises. The kiss deepens gradually, a slow, deliberate connection that speaks of love and trust and a desire that never quite fades. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, and you can feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, so close it matches your own.

“This,” he murmurs, his voice rough with emotion, “this is all I want. A life with you, here, in our little world, where no one can touch us.”

You smile, closing your eyes and savoring the closeness, the warmth of him against you. “And you have it, Gwayne.”

The room is bathed in the soft light of dawn, the golden hues filtering through the gauzy curtains and casting a warm glow across the bed. The linens are tangled beneath you, a reminder of the night spent wrapped in each other’s embrace. Gwayne lies beside you, propped up on one elbow, his gaze fixed on you as if he’s trying to memorize every detail, every curve and feature. The air is thick with the scent of roses, mingled with the salt from the sea breeze wafting through the open window. 

His fingers trace idle patterns along your bare shoulder, lingering on the curve of your neck, then down to your chest before they rest on the gentle swell of your abdomen. You place your hand over his, and he looks at you with a mixture of longing and regret. It’s in his eyes, in the way his thumb absently strokes your skin as if he can’t bear the thought of leaving you.

“I wish I could stay,” he whispers, his voice rough from sleep and emotion. “It kills me to think I won’t be here when our child is born.”

You close your eyes against the sting of tears, fighting the lump in your throat. “I wish you could stay too,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper. “But I know you must go. Aegon’s summons cannot be ignored, and you have always been loyal to your family. I understand that.”

Gwayne leans down, brushing his lips softly against your temple before moving lower, trailing kisses down your cheek and jaw. His lips linger at the curve of your belly, reverently pressing a kiss to the slight bump that holds your child—the child he might not meet for months, perhaps longer. The touch is tender, filled with all the love and unspoken vows he cannot put into words. You feel the warmth of his breath against your skin as he murmurs, “I’ll be back before you know it, my love. I swear it.”

You reach down, threading your fingers through his hair, holding him close. “You can’t promise that,” you say, your voice trembling despite your attempt to stay strong. “King’s Landing is dangerous, especially now, with the realm so divided. What if—”

Gwayne lifts his head, cutting you off with a kiss—deep, slow, filled with a desperation that echoes the ache in your chest. When he finally pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, and you can feel the tension in his body, the way he holds back the fear he won’t speak aloud.

“No ‘what ifs,’” he says firmly, though there’s a faint tremor in his voice. “I’ll do everything in my power to return to you and our child. This is my life—you are my life. Nothing will keep me from you.”

You nod, blinking away tears that threaten to spill. “I want to believe that.”

“Then believe it,” he whispers, cupping your face and wiping a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb. “Hold onto that hope. I’ll need it as much as you do while I’m away.”

For a long moment, the two of you simply hold each other, the silence heavy with the weight of unspoken fears and the bittersweet reality of this impending separation. You can feel the rapid thrum of his heartbeat against your palm, and it takes everything in you not to beg him to stay, to forsake the king’s orders and remain here, safe, with you.

But you know Gwayne, and you know his sense of duty runs as deep as his love. He would never forgive himself if he abandoned his responsibilities, even for the sake of his own happiness. And so, you do not say the words that claw at the back of your throat. Instead, you bury your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent—earthy and familiar, a comfort you’ll cling to in the lonely nights ahead.

After what feels like an eternity, Gwayne gently disentangles himself from your embrace, rising from the bed and beginning to dress in silence. The rustle of fabric and the soft clink of his belt buckle are the only sounds in the room. You watch him as he fastens his sword to his side, his expression distant, already steeling himself for the journey ahead.

When he’s fully dressed, he turns back to you, his eyes softening as they meet yours. He crosses the room in a few strides and kneels beside the bed, taking your hand in his. “I’ll write as soon as I reach King’s Landing. And every chance I get, I’ll send word to you. I want to know everything—how you’re feeling, how the babe is growing… Everything.”

You nod, squeezing his hand tightly. “I’ll write too. I’ll tell you of every little thing, so you don’t feel too far away from us.”

He leans in, capturing your lips in one last kiss—sweet and tender, a promise sealed between you. When he finally pulls away, it’s with a sigh that speaks of reluctance, of the struggle to let go.

“Take care of yourself and our little one,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ll be counting the days until I’m back in your arms.”

You manage a small smile, though your heart is breaking at the thought of watching him walk out that door. “And we’ll be counting the days until we see you again. Ride swiftly, and come back to us.”

With one last lingering touch, he rises, and then he’s gone, the door closing softly behind him. The silence that follows is deafening, an emptiness settling over you like a heavy cloak. You press a hand to your belly, imagining the life growing within, and whisper softly, “Your father will come back to us. He must.”

But even as you say the words, a chill runs down your spine. All you can do now is wait, and hope that the gods are merciful enough to bring him back home—where he belongs, where all of your love and dreams are waiting for him.

The morning light spills across the bed, but it feels colder now, as if the warmth of his presence has been stripped away. You lie back against the pillows, closing your eyes and letting the memories of his touch, his voice, his promises fill the emptiness, holding onto them with every fiber of your being.

You whisper a silent prayer to the gods, hoping they listen, hoping they understand that your love is worth returning.

[gh0st-in-green-c0nverse]

burned (part two)

Percy Jackson x reader — you wake up in the infirmary after you get stabbed .

Percy’s warm.

He’s warm, but not the good kind; the clammy, humid kind. The fabric of his shirt clings to his skin. Each breath fills his chest with hot, dry air.

Something isn’t right.

Percy looks down.

Sand spills over his battered converse. With a jolt of panic, he realizes that it’s pulling him down, grabbing at his shoes. It snakes up to his shins, swallowing the hems of his jeans. With his feet stuck, Percy falls to the ground. There’s sand in his mouth, his ears, stinging his eyes, his nose. He spits some out, pulse climbing.

He can’t breathe. He can’t die now, he needs to save you from—

A whirl of blonde hair, the glint of fangs. His heart drops when he sees the hilt in your side.

The sand pulls him under. He cranes his neck so his face is above the surface, gasping for air.

“No, please!”

He feels sick. It sounds just like you. You’re afraid; he needs to find you. He needs to save—

“Don’t!”

He’s suffocating. He’s sure it’s real. It’s you. It’s you. Where are you?

His eyes fly open, and his hand immediately flies to his face to brush off the sand. There’s nothing there (obviously) and he drops his hand, feeling a little stupid.

You make a frightened noise; small, but heartbreaking, and Percy stands. He’s been slumped at your bedside, a small drool stain on the white sheets by your knee.

You’re sleeping on your back, but your face is turned into the pillow, brows pinched with fear.

“Hey,” he says, placing a hand on the juncture of your elbow.

“No!” You shoot upwards in a panic, then immediately cry out and curl into your side.

Your eyes are squeezed shut. “Shit, I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Percy blurts out. He’s moved forward with you, tense with worry.

You take a breath: a short, rattled gasp, and your eyelids flutter open. Your lashes are damp with tears.

“Where am I?” You whisper after a moment, voice rough with sleep.

“Infirmary,” Percy answers, hand still on your arm. “Do you remember anything?”

You take another breath, though it sounds more like a hiccup. Your face is flushed, your eyes are glazed over. You’re worrying him.

“y/n,” he says. When you don’t answer, he leans closer, trying to find your eyes. “Hey. You need to breathe.”

“I am breathing.” Your lips tug downwards.

“Mhm. Can you try to breathe a bit better?”

“Don’t sass me.” You frown, blinking hard.

He rubs his thumb back and forth a little. Your skin is cold. “Sorry,” he murmurs. You suck in a shaky breath, and then another, and then another. It’s a few more minutes until you’re breathing normally, but you get there eventually.

“I don’t remember,” you say finally. “I— I can’t.. I don’t…” you trail off, frowning. Your breathing starts to pick up again.

“Woah. Hey, it’s alright. Give yourself some time.”

He’s moved closer to your head, so he pulls the chair back towards him with his foot and sits.

Percy hates the way he can hear the tremble in your soft breaths. He thinks of your breathing tapering out, of your chest going still and the crimson smearing the crease of your lips.

He hangs his head.

He hates that he couldn’t save you.

“Are you okay?” Your voice still has a rough quality to it, but your tone is something else. It’s less frightened. It’s softer.

“Am I okay? y/n, you were the one who was just—”

You fix him with a stare; he stares right back.

You don’t waver.

(He’s say he hates your stubbornness, but he’d be lying.)

“I’m alright,” he says hurriedly.

“Percy.”

A moment passes. Then another.

“I was afraid,” he whispers. eyes trained on the rumpled linen bedsheets. “I was so afraid because you were right there, and you were dying, and I couldn’t fathom what it’d be like losing you.”

Your lips part slightly, and you wilt like a flower petal in the summer sun.

“You’re everything,” he continues. “Really. You are.”

You look at him, eyes shining in the lamplight. You open your mouth to say something, and close it again. He thinks you might be crying.

“I’m sorry for scaring you,” you say, voice catching.

Palm up, you bring your hand to his face.

“You know it’s not your fault, right?”

His lashes brush the tip of your thumb as he blinks.

“Yeah,” he says lamely, voice thin. He swallows hard. “Yeah.”

You sag with relief. “Good.”

He smiles at you, a flimsy attempt to prove he’s alright.

You smile back. You look tired.

“Go back to seep,” he says softly.

A protest dies on your lips when he grabs your hand and gently lowers it from his face; warm, but this time in a good way.

“Will you be here when I wake up?” Your eyes are already closing.

“Always,” he says.

And Percy keeps his promises.

a/n: I decided to try my hand at Percy’s perspective!! lmk which you prefer 🫶

also! If you have any prompts or ideas or anything please send in an ask! I’d love to hear from you guys.

happy new year!!

[dumplingsfordays]

fiery embers

pairing - vampire!wriothesley x reader

genre - VERY suggestive fluff.

summary - one dark night, you take refuge in a seemingly abandoned castle which, unbeknownst to you, houses a vampire.

cw!: suggestive, mentions of blood, wrio kinda uh bites you several times, reader is implied to be a little drunk

note - holy cow I am so sorry I took so long to write this, I was kinda busy with hw and a couple bdays so uh yeah 😭 I also feel like this can be applied to blade + maybe dainsleif?? sort of dark n brooding characters lmao-

And as always, thank you for reading :))

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Your feet had never felt so sore before in your life as you approached your (hopefully) saving grace. It was a giant castle in the middle of the woods, with craggy black trees surrounding it on all sides - you were in the middle of a forest, after all. Sure, it seemed creepy and probably abandoned, but what were you gonna do when you have no other choice? Sleep outside, on the bare ground? No way. At least you could see a glimmer of orange light coming from one of the ground floor windows, most likely a fireplace. Ah, you were already imagining warming your frigid fingers by the flame...

Just a little more to go. Just a little, y/n, come on.

You shivered, your breath escaping your lips in puffs of mist as you approached the tall oak front doors. They were surrounded on both sides by crimson roses, their petals darker than any roses you've ever seen before, and their thorns were much sharper and longer. You paid them little mind as you pushed on the wood with your palm.

To your surprise, a door creaked open rather easily, and you entered the dark building with caution. When you turned back around, closing the door, you sensed heat coming from an adjacent room - thank God you weren't imagining things when you saw that flickering in one of the windows.

Hurrying over through a dark corridor to the room to the right of you, you arrived at a dim, and quite dusty, library. It was much larger than the bookshop in your village - bookshelves rose all the way up to a tall ceiling, and all of them were completely filled with the multicolored leather spines of books, illuminated by the gentle flickering flame emitted from the fireplace to your right. A mahogany writing desk sat in a far corner, and if there was something on it then you couldn't see it, it was too dark. Near the fireplace stood a loveseat furnished of the same exquisite wood, with crimson covers and golden detailing, almost daring you to sit down.

And sit down you did - with a relieved sigh, of course, and when you bent over to heat your hands by the warm fire you heard something shift in the corner.

You immediately whipped your head around. "Who's there?"

"I should be asking you that," came a baritone voice from the same corner, and following it, the figure of a tall man emerged from the shadows.

"I'm sorry, don't hurt me, please, I was just cold and I was so desperate to find shelter," you start to ramble, eyes widening in fear as you jumped up from the chair to face him. "Was I sitting in your chair? Oh, God, I'm so sorry, I'll leave now, I just needed to warm up a little-"

"There's no need to do that," the man interrupted calmly. He gestured you to sit back down, and, of course, you obeyed, albeit reluctantly. He pulled up a smaller chair some distance away from yours but still in close proximity to the fire and put his feet, donned in black slippers, up on the stone mantle.

You both sat in silence before he spoke up again.

"Are you from Carran? The village quite a ways from here?"

"Yes," you replied meekly and quietly, the overwhelming sense of guilt at breaking into someone's house (well, in this case, castle) flooding your system.

"Hmm." He paused in contemplation. "I don't know how you made it all the way here, it's freezing outside. I'm happy to provide anything you need, though, like food or clothes, in case you still feel cold."

At his mention of food, your stomach involuntarily growled - you forgot that you hadn't eaten in such a long time, you didn't have breakfast or lunch or dinner and it was probably late into the night by now.

"If it really isn't too much of a hassle or anything, I know that I just kind-of barged into your house and everything, but could I please have something to eat? I haven't done so in a while and I'll be grateful for anything."

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him smile and stand up.

"Come along," he beckoned, "I haven't had dinner yet, so this is really the perfect opportunity to eat."

You followed him uncertainly to the kitchen, a large, open space with dark wooden shelves and a stove in the corner. There was an island, whose countertop was a big slab of (you guessed it) wood. The man, walking over to the stove, lit a match and started to heat up a pot, which, once it started to emit a pleasant, cozy smell, you realized to be full of chicken noodle soup.

When you sat to have dinner, you finished your meal way quicker than he did - such was your hunger - so you, as politely as possible, asked for seconds, which he gladly gave to you. Finally, after a tidbit of conversation, he brought up the topic of names.

"I should introduce myself," he started. "I'm Wriothesley. Well, Duke Wriothesley, officially. And you are...?"

"y/n. It's very nice to meet you, Your Grace."

He let out a short, booming laugh. "No need for formalities. You barged into my home, so I think it follows that we're past pleasantries by now."

Your cheeks reddened in embarrassment as you looked down at your second serving of soup, the broth glimmering in the gentle flickering of the candles around the room. You looked up momentarily, though - Wriothesley wasn't eating. But he said that he hadn't had dinner yet, and he implied that he was hungry...

"This sounds a little rude but..." you trailed off, trying to find words that sound a little more pleasant than 'you said you were hungry and you're not eating, so what's up with that'.

"Yes?" He glanced towards you and you swallowed.

"Why aren't you eating?"

The dark-haired man hummed a short note before answering. "I'll eat later. My appetite... lessened."

For a split second you caught a faint sparkle in his eyes when he said 'appetite', and that freaked you out, before you concluded that mealtimes were his own choice and you shouldn't really judge a person based on that. Shrugging it off, you continued eating.

As you finished up your second plate, Wriothesley, like a gentleman, scooped it up and placed it into the sink before asking if you cared for some wine. You, of course, accepted - what duke wouldn't have exquisite wines in his cellar?

You went back to the library to drink. The fire was warm, and with the alcohol in your system, it felt like you were wrapped up in a nice, cozy blanket while you sat by Wriothesley on the couch in relative silence, occasionally having tidbits of conversation with the man and taking a sip of wine every time another pause ensued. Eventually, you couldn't tell whether it was the alcohol making you feel this warm or just the fire - either way, you felt your previously nervous muscles relax, and instinctively, you shifted closer to him. Which was a mistake, as when your hand briefly touched his, you realized just how icy it was.

"Um, Wrio," you started, using a nickname that you assigned to him a couple conversations ago, "why are you so cold?"

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him turn his head to meet your gaze questioningly. "Am I really?"

"Yeah, you're freezing."

"Oh, I thought you meant unfriendly," he chuckled, "I just happen to be colder than your average human."

"Human?" you smile. "You sound like a werewolf or a vampire or something."

"And what if I was?"

"Well... I probably wouldn't care." Yeah, the alcohol was definitely in your system now.

At your answer, Wriothesley raised a curious brow. "Don't you think they're vile? Scary? Threatening?"

"If you were a vampire, you haven't bitten me yet," you reply matter-of-factly, "so I don't think that you're terribly dangerous."

In a flash, he was on you - trapping you between himself and the couch, he leaned forward, almost forcing eye contact. You were helpless to do anything but lock your eyes onto his ice-blue ones.

"And if I bit you right now, would I still be dangerous?"

"Depends on if you chicken out or not."

Wrong choice, y/n!

"Well then." He dove to the crux of your shoulder, letting his surprisingly warm breath tickle your neck before grazing his teeth across the delicate skin. "Let me know if it gets too much, hmm?"

Resolving yourself to your fate was really the only thing you could do right now. You stared at the dark ceiling as you felt his rough hand caress your hair, tilting your head to the side for easier access, and finally biting down.

It stung at first, like two needles being injected within close proximity of each other, before the pain melted into excruciating pleasure after a couple of seconds. Wriothesley removed his fangs, favoring to lick the flowing spring of blood little by little.

"God, you taste sweet," he groaned, running his tongue along your neck. You writhed in his hold, clawing at his back, pressing him to your form, begging to bite you again and again and again-

He retracted his mouth from your neck, his absence making you whine pitifully as you tried to bring his head down, back to your shoulder.

"Look, I can barely look at you without needing to bite, I just feel... a little wrong if you don't want me to."

His steely-blue eyes locked onto yours, desperation and desire clearly evident in their depths. Please let me bite, sink my teeth into your soft skin. Fucking please, please, I need to or I'm gonna die.

"Yes, just do it, 'm begging you," you cry, letting out a relieved moan when he scraped his fangs across your skin where he bit you previously. And then he bit again, this time lower, trailing down to your shoulder. His hands started to roam, one finding purchase in your hair and the other holding his upper body up so that he didn't crush you beneath his chest.

Never in your life did you think that a vampire sucking your blood was going to feel so intoxicating. You couldn't help but gasp as he ghosted his cold lips across your fiery skin, indulging in real human blood (sheep and cow blood were getting very bland, almost seeming to him as dog food would to a person) that, to his added excitement, came from such a beautiful body. He pulled out every single noise that you could make out from your throat, sounds that compelled him to kiss and nip and lick your tender skin with urgent attentiveness.

Soon you began to feel lightheaded - a state which you couldn't tell if it came from the wine or the loss of blood - but you let Wriothesley know anyway by tapping him on the shoulder.

"Mmh, you taste so good, sweetheart," he praised, "what is it you need?"

"I'm feeling kind-of lightheaded n tired," you whispered in reply. His eyes widened for a split second, but returned to normal as he pulled himself off of you, making sure to press a finger to where he bit you to stop the bleeding.

"I'll get a bandaid, but thank you for letting me, thank you," Wriothesley sighed as he licked his lips and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. He stood up from the couch, grabbed a blanket from a nearby shelf, and draped the heavy material over you, sort-of tucking you in before leaving the library to fetch a bandaid.

Now alone, you turned over to your side to look at the flames. They were dying now, embers flickering a deep orange as they cast light onto the surrounding bookshelves and you, and the heat emanating from them was pleasantly warm. Folding your knees up to your chest, you closed your heavy eyes and at last succumbed to sleep.

[trampstampbrbie]

Vanity

'It was rare to catch Keigo off of his witty and cocky persona, so you relished in every bit of him being a soft and loving sleepy bird.'

fem!reader x takami keigo | hawks tags: established relationship, one shot, minors dni, smut, piv s^x, or^al m!receiving, female body worship, c^m play summary: you're getting ready to go out and keigo wakes up...all sleepy...all sentimental on this glowing tokyo night...and he decides to do something about it...

masterlist

One of the things you loved most about living in Japan was it’s intoxicating nightlife; the rainbow LEDs emitting a retro-like filter to the world, with it’s fluorescence and humming. From distant terraces and penthouse rooftops, you could hear the thumping of the music they were surely partying to. The city at dark was euphoric, giving inspiration to artists, fueling passion among lovers and comforting even the most lonely as their silhouettes shadowed the busy streets.

It got you excited for your night out; a gaggle of your friends had been planning this for a while-- trying to sync up everyone’s schedules, seeing who was off from work on the same nights and such.

Staring back at yourself in a lighted vanity mirror, you could see the darkened marks beneath your eyes and how truly pronounced they were-- the rest of your room made dark, with just thick bulbs illuminating each weathered feature of your skin. You did nothing but work recently, long hours and consecutive days in a row, so this was a night you were looking forward to all month.

You would’ve primped and suffered over each inch that you didn’t like but, you wanted this night to be filled with nothing but positive energy-- and you wouldn’t deny just how sexy you felt with your hair done, naked under a petal-toned silk robe before the mirror like that.

A patchouli incense was lit across the room, wrapping you in its floral and musk scent, allowing you to relax forward against the vanity’s counter-top. You had to remind yourself that you weren’t getting ready for work: there was no need to rush. This was like self-care, yeah?

With your face only a few mere inches away from the mirror, you plucked and brushed at the hair of your brow, making sure they were tidy enough and framed to your face. You added a bit of concealer to the discoloration below your eyes, and to any other feature of your face that you wanted to enhance.

It wasn’t until you felt a soft tickling at the heels of your crossed feet, that you realised the figure next to you was stirring awake— a large crimson wing pulling away from underneath the round velvet stool you sat upon.

“Baby--” the voice was hoarse, like it was speaking tiredly for the first time in a millenia yet, all you heard was the sweet thickness of honey.

