#(And they are notorious in surviving everything)

[cbsblossom]

btw, not adressed to any Screamers, just something I've been thinking about lately

How Silver would react to finding out more info about Starlight!Starscream

A Starscream who joined the Autobots for real. Who is friends with Optimus. Cares about Optimus. Friends with humans. Grows to care deeply about (at least some of) them. A Starscream who still has his trine.

do you think he'd be mad? Jealous?

there's so much potential for conflict.... hmmmmmmm

Oh you better hope he doesn’t, which he’ll canonically won’t cause Maroon is the only one who’ll know and Maroon ain’t risking the life of the poor guy but hypothetically….

“Nothing personal…kid”

…then there’s a 60% chance that Starlight will be injured to hell and back, unless he decides to fight with his full strength, in which case it’ll turn into a 50/50 situation. I do believe that Starlight would put up an excellent fight though lol

[pochapal]

(voice of god speaking through me) life is strange double exposure should have had victoria chase as the protagonist

[spikedfearn]

Heavy Lies The Crown

Chapter I

Sir Jimmy Crystal x fem!reader

summary: Decades after the Rage Virus devastated the UK, the infected have thinned but the world remains lawless and brutal. You’ve been surviving on your own until you’re captured by patrols from a notorious compound hidden in the Scottish Highlands: Eden. Its soldiers are strange—clad in random mismatched tracksuits, long blonde hair hanging tangled and wild like heathen halos, each armed with beautifully maintained bows. Silent. Precise. Unsmiling.

And then there’s their leader. Sir Jimmy Crystal. A gold-chained, tiara-wearing, crushed velvet zip-up psycho with a God complex thicker than his drawl. He doesn’t want to kill you. He intends to keep you.

wc: 6.3k

a/n: So I started absolutely gooning for Jimmy from the moment he drawled “ugh fuckin’ geaux” in the ninety seconds of screentime he has and now here we are. And if you came to shame, save your breath—I already talked about the discourse around him here. My k-hole tracksuit cult-leading princess lives rent-free in my brain, and I’m charging him for every second. Stay mad. Stay wet. Stay blessed. Now ugh—fuckin geaux. Big shout out to @amaranthine-enihtnarama for beta reading, thanks pookie!! NO SMUT in this chapter it's all setup, sorry guys <333

warnings: dark!romance, post-apocalyptic setting, cult dynamics, abduction, forced proximity, authoritarian/power dynamics, God complex, psychological manipulation, ritualistic obedience, choking, breath play, breeding kink, creampie, corruption arc, sexual tension, mentions of blood and decay, mentions of death and violence, intimidation, d/s dynamics, forced bathing, captivity, worship themes, verbal degradation, possessive behavior, choking from behind, unsettling atmosphere, cult rituals, light threat of force, elements of stockholm syndrome, highly charged sexual context, dubcon overtones

likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated please enjoy!!

Fic Masterlist/Main Masterlist

Chapter I: Annointed

The air here smells like wet iron and peat. It clings to your throat, heavier with each breath, as if the land itself wants to remind you what’s been spilled on it. A silence rests over the hills—not peace, but the uneasy stillness of something watching. Listening. Holding its breath.

You haven’t seen another living person in days. Weeks? It’s hard to keep track when the sun rises behind a haze of ash and dusk always comes too soon. Even the sky seems starved. The clouds hang low and bruised, heavy with rain that never falls.

The forest stretches ahead like a mouth left open too long. You step lightly. Leaves rot wet beneath your boots. A broken fence curls under moss, the last gasp of an island that once had tidy borders and polite signs. You pass rusted-out trailers on cinder blocks, windshields shattered, doors long gone. The doors always go first. People rip them off in a panic, thinking it’ll help. It never does.

The cold bites through your clothes. Not sharp. Just damp. Soaks into your bones. Makes the ache constant. Your breath ghosts in front of you as you walk, and for a second, you pretend it’s cigarette smoke. You used to hate the smell of it.

Now you’d kill for it.

Your stomach hasn’t stopped making noise. You ignore it. You’ve become skilled at ignoring it, the same way you’ve learned to ignore your own smell, the taste of metal in your mouth, the dull throb in your calves from days of walking with no real destination. You’re looking for food. Shelter. A map. Anything.

You cross a clearing and crouch low in the grass, just like you’ve done hundreds of times before. You survey the landscape: a ruined farmhouse collapsed under its own roof. No movement. No dogs. No smell of death and decay that you've grown almost nose-blind to. Could be safe. Could be worse.

Everything could be worse now.

You move. Cautiously. Deliberately. The earth here is soft and the wind carries no scent—just the musk of damp bark and pine needles. Still, something feels…off.

You pause and tilt your head to listen.

Nothing.

Too much nothing.

Birds don’t sing out here anymore. The ones that do don’t last long. Sound gets you noticed. Attention gets you killed. And this silence is the wrong kind—the hollow kind, as if the trees themselves are waiting for a bloodcurdling scream.

You take another step. A branch snaps beneath your boot. Loud. Too loud. The noise cracks like a warning shot through the quiet.

And that’s when your spine prickles.

Not fear; not yet. Something worse.

Recognition.

You're being watched.

The hair on your arms stands up before your brain can catch up.

You don’t run. You don’t call out. You listen.

The kind of stillness around you isn’t natural. It’s curated. Like someone hit mute on the world.

No birds. No bugs. Not even the soft flit of wind threading through branches. The entire forest has gone tight—drawn taut like the string of a bow, pulled back and trembling, waiting for the moment it breaks.

You slowly lower yourself into a crouch, hand pressed into wet moss. It gives under your palm with a faint squelch, soft and cold and alive with decay. The loamy scent rises up, thick and rich and sharp in your nostrils. Earth and blood smell too close sometimes.

Your heart thuds once, a heavy pulse.

Your fingers curl tighter into the dirt. Grounding. You’ve learned to trust instinct over logic. Instinct kept you alive when logic said the people you loved wouldn’t turn. Instinct taught you how to sharpen a stick into a weapon. How to scavenge rats. How to sleep with one eye open.

Instinct is telling you now: you are not alone.

You shift your weight slowly, inching backward through the brush. One heel catches on a vine. A small sound, but loud enough to make your skin go cold.

Your breath starts to pick up. Not fast. But deeper. Sharper. Your throat feels too open—too vulnerable.

You scan the trees. Nothing.

But the feeling doesn’t go away–it grows.

That same prickle at the back of your neck starts to burn. You can feel eyes. More than one set. You don’t know how—you just do. You feel them drinking you in. Not hungry. Not even curious.

Calculating.

You stand and backtrack carefully toward the collapsed farmhouse, thinking maybe you’ll duck behind the stone wall, find higher ground, get a better vantage point.

You take one step. Another. Then freeze.

Movement. Not in front of you. Beside you.

The sound is barely audible—just the faint rustle of fabric, the smallest crunch of gravel.

Your lungs go tight. Your mouth floods with the taste of copper. Your fingers twitch toward the handle of your rusted blade, tucked beneath your coat. Useless. Too slow. You already know.

Whoever—or whatever—is out here with you? They’ve been watching for longer than you realized.

And they’re close. Too close.

The sound comes first.

It doesn’t ring like a bullet or howl like a holler. It hisses. A sharp, slicing whisper that splits the space beside your filthy cheek and buries itself into the tree behind you with a heavy thock!

You freeze, breath clinging to your lungs.

The bark splinters. Chips rain down against your shoulder. A sliver catches in your collar, warm with friction. You feel it there, resting against your skin—proof that the shot wasn’t a miss.

It was a message.

Your pulse explodes behind your ribs. That thin line of stillness you were standing on? It breaks. Snaps. Shatters.

You wheel around, instinct gripping your limbs. One foot twists in the underbrush. You catch yourself against the tree trunk—the same one the arrow is now buried deep in, vibrating slightly as if it’s still alive. The shaft is black, smooth, and handmade. Fletching dyed dark green. No markings. No blood. Not yet.

You reach for your blade without thinking.

And then you see the second arrow—already drawn.

A figure steps out from behind the trees. Slow. Graceful. Like they’ve had all the time in the world to decide what happens next.

They wear a tracksuit—top unzipped, fabric torn at one sleeve, the color somewhere between piss-yellow and vomit-green. Their hair is long, tangled, hanging in ropes around their face. Their skin is streaked with dirt. Mud along the jaw. Ash on the hands.

And they don’t say a word.

Another shadow moves behind them.

Then another, and another. And another.

One by one, they emerge like ghosts stepping out of the woodwork—blonde, dirty, silent—clad in mismatched tracksuits stained with smoke and rain. Each one armed. Each one watching.

Some hold their bows. Some notched and ready. Others just stand with knives visible at their hips, bone-handled and used.

The archer who fired first tips their head to the side. Curious. Unbothered. Like you’re not a threat. Like you’re already theirs.

You don’t breathe. Your lungs refuse.

Another arrow hisses past you and strikes the ground by your foot. Close enough to kiss your boot.

Still no words.

Just eyes. Watching.

Measuring.

And then one of them smiles, just a little

It’s not warm.

You don’t plan it. You just move.

One moment you’re frozen, breath snagged between ribs, and the next—your muscles snap into motion like a trap springing shut. You pivot on your heel, throw your weight into the turn, and take off into the trees.

Branches slap your face. Mud sprays up the back of your legs. The forest blurs.

You run like you’ve never run before—like the ground might open beneath you if you stop, like air is poison and the only cure is speed. Your lungs seize in protest. Your legs burn. Your heartbeat crashes against your eardrums, a war drum in your skull.

Behind you, the forest doesn’t make a sound.

No shouting. No chase.

Just the sick, humming quiet.

And that’s worse.

Because it means they don’t need to run. They already know where you’re going.

Your boots slip on a slick patch of wet leaves. You catch yourself, barely, skidding through brambles that catch your clothes and tear at your arms. You don’t care. You don't feel it. All that matters is forward. Get to higher ground. Get to somewhere—anywhere—they can’t surround you.

You vault over a fallen log, fingers skimming the mossy bark. The scent of rot is thick in your nostrils. Dead wood. Old things. It clings to you like a second skin.

Somewhere up ahead—there’s a break in the dense canopy of trees. Light, maybe. A clearing. A way out.

You bolt for it, lungs screaming. Every step is thunder in your bones. You don’t look back.

But the air changes again.

A shadow flits past your periphery—too fast to track, too quiet to follow.

Another.

Then—

Crack.

Your foot catches on something taut and hidden beneath the brush.

Not a root.

A snare.

The loop cinches around your ankle, and before you can scream, your body slams sideways into the ground with a sickening crunch. The air punches from your lungs. You taste dirt. Cold. Blood. Pine needles jam under your nails.

Then—snap—a figure descends from the treeline like a wolf from a perch, boots landing heavy in the earth.

You try to scramble. Slip.

A hand grabs your arm.

Another closes around the back of your neck.

Then a voice. The first one you’ve heard.

Low. Calm. Male. Fucking delighted.

“That’s enough now, wee thing. Eden’s got ye.”

The hand at the back of your neck doesn’t squeeze.

It doesn’t have to.

It just settles there, heavy and final, fingers splayed wide like it’s already mapping your bones. It holds you in place—not hurting, not pinning, just claiming. Like you belong on your knees, pressed into the mud, spine curved and breath coming in sharp, humiliated bursts.

You twist. You kick. But the snare’s still wrapped around your ankle, biting into the skin. Any movement pulls it tighter.

You try to reach for your blade.

Another hand wraps around your wrist. This one is colder. Slimmer. It doesn't yank—it just presses, thumb digging in just enough to tell you: don’t.

You look up.

They're all around you now.

Six. Maybe seven. It’s hard to count through the blur of leaves and light and pain, but they stand in a wide circle, mismatched tracksuits streaked with earth and soot, hair hanging in matted ropes, eyes like damp stones. None of them speak.

One of them—barefoot, bow still drawn—grins, flashing a mouthful of decay. Some teeth are rotted through, black at the roots. Others jut out at odd angles, twisted by years without mirrors. One is missing several along the top row, exposing pale pink gums when they smile too wide.

“Slippery wee thing,” someone mutters from behind your shoulder. The one who caught you. The voice is deep. Smooth. Oddly kind.

You flinch when he touches your hair. Just a graze. Fingertips through the strands. It’s not affectionate. Not cruel, either. It’s closer to curiosity. A priest handling a relic.

They murmur to each other in low tones, too quiet to make out. The sound of their voices doesn’t feel like a conversation. It feels like a ritual.

One of them kneels beside you and cuts the snare loose. It snaps back into the undergrowth like a live wire.

You think—now. Move. Fight.

But the blade is already gone from your belt. You don’t even remember the moment they took it.

The realization sinks in slowly that you never had a chance. They weren’t hunting you. They were herding you.

You try to speak. A demand. A threat. A plea.

But all that comes out is a ragged breath and the taste of copper.

One of the archers—an older woman, face half-shadowed by dirt—leans down close enough for you to smell her. Woodsmoke. Sweat. Blood.

“He’s gonna be so pleased with ye.”

You’re cargo.

They move with purpose now.

The man behind you grabs the back of your coat and hauls you upright. Not violently. Just effectively. Like lifting a sack of flour. You stumble, one leg still half-dead from the snare. He steadies you with a hand to your spine, then turns you sharply toward the trees.

“Come along now,” he says, rancid breath hot against your ear. “Wouldn’t keep Him waitin’.”

They don’t blindfold you.

But they might as well.

The forest that follows looks like no place you’ve ever walked before. The path isn't marked—but it’s known. Worn bare by repetition. Sinewy footprints in the muck. Grooves dug into the soil from dragging something—or someone. The trees here lean inward, heavy with damp and time, their bark split and bleeding sap that smells sickly sweet.

The archers fall into formation around you, wordless. You hear their breathing. One whistles tunelessly through a gap in his teeth. Another pulls a long rag from her waistband and begins to wrap your wrists together—not tight, but tight enough.

“There. Now ye don’t get lost.”

The woman smiles. Three teeth. All bottom row.

You walk.

The cold bites deep now, not just into your body, but into your understanding. This is a procession. And you are the offering.

With each step, the terrain shifts—brambles give way to packed soil, then mud, then flattened leaves stamped down by boots. You spot bones underfoot. Clean ones. Stripped bare. Not fresh.

Not all are animal.

Someone carries a lantern ahead of you—oil-burning, the flame shielded by cracked glass. The light it throws is golden but small, and it doesn’t reach far. Enough to see the tracksuits shimmer damply in the gloom. Orange. Burgundy. Baby blue. One glittery purple jacket with rhinestones across the back that read PRINCESS.

It would be absurd if they weren’t so quiet. So coordinated.

So devout.

The deeper you go, the more the woods shift.

There are things hanging from the trees now.

At first, it looks like refuse. Rags. Rope. Plastic. But then you pass beneath one and realize—it’s a tracksuit jacket, tied by the sleeves, dangling like a flag. Faded. Bloodstained. Bullet holes across the front.

Another hangs beside it.

And another.

Rows and rows.

You keep walking. Your stomach clenches. Something between fear and nausea. The woman beside you leans in close as you walk.

“Ye smell good,” she mutters. “He’ll like that.”

Ahead, between the trees, a shape rises out of the fog.

Too square to be natural. Too still. A low wall. A break in the forest. Stone, maybe. Cracked and overgrown but not abandoned. Smoke curls from behind it. Not rising—crawling. Slipping through gaps like it knows how to sneak.

Then you see it—Eden.

Not a village. Not a home. A ruin made sacred by madness.

You’ve reached the edge of something ancient and wrong.

And He is waiting.

They lead you through the gate without ceremony. They don’t speak. They don’t need to. Two archers bracket you like a pair of looming, mismatched statues come to life. One takes your elbow, fingers firm but not brutal, guiding you forward.

The other falls in step just behind your shoulder, close enough that you can feel the faint whisper of hot breath brushing the back of your neck. Together, they move like a single, breathing thing—as if this ritual of capture has been practiced countless times before.

The gate itself is little more than a broken arch of crumbling stone and rusted metal, tangled with ropes and strips of torn tracksuit fabric. You step through it like a witness passing into a holy site. The air inside is different. It’s thicker. Heavier. The smell of damp earth, old wood, and smoky oil threads itself around you.

Your guides do not march. They don’t shove. They don’t drag. They flow, forcing you to match their pace until your body finds its rhythm between theirs. The hand on your elbow doesn’t grip harder when you falter, it merely corrects, a quiet pressure that steers you along the path. The one at your back doesn’t guide with force, but with presence, an overarching warmth that reminds you any move backward would be met with a wall of muscle and sharp steel.

Each footfall becomes an announcement. The sound of your soles scuffing stone is echoed by theirs, precise and orderly. Not a word is exchanged. Not a glance thrown. But every movement feels orchestrated—as if every hand that guides you, every step that matches your own, is serving the same silent god.

They lead you through the gate, and you realize it’s not just an entry. It’s a threshold.

A point where belonging is no longer a choice. A moment where obedience is the only language you’re allowed to speak.

There is no archway. No guard tower. Just two leaning stone pillars draped in mold and rot, bound at the top with torn strips of tracksuit fabric, knotted into fluttering banners that shiver in the breeze. The wind shifts, and the smell hits you like a wet slap—woodsmoke, sweat, burned meat, something sour rotting under it all.

No one says a word as you cross beneath it.

Inside, Eden is...wrong.

Not abandoned,not thriving. Held together by will alone.

Shattered cottages lean against one another like drunkards. Doors hang from rusted hinges. Roofs are patched with sheet metal and broken crates. Every building is bruised and sagging, but still standing—as if the place refuses to die simply because someone commanded it not to.

There’s no power. No lights. No hum of life. Just the hiss of smoke and the wet slap of boots in the mud as you’re marched forward.

You pass people. Not many. Maybe a dozen.

They don’t wave. Don’t smile. Don’t ask questions.

They just stop what they’re doing—sharpening blades, scraping hides, pulling weeds from cold soil—and watch. Some lean against walls. Others crouch like animals. One man gnaws on a charred rabbit leg, letting grease run down his chin, his eyes never leaving you.

Their hair is tangled, matted, stuck to their foreheads with sweat or filth. Their tracksuits are soaked, stained, misbuttoned or zipped up all wrong. Their teeth—what’s left of them—gleam yellow or black or don’t gleam at all.

And yet, they glow. Not with health, but with devotion. The same way a fanatic glows just before the end.

They know where you're going.

And what you’re going to see.

Someone lifts a shard of glass as you pass, using it as a mirror. Not for themselves—for you. You catch your reflection. Brief. Blurred. Strangers’ hands on your arms. Mud on your jaw. Cold in your eyes.

They pull you toward the largest structure still intact. A chapel, maybe,or what was once a manor. The stone is cracked, the windows shattered, the doorframe splintered where something once forced its way in. Ivy curls up the side in long, choking ropes. Animal skulls hang from the guttering, bones threaded with string and beads and bits of plastic like wind chimes.

The archer beside you speaks for the first time in miles.

“Head down. No talkin’. Only answer if He asks.”

A door creaks open. Your feet hit stone instead of soil. The temperature drops. The smell shifts again—woodsmoke thickened by incense, something sweet gone bad. The air is full of it,like a mouth that’s never closed.

The inside is dark. Not pitch-black—just heavy. Filtered. Lit only by oil lamps tucked in alcoves, their glass streaked with soot. The flames flicker low, throwing long shadows that stretch and collapse as you walk.

The room isn’t empty.

Figures move at the edges. Not many. Two, maybe three. They stand still, but not relaxed. Like they’re waiting for a command. One of them holds a cloth. Another holds a bowl of water—brown and lukewarm, the rim charred black. A third has something folded in their hands. Clean fabric. A tracksuit. Less torn than the one you wear.

They don’t speak to you; they don’t smile.

They just wait.

The woman who cut the snare finally lets go of your arm and gestures forward, toward a wide wooden door. Someone’s carved symbols into it—crooked, hand-cut, messy but deliberate. A crude crown. A sun. Teeth. A flower.

“He’s in there,” she says. “Be grateful.”

Your wrists are untied.

No one grabs you again: you’re expected to walk through that door on your own.

Hesitantly, you step forward.

The wooden door groans open under your hand—warped from time and rot, but still standing. The sound it makes cuts the air like a blade.

The room beyond is dark, but warmer than the rest of Eden. Firelight licks at the walls from a hearth in the far corner, casting everything in flickering gold. The scent is sharper here. Not just woodsmoke. Something burned. Something sweet. A perfume made from candle wax, dried herbs, and rot.

Your boots echo across uneven stone. It’s quiet. Not silent—calm, in that same unnatural way a hunting trap is calm before it snaps shut.

He’s there.

You feel him before you see him.

He’s sitting in a long chair that might’ve once been a throne, might’ve once been a pew. It’s covered in scavenged fabrics—torn blankets, netting, old lace yellowed with age. His legs are spread wide, one elbow resting lazily on the arm, the other hand rolling a cigarette between two fingers.

His face is in profile.

And even that profile is chaos.

A cracked tiara tilts across his brow, nearly lost in the mess of long, greasy blonde hair. One eye is framed by an old smear of soot or charcoal. There’s blood on his tracksuit jacket—dry. Flaked. A constellation of it across his collarbone. His neck bears the weight of several gold chains, the slow pendulum swing of an inverted cross briefly snagging your attention. Rings stacked on every finger. A small, curved blade rests against his thigh like it belongs there.

When he turns to face you fully, he grins.

And it’s nothing like a human smile.

His teeth are uneven—some chipped, some yellowed, one gone entirely. But that doesn’t dull the power of it. That grin could lead armies. Could make monsters kneel. It beams at you like he already knows what you are and what you’ll be.

“Fuckin’ look at ye,” he says, voice thick and Scottish and sharp-edged with delight. “Fresh out the trees. All wild n’ twitchy.”

He leans forward.

His eyes are blue, but not bright. More like cracked ice over dark water. Alive with something violently unhinged and cruelly amused.

“Ain’t touched, are ye? Not claimed? Not branded?”

You say nothing.

He smiles wider.

“Even better.”

He tips his head, brushing the long, tangled hair from his eyes, and the faint glow of the room catches the gold and molten red at his throat. His voice drops into something almost intimate, almost holy.

“Name’s Sir Jimmy Crystal,” he tells you, the words tasting like a threat and a promise all at once. “Remember it, s'the only name that’s gonna matter ‘round here.”

The silence that follows is thick. Final. As if the room itself has memorized it.

He stands slowly—not towering but imposing, filled with the kind of presence that reaches. That carries. He steps down from the platform, boot heels scraping stone.

“Come here, then.”

You don’t move.

His head tilts.

“What’s the matter, love? Nobody ever asked ye polite before?” He chuckles, the tension in his shoulders radiating all the authority of a leader. “You’ll find I’m a very gracious host.”

Then, quieter—yet no less impactful—“when I want t’be.”

He closes the distance without waiting.

One hand comes up and brushes your jaw with the backs of his fingers. His knuckles are scraped, bruised. There’s blood under one nail. But his touch is almost soft.

“They said you fought,” he says. “Said you ran hard. Nearly got one of Jimmy Jimmy’s boys in the eye.”

He leans in, nose close enough to scent you.

You don’t flinch.

He smiles like that’s a gift.

“Yer not a Jimmy, though. You’re…somethin’ else.”

He steps back, hands on his hips. Studies you.

Then, finally:

“Petal.”

The name hits like a hot nail through the center of your chest.

“That’s what ye are, ain’t ye?” he continues. “Pretty wee thing, soft ‘round the edges, got thorns when you’re pressed.”

He gestures wide, like unveiling a painting.

“You’re mine now, Petal. Eden’s newest bloom.”

He steps forward again, crowding you slightly—he wants to see what you’ll do. What you’ll become under his heat. His shadow. His name.

“Say it,” he murmurs then reiterates, “say it back to me.”

Then nothing.

No further command. No raised voice. No gesture to prompt you.

Just his eyes—locked on yours, heavy and unwavering, his body stilled like a predator mid-pounce. All that earlier swagger, the grin, the biting charm—it drops. Slips off his face like a mask tossed aside.

What’s left is something still and unblinking.

His stare is pure scrutiny. Not rage. Not even anticipation. Just…expectation.

The kind that doesn’t account for refusal.

The fire crackles somewhere behind him, casting gold along the worn-out throne behind his shoulder, and still he doesn’t move. His jaw ticks once, slow. You see the faintest twitch of his fingers at his side—restless. Not angry. Just ready.

He doesn’t speak again.

Because Sir Jimmy Crystal doesn’t ask twice.

The room stretches.

You feel it in your chest first—tight, tense, a coil winding up behind your ribs. Your throat is dry. You don’t remember when your breath last came easy. You’re too aware of your heartbeat. Of the way your wrists still bear the red ghost of rope. Of the mud drying on your ankles. Of the way he’s looking at you.

Like he already owns you.

Like this is just a formality.

Your mouth opens.

And for a second, nothing comes out.

Then:

“Petal.”

Your voice sounds strange. Foreign. Like it didn’t come from you but was breathed into you. You don’t recognize how soft it comes out—how it hitches a little. How it lands in the air between you like a stone dropped in a still pool.

His head tilts. Just slightly. One corner of his mouth lifts—not a grin. Something quieter. Possessive.

“Good girl.”

The words land like heat across your spine.

He steps in again. Closer now. His boots bump yours, but he doesn’t touch you yet.

He just inhales. Deep, deliberate, like he’s dragging your presence into his lungs.

“I knew you’d be easy, underneath all that bark,” he says softly. “They always are.”

And then his hand comes up. Slow. Measured. He touches your jaw—not rough, not even possessive. Just assertive. His thumb brushes the edge of your lip, like testing the softness of something before he bites.

“Petal,” he repeats, voice lower now. “Gonna hear that name moaned through these halls, aye? Gonna have all of Eden know who the prettiest thing in it belongs to.”

The silence that follows is not awkward.

It’s complete.

He leans closer, nose brushing yours, voice barely above breath.

“Say somethin’ else, then. Something better. Say thank you.”

The words land soft, but they split your ribs open.

Not a bark. Not a threat. Not a demand, even. Just spoken like it’s inevitable.

His hand remains on your jaw. Fingers resting just beneath your ear, thumb dragging slowly over the corner of your mouth. The pressure isn’t enough to hurt. But it’s not gentle. It’s training.

You try to breathe, but your lungs won’t take it in right.

The room feels too small now. Too close. The air clings to the back of your tongue, hot and damp and sour-sweet, like you’re breathing someone else’s exhale. Smoke, rot, and something metallic. Something intimate.

You feel your spine go stiff, shoulders rising like you might pull away—but your feet don’t move. Not because you’re frozen. Not exactly.

Because you’re listening.

And you’re waiting for him to say it again.

He doesn’t.

He just watches. That calm stare. That awful patience. As if there’s no doubt at all that the words will come.

Your mouth parts slightly. Not to obey. Not yet.

To stall.

To feel what it would be like to say it—to give him what he wants and taste how it feels in your throat. To feel how it might curl against your tongue and rot something inside you.

You don’t want to.You do.

Your heart punches the inside of your chest.

You blink—once, slow—and then tilt your head forward, just enough that your lips brush against the edge of his thumb.

Not a kiss.

Not yet.

But the reaction is immediate.

His nostrils flare. His hand tightens, just a breath, enough to tilt your chin higher.

“Go on, sweet thing,” he murmurs. “Don’t make me think you’re ungrateful.”

And something breaks. Not loudly. Not violently. But with a quiet, traitorous tremor in your stomach.

Your tongue is slow to cooperate. Your voice doesn’t come easy. But it comes.

“…Thank you.”

Your voice sounds like a betrayal.

It sounds like submission.

It sounds like you meant it.

You hate that. You hate how easy it is to say.

You hate how it feels good to give it.

His smile widens—not wild. Not cruel.

Pleased.

“That’s my girl.”

The words are barely a whisper, but they hit like a nail through silk.

He steps even closer now—flush against you, chest to chest. You feel the heat of him. The weight of him. His free hand comes to rest on your hip, fingers curling just above your waistband.

“We’ll make a proper little thing outta you yet.”

And then, voice lower:

“Say it again. Like you mean it this time.”

He’s still touching you.

One hand cupped along your jaw, thumb grazing your lower lip with the intimacy of a lover, the calculation of a surgeon. The other hand low on your hip, fingers curling with idle pressure. Not possessive. Not yet.

Just poised.

Waiting.

His voice has that same half-smile cadence, but the edge is sharper now—threaded with something heavier. The kind of weight that comes before a strike.

He wants it again.

And this time, he wants it perfect.

You feel your mouth go dry. Your muscles ache from how still you’ve been forced to hold yourself. Your wrists itch where the rope had left its imprint. Your brain is screaming for space—but your body doesn’t move.

Not because you’re weak, but because you’re calculating, too.

You don’t say it right away. You let the silence stretch, just a breath longer than it should. Just long enough that it starts to feel wrong. You see it in his posture—the slight twitch of his hand, the flicker in his eye.

And that’s when you give it to him.

“Thank you…Sir.”

You say it sweet.

Too sweet.

You tip your head a little as you say it, lashes lowering like a smirk in motion. You speak with the kind of sugar-coating that’s almost mockery. Just enough to make it unclear.

Polite. Playful. Dangerous.

His thumb stills on your lip.

Then lifts—slowly, deliberately—tracing the curve of your mouth before sliding down your chin. His other hand firms against your hip.

And he doesn’t speak.

He just stares at you.

That same silent intensity from before—hot enough to blister. A fire without flame.

“You think I won’t know the difference?” he says at last, voice low and sharp as a knife dragged across bone. “Think I can’t smell when a thing’s just performin’?”

His grip tightens—not to bruise, but to remind.

His eyes roam your face like a wolf studying a lamb that forgot it was meat.

“You will mean it, Petal,” he murmurs. “One way or another.”

He leans in again—closer now. Lips near your ear, voice so quiet you feel it more than hear it.

“And when you do, it’ll drip off your tongue like prayer.”

You feel the press of his breath against your jaw, warm and patient and ruthless.

Then he pulls back—not far. Just enough to look you in the eyes again. Holding you in place by your silence.

“Now,” he says. “Be sweet. Try again.”

He pins you down with just his gaze.

The heat of his body radiates into yours—smoke and oil and something darker, like the breath of a house right before it catches fire. His hand at your hip has grown still, but it hasn’t let go. The other hovers at your jaw, no longer cupping it, just near—like he’s giving you space to hang yourself.

You feel the words curl in your throat like smoke before a scream.

You could obey.

You could soften your voice. Bow your head. Let the praise come warm and slippery from your mouth like honey melting over hot stone. Let him believe you.

But you don’t.

Not yet.

Instead, you tilt your chin up. A small gesture. Barely there. But it shifts the whole balance of the room. His fingers still in the air near your throat. His nostrils flare—just once. You don’t miss it.

And when you speak…

You lace it with venom.

“Thank you…my King.”

You make it sound filthy.

Not reverent. Not frightened. Not grateful.

You say it like it’s a joke. Like you’re daring him to earn it.

His mouth parts just slightly—no smile now. Just breath.

You watch something dark flicker behind his eyes. It doesn’t rise, doesn’t lash out—but it pulses once, slow and dangerous. You’ve struck a nerve. Not one that makes him angry.

One that makes him hungry.

He steps closer, boot between yours. His chest brushes yours. That awful stillness in him thickens, slows, sharpens.

“That what I am to you already?” he says, voice hushed. “Your King?”