A hand outstretched in your direction, lazily hanging in the air and swatting for your attention. “Hi love,” you finally look over at Keigo, just having finished up your mascara. A tired smile spread across your partner’s face once you finally carried his fingers in your own.

“Goin’ out tonight?” he questions, rubbing his face against the pillow, not wanting to let go of you to merely scratch a tickling at his nose.

There was a small hint of surprise in his voice, hitching up at the end of his qualm and lingering with a raise of his brow-- a single citrine eye staring back at you. As much as you loved talking to Keigo, you really wished that he’d go back to sleep-- he was out all day doing hero-work and you knew just how tired he must’ve been. It took him forever to fall asleep that afternoon, too.

So, you quickly hum in response to him but, (to his dismay) let go of his hand to continue getting ready. “You’ve only slept for a few hours, why don’t you go back to bed?” you utter lowly, patting some blush to the soft flesh of your cheeks. The crackle of his voice is drowned out by the thick pillow he now lay face down on-- his hips moving into the mattress and catching your gaze for a split second as he got comfortable.

“And miss the show? Nah, I’m good,” he chuckles and holds a second pillow to his chest, as if it were you lying with him. He reaches out with a socked foot and rakes the tip from your elbow and up the sleeve of your robe. “Never seen you in this, baby bird...” Keigo breathes and you know better not to answer him; any entertainment to his buttery words and cute nicknames would result in you having to re-do your hair and makeup.

His leg finally relaxes and hangs off the bed, you notice him rutting slowly into the mattress once more from the corner of your eye.

Using your ring finger, you patted a small amount of a shimmery highlighter to the highpoints of your cheeks, and to the very tips of your nose-- rotating your head in the mirror to admire the glow it gave you. It was Keigo’s next few words that made you completely swivel in your stool to look at him.

“You look beautiful,” and it wasn’t what he said but rather, how he said it. There was no smirk, chuckle, or signs of coyness in the tone. His voice was completely serious. Apropos.

When your body was facing him fully, you caught sight of his figure: the grey sweatpants sticking out here and there from the messy duvet, his toned and shirtless torso stretched up towards the gathering of pillows by the bedframe. But, his face was what really drove the scampering sensation against your ribcage: his blond hair was tousled atop his head, loose bangs falling forward into his eyes. The expression Keigo bore was completely flat-- again, no smirk or even twitching of an underlying joke. Yet, you still waited an extra moment for him to bust out in chortle or in some lewd comment.

“Thank you,” your eyes like saucers, shining back at him before busying yourself with opening a side-drawer, in search for the perfect lip color.

It was Keigo who was now in awe of his partner. You really were just so damned beautiful and he was ashamed that he wasn’t more serious with you. Sure, you knew he loved you and everything there was about you but, he knew that when someone was a jokester, it was harder to believe the more significant things that they had to say. But boy, were you a sight. You deserved to hear it from him every moment of every day.

He now moved to lay on his side, resting an elbow against one of the pillows to sit up and really get a look at you; the way your eyes searched the mirror, to find an imperfection (as if there were any to begin with, he thought), the way your hair bounced a bit with how you swayed to the outside music. There was nothing not to love about you.

Keigo had finally palmed his hair out of his face and let out a content sigh. He never thought that life could be this good-- that he could be this happy, especially with someone else. You really bombarded your way into his life and made it all the better.

His thoughts were interrupted by a short breeze that came through the bedroom window, rushing the soft material of your robe away from your chest. The supple skin to your breast was now exposed and the shallow shadow to your collarbone now in perfect view for him. The blond stirred with an outward exasperation.

You, not even phased by the naked skin now in view of your lover, looked over at his sounds. “C’mere,” is all he had to say and this time, Keigo didn’t even attempt to hide the way he pressed one of the pillows against his groin. Again, you knew not to give in to him, “I have to get ready,” you flush and tie the robe tighter around your waist, synching yourself a bit in doing so.

“C’mon baby bird, I just want to love you,” he groans, throwing his head back down, peeking at you with a singular iris once more.

“You can love me from there!” with a stern tone, you hold your ground, applying some cherry lip balm to your lips and smacking them together-- ignoring the jesting comment about how mean you were being.

Along the mirror’s trim, you had all of your perfumes organized-- roller balls to the left, regular sprays in the middle, and jarred solids to the right. Upon picking out a floral, solid perfume, the bed creaked--relieved of weight.

Keigo’s wings had stretched along with his arms, some bones and joints audibly popping and cracking with the release of stress-- a feather or two falling down in his wake.

In the mirror, you saw his figure standing behind you from the belly button down. You surprised yourself with how well you were doing to not be phased by his words and continued on to rub a finger into the waxy perfume. You dabbed the warm oil behind either ear, under your chin, between your clavicle bone and finally, you loosened your robe a bit to apply some between your naked breasts.

Keigo’s hitched breathing could be heard clear as day and from the reflection, you saw his legs straddle a bit, lowering himself to kiss the top of your head. A stiff mound brushed between your shoulders as he placed two big hands at your shoulders. “Keigo…” you began with a sigh, “--ah, ah, I’m just admiring what I see here.. no funny business,” he breathes, rubbing the silk against your skin nicely. “I promise,”

You had to admit, it did feel good and as much as you wanted to love him, you had to leave in an hour-- and you still had things to do to get ready.

Keigo on the other hand, was plunged completely into overlooking every inch of you, clothed or not. In that moment, his narrowed gaze was completely focused on the pinched fabric at your chest. The cool breeze had perked your nipples and they were now prodding at your thin-wear.

“Look at you..” he breathes, both hands slowly moving your hair from off your shoulder and leaving the strands down your back-- giving him purchase to the no longer crowded-area. “..baby you are so damn beautiful,” he repeats and leans down, pressing a loud kiss to the nape of your neck. Through the mirror, your eyes soften at him, a small smile at your glossy lips. There was no way you could even pretend to be bothered by any of this…

His hands now cupped and moved down your bicep, smaller kisses led behind your ear, “I can’t believe I get to call you mine,” Keigo’s hands now lay flat against your stomach, swaying both of you to the loudening ambience outside. Your hands lie over his and entangle both of your fingers together. “I love you,” your voice is small but lingers-not in meaning. Once more do you sense his breath hitching behind you.

“Look at me,” the voice you heard, you had never heard before. It was a whisper, deep and yearning. Keigo’s large hand grips your much smaller jaw, turning you to do as he asked. His hunched over figure was searching your eyes, your face, for something other than the truth in what you had just said. You knew he had his struggles with accepting the love he deserves-- especially being a guy who’s been chased by so many money-lusting individuals who have forced him to wear rose-colored glasses for far too long. So, you repeated yourself, to make sure you got the message across. “I love you, Keigo,”

The kiss you two shared was slow, barely moving, even. But you can nearly feel him tremble against you as a soft smooching noise departs the exchange.

His arms wrap once more around you, even tighter than before and you moan out smally at the gesture. The thick digits of his fingers linger above the sides of your breasts, right against your armpit. You can’t help but to slowly guide them to hold and squeeze the plush mounds.

Keigo immediately grinds against you, a moan of his own following suit. You fully lean back against him, losing sight of his face and only being able to see his parted lips and stubbled chin in the mirror. The man you loved kneaded at your breasts for a minute or so, as you watched his eyeless reflection rut and quiver. The pink ties of your robe were slowly undone too, allowing for the part to open more and more. Keigo moved his hands completely out of the way, keeping the fabric clutching onto the very ends of your shoulders, daring to drop off your back completely.

There you were, chest out, belly exposed and hot core now subconsciously wiggling against the velvet that held you up. You arched your back and the spreading of your sweet thighs revealed your slick to him. The lips you watched shook a bit before being licked over by a pink tongue.

It was as if the man behind you was frozen in time, stopping in his motions and looking at your sex like it were the first time he’d seen a woman.

“Touch me, Keigo,” you encouraged, hiking your foot up to rest on an end table next to the vanity. You once more, guided his touch to your hot core, pulling him down and revealing more of his face in the mirror. The length of his nose and flutter of his lash now completely in view for you.

Soft kisses were placed at his cheek and soon explored their way to his dense neck. Your eye flickered back to the mirror, fixated on watching his reactions through there than merely looking to your side.

Curses were exhaled out of his throat as his fingers went to work at your wet folds, pushing past the outer lips, going right to the hardened bud that yearned for any sort of touch.

You moaned directly into his ear, using a lower canine to drag his pierced lobe into your mouth. The small flesh was sucked at and whimpered against as Keigo’s fingers pressed against you-- thapping aloud with your wetness.

“Baby..” he groans, feeling you nipping and suckling at any bits of his skin that you could press your mouth to. A hum is your only response, now being the one to turn his face this time.

The two of you share another kiss however, this one being much more hungry-- a leaning back and forth as you each moved with fervour. Just as the wetness of your mouths did, the moans and exhales from Keigo and yourself mixed together, creating a kind of tune better than any song that bumped against the city streets of Japan.

The vibrational touch at your core was stopped as Keigo swiveled you on your stool to completely face his lumbering height. His hands clutched at your face, a cool wetness smearing on your neck in the meantime from his fingers that were once pleasuring you.

“Stay with me, let me love you,” and you once more, did not know the voice that escaped and spoke to you. It was nearly a whimper upon you running your fingers along the inside of his sweatpants’ hem.

“Okay, okay, okay,” you utter quietly, eagerly-- nodding your head frantically while grabbing at his erection. Your head tilted up to him, craving for any sort of touch from him. There was no more getting ready to go out, it was just you and Keigo.

Rough hands brought you up to standing height, pushing the rest of the silk robe off of your shoulders, to gather in a heap at your feet.

“Look at this body,” the hero breathes, hands groping and running quickly along anything he could reach. You moaned through your bottom lip, sucked into your mouth with tears threatening to spill as he continued, “I love you,”

It was always a surge of electricity anytime you heard your lover say those three words to you; the rarity making the sounds feel like a delicacy to your ears, and a pang against your heart.

His lips caught and kissed the two, wet swells that dribbled down your cheeks, holding you close to him, like you were suspended in the air. Like with one wrong move, you’d plumet out of his hands.

Keigo lifted you with ease and walked to the side of the bed, plopping you down to lay on your back. “You deserve so much love, baby bird. You deserve every beautiful thing on this planet,” the hero went on and on, voice shivering with all the praise and poetic compliments of just how special he viewed you.

He knelt on the carpet, in between your hanging legs and felt your wetness once more with two teasing fingers. “You’re my divine feminine…” he breathes out, kissing the core of your sex-- pecking it like it was your precious face.

“I’m gonna make you feel so good… I’m going to make you cum over and over again.. just to hear you sing for me,”

Strong hands now gripped your ankles, placing said marks of affection all along your legs, higher and higher until your pussy was clenching with anticipation.

You hiked yourself to sit up and watch as Keigo dove right back in to lapping and sucking at your clit.

The sounds vibrating in your heaving chest sounded like the most rare of treasures to the hero between your legs--who then hummed in approval and wagged his head back and forth slowly, nose prodding your folds even further apart.

You gasped obscenities into the still air of your bedroom and could no longer support yourself on your shaky elbows so, the plush duvet caught your figure as you fell back in breathy moans.

Long digits entered your hole with no prior warning, causing your legs to spasm-- soft thighs knocking against your lover’s head. A slow chuckle bobbed in his throat, felt through your sensitive skin and shooting right up your spine.

Keigo’s fingers pumped in and out of you, all while his tongue still went to work. The flesh of your stomach dipped and your manicured toes curled with the airy feeling of an orgasm already building up inside of you. “I-- I-I---” you stuttered, blindly reaching down in search to grab his roots for some sort of purchase.

“Come for me baby bird, c’mon I know you can do it,” the blonde tuft between your legs encouraged and plowed his lips and the tip of his nose deeper within your slits.

You sang out like a choir for Keigo, legs vibrating and twitching with the godly orgasm he bestowed upon you. The muscle of your clit tensing as you sputtered all of your womanly juices onto his face and chest.

A gentle slap to your core was received in appraisal before gripping your hips and scooting your jittery body further back on the mattress.

The painted lashes of your eyes fluttered and struggled to stay open, feeling as though the blanket of sleep was wrapped cozily around you. It wasn’t until Keigo’s soaked mouth entranced yours in a kiss.

“Great job, baby,” you could hear the grin spread across his carnivorous mouth as he pulled away for a brief moment.

Your legs, which felt as though they were made of cement, were parted by a single knee. “You did so good, you came so good for me,” even in the heat of being post orgasm-- damp and lost for breath, he still found a way to make you squirm and moan and want even more.

Opening your eyes, you first you saw the blood-red wings stretch up and out into your view, each plume puffing out and acting as an umbrella over your naked form. Then the bed dipped and there Keigo was, looming over your still shaking form. His gaze, like two zircon gems glistening down at you, gazed into your own pupils so softly… so lovingly.

Your hands were placed next to your head on the bed and intertwined with your partners, thumbs grazing the outer skin of your hands in an effort to comfort you post-orgasm.

The waistband of Keigo’s sweatpants was found by your eventual searching fingers, tugging them down his hips and grunting once you couldn’t reach any further. So, you resorted to groping the hard bone of his hips that led right to the point of pubic growth.

Sensitive nubs rubbed against one another as the cages of your chests heaved in sync. Keigo’s breathing had turned into husky groans and growls--the intensity of his feral want dribbling at your inner thighs. The shadow his wings cast only made his gaze seem that much more illuminated, intense, eating you up from his position looking down at you.

“You want me?” you tried to replace the silk that lie on the floor with the drip of your words, biting at the plush of your bottom lip-- groping him as he once did with you. Your fingers still grazed the hard, exposed bone but, moved also to the tuft of feathers gathering between Keigo’s shoulders. The dense tissue sprouting from his torso now raked over with your nails, causing a few crimson pinions to cascade downward as the wings shuttered.

Like the blond did with the pillow prior, your core was rutted into--no entrance granted but the mere rubbing of his clothed length sending out unison moans. The expanse shuttered above you, some moonlight pouring over his outer curves.

“Yeah...” Keigo’s head hung down at you, nodding slowly, “...yeah baby, I want you.. all of you,” with each hesitant word and breath from your lover, you sat up--sprinkles of kisses all over his chest and neck.

With your skin cool and wet from his affection, Keigo had finally stood up to relieve his tortured length of his clothing. You scooted yourself back towards the headboard, watching his muscles jump and flex with each movement. It was an outward moan upon seeing his springing cock that made your blond love nearly pounce onto the mattress at you.

“Fuck, keigo..” you breathed in his tight hold, the sore skin beneath his thick, pressing fingers somewhere in the back of your mind.

He laughed against your lips, rutting into your core once more. “Wanna add to the music outside, baby, hm?” his teasing words only made you clench around nothing, “I’m gonna make.. you.. sing--” the hero moans at the grasp you held around his throbbing erection--leading its tip to your hole.

Keigo didn’t waste any time bottoming out within you, causing you to--as he put it--sing out for him. Sure, you had felt him before but, with his feral size, you were never prepared.

The small of your back abandoned the mattress for a mere two seconds before being forcibly pressed back down. His hands made quick work with holding your hips down to press as hard into you as he could.

In moments like this, you lost yourself. So overwhelmed with pleasure as Keigo thrusted against you that it was almost an outer body experience.

Your eyes always floated past his and landed on the mounds of feathers that danced behind his form; like the base of a sunset their color was so rich and their shine, kept so nicely. The best part was the way they flared and swelled up when Keigo surged with emotions--it was almost like he was an animal in the wild.

Keigo’s rough hand was at your jaw again, making sure you looked at him while he fucked inside you. Your knees began to fall away from his sides and bounced lifelessly near your chest. “Deeper.. oh please deeper,” you whined, holding your limbs in place underneath your knees.

His eyes absorbed the sight below him: your curves, the dew at your chest, your panting plea and nearly imploded right then and there.

There was no room to answer with wit, so he decided to grunt and let go of you completely--both hands grabbing at the headboard.

The blond’s hips moved faster than you had ever experienced, feeling the soft underside of his balls slap against your ass, and the tugging of your insides at each rut outwards.

You could no longer find Keigo’s eyes as his veined neck and chest were only in view. His lids were tightened and his head was thrown back--grunting with fervour and focusing on bruising the hell out of your wallowing cervix.

Your moans turned into a slurred mess, syncing with each slap of his hips against yours and the creaking of the headboard.

Fluttering joined the gaggle of sounds as Keigo was reaching his limit, his wings flapping and extending outward.

The headboard was let go of and the pillow was Keigo’s next area of hold--allowing you to experience his lemon gaze once more. His pinholes wetly fell down to your bouncing and heaving chest, hunching back over to suck at the bud of your nipple.

When he pulled back, it was in a cry--a whimper. You felt a warmth spread right where he was meeting your limit and suddenly, he pulled away.

Right before you had the chance to ask what he was doing, Keigo’s filthy mouth was right back at your core, raveging against your aching clit.

Your neighbors and any alley-dwellers probably thought you were being murdered at the cry you let out--at your legs being held wide open for your second orgasm and at the wetness you now felt beneath you, soaking through the duvet and satin sheets.

Keigo kissed your pussy through its throbbing aftermath once more, tongue lapping out and caressing your hardened nerve slowly--allowing you to ride out your agony against his face.

“Good job babe,” he utters, barely audible for you to hear while in your own world. His figure waddles up yours on his knees, stroking his now red length until his knees prodded your armpits.

With glassy eyes you looked up at him, brows quirked as he smiled lopsidedly at your expression: gloss rubbed clean off to reveal suctioned lips and the ebony smear of mascara starting at your bottom lashes.

Two shaky hands reached forward, arms resting on Keigo’s upper thighs, stroking his throbbing stiffness. “Make me cum little dove, you know what to do,” his voice was eager, watching you sit up a bit.

His hand went to the back of your head as you licked at his tip, causing his chest to deflate in exhale. He held you there for a moment as you adjusted to giving him the oral pleasure. “I know you can do it--” he starts off in a chuckle but is cut off in a moan as your head bobs, tongue pressing nicely against his underside.

The noises that filled the room this time were the squelches and gags emitting from your mouth against Keigo’s grinding hips. You’d pull away occasionally and watch as his lips purse or as his teeth would grit. The gift of orgasm was just outside of his reach and right in the palm of your hand.

But, he would grow tired of your teasing, even in the vulnerable state you were in and moved the strands of hair from your face. “Baby…” his voice was high, head shaking back and forth with a tut. “... you *know* I *don’t* like the *teasing*,” you winced and gagged against him with each grunted thrust.

Before you knew it, Keigo’s strong hands were wrapped over each of your ears, holding your head in place as he fucked your mouth, moaning even more curses and obscenities into the air as his will to cum built back up again. You’d utter small moans of thanks any time he’d pull away but, it just drove him to drive his cock further down your throat.

He would sometimes hold it there, at the place where your throat began to curve, where his balls would rest against your chin and where you’d be able to smell his musk-- just to rut against that smooth of your inner flesh.

It only took a few more minutes of thrusting into the spitty mess before the blond was fluttering and stretching his crimson plumes once more.

Your eyes were rolling in your skull, the post-wetness between your legs making your thighs slip together from underneath him as he breathed your name.

Just when his thrusts were building up and the airiness of a lack of oxygen to your brain became almost unbearable, was when Keigo choked out in moan, pulling completely from your throat and sputtering his hot cum all over your chin and chest.

The hero’s chest was heaving, thighs quivering and the bobbing of his cock stopped once he was done pumping his fluids all over you.

You, were moaning too, still not over the beating up your face took, or even the orgasm you had moments before all of this. Euphoria was spilling over you two and neither one could form a cohesive sentence at that point.

+

Keigo still straddled your waist after his orgasm, panting and looking down at you with some lost, googly-eyed expression. You however, with a grin, took your two long fingers and swiped the cum from your chin--expression not wavering once as you fed yourself the musky flavor. You hummed against your fingers and he went in for a kiss not long after your fingers fell back at your side.

He tasted himself against your tongue and you were still able to detect the past wavering of your own on him.

“That was great baby, thank you, so so much,” Keigo gives you one last kiss before hobbling over towards the bedroom bathroom, wings tucked tight against his back. He made sure to return quickly with a warm rag and cleaned you right up, a small smile at his face while doing so.

“I love you,” You spoke once more, head lolling over at him, mirroring his grin. After quickly wiping himself and tossing the rag in the general direction of a hamper, he laid on his stomach right next to you. “I love you too, dove,”

His strong arms pulled you in tight, legs weaving together and small shushed coming from him as he felt you still shivering and twitching. “You did so good,” Keigo would utter, pecking the top of your head. More and more comments of praise and admiration were whispered to you in the night… all leading you to have long forgotten about your girls’ night out and the frantic buzzing of your phone with missed calls and texts.

You didn’t care. Sure, it was a night you surely needed from work stress but, nothing would beat a night like this with the man you loved so dearly.

The two of you soon fell to slumber, in a warm embrace wrapped within the sheets-- the light of your vanity still turned on over to the side, joining in with the glow of Japan.

A/N: Hey! I don't beta read SHIT, but if you liked this, I would SUPER appreciate a like, reblog + comment (: I wanna know what you guys think

[h0rnyshakespeare]

Love’s Grave

Pairing: Izuku Midoriya x gn!reader (Izuku has a crush on reader) , Katsuki Bakugou x gn!reader (reader has a crush on Bakugou) hehehe love triangle~

Genre: angst

Word Count: idk mannnn it’s long

Warnings: Hanahaki disease

A/N: I realized I haven’t written a fic for Midoriya yet and I was like wHAT HOW DARE I- ahem anyway, onto the fic :)

“I have feelings for Katsuki.“

Midoriya’s heart shattered at your words. “W-what?”

You smiled, embarrassed. “Yeah. It felt weird to admit it out loud, but now I know for sure.”

Midoriya wanted to break down from the whirlwind of emotions he was feeling, but kept it together for your sake. “So, um, why’re you telling me?”

“You’re my best friend, Izu, I’ve known you and Katsuki since we were kids; I’m comfortable around you.”

Despite the emotion-wrecking news you had just told him, those few words slightly sped up his heartbeat. “They’re comfortable around me?”

He immediately hated that he’d thought that. Oh, how he hated how much he liked you. But as much as he tried to convince himself this, he knew he loved it. He loved hearing your voice, he could listen to you for ages on end without ever getting tired of your sound. He loved how your smile had his heart do somersaults in his chest. He loved how you were always so patient between him and Bakugou; how you managed to salvage the three of your’s friendship. He loved to fantasize about how you would feel in his arms, how his hands would feel locked with yours, how your lips would feel against his, melding perfectly together.

But as fun as it was, it all had to come to an end. You liked Bakugou, there was no getting around it. Midoriya wanted to punch himself; Bakugou had yet beaten him to something he wanted so badly. Someone he craved, someone he felt at home with. Somebody he loved.

Still, he managed a weak smile for you. “You should confess to him.”

“Oh, um, I was actually planning on waiting it out,” you said, biting your lip. “Someone like Katsuki would definitely only ever see me as a friend, I mean, he’s him and I’m me. Plus, he’s focused on his goals right now, and I don’t want to be a distraction.”

“I see,” Midoriya answered. Silence settled in the room, before Midoriya could not stand being in your dorm room anymore. “I have to go Y/N, it’s close to curfew. I’ll see you tomorrow.” “Ok, good night Izu,” you smiled softly at him, shutting your door.

Midoriya ran back to his, crying himself to sleep that night.

The first petal appeared on a school morning. Midoriya was brushing his teeth, getting ready for the day when he started coughing, mildly at first but gradually becoming uncontrollable. He retched into the sink, coughing out a single, yellow petal in the midst of a few crimson droplets of blood. Midoriya’s eyes widened in horror. “Oh no,” he muttered. He had heard of the disease before. Hanahaki. The curse of unrequited love. “As if love itself was not a curse already…” Midoriya almost wanted to laugh. He knew the disease was rare, so rare that a cure had yet to be found. He stared at his reflection in the mirror. “I’m going to die.”

He felt strangely calm about the whole ordeal. Midoriya decided on one thing: he’d never let you find out until the end. He knew you would blame yourself, holding yourself guilty for feelings you could not help. “It’s ok, Y/N,” he whispered, unsure of whether or not he was actually trying to calm himself down. “It’s ok.”

You had noticed something was off. Midoriya was never one to excel at hiding things, especially from people close to him. He had been acting rather odd lately. At first, it was little things such as locking his door (something Izuku never did usually) and taking bathroom breaks quite frequently during class. You had not questioned him, respecting his space; once he started subtly spending less time with you, however, was where you began to worry. Was it something I did?

You kept trying to find time to talk to him alone, but each time was diverted. You were confused, and decided to confront everything once and for all. You walked to his dorm and knocked on it lightly. “Izuku? Can we talk?”

You heard some movement behind the closed door, letting you know Midoriya was inside. “J-just a minute!” you heard him stutter, the door opening a few minutes later. “Oh, hey Y/N,” he said, looking nervous. “Hi, Izu, I wanted to talk to you about something,” you said, noting how Midoriya’s eyes refused to meet yours. “Oh, um, sure! Come in, what’s up?” he asked as the two of you walked into his dorm room. “‘Zuku, um,” you began; his heart melted yet again at the nicknames you called him. You exhaled slowly. “I hate confrontation but… are you avoiding me?”

Midoriya’s eyes widened. “W-what?”

“I’m sorry if I’m wrong, but you’ve been acting kinda off lately… ‘specially around me. I didn’t do anything to make you uncomfortable, did I?” “No, no you didn’t, Y/ N!” Midoriya replied, arms waving in denial. “It’s just… we’ve been working a lot harder recently, I think I’m just tired.” “Idiot, remember to take care of yourself,” you reprimanded, hitting him lightly on the arm. He chuckled, before feeling another coughing fit coming in. “O-oh! I just remembered I had to give Todoroki his book back today. I need to go do that now, sorry Y/N.” “Okay, no worries! I’m glad I got to talk to you, Izu,” you smiled at him, heading back to your room. Midoriya waited until you were out of sight, then bolted towards the bathroom. He barely made it to the commode before coughing violently. The number of petals had only grown; Midoriya could feel the thorny stems scratching their way up his throat. The inside of the toilet was a mess of blood, bile and golden petals, which Midoriya had previously identified as marigold petals. Marigolds, which symbolized despaired love. Midoriya sighed, hugging the porcelain bowl. Why was this so painful? “It’ll be over soon,” he told himself.

It’ll be over soon.

Soon…

Midoriya woke up in a familiar room. He did not remember passing out, and if he was in the hospital bed he so frequently ended up in, that meant…

‘Someone found me passed out,’ he thought, his blood running cold. Shit. This was supposed to be secret. “Izuku?”

Just when he thought it couldn’t get worse. He turned his head to see you. His heart constricted painfully at your expression. You looked so… despaired. “H-hey,” he smiled. Your eyes filled with tears. Before either of you knew it, your hand had slapped him across the cheek. He stared, mouth slightly agape. “When were you gonna tell me, idiot?” you yelled through your tears. He looked down at his hands quietly. “Who is it?” His head shot back up. “What?” “Who the hell is causing you so much pain?” you asked, firmly.

Midoriya sighed. “It doesn’t matter.” “Izuku-” “Just leave, Y/N,” he whispered. You shook your head stubbornly.

“Listen, I’ve talked with Recovery Girl, you have three options. One, you confess to this person and they realize their feelings for you, two, you go through the surgery… but you’ll lose your memories of them, and three, y-you die. Which I’m not allowing, by the way, so really you only have two options.” Midoriya laughed in spite of himself. “Confessing isn’t gonna work, Y/N… they’ve already told me they like someone else.” Your expression softened. “Hey, it- it wouldn’t hurt to try?” And for a split second, he considered it. Considered telling you. But he didn’t want to hurt you.

“I can’t, Y/N. You’d understand if you knew,” he smiled. You sighed. “Okay then… I guess surgery it is.” Midoriya’s eyes widen in panic. “W-wait, what?” “I told you, dummy. Either confess or surgery. Option 3 is not an option.” Midoriya panicked. Yes, he didn’t want to die but if he went through with the surgery… he’d forget you. All the memories he’d made with you since you both were five. And then you’d know. But the way you were looking at him, expression firm… god he loved you. And he didn’t want to hurt you. So he nodded. The sigh of relief you let out almost made it seem worth it. “I’ll go get Recovery Girl,” you muttered, standing from where you were sitting by the side of his bed. “Wait, now?” Midoriya asked, breaths quickening. Damn, he wasn’t ready. Not now, not ever.

You squeezed his hand in reassurance. “Recovery Girl said that we need to take action quickly, Izu. You don’t have a lot of time left…”

Midoriya could feel his heart pounding in his chest, the ringing in his ears drowning out his words. He didn’t think it’d happen this fast. He wasn’t ready to let go.

“Y/N?”

You pause in your tracks. “Yeah?”

“What if… the memories are too important to say goodbye to?”

You looked at him, devastation written in his eyes, wishing you could do anything to remove the pain your best friend was going through.

“No memories are worth a life, Izu. And you’ll get to make new ones with this person, whoever they are. Although personally, anyone who’s making you go through so much doesn’t deserve to be in your life.”

Izuku smiled sadly at your words. If only you knew.

“Okay.”

Midoriya’s eyes fluttered open, wincing in pain as they adjusted to the bright hospital lighting.

“Look who finally decided to wake up from their beauty sleep,” a familiar voice drawled.

Midoriya turned to see Bakugou, his friend from childhood, and… a person he didn’t recognise.

“Kachchan, what’re you doing here? What… what am I doing here?”

“You had surgery, silly. The doctor will explain, she’s on her way,” the person smiled and said to him. He smiled politely and bowed his head in greeting. “I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met before. I’m Midoriya Izuku.”

The smile dropped from their face immediately, replaced with shock. “I- what?”

Midoriya felt confused and weirdly guilty. Had he said something to upset them?

“I-I’m sorry-”

They didn’t reply, instead turning to Kachchan in a horrific realisation. “‘Tsuki…”

Kachchan’s face looked grim. Midoriya didn’t understand. Did Kachchan know them?

They coughed and attempted to recover themselves.

“Sorry, I was just a bit confused, I thought you were someone I once knew. I’m Y/N L/N.”

[lees-chaotic-brain]

I don't know if the soulmate event is still open (depends on your time zone, I guess), but if it's still open: purple (inumaki toge) with lilac (angst to fluff) #6 (flowers on your body where your soulmate got injured)

If you've already closed your requests, I'm sorry for bothering you! I just really like this event and am looking forward to reading all the stories (again 🙊)

Hi anon! My event was still open, so don't worry about it. I'm glad that you enjoyed the event so much. Thank you for giving my man inumaki some love (secretly, he's my fav)

Also, sorry this took so long. I was going through some serious creativity drought...

Hold You (Inumaki x Reader)

Word Count: 1.7k

CW: Blood, injury, panic attack, reader has female pronouns, angst to fluff, not proof read (as always)

Event Guide | Event Masterlist | JJK Masterlist | Blog Navigation

The first thing Inumaki does upon awakening is reach for you. Realizing your side of his bed was cold, he momentarily panicked before remembering that you had a mission early this morning.

With a little grumble and a pout, he snuggled further down into his blankets intending to sleep a little more before he had to get up.

But without you, staying in bed was no fun, so with reluctance he hauled himself out of bed and headed downstairs to find something to eat.

Mmm...maybe he could have his leftover onigiri from last night. He could probably heat up some miso soup too...and he was going to kill you.

Heartbroken, he gazed into the empty spot in the fridge that once housed his onigiri.

Instead, there was a pale pink post-it with the word "sorry" written on it in your handwriting.

After mourning the loss of his precious onigiri, he forlornly set about making himself a cup of tea.

As he reached to grab the tea bags from the top shelf he heard someone entering the kitchen. Grabbing the tea and turning, he realized that it was Maki.

"Konbu-"

He began to greet her but paused as he realized she was staring intently at the spot just above his waistband where a sliver of his skin had been exposed while he was reaching for the tea.

"Takana?"

He asked, worried and a little perplexed.

"Inumaki..."

"Tuna mayo?"

He asked, instantly on edge. It was rare for Maki to show this much concern.

Suddenly she surged at him and was tugging at his shirt with barely contained panic shining in her eyes.

"Your shirt. Take it off. You have to take it off. I need to see."

"Tu-"

"NOW!"

She bellowed, frantically lifting the hem when he didn't instantly move.

Staring at the giant petals slashed across his torso in vicious crimson swathes, the two froze.

"Your soulmate trait makes any injury she has appear on your body as flowers and vice versa, right?"

Exhaling shakily, she wasn't sure she wanted to hear the answer.

There was no response. She didn't need one either way - she was just confirming, but his lack of reaction concerned her.

"Inumaki-"

Taking a good look at his face, she realized he was frozen, pupils blown out as he quivered staring at the marks on his midriff.

"Hey-"

But he was gone. Tearing down the hall he headed towards Gojo's room. Gojo. He would be able to help. He would have to trust Maki to go get Shoko.

Slamming his shoulder into the wall as he made a sharp turn into the next corridor, he stumbled but kept going.

What if he was too late? God, he never should've let you go on this mission alone. You're a strong sorcerer, he knows that. Maybe even stronger than him. But if he isn't able to protect you, how can he call himself worthy of being your boyfriend. Of being your soulmate.

Tears pricked the back of his eyes as he burst into Gojo's room.

Looking up from his kikufuku, Gojo was greeted with one of his students tearing off his shirt.

"Whoa-whoa hold on now, it's a little early to be getting this frisky-"

He stopped seeing the flowers etched into Inumaki's skin.

In near hysterics, Inumaki pointed at his chest.

"Sujiko...Takana...She-"

He managed to get out between pants.

"Please."

Luckily, Gojo understood what he was trying to say. He had understood in sickening clarity the second he had seen the marks.

Something was about to steal the bright future of not just one, but two of his students. And he'd be damned if he let that happen.

Striding over and placing a hand on Inumaki's shoulder he spoke.

"It's going to be okay. We're going to go get her."

And with that, he teleported them off.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Pain. Mind-numbing, nauseating pain. Pain was all you knew.

Crumpled against a wall on your back, you could vaguely hear Ichiji's worried voice calling your name as he searched for you.

For a split second, you registered a muted panic, unsure if your final attack had been enough to take out the special-grade, but then you realized that Ichiji wouldn't even be in here if the curse was still alive, because the veil would still be up.

Relief slowly drifted in among the fog clouding your brain. At least you got your job done.

As your blood leaked out and stained the concrete beneath you your hand slowly started slipping off the three violent gashes that had been clawed across your torso.

Clinging desperately to consciousness you fought to stay awake as your vision fuzzed with black.

Toge. You had to think of Toge. You couldn't do this to him. You had to hold on for him.

Your hand slid fully off your upper body and fell with a quiet splash into the puddle of blood surrounding you.

I'm so sorry Toge..."

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Appearing next to the black car that had transported you and Ichiji to the scene, Gojo and Inumaki instantly got to work searching for you. Following the sound of Ichiji's voice, they were eventually led to a frantic Ichiji calling your name as he stumbled across rubble. When he looked over and noticed the two of them he frantically waved them over.

"Thank god you're here!"

He exclaimed as he made his way to meet them.

"I don't know what happened! The veil went down so I assumed the curse was exorcized but when she didn't appear, I became worried and went to search for her. I still haven't found her though and I'm beginning to be quite concerned...."

"She'll be fine."

Gojo said confidently, waving away Ichiji's concerns.

"We'll find her, right Inumaki?"

Trying his best to ease the tightness in his chest and breathe, Inumaki nodded.

"Shake."

Splitting up they began searching, calling out your name. It would've been easier to track your cursed energy, but it appeared you'd fallen unconscious, so that was out of the question.

Minutes passed, and with each one Inumaki found it harder and harder to breathe. He began to fear the worst, and images of your beautiful body mangled and broken flashed in his mind's eye.

Finally he found you. But instead of feeling better, the sight he was greeted with only kicked his oncoming panic attack up a couple notches.

Blood. There was so much blood. Crashing to his knees, he attempted to put pressure on the gashes clawed across your torso. Wait, when did he even get to your side? Dimly he heard a high pitched keening sound, not unlike a dying animal.

It wasn't until hands pulled him off you that he realized that the sound was coming from him. Or that blood was dripping from his mouth because he had been using his cursed speech to attempt to command you to wake up, to stay with him.

He cried out and tried to throw himself back over you. They couldn't touch you! Didn't they understand? You were hurt! But the same hands from before gripped his shoulders and held him back as Gojo teleported you off to Shoko.

"She'll be okay son."

Nanami murmured into his ear. When had he gotten here?

"She'll be okay, just calm down. Take a breath."

Listlessly staring at the puddle of blood that you had been lying in, he allowed Nanami to gently pull him away and guide him back to the car waiting to drive them back to the campus.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

When they arrived back on campus Inumaki was out of the car and tearing off towards the infirmary before it had even fully stopped.

Bursting into the room, the door hit the wall with a bang, causing everyone in it to look up.

“Toge?”

You asked, sitting up a little straighter as Shoko finished up examining you.

Frozen in the doorway, he stared at you, hesitant to believe that you were okay after witnessing the gory aftermath of your injuries.

Lowering the t-shirt you had been changed into, Shoko patted your shoulder and advised you to take it easy before standing.

“C’mon Gojo. Get out of here. Give the two some privacy.”

Shoko herded Gojo out, shutting the door behind them. Then the two of you were alone in the quiet room.

The quiet sound of you sniffling filled the room.

“I-I’m so sorry.”

You cried quietly as you wiped your tears with the palms of your hands.

“I’m so sorry I worried you because I wasn’t strong enough. I was so scared. I thought I was going to die. I thought I was never going to see you again…”

A choked sound escaped Inumaki as he took a hesitant step forwards. You looked up at him, your tear-filled eyes making his own fill.

“Can you come here and hold me?”

You asked, extending your arms.

And that was all you needed to say. He barreled into you, mindful of your injuries as he nuzzled his face into the crook of neck and relished in the feeling of having you in his arms again.

“Sorry.”

He sobbed, pressing kisses to your pulse point.

“Sorry.”

He repeated, unable to say anything else for fear of hurting you with his cursed speech.

“No, why are you sorry?”

Your tears trailed down your face, dripping off your chin and mixing with his before staining your shirt.

“You didn’t do anything-”

I couldn’t protect you.

He traced the words into the palm of your hand. 

“Of course you couldn’t!”

You exclaimed, thumping him lightly on the back.

“You weren’t even on the mission with me, dummy! How could you have? Plus, it’s not your responsibility to protect me. That’s not your job as my boyfriend. All I ever asked of you is to hold me like you are now, and to love me.”

You buried your face in his hair, inhaling deeply.

“Stop blaming yourself. Just stay with me like this for a while, okay?”

Nodding, he snuggled further against you.

That’s right. Everything was okay. You were okay. Everything would always be okay.

As long as you were holding him.

And he was holding you.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

[dragonqueenofice]

A Cloth Flower

Word Count: 630

Summary: Flowers discarded as soon as they bloom, yet love blossoms brighter still (Or, you try and fail to make a bouquet for a budding crush)

notes: i love men who are just a little fucked up

     A red spider lily, born of crimson cloth and wire sits upon your desk. Your hands work to add more petals, forming the flower into the form oh so recognizable. “How many am I gonna need?” You ponder, glancing up and rewinding back the tutorial that’s been playing for around three hours now, and stuck on the same spot for half that time. You weave the next petal into its spot, doubt seeding into your mind as the flower forms alongside. “Does he even like spider lilies?” You ponder, cutting the cloth for another petal as the guide speaks that this is the last step. “He's always haunted by death, why would he want more reminders?”

     So you scrap it, tossing the flower aside like the past three hours meant nothing. The vibrant red lily resting atop the scraps of cloth and projects abandoned as soon as started like a king atop his throne. You feel no remorse, not sparing a glance for the poor flower’s descent as your eyes are on the monitor ahead, fingers typing flowers that mean life and looking through results. 

—

     A peach blossom, born of pastel cloth and wire sits upon your desk. Your hands work to add the last petal to the small flower, forming it into the third of the to-be bouquet. You glance up to the monitor and groan, despising the song that started but not having the energy to change it. Your hands insert in the next petal, your mind not noticing the size of the blossom growing one petal too large as doubt seeds in yet again, “wouldn't he hate a flower about life more?” your mind whispers, hands lowering the flower onto the table with little revere. Knuckles clack against the wood as your thumbs press down on the petals, bending them out of shape, “Haunted by death, yes, but infected with life… What if he hates it? What if he hates me?”

     So you toss them, blossoms fluttering down and resting beside the lily atop scraps of their own, yet another projected abandoned and yet another wasted night. One hand threads fingers through your hair as the other types, painfully slow, flowers that mean love.

—

     “Could you go fetch our dear creative?” Kafka’s honey-sweet voice rings through Blade’s head as his shoes clack against the floor, coming to a stop at your door. He clicks the master key Kafka lent him to your door, pondering for only a second why the Hunters have such high tech doors as it opens. He steps in and the lights come on, illuminating your sleeping form slumped over the desk and the scraps of cloth sprawled around the wood. The cloth, an iris purple in hue is formed into an approximation of a petal, it seems you passed out mid-work. Blade steps towards the desk, stopping beside the chair as his eye is caught by the vibrant flowers left discarded in the trash. He reaches out, curious to feel the silken cloth of the creations you labored over, but his arm disturbs the chair and startles you awake.

     You make eye contact, Blade’s piercing gaze stuck on your eyes as you freeze up like a startled fawn. “...Why are you in my room?” You finally break the deafening silence with whispered words.

     “Kafka wanted you.” He holds out a gloved hand to help you stand, Kafka’s warning to “play nice” echoing in his head as you stand, reluctantly pressing your palm to his for support. Blade doesn’t question that strange feeling that clenches around his heart, seeing your hand clasped over his, and he doesn’t question the arm he offers you for support against your back when you walk. He’s playing nice, a blade doesn’t feel after all.

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Know No Evil | Chapter 03 Chapter 03 | rising resentment⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

Sleep, usually a welcome escape from the confines of your routine, offered no solace tonight. Instead, a vivid dreamscape unfolded before you.

Golden light bathed a field of crimson flowers; their petals stained a shade of red that seemed to bleed into the very air.

In the distance, a young girl, no older than eighteen, stood amidst the flowers. The white long-sleeved shirt, hung untucked; her black jacket lay discarded on the ground like a fallen feather, forgotten. Her hair, a cascade of long pale auburn, defied its usual confinement; bangs, usually kept just past her eyebrows, now clung in wispy tendrils to her forehead, framing her face alongside two longer, rebellious side strands.

This fiery mane mirrored the moonlight filtering through the clouds, but it was her eyes that held your attention—crimson orbs with pulsing yellow irises that burned with an intensity that both terrified and fascinated you.

This girl, she looked... familiar.

A prickling sensation crawled up your arms as a name, foreign yet strangely comforting, whispered on the wind. "Makima," it murmured, a single word carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken memories.

The girl turned, her crimson gaze locking onto yours. A ghost of a smile played on her lips, a smile that sent shivers down your spine.