His hand moves again—slow, deliberate. The backs of his fingers trail down your throat.

“Careful, Petal.”

Your heart is a hammer in your ribs now.

He moves around behind you without warning, slow as smoke, one hand dragging across your collarbone as he passes.

You don’t turn.

You feel him behind you. His breath against your hair. His voice just behind your ear.

“You keep speakin’ like that,” he murmurs, “I’ll start to think you want to be ruled.”

You can’t see his face, but you hear the smile in his voice.

“And you don’t want me to think that.”

A pause.

His hand settles at the base of your throat—not tight. Not soft. Just there.

“Because if you do…I’ll give you the crown myself.”

His hand stays at your throat for three long breaths.

You don’t move. You don’t speak. You don’t give him the satisfaction of swallowing beneath his palm. But the silence that stretches between you is not victory.

It’s ritual.

You feel his body behind you—heat and weight and tension, close enough to make your skin tighten, far enough to make you ache. His breath grazes the curve of your ear like a blessing dressed in threat.

And then—

He pulls back.

The absence is as sharp as a slap. The cold rush of air across your neck feels like exposure, like being unwrapped. You almost—almost—step back to reclaim his heat.

But you don’t.

You hold your ground as he moves around you again, slow and loose-limbed, like a lion circling the last twitch of a dying thing.

When he stops in front of you, his grin is back. Soft. Filthy. Relaxed.

But his eyes are still locked on you like a snare.

“That’s enough for now,” he says, almost gently.

He reaches out and brushes something from your shoulder—a bit of leaf, a smear of dirt, it doesn’t matter. His fingers linger longer than necessary, then drop.

“You’ll need rest. Food. I’ll see to it.”

He turns from you like it doesn’t hurt him to look away.

“We’ve got time.”

He takes two steps toward his throne before glancing back over his shoulder.

His smile is lazy now. Pleased. Possessive.

“You’re not gonna leave, Petal. Not because you can’t.”

He sits down. Spreads his knees wide. Drags his hand along his jaw, watching you like he’s already undressing your soul.

“Because by the time I’m through with you…you won’t want to.”

He gestures lazily, and the room stirs like a beast waking from slumber. Figures shift from the walls, rising soundless as mist. Two of them move toward you—a man and a woman. They don’t ask questions. They don’t hesitate. They only bow when he nods.

“See she’s bathed,” Jimmy says, brushing a hand down the arm of his chair like he’s brushing dust from a relic. “Get the stink of the woods off her. Put her somewhere warm. Somewhere quiet.”

A tiny shift goes through the room—almost imperceptible. A glance exchanged. A breath held. Not protest, no. Not that. Not with him. But surprise. The kind that doesn’t rise from disobedience, only from obedience so deep it doesn’t comprehend difference.

He doesn’t name them. Doesn’t call out by their variations of the same holy name. They just know.

They step closer and one of them takes your hand. Not roughly. Not lovingly. Just certain. The other moves to stand behind you, brushing the snarl of your hair from your neck like she’s making way for a blade. Not because she’ll use one. But because she knows he can.

They lead you toward the door, and the room doesn’t speak. Not a word. Not a shift. Not a glance that doesn’t already belong to him. They accept it the way soil accepts a seed falling from a hand that can choose where it grows.

“Go,” he says finally, voice soft and sharp as steel. “Rest tonight, Petal. You’ve a long road ‘fore you.”

And then he leans back, sprawling in that long chair like a man resting between victories, brushing the pad of his thumb across his lower lip as if tasting the air your name has changed.

“An’ don’t worry,” he calls after you as the doors creak open, voice rising just enough for it to fill the space between the walls. “I’ll be seein’ ye soon. Real soon.”

No one questions. No one speaks.

In Eden, when Sir Jimmy Crystal chooses, no one ever needs to ask why.

[shuaflix]

the hidden one

❝ i just saved you, mi corazón. you could at least thank me. ❞

PAIRING ▸ pirate!choi seungcheol x assassin!fem!reader

GENRES ▸ smut, fluff, humor, some action, historical au, assassin's creed: black flag au (although you don't need to know the lore to read this), pirate au, royal au

WARNINGS ▸ profanity, slow burn, strangers to lovers, copious amounts of pining, mild depictions of violence, character death, forced proximity, so much banter, hurt/comfort, political tension, family issues, booseoksoon as the pirate underlings, lots of teasing, and there was one bed, sexual tension!!!, unprotected sex (i don't fw with 1700s contraceptives sorry), fingering, oral (f. receiving)

SUMMARY ▸ choi seungcheol is supposed to be dead. following a tropical storm, the notorious pirate loses both his ship, the golden corsair, and a majority of his crew to the cruel tides. now stranded in sevilla, spain, seungcheol and his three remaining sailors must find a way back to england; however, an unexpected altercation ends up tying their fate to you, an assassin who wants nothing to do with the four of them. despite your reluctance, he must work alongside you in exchange for a way back home. of course, complications arise once his heart decides to have a say in the matter, and, somewhere along the way, seungcheol realizes this mission is bigger than himself.

PLAYLIST ▸ he's a pirate by hans zimmer, klaus badelt, geoffrey zanelli • the medallion calls by klaus badelt • leonardo's inventions, pt. 2 by jesper kyd • assassin's creed iv black flag theme by brian tyler • mermaids by hans zimmer

WORD COUNT ▸ 31,390 words

AUTHOR'S NOTE ▸ wrote this for my alexios-pilled pookumsnookums @amourcheol :^) extended author's note here

Freedom, Sancho, is one of the most precious gifts that heaven has bestowed upon men; no treasures that the earth holds buried or the sea conceals can compare with it; for freedom, as for honour, life may and should be ventured; and on the other hand, captivity is the greatest evil that can fall to the lot of man.

             — Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quixote

March 24th, 1725 Sevilla, Andalucía, Spain

AT FIRST, ALL HE COULD TASTE WAS SAND AND SEAWATER.  

Choi Seungcheol only realized his body was aching all over when all feeling returned to the tips of his fingers. He was laying on his stomach on wet sand, occasionally roused back into consciousness by a cold wave that whispered promises of suffering in his ears. Still, his eyelids were too heavy for him to drag his brittle bones back up to his feet. The sun beat down on him—so hot that he was sure he would be roasted alive.

When he tried to get to his feet, his pruney fingers digging into the sand, getting under his raw-bitten nails, he had to squint before his eyes adjusted to the glaring sunlight. His lungs felt like they were on fire. His head hurt. The corners of his eyes stung from the salt. 

He was on the shore of a beach. 

When Seungcheol looked around, the area around him was surrounded by steep cliffs, jutting out of the ground like a carcass. That must have been why he was alone in the ocean cove; no one had spotted his motionless body for however long he had been washed up ashore. He couldn’t even tell how long he had been passed out on the sand.

There was nothing around him, so he must have lost everything while he was desperately paddling in the water. His robes and overcoat were long gone, leaving him in a loose white shirt and baggy trousers. At the very least, he wished he had his boots, but even those were lost to the sea.

His memories came back to him in fragmented shards of recollections—the raging storm, the shipwreck, the screams of his crew. The consuming guilt of being the only survivor. There was nothing for him to bring back to their families. Nothing to say to their hopeful wives and kids. And maybe there was hope that more survived, but the longer Seungcheol tried to think about it, he just remembered how the mast of his ship catastrophically collapsed while his crewmates were floundering around the deck of his ship, The Golden Corsair. 

He laid on the sand for longer. Maybe hours longer. It was as if the grief left him immobilized, hardly flinching even as a particularly big wave crashed over him. His tongue felt so dry that he could barely open his mouth, but once he did, the corners of his lips tasted like salt.

And he felt guilty to even be breathing. 

A captain was supposed to go down with his ship, yet here he was.

It was a miracle he survived, really. With the conditions of the sea and the harsh waves that threatened to pull him under, Seungcheol was amazed he escaped with his life. It was a stroke of luck that he found a barrel to keep himself afloat for as long as it did.

Seungcheol rolled over onto his stomach finally, and he dry-heaved until his lungs were burning.

“Oi! It’s the cap’n!” came a faint holler in the distance.

Seungcheol recognized the voice in an instant. His chest swelled with hope, giving him a final burst of strength to lift himself up onto his elbows. 

Aching and bruised, Seungcheol got to his feet. His lips were dry and bitten raw; he could taste blood where his skin peeled. His tongue felt sanded down to the muscle. His gums ached. His knees felt like they were going to give out.

Three figures came running at him, stumbling and tripping over their own feet from the thick sand pulling them down. Boo Seungkwan, Lee Seokmin, and Kwon Soonyoung were frantically waving their arms over their heads to get Seungcheol’s attention, crying out their gratitude that their beloved captain was still alive. They were decent seamen, but most of the crew knew them as the musicians on board, beckoned over whenever somebody wanted to be entertained. But, oh, did they pour their heart and soul into their sea shanties.

“You lot!” Seungcheol croaked out, astonished. His throat felt as if he had swallowed a thousand blades. “How’d you survive the storm? Did… did anyone else make it? Did you see?”

He half-expected the trio to exclaim that the whole crew was waiting elsewhere, that they were just looking for him. However, the three gave each other wary looks and let their heads hang with deep sorrow drawn across their faces. 

“Couldn’t find any of ‘em,” Soonyoung muttered sadly, cradling his injured arm. “Davy Jones must’ve took ‘em.”

Seungcheol almost thought he was hallucinating as soon as the words rang in his ears, and he hoped the sand would just swallow him into some pit. 

Still, some fondness curled in his chest at the sight of Seungkwan, Seokmin, and Soonyoung. Sure, he could’ve lucked out with more useful company, but at least he had three less souls to weigh over his heart.

“We thought you were done for when you fell with the mast, Cap’n. The rest of us had no clue what to do. Some of ‘em jumped out to help you, but… poor bastards—the waves were too strong,” Seungkwan explained, and Seungcheol could see that he had seen horrors beyond his greatest fears by the distant look in his eyes. “We tried to keep the ship afloat, but the waves were too rough. Seokmin went overboard first, then Soonyoung, then me.”

“Bit harsh on Soonyoung, weren’t they?” Seokmin recalled. “Kept hearing ‘let that oaf drown!’ from ol’ Whitehead when we tried to save him.” 

“What?” Soonyoung choked out, deeply offended. “That bloody bastard. What did I ever do to him?”

“Told everyone he had a case of scurvy, I heard.”

“Ah, yes, I remember,” Seungcheol ruminated with a certain fondness that was quite different from the grief over the rest of his crew, mostly because everyone knew Whitehead was going to drop dead eventually—storm or not. “A sight that could put a man off his rum, it was.”

Seokmin shook his head in agreement. “Wouldn’t kiss my mum with that mouth.”

Outrage subsiding, Soonyoung gave a sideways jerk of his head in reluctant agreement. “That I did say, but to leave me to die over his bloody gums?” He scoffed. “No camaraderie these days. What did he expect me to do? Ignore his ugly kisser?”

Seungkwan scowled reproachfully. “I would have thrown you overboard meself, if I had the chance. You threw me clothes overboard over a lousy play last week!”

“You just do not understand the art of performance, Kwan.”

“What you will be understanding is how that tree branch over there is going to feel up your arse, Soonyoung.”

Out of his entire crew of feared pirates, Captain Choi Seungcheol was stuck with the three biggest buffoons of the seven seas. 

“Oi!” he exclaimed in his booming voice, silencing the bickering immediately. He looked at all of them carefully before asking, “Focus, you scoundrels. What happened after?”

Seungkwan started, “I found Soonyoung ‘n Seokmin layin’ on the shore like a pair of ugly, dead fish—”

“Unnecessary comparison, don’t you think?” Soonyoung grumbled close to Seokmin’s ear.

“—‘n we ended up roamin’ the perimeter, but you’re the only one we found. It’s a miracle to even be alive, Cap’n… so it’s hard to imagine that the rest of ‘em… y’know, made it.”

His heart gave one final plunge into a pit of despair. As his three remaining crewmates harped on about the crash, the captain screwed his eyes shut. There were hundreds of people who feared the crossbones and skull sign because of his very name, and now Seungcheol had lost everything. 

“We must find a way back to England,” Seungcheol muttered.

The three of them went quiet, as if they were waiting for Seungcheol to command them. He felt as though his brain was going a little funny from the scathing heat, and it took him several, unblinking seconds to process that they were expecting further directions.

Seungcheol looked around the stretch of the shoreline. They had nothing—no money, no weapons, no ship—and they were stranded on some unknown land.

But he was Captain Choi Seungcheol—the man who cheated Davy Jones countless times, the man who was feared from the islands of the Caribbean to the shores of Madagascar. If there was anyone who could get their way out of this predicament, it was him. 

“We will need to find a ship,” he declared. “But in waters like these, we will need one that sails as smooth as The Golden Corsair. Let us first determine where we find ourselves.”

After several unblinking minutes of scanning the shoreline, he set off in the direction of the cliffs, and his crew of three followed him across the sand with heavy legs.

The four pirates made their trek away from the beach, walking barefoot on a dirt trail for what felt like ages. Seungcheol was persistent, though; he knew the area was familiar, and he was rewarded with the sight of a city bustling with life. After eavesdropping on a few conversations, he was delighted to realize that he knew what language the locals were speaking. He was quite proficient in Andalusian Spanish, having studied the language far before he became a pirate. 

Seungcheol ordered his three men to go around and find out where they were and if there was a tavern nearby where they could rest. Seungkwan was told to get lost, Seokmin couldn’t figure out a way to communicate effectively with the locals, and Soonyoung lost his patience too quickly and ended conversations as quickly as they began. Their captain was the only one who managed to figure out that they were in Sevilla, Spain.

The silver lining in that was that Seungcheol already had a few acquaintances around Sevilla. His crew had stopped in the port a few times during their travels, so, naturally, he made a few connections that could prove to be useful. One of them would surely shelter them for a few nights. 

In the center of the city, there were several booths lined up with merchants selling their goods. The market wrapped around the block; Seungcheol could hardly walk anywhere without being called over to buy something. In Seokmin’s case, he could hardly walk anywhere without getting distracted by something shiny. 

This wasn’t the sort of place Seungcheol wanted to be in. There were thieves littered everywhere in these parts and his crew had nothing to defend themselves with. Moreover, Seungcheol had nothing to properly disguise himself, so if the Spanish authorities recognized him, he and his men would most likely be executed on the spot. 

On the bright side, Soonyoung managed to knick some tattered shoes from a nearby pub. Apparently, he was lurking in the corner until a brawl broke out. While the men were drunkenly punching at each other and kicking off their boots to lunge at each other, Soonyoung snagged several pairs that were strewn aside as he walked out.  

They wandered the market, looking for something to eat, but none of them had any money. Maybe if one of them could distract one of the shopkeepers, Seungcheol could sneak behind a booth and—

“Si no van a comprar, ¡no están bienvenidos!” 

The sharp voice cut through the clamor in the market. Seungcheol turned immediately to see what all the commotion was about. Someone was refusing to pay? If everyone’s attention was diverted, then it was the perfect opportunity to grab some food from an unattended booth.

But, when he took a closer look, the woman being yelled at had the same disoriented shock in her eyes that Seungcheol once had. It was almost like looking in a mirror, seeing his old, cowardly self before him. 

When he decided to become a pirate, Seungcheol left his cushy life behind without ever looking back. He was educated in languages, literacy, and arithmetics before he even realized his love for adventure. It was his aunt, the woman who raised him after his parents’ untimely deaths, who showed him that possessing great power was meaningless if you didn’t have the strength to protect others.

Initially, she was a pirate herself, but the Royal Navy enlisted her help as a privateer to take down Wukou ships. Her success was nothing but heroic, but she wasn’t rewarded like the other royal armed forces were. After the Royal Navy got what they wanted, they killed her silently and passed off her murder as a casualty of war. 

That was the day Seungcheol decided he wasn’t going to sit quietly and comply. His pirate crew started small, but it grew over the years, and he was soon infamous across the Caribbean and a threat to the Kingdom of England. 

Seungkwan’s eyes lit up with mischief. “This is our chance! While she distracts him, let us—” He cut himself off when he noticed his captain was no longer by his side, and Seungkwan whipped his head in every direction. “Cap’n? Where’d you go?”

With a retired sigh, Seungcheol walked over to where you were and put his hand on your shoulder. His dark, unkempt hair fell over his forehead, concealing the scar that ran from his forehead to his cheek.

He played the role of your husband, claiming that you weren’t very fluent in the language and were just asking for directions. The shopkeeper, who was pleased to hear an explanation he could understand, let you both off with a warning. Although a dark look was cast across your face, you went along with Seungcheol when he dragged you aside. 

Seungkwan, Seokmin, and Soonyoung exchanged odd looks after Seungcheol brought you over. They all seemed to be under the impression that their captain was out of his mind, and Seungcheol would be lying if he said the heat wasn’t making his brain feel funny. 

“Excuse me—where are you taking me?” you demanded, bordering on fright when you realized that you had been dragged to an alleyway with four men surrounding you. “Unhand me at once!”

He pulled you behind a stack of crates that conveniently concealed the five of them from the bustling street outside the alley. Seungcheol realized his actions came across as threatening, but his words weren’t meant for others to hear, and he didn’t exactly want you to go around spouting that they were pirates. 

Seungcheol released his grip on you, turning in time to catch your glare. His features softened and he let out a sigh. 

He started, “My apologies for—” 

Before he could get any more words out, Seungcheol felt his arm jerk forward before you managed to completely flip him over your shoulder and onto the solid ground. He grunted in pain, squinting to make out your angry face in the blinding sunlight. When he tried to budge, he felt the cool metal of your dagger pressing against his throat. 

“What are you doin’ to our cap’n?!” Soonyoung shouted, although no amount of fury could mask how equally impressed he sounded. “And can you do it again?”

“Oi,” Seokmin whispered harshly, elbowing Soonyoung in the side, “ask her to do it to one of us, not the cap’n!”

“Right. Then how ‘bout Seungkwan? Give him a toss.”

Seokmin seemed to agree with this decision, giving the pirate a resolute nod of his head before turning to you. “Slowly, this time, Miss.”

“Do not flip me,” Seungkwan warned. “I have not stretched yet.”

You snorted, which Seungcheol assumed was you trying to come off as intimidating while playing off your amusement, but he kept his mouth shut because you happened to have a blade to his throat. 

“Pirates,” you muttered darkly, gaze fixing on the elaborate tattoo inked on Seungcheol’s chest, barely concealed by his tattered shirt. “I did not think I would have to deal with pirates around these parts.”

“And what were you trying to do?” he fired back with a scowl. “That shopkeeper sounded like he was gonna have you kicked out of the square, or worse—arrested.”

“Well, I never asked for your help.”

“I just saved you, mi corazón.” Seungcheol sneered. “You could at least thank me.”

Through your hard, steely eyes, you let out a mirthless laugh as your knee dug into his thigh. “If you minded your business instead of drawing unnecessary attention to us, pirate, I could have just slipped past and been on my way. Yet, you still expect me to offer my gratitude?”

To be frank, Seungcheol was already having quite the day, but now he was starting to get a little ticked off. He had just saved your skin, hadn’t he? Was this how he was being repaid? With a knife to his throat instead of some plain gratitude? It wasn’t like he was asking you for anything in the first place, but the least you could do was thank him for his help. After all, he was the very reason you made it out of that situation without causing more of a scene than you already had. 

Then, when he thought about it some more, Seungcheol realized how horrible of a misunderstanding this probably was.

He pulled you away from the bustling crowd and dragged you into an alleyway with three other men. There was surely room for misinterpretation there.

“Listen, I only meant to help—”

You rolled your eyes. “Help? All you did was cause a bigger scene. We are lucky neither of us got in trouble.”

“I still helped, did I not?”

“Are you an imbecile?”

“Among other unbecoming titles, I suppose so.”

“You are a pirate, aren’t you? Don’t you know that they will have your head if you are caught?”

“They must first catch me, then.” Seungcheol scoffed. “I’m curious, though, is this your first time thieving? Take it from a pirate: You must be less… conspicuous about these things.”

Furious, you opened your mouth to say something, but your expression quickly faltered, and you closed your mouth before any words could come out. Seungcheol didn’t let your nervous shift in expression go unnoticed, and he followed your gaze to the beam of sunlight spilling into the alleyway. Keeping your weight on the pirate, you peered behind the crate as if you were eavesdropping on someone. 

Realistically, Seungcheol could’ve easily overpowered you. He was thinking about it for a good amount of time, but he decided to entertain whatever this was. Perhaps it was his natural curiosity, but he was far more interested in what you were doing in Sevilla than he was determined to get you off of him. 

(You being quite beautiful also kept him from tossing you off of him, but that was beside the point.)

“Oi, Miss,” Seokmin whispered, crouching down to your level, “are you hiding from someone?”

Seungkwan and Soonyoung took this as their cue to do the same, exchanging confused glances and avoiding their captain’s pointed glares. Seungcheol was getting rather impatient with the lack of answers he was getting. His day had already gotten off on a horrible start, and now he had to deal with you. 

“That is none of your business,” you answered, “and my name is not Miss.” 

How aggravating.

“I think it is our business now,” Seungcheol said, firmer this time. “Running from someone? Is that it?”

But you were already shushing him, distracted by something else entirely. Your brows knitted into a frown as you (seemingly unintentionally) pressed the dagger against Seungcheol’s flesh a little harder, daring crimson to bleed through.

“... find her. She has to be around here,” came a deep yet sharp voice right outside the alleyway. 

“Was there anyone with her?” another one asked. 

“Four men, they said.”

“Split up and look for her. I care not if she is dead or alive, just bring her corpse back in one piece.”

Your shock eclipsed whatever secrecy you were determined to uphold, betraying your attempts to restrain your emotions. Seungcheol noticed a flicker of fear across your eyes even as you glowered. It seemed as though he had unintentionally gotten himself into trouble by association, which was a rather hapless way for one to get into trouble.

When Seungcheol was certain the men had stalked off elsewhere, he asked, “Are they looking for you?”

“Oh, no, it must be some other poor damsel with four men cornering her.”

“Cornering? You have me on the ground with a dagger to my throat. I would say you have the upper hand here, sweetheart.”

“Oh, please, you can easily get out of this,” you replied calmly, raising a brow at him, “but you aren’t.”

“Because I’d rather have a civil conversation first, unless it’s my knife you want against your throat.”

“You are unarmed,” you observed with a pointed stare.

Seungcheol stayed quiet. You were right on the mark with that one. 

You continued, “And a pirate trying to be civil? You realize jests must be believable, right?”

“Listen,” Seungcheol started, wrapping his fingers gently around your forearm—the one still clutching the dagger, “We are not going to harm you, but you are in trouble, no? That is why you think we were going to hurt you?”

You scoffed. “If I thought you were going to hurt me, your men would be dead by now.”

His crewmates inched away from you slowly. 

“Then you know we are not a threat,” he said. Seungcheol’s throat felt tight and he spoke in a voice as brittle as bones, “We are not looking for a fight or any of the sort. We were just trying to find our way back to England.” He then added in a murmur, “I swear we will not hurt you—swear it on my aunt’s grave.”

At first, he wondered if you would even care about a promise that could come off as seemingly empty to most. However, the way your eyes softened said otherwise. 

You removed the dagger from his throat and shifted your body back onto the ground. He could see true sympathy in your eyes, but there was still something so guarded about you that made him feel dubious. Seungcheol got up to crouch behind the crates. 

“Your turn,” he said, making a gesture with his hand. 

You fixed him with a strange look. “My turn for what?” 

“We told you what we are doing in Sevilla, so do enlighten us on your intentions, too. You are clearly not from around here, sneaking around like that.”

You spluttered. “I do not see why I have to tell you anything.”

Seungcheol looked at you carefully, and then he glanced at Soonyoung, Seokmin, and Seungkwan, who already seemed to be devising a plan. Although his men weren’t particularly useful when it came to anything physically demanding, they were excellent when it came to putting on a show.

Soonyoung let out a heavy sigh. “It’s okay, Miss, we knew you wouldn’t be trustin’ of rotten pirates like ourselves.”

“Bless her heart, she doesn’t know that pirates like us can be tricked, too,” Seungkwan chimed in with faux dejection heavy on his tongue. “Can’t tell you how many times I’ve been stabbed in me back.” 

(“Seven,” Seokmin answered. “I was one of them.”

“It’s a figure of speech, you fool.”)

“All the times I placed me trust in someone only to be treated like a bilge rat. Me mum always said it’s ‘cause I trust too easily, but”—Soonyoung choked on his words, sniffling rather dramatically—“can you blame me for havin’ too much love in me heart?”

This was a lie; Soonyoung cheered for bloodshed far too often to make such a claim.

“I don’t even have a mum,” Seungkwan wailed. 

This was also a lie; Seungkwan most definitely did have a mother that was alive and well. 

“Maybe a bunch of mangy dogs like us aren’t meant to have friends,” Seokmin added miserably. “Maybe we really are on our own.”

This, however, had some truth to it. 

“You’re not alone, Seokmin.” Seungkwan gave him an earnest look as he reached over to squeeze his shoulder. “We have each other, mate.”

The silence that followed afterward was deafening. You stared at the three with a blank look on your face. Seungcheol held back a groan and closed his eyes out of frustration. 

After a pause, you spoke, “Touching. Well, if you will excuse me, I shall be on my way now.”

Seungcheol started, “Wait—”

Just as you got to your feet, a gleaming flash of gold fell from your robes. You didn’t seem to notice at first, but right as your eyes widened with your alarm, Seungcheol had already gotten to the object first. It was an amulet hanging by an iron chain, and when he examined it closely, there was an engraving of an eagle on one side and a triangular shape on the other side. 

He knew exactly what this was.

The mark of an assassin.

Seungcheol heard stories of assassins, of course—bits and pieces here and there—nothing substantial that he could place his finger on. For the most part, they were shrouded in secrecy, never to reveal their identity to anyone outside of their brotherhood. 

Whatever business they had with pirates wasn’t something he had any clue of. Seungcheol recalled that Black Bart, a Welsh pirate who crossed swords with Seungcheol before, had worked in the shadows with an assassin before. No one knew of the finer details, but it was said that their partnership brought him more power and influence over the Caribbean.

He wasn’t too sure of the whole story, but his aunt had been in close relations with an assassin. She never disclosed much, as she wanted to keep Seungcheol far from danger during his youth, but he distinctly remembered when she returned home one day with an amulet that had the same engraving. At first, she refused to tell him what the symbol was, but after an eleven-year-old Seungcheol nearly snuck it out of the house to show his friends, his aunt sat him down and explained how dangerous it was to carry an assassin’s insignia. 

But an assassin in these parts? What could you possibly be looking for here? Had he just ended up becoming your next target? There were so many questions he wanted to ask, but you snatched your amulet out of his hands before he could clear his head.

“Those guards are looking for you because of that, right?” Seungcheol asked, pointing at the amulet. He cut to the chase so that you wouldn’t take off running. His voice was hardly louder than a mumble when he continued, “You are an assassin, are you not?”

You flinched at his words. 

Seungkwan rubbed the back of his neck. “Not a very good one, is she?”

“No.” Soonyoung shook his head in agreement. “Revealing it sort of defeats the whole purpose, doesn’t it?”

Surely, you recognized a losing battle when you saw one; Seungcheol already figured out who you were, and if you made a run for it, all he had to do was walk up to a guard and tell them who you were. He had a perfect description for you already, all thanks to the past five minutes of staring up at your face. 

“Give it back or I will shove this blade up your arse,” you warned. 

“No, I do not suppose I will,” Seungcheol replied with a mocking smile, dangling the amulet in front of your face for a moment before he put it around his own neck. “You will get it back after we get our ship.”

“Do you not have half the mind to know I can easily take it from you?”

“Not unless you kill me.”

You barked out a laugh, bewildered. “You think I am above murder? Me?”

“No, but I know you have the King’s men on your trail. You must be as dull as a rusty cutlass if you think you can take my men and I down without drawing attention.”

There was a moment of disorientation where you kept looking from Seungcheol, to the amulet, and back at the captain again. He almost felt bad because it seemed like you hadn’t ever expected to be caught up in such a situation, but perhaps this could be advantageous for the both of you. 

He also knew that if you really wanted to, you could just kill them and move on, but that wasn’t the likely outcome. Someone was clearly trying to find you, and four dead bodies in the middle of the town square would surely be a dead giveaway. 

“What do you want from me?” you asked sharply, your words venomous with shame and rage. “Gold? Treasure? I do not have any of that sort.”

“We need a ship,” he said. “But not just any boat—something of… royal caliber. That is the only vessel I suspect would sail as smooth as The Golden Corsair.” 

You raised a brow. “Is that your ship? What happened to it?”

“It sank.”

“Oh. What a pity.”

“You could at least pretend to be sympathetic.”

“I have never been very fond of pirates.” You grimaced. “Anyway, you would have to be a complete buffoon to steal a Royal Navy ship.”

“Then it’s a good thing we have three of those.”

Seokmin tapped the captain’s shoulder, clearing his throat. “There are four of us, Cap’n.”

Seungcheol gave him a knowing smile. “I am quite aware.”

You fixed him with a curious look. “What’s in it for me?” 

“Our word that we will keep your secret,” he vowed, “and we will help you with whatever it is you are here for. Having someone around who speaks the native language could prove to be quite useful, you know?”

You were eyeing the pirate carefully, as if you were deciding whether he would be useful to you or not.

“And one more thing”—Seungcheol took a step closer, so close that your bodies were nearly touching, and he looked down at you with a dangerous flicker in his eyes—“if you even think of hurting one of us, I won’t hesitate to finish you off myself, mi corazón.”

You seemed defeated for a very, very long time. Seungcheol and his crew sat with you for what felt like eternity until you finally dragged yourself up off your feet. After a resigned sigh, you finally came to terms with the fact that you couldn’t do much now regarding your identity being compromised. 

Truthfully, Seungcheol was very hungry and tired. He wanted nothing but a nice, hot meal before he was lulled into a peaceful sleep. His brain was too scrambled to pinpoint how long it had been since he had food in his body last, and there was no point in trying to guess when his memory following the shipwreck was still hazy.

“I have a friend in Sevilla that can shelter us for a few nights,” Seungcheol had told you and his crew. “We are not going to get very far without food and water.”

He noticed that you started to crumble in the way the corners of your mouth twitched—not that Seungcheol was staring at your lips. The lure of a roof over your head and food on your plate seemed to sell you. 

“I would like my own room,” you insisted. 

“No objections here. I do not think any of us are keen on sharing a room with an assassin.”

“Will you be quiet?” you whispered harshly. “I will tell you this now: I have no intention of hurting innocents, but if you keep running your mouth, I am afraid I will have no other choice but to slit your throats before you can even scream for help.”

Seungcheol wasn’t particularly interested in responding to your threat, nor did he feel inclined to point out that he was sure at least one of them would react fast enough. 

“Ray of sunshine, this one is,” Seungkwan retorted as he eyed you cautiously. 

Most of the journey was spent in silence. You hardly seemed to want to engage in conversation, but Seungcheol was perfectly content with not spoiling the peacefulness of their trek with another slew of threats. Hunger and exhaustion were slowly becoming unbearable with each drag of his feet. He hoped that nothing had changed since his last visit to The Sleeping Bull, and that his old friend, Joshua Hong, was still the innkeeper. 

Nightfall encroached upon them by the time they reached the building with dim candle light glowing through the windows. The smokey smell filled Seungcheol’s nostrils with a sort of familiarity and comfort that set his nerves at ease. 

When he opened the door, there were a few men hunched over the nearby tables. They were all laughing at someone’s joke and toasting to several, trivial things that hardly needed a toast. Seungcheol spotted Joshua standing at the bar, wiping the rim of a glass with a rag. 

Upon noticing the five people walking through the door, Joshua squinted from across the room and Seungcheol saw deep lines in his forehead before he set the cup down. Joshua had to walk closer to make out the group in the dim lighting, and his eyes landed on you briefly before he turned back to Seungcheol, face slowly stretching into a wide grin.

“Captain Choi Seungcheol? Is it really you?” Joshua narrowed his eyes to make out the scruffy, broad-shouldered pirate before straightening up. “It has been long indeed! Almost couldn’t tell it was you without the rest of your rowdy men,” he said brightly. “Take a seat at the bar, will you? Let me pour you all a drink.”

Seungcheol wasn’t sure if Joshua could pick up on the way his smile faltered at the mention of his crew, but he decided to skirt around the topic for now. It was no good getting emotional at a time like this.

“Bloody hell, it is good to see a familiar face. Do you have any rum, Joshua?” 

“I’ve not had a drop of rum in ages.” Seungkwan groaned as he dropped his weight onto one of the creaky stools. “Not since our stash went dry on The Golden Corsair.”

“The poor bastard has not yet realized that we’d been hidin’ the rum from him,” Seokmin muttered to you, earning what Seungcheol decided would’ve almost been a smile if you weren’t so guarded. 

Seungcheol made sure that you were in his line of vision as he took a seat a few stools away from you. Your hood was covering most of your face, but once your back was to the rest of the pub, you pushed it back far enough for Seungcheol to notice how guarded you looked. Your eyes flitted around the tavern suspicious—subtle enough for no one else to take notice. No one but Seungcheol, apparently, but he had good reason to keep an eye on you. 

“On the house,” the owner offered, setting down pewter cups of rum in front of all of them before wagging a finger at Soonyoung, Seungkwan, and Seokmin. “You three drunkards better not dance on the tables again. Let me remind you that this is an inn.”

Soonyoung ran a bitten-down, yellowed fingernail against the grain. “But these beautiful mahogany tables wouldn’t be here if we hadn’t smashed the old ones in.”

“Consider it a favor,” Seokmin chimed in.

“An’ we stopped handin’ those out after ol’ Whitehead near tricked us into walkin’ the plank,” Soonyoung went on, “but you needn’t thank us, mate—no, no.”

“Aye. Did it out of the goodness of our hearts.” Seokmin flashed a crooked grin before looking over at Seungkwan, who had rum dripping from his chin. “Isn’t that right, Kwan?”

“I remember it clear as a foggy night.” Seungkwan hiccuped once, twice—(“That wouldn’t be clear at all,” you muttered under your breath)—and then pounded his fist against the wood before he continued in a drunken stupor, “Did it all for the betterment of this fine establishment!” 

Joshua, who suddenly looked like he had gone through several sleepless nights compared to his sunny demeanor minutes earlier, promptly ignored the three as they went back and forth with their running gag. 

Seungcheol’s interest wandered to the clusters of people at the tables behind them; there was a family who looked as though they had traveled a long way, one group who were progressively getting more and more drunk by the minute; and a man sitting by himself in the corner. 

“It seems business has been good,” Seungcheol pointed out.

“Sort of,” Joshua grumbled. “Bunch of no-good people have been coming in and bringing trouble with them… dragging people out and starting a scene.” 

“What sort of people?”

“I hear they call themselves the Templar Order.”

“Dragging people out? For what?” you spoke up, much to Seungcheol’s surprise, and you sat up a little straighter now that Joshua had your full attention. 

The innkeeper sighed. “No one can say for certain, but I believe they are in search of something. What that may be, I cannot tell, but they’ve just been turning out folks’ pockets and leaving after threatening them. A most peculiar group of thugs, no?” He leaned closer and lowered his voice to say, “I suspect that Yoon Jeonghan over there has something to do with them. All he seems to do is sit there all day long, and he hardly takes notice whenever ruckus breaks out in here.” 

Seungcheol turned his head to observe the dark-haired man in the corner. Jeonghan had his head down so that no one could clearly make out his face, but Seungcheol caught a glimpse of his eyes before he turned his attention back to Joshua. 

“But what’re you doing here, Seungcheol? Where are the rest of your men?” Joshua asked, leaning onto his forearms. “I thought I wouldn’t see you lot in Sevilla anytime soon.”

“There was a storm,” Seungcheol started gruffly. “None of my men were prepared for how cruel the tides would be.”

“A storm?” Joshua’s eyes were wide with alarm. “So your crew…”

“All dead—except for these three here. Only God knows why the Devil’s Domain spared us.”

(Soonyoung snorted. “She probably felt sick to her stomach after swallowing Whitehead.”

“Like eating rotten meat,” Seungkwan blubbered. The three of them seemed awfully remorseful about Whitehead’s death, but at the same time, they couldn’t stop joking about it.)

The corners of Joshua’s lips turned down. He was silent for a long time, like he was mentally going over each face and name he could remember from Seungcheol’s crew. The captain understood him very well for that was what he spent the first few hours of being conscious doing. He ran through every name in his head—every face, every memory, every laugh shared. Even his three crew members went silent at the mention of the storm, and the Seungcheol took the silence as an opportunity to tip his head back and down his alcohol so that the burn down his throat would distract him from his stinging eyes.

“I truly am sorry, Seungcheol,” Joshua finally said. He took a moment to take in the captain’s haggard appearance, from his hollowed cheekbones to his unkempt, knotted hair. “Let me get you something to eat. You all must be starving.” He turned to shout out orders to the head cook, who immediately got to chopping up vegetables for a stew. “You should wash up here, too, when you can.”

“We are grateful—really.”

“What do you suppose you will do now?”

“I need to find a ship so that I can sail back, but… for now”—he held up his cup and tipped it as a toast before chugging the contents down—“we drink and forget.”

“You are welcome to stay here for as long as you need until you can get yourself back up on your feet again.” 

“Thank you, Joshua.”

“You needn’t thank me. You’re just lucky you came here now; this place will be busy soon because of Semana Santa. Even the royal family is here.”

“Semana Santa?”

“Holy Week,” you answered in Joshua’s stead, although you wouldn’t meet Seungcheol’s eyes when you spoke. “It is a Catholic event that lasts the whole week. Nearly all of Sevilla set aside their commitments to celebrate.”

“Is that the reason why you have come here, Miss?” Joshua asked in his buttery voice. 

Your gaze flicked to the innkeeper’s before you responded, “Yes.”

Seungcheol had a feeling that your answer wasn't far off from the truth. 

Your request for your own room was granted, much to Seungcheol’s surprise. He hadn’t guaranteed you anything, but it was a stroke of luck that Joshua happened to have two open rooms at his inn. 

The room that the four pirates had to cram into was clearly only meant for one or two people to sleep in. This wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, though; Seungcheol had experienced far worse sleeping conditions in the past, and this was still far more comfortable than his private quarters on The Golden Corsair. Although the extra set of blankets that Joshua provided were paper-thin and the pillows felt like they had been stuffed with straw, Seungcheol was grateful for additional comfort. 

After his crew members nearly got on their knees and begged him to take the bed, Seungcheol dismissed the idea with a definitive shake of his head and settled into one of the two makeshift ones. Soonyoung and Seungkwan ended up on the bed instead, stiffly shoulder-to-shoulder until Soonyoung slung his leg around Seungkwan’s while Seungkwan reluctantly wrapped an arm around the pirate. 

As soon as his head hit the pillow, Seungcheol’s body responded immediately. It was as if he had forgotten what he had been through in the last few days until this moment. Sleep caught up to him almost immediately, and he drifted into a heavy slumber. 

Just before the first rays of sunlight crept into the window, Seungcheol was awoken by three loud bangs at the door. Soft groans echoed through the room as the others roused from their deep sleep. 

Seungcheol could hardly tell whether he was standing on his own two feet or not when he found himself at the door, fumbling with the doorknob. He couldn’t imagine Joshua waking them up so abruptly, especially at this time, so the pirate couldn’t help the exhausted sigh that escaped his lips when he opened the door to none other than you.

“A fine morning to you, too,” you retorted, looking Seungcheol up and down for a brief second. 

“Morning?” Soonyoung groused. “Us pirates require some daytime visibility before we consider it morning here.” 

Seungkwan let out a tired grumble while still rubbing the sleep from his face. “Assassin, would it be so very difficult to let us sleep until the sun comes out?”

Seungcheol held the door open wider for you when he noticed the hard look in your eyes, signaling that you wouldn’t budge. He supposed whatever you had to say was only to be uttered behind closed doors. 

You faced the four pirates and started, “The situation has escalated, so I must say this now. You told me that you would help me, so let me lay out our terms: We finish this mission, I help you find a ship to sail back to England, you give me back my amulet, and we go our separate ways. None of you will open your mouths about this arrangement—ever.”

Seokmin raised his hand. 

You raised a brow. “Yes?”

“How would you know whether we choose to open our mouths or not?” The question was presumably a joke, judging by the way he turned back to look at Soonyoung and snicker, but there was zero amusement in your eyes. 

“Well, if there is any suspicion of a threat, it will be swiftly eliminated. You will most likely find a blade shoved down your throat before you even think about opening your mouth. Understood?”

The color drained from Soonyoung, Seokmin, and Seungkwan’s faces as they stupidly nodded along,

“I said we would help you,” Seungcheol said, folding his arms across his chest, “but you need to tell us what the bloody hell is going on first.”

“Something bad is about to happen here,” you said. “The Templars are planning a city-wide attack on the last day of Semana Santa. Domingo de Resurrección—the Resurrection of Christ. If we cannot stop them, everyone—and I mean everyone—is going to be forced into submission.”

“Templars?” Seungcheol narrowed his eyes. “You mean the people Joshua spoke of last night? The Templar Order? Who exactly are they?”

“The Templars are a group that believe true peace can only be achieved through their control. They intend on eliminating the freedom of the people by imposing their own rules. They want to control humanity as a whole.”

Soonyoung, whose previously mortified expression had hardened into a more serious one, now had creases lining his forehead. “How could they possibly do that?”

“They found our Codex pages,” you answered grimly, “and they are using them to find the Pieces of Eden—ancient devices from the First Civilization, Isu, that hold an immeasurable amount of power. They can be used to influence human behavior, attain great power, control the mind… and we think they are here because they found the Apple of Eden.”

Seungcheol frowned. “The Apple of Eden?”

“That artifact is what they plan to use to control the minds of the masses that will be here for Semana Santa soon. The Apple grants the wielder the ability to control human minds and ensure absolute obedience. If they get their hands on it before we do, then our fate is no longer in our own hands.”

“That… that is simply ridiculous. They cannot—”

“Believe it or not, they most certainly can. These Pieces of Eden contain unmeasurable power far beyond mere human capabilities.” 

“And these Code pages…”

“Codex pages,” you corrected. “They are ancient texts that contain Leonardo da Vinci’s greatest secrets, including the Pieces of Eden—what they do, how to use them, and even where they are. It was a grave mistake that they ever got in the wrong hands.”

“Da Vinci? The artist?”

Seokmin snapped his fingers. “The Last Supper.”

“Well, well, it seems we have a true patron of the arts among us,” Soonyoung mocked, nodding along as if he was greatly impressed.

“Artist, engineer, inventor—whichever you may call him,” you listed off. “I cannot reveal much, but he, too, refused to allow the Templar Order’s tyranny to persist.” 

The weight of the conversation seemed to settle on all of their shoulders. It was difficult for Seungcheol to wrap his head around all your talk about classified manuscripts and ancient artifacts. Although the four of them were visibly more awake, there was a feeling of dread pitted in their stomachs. If what you were saying was the truth, then Seungcheol wouldn’t even have a home to sail back to if the Templar Order got what they wanted. 

“So, where is this artifact?” the captain asked. “We must find it before they do, no?”

“That would be the… crux of the matter,” you muttered. “We need the Codex pages in order to do so, but I might have a lead: Yesterday, I was eavesdropping on the shopkeeper’s conversation with someone whom I suspected to be a Templar Knight. They were talking about where King Philip would be tonight.” You paused to shoot Seungcheol a cold glare. “Might I add, the shopkeeper you pulled me away from.”

“Oh.” Seungcheol blinked, feeling rather sheepish now. “Apologies.”

“So you weren’t stealing?” Soonyoung’s eyes were wide, looking between you and Seungcheol several times before flashing a sheepish grin. “Forgive our captain, will you? Thieving’s all we know.”

“I was trying to listen in, but he got suspicious and started a commotion,” you continued, huffing at the mere idea of excusing Seungcheol’s actions. “It is of no matter now. I still managed to find out where King Philip is going to be, and either the Apple of Eden is where he is, or…” 

Seungkwan looked wary. “Or?”

“Or they already have it and want to get close to His Majesty to use the artifact on him.”

Seungcheol let out a dry laugh. “So, assassin, you expect us to believe that a fruit is going to be responsible for controlling our minds?” With those words, his crewmates’ nervousness dissolved, and they let out a few chuckles. 

“It is not an actual apple, you blithering idiot,” you spat. “It’s… spherical, sort of like a dense metal ball, and it contains unmeasurable power. Do you know of Adam and Eve? The first humans of Genesis? They once used the Apple to wage war between the Isu and humans, so if it gets in the wrong hands, we are all doomed.”

The captain’s brows furrowed. He wasn’t sure how much of this he could fully believe, but you didn’t seem like you were lying. Either way, all he had to do was follow along until he had a ship to sail off on, so Seungcheol didn’t mind entertaining whatever this was for now.

“Do you have a plan, then? Do you know of King Philip’s whereabouts?” he asked you.

“There will be an opera performance tonight at the Alcázar. His Majesty will be in attendance, of course.”

“The Alcázar? And how exactly do you intend to get into the royal palace?”

There was a dangerous sparkle in your eyes. “You said thieving’s all you know?” 

The pirates were, unfortunately, consistent with their image; Soonyoung, Seokmin, and Seungkwan were excellent at thieving, save for the times they started bickering in the middle of a heist. 

The extravagant fashion of the nobility in Sevilla were often handcrafted by the most skilled modistas in the city. Rich silks sewed into elegant gowns and fitted justaucorps lined their shops, and the seamstresses were busying themselves with a plethora of requests from high society. As it was Holy Sunday, business was bustling since Sevilla had processions going on all day long. The upper class were attending gatherings after Mass and cultural events were held throughout the city, so the modistas were kept busy in their shops.

Of course, neither you nor the pirates had enough pesos or doblóns to afford such luxuries, so Soonyoung, Seokmin, and Seungkwan were tasked to rob three of the busiest workshops in the affluent districts. Seungcheol’s trust in them pulling this off was shaky, but you spent thirty minutes explaining exactly what they needed to bring back. 

It was a surprisingly successful loot; Seokmin brought back a midnight blue silk gown that was embroidered with glittering beads of pearl while Soonyoung returned with a velvet long coat of a similar shade. Of course, blue was decided beforehand to stay discreet, but no one had expected the colors to be so alike. Unfortunately, Seungkwan was chased out, but he managed to snag a sapphire necklace set in silver. 

“Cap’n,” Soonyoung marvelled, pretending to wipe a tear from his eye as he watched Seungcheol slide the black gloves over his hands, “you look like a sight for sore eyes.”

“Am I not always?”

“Since you are unarmed, I will answer that,” he said. “When we were out at sea for months on end, some days I mistook you to be a drowned rat.”

“Ah, you need not worry. That does not bother me, friend.” Seungcheol smiled good-naturedly. “I mistake you for that every day.”

The plan was not quite as simple as you made it out to be; you and Seungcheol were to dress the part of the nobility—enough to be let into the King’s palace without suspicion—and sneak into his study when the opportunity arose. Seungcheol wasn’t sure what exactly they were looking for, but he was confident that he could pull off the polished look of a nobleman. 

The men of the upper classes often wore powdered wigs to show off their wealth, but Seungcheol had to settle for grooming the unkempt, tangled mess of locks on his head. He soaked his hair in the wash basin until he could run his fingers through it without them getting stuck, and then after borrowing some pomade off Joshua, Seungcheol styled his hair back into a ponytail. A few curls fell onto his forehead, but as much as he tried to slick them back, they were too difficult to tame. 

He managed to shave his overgrown facial hair down to a stubble, although now the pirate couldn’t do much to hide his scar that ran down the upper half of his face. Still, he was undeniably more put together now. Hopefully enough to disguise himself amongst the elites of Sevilla. 

The sun was set to dip below the horizon when Seungcheol knocked at your door. He felt strange in his new getup, but when you opened the door to reveal a remarkably polished appearance—charcoal-lined eyes and rouge-tinted lips accompanied by your flowing dress—the captain suddenly felt like a mere sailor admiring a mermaid of the deep. 

The look he gave you surely wasn't affection but perhaps something a few degrees beyond basic interest.

“Ah,” you remarked, giving him a once-over and humming in approval. “You clean up well, Captain.”

His mouth felt too dry to respond, so Seungcheol simply gave you a polite nod and entered your room when you held the door open wider. You were a few inches taller because of your heels now, but the volume of your skirt was what really made you stand out. It was impossible to imagine how you looked before after he’d seen you like this. 

“I’m nearly ready,” you said, picking up the sapphire necklace and holding it to your neck. “Could I trouble you for some help? This is a bit difficult…”

After a pause, you cleared your throat and Seungcheol realized that he had been staring at the floorboards for far too long. 

He sucked in a breath. “Right. Could you move your hair?”

After taking the delicate jewels from your hands, Seungcheol waited for you to move your hair off the back of your neck so that he could fasten the chain around your neck. He moved so that he was standing right behind you, right where he could see the curve of your cheek and the way your chest rose and fell. Then, he moved the necklace around you and pulled the ends back to clasp them together. His fingers brushed against your skin as he did so, and although he felt like he was holding his breath the entire time, the task was successfully accomplished without Seungcheol staring at your nape for too long. 

“There,” he said in a quieter, deeper voice. 

You fixed the chain to position the gem at the center of your chest. “Shall we get going, then?” You walked toward the window and gestured for him to head out first.

“Surely, we are not to take the window as our exit?” He almost laughed at how inelegant it felt compared to how they were dressed. 

“It would be best that we’re not seen. I would rather not be questioned on how we got our hands on these clothes.”

“Very well.” Seungcheol pushed open the pane and gestured for you to go on ahead. “Ladies first.”

The Puerta de la Montería was the grand entrance to the Alcazár. The high-rise stone walls separated the ornate palace from the bustling city, and the Gate of the Hunt was flanked by two lion statues that appeared to guard the entryway. 

Seungcheol used to study architecture in his spare time. His aunt was a patron of the arts, and she gifted him several books on the art of construction and composition—guides to Baroque and Palladin design that Seungcheol spent nights flipping through and immersing himself in. He loved architecture for the same reason he loved art; they were both so intertwined in the way they echoed cultural shifts across time.

The course of history—the very passage of time—was something he could witness from the mast of his ship, even; it was in art, the world around him, and the everchanging architecture from the lands he traversed.

As they approached the entrance, he asked you, “Are we again pretending to be a married couple?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“As we did in the square,” Seungcheol pointed out as a smirk tugged at his lips. “Do you recall, mi corazón?”

The withering look on your face nearly made him snort.

“Unfortunately, I do remember,” you replied, “and, yes, it appears we have no other choice.”

You slowed your pace to follow Seungcheol’s lead, but he grabbed your wrist before you could fall behind. “No,” he insisted, “we walk together.” He let go of you once you were by his side again. 

“Fine.”

“And if we are to keep up this… charade,” he started again, “I must at least get your name.”

“Ah, I never gave you my name, have I?” 

Seungcheol had only thought of referring to you as “the assassin” until now, and the very idea of you having an actual name had completely slipped his mind. 

“You have not,” he answered. “Are you allowed to disclose that?”

“Of all the matters I have had to disclose thus far, my name is the least worrisome. It is of no significance nor am I very fond of it, but you may call me Y/N.”

“Y/N,” he echoed. “A lovely name—very fierce.” 

“Look at that tower over there. Is it not a fine sight?”

“Changing the subject, are you?”

You sneered. “Take the hint, will you?”

“Well, if a shift in conversation is what you desire, I could go on at length about the architecture here.”

He was only half-serious, assuming you would find the topic to be completely dull, but your eyes twinkled with interest. “Do go on.”

“This palace was once a fort called the Dar al-Imara,” he explained as you two passed through the stone archway, following behind the couple that were well ahead of them. After receiving a nod of acknowledgement from the guards, they were permitted to pass through the gatehouse. Seungcheol didn’t realize he had been so on edge until he felt like he could raise his head high again. “It was home to the Abbadid king at the time.”

You quirked a brow at him. “How do you know that?”

“I know more than you think—I travel, I read, I study. There is only so much the world can hide from someone.”

A pause, then you said, “I see now. To be frank, I thought you spoke in a way that was more akin to a professor than a pirate. The innkeeper spoke of you as a feared captain whose name struck terror across the seven seas, but you are quite unlike the pirates I have encountered. It is not for the better nor for the worse; you are simply… not the kind of man I expected you to be.”

Seungcheol couldn’t respond for a minute, and perhaps it was because you hit the nail on the head. He was in academia long before he had turned to a life of piracy, so he had never been able to quite let go of the way he articulated himself for most of his life. It had always gone unnoticed, though, so he hadn’t ever expected it to be brought up. Not from someone whose name he didn’t even know.

“Never mind that, though,” you added, seeing how reluctant the captain was to answer. 

The two of you were silent as you watched through the courtyard, quietly admiring the cypress trees that hung over the crystal pools. Silent chatter and the running water from the fountains filled his ears. Among the noblemen around him, Seungcheol felt like he was just playing dress-up even as he adorned himself in the finest silks and satins. 

“I do have a question,” you continued once more. “How did you recognize the mark on my amulet?”

You must have been referring to the assassin’s insignia that Seungcheol still wore around his neck, tucked inside his garments. It didn’t feel right to leave it at the tavern, but it was all the more dangerous if he was caught with it here. 

As for his answer, Seungcheol saw no reason to lie. 

“My aunt was once a pirate,” he said. “After she left that life behind to raise me, she only kept a few treasures to herself. That amulet with that particular engraving was one of them.”

A horrified look crossed your face. “Then she…” You didn’t finish, but the implication in your tone was clear enough to him.

“There was no blood spilled for it to land in her possession, if that was where your assumptions were going,” Seungcheol replied firmly. He remembered it as clear as day—the memory of his aunt kissing the amulet, believing her nephew to be asleep at the time. “It belonged to someone dear to her, otherwise she wouldn’t have safeguarded it.”

His response seemed to absolve your misunderstanding, but then your interest was captured by something else entirely. “Your aunt was a pirate?”

“She was,” Seungcheol said with a surge of pride filling his chest. “She pretended to be a man most of her life because of it, but they eventually accepted her as she was.”

“What happened to her?”

“The Royal Navy told her she would be pardoned for her crimes against the Crown so long as she joined their forces to take down Wukou ships that were targeting their merchants. After they got what they wanted, they got rid of her. Never saw her or her corpse again. Simple as that.”

“I’m sorry.”

Seungcheol met your gaze. “Are you now?”

“I am,” you insisted, and he swore he could see a hint of sympathy in your eyes. “She must have been a brave and honorable woman.”

“Never thought I would hear someone use the word honorable by a pirate’s name.” From an assassin, no less. Before you opened your mouth to protest, he continued, “I jest. Thank you for saying that—really. It means a lot to hear someone speak well of her.”

It must have been ages since Seungcheol spoke about his aunt openly. He loved her deeply, but it was a sore subject that he treaded carefully on. The last time he had been this open about his feelings, it was after having downed a bottle of whiskey on a particularly dreary night on The Golden Corsair. He had locked himself in the map room, too, so that no one would see him in such a fragile state.

“Do you have a plan on sneaking into the study, by chance?” he asked. “Or are we entering Hell?”

“I do not believe that is appropriate to say on Holy Monday.”

“I do not believe sneaking into the royal palace is very appropriate, either.”

You gave him a pointed look. “We did not sneak; they saw fit to let us enter. Now, hold your arm out for me when we go up these steps here.”

Seungcheol did as you told him to, and you placed your right arm over his left to make your way up the staircase to the Salón de Embajadores, or Hall of Ambassadors. He couldn’t help but notice how measured and graceful your pace was, while Seungcheol felt as though he was scrambling to match your stride as elegantly as possible. Yet, he couldn’t match how effortlessly you managed to carry yourself. 

The ceiling of intricate Mudéjar woodwork and geometric patterns caught Seungcheol’s eye first. The Hall of Ambassadors was certainly fit for a royal audience with how the grand stage was illuminated in the vast room. The rest of the venue was packed with velvet cushions for the guests’ seating, and there was a throne for King Philip V at the back wall. His seat was on an elevated platform—perfect for you and Seungcheol to keep close watch on him throughout the show. 

The king hadn’t yet arrived by the time the room was starting to fill up. Seungcheol wondered if he would make his grand entrance later on, and just as he lost himself in thoughts of how uncomfortable his clothes were, the audience rose to bow in the presence of the monarch. 

“It’s His Majesty,” Seungcheol mumbled, nudging your side with his elbow. His eagerness got the better of him and he wound up elbowing you far too aggressively. 

“Ow.” You shot him a venomous look and muttered under your breath, “Perhaps you have not been around many, but it is improper to jab a lady!”

“A lady? But are you not an—” 

For lack of better wording, Seungcheol decided to hold his tongue. He figured it was the wiser choice to not reveal your rather scandalous occupation in a public setting—the royal palace, no less. 

A reverent silence filled the room as His Majesty passed by the nobles and elites to make his way to the empty throne. Next to him, you stiffened. A chill went down the pirate’s spine when he made brief eye contact with the King, realizing he had forgotten to lower his eyes out of respect. 

His eyes… something wasn’t quite right about them.

With King Philip and his men now at the back of the room, Seungcheol saw this as the perfect opportunity to slip away. “Now is our chance,” he told you as he sat down in synchronization with the rest of the guests. 

“You cannot possibly be thinking about making our move now,” you returned in a low voice. “We must wait until the time is right. For now, we are spectators.”

Seungcheol couldn't help the frustrated sigh that escaped his lips.

It was a slip of the tongue, but he really couldn’t be bothered to sit through an entire show. On his ship, his men entertained the crew with jigs that any sailor could bellow at the top of their lungs. Not that Seungcheol had witnessed many opera performances in his life, but he wasn't too keen on sitting through hours of the grating sound in his ears. It must have been an acquired taste, one for the upper class, and Seungcheol simply hadn't developed an ear for such music. 

He imagined his reaction would earn a glare from you, or maybe even a stab wound in the gut. You would surely rattle on about the importance of your mission until Seungcheol’s ears bled (and all before the opera performance even started!), so he braced himself for your wrath. 

But then you giggled.

He couldn't believe his ears. Seungcheol thought he would be less intimidated if you pointed your blade at his throat instead.

“Your impatience is truly remarkable,” you said in a hushed voice. “You mean to tell me they made you captain?”

“Oh, you must hear of my adventures, mi corazón. There was no question that I would become captain.”

“I see your abysmal lack of subtlety was not a deciding factor. We are pretending to be part of this world, remember?”

His gaze dropped to where he could see a glint of steel at your wrist. It was something that would've been altered to match your measurements had you put in the request yourself, but since your dress was really adjusted for some other noblewoman (who was most likely very distressed about her missing gown right now), the sleeves were a size too big on you. 

“My lack of subtlety? Sweetheart”—Seungcheol moved closer so that he could push the sharp tip of your blade further up your arm—“you could do a better job yourself.”

This seemed to properly fluster you, and you huffed before fixing your sleeve and turning your attention back to the stage. 

“That was intentional,” you made sure to note under your breath.

“Oh, yes—certainly.”

“It was hardly visible.”

“If you insist.”

“Has anyone ever told you what a piece of work you are?”

“No,” the captain said. “I have received no such complaints. Rather, the number of women I have unknowingly charmed is quite troublesome. That must be my only shortcoming.” Noting the unimpressed look on your face, he smiled and lowered his voice to quote, “But, ‘what a piece of work is a man,’ no?”

You raised a brow. “Hamlet?”

“Oh? Have you seen it? I was lucky enough to watch it at the Theatre Royal in London a few years back. Had a business partner who—”

But you were no longer paying attention to him. Right as Seungcheol was about to explain how he got the tickets, you pressed a finger to his lips and hushed him. Normally, he would be baffled by such a bold move, but instead he followed your gaze to where King Philip was whispering orders to the palace guards stationed around him. The lights dimmed and the opera singer walked to the front of the stage, rousing applause and cheers from the audience, but Seungcheol had a strange feeling that the auditorium wasn’t safe. 

One by one, he noticed, the king’s palace guards stalked off to examine the rows of seats. 

“They cannot possibly be suspicious of us already,” Seungcheol whispered—more as a joke, initially—but his amusement dropped from his face when he added, “can they?”

“I’d rather not test our luck,” you replied, peering over your shoulder to scan the perimeter for any discreet exits. He felt your lips ghost the shell of his ear. “Stand up and hold your arm out for me. If anyone asks, I felt faint and you were simply accompanying me outside for fresh air.”

“That will draw attention.”

“Naturally. You must have noticed how flattering this gown is on me.”

Seungcheol paused. “I have, but—”

“Good, so we are in agreement, then?” you hissed through your teeth. “Stand up.”

“We were not spectators for very long, were we?” Seungcheol returned miserably before he stood up, straightening his back and extending his arm out to you. He had been the one dreading sitting through an opera performance, but he was starting to prefer the vocalist over the palace guards hunting them down.

Seungcheol owed their hasty escape to how dark the room was. The few attendees in their row were disgruntled by the movement, but they managed to leave through the exit as quietly as they entered. The palace was eerily vacant with everyone in the Hall of Ambassadors, and you were making a great effort to keep your wooden heels from clacking against the marble. 

“Follow me,” you said under your breath before dragging Seungcheol by the wrist. He allowed you to tug him down the hallway and to the stairwell. 

“What are you looking for?”

“His study.”

“Right now?” 

Seungcheol stood firmly in place so that you would stop pulling him along. However, you simply let go of him and headed up the steps on your own. He sighed deeply and followed after you. 

“Pray tell, what were you expecting? Did you think I was taking you for dinner and a show?”

Seungcheol, feeling his face grow warm, opened his mouth, closed it, and then opened it again. “Hold on for a moment. We cannot possibly just barge in. This is risky.”

You stopped in your tracks and turned on Seungcheol in the middle of the stairwell. “I thought I made it clear that this would be dangerous. If you value your life so much, then leave me behind and run, but I will not be stopping here.”

With that, you bunched up your skirt in fistfuls and kept walking upstairs. For the first time in Seungcheol’s life, he felt like had so much more to lose than his life. He had already lost countless men, his ship, and his pride. All he had left were three members of his crew and his own resolution to make it back to England, to bring some closure and peace to the families of the deceased pirates. He thought that since he was punished to keep living, he would at least do one last thing for his men and make it back alive. 

But Captain Choi Seungcheol would never dare leave an ally behind to save his own skin. 

Pirates had long been generalized as ruffians who only sought to pillage and plunder. That may have rang true for some, but for pirates like Seungcheol, who lived off of the thrill of adventure, words like yours only left him with adrenaline pumping through his body. Perhaps he was itching to feel that exhilaration once again.