In that moment, you knew, with a certainty that defied logic, that this girl, this Makima, was somehow a part of you.

But before you could reach out, before you could ask the questions burning in your mind, the scene dissolved into a swirling vortex of colors. You woke with the taste of fear lingering on your tongue. Sunlight streamed through the window, casting long shadows across your room.

The dream felt real, more real than anything you had ever experienced. Makima, the girl in the flower field, who was she? And how was she connected to you? These questions gnawed at you like a constant itch that you couldn't scratch.

The influx of dreams was just the first in a string of unsettling occurrences. Sometimes, visions—vivid and disorienting—would occasionally pierce the veil of your new life. One moment, you'd be staring at the pink wallpaper of your room, and the next, you'd be transported to a dimly lit office, the scent of cigarettes clinging to the air.

A tall, blonde-haired man with a dopey grin sat across from you, his eyes following your every move with an almost canine devotion.

"Denji~" you'd hear your voice purr, a voice that sent shivers down your own spine, so different from the small, hesitant tones of Y/N. "Tell me again, what's your dream?"

Denji would lean in, his entire being focused on your words. "My dream... is to... touch a nice lady's boobs..." he'd stammer, his face flushed.

A cruel smile would play on your lips, a stark contrast to the innocent smile of Y/N. "How quaint," you'd murmur, a dangerous glint in your eyes. "But for now, Denji, you have a purpose. And that purpose is to serve me."

The vision would then abruptly shatter, leaving you gasping for breath, a cold sweat clinging to your skin. These fragments of your past life were terrifying, yet strangely alluring. Who was this woman you saw in the mirror? Was she truly you?

☆

☆

You bounced on the balls of your feet, excitement buzzing through you like a beehive. Today was "dress-up day" at your homeschool session with Mei, and you had meticulously planned your outfit—a superhero ensemble complete with a flowing cape and a mask you'd meticulously crafted from construction paper.

Mei, however, seemed to have different ideas. As you proudly presented yourself, a triumphant grin plastered on your face, her smile faltered slightly.

"That looks fantastic, Y/N!" she exclaimed, her voice warm but laced with a hint of hesitation. "But wouldn't you like to add a little something extra? Maybe a cute bow to match your cape?"

Your grin faltered. A bow? In your hair? That wasn't part of the plan. The image you envisioned—a fearless hero ready to take on the world—did not involve a frilly accessory. A spark of defiance ignited within you, a heat that crept up your cheeks.

"No, thank you," you mumbled, pushing a twist of hair behind your ear, a silent rebellion against the proposed bow.

Mei knelt before you, her eyes filled with a gentle concern that only fueled your burgeoning frustration. "But a bow would look so pretty, Y/N. Don't you want to look your best for your friends?" she cooed, attempting to tie a bright pink bow atop your head.

The word "friends" did little to appease you. These weren't friends, not in the way you saw it on television. These were just the other homeschooled kids you occasionally interacted with, their interactions more polite curiosity than genuine camaraderie. You didn't need a bow to impress them.

You swatted her hand away, a frown creasing your brow. "No bow," you muttered, your voice firm despite the childish tremor. "I look perfect already." The hero in your mind wouldn't wear a bow, and neither would you.

Mei sighed, a flicker of disappointment crossing her face. "Alright, alright," she conceded, shoulders slumping in defeat, untying the bow with a practiced ease. "If you say so. But promise to be careful with your cape today, okay? And maybe, how about we pick a different color tomorrow? Together?"

You didn't respond, but the tightness in your chest eased slightly. You didn't mean to upset Mei, but the need to control your own image, once a constant companion, was becoming a simmering ember within you.

As you marched out the door, cape billowing dramatically behind you, you couldn't help but notice a strange warmth emanating from your fingertips, a faint tingling sensation that seemed to pulse in time with your determined steps.

It was a feeling you didn't understand, but it was a feeling of... power. And even though you didn't quite grasp it yet, it was a feeling you were starting to crave.

☆

☆

The instance with the bow wasn't an isolated one. The more Mei fussed over you, the more you bristled at her smothering affection. You craved a sense of independence, a chance to prove you weren't some fragile doll that needed constant care. This morning was no different.

"Look, I understand you're busy, but Y/N is growing up so fast. These are moments we can't get back. Can't you at least try to..." Mei, fuming from a heated phone call with your father about his constant absence and missed milestones, plunked a plate of lunch down in front of you. A simple peanut butter and jelly sandwich—your least favorite. But you barely registered the disappointment.

Your mind was fixated on the promised reward—a slice of your favorite strawberry cake—for cleaning up your toys and taking an unplanned nap while Mei ran a quick errand.

You nibbled on the sandwich, the disappointment a dull ache in your stomach. Surely, Mei had forgotten. She'd remember when you finished your lunch, and you'd get your reward then. But with every bite, the ache intensified, transforming into a simmering resentment.

Ten minutes ticked by, the silence in the room broken only by the rhythmic squeaking of your half-eaten sandwich. Finally, Mei, still on the phone and arguing with your father, glanced your way. Her brow furrowed with concern as she noticed your unmoving form.

"Y/N? Sweetie, what's wrong?" she asked, her voice strained as she balanced the phone on her shoulder. She wiped a stray smear of jelly from your cheek, her touch well-meaning but unwelcome. "Does your tummy hurt? Did the sandwich go down the wrong way? Do you want Mommy to—"

You cut through her worried questions, your voice flat and emotionless. "Where's my treat?"

Mei blinked, momentarily thrown off guard. Then, a wave of relief washed over her face. "Oh, right! Your treat!" she exclaimed, a touch too brightly. "Just give me a sec, okay?"

She scurried to the pantry, the phone still pressed to her ear. You listened to the muffled sounds of rummaging, your heart pounding a steady rhythm against your ribs. This wasn't right. You'd held up your end of the bargain, and now, Mei was backtracking.

A beat of silence followed, then Mei reappeared, her smile strained. "Looks like we're all out of strawberry cake, sweetie," she explained apologetically. "But I found some apple slices instead! How about that?"

You stared at the proffered apple slices, a wave of anger crashing over you. This wasn't fair. You didn't want apple slices. You wanted the promised cake, the sweet reward you'd earned.

Logic, that annoying voice in your head, tried to reason with you. Mei had forgotten. It was a simple mistake. But the anger drowned it out. You felt cheated, robbed of something you deserved.

Tears welled up in your eyes, but you blinked them back, the heat of anger burning brighter than the sting of betrayal. A low growl rumbled in your chest, a sound that startled even yourself. Your body began to vibrate, a tremor you couldn't control. It felt like a live wire buzzing beneath your skin, a foreign energy coursing through you.

Shaking uncontrollably, the hot warmth of anger intensified in your stomach. You squeezed your eyes shut, a strangled cry escaping your lips as you lashed out.

"I...want...CAKE!!" With a deafening screech, you flung your remaining sandwich across the room, the splattering jelly mimicking the blossoming rage within you. Your juice box followed suit, toppling off the table and showering the floor in a sticky red cascade.

"I want my cake!"

"Y/N!" Mei's voice, usually filled with warmth, cracked with a mixture of shock and concern. The phone clattered to the floor, forgotten as she lunged for you.

For a terrifying moment, you felt invincible, a force of pure, unbridled rage. The world seemed to blur around you, the only thing registering the pulsing energy thrumming through your veins.

Then, strong arms enveloped you. Mei's voice, usually a soothing melody, cut through the haze of anger. "Stop! It's okay, sweetie!" she cried, her voice a desperate plea as she tried to restrain your thrashing limbs. But for a moment, you were a wild animal cornered, fueled by an anger you couldn't understand.

"Cake!" you screamed, your voice raw with frustration. "You promised cake!"

Mei's eyes welled up with tears, a reflection of your own mounting hysteria. "I know, honey, I know," she soothed, her voice trembling slightly.

Finally, with a herculean effort, Mei managed to pin you down, her warm hands cupping your face. She spoke softly, her voice a soothing balm against the storm within you. "It's okay, Y/N," she murmured, wiping away the stray tears that had finally escaped.

The tremors soon subsided, replaced by a deep sense of exhaustion. Mei began to rub your cheeks in soothing circles, her touch a grounding force against the storm that had just raged within you. "It's okay to be upset. But we can't throw things."

Mei then sat you down in the "cool-down" corner, a designated space in the living room reserved for such meltdowns. As you sat there, slumped against the cushions, you watched the world blur through tear-filled eyes. A wave of nausea washed over you, leaving a bitter taste in your mouth.

You glanced out the window, your gaze falling on a group of children leaving daycare, their laughter echoing in the afternoon sun. They walked hand-in-hand with their parents, a picture of carefree joy. A scowl contorted your face.

You hated that they seemed so happy, so carefree. Everything about them—their freedom, their smiles, the way things just seemed to go their way—fueled the embers of resentment that still flickered within you.

But this time, alongside the anger, there was a new sensation. A strange tingling energy crackled beneath your skin, a faint echo of the power you'd felt just moments ago. 

And in the quiet of the "cool-down" corner, a seed was planted. What it will be, you didn't know, but you had a feeling that it would be undeniably... different.

A/N: okay, suprise update! just wanted to let you guys know that my laptop has been  utterly destroyed and is now being repaired 💀 so yeaahhh. anywho, thank you all for the support so far, hehehe didnt think anyone would be excited, lol. also, this won't be perfect and will likely have a few plot holes, but then again, i'm not here to write a real book, i'm here to share my delusions with yall 💗

[fangsandfracturedhearts]

Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 22: This is Our Sanctuary

Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.

Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.

In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.

Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?

Word Count: 7.8k

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn

Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]

Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events. Mentions of Astarion's Trauma.

If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know

Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience]

A soft kiss on your forehead and the feeling of the bond reopening, unfurling like the petals of a flower in your head is what rouses you from your trance. Astarion does not typically close the bond any longer, even when you trance, but he wanted to be sure that you would not be sucked into any of his nightmares so close to your wedding day.

“Get up, lazy girl,” he taunts, brushing your hair back and tucking the wayward strands behind your ear. He lets his finger trail down the ridge, which earns him something between a groan and a moan.

Your eyes open lazily to see Astarion in all his splendour. His hair is mussed from sleep, not yet combed and coiffed to perfection, and his waves tumble about heedlessly. He yawns, the early morning sun glinting along the edges of his fangs, and his eyes are still heavily lidded.

“It’s hardly even sun-up, Astarion,” you whine, curling into his chest and hiding your face away from the ever-brightening early morning light. “The ceremony isn’t until this evening. We can sleep for a few more hours. You cannot possibly need all fucking day to get ready.”

“You deserve perfection,” he purrs, twisting his fingers into your hair and massaging your scalp. “And perfection takes time.”

“You are perfect,” you coo, placing a soft kiss on his chest with a sigh. “And it has nothing to do with your physical appearance.”

With the beating of his heart under your palm and the heat from his skin sinking into the cool of your own, your trance beckons on the borders of your consciousness.

Astarion clears his throat awkwardly. “I’m… uh… I may be a trifle too nervous to trance.”

The sleepiness recedes like a swiftly moving tide, and you sit up and take his face between your hands. “Are you having second thoughts? If it’s not what you want, we don’t have to do this, Astarion.”

He leans into your touch, closing his eyes, and you feel the wash of comfort he feels through the bond. The tension melts away from him, his shoulders relax, and the pinch in his brow eases. He nuzzles your palm and places a kiss on it before reopening his strikingly ruby-red eyes.

“Don’t be so foolish.” Astarion scoffs while his arms encircle your waist, and he pulls you into his lap. “Of course I am not having second thoughts. Good Gods, Illyria.”

“I just want you to know you have the option,” you assert, keeping your intonation tender.

“As much as I do appreciate the sentiment, I want this more than I have ever wanted anything in my very long life,” he insists. Astarion gently picks stray strands of hair out of your eyelashes, brushing them away. “So little in my life has actually been my own, and even less of that has ever meant anything, but this... Gods. This means everything to me. You mean everything to me.”

He looks askance, his eyes falling away from yours. “For so long, I never had anything to lose, and now I stand to lose so much.” Astarion lets out a long exhale. His brows downturn at the ends in a sombre expression. “I am... frightened.” He finally forces the word out in a rush. “I am scared that one of these times I will lose myself and I will be lost. For good.”

“Astarion,” you start, bringing your palm up to cup his cheek, but he catches your wrist and cuts you off.

“Listen to me. If that should happen, if I am truly gone, I need you to promise you will run, get as far from me as you possibly can, and never look back.”

It’s not a promise you’re willing to make, even with his eyes that plead, and you shake your head. “I can’t promise you that, Astarion. What I can promise is that I will do everything in my power to make sure that doesn’t happen. I would not lose you to Cazador, and I will not lose you to this.”

You still haven’t told him about the deal you made. Every time you mean to bring it up, the confession will not unlatch from your tongue. The words stick in the back of your throat, like being caught in a spider’s web.

“Gods, you always were unbearably mulish.” Astarion laments with a sigh.

“I prefer to think of myself as adorably willful,” you quip, trying to lighten the mood. You rack your fingers through his hair and let the tips gently ghost down the edge of his tapered ear.

It earns you a delightful shudder, and he readjusts you on his lap with a highly arched brow. “Trying to distract me, are you? Naughty girl.”

“Is it working?”

Astarion shifts you once more, bucking his hips up and grinding his hardening desire against you. “Indeed it is, my love,” he purrs erotically. “We should get you fed, yes?”

Before you can answer, Astarion cants his head to the side, offering his neck with a smile that seems to be all heart. The offer of blood and the sight of the vein pulsing nearly make your strike like an angry viper, but you’re getting better with restraint. Instead, you curb that desire, lean forward, place a chaste kiss on his warm lips along the angular plane of his jaw, and rain them slowly down his neck.

His hands come to your hips, strong fingers firmly pressing into your skin. Your fangs pop through Astarion’s flesh with as quick of a pinch as your unskilled self is capable of. The groan that hums from Astarion is not one of pain but of need.

Blood quickly fills your mouth, breathing vitality into you with every swallow of the rich, salty sanguine poem. It is a call to prayer, the heavens chanting against your tastebuds, and good Gods, you worship on the alter of his neck in moans.

“Just like that,” he breathes. “I will tell you when to stop.”

Astarion’s guides your hips in a slow rock, back and forth, dragging your increasingly wet folds leisurely up and down his pulsing erection. He angles his hips so the head of his cock runs across the spot you need it most with every swipe. You can barely focus on both sensations at once, and blood starts to glide a trail down his chest.

He whines, a sound you do not often hear from the Ascendant, and his fingers slip between your folds to start teasing the border of your pining clit. You whimper, your eyes fluttering closed momentarily at the staggering sensation, and your hips buck, trying to persuade his finger to quicken their gentle circles and swipes.

With every shift of your hips, you feel the velvet of his length, throbbing and so very hard, nestled between your lips. His hips buck, rutting against you, seeking the friction that his cock is begging for.

You realize, perhaps a little belatedly, that he hasn’t requested you stop, but his heart rate is beginning to sound slightly irregular. You withdraw your fangs, sitting back on his legs with your brow creased in worry.

Astarion gives you a droll, half-smile, his eyes appearing slightly glassy and dazed.

“Shit,” you murmur, pressing your hand against the wound even though the skin is already beginning to knit itself back together. “You should have told me to stop. This isn’t a good day to have you laid up in bed because I drained you dry.”

He shrugs nonchalantly. “What would you have me say? You’re as distracting as you are wet. You’ve made a positively delicious mess of my lap.” Astarion glances down at the trail of blood that’s made it to his mid chest. “And my chest, it seems. Messy thing,” he tuts.

Astarion’s fingers wrap behind your neck. He pulls you to his lips, shuddering excitedly when his tongue slips in and he tastes himself on you. His free arm wraps around your waist, guiding you to your back. Hooking your knee with his, he pushes your legs apart further before sitting back on his heels and taking a moment to look down at you sprawled out and panting for him.

He fists his erection, giving himself a slow stroke from root to tip, and then taps the head of his cock on your swollen bud. A sudden jolt of intense pleasure sparks through you with every strike, making you squirm. His eyes lock with yours, and he slides lower, grinding himself against your entrance but never sinking in.

“I would do it all again, you know,” he leans over you, lining up. “Those two centuries of darkness and torment, if I knew that you were on the other side of it.”

“Astarion,” you wheeze as he slides himself inside you inch by inch, rocking his hips to work you open. You gather enough presence of mind to shake your head. “No. Don’t say that.”

“Not saying it doesn’t make it any less true.” He presses your legs apart, sinking himself deeper with every stroke. His forehead presses against yours, his hips moving quicker with every pass. “I love you, and I have loved you for far longer than I cared to admit, even to myself, but I cannot love you gently.” As if to make his point, he pulls out most of the way, delighting in the way you whine at the loss of fullness, and sinks back in to the hilt with a fierce snap of his hips that makes both of you gasp. “I will love you totally and completely, and perhaps a little madly, for eternity.”

He angles himself, and once your breathy moan and a tight clench around him confirm that he’s succeeded in hitting that perfect spot inside you, his pace shifts from a slow grind to a more vigorous tempo that leaves you seeing nothing but white hot pleasure and his intensely red eyes that bleed into you.

You want to tell him you love him and that it’s okay if his love is a little mad, a little possessive, a little dark, because your love for him is not for the feint of heart. There is no limit to the lengths you would go for him, and that in itself is a frightening prospect. But your words are lost in pants and moans, the sound of skin smacking skin, and tangled limbs.

So you reach out and touch his mind, requesting him to open himself to you further, and let snaps of memories flow freely, allowing the emotions behind them to be fully felt. You give him glimpses of how his laughter infects you with feelings of warmth and how you would do anything to hear it. How his smile makes you melt into a puddle of pure affection. How his voice is your favourite sound. How your devotion is unlimited, transcending the bounds of time and space.

Astarion quietly whines as the memories embrace him, his hips stuttering and faltering in their pace. He kisses your forehead, your cheeks, along your jaw, your collarbone, and every place he possibly can, as if his lips cannot stand not to be on your skin. Your legs wind around him, tugging him close, and your hips rock to meet his every thrust.

The drag of him against your sensitive walls, the decadent fullness, and the heat of his panting breath in your mouth are too much to bear. Your pleasure builds, your core clenching around his every pump.

But your pleasure is not the only thing you can feel. You can feel his as well. The tightness and overwhelming ache of pleasure in his belly, the urge to release, building rapidly to a delicious acuteness as he tiptoes toward the precipice.

Hells below. It’s intoxicating to know just how intensely he desires you, how you fill him full of pleasure so profound that he cannot think straight, the waves of euphoria that bleed through the bond as your bodies move as one, connected as one, feel as one.

“Illyria,” he pants with urgency. “F—fuck. I’m—“

The words are lost, but you don’t need them anyway. “Come for me,” you whisper against his ear.

His lips crash against yours, his tongue sliding in, and he lets go, his cock pulsing and releasing streams of hot seed deep within you. His pleasure tips you over the edge of your own climax, and your walls spasm and massage his length, drawing every last drop out of him that he will give you.

Astarion collapses on top of you, nestling his head in the crook of your neck while you stroke his back. You’re careful touching his scars, paying close attention to both the bond and his body language, but Astarion only relaxes further into your touch.

Neither of you move for a long while after the throes of your orgasms subside, content to remain enveloped in each other’s embrace.

He nips your collarbone lightly. “There, now we are both a mess.”

You scoff, but kiss his forehead and tousle his hair. “I would not have made such a mess if you had just kept your hands to yourself.”

“Oh, darling,” he giggles with a disapproving click of his tongue. “Wherever is the fun in that?”

The mirror of the vanity gleams back at you empty — always and forevermore, empty. You glance outside at the descending sun. The ceremony is mere hours away, and you still haven’t begun to get ready. Various implements have been laid out on the shiny mahogany table before you: hairbrushes, combs, ties, and hairpins, some regular and others with small diamonds glinting on the ends. On the other side, lip sticks, eyeshadows, liners, and every other cosmetic you could ever ask for in every imaginable hue.

Your fingers grasp a comb and run it through your long hair, but you have no idea how you’re going to do anything with it. You can put it up or leave it down, but any intricate style is beyond your capabilities since you cannot even see what you’re doing.

You want to look beautiful. Of course you do. It’s your wedding day. Gods know Astarion will look perfect with not a strand of his silvery hair out of place or a wrinkle in his suit, and then there will be you, standing beside him, looking like you do not belong with someone so captivatingly handsome.

You wonder if he will be embarrassed and are suddenly extremely thankful that at least you won’t embarrass him in front of all your friends. Were you pretty? You used to be, you think, but what about now? Your skin has lost its once sun-kissed golden hue, and your eyes are no longer the bright colours they used to be.

You glance back up at the mirror once more, hoping against hope that, for at least today, you might be given the reprieve of its scorn, but you are not that fortunate. Its reflective surface continues to dismiss you.

Tears prick your eyes in frustration, and they sail to the villa’s ceiling while you wrack your fingers through your hair. How in the Hells are you going to manage this?

“Little love?” Astarion taps on the door before letting himself in. He had been adamant that he wanted to get ready in separate rooms, if only to give some normalcy to the event. “What’s wrong, Illyria? I can feel your distress. Do you… Do you not want to do this? We can still cancel.”

“No!” You bark in a cracked cry. “It’s not that.”

Astarion crouches down, turning the little vanity stool toward him with ease. Black velvet trousers hang loosely around his waist, but he is otherwise undressed. He places his elegant fingers underneath your chin, gently guiding your gaze up, and thumbs away the tears crawling down your cheeks from the corners of your eyes.

“Tell me what’s troubling you.”