Nimble on his feet, he jogged to catch up with you, crossing two steps at a time. You hardly made any gesture to acknowledge that he decided against turning his back on you, but Seungcheol swore he caught a small smile on your face before you turned to scan the perimeter. 

The second floor seemed deserted, but there were so many doors that Seungcheol already felt discouraged at the prospect of finding the King’s study. He leaned against the frame of the arched window behind him, peering over his shoulder to catch sight of the palace guards prowling at the entrance. He supposed they had been alerted to be on the lookout. 

As much as Seungcheol tried to push it down to think about later, he couldn’t stop himself from wondering just how the King and his men even caught onto them. He looked up at the paintings that lined the walls, staring right at the portrait of King Philip V. The pirate felt like he was being watched the same way the Bourbon King’s dark eyes bore into his. 

That was a concern for later, though; the predicament at hand was enough to make the pirate’s head hurt. There were so many doors that Seungcheol couldn’t see how they could possibly find—

“There it is,” he heard you say, much to his bewilderment. 

“How were you able to find it so quickly?”

“Come, pirate.” 

“Captain,” Seungcheol corrected in a grumble as he followed you inside the study. He closed the door behind him as quietly as possible, fingertips twisting the doorknob as if it were glass. “I would much rather you call me by my name. There is something that irks me about your formalities, for some reason.”

“Very well, pirate.”

Seungcheol waited until your back was turned to roll his eyes at your stubborn attitude. He decided to change the topic, asking, “Say, what do those—er… code pages look like?”

“Codex pages, and I would not know. I’ve only heard of them.” 

“What?” He looked askance at you. “How in God’s name are we supposed to find them, then?”

You were currently sifting through the papers that you pulled out from the folding front of the King’s bureau. Seungcheol could feel all hope for the success of this mission slowly dwindle as you simply shrugged in response. 

“So,” he started when it got awfully quiet, “you mentioned you watched Hamlet? I had no idea there were theatre companies performing Shakespeare here. Lope de Vega has been quite a sensation in Sevilla, or so I’ve heard.”

“You sure have a great deal to say.” Your tone was flat, and although you turned your head to continue skimming through the papers, you answered, “I’ve seen it in Paris. My mother took me when I was younger.”

“Your mother must—”

“She is of no concern to you.”

A subject most delicate, was what Seungcheol gathered.

Then, you leapt to your feet with an excited gasp. “Seungcheol, look!” 

He knew very well that you would intentionally avoid using his name if he pointed it out, so Seungcheol stayed quiet. However, if he was more honest with himself, he would’ve admitted that his heart jumped because of how you called his name rather than whatever your discovery was.

“Is it the Codex pages?”

“No, but these are official plans for Domingo de Resurrección. This is written proof that they are using that sacred day for something wicked,” you told him in an urgent breath, crossing over to his side to hand him the papers. Seungcheol ran his finger down the page, frowning as he skimmed over various decrees about regulating personal freedoms. “This is what they will announce and everyone will fall under their control. As long as they have the Apple, the people are doomed.”

“See this?” you went on, mortified. “The Templar Order intends to strip everyone of their freedom. They want to create a world controlled only by them.”

Seungcheol could hardly believe his eyes. The fine print read that refusing to comply with the new set of laws was punishable by law; that personal freedoms to choose one's occupation and future spouse would be restricted; that education would be manipulated to ban readings that promoted individualism and free thought! He had always known not to trust those in power, but this was corruption rooted deeper than Seungcheol thought was possible. It went far past the soil and embedded itself in the bedrock. 

It infuriated him beyond belief. Made his gut roil with hot acid. 

His aunt died because she was a pirate—died at the filthy hands of royal scum—and Seungcheol was never able to avenge her. It was almost laughable that he thought he could ever do anything about it, and now they would be able to cover up their dirty work entirely. 

And they were planning to censor the very knowledge from books? That was right—a human who couldn’t speak freely would end up fighting desperately to express themselves somehow. The Templar needed to control the very thoughts and beliefs of the people, too. Limiting the opinions and perspectives from certain readings would certainly inflict a controlled worldview upon everyone. 

The entire scheme was preposterous. It went against everything Seungcheol stood for, and he just felt wronged to lose so much in so little time. How could he possibly stand by and allow this to happen?

“You… you are certain of this, correct?” he asked, almost in a single breath. “Can the Apple truly manipulate minds like that?”

“It has been done before—many times over many years. It will start here, and it will spread across nations. The Templar’s reign will become ceaseless.”

His hands shook a little. He had to keep himself from gripping the sides of the pages too hard. If Seungcheol even lost a fraction of the self-restraint he was using right now, he would end up crumpling the papers and tearing them to shreds. 

“It truly is much more pleasant when you are oblivious to it,” you continued in a sort of wistful tone, a mirthless smile on your lips. “You cannot stop a man consumed by greed; if he wants power, he will do anything for it.” 

“What is the use of throwing away the world for power? When you come to realize that all has been lost in the pursuit of your own desires, then what remains?” After a beat, Seungcheol added, “What I mean to say is, they cannot get away with this.”

You gave him an uneasy look before thumbing through the stack of papers, pulling one of them out to show Seungcheol. It didn’t seem to be an official document, but it was a written outline of the events that would take place on Easter Sunday. 

“It says here that they plan on using La Giralda for their announcement,” you pointed out. “I want to put an end to this, too, but we only have days.”

The pirate shook his head and scoffed. He, of course, had studied the history behind the Giralda Tower after his first visit to Sevilla. The great bell tower was positioned right next to the Sevilla Cathedral. Back when the cathedral was known as the Almohad mosque, it originally functioned as a minaret where a muezzin would call for prayer five times a day. How ironic that they were planning to manipulate everyone into submission at the same location where Christianity was imposed in order to erase Islamic tradition and culture. 

“Incredible,” Seungcheol spat, “and I thought they could not possibly go any lower.” He bit down on his lower lip (far too harshly for he tasted blood almost immediately) while his brows furrowed. “Is it apparent when one is under the Apple’s influence? Visibly, I mean.”

“I am not entirely certain. It’s said there is a certain gleam in their eyes, as if they glow,” you confirmed before your expression darkened. “Why do you ask?”

“Earlier, when the King walked into the room,” he started. “I had a strange feeling when our eyes met…”

“Congratulations. It must be love at first sight.”

He fixed you with a glare. “Enough of that. I cannot explain it, but there was something off about the look in his eyes. It was exactly like they were glowing, like he had been possessed.”

“That must mean the Apple is already in their hands,” you said, and although you spoke calmly, there was undeniable horror in your words, “and the person controlling His Majesty is here.”

“Then we must find them!”

Although he spoke with a sense of unwavering determination, Seungcheol’s eyes unfocused and drifted to the window panel behind you. It was strangely perfect timing, but the distraction in the corner of his vision happened to be someone who looked undeniably dodgy. The pirate observed the odd person sneaking around the palace grounds with knitted brows as you spoke. 

“We must, but it could be anyone.”

“Or it could be that suspicious gentleman lurking around the building,” he pointed out, jerking his thumb out the triple-pane window in the direction of the mysterious figure donning a white tunic that fell to their knees. The Cross of the Templar Order was branded right across their chest in a brilliant red.

You whirled around to peer out the window. Sure enough, your eyes grew as big as saucers at the sight, and Seungcheol had to grab your arm before you turned to hurry out the door. He had caught the figure just in time, and whoever it was appeared to be slipping out of the palace grounds undetected. 

“That mark on his robes—it’s a Templar Knight,” you breathed out, attempting to wriggle your arm out of the pirate’s grip.

“Wait a moment,” Seungcheol said.

“But we must get down there before he leaves!” 

“First, we need to put the papers back where they belong,” he reminded, letting go of you to walk over to the desk. He then froze at the sight of the King’s bureau. “Where did you come across them again?”

“It was right—ah, hold on, allow me.”

And perhaps it was because Seungcheol was so overwhelmed by the load of information about the King’s plans that he hardly noticed the palace guard opening the door to the study. By the time they were gawking at the man from behind the King’s desk, the pirate knew this would end badly. He only hoped that there weren’t reinforcements following suit, but judging by the shock across the man’s face, it appeared that he just so happened to stumble across them while he was doing his rounds.

A scornful look clouded the guard’s face, his sharp gaze moving to the papers in your hand. “What business do you have here?” Not quite a question that waited for an answer, but a warning of what was to come. 

“Er…” Seungcheol paused. The situation they were in was not ideal; he had no weapons to defend himself, the assassin wasn’t doing much to feign innocence, and the palace guard before them was built like a beast. “We were trying to find the water closet,” he tried, careful. “I suppose this is not it.”

“Intruders,” the guard spat, guttural and dark, unsheathing his sword from its scabbard. “You have committed the grave crime of lèse-majestè, for which you must answer to His Majesty the King.” 

“I do believe we just did far more than simply insult the King.” Seungcheol said, just barely loud enough for you to hear. “Is it really that serious of an offense?” 

“It was merely contrived by men to spare them from criticism,” you replied in a dismissive, flat tone. 

Seungcheol circled around the desk, starting, “Listen, we just—”

Before he could get any other words out, the guard raised his blade and swung in their direction, managing to land a blow on a vase and shatter it. He dodged just in time to narrowly avoid the attack, but he needed to disarm the guard before things got out of hand. Someone would surely hear if they didn't silence him quickly. Judging by the lack of reinforcements, Seungcheol was assured that the guard hadn't called for assistance yet. 

He took the wind-up for the next swing as an opportunity to tackle the guard, driving his shoulder against the man’s gut to shove him to the floor. If Seungcheol had his cutlass, this battle would’ve been decided already, but he was now struggling to pry the sword from the guard’s fingers. 

The guard kneed Seungcheol in the side of his ribs, which the pirate returned the favor by swinging his arm to deliver a heavy punch to the man’s jaw. His sides ached, but the adrenaline was keeping the pirate from keeling over. His attacker let out a ragged breath, panting and wriggling desperately to free himself. When his lips parted, presumably to call for help, Seungcheol struck him right in the mouth. 

He was so caught up in pummeling the guard into unconsciousness that he just barely noticed the blade pressing against his midsection. Seungcheol caught the guard’s wrist just before the sharp tip was about to be plunged into his flesh. 

He then felt a searing pain in skull, soon realizing that the guard had bashed his forehead against his and pinned him to the ground. Seungcheol was hardly able to make out anything but scattered bursts of light behind his eyes that wasn’t quite enough to stop him from grabbing ahold of the guard’s wrist again, stopping him from driving his sword into the pirate’s chest. 

They struggled to fend each other off, gritting their teeth and mustering all of their strength to overpower the other. Seungcheol’s palms were being cleaved into by the sharp edge of the blade, but he had no choice but to grip the blade to keep himself from being slain. The tip of the sword pressed deeper and deeper against his sternum, daring to break skin and bleed crimson. Seungcheol felt his pulse in his neck jump dangerously as he tried to keep the guard from spearing through his chest. 

He couldn’t just die here. This couldn’t all be for nothing.

But just when he thought it was the end of the line for him, the guard stilled. The sword slipped from his hands so helplessly, as if all the strength had seeped through his body at once, and the blade slid to the ground with a clatter. Seungcheol watched him teeter, stagger, and then draw in a shaky breath that sounded more like a death rattle in his ears. He coughed once, spraying blood against Seungcheol’s face, and then he fully collapsed on top of the pirate. 

Dazed, he pushed the heavy corpse off his body, letting the guard’s body slowly bleed out on the floor of the study. The guard’s bleary eyes stared at the heavens above, unblinking. A burning sensation radiated from Seungcheol’s palms, white-hot anguish that nearly overwhelmed his senses. 

At the same time, you came into view above him. Seungcheol watched as you used the guard’s uniform to wipe off the remaining blood from your blade. Then, you flicked your wrist, triggering some mechanism that allowed for the weapon to retract back into your sleeve. 

“Now that he has been dealt with, shall we be on our way?” 

He thoughtlessly wiped the fresh blood that stained his face, although it didn’t do much considering his hands were still bloodied, too. “Ah, yes,” he responded. “Er, thank you—for saving me.”

“We were compromised. There was no other choice,” you said as you spied from the corner of the window. “The Templar Knight is gone, but he might not have gotten far. We must leave before someone discovers us with… the body.”

“Agreed.”

Seungcheol wasn’t quite sure whether it was because he was drunk off the combat or whether he was still disoriented from a near-death experience, but he grabbed the King’s papers with blood-stained hands and crumpled them into his pockets before they snuck out again. 

Unfortunately, the Templar Knight was long gone.

It was a pity, but Seungcheol had to bring you to see reason first, telling you that there was no point in chasing someone who left no trail. He understood your urgency, though. The King would soon discover that his papers were missing and one of his guards had been killed, and then there would be a bounty on both of your heads soon (if they ever managed to figure out the perpetrators). 

There were five days left until Easter Sunday. They needed to find a way to stop the Templar Order by then. 

As Seungcheol cradled his glass of rum at The Sleeping Bull, he couldn’t stop thinking about the way King Philip’s eyes glowed. It was something so subtle, like it could almost be mistaken as a trick of the light, but there was nothing in the room that could have reflected such a color. 

There were a lot more guests occupying the rooms in the tavern now. Joshua was right when he said that more people would be coming in for Semana Santa. Earlier, when Seungcheol snuck back in through the window of your room, he had to wait an unbearably long time for the hallway to clear out so that he could hurry into his room. Seungkwan, Seokmin, and Soonyoung nearly yelled at the way their captain barged in without warning. 

He haphazardly stripped off his clothes, bunching them up and tossing them in a heap under the bed. His hands were still imbrued with blood, and although Seungcheol was no stranger to the sight, he couldn’t stop thinking about how the situation could’ve gone differently. Perhaps they wouldn’t have made it back if it wasn’t just the one guard that walked in.

It was pitch-black outside now—brilliant hues of sunset lost to a shroud of darkness. Sevilla was still in its rainy season, so the rainstorm that plagued the night wouldn’t stop pounding in his ears. He could hear claps of thunder every now and then, and surprisingly, Seungcheol never felt more comfortable. There had been countless storms they braved on The Golden Corsair, but the captain quite liked the feeling of being soaked to the bone and vulnerable under the sky. 

While he was lost in his own head, Seungcheol looked up to see Joshua setting down a small pouch in front of him, tossing the rag he had just used to wipe down the bar over his shoulder. “Your, er… companion requested this earlier—the pretty one. I thought it best to hand it off to you.”

“Are you making me do your work, you bastard?”

“You expect me to deliver this to your lover at such an hour?”

“Lover?” He barked out a laugh. “Do not jest.”

The innkeeper’s gentle eyes widened in a scandalized fashion. “Is she not? Then, could she be a lady of the night? A secret paramour, perhaps?”

Seungcheol snorted. “Not a chance. I suppose you could call us… partners.” It was silent for a beat, then he asked, “Do you assume every woman’s occupation has to do with serving a man?”

“Of course not. I just know you are not the type to entertain someone without reason.”

A wicked grin stretched across the captain’s face. “We have been friends for many years now, Joshua, and yet you think so lowly of me? But, I must confess, me and her are of mutual benefit to each other. I think I shall keep her near for the time being.”

Of course, the actual reason had to do with matters that he could not explain to Joshua just yet. He trusted the man deeply—after all, Joshua Hong was the man who put up with his pirate crew for years and risked his life to shelter them from authorities—but whatever was going on seemed far too complicated to get the innkeeper involved. For his friend’s own safety, Seungcheol decided he would keep this to himself.

“She is quite a mysterious one,” Joshua ruminated, “perhaps as mysterious as the King himself.”

Oh?

“The King?”

“Have you heard of the whispers concerning his children?”

Seungcheol kept a calm and even tone as he spoke, “Oh, yes, I caught word of his son passing away recently. Smallpox, correct?”

Joshua’s mouth set in a grim line. “Indeed. It truly is such a shame.”

“Eight alive and three dead—still good odds, I reckon.”

“And one is said to be in hiding, or so it is rumored,” Joshua added. “Word has it that his second wife loathes the children of his first. The story goes that the King, so fond of his first daughter, took it upon himself to hide her away, fearing the Queen’s fury might one day fall upon her.”

Seungcheol let out a snort before taking a swig of his rum. “Now, that is a proper mess of family affairs, if I ever heard one.”

“Curious, is it not? Five children sired by his first wife—three dead, one in hiding, and only one son left unharmed. There is something most peculiar about Her Majesty.”

No matter what Joshua told him, however, Seungcheol couldn’t find it in himself to care about the state of the King’s family matters. A bad person was a bad person—point blank. If this rumor really was true, though, then perhaps that meant the Queen was also someone worth looking into. After all, there had been whispers of her control over court politics due to her husband’s declining mental stability. 

“Yet,” Joshua went on to say, “at the very least, His Majesty has not made a mess of Spain like the Habsburgs did.”

“Not much remains to be spoiled, I daresay. What does the King do for the poor, for education, or for the economy?” Perhaps his words were especially charged because of the information they found in His Majesty’s study earlier, but Seungcheol was sure he was saying what needed to be said. “Look at how splendid the processions for Semana Santa are! People from vast lands could come to see them, yet the monarchy does nothing to share such marvels with the world.”

The innkeeper nodded in understanding. “And what a pity it is. There must be order, if we are to make progress. Without reformation, we shall remain stagnant.” He leaned back and sighed. “Yet, thus far, Sevilla has much to improve.”

Their conversation was abruptly interrupted by one of the hostlers, Lee Chan, who came rushing in for Joshua’s assistance. Apparently, the horses were panicking because of the storm and they needed extra hands. Seungcheol was left to finish the rest of his drink in silence, quietly observing the guests who were gorging down their dinners. 

Interestingly enough, the same man from the previous night was sitting quietly in the corner. 

Yoon Jeonghan. 

After some minutes of pondering on what the mysterious stranger’s intentions were (which led him nowhere), Seungcheol grabbed the pouch that Joshua had left and retired to his bedchamber. Seokmin was sound asleep, his snores filling the room, while Soonyoung and Seungkwan were playing cards in the corner.

He would bring the pouch to you in the morning, he decided. It was far too late for him to be knocking at a lady’s door, especially at an inn, of all places.

Once Seungcheol laid down, he tried getting some shut-eye. He wanted to do nothing but succumb to his exhaustion, but his mind was restless; all that raced through his head was you, the King, and the Templar Order. Tonight was a lot colder—a lot more dreary, too. Maybe it was because of the uneven flooring, or maybe it was because the flickering light from the candle couldn’t quite reach him, but Seungcheol found it difficult to get comfortable and allow himself to succumb to his exhaustion. 

The only comfort he had was having his crewmates in the same room as him. It was something he would never admit out loud, oh no, but he had gotten far too used to having company. Back on his ship, whenever Seungcheol got restless at night, he could easily find a few of the men on his ship to keep him company. Since they operated on a watch system, there would always be pirates awake to attend to navigating the ship or keeping watch, or the occasional ones who were off-shift that the captain could drink and sing sea shanties with. 

Seungcheol begrudgingly came to the conclusion that he couldn’t quite cope with being alone. That was perhaps why he set off as soon as he lost his aunt. He would’ve taken walking off the plank and plunging into unforgiving, icy waters rather than having no one.

The draft from the window wasn’t helping his spiraling thoughts. Seungcheol felt the chill down to his bones and each time he exhaled, curls of silvery vapor dissipated into the air. When he got up to try slamming it shut, the window pane would stay in place for a couple seconds before flying open again. 

“The latch is faulty, Cap’n,” Soonyoung said. “We meant to mention it to Joshua in the morning.”

He grabbed the edges of the curtains. “Let me just draw the—”

Seungcheol went completely still when he noticed a figure standing several yards away, cloaked by the darkness. It was the same man from earlier: Yoon Jeonghan. The captain couldn't tell what the strange man was up to, but Jeonghan was just quietly observing the perimeter as he stood on the cobblestone pathway. Perhaps he was just lost in his thoughts as he was passing by, but this late at night? 

And he was suspiciously close to the window closest to his—your window. 

“What is it?” Soonyoung asked after Seungcheol closed the curtains in a flash. “Has the curtain torn, too?”

“There is a man right outside her window,” he said.

“Whose window?”

“The assassin’s.” The captain started making his way to the door. “I must warn her.”

Seungkwan grimaced. “Warn the assassin? You should be warning the man.”  

Seungcheol initially let the words pass over his head as a quip, but after knocking on your door and watching it creak open, the pirate captain started to question who the real danger was when your hand flew out from the shadows to grab him by the front of the shirt. In a flash, you swung Seungcheol around and pushed him up against the wall, kicking your door closed with the heel of your foot.

The sharp tip of a blade was pressing against the side of his neck, right near his jugular vein. The only move Seungcheol dared to make was to open his eyes, meeting your fierce glare. 

“What the hell are you doing outside my door?” you demanded, your breath hot against his skin.

He really should’ve told Yoon Jeonghan to be careful instead.

“Warning you about the person outside your window,” he returned with a grumble. “Mind putting the blade down, sweetheart?” 

With a flick of your wrist, the blade retracted back into your sleeve—the same fashion you wielded the weapon earlier. Now that Seungcheol could process it properly, it was rather marvellous; he had never seen such a weapon. The contraption allowed your blade to remain unseen with a simple flourish of your arm. So this was the stealth of an assassin. 

Still, he was slightly unsettled by the fact that you kept your blade under your bedgown. 

“I noticed him not long ago. I drew the curtains before he could steal a look.” You pulled back, leaving Seungcheol to readjust his shirt around his frame. “What are you telling me for, anyway? Must I go take care of him?” 

He realized that “taking care” of Jeonghan most likely meant something tragic and irreversible. 

“Er—no, don’t act rashly.”

Seungcheol’s eyes hardened. This was clearly a dangerous situation for you, and he didn’t think he would be able to get a good night’s sleep knowing that he left you with someone suspicious loitering outside your window. But, for one, the pirate valued his life enough to not sleep in the same room as an assassin. Secondly, it was highly improper for him to share a room with an unmarried woman—wait, what if you were married? Choi Seungcheol, you poor excuse of a man, it would be improper either way!—not that the pirate cared much about social expectations or his reputation, anyway. 

“How about I stay here for the night?” he proposed.

You gawked at him. “I beg your pardon? Stay here?” 

“I feel uneasy about that man outside. It is best you do not stay here alone, lest you wake up to trouble.”

“But that is… that is completely out of the question—and indecent.”

“Need I remind you that I am a pirate and you are an assassin? I cannot say either of us are very proper to begin with.”

“Regardless, I can take care of myself perfectly fine.” 

“I never said you could not.”

You gave him a strange stare, as if you were searching for a sign that you could trust Seungcheol. He was positive that you wouldn’t put your faith in someone you had just met on such unconventional terms. After all, he was getting a ship out of this before you two would go your separate ways. There was nothing warm in this partnership—not in the slightest. 

He noticed you swallow thickly. “What about your men?” you asked. 

“You want one of them to keep watch here instead? I shall fetch—”

“No, I meant that someone needs to protect them, too.”

Perhaps he sounded a touch too defensive, but Seungcheol couldn’t help letting out a huff and saying, “It would be in your best interest not to look down upon my men. To you, they may not seem like much, but they are a force to be reckoned with in battle. You ought to have seen how Soonyoung impaled two pirates with a—what? What is so amusing?”

A ghost of a smile tugged at your lips. “Forgive me, I was unable to hold myself back.” Before Seungcheol could get irritated at your words, you continued, “You seem to be rather fond of your men. I simply found it charming that you appear to see them as your own kin.”

The captain drew in a breath to calm his beating heart. 

“What I believe is that the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb,” he replied softly, so quiet that he could hear you swallow thickly. 

“Well, I cannot speak on that matter, but I share your sentiment,” you said with a dismissive wave. The only light in the room came from the soft glow of the oil lamp beside your bed, and Seungcheol noticed there was no warmth in your gaze. “As for what you said earlier, should you decide to stay the night, my bed is strictly off-limits.”

Seungcheol’s face felt hot. That, of course, wasn’t what he meant when he proposed staying in your room, but to even be misunderstood was embarrassing. He had several trysts in the past that never left him with shame burning his cheeks, but now he felt hot over a simple command that was never meant to rile him up in the first place. 

“I will be taking the floor, of course,” he said. “I do not have any intentions of sleeping in the same bed as an assassin.”

You scoffed, your words charged with offense when you spat, “And I do not have any intentions of sleeping in the same bed as a pirate.”

“Pray tell, why do you speak of pirates with such disdain?” 

“It was you who spoke unfavorably of me first!”

“Nay, but I distinctly remember our first meeting—”

“Meeting? You speak of the time when you so rudely dragged me into that alleyway?” 

“—‘I have never been very fond of pirates.’ Those were your words, no?”

“Possibly. What of it?” 

“Well then, what is your issue with us? Do you take us all for criminals?”

Your jaw clenched. “You are indeed a criminal, but I don’t fault you for that, for I, too, am guilty of the same. What it is you fight for, I do not know, but what I do believe is that violence is sometimes a necessary evil. Though the law may deem me a criminal, my intentions were never born of malice.”

“I have no intentions of hurting anyone without reason, either.”

“Then you will find that you and I are the same. I do not do this because I want to hurt people; I do this because I want to protect the freedom of the people—our freedom.”

“Yet, in order to do so, you are bound to hide who you are.”

Your eyes glazed over for a few lingering seconds. “That is right,” you responded in a softer, sadder voice, “and it is my only regret.”

When Seungcheol tried to put himself in your shoes, he figured that assassins were doomed to live a life of solitude. He was always surrounded by the warmth and familiarity of his crew, which sealed the wound that ripped open his heart after his aunt’s murder, so it was difficult for the captain to think about what he would be like if he didn’t have people around him. 

If Soonyoung, Seokmin, and Seungkwan hadn’t survived that shipwreck, then Seungcheol surely would have lost his mind. He lived a life that relied on support from his comrades, and you sacrificed forming relationships because of your occupation. 

Still, even if Seungcheol didn’t quite see the full scope of your situation, he still believed everyone had a chance to carve their own path, no matter the decisions they made. He once chased a dream, too, when he gave up academia to become a pirate and carry on his aunt’s legacy. 

“As for the reason why I confessed my lack of fondness for pirates,” you went on, “it is because I envy you.”

He stilled. “Envy?”

What could possibly be there to envy? Seungcheol wondered if you had a few screws loose because no one in their right mind would want to covet a life where one had to constantly be on the run, never able to settle down and raise a family. You, on the other hand, kept your identity a secret, so you still had the chance to turn your life around. 

It just made no sense to him, but then Seungcheol thought of how you kept rattling on about freedom this, freedom that, how you reacted to his aunt, and the gears in his head began to turn.

He spoke with an assurance that left no room for doubt. “You want to be a pirate.”

“A fool’s dream that I never grew out of,” you confirmed. “I shall admit, my upbringing was one of hardship and disappointment. I longed for adventure and… a sense of camaraderie that I was never able to have.” When the pirate took too long to react, you mumbled, “Ridicule me all you want.”

“Why would I ever ridicule you for that?”

His words left the room quieter than it was before, the tension so palpable that it nearly suffocated the both of them. 

You hesitated before trying, “It is unbecoming of a woman—”

“There is no such thing,” he cut in fiercely. “If you think for one moment that I, of all people, believe such ridiculous notions, then you have me sorted out all wrong. I gave up my own academic endeavors to chase my aunt’s dreams—a woman with the same aspirations as yourself. If you believe it to be a fool’s dream, then we must be birds of a feather.”

Your lips parted ever-so-slightly, and Seungcheol reached around his neck to pull off the iron chain with the amulet, thrusting it into your hands. 

“This is more than a ship,” he said. “I refuse to be a puppet to those who threaten my freedom.”

After a pause, your face broke into a small smile that somehow illuminated the room brighter than the candlelight, rivaling even the glow of the moon, and Seungcheol knew that whatever stirred in his chest was something he had never felt before.

As expected, the ground was cold and hard on his sore back. Even the hammocks back on his ships were cozier. Even the extra cushioning he had in the room with his crewmates provided far more comfort than the thin sheet you gave him.

The previous night, after Seungcheol informed his men that he would be staying in your room, they nearly fainted on the spot. Whether it was because they feared for his life or thought it was an indecent arrangement, the captain truly could not tell. (He was leaning toward the former, judging by how they sighed in relief to see him alive and well the next morning.) Before he left his room to head to yours, he pulled the edge of the curtain back to peer out the window again, but not a soul was in sight. Somehow, that was all the more unsettling. 

He wound up handing you the pouch from Joshua, too, only to find out that it was a sewing kit meant to stitch up the gashes on his palms. The very thought of a needle and thread pulling together his flesh made Seungcheol wish he never gave it to you.

However, the fact that you requested it specifically for his wounds made the pirate feel oddly meek. You discovered that Seungcheol had hastily wrapped rags around his palms to hide the injury, but the cloth was soaked with blood and the cut would surely be infected if he took no further action. He ended up allowing you to take his hand in yours and sew the laceration together until it stopped bleeding profusely. 

On the bright side, the stinging pain helped him fall asleep almost immediately.

The processions for Semanta Santa carried on during Martes Santo, the streets alive with teachings and parables being shared. There had already been several in the morning, some of which were silent and some of which were accompanied by saetas sung in a capella. Joshua told Seungcheol over breakfast that Holy Tuesday was full of religious floats that were designed to look as if they had come right out of the Bible, and although the pirate didn’t consider himself to be extremely devout, he was still amazed by the amount of detail that went into the celebration. 

In exchange for their stay (that was completely free of charge, was what Joshua emphasized when he approached his dear friend), the innkeeper requested that Seungcheol help Chan in the stables. They were short on hands due to the influx of guests, so Seungcheol enlisted Seungkwan’s help to keep him company. 

Soonyoung and Seokmin, on the other hand, were to follow you. The captain was slightly nervous that you would ask too much of them, especially with how you impulsively took him into the King’s study the previous day, but he was more at ease when you stated that you three were simply looking for anyone that could be a Templar Knight. The one person you wanted to look into was Jeonghan, which you only concluded in the morning, thus you were slightly disappointed that you didn’t confront him last night.

However, the search for Jeonghan was fruitless. You, Seokmin, and Soonyoung ended up returning just before nightfall with dismal expressions, and Seungcheol and Seungkwan even more so because of all the horse dung they had to clean up. 

The next day bore similar results. The only thing remotely eventful was watching people play out The Passion—plays that depicted the events leading up to the death of Jesus Christ. Seungcheol was admittedly feeling much better about spending the day with you instead of being around horses, but no matter how long he strode across town and ducked into alleyways, there were no signs of any Templar Knights around. It was as if they were never even there, and he almost wondered if you and him had hallucinated the one knight. 

On Holy Thursday, Jesus was betrayed.

“I see no way forward from this,” you said with a resigned sigh after yet another round of scouting out suspicious activity. 

“But, Miss, you mentioned that this Templar Order would use the Apple come Sunday. The tower by the cathedral, aye?” Seokmin supplied. “If the worst comes to worst, we know where to find ‘em on that day.”

“That is true.” You let out a shuddering sigh, your shoulders still tense. You had been worrying at your lower lip all day—not that Seungcheol had been paying any extra attention to that portion of your face. “I am only concerned that they might carry out their plans sooner since they must have discovered by now that we stole the drafts of their schemes.”