You think about deflecting, lying even, but he will know if you do, so you settle on the truth. “I don’t want to embarrass you, but I don’t know how I will do my hair or makeup since...” You gesture toward the mirror. “I cannot see myself.”

Astarion glances at the mirror, and a forlorn look makes his eyes downturn as he sees his own reflection, but not yours. “Listen carefully, love. You could never embarrass me. If you walked out in a paper bag with your hair a mess, you would still be the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on. But I do have a surprise for you.”

Astarion beams, his fangs on full display, and opens the door. “You’re late.”

Your brows furrow, and you try to incline your head to look around the doorframe to see who in the Hells he is talking to when you hear Shadowheart’s voice. “Could you put some clothing on, please? Gods, Astarion. This is not how you should walk around when you’re expecting guests. Where is your decorum?”

He grins roguishly and lopsided, slightly canting his head with a shrug. “My, my. Selûne has turned you into quite the little prude, hasn’t she?”

Shadowheart scoffs, pushing past Astarion while giving him a pointed look. “Get out,” she orders.

Astarion’s brows rise at the direct order, a small spike of anger raising his hackles. You can hear his thoughts. How dare she order him around. He does not take orders from anyone any longer. There is a melody in the background. It sounds like iced rain pelleting through wind-whipped trees.

You nearly jump out of your chair to calm him, but he takes a deep breath, and the twisting thoughts and song fade away into barely a hum. He collects himself almost instantly, adopting his typical easy confidence.

You reach out to him in your head. “Are you okay?”

He doesn’t even glance at you, turning away as Shadowheart closes the door, but answers immediately. “I’m fine, my treasure. I will see you soon.”

“Thank you for this.”

“You are most welcome.”

Shadowheart smiles ear to ear, taking quick steps toward you, and you almost recoil. You cannot remember a time where you’ve seen her look so excited. “A certain vampire told me you might need help getting ready.”

“That certain vampire has been incredibly thoughtful lately,” you muse.

“Oddly so,” Shadowheart agrees. “Can I come close? It will be a little hard to do your hair and makeup if you cannot stand to have me near.”

You laugh. “He fed me. You should be safe unless you accidentally cut yourself.”

“Don’t cut myself, or my best friend might eat me… again.” Shadowheart nods with a wry grin. “Noted.”

Shadowheart’s hands hover over the implements, quickly glancing at the mirror that only recognizes her presence. She frowns, runs over and tears the sheets off the bed, and shrouds the traitorous mirror.

She grabs a brush and begins to gently drag it through your hair, working out the knots. “So, how do you want your hair done?”

Your forehead wrinkles as your brows pull down. “Honestly, I didn’t give it much thought. I… just never thought I would be here.”

“You never thought you would get married?” Shadowheart’s brow arches. “Truly?”

“I didn’t think about it much when I was mortal, and then there was the Netherbrain, I became a vampire, and...” You sigh, shutting your eyes against the memories that claw at your limbs and beg you to join them in a basin of despair. “Well, you know what happened then.”

Shadowheart rubs your arm and gives your shoulder a squeeze. “I have an idea. Do you trust me?”

“I trust you, Shadowheart,” you grin, and the tips of your fangs peek out of your lips just slightly. “Do your worst.”

Shadowheart sets to work, using all the brushes, combs, pins, and ties at her disposal. She twists locks of hair around her finger, pinning them into place.

“I have an odd question.” She breaks the silence. “About your vampirism.”

“Oh? Intriguing. Ask away.”

“How exactly do you feed? Is it like a bite holes and suck on them sort of thing, or are your fangs similar to straws?”

You burst out laughing, and you can hear Astarion howling from the room next to you. Clutching your aching abdomen, partly due to having her so close but mostly due to the blistering laughter that’s making your eyes water, you turn toward her. Shadowheart looks stunned and glances at the wall where Astarion’s laughter can still be heard.

“I mean,” you try to speak between breathy laughs. It’s a blessing you don’t really need air because you would surely be suffocating. “You are welcome to examine my fangs if you would like to check, but it’s a bite and suck thing.”

Shadowheart crosses her arms, a hairbrush still clutched in her hand with her nose sticking up. “It’s not that funny, you two.”

“It’s a little funny,” you tease her.

She huffs but chuckles softly, shaking her head. “That’s the last time I ask you anything about your vampirism,” she taunts with a crooked grin.

Shadowheart grabs a cloth and hands it to you so you can wipe the tears off your cheeks and dry your eyes. She gently tilts your head up and begins to swipe eyeshadow on, but having her so close in front of you, her wrist right under your nose, is starting to eat away at your restraint. You can smell her blood in her veins and hear it gush with each beat of her heart. It sounds like an orchestra to your sharp hearing, and you begin to grimace, digging your fingernails into the stool.

“What is it?” She asks.

With your vampiric speed, you swiftly move to the other end of the room and plaster yourself against the wall. Your lungs thirst for air they don’t require, but you hold your breath.

“I just need a minute,” you say tightly with a thick swallow.

Astarion’s voice drifts into your head. “I can compel you if you wish, but this will be the last time I entertain this.”

There is a keen edge to his timbre. You know it makes him uncomfortable. Even now you can feel his previously calm emotions metamorphose into a tumultuous blitz where you can hardly tell one from the other as they flicker through your mind too quickly to comprehend. You might not feel them or even know what they are, but Astarion feels them all with an intensity you can’t begin to comprehend.

You hate that you don’t possess the self-control and are once again forcing Astarion to do things he’s uncomfortable with, but what choice do you have? No amount of blood will fill the empty hole in your stomach, and you have already slipped and nearly killed Shadowheart.

“I’m sorry, Astarion. Do it. Please.”

His reply is only the command. “You will not feed on thinking creatures. You do not feel hunger.”

“What just happened?” Shadowheart asks.

“Sorry?”

“Your eyes.” She frowns. “They glowed for a moment.”

“Astarion compelled me, and before you worry, I asked him to.”

You take a deep breath of pure relief, ease away from the wall, and back to the stool. She starts doing your makeup again, but you note the lines of worry that crease her forehead and thin her lips.

Shadowheart lowers her voice. “That’s a dangerous game to play, Illyria.”

Though she is whispering, it’s not nearly quiet enough. Astarion will be able to hear her loud and clear. You point to your ear and then to the wall to indicate that he can, in fact, still hear her. Her eyes round, but she nods her understanding. Shadowheart isn’t wrong. You’re playing a dangerous game, but that’s what your life has become, hasn’t it?

Just one dangerous game after another.

“I trust him,” you conclude with conviction.

Shadowheart gives you a quick side look that you know means she’s not quite done talking to you about this, but she will let it go until you find yourselves in a more private setting.

“Look up,” she instructs, and your eyes sail to the ceiling.

You barely feel Shadowheart run the liner along your waterline or use her pinky to smudge it slightly. She holds lipstick after lipstick up to your face before deciding on a colour and handing it to you. At least this, you don’t really need much help with. The colour is a reddish coral that you’re not entirely sure about, but you put it on anyway.

Shadowheart peeks outside, closing the blinds quickly when the sun hits you. She looks horrified for a moment. 

“I’m safe, Shadowheart. Astarion is near. The sun won’t hurt me,” you remind her.

“Sorry. I guess I got used to you.” She halts her speech immediately.

“Being allergic to the sun?” You finish her train of thought for her with a reassuring smile.

“Yes.” Shadowheart quickly goes to the wardrobe where your dress is hanging. “We better get you into this. I think it’s nearly time.”

Pulling the curtains back, you glance outside. The sun is low, spitting fiery reds, burnt oranges, and halcyon pinks into the sky like watercolours across a painters canvas. It is indeed almost time.

You will be married to Astarion within the hour.

You slip out the satin robe, and Shadowheart helps you into your gown. Her breath hitches when she sees the scars on your back, as it does every time, and you have to clench your jaw and shut your eyes against the sensation of her hands rubbing over them while she does up the various buttons and laces.

“Do you know what they mean yet?” She asks softly.

“No.” You shake your head. “Astarion has scoured every book he owns, making several trips to the palace, but he’s not found anything that resembles them yet.”

“They must have some sort of meaning.”

“Yes, but they are unfinished. We can only hope that makes whatever they were meant to do useless.” You shrug. “We can’t know for sure.”

Shadowheart turns you around, steps back, and gives you a once-over. “You look beautiful, Illyria. Truly. You clean up rather well.”

You half laugh, half snort at her comment, but smirk at her jeering. “Really?”

“Really,” she confirms. “Astarion is a lucky man.”

You glance down and look at the dress. The bodice hugs your curves flawlessly; each diamond is pristinely polished and catches the sunlight, filtering it into prismatic hues. For some reason, the seamstress added moonstones to border the swirling pattern of the lace, and the silvery light they emanate gives the appearance of silver-spun stars.

“I should probably get going,” Shadowheart says, picking up her bag.

“No,” you object, reaching out and grabbing her forearm before you have time to think. “I think you should stay if you want to.”

She looks around a little unsure. “Will Astarion be okay with that?”

You don’t doubt he heard your offer, but you ask him anyway. “Can Shadowheart stay?”

“Of course, my love. She’s most welcome to join us.”

“He doesn’t mind.” You assure her and offer an easy smile.

Shadowheart beams, putting down her bag, but then she looks at her clothes with a ruffled brow. “I have nothing to wear. I didn’t bring anything else.”

“You can wear what you’re wearing, but if you would rather wear something else.” You walk over to another wardrobe and open it. It’s filled with various fine silk dresses and opulent gowns to modest trousers and shirts, and even some robes. “You can take your pick.”

She shifts through the dresses until she pulls out a light blue silk dress and looks to you for permission.

“It will look beautiful on you.”

You watch Shadowheart hurry around, slipping into the dress, running a brush through her hair, fixing her makeup, and you cannot help but find entertainment in the hurried scattering. You’ve hardly ever seen Shadowheart act like this. She’s usually composed, calm, and a little bit stolid.

You’ve never felt closer to her than in this moment, and your heart swells with affection but also guilt, because even though you’ve been compelled, there is a small part of your brain that continues to see her as prey.

Did Astarion ever watch you running through the battlefield and be tempted to give chase just like you are now? Is this a vampire thing or something more sinister? You would like to believe that it’s a vampiric instinct. After all, the living are technically the typical fare for your kind.

The other possibility is much more sinister.

“I’ll see you out there?” Shadowheart suddenly asks from the doorway, breaking you from your thoughts.

“Yes. I’ll be right out.”

The quartet has started playing the soft music, signalling that it’s just about time. You shake out your arms, take several deep breaths, and pace for good measure to expel some of your nervous energy.

You hear a groan, the slight moan of hinges on the door, and then a light rapping on yours before Astarion walks in.

“Apologies.” His eyes are downcast, and his fingers curl and uncurl. “I know I said we should not see each other until you walk down the aisle, but...”

“Astarion.” You approach and slip your fingers under his chin. When he will not allow you to guide his eyes upward, you instead lean down and catch his eyes anyway. “It’s fine. Look at me. Tell me what’s wrong. Are you…? Do you need to go?”

“No,” he’s quick to spit out, his eyes finally coming up. “I just… Bloody Hells.”

He fidgets with the cuff of his suit, huffs exasperatedly, and you see the problem. You take his hand carefully, pop the buttons he was struggling with through, and then take the teardrop ruby cufflink from his trembling fingers and secure it.

“Thank you.” He takes a deep breath. “I missed you.”

Your brows pinch. “You were in the next room.”

“I hardly see why that matters.” Astarion leans in, buries his nose in your hair, and inhales deeply, pulling you close. “Every second away from you is agonizing.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“I may embellish a little here and there, but I am no liar.” Astarion leans away slightly to look deeply into your eyes. “I really did miss you.”

You kiss his cheek and cup his face with your palm. His hand comes up to cover yours, and he leans into your touch. “You look positively exquisite.”

He takes your hand, forcing you into a small twirl, and you giggle. “I’ll have to take your word for it.”

“I have an idea,” he taps his temple. “I believe you can see through my eyes using the bond we share.”

The sensation of Astarion removing barriers he’s erected feels much like a dam when it opens its doors to allow water through, and you are hit with everything all at once. It’s overwhelming at first, painful even, but the pain fades as you adjust. He’s not let you into his mind quite like this before. It’s almost unfettered access to every thought, every feeling, and even memories, if you were so inclined.

But this is a sign of trust, and you will not betray it by rifling through his most intimate thoughts, so you focus on seeing through his eyes. If it’s like anything else that has to do with the kinship, your intent should simply translate into being.

You blink, and all of a sudden you’re looking down at yourself. You’re taken aback for a moment. Your body jerks slightly away, and you have to reorient yourself. It’s the first time you’ve been able to actually see yourself since you were turned.

By the Gods. I am terribly pale!

Taking your time, you scour every detail of your face and commit it to memory. How long will it take me to forget again? You look at your cracked scarlet eyes and the colours they were before peeking through in splotches and slivers. You take in your dress, your hair, and your makeup, and tears threaten to spill, but you swallow them back down.

You release his sight back to him, blink, and you’re once again staring at your husband.

“Well?” He asks expectantly.

You lean into his chest, your palms flat against him. “Thank you.”

His arms encircle you once more. “You’re welcome. I suppose I should get out there. I will see you soon, yes?”

You nod, releasing him. “I’ll be right behind you.”

You stand in the inner foyer, waiting for your music to start. There are roses everywhere, of every shade, and they fill the air with a sweet scent. You’d peeked earlier and seen the arch being set up. Well, it’s less of an arch and more of a circle, which you decided was more appropriate — circles are never-ending, eternal.

Shadowheart scampers in to see you pacing around in a circle, and she grabs your arms. “Deep breaths, Illyria.”

You snort. “I am dead. I don’t need to breathe.”

She snorts in reply. “Don’t be sassy. Deep breathes, and stand still! You’ve made a mess of your train.”

She crouches down, quickly spreading the delicate lace back out so that it flows as it should instead of being all twisted up. You take the deep breaths, though they do little to calm your nerves.

Shadowheart clasps her hands around your arms. “Don’t pace, or you’ll wreck it. Your music is about to start.”

You don’t know why you feel the need to make sure, but you ask anyway. “Is he?”

Shadowheart nods. “He’s out there waiting for you.”

You can only muster enough presence of mind to nod, and Shadowheart dashes back out to take her place wherever that is. The music starts to pick up, and you stand there for a few nerve-wracking minutes until it shifts into your song.

It’s time.

Steeling your nerves, you take one last deep, useless breath and walk toward the open doorway.

The sun strikes your eyes first and leaves you blinded until your eyes adjust. As your vision clears, the aisle comes into view. Rose petals are scattered across the terrace, the circular archway has been hung with sheer drapery that sways in the slight breeze, and the quartet plays beautifully off to the side as well as an artist sketching away that you were not expecting.

Astarion stands with his hands clasped together behind his back, his face warmly neutral until he sees you, and it transforms into a tender, nervous smile. Your eyes link with familiar, vividly crimson pools that invite you to get lost in them. Time seems to halt its perpetual march forward, the gears grinding to a stop just for you.

All your uncertainty, worries, and problems seem to just slip away from you. None of them matter. Not that the Hells await. Not that you still have yet to tell Astarion about the deal you made. Not that time is running out. It’s like all of that ceases to exist, and you are left with the only thing that does matter.

Him.

Your mind barely registered the drag of your dress, or the breeze in your hair, or the way the sun warms your skin. You take one step, and then another, and then another, carefully so as not to trip. Walking in heels isn’t exactly something you’re accustomed to, and it’s been brought to your attention that you’re a “clumsy thing,” as Astarion so lovingly puts it.

With each step, Astarion’s smile widens, and you’re brought closer to him. His eyes are wide and shiny, unshed tears catching the dying light of the sun. Memories play out in your mind’s eye — strong arms around you and a shoulder to lean on when you were so tired after battle you could barely walk back to camp. Nights spent laughing in the shelter of your tent. Cuddling by a roaring campfire. The soft press of lips to your forehead as you faded into your trance. The aroma of bergamot, rosemary, and brandy — the scent of home. You can hear the gravelly sound of his voice when you sought him out, always first to hear his thoughts, quips, witty remarks, and even those godsdamned roguish insults.

You blink, and the tears begin to fall, gliding down your cheeks. A few more steps and you’re in front of him — your fate, your destiny, your thiramin.

The only thing that has ever truly mattered to you and likely the only thing that ever will.

Yours. Once lost, but brought back together by the threads of fate.

His smile fades, replaced by a gaze that is equal parts affection and limitless devotion. Astarion takes a step closer, swallowing hard, and holds his hands out to you. You place your hands in his.

You stand side by side as the priest of one god or another recites the rites. The words are mostly lost on you, just a garbled sound in the background of the drumming beat of Astarion’s heart.

You try to keep your eyes ahead, but you cannot help but sneak little glances his way. His silver hair, perfectly styled with not a strand out of place, is cast in a golden glow that makes him look otherworldly. His raven-black ensemble with dragons up the breast is perfectly smoothed—not a crease or crimp to be seen.

Perfection. Exactly like you had envisioned.

Keeping your eyes ahead, you reach out, and Astarion responds, slipping his trembling hand into yours. You give his hand a reassuring squeeze. His lips quirk up slightly, crinkling the corners of his eyes, but he keeps his gaze trained ahead.

“Lord Astarion Ancunín, do you take this woman to be your wedded wife?”

He turns toward you. His eyes are round, wet, and painfully striking in their vivid warmth. He grins, his eyes falling to your clasped hands, and then back to you. “I do.”

Shadowheart approaches with a velvet-wrapped box, opening the lid and offering it to Astarion. He thanks her, to your great surprise, and takes the ring out. The band is delicately twisted silver and black. You faintly see an inscription running around the underside of the band, but your eyes are too misty to read it.

“I didn’t prepare a fancy speech or elaborate vows. I thought it better to speak from the heart. I am admittedly not good at this, feelings, or public declarations of love.” He fidgets with the ring. “I had long had any faith in people, in Gods, in life purposefully carved out of me when you came along. Truthfully, I wasn’t very fond of you at first. I’d lost the ability to care for anyone, and I certainly never expected anyone could care for me. You met my ice with your fire at every turn. When I tried to push you away, you were still there waiting for me to come to my senses.

“You treated me like a person right from the very start, trusted me, which honestly was an objectively stupid thing to do, darling. I grew to love you frighteningly quickly. You melted the ice in my heart and taught me how to love again. I cherished every second we spent together, even when it was curling up and sleeping in the dirt.

You see me. Really, truly see me even through my darkness. I am safe with you. Whatever the future holds for us, I do not intend to lose that. I vow to love you with a depth that not even the stars can fathom. When it gets cold, I will be your warmth. When life is too loud, you can bury yourself in my silence. When you are hungry, I will be your sustenance.” You exhale a small laugh, and he smirks and winks. “I will love you long after the last stars have faded from the sky and the world is bathed in darkness once more. I will always love you.”

Astarion takes your hand, slipping the ring onto your finger easily. His voice cracks with emotion. “Ai armiel telere maenen hir.”

He clears his throat and straightens up, discreetly wiping a tear from his cheek with the back of his hand.

The same question is levelled at you next, and Astarion seems to be tense as he awaits your response.

“I do.”

As soon as he hears you utter the words, he exhales in a lengthy, drawn-out release like he’d been holding his breath the entire time, and his shoulders relax.

Shadowheart seems to pop up at your side, nearly enough to make you jump, bringing your focus back. You take the ring, and your fingers glide over the smooth metal, feeling the etching inside of it. Astarion’s eyes jump down to the ring, and he looks at it hungrily.

“I never had a family. There was never anyone to tuck me in or kiss me goodnight. I was alone for most of my life, and at some point, I guess I started to believe that’s how it would always be. I accepted it. I wasn’t supposed to be in Baldur's Gate the day the nautiloid took us. I had only stopped there to get supplies and had planned to leave the same day, but then something made me stay. I cannot even recall what it was anymore. It scares me to think that if I had left like I planned to, I would never have found you. Despite the threat of turning into a tentacled monster, I’m glad we were taken that day, as strange as it sounds. It brought us together.”

Your brows pinch. “I’ve never been one who put much faith or thought into Gods and fates. I never gave any credence to destiny. To be perfectly honest, I thought it was all bullshit. But now I stand here with you, and I can’t help but feel this was meant to be — that our meeting wasn’t mere chance. When I met you on that beach, before our shared plight connected us, it felt like my soul recognized yours. I saw a home that I had been homesick for all my life in your eyes, even with your dagger pressed against my throat.”

Astarion chuckles lightly, and you look up at him. He gives you an encouraging nod. “There are no words that adequately express how much I love you. I could say the cliche things like I love you more than life itself, which I think is rather obvious at this point. The truth is, my love for you is unfathomable, unquantifiable. There are no lengths I would not go for you. I vow to love you eternally. Know you are cherished, cared for, safe, and seen, always. I will be your sanctuary. Allow me to be the place your heart finds shelter and peace. I vow to be your light in the darkness, and I will always bring you home. For as long as we exist, I am yours.”

You grab Astarion’s hand, and he holds it up for you, trying to keep his quivering fingers still enough so you can slip the ring on. He smiles, though it looks a little odd, warring between nervousness and excitement, with neither side winning. Tears sway on his lashes, and wet trails glisten down his cheeks.

The ring slides on his finger with no resistance, sitting perfectly as if it were always meant to be there.

Astarion doesn’t wait for the priest to acknowledge it. You vaguely hear being pronounced husband and wife, but the rest is lost when Astarion instantly wraps you in his arms, tugging you close and catching your lips. You lean into the kiss, into him, desperately trying to press your bodies closer together. His tongue teases your bottom lip, and you open for him. The approving groan rumbles deep in his chest, and you visibly shiver as electricity seems to run down your spine.