We, as in Seungcheol. He started to wonder if he acted too impulsively. The papers were still stuffed in the pockets of the coat that he had strewn under the bed. Perhaps taking them was too obvious, but Seungcheol figured that the papers were safer in his hands than theirs. 

“We will put a stop to this,” the captain assured. 

With deep sincerity in his eyes, Soonyoung held up his hand and professed, “I solemnly swear it on Seungkwan’s life.”

Seungkwan scowled. “Swear on your own life, ye bilge rat!”

“I would rather not risk mine.”

Yet, the unease wouldn’t leave your brow. Once you noticed how fatigued the pirates looked, you said, “Return to the inn and get something to eat, you lot. I shall return after I’ve had a further look around.”

Seungkwan frowned. “Positive? Will you be all right to return on your own?”

Seungcheol found himself turning to you and saying, “I will accompany you,” before he even fully thought of the words in his head. 

Thus, he wound up walking the same path around town for the umpteenth time with you by his side. His energy was only sustained by the torrijas he had scarfed down earlier and the smell of orange blossoms that lingered in the air. 

“Say,” you told him, starting up a new conversation with a hint of embarrassment while they were passing by a group of children that were running about, “I am afraid I only vaguely remember the name of your ship. What was she called again?”

“The Golden Corsair,” Seungcheol answered proudly. “She was a real beauty.”

“What made you choose that name?”

“My aunt’s vessel was called the Golden Fortune. I took the first part of it… and I was eager to prove myself as a pirate in those days. I added ‘Corsair’ to the end for that reason.” He offered a fleeting smirk that was gone as quickly as it appeared. “Why do you ask? Were you envisioning yourself as part of my crew?”

“Not quite,” you said, and even though your hood concealed your face, he could hear the smile in your voice. They were past the square now, crossing a bridge that led them away from the lively crowd. “My dream was to one day command a ship of my own. I wished to name her ‘The Crown’s Revenge,’ but I suppose it is too bold of a name.”

“The Crown’s Revenge,” Seungcheol echoed to see how the words weighed on his tongue. “It suits you. I quite like it.” Then, with utmost caution, he pointed out, “Although, that is one way to put a target on your back.”

You laughed—a sound that he never really heard from you. It sounded rather nice in Seungcheol’s ears, much nicer than any sea shanty he’d listened to.

“If I am to make a statement, it must be bold, no?” 

He eyed you warily. “You must have a death wish with the way you—”

“Seungcheol.”

“—recklessly. I simply cannot help but worry about—”

“Seungcheol,” you interjected in an urgent whisper once again.

The pirate followed your line of sight down the dusty road they were walking on, and he shuddered in the humid breeze.

A Templar Knight stood right across from them, ever so still, and despite the fact that they couldn’t see a face behind the helmet, Seungcheol was almost certain it was the same one they saw at the Alcazár. Yet, oddly enough, the knight didn’t engage, simply observing them for a short while before turning to walk off. 

That was when Seungcheol noticed that inside his gloved hand was a golden sphere, emanating a faint glow.

He didn’t even have to look at you to figure out what it was.

Without another thought, he barked out a command for the knight to stop, running forward to catch up to him. He was sure he would regret such a hasty decision, considering he was weaponless, but before Seungcheol even found himself in arm’s length of grabbing the back of the knight, the bastard unsheathed his long sword and turned to swing at the pirate. 

Seungcheol dodged, missing the strike by a hair and stumbling over his feet. Once he regained his balance, however, the knight rammed the pommel of his sword straight into Seungcheol’s temple, causing his vision to momentarily go black with pinpricks of white light scattering across his vision. His teeth rang from the impact. His head throbbed in slow waves that nearly felt unbearable, and searing pain gathered right behind his eyes. 

He heard another shout, and when his blurred vision started to return with his rapid blinks, he saw you and the Templar Knight locked in combat. The pirate grumbled and scrambled to his feet. He used his foot to break off a wooden post that stuck out of the ground. The wood cracked and splintered off, leaving a sharp enough edge to attack the knight with. 

The pirate then staggered forward to bash his newly-fashioned weapon over the knight’s helmet. The wood split down the middle once it made contact with the metal. The Templar Knight grunted and held the side of his head, giving you an opening to attack again. 

In a fluid motion, your leg swept under the enemy, the ball of your foot striking the bone right above his ankle and knocking him off-kilter. Even when the knight attempted to remain upright, though, his knee buckled and his leg crumpled under him. 

The Apple of Eden slipped out of the knight’s hold, rolling across the ground until Seungcheol lunged to grab ahold of it.

But just when he thought they had the upper hand, the Templar Knight retaliated with a second card up his sleeve. You let out a choked cry when the knight twisted your arm—the one concealing your weapon—and he spun you around to hold you at knifepoint with your own blade. You struggled to free yourself, but the assailant pulled out a dagger with his other hand and held it to your gut. 

You couldn’t move an inch without either one of the blades pressing into you; it was either your own blade that would slice your throat, or the knight’s dagger that would plunge into your abdomen. 

When you freed one hand to fight him off, the Templar Knight slipped his dagger back into his tunic and used his free hand to choke you instead. You gasped and kicked at the knight’s shins in a desperate attempt to be released, but his grip was unrelenting. 

The Templar Knight kept staring ahead, and the pirate didn’t need to see his face or hear his voice to understand what the knight’s message was; it was either the Apple or you. 

Amidst your struggle for air, Seungcheol made out your lips framing a word that he suddenly wished he could not comprehend: Run.

Honestly, the decision he wanted to make was clear to him, but you were telling him to do the exact opposite. This could be their only chance to retrieve the artifact from the enemy. This could be their only chance to put an end to the calamity that was yet to happen. Yet, even though Seungcheol had the opportunity to do the right thing, he wasn’t sure he could bring himself to give you up. 

He scanned the perimeter. When he looked closely, there were various other Templar Knights hiding behind walls and crates, waiting for their cue to attack, like a predator stalking its prey. This wouldn’t end even if Seungcheol ran; the knights would hunt him down until they were able to pry the artifact from his cold, dead fingers. They were outnumbered—and hopeless.

He could run. He wasn’t sure how far he would get, but maybe if he ran fast enough, he could lose them.

“Please,” you begged out loud this time, your voice no louder than a croak, swallowing hard when the sharp edge of the blade pressed harder against your skin. “Go.”

Choi Seungcheol would do the right thing.

Choi Seungcheol would do the right thing.

The selfish pirate then realized that it was idiotic of him to think that he could ever be a hero. A man like him, who acted out of his best interests, couldn’t possibly save everyone. No, he could only think of himself first. 

So, with bated breath, Seungcheol paused before handing over the Apple of Eden to the knight.

The Templar Knight released you and shoved you to the ground just before your eyes were about to roll to the back of your head. You were unmoving for a moment before Seungcheol heard you gulping lungfuls of air. The knight took the Apple, looked between you and Seungcheol, and then turned around without another word. The pirate could only watch helplessly as the other knights in hiding retreated, too. 

He lowered himself to the ground to help you up. You refused his hand and got to your feet on your own, scowling as you did. There was something vicious about the way you glared at him, cold and unforgiving. 

“We lost the Apple,” you rasped out in disbelief, and then you turned to look at Seungcheol with clear disdain. Your shout bounced off the walls when you yelled, “You lost us the Apple!”

“There were others,” he said. “He was going to kill you.”

“Do you understand what you have just cost us?”

“What I understand is that I saved your life,” he got out through gritted teeth. “If I did not let him take the Apple, you would be dead!”

“Then you should have let him! There is absolutely nothing more important than that artifact being in the right hands, Seungcheol. Surely, you must know that!” 

“I do, but not at the cost of your own life.”

“Even at the cost of my own life,” you muttered darkly, “even if I am to meet the same fate as my mother.”

“Well, I refuse. I will not choose to let you die.”

“I am not giving you an option to choose me or the Apple. I am telling you right now that under any circumstance, you choose the Apple.”

He scoffed, bristled. “I really do not want to have this conversation right now. I cannot believe you are even saying this.”

“Well, I cannot believe you! The Apple was in our hands!” 

Something inside him burst with hot, fiery rage, sweeping through him in an icy wash, and he turned on you. “Do you really hold such low value for your own life? Say I sacrificed you for it, say I abandoned you and ran off with the Apple—what then? What will I do with it? You yourself said that the artifact cannot ever go in the wrong hands, so what makes you think that I would do any good with it?”

You swallowed hard, the hesitation clear on your face. You pulled off your hood so that you could look Seungcheol in the eye, and he had never seen you struck with such agony until now.

“Because I trust you.”

Seungcheol’s heart stuttered in his chest before he regained his composure. “Then I must apologize because I do not regret my decision one bit. Even if I had a second chance, I would choose you over the Apple again.” 

“I cannot… I cannot understand you one bit.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I thought I made myself clear. What is it you cannot understand?”

You were shaking now—whether it was because of the vulnerability of their argument or how you were seething, Seungcheol couldn’t tell. On the surface, it must have seemed like such an absurd argument; two people heatedly confessing how much they cared for each other, yet their outrage kept them from truly seeing that. 

“In that moment,” he started once more, “if it were me instead of you, would you choose to let me die or would you choose to save me?”

You could only stare at him in silence, almost statue-like if it weren’t for your bottom lip twitching in the slightest. The sky darkened with dark grey clouds rolling in front of the setting sun; there would be no brilliant splash of color across the sky for today’s sunset. 

“Even as an assassin, when you murder in cold blood for a cause, you still cannot give me a straight answer to this simple question,” he continued in a low voice. “Tell me, Y/N, would you choose me or the artifact?” Seungcheol waited for a few moments to pass before he said, “If you feel as I do, then I sincerely hope you never feel the harrowing ache of facing the decision that I had to make back there.” 

You and Seungcheol did not speak for the rest of the evening, not when you walked back to The Sleeping Bull, not when you ate dinner, and not when you headed to your respective bedchambers. Even when his men tried to press him for answers, he couldn’t bring himself to recount what happened because he knew it would just make him fume again.

Despite his exasperation, though, one thing had become more clear than ever: You had become too precious of an existence to Choi Seungcheol.

Seungcheol was still quite vexed the next day. It bled into his routine, too; he stabbed his meat with his fork far too harshly, he grumbled incoherently when he tried to dismiss his men’s constant questions about what happened, and he nearly broke the doorknob from how aggressive he was being. He assumed he would feel better in the morning, but when he discovered that you had slipped out of your room before dawn, the pirate was overcome with a bout of anxiousness. 

Moreover, his behavior was rather unmannerly for Good Friday. 

Joshua was especially worried when he saw Seungcheol in the morning. He even patted his head, which was an inane thing for an adult man to do to another adult man, who also happened to be one of the most fearsome pirates of the seven seas. In spite of that, the head pat did feel rather nice, he had to admit.

Most fearsome pirate, my arse, Seungcheol thought bitterly. I’m losing my damned head over a woman, and I dare call myself fearsome.

Since Joshua immediately picked up on Seungcheol’s bad mood, he let the captain off the hook when it came to work that needed to be done around the tavern. Instead, Seokmin, Soonyoung, and Seungkwan had to pick up the slack for him. The three men begrudgingly followed Joshua into the kitchen to get to washing dishes and cleaning the floor. 

Seungcheol had enough of loitering about, so he set out to look for you. To be honest, he wasn’t keen on talking to you, but he had been worrying about your disappearance all morning to the point where it was eating at him. After the stunt you pulled yesterday, he needed to find you before he damn near lost his mind.

He ended up walking around town for hours until he stumbled upon you—by total coincidence, no less. Seungcheol cut across a field to take a shortcut when he spotted you (well, he more so recognized you by your hooded cloak) at a graveyard, kneeling down on the grass.

“What on earth are you doing here?” he called. 

Startled, you nearly jumped at the sound of his voice. Seungcheol suddenly wished he hadn’t asked such a stupid question; it was Viernes Santo, for Christ’s sake, and you had already opened up to him about your dead mother. 

Your eyes were sharp. “How were you able to find me?” 

“Mere coincidence,” he answered. Seungcheol looked down to see that you had made a cross out of sticks, and although it looked small and flimsy, you were earnestly praying to it. He started to kneel down next to you. “Is this for your mother?”

There was a pile of stones supporting the twig that acted as the base for the cross. Seungcheol found a stray pebble beside his leg and gently placed it among the other rocks. 

“No,” you said with your head still low and your eyes shut in prayer, “it is for your aunt.”

“What?” His voice came out in more of a strangled breath than an actual, coherent sound. Seungcheol felt like the wind had just been punched out of his chest, and he could hardly breathe when he looked at you. “What did you just say?”

“Today is about honoring the deceased. You said you were unable to see your aunt’s body, so I assumed you were not able to lay her to rest or make a grave for her.” 

Seungcheol fell silent. The only sounds he could hear was the wind whistling through the tree branches and the blackbird that chattered softly in the distance. 

You made sure to add, “If I overstepped, I apologize. I simply thought it was a shame for a woman of such power to be denied a proper burial.”

“No,” he said, louder than he expected it to sound. Damn it all, Choi Seungcheol had braved storms and battle that not even the strongest of the Guardia Real could face, and here he was, about to cry over a gesture unlike any other. He hadn’t even thought to do something like this for his aunt. “No, Y/N, it is just…” After a few moments of floundering, Seungcheol came to the conclusion that he wouldn’t be able to find the words to express how he felt right now, so he settled for saying, “Thank you.”

“Well, go on and pray, then. I am sure your aunt would find comfort in hearing that you are alive and well.”

Seungcheol clasped his hands together and, for the first time in years, he prayed. 

There were years of stories that he needed to catch his aunt up on. He thought of all the good memories, all the battles won, all the friends he made, and he bottled it all up to send to Heaven. Seungcheol never quite understood what a connection to God meant, but with his head lowered and his lips framing a silent prayer, he felt as though an invisible string was keeping him connected to the skies above. 

Once he finished his soundless prayer and noticed that you were also done, the pirate asked, “What about your mother?”

“She is here,” you replied with a smile, “and, fortunately, she is very loved. I am sure she can do with my attention being elsewhere for now.”

“I want to pray for her, too,” he said. “Can I meet her?”

Your expression faltered, a visible tremor running through your body. 

“Then promise me something.”

“What is it?”

“Promise me you will not look at me any differently as you do now.”

“Why would I?”

You didn’t answer, giving him a wilting look instead.

The two of you stood up, and Seungcheol followed you to the far back of the graveyard. Right in the middle was a grand headstone, standing out from the rest, with several bouquets lining the base of the grave. Ornate patterns were carved into the stone, depicting figures which Seungcheol assumed to be her with her husband and children.

Maria Luisa Gabriella of Savoy. 

The King’s first wife. 

For a moment, Seungcheol thought you were pulling his leg, which really wasn’t a funny thing to do at a graveyard. However, when he saw the solemn look in your eyes, he quickly realized that this was all very real, yet it was difficult to even process. 

You were the hidden princess that Joshua was talking about. You were the first daughter that King Philip V concealed from his second wife.

“I do not remember much, honestly,” you started. “I remember her, of course—oh, I still cannot forget the way she sang to me, or the way she ran her hands through my hair—but, everything else—her death, my father’s mental afflictions, my step-mother’s harshness—it is all a bit blurry.”

Horrified, Seungcheol thought back to all the times he had insulted the Crown in front of you. All those times you simply let him call them such vile names, and you had been a princess this entire time. Come to think of it, that must have been why you knew exactly where the King’s study was; you had lived in the damn castle yourself. 

The Crown’s Revenge. It all made sense.

“After my father remarried and Her Majesty became my step-mother”—you spoke of her with venom in your tone—“he had one of his guards escort me from the castle in the dead of night—all the way to France. I lived with a new family who took little liking to me. They were of humble means; I suppose this was to ensure that my name would never resurface. They cared little for my preference, so I kept to myself. When I came of age and could hold my own, I left that household and never once looked back.”

It was exactly the way Joshua recounted, but it was just impossible for Seungcheol to wrap his head around the idea of you being the lost princess. 

Then, you pulled off your hood, tugging down the neckline to show your intricate insignia that Seungcheol recognized in a heartbeat, and as soon as he did, there was no room for any of this to be a lie. The insignia was made of a gold chain lain with intertwined Burgundian firestones, its pendant being a golden fleece that sparkled under the sunlight. No matter how much he racked his brain, there was no other way such an heirloom could be in your possession without alerting the city of a great theft.

It was the Distinguished Order of the Golden Fleece, given only to members of the royal family. The only reason Seungcheol could recognize it was because he had seen it resting on the chests of monarchs, and now it was on your neck. 

“My father gave it to me before he sent me away,” you told him. “Should I ever need to find my way back to him, I suppose… though I do not desire such a thing.”

He only realized you were crying when he heard you sniffle. 

Seungcheol wasn't sure what came over him, but he found himself pulling you into his arms so that your face was buried in his chest. You didn't resist nor did you pull away, so he wrapped his arms around your waist and kept you close. 

He pulled back just enough to cup your cheeks with his large hands, guiding your face to look up at him. “Choose whichever path you want; I will walk right beside you, no matter where it leads.” 

Shakily, you raised your hand to place it over his, and your expression melted into the same longing that was drawn across Seungcheol’s face. At this moment, he came to realize that this was probably the first time he was able to look into your eyes for so long, allowing himself to drown in their depths. He had seen stars in the night sky that were dimmer than the ones in your eyes. Seungcheol swore he could kiss you right then and there, but he didn't. 

In the middle of the graveyard, with blackbirds singing and the smell of orange blossoms lingering in the air, the captain held you in a tight embrace until your tears stopped. 

Afterward, when the sky was painted with an array of bright hues, you and Seungcheol set up graves for the rest of his crew lost to the shipwreck. He sat with them until the sun dipped below the horizon.

That night, Choi Seungcheol was restless. 

As he laid on your floor that night—far from your bed where the flickering light from the candle couldn’t quite reach him, not even if he stretched out his fingers—the emotion stirring in his chest, thick and soupy, was maddening. Every trace of longing he had felt, every shard of affection that dug itself deeper into his heart, became so all-consuming that he could not pinpoint any other feeling but pure, unadulterated desire.

Seungcheol had to get it out of him, even if it meant breaking open his ribcage to rip out the very organ responsible for this feeling. Bury those bothersome emotions before he could give name to them. 

For the past few nights, he succumbed to his exhaustion within minutes of his head hitting the ground. As a matter of fact, the pirate hardly waited to make sure you were safely in bed before heading to bed, which raised the question of what the bloody hell was the point of him sleeping there? Still, you didn’t ask, his men didn’t ask, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to say anything. 

Tonight, however, the two of you hardly spoke, and their tension, albeit not being acted upon, was charged with electricity. Seungcheol craned his neck to check if you were asleep, but from the way you were positioned, he couldn’t really tell. 

But just when he was about to give up and go to bed, you called out quietly, “Seungcheol?” And then, as if you were almost certain he wouldn’t answer, you hesitantly added, “Are you still awake?”

He cleared his throat. “I am.”

The two of you slipped into silence once again, with part of Seungcheol waiting for you to say something and the other half wondering why you even called out his name in the first place. It wasn’t comfortable silence; the air was dense with unspoken feelings, sticky and clinging to him like sweat-drenched fabric. 

To yearn for someone deeply, enough to keep a part of them with you—Seungcheol could start to understand how his aunt felt when she kept the assassin’s amulet with her all those years. But it wasn’t just a part of you he wanted, it was all of you. In this moment, he wanted to hold you in his arms and never let you go. In fact, he was afraid that, if given the chance, he would completely lose himself in you. 

Right when he was about to speak up again, you finally broke the ice.

“It would have served no purpose,” you said, turning to face him and clarifying, “running from that Templar Knight. There was nothing we could have done.”

He propped himself up on his elbow. “Finally seeing it now, are you?”

“Even if you were to run, they would have surely caught up to you.”

“Yes.”

“Even if you were fast enough, there were far too many of them.”

“Yes.” Seungcheol found himself sitting up properly now. “I should also mention that I was without weaponry. I had to use a mere piece of wood.”

“That is not my fault,” you said. “You ought to have taken the weapon off that palace guard.”

“At the time, I was not giving thought to taking a weapon off his lifeless body,” he grumbled. 

You two lapsed into momentary silence again before you ordered, “Come here.”

“Pardon?”

“Come over here. I cannot see your face when you speak.”

“But I was not speaking.”

You released an irritated sigh, rubbing your brow with two fingers. “Just come here, pirate.”

With a grunt, Seungcheol pulled himself to his feet and made his way over to your bed. He took careful steps, as if he was sure you would tell him to turn back at any time, but you seemed much calmer than he felt. Perhaps your intentions weren’t in tune with where his twisted mind was going. 

“Sit,” you told him, and Seungcheol took a seat at the edge of the cot. “Give me your hands.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Were you always so forward?”

“Give me your hands.”

Scoffing, Seungcheol let you take his hands in yours, turning them over so that his palms were up. He watched you as you carefully undid the wraps on his hands to look at the stitched-up wound. Now, his flesh looked as if it was pulling itself together, forming a pink scar where the stitches held. The discomfort didn’t quite bother him and he didn’t exactly need you to replace the cloth for him, but who was he to complain when you were so gently asking to hold his hands?

She was not very kind, he reminded himself. Nor was she asking. 

Seeing you before him, however, was quite the sight to behold.

“You must attend to this daily, lest it becomes infected,” you said.

“Y/N.”

“Wash it thoroughly—”

“Y/N.”

“—and use a clean cloth—what is it?”

“I think there is something wrong with me.”

Your eyes widened in alarm, fear swimming in glossy pupils, and you gripped his hands tighter. “What? What is it, Seungcheol? Do you feel unwell?”

“Not quite,” he said. “I cannot stop thinking of that moment when that Templar Knight forced me to choose between you and the Apple.”

“You had no choice, Seungcheol,” you said. “It does us no good to keep dwelling on such matters. We cannot change the past.”

“It plagues me,” he told you with agony drawing his brows together. “Humanity, as we know it, could fall under complete submission; yet, in the face of that, I believe my mind was already set.”

“Stop thinking about it.”

“From the moment he laid his hands upon you, I knew what I was going to do.” 

“Seungcheol, enough.”

He slipped his hands from your grasp so that he could hold yours instead, running his thumb across your knuckles, one by one. Seungcheol tried to focus on keeping the tension concentrated within him completely concealed, but it melted off his frame when his dark eyes met yours. 

“No matter how much I think about it,” he murmured, “there was no doubt I was going to choose you over the world.”

You drew in a breath. 

The flame on the wick flickered, its shadow cast across the wall. Seungcheol’s heart pounded frantically in his ears, and he begged for any sort of reaction to reassure him that you weren’t about to pretend that he wasn’t sitting right before you. He was fully expecting for his words to infuriate you, or perhaps you would deflect the conversation by telling him to get some rest, but what you replied with was something he never would have anticipated. 

“I shall not hold it against you. I, too, cannot say with certainty that I would have allowed something to happen to you, either.”

At first, there was silence, and then it happened faster than Seungcheol could think, before he even realized he had already wet his lips and dropped his gaze to your lips. He closed the distance, kissed you so lightly that he was nearly unsatisfied, and then pulled away before the kiss could escalate into something else entirely.

“I apologize,” he got out in a rush. “I was simply—”

“Enough with your apologies already.”

This time, you reached over and pressed your lips to his. 

It was soft. So soft that Seungcheol was sure this feeling would plague him for nights on end. He could feel your tenacity in the way you kissed him, but there was something meek about it, too. 

Something between a groan and a gasp was caught in Seungcheol’s throat as his hand found the small of your back, running his finger down the notches of your spine. The way he needed you, it was almost primal. Their kiss was a quiet hunger that could not be satisfied, and their motions began to lose their subtlety once he slipped his tongue past your parted lips. The pirate couldn’t get enough as his hands roamed your body, as yours gripped his hair, and as they began to tug each other’s clothes off senselessly. 

“I thought about this—all day—racked my head all night—” Seungcheol murmured, his words broken up by the kisses he started leaving down your jaw. “I needed to have you like this.” He let his lips drag down the column of your neck, inhaling sharply until you shuddered. He laved the tender spot with his tongue before sucking on it. “I cannot stop thinking about you. It drives me mad.”

“Seungcheol,” you gasped out, and oh, how the way you called out his name burned in his head like eternal damnation. 

He was all but ripping your clothes off, pulling them off your body without a care. You did the same, tugging at his shirt and undoing his pants hastily so that Seungcheol only had to kick them off his ankles. He ran his hand down your bare arms when he realized that you were missing the contraption.

“Do you no longer sleep with it? Your hidden blade?” he asked, leveling his gaze. 

You shook your head, and Seungcheol was overcome with the urge to kiss you again. His lips latched on to your neck, leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses across your skin as he continued to undress you. Once the garments were strewn aside, he had to catch his breath upon seeing you completely bare in the dim, orange light. 

Choi Seungcheol, hardened by years of battle and strife, was now utterly weak at the sight of your naked body.

Good God. You were a treasure like no other. 

He aimlessly traced your hip bone with his finger, moving lower and lower until his hand was at the apex of your legs. 

“May I?” he asked softly despite being seconds away from snapping completely.

You drew in an unsteady breath. “Yes.”

He grabbed both of your ankles and lifted them so that they were draped over his broad shoulders. Seungcheol wondered how long it would take him to map out your body in perfect detail, figuring out where exactly he needed to touch and kiss you to rouse such wonderful sounds from you.

A tremor ran through your thighs when he skimmed a finger across your engorged clit, and he smirked at how sensitive you had gotten already. As he pressed messy kisses to your neck, he moved two fingers in tight circles around your clit until you were whimpering for more. 

He then paused to bring his fingers to his lips, maintaining eye contact with you as he wetted them with his tongue, and then he slipped one finger inside your slit so slowly in order to watch your face crumple as he fingered you. He wanted to commit this to memory, to forever be haunted by the look of pure desire on your face.

After Seungcheol slipped another finger past your folds, he started pumping them at a steady rhythm, although he held your body with his other hand like it was fragile glass. He felt a little winded by your eagerness, each moan driving him closer and closer to the brink of madness, and just as he felt that you were about to orgasm, he pulled his fingers out of you. 

The mewl that escaped your throat made his blood rush to his cock. Seungcheol pressed a sweet kiss to your lips as an apology. 

“I want to taste you, mi corazón,” he whispered. He grabbed your hand and pressed more kisses to your palm as you whined for more. “Will you allow me?”

“Have me—please,” you breathed out, “but we must be quiet, Seungcheol.”

His lip curved into a smirk. “Ah, right. Had I not known any better, I might have assumed you took pleasure in being heard.”

“That is simply not true,” you tried, unable to look him in the eye as you said it. 

“I do not blame you. You have a most pleasing voice, particularly when you cried out—”

“Seungcheol.”

“No need to be modest, Y/N,” he crooned, “just allow me to take care of you.”

With a huff, you watched as his eyes flitted to your cunt, and then he lowered himself so that his head was situated between your legs. He pressed a surprisingly kiss to your cunt, grinning when you crooned in response. Pushing apart your thighs, Seungcheol experimentally rolled his tongue across your clit, and once he was satisfied with your reaction, he flattened his tongue and licked one long stripe along your folds. The moan that he got in return was a melody in his ears, and he couldn’t stop plunging his tongue between your slit to hear you sing again. 

Choi Seungcheol had been starved. 

He ate you out with precision, burying his face into your cunt and gripping your thighs tight as they wrapped around his face. Seungcheol was painfully hard himself, grinding against the bed as he devoured you for some friction that would relieve his ache. 

He wasn’t sure how long he had been lost in you, only that the way you chanted his name like a broken mantra was spurring him to keep going, but a particularly languid curl of his tongue had you shaking with pleasure right under him. He lapped at your folds throughout your orgasm, keeping your hips pinned down as you arched your back. 

In a lustful stupor, Seungcheol moved to slant his lips against yours again.

The back of your neck was slick with sweat when he grabbed it, but Seungcheol was more focused on how heavenly you tasted. He shamelessly grinded his hips against you, chasing the pleasure that he so desired. 

“Seungcheol,” you panted out after breaking for air, and you immediately lost your senses again as the pirate started leaving kisses on the swell of your breasts, then your nipples. “You bastard, won’t you just take me already?”

“Filthy words for a lady.”

You rolled your eyes. “This lady keeps a weapon beneath her bed, and she may well use it on you if you do not act swiftly.”

Seungcheol laughed. He would have to do some self-reflection later because it was rather strange that your threats only turned him on more. Still, there were more important matters at hand; one of them was how longed for you so deeply that it was almost painful. 

He lined up his stiff cock at your entrance, teasing your folds. With bated breath, Seungcheol held the side of your face and looked you in the eye as he pushed himself inside you. He moved his hand to silence the cry that nearly ripped from your throat, but he made sure to go slow enough for you to adjust. At his size, he needed to approach this carefully. 

Initially, Seungcheol’s motions were slow and torturous despite his fierce need to have you as he wanted. Admittedly, he was restraining himself, allowing you to adjust to how he fit so perfectly inside you, how your bodies connected like they were molded for each other. Advance, hold, fall back—he thrusted inside you at different angles, different speeds, assessing which one would rouse a bigger reaction from you. 

After some trials, however, he found a proper rhythm that you could keep up with. Seungcheol wiped the tears that streamed down your cheeks and left kisses in their wake instead. 

Through his muzzy haze of lust, he growled against your neck. “Y/N.” Although he called out your name with a sort of soft reverence, the sharp snaps of his hips were unyielding. 

Heat unfurled inside him as he pounded into you, and it was difficult enough that you had to feel so good wrapped around him and your voice kept stuttering with each thrust. Seungcheol almost found it unfair that you were so perfect for him. When you dug your nails into his back, blubbering about how close you were, his hands slid to hold your face and press your foreheads together. 

“Come for me, mi corazón,” he murmured against your lips. 

Your mouth fell open, but your orgasm crashed over you before any words could come out. Instead, your moan was the most beautiful sound that he had ever heard. In the haze of his pleasure, though, his hips bucked out of rhythm a few times before he was drowning in euphoria, cumming right as your walls clenched around his cock. Seungcheol did his best to fuck you through your orgasm with his sore muscle, helping you ride out your high for as long as possible, and then he pulled out once you were spent. The very motion made the both of you shiver.

The room was quiet now. Only the sounds of heavy breathing filled the space as Seungcheol pushed loose strands of your hair out of your face. 

Neither of you said anything, but it was clear where your feelings laid. Even if you acted like this night hadn’t happened the next morning, Seungcheol would tell you how he felt all over again until he got the point across. 

But he was sure that you wouldn’t pretend because when Seungcheol laid back down on the bed, you curled up next to him and buried your face in his chest. 

Ah, thought the pirate, this is the treasure I have been searching for my entire life.

Daylight poured in through the window, the leaves from the citrus tree outside painting dapples of sun against the wall. Seungcheol was ready to breathe in the smell of orange blossoms and hold you close until you roused from your slumber, but you wound up jolting awake from the sound of banging against the door.

Seungcheol practically jumped to his feet to pull on his clothes as fast as he could. You did the same, using the blanket to cover your chest as you reached for your garments that the pirate flung away from the bed. 

Soonyoung’s voice was loud and clear amidst the sporadic knocking. “Cap’n! Y/N! Open up, it’s us!”  

“One moment!” he yelled back, flustered. The unrelenting passion from last night came back in a flash of memories, and Seungcheol couldn’t stop looking back at you as he recollected the way your legs felt wrapped around his hips. 

Once you two were decent, Seungcheol hastily opened the door with an unenthusiastic look drawn across his face. His sailors had a penchant for choosing the worst possible times to get his attention, and one of those times was right now. However, once the captain laid eyes upon Yoon Jeonghan, who was scowling from under his hood, he immediately realized the gravity of the situation. He ushered them in quickly and closed the door before anyone else in the tavern noticed what was going on.

“Release him already,” commanded Seungcheol, who was wondering why Jeonghan was required to be held in place by three men; Soonyoung and Seokmin pinned his arms down his sides while Seungkwan had a hand clamped over his mouth. It looked like a rather unconventional embrace that neither party found comfortable. 

“Are you mad?” Jeonghan’s words dripped with scorn as he backed up from the five of them. He readjusted his hood so that his face was concealed properly before asking, “What business could you possibly have with me, pray tell, that necessitates surrounding and accosting me in a public bathhouse?”

The three men were met with awfully scandalized looks from you and Seungcheol. 

“We were clothed!” Seokmin tried, frantically. “We gave him a chance to listen, but the lunatic tried stabbing us!” 

“That could have marked the eighth time Seungkwan has been stabbed,” Soonyoung said, gesturing to the pirate who was nodding along solemnly. “Consider how he feels.”

Jeonghan, however, remained unimpressed. “Be grateful that was all I did. Had I thought you were an actual threat, I would have gouged out your eyeballs back there.”

“Putting… that matter aside,” Seungcheol started, hesitating before turning to face Jeonghan directly, “I have wanted to speak with you.” He spared you a quick glance. “We both have, actually.”

Rattled, Jeonghan straightened up. “Me? Whatever you wish to—”

“You are an assassin, too, are you not?” you blurted out. 

Seungcheol and his men exchanged appalled looks from behind you. Neither of them said anything but simply backed away to show that they had no intentions of asking the question you raised. Really, at this rate, they were doing a better job to mask your identity than you were. 

Moreover, Yoon Jeonghan already suspected the five of them were mad for basically abducting him, and now whatever you were spewing was making the lot of you look even worse. 

Jeonghan returned your question with an even stare, void of emotion. Just when Seungcheol thought your lack of subtlety couldn’t get any worse, you pulled the amulet with the assassin’s insignia off your neck and thrust it in the man’s direction. 

“A Hidden One,” he echoed. “So, you must be here for the same reason as I am, then,” Jeonghan, much to their surprise, said with traces of amusement in his tone. “This little exploit of yours surely contravenes the Creed, no?”

“No,” you replied. “I have not betrayed the Brotherhood.”

“An assassin must never compromise the Brotherhood,” Jeonghan recited in a dark voice. 

“I have not. I can promise you that my alliance with these pirates is trustworthy.”

“Then, where did they send you from?”

“France, but I came here out of my own accord.” You pointed your blade in his direction. That was right; only Seungcheol knew of your personal ties to this mission. “Now tell us where you came from.”

“Easy now.” Jeonghan held up his hands in surrender, a grimace on his face. “Syria.”

(“Terrible assassins, these two,” Seungkwan muttered. “No one practices proper anonymity these days.”

Soonyoung hummed in agreement. “Must run in their brotherhood.”)

Jeonghan pulled off his hood, revealing his dark hair that he kept tied back, and you slowly lowered your weapon. “How long have you known of my occupation?” 

“I had my suspicions. I believed you to either be a Templar Knight or an assassin. Yet, were you a knight, you would not take kindly to seeing us right now,” you explained. “Seungcheol and I were attacked by a group of Templar Knights a few days ago. We had been attempting to track you down due to my hunch, but you were imperceptible—just like an assassin.” You then asked, “Are you aware of what is unfolding in Sevilla?”

“I am indeed. The Templar Order intends to bring everyone here under their command tomorrow. If you value your safety, I advise you all to leave the city without delay.”

“We will not,” Seungcheol spoke up. “We will see this to the end. I have already put my life on the line for this.”

“There is no time,” Jeonghan said. “After tomorrow, everyone will be under their control.”

“They have the Apple of Eden!” you blurted out, your tone bordering on desperation. Appalled, the man fixed you with an unsettled look. “We only wish to know what you know.”

Jeonghan eyed them all carefully, eyes flitting from one body to the next. Then, he said, “It is a long story.” 

Although he looked reluctant to share, with their persuasion, he started to speak.

As Jeonghan started explaining, Seungcheol was almost convinced that the man was telling them some made-up story he created in his head. It sounded absolutely ridiculous, but his description of the Pieces of Eden matched up exactly with the way you recounted it.

According to the man, before humanity existed, there was an ancient civilization called the Isu—creators of the First Civilization. The Isu had capabilities and technological advancements far beyond our imagination, and they were the ones to craft the Pieces of Eden that had now been scattered across the world, holding unfathomable power. 

Jeonghan happened to be a descendent of the Isu. This was only discovered once he joined the Assassin’s Brotherhood, but he possessed the ability to sense the Pieces of Eden. The assassin, with Isu blood running in his veins, could feel the power of the artifacts when he was close. The only problem was, he couldn’t tell exactly where they would be—just a general idea. 

He then drew what the Apple of Eden was supposed to appear like on the floor, using his finger to trace the circular artifact and its intricate engravings.

“Oh, it is a ball,” Soonyoung observed. “I thought it would look more, er, appetizing.”

Jeonghan gave him a strange look. “Did you believe it would be an actual apple?”

“Or… apple-shaped, I suppose. It is in the name, is it not?”

Jeonghan ignored him and went on to ask, “You are certain the Templar Order is in possession of the Apple?”

“Yes,” Seungcheol replied. “We saw it with our own eyes.”

“The odd thing is… I feel its presence here.”

“What? You feel it in this room?”

“Its presence is not as strong in this precise location, yet whenever I approach this inn, I can sense that the Apple is here. I had once thought the Templars came here in search of the artifact, but now I believe they came to ensure that none others could claim it for themselves.”

“You believe it is hidden in this inn?” you asked, distraught. “Why would they hide an object of such importance here?”

“No one would suspect an inn,” Jeonghan said, “and no matter how long I have spent looking for it—sneaking into rooms here and watching Templar Knights turn out pockets—I cannot seem to find it.”

“There must be a hidden room of some sort, then,” Seungkwan said. “It must be like finding treasure. Treasure maps only provide the general layout, never the height or depth for where the riches lay.”

A shiver ran through Seungcheol’s body as a strange, foreboding feeling came over him. 

Astonished, you turned to Seungkwan with wide eyes, lips framing words that you hesitated to say for a moment. “The Apple could be above or below us.” 

Now, Jeonghan’s face was hard, taking on a serious tone laced with urgency when he asked, “Is there a cellar here? Or an attic?”

“I can go ask Joshua,” Seungcheol replied. “The rest of you should check the stables or—”

“Do that, but I have something to take care of,” Jeonghan said curtly. “If you find the Apple, make sure it stays in the right hands until I return. Remember: We do not breathe a word about the Pieces of Eden to anyone else. Understood?”

“What are you going to do?”

“I want to put an end to this right away.”

They had a plan, and it was set in motion. 

Alright, they sort of had a plan. 

Seungcheol was scouring the tavern to find Joshua, you and Seokmin were looking around the stables, and Soonyoung and Seungkwan were checking all of the rooms. On the bright side, most of the travellers were outside for Sábado Santo (although the atmosphere was eerily quiet from the vigils), so most of the rooms were unoccupied at the moment. It just so happened to be the perfect day for them to search the inn from top to bottom. That was, if they managed to find the artifact. Seungcheol was quite disheartened that Jeonghan, the only one who knew how to pick up on the energy from the Pieces of Eden, was the one who went out on his own. 

After asking Chan and several other workers about Joshua’s whereabouts, Seungcheol finally stumbled upon him in the kitchen where his friend was noting down the morning inventory. The innkeeper looked shocked to see the pirate with a heaving chest and flushed cheeks, and he raised an eyebrow in mild surprise.

“What trouble have you found yourself in now?” Joshua asked, his tone remaining lighthearted, but his expression quickly shifted once he realized that Seungcheol wasn’t pulling his leg. “What is all this about, Seungcheol?”

He cut straight to the point. “I need to know if this inn has a hidden chamber somewhere—perhaps a cellar or an attic.”

“There is a cellar, though it has not been used in ages,” Joshua told him, brows knitting together into a frown. Deep concern hung in his voice when he asked, “Why do you ask?”

“I must see it at once. Do you still have the key?”

It took Joshua a while to sift through several drawers and cupboards, searching for the old, rusted key that looked as if it was about to crumble into pieces. Seungcheol was anxious as he watched Joshua insert it in the keyhole, half-expected it to split in half, but then the innkeeper pulled open the door to the cellar with a loud creak that made the pirate swallow thickly. 

“What is this about again?” Joshua held a large oil lamp to illuminate their way down the stairs, the wood under their feet creaking as they walked. The cellar smelled of mildew and something foul—as if something had died in there. He couldn’t imagine how many rodents and small animals had gotten in over the years. “If it concerns my inn, I would rather not be left in ignorance.”

At the foot of the steps, the space below opened up to a cluttered assortment of tables and books stacked on top of each other. He moved a marble paperweight to look at the stack of papers that were sitting around. Seungcheol examined some of them closely, trying to make out the handwriting in the dim light, but some of the documents were simply illegible. That was when he spotted parchment on the table with diagrams drawn in ink; most of the papers were full of scribbles and arrows pointing every which way, but there was something in particular that stood out to Seungcheol.

The Apple of Eden.

It was scrawled so messily, but once Seungcheol made out the words, he couldn’t mistake it for anything else. The drawing looked exactly as Jeonghan depicted and the same as he saw on the Templar Knight, too. 

It had to be a Codex page.

Horrifyingly enough, when Seungcheol took a closer look at the mess across the desk, he came to realize that this cellar didn’t look as abandoned as he formerly thought. In fact, judging by the empty cup with dregs sitting at the bottom, someone had been here recently. 

“I will explain everything soon,” Seungcheol told Joshua, albeit being completely distracted with his discovery, “but are you sure no one has—”

Just before he was about to finish his sentence, Seungcheol spotted something out of the corner of his eye. Something that made his stomach feel like a never-ending pit—falling, and falling, and falling. He could hardly move for a second, a cold wash sweeping down his back. 

Draped over the head of a chair was the exact white tunic donned by the Templar Knights. 

Seungcheol turned to look back at his friend, who was observing quietly from where he leaned against the wall. Slowly, the corner of Joshua’s mouth curved upward in faint amusement. 

On Holy Thursday, Jesus was betrayed by his closest disciple. 

On Holy Thursday, Joshua Hong was the Templar Knight that attacked him. 

“How did this come to be here?” Seungcheol’s voice was oddly steady as he held up the Codex page, although he had to speak over his racing heartbeat. Something froze him in place and sent a chill down his spine. In his head, he was still hoping there was another answer to all of this, that his dear friend was simply joking around. “Tell me, Joshua.”

“Why, I placed it there myself,” was his smooth answer, shrugging as he said it. 

“This was entirely your doing?”

“I confess, I never anticipated that you would ally yourself with an assassin,” he said, letting out a long-winded sigh. “It was never in my interest to turn on a friend—”

“You betrayed me,” Seungcheol interjected out of dismay. “My God. You have been feigning friendship, pretending to offer me food and shelter out of the goodness of your heart, yet all the while, you have been waiting to stab me in the back. Tell me, was it you? Were you the one who attacked us? Was it you who was present at the Alcazár?”

With that, Joshua reached behind him to pull out the small golden ball—the Apple of Eden—glowing faintly in the musty cellar. He confirmed Seungcheol’s gut feeling with a sick smile. 

The pirate let out a threadbare breath.

“Does this answer your questions?”

Seungcheol’s chest swelled with fury. “How did you—”

“To be perfectly candid, it was far too easy,” he crowed. “You led the assassin directly to me, making it simple to ascertain your whereabouts. What truly surprises me, however, is that you are acting surprised right now when I so plainly revealed my intentions.”

It was a cold punch to his gut. Time slowed to a crawl as Seungcheol thought back on his conversations with Joshua. Through the haze, the innkeeper’s words pierced into his chest and straight through his beating heart. 

“There must be order, if we are to make progress. Without reformation, we shall remain stagnant.”

“Bastard,” Seungcheol snarled through clenched teeth. Buried somewhere under layers of surging adrenaline and numbness was a mixture of dread and betrayal that he was sure to feel later once it sank deep in his bones. 

“You can join the right cause, Seungcheol,” he said, his face devoid of mirth now. “Do you truly believe the world should remain in such a state? The Templars share the same goal as your companion; we only seek peace for everyone.”

“You wish to eliminate free will and whatever threatens the control you wish to impose,” Seungcheol spat. “You aim to strip us of our freedom. This is not the ‘peace’ you claim to desire.”

“Do you truly believe that humans will not bring the world to ruination if given free will?”

“I believe that if you will not even give them a choice, then you will never know the outcome.”

“This is for the greater good, Seungcheol. We must steer humanity in the right direction.”

“What the hell would you know about the right direction? See reason, Joshua,” he begged. “We have known each other for many years now. This is not like you. What makes you think I would ever choose anything over my own freedom?” His tone took a cold edge when he added, “What makes you any different from the scum who took my aunt’s life?”

A muscle worked in Joshua’s jaw. “Stubborn to the very end. It appears we do not see eye-to-eye, then.”

“Then, what is it? Are you in league with the King? Is that the reason those documents spoke of punishing free speech and the pursuit of knowledge?”

“In league with the King?” Joshua parroted, a look of faux sympathy crossing his face. He held up the Apple of Eden with his fingertips, almost mocking the pirate. “My dear friend, I control the King. Every decision he makes is ultimately guided by my counsel.” 

Those glowing red eyes—it wasn’t a trick of the light. Everything that Seungcheol had seen was the work of Joshua’s manipulation, and the realization felt like a knife being pushed deeper inside him, inch by inch. He had to bite his tongue to keep himself from hurling curses that he knew would only make the situation worse. Seungcheol had to think. He had to pull himself together and decide what he needed to do next.

Earlier, he surrendered the artifact so easily to save your life, but now Seungcheol could only see vengeance ahead of him. He wouldn’t let this opportunity slip past his fingers again. 

Without any formal preamble, Seungcheol grabbed the marble paperweight off the desk and chuckled it right at the Apple of Eden, knocking the object from where it balanced on Joshua’s fingertips.

Joshua scoffed. “What are you—”

He was cut off by Seungcheol lunging at him, predator-like, and the two men were brawling on the cold, dusty floor of the cellar. The pirate straddled his body, pinning his chest down to deliver a hard blow to his jaw. There was a high-pitched ringing in his ears that was so loud that Seungcheol could hardly process the hits Joshua was landing on him, nor could he hear his own fist colliding with the Templar Knight’s face. 

Then, Seungcheol wrapped his hands around Joshua’s neck and strangled the man until he was red in the face. However, what he didn’t account for was that Joshua’s arm, which was raised over his head, had been trying to reach for the Apple of Eden that ended up rolling under a table.

Just as Seungcheol dug his nails into the tender flesh, Joshua slammed the metal ball against the pirate’s skull. Darkness curled at his vision, yet Seungcheol could still make out the knight murmuring something softly as he clutched the Apple.

Seungcheol grabbed the artifact to pry it out of Joshua’s hands, but the innkeeper didn’t look the least bit fazed throughout the struggle. Joshua used his legs to knock Seungcheol off-balance so that he was the one on top of the captain now. A malicious grin grew on the bastard’s face. 

“The Guardia Real will be here soon,” he taunted, “and His Majesty. Once they find you, they will give you a punishment befitting a lowly pirate.”

“And you shall not even have a gravestone to your name,” came your voice from behind Joshua. 

It all happened in a split second. You withdrew your hidden blade, jutting it in Joshua’s direction for him to dodge and grab your wrist. Seungcheol scuttled backward once Joshua’s weight wasn’t holding him down, and he looked around for something—anything—that he could use to help you out. 

Oh, that was right. The cloak. 

Seungcheol vividly recalled Joshua using a dagger against you that day. He slipped it back into the tunic when he had to put it away. In a haste, the pirate reached into the pockets of the tunic to pull out the dagger with the ruby-encrusted hilt. 

“Assassin, Hidden One, murderer—whatever you call yourself,” Joshua sneered. “I shall see to it that your corpse rots here for—”

It was then that Seungcheol momentarily let go of all fondness for his old friend and ran forward to drive the dagger straight into Joshua’s back.

“—eternity...”

He was normal for a breath—just the one. Then, Joshua stumbled forward, shakily, and then slowly turned around to look at Seungcheol. The Apple of Eden fell from his hands, his eyes following its path before he collapsed to the ground as he tried reaching for it. 

It was a pitiful sight to watch, really, but Seungcheol couldn’t tear his gaze away as Joshua clawed desperately at the artifact. This was a victory that Seungcheol couldn’t exactly celebrate because he had lost yet another friend, and it happened to be one that had been dear to his heart. 

“Seungcheol,” the innkeeper pleaded in a choked voice, “help me.”

Your eyes were sympathetic when Seungcheol looked at you, and you gave him a nod as if to assure him that you would handle the rest. He turned his head just in time so that he wouldn’t have to witness you finishing off Joshua Hong with your blade. 

Seungcheol only felt the passage of time start to move normally again much later; the events right after Joshua’s death were a bit of a blur, if he was going to be honest.

According to you, Jeonghan had come to find you after they all split up, confessing that he had always found Joshua to be suspicious. Apparently, he had been following the innkeeper for the past few days, but there was no reason for him to act upon that suspicion when he couldn't confirm anything. You ended up trailing Seungcheol and Joshua on your own because you couldn’t stop worrying while Jeonghan went to confirm his suspicions about a Templar Order base. 

As expected, there were several Templar Knights stationed in one of the buildings Joshua frequented, so Jeonghan called the Guardia Real on them. The knights were seized on charges of conspiracy after the building was searched, but Jeonghan was banking on the cellar under The Sleeping Bull to have more incriminating evidence. Seungcheol initially saw this as a rash decision, especially when he couldn’t let the guards get their hands on the Codex page, but he remembered the documents he had stolen from the King’s study. He had just enough time to replace the evidence, handing over the Codex page to you instead. 

Soonyoung, Seokmin, and Seungkwan rushed in afterward (ironically right before the Guardia Real stormed the building), and Seungcheol had never seen them so crestfallen upon discovering that Joshua was the one behind everything. 

You used the Apple of Eden yourself after that, lifting whatever manipulation it had over the King, and then you made sure to hide it before His Majesty entered with his guards. They seemed rather disoriented, to be honest; earlier, they were overcome with a compulsion to go to The Sleeping Bull, and now that impulse had disappeared into thin air. 

Still, they were all very shocked to see the five of them standing around Joshua’s corpse.

What an odd family reunion, Seungcheol thought as he gripped your hand tightly, but you refused to speak or lift your head. 

At first, they were being threatened with charges for conspiracy and crimes against the Crown, but once His Majesty spotted the documents that Seungcheol planted, a disturbed look crossed his face. Something told him that they wouldn’t be condemned to death today. 

Due to the ordeal, the five of them were escorted to the palace—not as prisoners, but as guests. Until everything got sorted out, they were shown the slightest bit of hospitality instead of a prison cell.

Seungcheol never expected to find himself in the King’s study once again with His Majesty, standing in the same place where you killed one of his guards. In fact, if he moved his foot and looked at the carpet, he could see the mark of a faded bloodstain that wouldn’t come all the way out. 

You were with his three sailors in one of the large bedchambers. Soonyoung, Seokmin, and Seungkwan were immediately swayed by the plates of food that were brought out for them, but you resorted to sitting stiffly in the corner until it was time to leave.

“You killed my guard,” King Philip V started in a stern voice, yet he didn’t sound like he was angry. He now had the full story that Seungcheol broke down for him (with your affiliation with the Assassin’s Brotherhood and the Pieces of Eden left out of the picture, of course). The pirate had to convince the King that Joshua’s involvement was not the work of an ancient artifact that controlled minds. “Not only did you disrespect me by sneaking into my palace, but you killed one of my men in this very room—right where you stand.”

It was actually you who killed his guard, but Seungcheol valiantly opted to take the blame instead. He wasn’t sure how your father would handle the truth about his daughter being an assassin, and he wasn’t keen on finding out. 

“To be fair, it was your guard who first attempted to take my life.”

The King let out a heavy, drawn-out sigh. “I suppose.”

He supposed? What a prick. 

Unexpectedly, His Majesty’s voice softened, taking on a tamer and gentler tone that almost sounded foreign. “Is Y/N well?”

Seungcheol stared at him, stunned. “You… you remember…”

“Of course. What father could fail to recognize his own child?” 

Perhaps one that abandoned her at such a young age, Seungcheol thought angrily, but he decided against vocalizing it.

“She is in good health,” Seungcheol assured, “but I do not believe she wishes to see you.”

The King sighed heavily, nodding in understanding. “That is only to be expected. A father should never forsake his child, which is why I cannot bring myself to punish you today. I have committed a transgression far greater than any that has occurred.”

“I do not believe you can undo the harm nor repair your relationship with your daughter, Your Highness, but a simple acknowledgement carries a great weight.”

“Back then, I could get everything I ever wanted, and it only cost me my precious child,” he told the pirate, “but, without her, I had nothing.”

It looked as if it hurt him to say, like a blade had slipped between his ribs as he was framing the words. And then, a sad smile crossed his face. 

“Is there anything as undoing as a daughter?”

Before Seungcheol could respond, there was a loud knock at the door. His Majesty commanded the palace guard to enter, and both Seungcheol and the King were shocked to see you by the guard’s side, your eyes cast down and the Distinguished Order of the Golden Fleece in your hands.

You looked up carefully, steeling yourself. “I wish to speak with you… father.”

The Crown’s Revenge was stationed proudly at the dock, its tall mast rising high over the crimson sails that flapped against the breeze. The mainsail billowed out as the wind filled it in, and as Seungcheol stood at the foot of the gangplank, he marvelled at the vessel’s impressive size. 

Following your conversation with the King, Seungcheol couldn’t exactly say there was no bad blood between you and your father anymore, but there was something brighter about your countenance now. Reuniting with him and healing old wounds must have done wonders for the grudges you held close to your heart, but you still had no intention of staying with your father and carrying out your duties as a princess. 

Your heart was elsewhere—with Seungcheol, with the sea. 

“She’s got more faces than a deck of cards,” Seungkwan had muttered when he found out about your royal upbringing. “Assassin, princess—what next? Pirate?”

It had not occurred to Seungkwan that you would be joining them on their voyage back to England, and when he was struck with the realization, he nearly turned over his dinner plate from his clamor. You had gotten rather close with his mates over the past few weeks, but they still harbored a fear that you could possibly murder them in cold blood whenever you wanted to. 

Seungcheol thought that it was perhaps a good thing that you kept them on their toes. 

As for Yoon Jeonghan, you returned the Apple of Eden to him, along with the Codex page that had been in the cellar. He left on a rather cryptic note, assuring that he would cross paths with you again, although neither of you were sure of his destination. You were adamant on leaving your life as an assassin behind, though, which meant that they would need to stop at France after sailing to England. 

His Majesty offered you riches beyond imagination. He clearly didn’t know what he could give you that would make up for years of separation, but you refused all of his gifts. Seungcheol, however, had a request that he could set aside his pride to ask for. That resulted in the five of them waiting two weeks for the kingdom to grant them a ship of their own. The rest of them were mortified by the name, but Seungcheol found it absolutely hilarious that he got the King to give him a ship called The Crown’s Revenge. It was something his aunt would’ve hollered at. Anything for the King’s daughter, he supposed. 

“You need not have used my idea for your ship’s name!” you exclaimed at the port, downright flustered. “I was just… I was simply—”

The pirate turned to see you with the wind blowing through your hair, a fierce look on your face. He couldn’t help but laugh—not because what you said was particularly amusing, but because he had never seen anyone look so beautiful whilst arguing.

“I did nothing of the sort,” Seungcheol said. “You named your own ship, Captain.”

Your entire body froze. “What?”

“This is a ship from your father, after all, and I believe the time has come for me to relinquish the role of captain. You have bested me more than enough times already.”

(“And now she’s a pirate, eh?” Seungkwan shook his head from where he was sitting on a crate, quietly observing all the while. “Funny how the tides turn.”

Soonyoung, however, was grinning ear-to-ear. “What are we bettin’ on next? Queen?”

“Shut it before she makes ye walk the plank,” Seokmin muttered back.)

“Choi Seungcheol,” you warned, “do not humor me.”

“You needn’t worry, mi corazón,” he told you with a gentle smile, taking the leather tricorn hat off of his head and placing it atop yours. “I have already made up my mind.”

“Cap’n!” Seungkwan called from afar, cupping his hand around his mouth to amplify the sound. You didn’t look quite sure if he was referring to you or Seungcheol until he scolded, “Try to not send us to Davy Jones’ locker in our sleep, aye?”

Your face broke into a smile. “Very well, but the blade shall remain with me!” you called back, raising your arm to show the hidden contraption that was still fixed under your sleeve. 

“Well, Captain,” Seungcheol started, straightening his back and squaring his shoulders, “I am following your command. Where would you like me stationed?”

“By my side,” you said, reaching up to hold the back of his neck and letting his forehead touch yours, “is that acceptable?”

“Of course.”

He leaned in, pressing his lips against yours—a quiet hunger that was never quite satisfied with just one taste. Cupping your cheek, though, Seungcheol knew that the way your lips felt against his was more valuable than any treasure he had coveted. It was the taste of freedom. 

Freedom was the wind in his face, the taste of salt in the sea, the ocean slipping through his hands like sand. In the grand scheme of things, people never truly changed across eons of history, but one thing rang true: The only way for humans to progress was to protect their freedom, to protect the freedom of others, and to rise against the resistance that threatened their freedom. Seungcheol had never been more certain of this until meeting you. It was so clear now; when he looked at the people celebrating in the streets of Sevilla, when he looked at the birds flying high in the sky, it was freedom that persisted above all. 

To him, freedom was you.

[josephquinnswhore]

Little bird - joel miller x female reader

summary: joel is a merciless hunter for sport, seeking many anew victim when he comes across you. who changes everything.

word count: 3.8k

content warning: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT. READ THE WARNINGS BEFORE CONSUMING. joel is basically a psycho? he kills for sport, control freak, stalking, murder, dubcon, age gap, power dynamic, manipulation, gaslighting, forceful face fucking, reader spews on Joel’s cock, blood play, forced proximity, m orgasm, fingering, m and f oral receiving, f orgasm, pet names such as; little bird, birdie, princess, daddy.

Joel had adapted to the outbreak effortlessly, without thought, like a bird jumping from its nest, like instinct. It is in his nature alike to theirs, to adapt through the conditions to ensure survival for their species without second thought for consequence. Even after what had happened to his daughter.

The instance of her unnecessary death had sent Joel spiral into this mindset, serial killing and torture. Not even out of necessity, supplies, he just found a sense of control in the act.

He is constantly covered in blood, his hands, neck and clothes all had stains on them. But he found comfort in the act of squeezing his large hands around someone’s frail neck, seeing the light fade from their eyes.

Paired travellers were his preference. The men always tried to be heroes, and Joel found it amusing that they always thought they’d beat him in battle, underestimating Joel's pent up rage and obsession for control. His strength is unmatched—survival skill and pure animalistic rage is channelled with each plea for mercy.

He’d seen many people around him change, good hearted folk who had clawed so far deep into the instinctual rage of strength and determination within themselves. Just so they had what it takes to survive this world.

But Joel—this darkness was raging inside of him before the outbreak, before any real need to access this side for survival had even come into play. With decades of experience, he had become skilled at stalking, especially. Observing.

Often he had thoughts about doing bad things to women and men that he acted out on. He couldn’t find a goddamn ounce of sympathy within himself as he hunted people, stalking his next victims through every state and terrain.

It was sport for Joel, a comfort as he realises that everyone’s life is in his hands, that he gets to decide who lives and dies. That he remained victorious. Too brutal and savage for anyone to defeat.

Notoriously good at what he did, he had more blood on his hands than probably anyone, finding the stalking as exhilarating as the kill.

It had never been anything more than that, until now.

Until he had seen you, two days prior.

He had taken one glance at you, and his feet of their own accord, had started trailing you. Following from a distance as the memorises the size and depth of your footprints in the snow. Since then, he’d been listening in on the two of you bickering about how lost you were, namely you—terrified about where you were, and where you were going.

Walking through the thick snowfall of the mountains, carrying that overloaded bag that made your shoulders sag. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d see your face crumble in pain as you try to adjust the straps of the bag, or beg the young man you traveled with to put some items into his own bag to take some weight off your shoulders.

Watching every interaction between you and this man from the past two days, he could conclude that he was your boyfriend. He hated this boy, the way he walked ahead of you, made you keep first watch after a gruelling day of travelling.

You don’t argue or seem to mind which Joel concedes is a product of this being a constant for you.

He gathers that more than likely, you didn’t understand how you were being taken advantage of. That this boy didn’t care about you, not the way he did.

The thought infuriated him, sending a rush of heat through his body as he clutched onto the falling bark of a tree he had hidden behind, observing you through the forest, the only thing that separates you from him, is a small clearance of flat ground to your small, makeshift camp.

A natural formation of a cave like structure made of rock. All you had to keep you warm was a freying sleeping bag and the arms of the boy wrapped around you.

Joel thinks about all the ways he’d take care of you. Giving you his thick, insulated winter coat, lighting a fire for you in his cabin. Keeping watch the entire evening so you could rest your fragile body.

The more he thinks, the more he fuels his own obsession. He wonders what your skin feels like under his own sinful ones, wonders what your cries would sound like, if you’d give into him or run.

For the first time in years, he doesn’t want to kill, he doesn’t plan on wrapping his thick hands around your neck to crush your oesophagus. He doesn’t think about reaching for his sharpened hunting blade and driving it to the hilt into the soft, warm flesh of your neck.

No, you were different. So pretty, so mistreated. He had to take care of you. Bring you into his warm hands like an injured bird in need of delicate care.

You’re exhausted beyond belief. The old boots you wear are barely holding together, even with the duct tape you’d wrapped around the collapsing soul, and even that was wearing off the front of the shoe.

You know you can’t risk sliding them off for a moment to dig your fingers into your heels to relieve the ache, in fear of infected, or people.

It’s not ideal to stop here, in the middle of the snowfall, freezing your asses off. You’re so lost, and afraid.

There’s a sense of bitterness rising inside of you as you watch your boyfriend sleep, you love him, with each beat of your heart… but you needed to sleep too. If only.

Hours pass of you staring into the clearance of trees and snow, of nothing. Not a bird, not a wisp of wind. The lack of anything happening only fuelled the burning in your dried eyes, lulling them to close, just for a moment.

You don’t know that you’d fallen asleep, standing upright against the tree you were keeping watch from until you’re awoken by a blood curdling scream.

Shaking you out of your slumber, you turn to see your boyfriend is gone from the makeshift camp.

A sense of dread buries itself deep into your skin.

“No.. fuck.. no! Jacob!” You cry out, ignoring the ache in your feet as you run back the way you heard the scream. Holding your handgun in front of you cautiously, there’s another scream.

But it sounds like it’s encircling you. Surrounding you from every direction.

“Jacob!” You scream back, tears welling your eyes.

This was your fault.