You very nearly whine out loud when he pulls away, but catch yourself quickly. He keeps his arms wrapped safely around you while he thanks the priest for his services and dismisses him.

Shadowheart runs up. Her makeup is smudged down her face. “I never thought I would say this, but Gods, I am so happy for the both of you.”

Astarion shoots her a pointed look with an arched brow.

“Yes, even you, Astarion,” Shadowheart half teases, half reassures him. “Thank you for letting me stay. It was beautiful.”

He still does not know exactly how to take Shadowheart’s genuine gratitude. “You’re, uh, welcome?” It sounds like a question. “We are planning to stay here for the night. If my wife has no objections, you’re welcome to stay and join us for some wine—”

The thought is abruptly cut off when you and Astarion hear a commotion, a clattering of boots running up stairs. Both of your heads swivel towards the sound.

Shadowheart cannot hear it and arches a brow, but follows your gaze. “What is it?”

“We’re not sure,” you answer, and go to move forward, but Astarion pulls you back.

“It’s the wizard,” he snarls, teeth bared.

There is no time to react to what he’s said before the villa door bursts open, and Gale comes running in red-faced and huffing. He’s wearing his robe, with his quarterstaff slung across his back, and you instantly tense.

How in the hells did he find you?

“Illyria!” Gale shouts, sprinting onto the terrace. “Don’t do this! You can’t marry him!”

“Gods, Gale,” you growl, but your panic is increasing. If something is going to set Astarion off, it will be this. “Give it a rest. There will never be anything between us. I love him. I want to marry him. I did marry him. It’s done.”

You know it’s harsh, but it needs to be said. Whatever ideas Gale has gotten into his head need to be ceased.

“You don’t understand!” Gale points accusingly at Astarion. “He’s compelled you. He’s poisoned your loyalty. None of this has been your choice.”

“You did this!” Astarion grabs Shadowheart’s dress, heaving her forward roughly. “You led him here!”

“No!” Shadowheart tugs at Astarion’s wrist, but you know she has no hope against his strength. “I would not do this, Astarion. I swear on Selûne. This is not my doing!”

“Astarion.” You grab his wrist, squeezing with enough force that if he were mortal, you could have broken it. “Shadowheart wouldn’t do this. Let her go. Please.”

He shakes violently as his grasp on Shadowheart loosens and tightens until he finally manages to pry his hand away. His eyes flash so quickly you cannot make out which is which from one second to the next. Astarion notices the rising panic in your expression.

“I’m trying,” he grits out with a pained desperation in his voice.

You turn toward Gale with your brows pinched, magic swelling. “He has not compelled me, Gale! I’m here because I want to be here. I am with him because I love him. Why can’t you accept that?”

Gale straightens. “I can prove it.”

Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things.

Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts

If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past

Small Notes:

This is the longest chapter yet in this series! You can consider it my apology for the last chapter, which was short 🤣

Oh, Gale.... But, could he really be speaking the truth? Has everything been a lie?

[silverinkbottle]

Catch and Release pt. 1

Summary: It's been five years since you first met Dracule Mihawk. Things haven't changed, until one night, they do.

Word Count: 8.8K

Warnings: Explicit references of prostitution, violence, foul language. Sexual Content= fingering, clit stimulation, the wonderful female orgasm. Just slapping on an 18+ warning here now.

F!Reader is a Madam of a ship brothel.

Author Notes: My first ever Tumblr fic! I hope everyone enjoys, I do have more coming down the pipeline! I know my writing style may be a bit different than the usual, so if you have any kind tips please drop an inbox!

Chapter 2 ->

There were times you regretted entering into your agreement with Dracule Mihawk. It was supposed to be a simple exchange of commerce. Your esteemed company on occasion and a consistent exchange of information at the notorious Warlord’s leisure. Mihawk’s favor kept overly enthusiastic pirates and marine alike from harrying the floating brothel.  Profits have never been higher,‘Unexpected’ expenses were almost nil aside from the occasional over indulgent client.

It all worked out. Practically.

A hiss escaped your lips as the leather strings of the corset around your bosom cinched a fraction tighter. Manicured nails dug into the strong wooden bedpost in front of you as you bit down a retort as a telltale ‘tsk’ came from Bathory behind you. 

“Must it be so tight?”

“If you want to show your appreciation properly, yes. It’s a beautiful piece, Madam. It has to be shown properly,” Bathory retorted as the corset’s tug cut off your retort. Thankfully it was the last set of laces as the red-haired woman stepped back with a directed thumb in the direction of the mirror behind her. 

“You are right. For once ” You reluctantly admitted as your fingertips smoothed down one of the many frilled layers of the corset’s bottom half. It was like the delicate flourish of a rose’s crimson petals layering upon each other as the wave of petals crashed into one another, leading to black silk. Small brass buckles no larger than the tip of a knife clicked into place over your bare collar bone to allow the flowing sleeves of fabric to drape down to your wrists.  Tinted lips quirked as a familiar necklace settled over your throat, a delicate little piece of jewelry. One that both infuriated you initially and softened your heart as time went on. A silver dove with its outstretched wings speckled with shattered rubies. The accessory was no larger than the center of your palm, but it felt all the heavier against the top of your sternum.

“Seems almost a shame. Gets you finery to wear and the like but hasn’t done anything with-” Bathory’s snide comment was cut off as the nosey prostitute hastily ducked from an errant steel-backed hairbrush thrown in her direction. The dove’s weight caught your breath as you spun on your stocking covered heel as sharp nails caught Bathory’s blush tinted cheeks. Dark eyes were wide in fear as you fought the urge to sink your nails into her.

“We don’t discuss the arrangements with private clients, Bathory. Ever. If we ever find you smothered in your sleep, we will know it’s because you mouthed off about the wrong client in bed. It will be YOUR fault. So let’s use this past mistake as a lesson,” You hissed before releasing your grip on the woman’s delicate features. Cool anger brushed through your veins as you knew the woman’s snide remark had some truth in it. Your company had been requested frequently, more than several times in the past few months. An unusual uptick. However, it wasn’t for ‘that’, no, the pirate was restless. Bored. As he put it, what better way to pass the time than wind you up before leaving come dawn.

“Bored. I’ll show him. Bored.” You snarled under your breath as you forced yourself to not fidget as Bathory hurriedly finished your dressings. A trademark of your ship, all crew members clad themselves in modified skirts. Their lengths reach down to the feet, but cut window-like at the thigh, bearing stockings and the like. The cut fabric is held up by garter belts and straps at the waist, easily allowing the wearer to sweep aside excess fabric in a curtain-like fashion to be pinned back with a few quick ties. 

“Not my place but-” Bathory’s words were stifled by a whirl of skirts. Your eyes narrowed further as a clear sign that further commentary from her wouldn't be tolerated. Besides, it was all too easy to pick up her next questions. Were you restricted from other clients? No. Why not take a dedicated lover amongst the crew if your needs were so insatiable? 

Because. Boring. Your nails dug into your palm as the mere word floated through mind in that exact infuriating inflection and tone of his. Mihawk made even the mere thought of someone else in your bed, a boring prospect. 

“He’s ruined me, Bathory,” You moaned pitifully as the woman rolled her eyes at your theatrics. It wasn’t something as childish as love. You weren’t that naive. No, it was the rush of excitement that came from being with one of the Warlords of the Sea. The mere sight of the sanctioned pirate made weaker men piss their boots.

“Shall I bring you last month’s berry stash for you to wipe your tears with?” Bathory deadpanned before marching over to your quarter’s door, opening it at the expected knock. 

“You’re up, Hepa. Now quickly before we have to get the salts out for the dramatic Madam Captain’s vapors. We have reached Baratie, right?” Bathory asked as the young man in front of her flashed a bright smile. A wordless confirmation that the docks of the famed restaurant were within eyesight.

“Shall I bring you the salts anyway, Madam Captain?” Hepa snickered as he mockingly offered you his arm to be escorted from the privacy of your quarters through the dimly lit underbelly of the ship. All about you was a flurry of activity as prostitutes and sailors alike moved in a coordinated dance. Gulls cried out their welcome as the flag of the Victoria waved boldly in the bright sunshine. Her Jolly Rodger was that of a blooming white rose, its stem wrapped around by golden chains.

“Madam Captain, afraid we might have some problems with a few select patrons of the Baratie if my memory of the crews are correct. I’ve already spread the word to others about potential issues.”  A hoarse voice addressed you from above as an agile form landed gracefully on the deck, swiping long black bangs from her features. A harsh jagged scar across the woman’s features did little to dim the natural beauty of pale green eyes. However, there were a few that had been deterred by Joan’s prickly nature. The woman wasn’t cowed by anything, not for any amount of money. 

“Does that include yourself, Joan? Wasn’t there that one poor fellow from the 65th Marine regiment that walked off our decks with a few missing digits? I believe your threats to  his wee -” 

Hepa’s recollection was cut off by your hand over his mouth. The crew didn’t need to be reminded of that particular incident. Nor the bribes that to be paid to that Marine’s commanding officer to keep the grievance quiet. It was the first time you heard Mihawk laugh after you complained about the incident. Scoring Joan a few points of respect with the temperamental Warlord upon their next encounter. She was the perfect 1st Mate after all, and had been for the last five years.

Adjusting the center of the small black flat bonnet, the crimson ribbons delicately flowed from the headpiece as you forced a practiced smile on your lips. The games had begun as soon as the heavy thud of the gangplank hit the docks, announcing your arrival. It was a practiced mockery of polite society with all the bows from the fishman host, expressing their delight to be hosting your company once again. On such unexpected notice too. Once again it was a simple exchange of commerce. Lusty clients would cajole company with food and drink, heedlessly ignoring the cries of their money purse as it flowed into the infamous pirate turned head chef’s pockets. You had earned the moody chef’s ire exactly once, after a dispute had broken out between clients over a favored whore. Breaking a few dishes in the process, no, the worst expenses came in the blood that would have been scrubbed relentlessly from the pressed tablecloths.

Even a mere shrug of “We are pirates, you know.” didn’t stop Zeff from charging you for that mistake. For months on end, News Coos would be commissioned to harass you at the break of dawn until you finally paid up. 

“A pleasure to see you again, Madam.”  The warm but glassy tone stirred you from your thoughts as a pair of wine glasses were set in front of yourself and Joan. A genuine hint of a smile brushed over your features as your cheeky waiter winked at your surprised reaction.

“Causing trouble again for Zeff, Sanji?” You mused as Sanji muttered something under his breath. So, the pair were bickering again, the men fought over the culinary aspects of life like dogs over a meaty bone. 

“It is to my great fortune, as I get to see your beautiful face once more. Yours and Miss Joan’s-” Sanji’s words slurred with the edge of a rasp as the flirtatious blonde’s attention slid over to Joan. Her face had hardened like stone as she snorted before idly waving away Sanji’s words like an unpleasant smell. Even that harsh rejection didn’t seem to dampen Sanji’s attentive nature as the man was all but offering to sit in your lap if it pleased you.

“Such a good boy.” You purred as Sanji recalled your specific request for wine from a previous visit. Delicate, full-bodied crimson wine flowed into the crystalline glass as you took an apprehensive sip of the vintage. It was perfect. Dry, but hints of oak and cherry lingered on the edge of your taste buds. 

“I live to serve,” Sanji simpered before his good-natured smile slid off his face as if someone had slapped him with fish as a far coarser voice demanded his attention. 

“I pity that man’s kidneys if he asks Sanji another question.” Joan muttered wickedly as Sanji’s charming demeanor had turned into a threatening storm cloud as the unruly guest jabbed a thumb into the waiter’s chest. 

“Let’s just pray for all his internal organs, hm?” You retorted with another sip of the glass. Sanji could be as short tempered as his mentor if someone pushed the wrong buttons. Your veins sung with an elevated flood of adrenaline as you watched the visible muscle in Sanji’s defined cheek jump. Oh he was becoming livid. You were about to find out about what soon enough.

The man was all but sweating whiskey as he placed an unsteady hand on the table next to your  placed wine glass. You could smell the sour notes of alcohol as he gave his best ‘winning’ smile before clearing his throat loudly. 

“It is a great honor that the Steel Madam grace us with her presence, on this fine evening. Your crew’s charm and beauty is well-known even in the youngest cadets barracks. Some would say it is their goal not to catch the most notorious pirate, but to lay eyes on your very form.” 

It was too easy to read the man. Marine. Boldly displaying his rank as a lieutenant with his few paltry stripes on his coat. The tops of his knuckles free from painful rope burn or the small cuts of errant swings during sword drills. Beyond all that, it was sheer arrogance in his smile when his other hand brushed over your thigh.

A burst of giggles spilled from your lips as you brushed off the advance with little interest. Confusion, anger and surprise flinted over the Marines face as Joan snorted into her wine glass from across the table. As your laughter subsided, you forced a polite smile on your face before allowing the cruel but practiced rejection to begin.

“You honor me with your words, Marine. Afraid you won’t be able to enjoy my company tonight, you see it isn’t because I am occupied at this very moment. No, it’s because you would bore me to tears with your little bravado and tales. Past experience has made me realize men with such pretty little lines and false sincerity have far more 'inadequacies’ in my manner of expertise. Perhaps, you should try your luck with my companion here. She does like teaching stupid puppies little tricks..” 

Joan’s sharp kick to your knee stilled your words as you winked across at the stoic woman. It was far more likely that Joan would leave the man with more than bruises and healthier respect for the world’s oldest profession.  You and your crew clad yourself as people first and then a commodity, sometimes others saw the second first.

Like now as ringed fingers harshly gripped your face, pulling your attention from Joan to the infuriated Marine. Oh, he wasn’t used to rejection as your eyes narrowed when his grip didn’t loosen. Now he was playing a dangerous game. The few quiet conversations around you stifled as onlookers waited to see what would happen next.

“You think you can reject me? You’re just a fucking whore. Aren’t even worth the trash namesake of pirate, since all the fighting you and your fucking slags do is on your back. You should be on your knees sucking my co-”

 You quickly removed the three inch long hair pin from your hat. Fluidly driving it through skin and muscle alike into the man’s other hand, placed ever so perfectly on the pristine table cloth. The sharp point driven with such finesse that not a single droplet leaked from the impaled flesh.  A pained gasp slipped from the Marine’s lips as you easily ripped out the tinted needle from flesh before neatly wiping it off with a folded napkin.

“You may not want to bleed too much on that floor. I am surprised someone as ‘well-traveled’ as you wouldn’t recognize a pirate. After all, prostitutes are one of the most profitable pirates alive. I could just as easily strip you naked, take your coin with a gentle smile, and decide to dump your broken corpse into the ocean after bombarding your stationed vessel because you failed to please me. All of those troubles are because of someone stupid letting slip about the changing of the guard and where exactly your treasurer keeps ‘stolen’ goods. All these little simple things that you can’t see potentially unfolding in front of you. All because you can’t see beyond your little shriveled worm of a thing I am sure you boast off as a cock. So, do kindly, go fuck off somewhere else.”

If it were possible for the Marine’s ruddied face to turn any harsher, you would have been surprised. Except, the little bout of entertainment was drawn to a close by the sickening noise of human teeth crashing against the floorboards from Sanji’s foot plowing downward into the man’s spine. Your head tilted inquisitively to the side as you were sure that some of the spinal column in the moaning man’s lower back had tilted a little to the right. Too far right if your guess was correct.

“Excellent choice in wine, Sanji” You hummed as the waiter stepped over the groaning lump with a well-practiced movement. Tipping in the precious liquid into your half empty glass with a slight glint of amusement.  The waiter wasn’t meant to be a waiter, no, Sanji had proven once again about the reputation of the fighting chefs of the Baratie. Sanji bent at the waist in an elegant bow before offering you his hand to assist you from the table.

“That won’t be necessary, Sanji. Thank you. If I require anything else, I will know who to ask for.” You said softly as the man’s bright smile shrunk a mere centimeter. Still, he allowed you to collect the opened bottle with little question as you passed by him with a cheeky wink. 

“I have seen kicked dogs that looked less put out than him.” Joan whispered conspicuously from behind as you both ascended the gilded staircase, the pair of empty wine glasses clinking merrily together.

“Please, Joan, not now. We have far bigger issues than him if-”

Your words froze on your lips as you reached the landing of the bar space. It was near impossible to miss Mihawk’s signature blade, coat and hat. Anyone who was anyone knew of the Warlord as several patrons gave him ample space with exchanging silent worried glances as the faintest hint of a sigh caused Mihawk’s posture to go from languid to stiff. Even from behind, you could tell he was focusing on something by the slightest tilt of his head, provoking his feathered hat to tremble from the movement. 

“He’s…listening for something” You whispered in Joan’s ear conspicuously dragging her toward the edge of the bar by her wrist. Thankfully, there were a pair of open seats across the way as few seemed to be willing to subject themselves to the loudmouth drunk at the bar. Boldly boasting about a victory over the Marines. Was this the apparent target from Mihawk’s letter? Your hand didn’t leave Joan’s wrist as a quiet command for her to wait. However, it didn’t stop her from hissing under her breath as your grip involuntarily tightened when Mihawk’s gaze met yours for the first time.

Gods, he had beautiful eyes. To targets, their orangish hue struck fear into their hearts as a bird of prey rips a mere sparrow out of the sky. Yet, you knew better. The gentle flicker of warmth as you recount stories of some long ago memory, a curious tilt of head when you lose track of the conversation. The cool resolve and defiance as you begin to bicker over something petty, followed by mischief as he begins to try to crumple your resolve. Except, now all that you could read was an air of ignorance bellied by prickling irritation as you could see a nail run over the bottom of his wine glass.

Your eyes flicked to the loud drunk in a silent question “This can’t be him. No pirate is this-”

A twitch of his pointer finger was all the answer you needed “No. But wait.”

It would be difficult to miss as the loud drunk proclaimed himself as Captain of some mighty crew. Bold and brave enough to disable a marine ship. For the warrior of the sea was the great Captain Ussopp, it would have almost been an impressive tale if the man clearly wasn’t so deep in his cups.  Even lies had a hint of truth to them. Why else would Mihawk be bothering to eavesdrop like this?

“A little push may be needed, Joan. If you don’t mind.” You muttered as you sent off the woman with a small tap on her butt towards Ussop. It was like watching an octopus camouflage itself within a new reef as the disgruntled woman’s cool expression turned into a warm, bright smile. Giggling loudly under her breath as Joan leaned forward on the bar counter, startling Usopp into almost dropping his drink. Did the man just enjoy hearing himself tell lies unaware that he could be attracting attention?

“You don’t mean you fought off all those Marines by yourself. A whole ship against a pirate crew? How frightening.” Joan whispered in a lower tone as Usopp grinned roguishly before raising his hand to his mouth in a mock stage whisper.

“Well no. You see, there is this guy..kinda our captain, Luffy, bounced it right back at the-”

Mihawk blinked slowly at this reveal as you took a few steps closer to the enraptured Joan, a far more demure expression on your face in comparison to Joan’s look of adoration. It was turning into a pincer movement as Mihawk joined with a mere request to meet this strange Luffy. Akin to a sheep amongst wolves, Usopp agreed as he slung a loose arm over Joan’s shoulder with little regard to her flicker of irritation. Guiding his ‘date’ and new ‘friend’ towards a far quieter table. Unfortunately, his associates  were far less dim-witted as the swordsman called Mihawk out by title and demands for a duel.

Fuck.

As the game was revealed, Joan shoved away a nervous Usopp with a look of disgust.The young man was looking paler and paler by the second, threatening to spew all he had drunk over the bar floor. Or was it from the escalating air of violence that whispered between the swordsmen as Mihawk indulged the whimsical, but potentially fatal request of the young upstart. All, while the orange haired woman’s emotions were as plain as day on her face; all the fear and anger, brief for a moment as it was composed into a mask of calm.

“ You look somewhat familiar to me. Makes me wonder if you kept even stranger company than this-” Joan retorted as eyeing Nami.. Only leaning away when Zoro’s booted feet slammed against the table, a clear warning for the woman to back off.

Astute dark eyes slid over to your seated form at the bar as you gave a flicker of your fingers in greeting. Even drunk, you could see him rip through the facade of silks and make-up. To the weaponry hidden underneath the elaborate skirts. The heavier weight of the leather sheath brushing against your knee was all the more comforting now. Ronoro Zoro was dangerous, even you weren’t stupid to deny that.

However, you had far more pressing issues as your brain short-circuited as the mouth-watering scent of Mihawk surrounded you like the ocean itself. Close. He was far too close as you saw the tell-tale tick of his mouth flicker. Enjoying your stunned reaction far too much as he stood in front of your seat, blocking you from view. The delicate wine glass in your other hand shattered into fragments on the bar countertop when the swordsman’s right hand brushed over your left hip bone, strong fingers possessively curling around you. A quiet demand for your attention instead of fretting over the green-haired duelist.

Not once in five years had Mihawk been this public with his touch. The world rushed around your ears as you could see but not hear his sigh as Mihawk glared over his shoulder at Joan. Peering around Mihawk, you could see that she was getting far too comfortable with baiting the challenger. However, any thoughts beyond the pressure against your hip were rendered mute.

Why now? Why was he doing this to you? Thousands of questions burned through your mind as you blinked blankly at Mihawk as prickles of irritation danced over his words as he addressed Joan.

“Leave the boy alone, Joan. I prefer opponents with their kneecaps still attached.” 

Oh. When did the woman’s mace come out as its heavy head in the glass table with a screech. Zoro’s fingers drifted towards his swords as you could feel your heart pick up from the escalating tension. Or was it from Mihawk’s tighter grip as Joan gave her potential opponent a leering smile. She didn’t work for the Warlord, she worked for you.

“Joan. Go find someone else to toy with.” Your tone sounded remarkably hollow to your own ears. Like you still weren’t present even as you could feel the faint stinging sensation of splintered glass piercing your palm. Followed by the faint glare of the bartender dutifully cleaning up the mess you caused. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered at this point as your brain tried to connect unseen dots of Mihawk’s display.

It was like floating in a dream, half-awake but knowing it wasn’t real. That it could all shatter within a blink of the eye as Mihawk escorted you back down the dining floor. An infuriating barely there smile on his face from your reaction. What was he playing at? Even the screech of the opposite chair and its sturdy back did little to make you speak those words.

The world came rushing back as the stinging of glass was pinched and prodded by calloused but gentle fingers as you tried to make a fist. Mihawk quickly pressed a thumb to your wrist, preventing the action with a cool stare from across the table. The dining area of the restaurant felt all the louder now as several conversations mingled around your table, some doubtlessly about you. All you could focus on was the tinted red fragments of glass piled up on the table, pulled from your hand. The bloodied fragments were almost as red as the wine in Mihawk’s glass that he took a drink from as he tapped a finger impatiently against the table. 

“Please do stop staring at me like I am Donquixote Doflamingo acquiring you for my personal household. It was merely a bit of glass in your hand, not a mortal flesh wound.”

“It’s not that.”

“Isn’t it?”

Mihawk’s nonchalant attitude stoked your temper as he hadn’t ever publicly acknowledged the entire affair ever. Not once. Yet, now here he was acting as if it was a daily occurrence to show some sort of affection. 

“Are you dying? Are you worried about losing tomorrow? Did you piss off the World-”

Mihawk’s quiet chuckle stilled your hissed questions as your eyes narrowed suspiciously. The man was hiding something from you. He was truly dying? No. It had to be something far deeper. There was a reason behind the madness.

The light brush of his hand atop your knee underneath the table made you flinch in surprise.

“Because I felt like it, little dove. Is that reason enough?”

“Arrogant bastard.” Your voice dropped to a low hiss as you could feel goosebumps prickle over your legs as his hand reached further up to your thigh. Teasing at the silken window of fabric of your skirts in short taps. 

“I am not in the mood for games, Mihawk.” You spat as you took a deep drink from your own wine glass. Trying to keep a blank mask even as a hint of want brushed over your mind as Mihawk’s hand curled through your thigh. 

“Then tell me to stop.” Mihawk challenged as his amber gaze glinted with amusement. It was a look you had seen time and time again in bed. Wanting you to ‘run’ so that he could ‘catch’ you until you were at his mercy. Like a feline batting around a mouse for fun instead of substance. A soft ‘hm’ slipped from the quiet man’s lips as you daringly spread your legs further apart. Daring him with a move of your own.

“So. The boy interests you? That’s quite a change.” You muttered in a casual tone that pitched up an octave as agile fingers tugged at the unseen knot of your skirt’s strings. Cool air caressed your now bare thighs as the skirts now gathered to one side in a layer of fabric. Frustration and desire mingled longingly as calloused fingertips skirted against your skin. Tracing unseen patterns as you swallowed tightly as the fingers brushed near your inner thigh before retreating. 

“He has guts. A change, indeed” Mihawk retorted as his head tipped to the side eyeing your form. Quietly watching the subtle changes of your body as arousal trickled into your mind, clouding far more rational pride and decorum. The smallest increase in your breathing patterns, the start of dilation in your eyes. The keen observation made the pit in your stomach grow all the larger as the slightest deviation from the normal was scrutinized. A maddening talent when Mihawk felt like drawing out your pleasure in bed, edging you until you dangled on the tip of euphoria but pulling you back with ease.

“Ask.” Mihawk teased as fingers brushed over the edge of your hip. All it would take was a single pull of the ribbon holding up your underthings. Then you would be truly bare to the world. In public. Heat sank into your form as you could feel yourself begin to relax. It had been some time since your last coupling, and self-pleasure could only get you so far in dousing your needs.

“Mihawk.” Your voice was a mere breath that edged on a whine as your eyes dilated with the first gentle brush over your core. That little bundle of nerves would be your downfall even as the fabric of your lingerie covered it, it was almost as good as bare as soon as his pointer finger trailed over it. Slowly manipulating the digit at a snail’s pace with practiced brushes as you shifted closer in your seat.

It was almost infuriating as Mihawk was looking like the picture of elegance across the table. Draining the last bit of wine from his glass as he put it back on the table. Tracing the crystalline stem contemplating even as his other occupied hand did the same. The same slow, almost painful pace as you bit the inside of your cheek. You weren’t going to break that easily. Not yet, as you swallowed a whine as he brushed over the edge of your cunt’s lips, smearing fluid over your wanting clit. Further increasing the pleasure of the next brush as your hands tightened around the edge of the table cloth.

“Don’t give up the game so easily, dove.” Mihawk mused as you didn’t dare open your mouth to retort. It was impossible to know in the haze of lust if actual words or a mere pitiful whine would slip from you. Or if the man’s agile fingers would decide to go from teasing to dangerous. The rational idea that he wouldn’t make you orgasm in the very crowded restaurant was becoming illogical as you knew that look in his eyes.

It was all a game for him. Playing with your desires, bringing you to his desired peak before letting you go. Waiting for you to explode from a white-out blinding pleasure. It was inexplicably cruel and unexpected during your first entanglement, but now it was exciting. Dracule Mihawk was an exceptional lover when he wanted to be. Perhaps one of the man’s biggest secrets known only to you. 

He was patient. You were not.

The little game of two turned into an unwelcome three as Sanji’s gentle voice broke through your focus. A fresh bottle of wine in the waiter’s arms as Mihawk gestured for him to set the bottle down. Watching the cork of the wine bottle opener was maddening as with rotation, Mihawk’s fingers swept over your throbbing clit as you bit down on your lip as you could feel your thighs begin to tense. Your breath pitched for the briefest second as cheeks burned with embarrassment when Sanji’s concerned gaze turned from the bottle to you. 

“Are you alright, Madam?” 

A hiss of pain escaped your lips as you forced your knees upward into the table. Bucking Mihawk’s meddlesome fingers away from you for a moment as you forced a watery smile on your face.

“Yes, fine. Sanji- thank-”

Your words edged from collected to a whine as Mihawk retorted with actions of his own. Within a span of seconds, shifting your lingerie aside as cruel digits brushed over your now bare clit. Want and desire purred in your veins as you swallowed tightly, rolling your neck as if that would stop the wave of lust shorting any rational thought from your mind.

“Are you sure? You are looking a bit red?” Sanji asked gently, touching your shoulder as Mihawk’s gaze flickered from your crumbling face to the waiter’s hand. Now the swordsman’s digits drifted from your clit to your soaked pussy, brushing over the hot velvet walls as your gaze went wide at him.

Don’t you dare.

Then pay attention to me.

Jealous. He was jealous. A completely foreign idea to you that the swordsman could become so prickly over Sanji’s familiarity. Then again, he was full of surprises tonight as you forced a strained smile on your burning cheeks

“I’m fine, Sanji. Don’t worry.” It was a poor performance as your words caught on your breath as the waiter's gaze slid from you to Mihawk. The utter disdain and irritation from the swordsman rolled off him in waves now. Go. Away .Now. It was a message made loud and clear as your eyes narrowed at Mihawk as Sanji’s steps retreated.

Too far.

A scoff at the minor scolding sent anger chipping at the edge of lust and want. The reality of the situation was the absurdity of this entire dinner. Mihawk’s strange affection and daring had turned you upside down as you struggled to put yourself into a rational mindset. Repercussions could be severe if you were caught in such a vulnerable position, much less the creeping shame of the blatant display of sexuality. The realization hit you like a cold wave of water, private, you wanted this to be between Mihawk and yourself only. Selfish, greedy, all these things hissed in your head as your hand caught his wrist, lightly pushing it away. 

Why?

A curious tilt of his head as you hastily rearranged your skirts into their proper display as you rose from the table on teetering legs. Nails digging into the tablecloth to steady yourself as you took a deep breath before muttering under your breath for him to meet you outside in ten minutes.

The request was a mistake as your heels clicked restlessly against the fragmented dock. Even the gentle roar of the sea around you did little to quiet the restless thoughts that rampaged now. What was that about? Why did you stop it? What was Mihawk playing at? Did you even want that? All questions turned into aggression as someone grabbed your wrist forcibly halting your pacing. Violence and lust paired together so deliciously as you easily twisted ,while pulling a knife from your skirts, all too happily ready to slit someone’s throat. Anger singed the thought as you registered who it was.

There was a quiet screech of the blade of your knife embedding itself into the crate next to Mihawk’s head. His gentle sigh as the anger in your gaze flickered to hesitation as he released his grip on your wrist.

“We should work on your aim, darling.”

“Stop. That.” You snarled as your nails curled around the collar of his overcoat. Pulling your faces a mere inch apart as you could feel yourself being peeled back layer by layer within his eyes. It was like watching a precious gem shatter into pieces as you could see flickers of his own emotions. Want, confusion, amusement, a speckle of irritation when your grip didn’t loosen after a few seconds. 

“What?”

Your retort went to ashes in your mouth as the question was one even you couldn’t answer. Not now. It wasn’t from the pet names, no, it wasn’t the first time for that. Your heart thumped a little faster as you recalled the first time you addressed a dove. A lazy, but affectionate drawl as the heat of sex cooled around you. The critique of your ability to defend yourself? A mere speck of irritation when it came from the world’s greatest swordsman.

Then what was it?

A soft sigh escaped your lips as gentle fingertips brushed over your cheek, trying to pull you back from your labyrinth of thoughts. Followed by the skitter of goosebumps over your throat as Mihawk traced a familiar path downward. A hint of a smirk on his mustached face as he brushed over the gifted pendant nestled above your corseted chest. The involuntary scoff from you when his fingers brushed over the swell of fabric instead of the skin that lurked underneath it. 

“Now don’t pout, pet.” Mihawk muttered as your positions easily flipped with a light tug. Now the damp wood of crates brushed over your back as you all too willingly spread your legs apart to allow the swordsman's frame between them. This you could do. Could focus on as you shifted impatiently as Mihawk’s hands settled on your hips, teasing the knots of your skirt with slow contemplation.

“Do you want this?” A mere puff of words against your throat.

“Mihawk, don’t make me-” Your hand was quick to smother the bastard child of a moan and yelp as the cool sea air hit your lower half followed by delicious waves of pleasure. Your head tipped back against the crates as you tried to keep your panting softer, well-aware of Mihawk’s burning your expression. It would be over all too soon if you looked him in the eyes, he could read your body with a mere blink. Who knew when you would get this again.

“Should I stop?” Mihawk rasped as your legs quivered at the thought. While your foggy brain all but screeched in protest as the pleasurable rhythm over your clit paused. A hiss escaped your lips as Mihawk was quick to pin you back against the crate. Unable to twitch a single muscle, but feel the agonizing brush of leather against your soaked cunt. Even the scent of your own juices sent want further down your core as Mihawk lighted gripped your face with viscous fingertips.

“All I need is a yes or no..” Mihawk muttered as his eyes went wide in surprise with your next movement. Rutting, you were all but rutting against the man’s thigh, desperate to get some sort of friction against your cunt. Your panting came in short, harsh bursts as your nails desperately curled into the back of silken black hair. Pressing the swordsman against your throat to feel your thudding pulse as your whimpers pitched with relief when Mihawk’s thigh went an inch further between your legs. This was what you needed, wanted, hungered for after a long month.

Maddeningly your euphoric burst of pleasure didn’t come within minutes as expected. No, it is like standing on the edge of a cliff in your gut, never quite falling. Tears of frustration prickled the corners of your eyes as one daringly fell against Mihawk’s buried face. Shifting darkened lust to concern as he gently tipped your flushed face upward. Casually brushing away your traitorous tear as his head tipped in that silent question.

What’s wrong?

“I..tonight..was..alot. Just things on my mind.” You admitted sheepishly as your words sounded beyond clumsy. This entire affair wasn’t between fumbling teenagers or strangers. He knew your body as well as you did at this point. It was an infuriating talent of Mihawk’s to track the time it took for you to cum. With or without his assistance, he had astonishing accuracy. 

“So. Stop. Thinking.” Mihawk chidded with a note of amusement. As if your personal confession had been a mere quip instead of something as serious as this. His eyes rolled dramatically as you stared back blank-faced, you didn’t find it funny in the slightest. A hum slipped from him as you wiggled in protest as once more he trapped you with his own body. 

“I can help with that. Then you can happily prattle your worries off.” Mihawk teased as he pressed an open kiss to your thudding pulse.

“You fucker..” You hissed as he chuckled quietly against your throat. It was a dangerous start as you could slowly feel yourself starting to slip. Gods, you weren’t that needy were you? The entire evening could have been over and done without all the theatrics if Mihawk had just led with this. The telltale pricks of pain and pleasure as his teeth nipped at your sensitive throat. While his left hand gripped at your corseted right breast, feeling your frantic heartbeat beneath the cumbersome attire. Yet, the true joy came when you arched your hips supported by his thigh, as his right hand palmed at your clit. Tracing the small bundle of nerves in a slow circle as you could your breathing pitch. An immediate shift in pattern to up and down.

“Please, don’t stop..” Your voice edged on begging as you could feel your thighs begin to tighten. Closer and closer to that one thing you desperately sought as your nails sank into Mihawk’s overcoat. A selfish whisper of wanting for it to be warm bare skin instead of slicked cloth. 

“I’m sorry, that doesn’t sound like you are cumming all over my trousers, dove.” Mihawk purred as you hadn’t a chance to even think of a response. Fuck, you didn’t even think you could speak in the common tongue as your clit throbbed as the pace turned from casual to harsh. Wanting to drive every single thought from your worried head to piercing bliss.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” The vulgar swears came off your lips like a blasphemous prey as your core burst from the hot heat. Your nails had to have sunk deep through fabric as you could feel Mihawk’s breath pitch into a hiss from your hands dragging over his shoulders.  Yet, you couldn’t bring yourself to care as all you could feel was the slow ooze of hormones and the gentle throbbing of your cunt. You even managed a half hearted apology in your hazed smile, as a new jolt of excitement hit your cooling guts. 

Mihawk had that look in his eyes. One that was both terrifying and exciting at the same time. That this little brief moment of bliss wasn’t enough to satisfy the swordsman. No. He wanted you utterly fucked out.

“Mihawk.” Your voice was a mixture of a whimper and begging as he all too easily turned you around to face the crates. Your manicured nails bit into the sodden wood with reckless abandon as he slid on hand over the cusp of your soaked cunt. You couldn’t help but shudder as calloused fingertips made a v-shape around your inflamed clit. Even having the slightest pressure near the shocked bundle of nerves made you want to whimper. Too much it was going to be too much as you shifted away from the testing digits. 

“Stay still, dove.” Mihawk ordered as he nipped at one of your earrings. Humming gentle praise as your legs spread a bit further at his gentle urging with his free hand, caressing against your inner thigh. A choked moan slipped from your lips at the first gentle touch of your pulsing cunt. It wasn’t going to be frantic or rushed like your earlier failure, no, he was going to draw you out like a taut string.  Or at least that was his usual choice of play as you couldn’t help but sag in relief at his next words.

“Let’s get you out of this rain before you catch a cold..”

“Mihawk!” Your voice turned from gentle grace to a harsh pitch as pleasure arched into your spent body. That treacherous spot in your cunt would be your undoing as tears stung your eyes as you were bombarded by waves of pleasure. Splattered by the delicious pain of your overstimulated clit, it was all too easy to sink into the blissful black once more. A snarl slipped from you as far different pain sank into the side of your throat. Even then there was a tender moment as his lips met yours in a gentle kiss. Never pushing for more as you tried to resurface from the haze. The cool reality is sinking in from the heat.

“You are never biting me. Again. Ever.” You hissed in short breaths as you struggled to catch your frazzled brain up with your current irritation. An extremely pleased Mihawk’s full body weight pressing you against the crate from behind with one hand measuring your pulse with two digits. While the other tightly gripped your waist to prevent any sort of unwanted movement. Like the silent demands on an overgrown house cat or perhaps a panther would be more accurate, Mihawk would move when he wished regardless of your grumblings. Wanting to feel your hormone addled heartrate’s erratic thumping settle into a gentle lull in the aftermath of pleasure. A quiet reminder of life since death was done at the swordsman’s so often.

Or he found it amusing that you weren’t one for much cuddling after the fact.

Eventually you settled on the answer of it being a combination of both. Your strained patience could only take so much from tonight. Between the light drizzle of rain, disheveled clothes and the pressing weight of Mihawk languid stance, it was making the little floating feelings of pleasure circle the drain. A sharp hiss slipped from your lips as you gingerly brushed over the broken skin on the side of your neck. He had bit you far too hard this time. In such a public area, marking you for all the world to see. Breaking one of the few rules of your agreement.

“You’re going to pay for this. Aren’t you?” You growled as your manicured nails tapped against the swordsman’s buried face to pull his attention from your shoulder to your throat. Flippant pain radiated from the reddish skin as Mihawk’s lips pressed over the mark gently. Your nails threatened to leave moon-shape marks as your request wasn’t something to be toyed with. No, it was demand.

Fix this. Now.

“Shall I buy you a collar then? Something frilly and obnoxious that draws even more stares to you.” Mihawk muttered against your throat, you could feel the faint twitch of his smile as your nails gripped a fraction tighter. 

“This isn’t a game. I have a reputation to uphold. I can’t exactly maintain it if I walk around looking like I had been marked like some feral cat in heat..” You hissed as captains, wealthier clientele all held out for the miniscule chance you would take them to bed. An illusion that Mihawk took great pleasure in shattering by leaving marks on your body. No one liked to be reminded that their chosen company was shared afterall. 

“So uphold your reputation. The steel-spined Madam of the Basileia Pirates, Madam Captain of the Victoria. Speculated by rumors that she has turned into a frigid bi-”

“Mihawk, this isn’t-”

“A game. I know, dove. So stop trying to play it.” Mihawk rasped as he turned you around to face him properly. There was an undeniable seriousness in his gaze as he lightly tilted your face upward, forcing you to meet him head on. Any further retorts or biting sarcasm vanished from your mind as the reality of the situation slunk in like a scavenger. Five years, this arrangement had suited you both perfectly well. Never entertaining girlish thoughts of romance except on your worst days, practical and level-headed. Now Mihawk was in the flesh, proposing an alternative.

“So, speak plainly then.” You whispered as a flicker of embarrassment edged your words at the faint tremble in your voice. Was it fear for the future? Rejection? Excitement? You couldn’t explain the confusing tangle of emotion.

“Become my Paramour.”

The word sank like a stone in the vastness of the ocean. It had an echoing quality to it as your mind burst into frantic activity. Mihawk wasn’t joking, he wasn’t baiting you into another game. He meant it. ‘It’, you didn’t even dare name the proposal in your own head. Fuck, how were you supposed to accept it outloud.

“Please tell me these long periods of silence won’t become the norm with you.” Mihawk teased as your lips went into a flat expression of irritation. As if he hadn’t just proposed something that would monumentally shift the trajectory of your reputation. To him, such a change would be a mere splattering of ink on some documentation, in comparison to the news of sinking entire fleets. Yet for you. You could already imagine the new files that would have to be drawn up on you.

“You are serious. Aren’t you.This isn’t just a whim.” 

“Have I ever been one for whimsy?” Mihawk retorted with a roll of his eyes as your hands fisted around the lapel of his overcoat. A Paramour wasn’t a mere name lauded on some favored bed warmer. It had implicit marking of partnership, your name would forever be linked to the Warlord for better or worse. Seeing you at his side wouldn’t be a random chance, but expected. Spreading out of your life from bed to crew. What would their reactions be?

“I’ll give you my answer, tomorrow. Just don’t die to some upstart. I would blame this whole proposal as a sign of bad luck” You muttered

“Such little faith, little dove.” Mihawk teased as his lips met yours in a gentle kiss. The pair of you remained like that for some time. Even as the drizzling rain turned into a true display, it didn’t matter. Only tomorrow did.

Series Masterlist Here

[do-it-jakey-baby]

A Familiar Face

Jake Kiszka x f!reader

The idea for this one shot came to me one day and I couldn’t not write it, so I thought I’d take a v brief break from An Unlikely Encounter to get it down on paper. Hope you enjoy and as always thank you so much for supporting my writing!! 🫶🏻

Warnings: smut, adult themes

18+, MINORS DNI

Jake’s POV

The soft glow of candlelight flickers, illuminating the otherwise pitch black room. She lingers above him in her crimson lingerie, nipples pebbled and noticeably showing through the sheer lace cups. Her velvet thighs straddling either side of Jake’s waist as she grinds against his impossibly hard cock. Jake stifles a moan as she slips her fingers into the elastic of his waistband and pulls down, springing him free from the restraint. It slaps against his stomach and he looks up, his eyes pleading for a release. She picks up the lit joint that is placed in an ashtray beside them and takes a long drag.

“Open”

Jake opens his mouth and she blows the fragrant smoke into it. His eyes roll back into his head. Fuck, that’s got to be one of the sexiest things he’s ever witnessed.

With the joint back in the ashtray, she settles in between his legs and sucks his head into her plush lips, rolling her tongue slowly around it. Jake’s hips buck.

“Fuck, baby” he sighs.

She begins to work down his length, bobbing her head slowly at first but picking up the pace with every strangled moan. Her hand cradles his balls as she takes him deep into her throat, peering up to watch the whimpering mess she’s created.