A spec of blood catches your eye, like a trail of a clue leading you to a horrific mystery. But you follow, urging yourself to run as you come to see your boyfriends body tied to a lonesome tree in front of a small nearby cabin.

“Jacob… Jacob it’s me,” your voice cracks, tossing your gun down onto the snow as you reach for the tightly knotted ropes that had him restrained against the tree. Jacob’s voice is muffled by a rope fastened into his mouth, keeping his head upright against the tree.

Despite his desperate attempts to warn you of the looming predator behind you.. it’s hopeless.

The blood has created a small pool around him, seeping into the snow. “I’m gonna help you okay? I’m sorry.. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have fallen asleep. I’m gonna get you out of this.”

A sound behind you makes your fingers freeze in place around the rope, the familiar sound of the hammer of a gun being pulled back—ready to fire.

Frantically, you look to the ground and realise that your gun is no longer where you’d tossed it. The only evidence of it was a deep imprint in the snow.

A deep, southern voice carries strong through the short distance between you, sending a nauseating shiver down your spine. “Hands where I can see ‘em.”

You raise your hands above your head, kneeling on the ground, eyeing your boyfriend with tears in your eyes, mouthing to him with a tremble of your jutted bottom lip. “I’m so sorry.”

“Turn around.” The deep voice instructs.

Obeying, you turn your body towards your captor, on your knees with your hands still in a surrendering gesture. Eyes stuck on his shoes that were in much better condition than your own, practically new looking.

The cool metal of your own gun traces the shape of your chin, lifting your face upward to meet the gaze of an older man. His dark brown eyes shift as he takes in every feature of your face, committing every detail to memory.

You’re even prettier up close.

“Please don’t do this, I .. we don’t have anything to give. We’re starving as it is and our supplies are worn.” The plea goes ignored, but you’re desperate.

“I’ll do anything, just help Jacob, don’t let him die like this,” you beg, fat tears rolling down past your waterline.

So pretty when you cry. Those bright, big eyes begging him to help you. It’s exactly what he wanted.

“Oh? You’ll do anything will you?” Darkly, he chuckles. “Remember this promise, little bird.”

The man holds your gun in his hand and grabs at you, one hand grasping the back of your head and bringing it flush to his crotch, rubbing your soft face over the hard bludge of his cock.

A breathy moan escapes him at how you protest, the palms of your hands against his thighs attempt to push him away.

“Tss. Maybe you don’t care about your little boyfriend after all, do you?” He scolded you.

A dry sob slips past your cracked lips, seeming to give up against the harsh grip of the man. A twisted rumble from within his chest vibrates against your palms splayed on his jeans.

“Unbutton my jeans and take out my cock,” the older man sneers, in a means to humiliate you.

Your cold, trembling fingers work at the tight button, and it pops open with a sense of release as his stomach slightly overhangs the right fitting denim. The zipper is freezing—but you manage to keep your fingers pinched around the small zip enough to pull his jeans down to expose him.

More tears fall down your face as you fail to accept what was happening.

“Tell me you want this cock, little bird.”

At your silence, the man redirects the barrel of your gun to your boyfriend. “You think I won’t fucking shoot him again?”

With his booming, threatening promise of violence against Jacob, you utter nonsense.

“I want your cock,” voice cracked thickly as you force the words out.

The man growls in approval, bringing the gun back to you, tracing the barrel of the weapon against your lips in a tantalising threat.

“If you try anything, including biting.. I’ll blow your fuckin’ brains out princess.” The utterance through gritted teeth sends your blood cold.

He had no intention of actually killing you, but the way you were trembling beneath him was a good sign you believed it.

“Now be a good girl and swallow your daddy’s thick cock,” he hums, forcing the thick, blunt tip through your parted lips.

It burns, how far his cock has stretched your lips wide open, the intrusion so far deep into your mouth makes you gag around him, but that doesn’t deter him at all. Pushing further into your mouth, down the back of your throat.

“Fuck little bird, knew your mouth would take me perfectly.”

Tears, snot and saliva all accumulate at the base of his cock, urging his hand to force you closer to him. Holding his cock down your throat, legs trembling beneath him at the feel of you struggling, gagging against him and the palms of your hands frantically trying to push him out of your mouth so that you could breathe.

He pulls halfway out of you, and with that a small amount of bile from your throat coats his cock. Your mouth was so perfect, warm and stretched out for him. Taking him so well. Nothing deters this man from taking exactly what he’d dreamt of you these past two days.

The constant reminder of the gun pressed against your temple was forcing you to endure this. It would save Jacob, it would ensure survival for the two of you.

It hurts, the way he’s fucking himself into your throat relentlessly. The pace is brutal and each growl makes your stomach feel sick.

The worst part is that your body is reacting to this, the slick between your legs is gathering and becoming incredibly uncomfortable.

“Gonna swallow my cum, birdie, fuck.. can feel my cock down your throat.” He can see the thickness down your throat too, swollen full of him. He cums with a strangled groan, the sight of his cock twitching down your throat sent him over the edge.

“Such a good girl, ain’cha?”

You’re completely fucked out. Eyes blown wide and red from the tears you shed. He pulls his cock out of your mouth to trace the outline of your plump lips.

“Please let us go now,” the hoarse request is met with a twisted cackle.

The man stuffs his hard cock into his jeans, the outline of it is impossible to ignore as you look up at him with a pleading gaze.

You had done everything he’d asked, and perfectly too.

Which is why he had to do this.

“Sorry, birdie. But I can’t let you go now.”

He brings your gun upward to Jacob and pulls the trigger. Five pounds of pressure against the trigger causes your boyfriend's head to fall limp against the tree, a gaping, bleeding hole in the middle of his forehead.

“No!” Your voice cracks as a guttural scream tears through the air.

No part of your body is listening as you will it to move, for your legs to carry you to stand and run, but they’re numb from being knelt on the icy ground so long.

The man shoves you onto the soft, snow. Your head is right beside your lifeless boyfriend’s body. “Jacob.. Jacob please,” you beseech, hoping that he’d somehow be able to save you.

Your arms are flailing against his chest as he crawls on top of you, the weak attempt gains a thick hand down the front of your cargo pants, and a hot growl against your lips.

“Maybe I don’t need to clip your wings after all, birdie, seems this pretty fucking pussy is already wet. Don’t pretend to fight me, princess. She wants this.” Without warning, one thick finger pushes inside of your weeping cunny, before pulling it out.

A protesting whine rolls off your tongue as he removes his finger, before you could stop yourself. He sucks your juices off the digit. And his eyes darken.

“Been thinkin’ bout how this sweet pussy would taste, knew it would be perfect.”

The older man sticks the same finger that had just been inside you, into one of Jacob’s stomach wounds, coating his finger in the warm, red blood.

He thrives off the mortified expression that causes your face to scrunch up, wiggling as he brings the bloody finger down to your lips, forcing it into your mouth.

But as he retreats his finger past your lips it’s now stained red, albeit clean. But you reject it, gagging against the metallic taste, spitting the blood onto the snow in a messy spatter, some of it sticking to your cheek and chin.

“You’re sick!” A crooked smile stretches the man’s lips at your accusation.

“No, no little bird. This is exactly what you need. A real man to protect you, so that this..” he gestures to your boyfriend. “Doesn’t happen to you, I’m sure you don’t want that, do you?”

The condescending tone is lost on you as the griping reality of fear ensnares you.

Your throat aches at your attempt to swallow the saliva in your throat, bobbing thickly. The small notion of you shaking your head appeases him greatly.

“I’ll take care of you. All I ask is that you don’t run, or I will clip your wings, understand me little bird?”

A second nod seals your fate.

“Believe me when I say you made the right choice, you were comin’ with me either way.”

Turns out that the small, wooden cabin belonged to this man. He had kept his large hand on the small of your back the entire time he showed you around. His homestead was fully furnished with food, supplies, furniture, even toilet paper.

“This is where you’ll sleep.” He opens a door, and there’s no windows, just a bed. Accompanied by a giant lock on the outside of the door.

He wouldn’t need to clip your wings, if he could cage you in.

“Sit down,” he orders, and you obey, still in shock as your brain tries to swallow the past hour of events whole, not allowing you to process it.

The wooden stool creaks, and he silently fills a bucket of warm water and sits across from you on a chair at the dining table.

Delicately scrunching a small cloth in his hands to wipe the dried blood off of your face, he leans in toward you, an almost soft expression plastered as he concentrates.

“If you’re good f’me we’ll give that friend of yours ‘o proper burial. Would you like that?”

The sweetness of his voice lured you in, to stare into his deep brown eyes, to take in the concerned shape of his pinched brows.

“I.. I would like that.”

He hums, you were learning quickly. Once he’s happy with your face being cleaned, he stands, picking up the aluminium bucket by the handle and pouring it down the sink. Clunking as he sets it back on the floor.

“Let’s go bury him then.” Before he changes his mind.

The snow was too thick for Joel to penetrate the soil with his shovel, so he had just cleared a foot of snow and tossed the young man into it, burying him under the frost, stacking a few rocks on top of the unmarked, unnamed grave.

He’s impressed and grateful you don’t run away though the process. That would implicate some serious issues and more importantly, require some kind of punishment.

Joel was willing to do anything to train you, to ensure that you never ran from him. In that regard, since you did stay, he felt he would reward you.

His bed is warm, the duvet is thick and the smell of him brings a sense of security to you for some reason, despite all that had happened.

“When you appease me, as you have today. I’ll reward you.” He coos, gently lying you down onto his soft bed, crawling between your legs, hastily shuffling your pants down your legs.

His face is directly between your thighs, and he parts them softly.

“I can smell how badly you need me, little bird.” He groans, pressing hot, open mouthed kissed to your inner thighs, slowly, agonisingly closer to your core.

He’s surprised when you impatiently nudge the back of his head closer to you. “That’s my girl.”

The curve of his nose rubs against your swollen clit, his tongue darting upward and into your pussy with a newfound passion.

He growls against you, the notion sends a vibration through you, and you let out a soft whimper. Thick hands ground themselves in your hips, dragging you downward in the bed so his face could delve deeper into your hole.

The wet muscle is skilled in it’s explorative ministrations, licking a long stripe from your core to your swollen clit.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get some attention too.” The promise he utters to your neglected clit is fufilled as he clamps his mouth around the bundle of nerves and sucks on you, the pressure causes a suction that feels electric.

Your fingers stiffen as they grasp onto his unruly curls. Coaxing him for more, more more more.

And he gives—the tip of his tongue skilfully, slowly working you closer and closer to the edge you’d never been brought to before.

Your thighs instinctively clamp shut around his head, keeping him buried there, not wanting him to stop.

“Please, please, please need more,” your unintelligible begging implores him to double down on his ministrations.

He can feel that you’re going to burst against him, slowly, and slowly he was winding the burning hot coil inside of you, the pressure was becoming unbearable as your thighs quake and tenable at his command.

Two of his thick fingers are swallowed by your constricting cunt, clamping down as you cry out at the intense sensation. His fingers expertly work you, pumping deep inside of you, calloused fingertips hitting the spongey flesh inside of your slick hole.

“Fucking.. need you..” you’re slurring your words, and he’s convinced that your hole would swallow him if you pushed him far enough between your legs. He could feel how greedily your pussy was swallowing his fingers. Desperate for release.

In an act of desperation, you begin to forcibly rut your pussy against his face as you raise your hips, tiring of his pace not being quiet enough to give you what you needed.

“Please.. please I want to cum.. gonna cum..”

At the increase of friction, and him allowing you to use his face your orgasm comes crashing over you. Your pussy constricts around his fingers as he works you at a slower pace through your climax.

A delicious string of babbling moans and praise roll past your lips.

Thighs jittering with a delicious tremble as they finally relax from their tight vice around his head.

“Thank you.. thank you..” the faint, inarticulate cry was all he needed for him to grin against your pussy.

You’re left heaving, and he’s mesmerised by the way your chest rises and falls at his performance. It’s something he has become enticed with—seeing you alive. Breathing.

It’s unusual for him, admiring the life within you when he was so used to taking it.

And now, as he pulls away from your pussy, lying beside you in his bed. Your body in his arms.. he knew he’d made the right choice to keep your life.

“You did so well f’me little bird.” The praise falls on your ringing ears, but all that’s returned is a vulnerable whine.

Not bothering to correct him after a moment of silence, you can’t help the words that feel petulant to ask. “Who are you?”

“Joel. And this—is your new home.” He croons into your tangled hair.

All for a moment, in the blissful ecstasy you forget how you ended up here.

[velaris-fic-repository]

Wicked Witch

@sjmxreaderweek May 7th Prompt: Villain/Hero

Slight Rhysand x Vanserra!Reader, Rhys is barely in this, ANGST, very little to no comfort, major character death, death of a mentor, Beron is a warning all his own

Inspired in part by the TV show Agatha All Along and the narrative podcast Old Gods of Appalachia. Both are very good, you should check ‘em out!

Summary: You were born cursed to wither every living thing you’ve ever touched. You’re convinced that you are a monster.

A/N: This ended up being more world building and character study than I originally intended, but I think it works! May make this a series, may not, I’ll have to think about it, enjoy!

You were a monster.

At least, that’s what your father had always made you believe.

High Lord of Autumn’s only daughter, cursed to wither everything she touched to ash and dust. Useless to your court, useless to your society. What marriage alliance could possibly be made when any suitor would be scared - literally - to death to touch you?

You were older than most of your siblings, second only to Eris. Most of your brothers however, gave you the widest berths they could when you were allowed out of your rooms. Lucien and Eris were the only ones who deigned to interact with you outside of appearance only events. Your court, and you supposed Prythian, thought you were simply ill. Frail. The fawn with a broken leg. The one thing the notoriously ruthless Autumn Court wanted to preserve.

You loved your closest brothers dearly, lamenting the hands the three of you were dealt. It hurt you endlessly that even they wouldn’t touch you. Eris, thanks to having watched the powers you felt cursed with, Lucien, from instruction. You didn’t blame them, you were terrified of yourself as well. There was nothing for it.

When you were younger, in the beginnings of dealing with your affliction, your mother told you a friend of hers had scoured his libraries to find some answer to this curse. He’d apparently found none.

You’d looked for answers on your own, only for Beron to find you and punish you for stepping out of the suffocating box of isolation he’d painted for you. You’d studied in secret for near three hundred years, hoping to cure yourself and become the useful female heir he’d wanted you to be. For once to gain the love or at least the respect he’d denied you.

That punishment was not pretty. No need to spare the face or skin when no suitors would come calling.

Something had died in you that day. Burned to a crisp and crumbled to soot. In the same manner your youngest brother would one day do, you fled the Forest House. You’d left a note for Lucien and some handmade toys for Eris’s hounds - he’d know who they were from, they were the only way you could interact with the creatures you loved so much. After, you were gone, traipsing through Prythian with no one else the wiser. No one expected a High Lord’s daughter to bear such scorch marks.

The official story was the frail princess of Autumn had succumbed to her illness. Maybe she had.

Consumed by your anger and pain you withered an entire forest at the edge of Autumn’s border with Winter. The incident explained away by the proximity of the seasons. The symptoms of your powers were no different than a natural autumnal rot anyway.

You found yourself in The Middle in your wandering. The place seemed perfect for you. The dumping ground for dangerous, unwanted fae.

You had been content to lie there, waiting for whatever horrid creature haunted your nightmares as a child to come and find you.

Something eventually did.

The moon was full that night when you heard a crunch in the under brush. Thank the Mother for your brothers giving you clandestine hunting lessons. Those tracking and observation skills were the only reason you’d managed to survive.

Your favorite hunting knife clutched in a vice grip, you stalked behind a tree, careful not to touch its living bark.

“I know you’re here, Withering One. I mean you no harm, little fawn.”

You watched an elderly female limp into your camp, towards your fire. She made herself at home there, sitting on a log, leaning on her walking stick and warming her hands. Something stirred in you watching her, a living being warmed by something you created. The aide you’d wanted to provide your family, someone, anyone, realized here.

“Will the princess be joining me out here? Or is she content to hide behind a tree all night?”

You poked your head around the tree, a fussy pout on your face.

“There she is. Come, child. Sit with me. And change your face, it could freeze that way.”

A fawn gaining her legs, you tentatively crept over to the fire, sitting far away from her, your knife still clutched in your hand.

“Put the claw down, child. Look at me, I’m too old to pose any real threat to you.”

“Appearances can always be deceiving,” you said, eyes narrowed.

The old female laughed, a crow’s laugh, “And you know more about that than most. This I know, girl.”

“And you know so much about me, why?”

She held up a slip of paper, “the cards told me, dear.”

You frowned at it, the painted image on the card meaning very little to you.

The card vanished with a flip of her surprisingly nimble fingers. “There are magics far more varied than those your father keeps, girl. I can teach you, if you’d like, and help you master those gifts of yours.”

“Gifts,” you spat.

“Yes, gifts. Your father is a fool for keeping you caged. You are dangerous only in your ignorance, child.”

You lowered your knife, keeping it in your lap.

“Master your gift and it won’t hurt you anymore,” she said, “you could see your brothers again, hug them. You could love freely, unafraid of what you would do to those you hold dear, just like you’ve always wanted.”

She extended her hand, obviously not for you to shake it, but an offering to match her words. You looked between it and her elderly face. Steel lined your expression.

“What would I have to do?”

You were her apprentice witch for decades. Studying the various crafts, tapping into other sources of magic while you struggled to grapple with your own.

Divination and tarot reading was your strongest suit, warding places following after. Practical magic, with herbs and roots, was out of the cards for you. Every ingredient shriveling in your hands.

You never seemed to improve on that front, so fearful of the effect that you hesitated to even try touching anything alive.

Frustrated by your lack of progress after a particularly bad night, in a particularly bad week of a particularly bad month and so on, you turned to your cards, hoping to find answers there.

First card, Eight of Swords, wonderful… A card of helplessness and fatality. Hard times ahead. But, that’s where you’ve been. The next two could show better things in your future.

Second card, Death. “Seriously!” You whined. Death as a card, you had learned often did not mean a literal one. More an ending or separation. A phase of life concluding.

Third and final card, Knight of Swords. Something sudden, violent, and dangerous. A fight one will need courage for.

You were tired of fighting, tired of trying. You were tired of losing and losing and losing no matter what you did.

In a fit of exhausted frustration you screamed out, slamming your palms to the ground and just let your power consume the ground around you. A circle formed around you of withered, dead grass. The decay oozed around you in a ring. Twigs snapped, aged and splintered to pieces. A nearby tree groaned as rot set into one of its roots. The sounds of insects ceased as birds and other woodland creatures ran like hell away from your clearing. Those who weren’t fast enough were bones in seconds.

Those sounds of the forest dying in that little circle around you caused a new kind of grief to settle in your chest. The land you loved so much decimated because of you. All those wonderful sounds, gone. It was a horror you had tried with everything in you to ignore, but the facts were here. Ugly, unpleasant and in your face as you grappled with the destructive nature of yourself.

That silence also gave way to new terror as you heard a familiar three pronged crunch in the grass just beyond the clearing. Two feet and a stick.

“Little fawn, we really ought t-“

Her words were cut off before you could call out, scream, beg her to stop at the edge of the clearing.

You looked up in silent shock and horror to see her just within the circle you’d thoughtlessly created.

All was quiet until a sickening cough came from her throat. One of effort and hurt as she stood bolt upright, looking for all the world like the fae equivalent of a lightning struck tree.

She grit her teeth as you watched the lines of her aged face deepen, her skin thinning and stretching over her bones. “It’s alright, child.”

Liar. She was dying.

You were frozen, unable to do anything but weep as your greatest fear of nearly five hundred years finally came to fruition.

“I… I’ll be alright… child,” every word of hers was a struggle, you could hear it. Every pause sending a crack through your heart. She was your mentor. Your sister in the craft.

She was your friend.

“I’ve lived a… long time, Princess. These bones could use… the rest.”

You fell to your knees and sobbed, the decay winding along the woman’s arms “I’m so sorry.”

“Remember… remember what I’ve taught you… dear. Your power… does not have to be your enemy…” Tears welled in her eyes as the final moments came, and you found yourself by her side as she sank to the ground. You couldn’t stop it now, you didn’t know how. Touching her now wouldn’t make a difference. So you held her, clutched her to your chest and wept over her as she smiled painfully up at you.

“It was my honor… to teach you, dear…”

Then she was gone, crumbled into dust before you had the chance to say anything back.

You wept in that clearing for a good long while.

A monster, that’s what you were. Of that you were sure. There was nothing you could do to stop the power that haunted you. So, you put it to the only use you could think of. You traveled Prythian after that, decaying those who would leave unjust bodies behind. You were not a feeble little fawn, but a diseased and deadly vixen. A monster to kill other monsters.

Those next years passed in a fugue state. You didn’t care where you went, only that the task you assigned yourself was complete.

When the warriors caught you, you didn’t struggle. You didn’t fight. You didn’t touch anyone. You let yourself be pulled, corralled and brought before whoever had ordered your capture. Whoever it was could do as they wished.

You were done. Empty. Rotted away from the inside.

You hadn’t talked when they brought you in. Azriel had warned him as much. You had hardly reacted to anything he’d said the entire time his men had you in custody. You hadn’t eaten either.

Rhysand didn’t need his brother to tell him that last part. He had eyes.

He’d tried to rouse you from your stupor but couldn’t, so he played the only card he had left. He’d entered your mind, viewing every terrible memory of yours as you replayed them in your mind, a horrible echo chamber of the worst parts of your life, your greatest fear, and your deepest senses of loneliness and despair.

He pulled himself out of your mind, seemingly pulling your consciousness up with him as you began to look more lucid.

“You’re Beron’s daughter,” he said after a beat.

“And I’m in the Night Court,” you responded, resigned.

“You’re supposed to be dead,” he mused.

You said nothing.

Rhysand caught a thought of yours as it passed and it was not a pleasant one. The assumption that what you assumed the Night Court to be would be a fitting end for someone like you. Prythian’s villains would know how best to deal with one such as you and all you’d done.

But Rhysand thought better than that. He’d seen in the bits and pieces of your history that you had been so close to figuring it out. You weren’t cursed. Autumn had always been a season of death, a season to harvest what could be and purge that which could no longer stand. A season not of cruel and harsh ends, but of making room for what was to come and kindly laying the earth down to rest. Your mentor, though beloved by you, was old, amenable to rest and making room in the world for something new. That’s what she’d tried to tell you but your fear and grief refused to let you hear it.

“Please,” you said, a sob breaking up your speech, “I don’t want to hurt anyone anymore.”

Rhys nodded, “We can help you.”

“Why?”

Rhys’s eyes shared the pain in yours as he responded, “because I never wanted to be a villain either.”

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Ideas: 170 Character Quirks

Quirk—a peculiar trait; idiosyncrasy; memorable little things about a character’s personality that make them charming, endearing, weird, or unique; can be cute habits; is anything worth describing about a character.

PERSONALITY QUIRKS

Very introverted, quiet and reserved, keeps to themselves

Highly extroverted, loves socializing and meeting new people

Mega control freak who has to have everything their way

Neat freak (often coincides with control freak)

Total slob who never knows where anything is

Super stubborn and will never admit when they’re wrong

Brutally honest and can’t lie to save their life

Extremely judgmental of other people

Short-tempered, especially when irritated

Always patient, even when frustrated

Hilarious or odd sense of humor

Very hard to make them laugh

Loves to eat and is obsessed with food

Loves to drink and is constantly partying

Constantly complains about everything

Extremely loyal and will do anything for their friends/family

Adventurous and willing to try anything

Cautious and careful no matter what

Energetic, hardly ever needs to rest

Sleeps all the time and still gets tired during the day

Horrible sense of direction and constantly gets lost

Overachiever who loves school/structure

Really modest and won’t ever brag about themselves

Extremely emotional and will cry at the drop of a hat

Stoic and detached, rarely shows emotion

Wildcard whose behavior is unpredictable, even to their friends

Notoriously two-faced and will betray anyone

Charismatic and can convince anyone to do their bidding

Very proper and always polite to others

Dates tons of people and has a new boyfriend or girlfriend every week

Obsessive personality — whether it’s a TV show, brand, musical artist, or even another person, they’ll get attached and think/talk about it constantly

PHYSICAL QUIRKS

Unique eye or hair color

Has two different eye colors

Extremely short or tall

Some discerning physical mark — birthmark, freckles, mole, or scar

Wears unusual glasses

Has braces and headgear

Large feet — may mean they’re clumsy

Bites their nails/lips or chews on their hair

Constantly fidgeting and can’t sit still

Acne, eczema, or other skin problems

Many tattoos or piercings

Often sick or has allergies (constantly sniffling/blowing their nose)

Talks very loudly or quietly

Says everything like it’s a question

Terrible breath — may be a coffee drinker

Gets sweaty easily (especially when nervous)

Unusually hairy arms or legs

Very long painted nails

Always wears a faceful of makeup

Has a stutter or other speech impediment

Incessantly clicks a pen

Often tucks their hair behind their ears

Constantly chews gum

Has a toothpick dangling from their mouth

Always picking their teeth

Smokes and has a raspy voice

Breathes heavily or snores

Is extremely muscular

Walks very slowly or quickly

Left-handed or ambidextrous

Constantly scratching themselves

Has some noticeable physical tic, like a twitch

Always wears a distinct item of clothing or accessory — a favorite pair of socks, a lucky jersey, or even a particular shade of lipstick

STRENGTHS/TALENTS

Fantastic cook or baker

Skilled musician (piano, guitar, violin, etc.)

Artistic talent (drawing, painting, sculpting, etc.)

Model athlete (football, hockey, swimming, etc.)

Great at voices/ventriloquy

Can do sleight-of-hand — may be a pickpocket

Speaks multiple languages, even obscure ones

Knows everything about history

Mathematical or scientific genius

Brilliant coder and can hack into any database

Skilled mechanical inventor

Can build or put together anything

Super-quick logical reasoning

Exceptional memory/genius IQ (several of the above might fall under this)

Special connection with animals

Super empathetic and understanding of other people

Extremely fast runner

Contortionist (can twist their body into any shape)

Psychic talent (can predict the future)

Amazing mechanic

Super strength, flying, invisibility or other superpowers

Unusually high tolerance for pain

Survival skills like hunting and fishing

Quick reflexes, acts fast in a crisis

Brave and fearless, not scared of anything

Able to talk their way out of any trouble/invent stories on the fly

WEAKNESSES/NEGATIVE TRAITS

Awful driver

Always running late

Illegible handwriting

Terrible at public speaking

Socially awkward — hard for them to make friends

Has tons of credit card debt from online shopping

Self-destructive and always wants what’s worst for them

Gets blackout drunk every time they go out

Extremely conceited or arrogant

Compulsive liar

Manipulative of friends

Gets jealous over nothing

Often mean for no reason

Unbelievably self-centered

Extremely passive-aggressive

Is a hero who doesn’t like using their superpowers

Arachnophobia (irrational fear of spiders)

Coulrophobia (irrational fear of clowns)

Agoraphobia (irrational fear of leaving the house)

Pantophobia (fear of everything)

COMMONLY USED QUIRKS

Pale skin

Crooked smile

“Intense” stare

Relentless clumsiness

Artificial hair colors that are supposedly natural

Characters thinking they’re unattractive when everyone else thinks they’re beautiful

OTHER QUIRKS

Dresses all in one color

Bedroom is decorated exactly like a Pinterest picture

Won’t drink still water, only sparkling

Refuses to use headphones and blasts their music in public

Always dresses too nicely for the occasion

Walks around barefoot, even in stores and other public places

Hates being inside, sleeps and goes to the bathroom outdoors

Can’t help but look in every mirror they pass

Wears a small plastic backpack everywhere

Preps their meals three weeks in advance

Drinks shots of espresso all day long

Sings opera in the shower

Always sneezes around pets

Has a collection of something mundane

Makes their own (terrible) abstract art and hangs it on their walls

Gets super excited about Christmas and then really depressed in January

Refuses to wear glasses even though they need them

Carries around a secret teddy bear

Has been wearing the same friendship bracelet for three years

Fastidiously lint-rolls all their clothing

Will leave a shop or restaurant if someone walks in with a baby

Extremely superstitious (knocks on wood, avoids the number 13, etc.)

Drops everything other people ask them to hold

Likes to go out dancing by themselves

Prefers to have the lights off or dimmed at all times

Only reads books written before 1900

Only watches movies that get really bad reviews

Always wears multiple sweaters on top of each other

Won’t eat anything that doesn’t have bread (at least on the side)

Thinks they’re a time-traveler from the medieval era

Gives friends and family excellent homemade presents

Leaves the office last every day so they can push all the chairs in

Hates jagged numbers (always fills their gas tank to the dollar, sends emails on the hour, etc.)

Has an imaginary friend they still talk to, even in adulthood

Owns a lizard that they try and use as a guard dog

Listens exclusively to Britney Spears

Leaves little notes in library books for future readers

Uses tissues to hold onto poles on public transportation

Wears their hair in Princess Leia buns

Never goes a day without talking to their mom

Hums “In the Hall of the Mountain King” when they get stressed

Clucks their tongue while walking, so they sound like a horse

Quotes Pulp Fiction all the time

Loves hanging out in completely empty places

Convinced they’re going to die in a freak accident

Grows all their own food in their vegetable garden

Never pays for train or bus tickets

Can recite Shakespearean sonnets

Recycles and eats vegetarian, but only out of guilt

Has a “vision board” posted on their ceiling

Loves the beach but hates swimming

Flicks people in the forehead when they get annoyed

Laughs at everything, even bad jokes

Curates a great Instagram feed of street art

Sources: 1 2 ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[syrupfog]

AU where Sanji can’t go to college because his dad is way too rich for him to qualify for FAFSA, but Sanji’s estranged so he can’t go to him for financial assistance. 

He wanted food science. Still does, someday. But in the meantime he works at Zeff’s restaurant. 

He meets Luffy because Luffy and Ace are notorious dine n’ dashers, and the Baratie is about the only place that doesn’t ban them, because Zeff’s secretly got too soft a heart, and because Luffy and Ace at least TRY to work their bills off, although they never last long.

Ace and Luffy drag him back to “their place”, which is a four person dorm room that’s technically home to Chopper, Usopp, Franky and Zoro. 

At six, it’s a squeeze. And it stinks. Sanji complains the whole time he’s there, forces them to open a window for godssake.

But he comes back every time they invite him. He brings food. 

He’d bring food anyway, but he noticed that Zoro’s clearly an athlete and he’s surviving on JUNK. Slim Jim’s and microwaved eggs and unseasoned chicken. Sanji’s disgusted, and he voices that disgust loudly.

He and Zoro get into arguments about it, but Zoro doesn’t complain when Sanji brings meals. 

Sanji’s also really satisfied when he sees Zoro eat everything without even attempting to turn it down with a “you shouldn’t have” or “I’ll leave some for someone else”.

He eats everything Sanji gives him, without comment, and Sanji gets a thrill from that. A bit because he can recognize someone else who also must have gone through food insecurity. 

Ace and Luffy also clearly have, but their trauma manifests in stealing right off his plate.

Which Sanji allows, of course. He’s a pushover. 

When the group of six come to the Baratie, plus two new people (Nami and Robin), Zeff initially turns them away because “I can’t afford for eight people to skip out on their bills you lunatics”. 

Nami pays for them in advance.

Sanji hears her telling Zoro she’s adding it to his bill. 