“Shit, oh fuuuuck. Baby, I’m- I’m gunna fucking cum! Fuck, don’t stop!”

~

Jake bolts upright in his bed, pulse racing and on the very edge of an orgasm. Fuck, not again.

Over the past few months, this unknown woman has plagued his dreams. Each time, he wakes up to a very close call. One second longer and he would have painted the inside of his boxers with his own cum. He had no idea who the woman was, but fuck did he wish that he did. She was perfect in every way. She knew just how to please him, unlike anyone he’d ever met. She had him whining and cursing within seconds with her sweet, sweet mouth, lips like rose petals and skin like satin. He peels himself from the sheets stuck to him and walks to the bathroom. He flips the shower on, eager to wash off the sweat from his dream. As he enters the shower he looks down at his cock, the tip glistening with pre-cum.

I need to sort myself out before I start getting ready for the day.

He shuts his eyes and transports himself back to the memories he’s collected from his string of dreams, and with a few flicks of his wrist he throws his head back as he relieves himself down into the shower tray.

Once he’s finished cleaning himself up he steps out of the shower and dries off. He finds himself a basic outfit from his suitcase, and as he’s pulling up his jeans there’s a knock at the door.

“You ready to leave for the arena?” Josh smiles, stood in the doorway of the hotel room.

“Yeah, let’s head.”

The four band members pile into their transport and light conversation ensues, excitement brewing for the night ahead.

“Hello, earth to Jake?” Danny waves his hand in front of Jake’s face. He was so consumed in his own thoughts that he’d completely zoned out.

“Sorry man, what were you saying?”

“I was saying, no offence brother but you look like shit… Did you not sleep well?”

No, no I did not.

Jake sheepishly looks up. “Ha, yeah you could say that. Guess I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

The bus pulls up out the back of the venue and the band piles out, Jake being the last to step out. He thanks the driver and pats the door twice.

“Sound check in 15 boys.” One of the crew states. Jake nods and shuffles off to his dressing room. Sitting down at the dressing table, Jake hastily runs his hands through his hair and peers at his reflection in the mirror. Fuck, he does look like shit. His under-eyes are charcoal, features weary and fatigued. He opens the mini bar and grabs a bottle of water, chugging down the cool liquid and silently hoping the hydration will help shift the evidence of his sleepless night. A knock at the door sounds.

“Come in.”

The door opens and Josh stands there.

“You good?” Josh asks, making his way over to the couch.

“Yeah, just… very intense dreams.”

“Her again?”

Jake nods. Josh is the only person he’s told about the mystery woman, although not willingly. Josh had pried it out of him one evening after a night of drinking. Jake had felt embarrassed and refused to go into much detail.

“I think it’s a sign.” Josh ponders.

“Well, I wish the sign would leave me the fuck alone.” That’s not 100% true, Jake would miss her presence in his dreams, but he couldn’t continue on like this for much longer. Waking up like that most mornings was agonising. He hadn’t felt the warmth of another body in a while, promising to himself that the days of picking up girls for mindless one night stands were behind him. He had vowed to focus on the thing he loved the most, the music. When he was on stage, he felt alive. The fans kept him going, he adored every one of them and the places they had taken him and his band. Truly grateful for every experience and opportunity, he was eternally in debt.

“We should head over for sound check now, that’ll take your mind off her.”

Josh was wrong, this time it was different. Jake couldn’t get into the zone. This was never an issue for him, and he loudly cursed at each bum note.

“What the fuck!” He boomed, ripping the cord from his guitar and throwing it down onto the ground. The rest of the band stared at him, mouths gaped.

“Let’s take 5.” Danny called out, offering a comforting pat to Jake’s shoulder.

“What the fuck is going on with you, dude?” Sam asks, walking over to the two.

“Don’t!” Jake glares, nostrils flared. He removes his guitar from his body and storms out of the room, slamming the door on his way out.

“Fuck sake Sam, learn to read the room.” Josh rolls his eyes, throwing his hands up.

Jake makes his way to the bathroom, running the tap and splashing the water onto his face. Get a fucking grip!

He sighs heavily before returning back to the stage. He walks over and picks his guitar back up, placing his pick into his mouth. “From the top. When the Curtain Falls.”

~

Jake manages the rest of the sound check without an error, his mind finally back where it should be. The next few hours fiy past as the band prepares to take to the stage, rushing around in a flurry of make-up, hair, and wardrobe. The stage hand ushers for the boys to follow him backstage, signalling into his headset that they were on their way. They move into their positions on stage ready for the curtain to drop. Josh places a hand on Jake’s shoulder and gently squeezes it.

They launch into the first song on the setlist, Jake’s sleepless night melting away from existence as he loses himself in performance. He makes his way across the stage, guitar lifted up high in the air as he elicits shrieks and wails from the audience. The fans make his job easy, with every face he sees screaming his name the fire within him burns brighter. He was born to do this, and he fucking loved every minute of it.

As Danny launches into his drum solo, Jake follows Josh and Sam to the B stage, which is situated at the back of the arena. A small, intimate podium erected so that their fans at the back could get a taste of what those at the front experience. Jake slings his acoustic guitar onto his shoulders and adjusts the waistline of his pants as he sits down onto his stool. They begin another song and Jake leans into the mic placed in front of him for his harmonies, blending effortlessly with the boys. As they finish up their section on the B stage, Jake looks out into the crowd and his breath hitches in his throat. He squints his eyes, wondering if they are deceiving him in the low light, but as he stands from his seat and walks across the platform he freezes. Just below him, stands a girl. The girl. His eyes widen. Josh looks over, wondering why Jake is stood gawping into the audience. Jake is swept up into a trance, and suddenly it’s just him and her in the empty stadium. Their eyes meet and she smiles sweetly at him. She is the most beautiful thing he’s ever witnessed, her picture-perfect face should be framed and hung in the most prestigious of galleries. She’s wearing a denim bell-bottom jumpsuit, adorned with silver and gold crescent moons and starbursts. Her hair, long and wavy, hangs elegantly over her shoulders. She’s wearing a crimson lipstick, the exact same shade of red as her lingerie in his dream. A small badge on her chest reads ‘Jake’s Girl’. He’s pulled quickly out of his fantasy back into the bustling concert by Josh, tugging on his arm.

“Come on man, we’ve got to get back to the stage.”

“She’s here.”

“Who’s here?” Josh asks, brow furrowed.

“She is. Her. The only her.”

Josh’s eyes blow wide, he looks around but then realises he doesn’t even know who he’s looking for. The only person who knows what she looks like is Jake. Before Josh has time to respond, Jake has taken off down the steps of the podium and is frantically making his way to a member of security.

“Hey, I need you to get a message to the girl in the denim jumpsuit wearing the ‘Jake’s Girl’ badge. Give her this pick and tell her to wait by the barricade at the end. I want someone to come and get her and bring her backstage.” He points in her direction.

He nods and takes the pick, and Jake watches him disappear into the crowd in the direction of the girl.

The rest of the night goes by in a blur, with Jake hoping and praying that the member of the security team found her and relayed the message. As they take their final bow after their encore and leave the stage, Josh sprints after Jake and grabs his shoulder.

“What do you mean she’s here? How is that possible?”

“I don’t know, but that’s her alright.”

The same member of the security team that Jake had interacted with earlier approaches him.

“She’s at the barricade, where do you want her?”

“Bring her to my dressing room.”

Jake sits on the couch in his dressing room, nervously twiddling his thumbs. A glass of bourbon sits on the table in front of him, the condensation rolling down the sides and pooling onto the coaster beneath. He picks up the glass, bringing it to his lips and tips the rest into his mouth. He savours the burn as it slides down his throat.

A knock sounds at his door and he straightens up, beads of sweat collecting at his hairline.

“Come in.”

The door opens and there she is, stood behind the security guard.

“Is this who you wanted, Mr Kiszka?”

Jake nods and beckons her to enter the room.

“We’re all good, thank you.” Jake addresses the security guard. She steps into the room and the guard shut it behind her, leaving you both alone.

Your POV

You shuffle into the room awkwardly and the door is shut behind you. What the fuck?

When the security guard had approached you and told you Jake had personally requested to see you backstage, you couldn’t believe your ears.

“Are you sure he meant me?”

“Positive, he told me to find the girl in the denim jumpsuit with the ‘Jake’s Girl’ badge. That’s you.”

Your cheeks glow red as you clutch onto the pick you’d been handed. You hastily thanked the man and stood there, staring into your palm. The other girls that surrounded you looked pissed, jealous that you’d been extended the offer and not them. Now, you were in Jake’s dressing room, stood right in front of him. He looks up at you like he is a lion and you are his prey, his eyes full of lust.

“Hi.” You squeak, not knowing what else to do.

“Hi, would you like a drink?” He gestures to the bar cart next to him.

“Whatever’s strongest.”

“A girl after my own heart.” He smiles, setting out a glass and pouring the amber liquid into it. He pats the space next to him, gesturing for you to take a seat. You gingerly approach and sit as far away from him as you can, sipping on your drink that you hope will give you some liquid courage.

“I don’t bite, you know.” He chuckles, so you move closer so that your thigh is lightly brushing his. “What’s your name, beautiful lady?”

“Y/N.” You breathe, feeling drunk off his presence. Fuck, he smells so good. Almost edible. You meet his eyes and feel a blush creep across your cheeks.

“Why did you ask me to come back here?” You ask meekly, avoiding eye contact. He re-positions himself so that he’s facing you and reaches his hands out to cup your face, moving it to meet his eye.

“Well, because you’re my girl, aren’t you, Y/N?” He places his finger onto your badge. You audibly gulp, and watch as he runs his tongue across his lip. Within seconds, he’s on you, crashing his lips down onto yours. You lips move against his like you’ve done this a thousand times before, it feels so familiar and so right. His tongue coaxes against your lips and you part them, letting it slide in and meet yours with urgency. He lifts you on top of him, wrapping your legs around his waist.

“Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for you?” He whispers into the shell of your ear, eliciting a sweet moan from your lips. His fingers dig into your hips as he pulls you down onto him and you feel how hard he is against your clothed core. You’ve had many dreams just like this one, each time you awake from them panting and cursing at yourself for waking up. Now, this time it was real. Jake Kiszka’s lips were on yours, his hands on your body, his impressively hard cock pressing into you. He pulls back slightly, his chest heaving.

“Before I go any further, do you want this?” He breathes, peppering kisses against the sensitive skin on your neck.

“I’ve never wanted anything more.”

He groans, his hands grasping at your jumpsuit. It’s as if he can’t get it off quick enough. Your hands splay across his exposed chest, his silver chains hitting against them as he unzips you. He grips around your waist with one arm and lifts you enough to slip the jumpsuit off. Underneath, you’re wearing your favourite set, red intricate lace adorns your breasts and covers your lower half in a barely there thong. His eyes widen and he throws his head back.

“Oh fuck, my favourite.”

You raise your eyebrow at him, contemplating how it was his favourite when he’s never seen it before. But you’re pulled from your head quickly as he palms your breasts and attaches his lips back to your throat. You whimper, pulling yourself against him as hard as you can. He shrugs off his crystal studded jacket and you swiftly unbuckle his belt and unzip his pants. He picks you up and places you on your back, then removes his pants and kicks them aside. His eyes meet yours and they almost look black with desire.

“I wanna eat that pretty little pussy of yours.”

You squeak slightly, nodding pleadingly. He drops to his knees and begins planting kisses from your ankles, up to your thighs until he’s between your legs. A finger grazes lightly over your centre and you ball your fist up in his hair. He dips his fingers into the waistband of your thong and pulls them down, then plants a soft kiss directly on your clit. Your grip tightens in his hair as you bring your lip between your teeth, biting down so hard you almost draw blood. He begins to lick lightly at you, pushing your legs as wide as they’ll go so that you open up for him, then he slides his tongue into you and then up through your folds. You moan and he begins mercilessly sucking at your swollen bud, circling and flicking his tongue. Just as you think it couldn’t feel any better, he slides a finger inside your dripping cunt and begins to curl it up into your g-spot, still devouring you at the same time.

“Jake, oh fuck, I’m gunna cum.” You squeal, digging your fingers into his scalp.

He ups his pace, pulling back for a mere second to speak.

“Please, cum for me baby. I wanna taste you so bad.”

You throw you head back and cry out his name as your orgasm crashes violently over you. You hear him grunt as he laps up your release.

“Fuck, so good, so sweet. You want my cock, pretty baby?”

“Yes… please, Jake. I need it so bad.” You whine, slightly taken aback by your desperation. He pulls a condom from the drawer underneath the table. He came prepared. But there was no time to think about that. Just as he’s about to tear the packaging, you bring your hand up to stop him. You take the condom and throw it across the room. He looks at you quizzically.

“I’m on birth control, and I’ll be damned if I don’t feel all of you inside me.”

He groans and pushes you back, then lines himself up with your entrance and slides himself in. You both moan as he bottoms out. He brings your legs up and wraps his arms around your thighs, anchoring you there and begins pounding into you. With each thrust you let out a symphony of sweet, sweet noises, letting Jake know just how good this feels. It was like he was made to be inside you, made to fill you up as deliciously as he is. He bends down and bites into your neck as your fingernails rake down his back.

“Fuck, Jake. It feels so good.” You pant, completely swept up in the immense pleasure. You grasp onto his hand and bring it to your throat and look him dead in the eye.

“Fucking choke me.”

He takes in a sharp breath and you feel his dick twitch inside you, then he wraps his big, calloused hand around your throat and squeezes it just right. You clench around him, drawing a hiss from his mouth.

“Shit, uhhhh. God damn, baby.” He sighs.

You push him off of you and onto his back and climb on top, sinking down onto him. You bounce up and down, taking him all in as far as he’ll go and gyrate your hips. He anchors onto your waist and begins to drive up to meet you, hitting your cervix and causing you to cry out in ecstasy.

“My turn, on all fours!” He barks. You move into the position and he’s behind you, you hear the faint clink of metal.

“How do you feel about me using my belt?”

“Do it.”

He loops his belt in his hands and smacks it down onto your ass, you yelp and tears prick at your eyes, but fuck, you love it.

“More.” You plead, and he rains down on you again with a satisfying thwack. You can feel yourself dripping down your thighs. Jake runs his fingers through your folds agonisingly slowly, then leans forward and puts them in your mouth. You suck your slick from his fingers and he uses his free hand to stroke his cock at the sight.

“Use your belt to choke me.”

He loops it around your neck and slips back inside of you, thrusting heavily and uses the belt to pull your head back. You arch your back, plunging into complete and utter euphoria as you clench around him.

“Cum for me baby, I can feel you’re there.”

You cry out, cumming hard around his cock. His movements sputter and you know he’s almost there too.

“Fill me up Jake, I want you to cum inside.”

“Oh fuck, fucking shit!” He drops the belt and collapses onto your back as he twitches inside you, painting your walls with his orgasm. He stays there like that for a few moments, both of you catching your breath. He pulls out and moves into the bathroom. You flip yourself onto your front and lay there, chest heaving, You just fucked Jake Kiszka, what the actual fuck. You silently praise yourself for wearing the lingerie set.

He pads back into the room with a washcloth and hands it to you, you thank him and clean yourself up. When you’re done he pulls you on top of him and kisses a trail from your collarbone up to your lips. The kiss is soft, a wordless display of affection. It’s as though he’s known you for much longer than a few hours.

“That was fucking incredible. You are fucking incredible. It’s everything I ever hoped for.” He breathes.

You furrow your brow. “Jake, you’re talking to me as if you know me.”

His cheeks turn red and he looks away for a moment, before sighing. You feel as though he’s battling with himself on what to say next, conflicted by his thoughts.

“This is going to sound crazy, but I’ve been having dreams about you for the past few months. Very vivid dreams.”

Your eyes widen. “I’ve been having dreams about you too, but I thought that was normal when you have a crush…” You softly laugh, feeling embarrassed at the revelation.

“Maybe there’s something that ties our souls together.” He says, caressing your cheek.

“Maybe there is.”

[shyrose57]

Hey, uh, where's my Pirates SMP Fic where Scott's crew gets a quest to transport the Runeblade somewhere?

Where's my story where they're all out at sea for an unforeseeable time, sailing to distant lands, trapped on the ship with a sword they don't realize is more than it seems until it's far too late to turn back. Trapped with memories they don't know what to do with, and ghosts they never meant to invite onboard.

Scott sets the sword beside his bed, wrapped in it's careful cloth per the specific instructions from the harried collector. It's tucked away carefully, more carefully than even he is prone to, for reasons he can't explain.

Is that care why he wakes choking in the night, spitting up blood, and reaching out hands to yank the blade from his chest only to realize nothing is there, and the thick crimson spilling from his mouth has left no stain?

Is that why the pale dried petals in one of the many books on board slip into red and reform into a flower being tucked behind his ear, by a man in blue, a man in green, a man wearing a wedding ring. He thinks my husband before he thinks stranger, except when he goes to stand nobody is there, and the petals are still tucked between the pages.

Cleo eyes it warily, when it's brought aboard, but thinks nothing more of it, and maybe her carelessness is why she doesn't pay attention when the first flashes begin, just the barest hint of color shifting in the corner of her eye that she passes off as a trick of the light.

Then she turns her head and finds Scott's sprouted fins at his head, red streaked in his hair. A faceless figure behind him raises their sword, and she shrieks and slams into them, only to fall through and tackle her captain instead.

She leans back against the mast, and green flashes beside her, a toothy grin she smiles back at, a name on the tip of her tongue dying as Olive's face comes into focus, smile much softer, and the moss she swore made up their coat vanishes. She can't remember who else she thought it was going to be. She thinks it was someone she would've died for.

Owen has other priorities, and unless he's asked, he doesn't see the need to worry about it. And then, she spills some expensive wine he'd sweet-talked from a Kestrel's hands on the ground, and the exasperation is, for a moment, overwritten by terror. The liquid darkens and the scent of iron makes him reel back for a single moment, before she blinks and it's just....wine again.

He stumbles his way to the ship's side, not nearly drunk enough to wash away the unease in his heart, and double takes at her reflection, now blond and boyish, a warm brown jacket tucked around them tight in the chilly air. Someone calls her name behind him, except it's not his name, it can't be, so fundamentally wrong when the boy staring back at her would never know it was supposed to be his. It takes Water's hand at his shoulder before she responds.

Olive thinks the sword is curious, but that's the extent. Until, at least, the world wobbles under their feet, and the door to the captain's cabin suddenly seems impossibly tall, how are they possibly meant to get in there, they can't reach-

It's utterly nonsensical. It keeps happening. The ship lurches, their heart flutters in terror, for surely they'll be tossed into the walls, and they shake to realize they somehow stayed on their feet. Cruppy prods at their hands, concerned at their behavior, but it's not Cruppy, it's something else that's edges fade too fast for them to grasp. A shadow looks wrong along the ground, and it lunges for them, and they almost goes overboard trying to get away from some phantom that isn't there.

Eloise blinks back sleep from her eyes, not even thinking of the sword in the midst of her crew's strangeness, up until an absolutely beautiful shark swims beneath their boat, and the whole crew watches in quiet appreciation. She spins on her heel, goes to spill forth something that she knows in her heart will be just as pretty but the words don't come out how she wants them to, falling like flat notes in an off-tune song, and she's not even sure what she was trying to do when it's done.

She splits her hand cleaning a sword, and opens her mouth to call for Cleo, even though Owen is mere feet from her and already going for the bandages. The words catch in her throat anyway, when she sees her there with Scott, and the sunlight spins across orange locks turned greenish-ebony, and a tattered overcoat becomes a gorgeous, elegant dress that has no place on a pirate ship, and-and she averts her eyes trying to make sense of the sudden wish to be half as strong as the strangers that had stood where her friends were as Owen helps wrap her hand.

Water dreams. Oh, how she dreams. She dreams of a world where a single red heart hums on her wrist, and knows with a terrible sureness that she won't come back should she misstep here. But that means little, not when the warm earth beneath her fingers settles there so beautifully. Not when the food she pulls from the earth is so ripe, waiting to be torn into and devoured.

She wakes up, and steps from her bed, half-expecting the world to fall out from under her where it flashes gold for a moment, and stumbling for it. A phantom weight twitches at her back, and she greens at the smell of the sea for one, strange second, wondering where the flowers are. She comes back to herself, and tries to shake it off.

They all try to shake it off.

Scott's eyes are not green, or yellow, or red. He makes no noise when Cleo slams him to the floor with a protective snarl, aiming for some opponent no longer there to strike him. He waits for Owen to blink back to herself, and realize Scott cannot do whatever it is he thinks he can, does not know magic the way she sometimes is assured he does. And they quietly disperse the phantoms they catch him begging to in the night without a word, correct him when he inquires after a different brother than the one he has, half-asleep.

Olive is not small. But they are not shoved off when they desperately grasp at Eloise's arms, or tries to steady themselves against Water, when the world seems too big. And they take Water's hands when she scrabbles for the deck, digging at wood until it bloodies her hands, holding them until the other remembers they are at sea. When Eloise grabs for something that isn't there, and goes to jump ship at a flash of pink in the water, Olive pulls her back, and calls her name until she knows herself again.

They try to shake it off, and they utterly fail.

The Runeblade leaves it's mark. Even once it's tossed to it's next owner at their destination by Scott's too cold hands. The dreams fade, but still sit, waiting for them to doze and come awake crying out. The ghosts fall back to the corner of their vision, stepping forward when they make the mistake of wavering, with names they shouldn't know on their lips, and promises none of them ever managed to keep spilling forth.

Give the story, where a wretched quest changes them at their cores in a way they never anticipated.