The few high school friends Sanji had disappeared off to college at the start of the semester, so he’s happy that he seems to be adopted into this group, right up until he comes to serve their table and hears Nami call the “meeting” to order. 

Sanji looks over her shoulder as he’s pouring waters and sees spread out call logs and texts and letters. Threats. Nami’s words go in one ear and out the other but Sanji hears the key; Vinsmoke. They come from Vinsmoke.

They’re all getting them, he realises. His hands shake as he listens. They’re being targeted, threatened. They don’t know why. 

HE knows why. 

How long has his dad known where he is? What he does, who he sees? 

He backs up. Gripping the jug in a vice grip. Runs for the kitchen.

He tells Patty to cover him because an emergency has come up, and he runs out the back. 

Runs for a long time. 

Just runs.

He stops responding to Ace and Luffy’s attempts to contact him. He can’t talk to them. He’s going to cause them trouble— HAS caused them trouble. They’re his friends. They didn’t know what they were signing up for. 

He calls off as many shifts as he can while still making rent

(which honestly isn’t a lot) and if Ace and Luffy show up he demands to be on dish duty. 

Zeff sees this, but he doesn’t say anything. Sanji’s grateful. And ashamed. 

He’d liked having friends. Liked that terribly crowded stinky dorm room.

It’s almost two months of hiding, although the texts from Ace and (especially) Luffy don’t stop coming. 

And then, one day, he gets a pounding on his door. 

Pulling it open, expecting a pissed of neighbor maybe, he finds— 

“Zoro?” 

Zoro looks at him flatly. “Come on,” he says.

“Uh,” says Sanji. “No?” 

Zoro grabs his wrist (when was the last time someone touched Sanji?) and veritably drags him out the door. 

“Shit, Mosshead, stop!” 

“No,” says Zoro. “We’re tired of you hiding.” 

“I’m not HIDING,” Sanji hisses, at least pulling the door closed behind him

“Yes you are,” Zoro says. “You think I don’t know hiding?” 

Sanji would be surprised if Zoro knew hiding. The man is nothing but bold. “How did you know where I live?” 

Zoro, dragging him down the stairs, says “Your old man told me.” 

“WHO?” 

“That cook. The grouch.”

“ZEFF?” 

“Stop shouting, dumbass.” 

Sanji fishmouths. “I can’t believe he told you,” he says eventually. 

“He’s not an idiot,” Zoro says. “He knew you were hiding for dumb reasons.” 

Sanji was hiding for legitimate reasons. He doesn’t say that.

Zoro drags him all the way out of the building and to an idling old van with painted windows. Oh, is he going to MURDER Sanji? 

He pulls open a back door and throws Sanji in. 

Sanji kicks him as he goes. Zoro curses at him. 

There are no seats in the back of the van.

There’s a lot of pillows. It smells like the dorm. There’s also several six sets of eyes staring down at him from where everyone else is apparently just chilling in the back of the van. 

“Uh,” Sanji says, from the floor. “Hey, guys?” 

Zoro jumps in and pulls the door closed.

The van is thrown into reverse and everyone curses at Ace. 

“Hey,” says Luffy. “You’re back!” 

“That was the plan,” Nami says. 

“Took you long enough,” Usopp says. He’s looking at Zoro though, not Sanji. 

“Couldn’t find his floor,” Zoro grunts. 

Sanji lives on the second floor.

“Uh,” says Sanji, still lying down. Shifting with the turns of the van. “Am I being kidnapped?” 

“That would piss off your dad, wouldn’t it?” Nami muses. “Especially if someone files a missing persons report and he gets dragged in.” 

Sanji gulps. They know he’s a Vinsmoke, then.

“I still say we just fight him,” Luffy says. 

“We’re not fighting an ADULT,” Usopp shrieks. 

“Usopp, buddy, we’re adults,” Ace says. 

“Except chopper! Chopper put your seatbelt on!” 

“It’s on!” 

Sanji’s spiralling. They know who his dad is. Do they want to blackmail Judge? Or—

“So we’re planning a party tonight and we want you to cook for us,” Luffy says. 

Sanji splutters. “Wh—“ 

“Yes, we were planning on driving to the store first before going back to the dorm,” Robin says. 

“Here.” Zoro throws a dirty piece of printer paper and a pen at him. “List.”

“You want me to… make a list.” 

Zoro settles back against the van wall, unfazed by the sharp turn. “Yeah.” 

“You guys want me to… cook for you.” 

“Duh,” says Luffy. 

“You don’t… care that my dad was sending you death threats? Or have you just not gotten to that part in this discussion?” 

Luffy laughs. Bright. Free. “Yeah that was annoying,” he says. “But my guy Jinbei’s on it! He used to work security.” 

“Uh… huh.” Sanji feels sceptical. It feels too easy. 

“Come on, cook,” Zoro says. “I don’t want to have to talk to your old man again. He’s mean.”

Sanji’s never had anyone refer to Zeff as his old man. He doesn’t want to object, though. “Is this not just… too much work? For just me?” 

“Oh, Franky says he can help with dinner if that’s what you’re worried about,” Luffy says. 

“SUPERRRRR.” 

“No,” Sanji shakes his head. “I mean like. I’m not worth all this trouble. You guys were getting threats just for KNOWING me. My dad’s…” 

“Just some bastard you happen to share blood with,” Zoro says, arms crossed. “Who gives a fuck? Chopper’s dad is a reindeer.” 

“He WORKS WITH REINDEER!” Chopper squeaks.

“Luffy’s grandpa has tried to get us arrested, like, ten times,” Usopp says. “It’s all good.” 

“Uh,” says Sanji. That doesn’t sound good. 

“Don’t worry, we can outrun him,” Luffy says sagely. 

“Plus he’s a bitch,” Ace yells from the front.

Sanji looks at the dirty piece of paper in his hands. There’s a boot print on it. He starts writing a list. “Fine,” he says. “But only because I don’t think you guys would leave me alone even if I tried.” 

“Obviously not,” Luffy says. “Zoro’s been moping for weeks.”

Sanji’s head snaps up to meet Zoro’s. 

Zoro shrugs. “I don’t like having to count macros,” he says. 

“Right,” Sanji agrees easily. “Makes sense.” 

He takes note that Zoro’s the one who talked to Zeff. Zoro’s the one who dragged him out. Zoro’s the one who eats everything Sanji gives him like it’s a gift from the gods. 

When they arrive at the store, haphazardly parked in the loading dock, Sanji follows Zoro out. 

He grabs onto Zoro’s sleeve. “You’re pushing the cart for me.” 

“Whatever,” Zoro scoffs.

He does, though. 

And he sits on the kitchen floor while Sanji prepares the food for this so called party. 

The party is the same group that’s always there in the dorm. Sanji finds out, when he’s done cooking, that they’re celebrating his return.

He cries in their bathroom, briefly. 

Then he sits next to Zoro and watches everyone make fools out of themselves as they fill him in on everything he’s missed. 

It’s good.

[illyrianbitch]

. ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊ RAE. 23. she/her. belizean-american, bisexual, stoner. daily click for palestine! no requests

𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐓: somewhere, there was love | breathe

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐖 𝐊𝐄𝐄𝐏 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 ✨ smut ♡ series ✰ one shot ↯ installment of series, can be read as stand-alone ☼ drabble ❥ personal favorites 𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐔𝐏𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐃 5/4/25

𝐀𝐙𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐋

♡ . —Are We Still Friends? ┃ 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐃

Worried about how his new relationship seems to be changing him, you talk to Azriel about your concerns. Things take a turn when he refuses to listen.

♡ . —A Sleeping Guide for Insomniacs ┃ 𝐎𝐍-𝐆𝐎𝐈𝐍𝐆

Azriel’s always been good at surviving the sleepless nights. At keeping busy. Keeping quiet. But lately, everything has been slipping. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for when he starts showing up at your shop in the dead of night—but something about your stillness feels like rest. And gods know he needs it.

♡ . —One Summer✨ ┃ 𝐎𝐍-𝐆𝐎𝐈𝐍𝐆: 𝐇𝐈𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒

One beach house, one festival, one summer to fall in love.

♡ . —An Education in Malice✨ ┃𝐎𝐍-𝐆𝐎𝐈𝐍𝐆: 𝐇𝐈𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒

With the sharp tongue of your notorious family, you are Azriel's most tantalizing challenge yet. It only takes one small meeting before you both realize that the line between hate and desire is dangerously thin.

♡ . — The Anatomy of Dependence ┃𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐃

You and Azriel are drawn together by an unbreakable bond, encountering obstacles and triumphs across the centuries and finding your way back to each other again and again.

✰. —Death and His Reaper ❥

After suffering a devastating injury in battle, Azriel finds himself on the brink of life and death where he meets you, The Mother's reaper.

↯. — Back to Our Roots

With the Acheron sisters out of town, you and your family plan for a quiet night in— just like old times.

✰. —Where I Left My Lover

After a brush with death, Azriel makes a difficult decision to protect you.

✰. —What We Make of What We're Made

When Azriel overhears Feyre's concern about your transition to fae life, he agrees to check on you.

✰. —When the Heart is Still Longing ❥

Azriel thought you were the one. Now, he can’t move on

✰. —Pretty Little Shadowsinger

Cassian walks in on you dressing Az in one of your dresses.

✰. —An Evening Reunion

Azriel comes home from a mission. You talk to him about your day, but he’s far more interested in you—and your silk nightgown.

✰. —Memories

While packing some boxes, Azriel is overwhelmed by memories of your relationship.

✰. —What Lies Between Us ┃𝐇𝐈𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒

Azriel has spent years trying to escape the ghosts of his past, retiring into a self-imposed exile despite a promising career as a talented detective. When you turn up at his door asking for help on a recent case, his world is disrupted.

✰. —Body Count

Anxious about how your lack of experience compares to Azriel's, you ask him about his body count. Unfortunately for him, he misunderstands the question gravely.

✰. —Safe✨

Azriel's night is troubled by a nightmare. He finds a soothing remedy in the arms of his mate.

✰. —Winner

You and Azriel are both sore losers. But when you cheat in a game of cards, winning takes on a whole new meaning.

☼. —Melted

The ice cream is melting and Azriel’s never been more out of his element.

✰. —Accidental

Azriel accidentally likes an old photo while stalking your profile. A spiral into mortification follows.

✰. —In Every Universe

Elain catches you asking Azriel if you're destined to be together in every universe.

✰. —Breathe

Azriel has a panic attack. You help him through it.

✰. —Somewhere, There Was Love

Azriel meets you on a Saturday. He loses you on one, too.

♡ . — Beneath the Ashes of Our Broken Oaths ┃𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐔𝐄𝐃

After abandoning the refuge of Velaris, you, Morrigan’s twin sister, returned to the forsaken Hewn City fueled by a vision for a better future. Now, your estranged family seeks your help when rumors of rebellion spread at a time of utmost inconvenience. Torn between your anger and a desire to protect the good, you begrudgingly agree and are forced to face memories of a past life and the unsettling presence of Azriel– the first man you ever loved.

𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐀𝐍

♡ ↯. —And I'm Thinking About Your Lips ✨ ❥

You and Cassian have been best friends since you were teenagers-- just friends. But one night at Rita's changes everything and now you cant breathe when you're around him and he can't stop imagining how you'd taste. ↯ Part One, ↯ Part Two

↯. — A Hobby for Two ❥

Cassian surprises you with a small gift. You spend the night teaching him how to properly enjoy it.

✰. —A Place For Dying

A mission with Cassian goes terribly wrong.

✰. —Words of Affirmation

Even the Lord of Bloodshed gets insecure sometimes. As his mate, you always know the right words to say.

✰. —Plank You Very Much

Cassian gets roped into a Pilates class by you—and quickly realizes he’s in way over his head.

☼. —Tender

Cassian cuddles with you when you have a migraine

𝐑𝐇𝐘𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐃

✰. —Insatiable ✨

There are countless reasons why you and Rhysand don’t work… but those reasons don’t seem so important when you’re tipsy in a bathroom with him inside you.

♡ . — Lights, Camera, Love! ┃𝐇𝐈𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒

Rhysand, Hollywood's hottest heartthrob, has everyone smitten—everyone except you, his co-star. But when rumors of your feud begin to affect the show's ratings, your producers propose a last-ditch solution: a fake romance to salvage your public image and reignite fan interest.

𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐒 𝐕𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐀

A Grave Misfortune ❥

When your affair with Eris is discovered, you find yourselves burying a body and sealing the grave with a bargain —keep quiet, never speak of it again. But not all secrets lie still when you put them to rest.

♡ . — A House of Hunger ┃𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐃

Every Autumn court citizen is hungry for something; beasts starved for influence, desperate for control, ravenous for power. Your tastes are no different—albeit a bit specific. It's a deep craving that boils in the pit of your stomach, hot and heavy, all consuming.You’re hungry for revenge.

✰. —Blessed

Angered by Nesta's actions, the Cauldron turned you into a fae different than your sisters— a lesser one that resembled more animal than human. Now living in Autumn, Eris shows you a new perspective on yourself.

♡ . —Of Our Own Devices┃ 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐃

Desperate to reunite with Lucien since his exile to Spring, you find yourself paying an unexpected price to his older brother.

✰. —Handsome as Life and Poison ❥

Defying your father’s sacred command, you wander to the grove where Spring and Autumn blend, only to encounter a sinfully divine figure with glowing amber eyes.

𝐋𝐔𝐂𝐈𝐄𝐍 𝐕𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐀

✰. —Almost, Always

You and Lucien indulge in an old habit, passing mirthroot and memories between you. Somewhere between the haze and laughter, a truth finally slips free.

♡ . — Hidden Things ┃𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐃

Following a cryptic vision from Elain, Lucien finds himself seeking out an enchanted artifact at your shop in the heart of the Day Court. What he finds instead is a profound connection with you—and a version of himself he believed he had lost.

𝐁𝐀𝐓-𝐁𝐎𝐘𝐒 (𝐌𝐔𝐋𝐓𝐈𝐏𝐋𝐄)

✰. —Worth It

It can be hard to remember why you’ve put up with your best friends for centuries-- until they remind you why they're worth it.

✰. —A Helping Hand

Even most powerful males in Prythian need relationship advice from their best friend.

𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐈-𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒

♡ . — Mirthroot Mini-Series

Between dodging death and saving Prythian, its always nice to make time and enjoy one of The Mother's greatest creations: mirthroot. Reader x ACOTAR Characters

[cxyotl]

hey so yall know that “kieran doesnt die” au ive been writing. um. i drew him.

more notes about this design below the cut :3 tw for eye trauma n torture.

-first off branwens only there bc i was trying to figure out how to draw horses & fill up space… so say hi branwen. he is like. the reason why kieran doesnt end up dying in this au. so he deserves to be here.

-surviving that whole ordeal messed him up pretty bad, physically and mentally. however, being so defensive about his blind side and determined to prove himself caused him to be more active i think. hes still that nervous stableboy for the van der lindes, but he doesnt shy from volunteering to go fishing/hunting with someone or joining jobs. hates using his blindness to gather pity pennies but hey, nobody is gonna suspect the obviously blind dude is working with criminals like the notorious van der linde gang.

-he also gets a little healthier. the rest he got while healing did wonders for him, he hasnt had a days rest since. well before the o’driscolls picked him up, probably. now hes a little less skinny, a little less greasy, and a little more alive <3 the only non-healthy habit he picks up is he does smoke more often than he already did. his nerves are all over the place. Especially when he’s on the edge of camp or out on the trail with someone.

-kieran’s left eye is completely gone. his eyelids and corners on both eyes are scarred up as well, since the o’driscoll who took it gouged em with his thumb. he wasn’t able to get past heavily scarring the right eye, so kieran gets to keep that eye.

-although he keeps his right eye, that doesnt mean its any good. HEAVY corneal scarring and ocular trauma, paired neatly with a small infection, means he’s permanently partially blind in that eye. he can see figures (silhouettes against light) and its all very blurry, but he can Technically still see enough to do his job and a little more. hes extremely photosensitive and it cost him his color perception for the most part in his remaining eye.

-because he’s so photosensitive, the hat kinda needs to stay on anytime hes outdoors. trelawny and mary-beth steal him tinted glasses from saint denis but he doesnt like them very much. the feel of anything, including glasses, so close to his eyes freaks him out. especially bc the lens bridge sits on some scarring on the inner corner. the corneal scars sorta make it feel like hes got something in his eye like all the time. bro cant get a moments peace LMAO.

-the left eye is usually bandaged up. getting any foreign material in the socket is Bad and hes like working with animals. literally brushing fur into the air like nine hours a day. so most of the time hes got that covered and he doesnt like it but. its necessary.

-arthur brought him the cane after remembering seeing blind man cassidy with one. was up in cumberland forest exploring anyway, saw a person sized stick and was like “ok this might work.” left it with mary-beth because he didnt want it to become a Thing that hes gone soft or whatever if that makes sense. its a bit large, but kieran doesnt mind bc he can kinda lean on it if he needs to or get a good sense of how far an object is from him. depth perception was also a little skewed.

-speakin of mary-beth, the new necktie is a little gift from her :3 yall might recognize it from the cut outfit

-kieran wrapped the cane up because he was getting splinters from it which was Annoying. he takes his knife and sharpens it or smooths it out as needed sometimes. out of boredom or necessity (the soft ground in shady belle and lakay are. decidedly. not great if you already are tripping over everything)

-the little notch at the top is great for hangin up lanterns. which tends to hurt his eye and gives him migraines bc its so close to his face, but it can be useful for holding the light out and seeing figures in the dark that hes lookin out for. or showing others where he is in the dark.

-i just didnt wanna draw his holster, but he can still shoot and ride horses. branwens a good companion :3. as for shooting, he just kinda shoots at figures and uses audio clues for where to aim and fire. hes better with his revolver than anything else, but give him a low sniper position with a high accuracy firearm like the carcano and he could probably get some kills.

-as for riding horses, hes been doin that for years. he just gives branwen cues to stay with other horses or on certain trails, or he can tie the reins to someone elses saddle (but he doesnt like doing this)

i have more thoughts so PLEEEASSEEE ask about it if you have questions or thoughts but these r just like some of the big ones that have to do with his actual design ❤️

[r0-boat]

Hiii, I just noticed your blog and really impressed by your... spicy stuff 👀 Hope that you can accept this request hehe 👉👈 (oh and sorry for any grammar, English is not my first language 🥹)

I absolutely love your headcanons about demons in WHB is animalistic, so what if the kings (and Lucifer) have that time of the month where they completely act like an animal (biting, marking,...) and MC didn't know about that, so MC got tricked by the nobles and being lead (?) to the room where their kings are destroying everything because they cannot find their human (maybe the kings got tied down too or just be sealed inside the room).

Okay I really wanna know what will happen after that 👀 Hope that it will be spicy 😋 Thank you and have a great day ❤️

Demon Rut headcannons

Whb Demon Lords x Gn!reader

Nsfw

Cw: everyone's a slut, The demons are yours and they want you. Slight mentions of demons fucking other demons just to let off steam, demon gangbang.

You know that little private room that looks like it's in a club on the summoning screen? I think that's where their sessions take place, where they're all dressed up in nice for you, only to rip off their clothes seconds later and make a beeline to your body.

That room in that special club for elites only are reserved for the seven lords and you to be used as they please.

I totally think demons have rut, they can fuck and cum whenever they want but during that time of the month when the sexual appetite is heightened to a point where they can't even think clearly. The sense of smell and taste. They will use toys, their subordinates anything! to get them off but it's not enough they need you. From your time you've been in hell and from maternity waiting for you, they've been holding off, and now that you're here... And they can sense you, smell your sweet scent of human and sex they can no longer hold back.

Bold of you to assume that the Lords would share. Some of them wouldn't mind but Satan and Levi who are notoriously more possessive??

Perhaps if they just need you so much that they are willing to share you just to have you at the moment. Without help with potions or magic, You will not survive Even with just the five of them at once. I don't even think you'll survive Mammon with just him during rut.

At first, they'd hate the idea of sharing you, but after the first time. They would kind of like seeing you squirm on another demon's cock. Seeing you get ruined and covered in demon seed would be a sight to purged in their minds, something they would jerk to when you're not here. Something that they'll definitely start doing more often. Not only as a way to prove their worth to you but for their own pleasurable benefit of seeing you soaked with tears, cum, and your own juices. As well as bragging rights to the other lords the next time they see them.

Expect clashing of horns and claws and teeth because only a test of their strength can determine who gets the fuck you first. And using you to test their virality and stamina will determine who gets to keep you for their rut. These demons will go for hours, days until they are tired, until they throw in the towel to the other. They use how many times you come how many orgasms they could milk out of your human body as a dick-measuring contest. Even after bragging about how many times you squeezed their cock while cumming as a badge of pride as their subordinates look at them in awe.

"oh yeah? Well fuck you Satan because last rut I made them cum this many times."

*cue Satan lunging at them with their teeth and claws*

That teasing and play fighting is all in good fun because they know they share a similar interest in being excited to see you next time in another demon's lap, squirming for their touch. Cooing about how much you like their cock and how human cock isn't good enough for you, huh? How they're so lucky to have someone so hungry for demon cock, have delicious your juices taste, how cute you cry for them.

Maybe they'll even start asking you to wear little pretty Lacey lingerie so they can tear off or play with their tongues and teeth. Maybe there's subordinates will catch wind of their lords escapades with you. An excitedly wait for one day their Lord will ask them to come with them. They know that the Lord is in control, and they are just there to be your toy.

And after every rut session, you're treated like a literal princess with aftercare; why do you have to lift a finger. They know that they pushed you beyond your human limits. And they are eternally grateful You indulged their sinful desires and gave up their body to be used and destroyed.

This sex dungeon-like club also doubling as a little hotel room with a full bathroom with a huge pool of bathtub as well as another bedroom with a giant bed for sleeping or other sexual escapades if the Lord's desire. If they ever want alcohol, sex toys, or condoms, they will be brought to them in a care package like basket. And as well as to their dislike, a little locker for the human for other demons store their presents in. It's like you don't already have a permanent residence in hell with a mailbox chocked full of flowers and chocolates and anything you desire.

[queen-of-deans-booty]

girl in new york

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~2.6k (including lyrics)

Warnings: cheating (not by dean), angst, minor fluff at the end

Summary: After showing up in New York to surprise your boyfriend, you see something that shatters your world to pieces. You call the one person who has always been there for you no matter what monster he’s hunting, your best friend.

Square Filled: “I guess always isn’t forever after all.” (2022) for @spnquotebingo

Author’s Note: this is based on the song girl in new york by Nessa Barrett

x

Bags in your hand as you kiss me Tellin' me you're gonna miss me Promise you'll be on your best behavior Give me your flight information Call when you land, say you made it Sweet little me told you, "Go have a good time"

You follow your boyfriend to the car he called for to drive him to the airport. He hauls his bags into the trunk while you wait next to the car with a sweet smile on your face.

“Have everything you need?”

“Always, baby,” he smiles.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come? Your friends love me, and I won’t even get in the way. We’ve never been apart for more than a few days.”

“Y/N, you’ll survive without me for two weeks. Trust me, everything will be fine.” He closes the trunk and walks over to you. “You have nothing to worry about.”

Nothing to worry about. You trust him, it’s his friends you don’t trust. They’re a bad influence on him. At least two of his friends are notorious cheaters, and two others are known for partying. Maybe you should make him promise to be on his behavior, but that would only start yet another fight. He hates it when you imply that he’d cheat on you despite him being such a sweetheart to you.

“Okay. I’ll miss you.”

He leans in and kisses you but keeps it short. “I’ll miss you. I already texted you my flight information.”

He gets into the car but keeps the back window rolled down so you can still talk to him.

“Have a safe flight. Call me when you land. Go have a good time.”

“I will, baby.”

“I love you.”

He doesn’t say it back. His smile is the last thing you see as the car pulls away from the curb. New York. All the way on the other side of the country. Still, if he says there’s nothing to worry about, then there isn’t anything to worry about. You turn and head back into the house, wondering what you’re going to do for two weeks by yourself.

I didn't mean forget about me Ridin' in a yellow taxi Who the hell are you on your way to?

The first week without him was hard, so hard that you wanted to fly up to New York yourself to surprise him. You’re not one of those clingy girlfriends who wants to be with their boyfriends twenty-four-seven, but there’s a nagging feeling in your stomach. A feeling you can’t put a name to. Something is gnawing at your insides and the last time you ignored this feeling, your ex-boyfriend was planning your murder.

Not that you think he’d murder you, but you just need to see for yourself that everything is okay. You’ll only stay a day and give him the rest of the time to his friends.

New York is so much different than California. You’re used to busy cities but there’s something about JFK that’s crowding. Your boyfriend sent you his hotel information just in case you needed to reach him, so you know exactly where you’re going.

You drag your small suitcase outside and look around the pickup area. People bustle by you to reach their cars or their family members while you’re standing there with a confused look on your face. You’re no stranger to public transportation, but you hate crowds. Your social anxiety is worse being in a state you don’t know, so all thought and reasoning goes out the window.

“Excuse me, Miss? Can I help you with something?”

You look to the right and see airport security approaching you.

“Yeah, I just need a taxi or something. Can you help me with that, please?” The officer smiles and steps closer to the curb. He whistles with his fingers at one of the taxis passing by, and the driver pulls off to the side. “Thank you so much.”

“No problem. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“No, I got it from here. Thank you.”

The driver steps out to help you with your bag, and you hand it over so he can put it in the trunk. You’re about to get in the back when you hear someone shout behind you.

“Wait! Miss, please!” You turn back to see a beautiful young woman fast walking over to you like she knows you. “I’m sorry. I know we don’t know each other, but I was wondering if we could share a cab? I’ve tried pinning one down, but no one has stopped. I understand if you don’t want me to.”

“No, it’s okay. We girls gotta help each other out, right?”

“Thank you so much. You’re a lifesaver.” She puts her bag next to yours before you both slide into the backseat. “I’m Ainsley.”

“Y/N.”

“Where to, ladies?” the driver asks.

You look down at your phone and read off the address to him. “It’s the Ritz-Carlton Hotel. What about you?”

“You’re not gonna believe it, but same!” The driver pulls out into traffic and starts the drive to the hotel. “Small world.”

“I love your dress.” She’s wearing a simple gold backless dress with spaghetti straps. “Where did you get it?”

“My sister is a seamstress. She made it for me. I can give you her card if you’d like.” Without waiting for an answer, she digs into her purse for the card. “I wanted something that shows off my back. I’m visiting my boyfriend. He doesn’t know I’m coming.”

“That’s exciting. I just flew down from California to see mine. He’s in town visiting his friends. I’ve never been to New York before.”

“I love it here. He’s busy and loud but I wouldn’t trade it for anything else. I have an apartment in the city but I stay with my boyfriend when he’s in town.” She smiles at you. “He’s a software developer. He designs websites and works with computers.”

“Really?” The world is getting smaller because that’s what your boyfriend does. “What company does he work for?”

“Eleks.”

Alarm bells are going off inside your head despite your best efforts to ignore him. Ainsley rambles for twenty minutes about how she has so many plans for her and her boyfriend, what an amazing guy he is, and how she thinks he’s gonna propose soon.

“Wait, what? Propose?”

“Yeah. He didn’t say he would, but I think this could be the weekend.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, how long have you two been together?”

“Five years.” Your blood runs cold at the number. Something in your brain is telling you to run and never look back. Why? Who the hell is this woman? The driver reaches the Ritz-Carlton, and you two split the bill evenly. “Thanks so much for letting me hijack your taxi.”

“No problem.” The driver opens the trunk and hands over the suitcases. Ainsley turns to head inside when you stop him. “Wait, what’s your boyfriend’s name?”

“Oliver.”

Ainsley turns and heads inside the hotel while you’re frozen stuck on the sidewalk. Oliver is your boyfriend’s name.

I know there's always temptation Guess I'm a little more patient Baby, I've been on my best behavior Fuck you for makin' me crazy While you buy her drinks out on 8th Street Sweet little you showin' her such a good time

Instead of going inside the hotel, you sat on a bench across the street and watched the door. If you’re going to confirm your suspicions, you have to see it for yourself. Two hours pass by before he walks out with her, and your entire world shatters before you. It’s like seeing a train heading your way and not being able to get out of the way.

Oliver has his arm wrapped around her shoulders and his face buried in her neck. She giggles and tries to get away but he holds her close. She pulls away slightly only to kiss him, and that’s when the tears roll down your cheeks. With shaky hands, you take out your phone and call Oliver.

Maybe you’re seeing things. Maybe this man looks like Oliver, has the same job as Oliver, and is named the same, but it’s not him. Maybe everything is still okay. He pulls away from her and reaches into his jacket pocket to pull out his phone. The call goes to voicemail right before he starts typing. Seconds later, a message from him pops up.

Hey, sorry, I have meetings all day. I’ll call you later tonight. Love you.

You have to hold back your sobs because you know damn well he’s in no meeting. There is a strip of restaurants and bars alongside the Ritz, and they walk a few blocks away to one of the best steakhouses in the city. Twenty minutes pass of being stiff and numb before you have enough energy to dial someone.

Whenever he’s in the same city as you, he makes it a point to see you. He has such a busy life with fighting monsters and all, but he always makes time for you even if it’s only for an hour. He said he and his brother were going to be in New York for the week, so you’re hoping he’s not knee-deep in monster guts.

The buttons are hard to see through blurry vision, but you manage to click on his name and call. It takes three rings for him to answer.

“Hey, sweetheart. Isn’t it late in California?”

“You’re three hours ahead of me, so that would make it really late for you,” you sniffle.

Dean knows you so well. He knows something is wrong even though you tried to even your voice.

“What’s wrong?”

The resolve quickly crumbles, and you break down in tears. “He’s cheating on me. I’m in New York now. I wanted to surprise him, but he’s seeing someone else here.”

“Where are you?”

“Outside the Ritz-Carlton.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “I’m on my way. Stay right there.”

You can’t move even if you wanted to. It starts lightly raining but it’s enough to send shivers down your spine. You’re looking down at your shoes, the ones you just bought for this trip. The city is buzzing with life so you don’t hear the Impala coast down the street. He stops right in front of you and gets out, rain be damned.

“Sweethart,” he whispers.

You look up at him with mascara running down your cheeks. “Am I not good enough?”

“Come on, let’s get you out of the rain.”

Dean helps you into the passenger seat and gets behind the wheel.

“Sorry for getting your seat wet.”

“Don’t worry about that.” Dean stays parked by the curb and pulls you into his arms. The second you feel his warmth, you start crying. “I’m gonna kill him.”

“I just… I never knew he was living this whole other life. He… He made me feel so special. I wanted to surprise him when I met her,” you cry. “She said they’ve been dating for five years. Is that how long he’s been cheating on me?”

“Sweetheart, you deserve so much better than him.”

You continue on like he didn’t just compliment you. “You should have seen her. She was so pretty.”

Dean reaches over and slides your wet hair away from your eyes. “You’re prettier.”

“I guess always isn’t forever after all,” you whisper.

“Where is he?”

“He and Ainsley went into the steakhouse across the street. They haven’t left.”

“Okay, come on.”

Dean gets out of the car and walks over to your side. You get out and look at him in confusion.

“Where are we going?”

“To show him what he lost.”

You don’t want to be alone so you have no choice but to follow him across the street.

You said I was yours Maybe just on the West Coast 'Cause as soon as you left home You got wanderin' eyes So I guess you lied When you said I was special You're not as smart as you think you are Baby, I know about the girl in New York

Dean storms into the restaurant and immediately spots Oliver and Ainsley in the corner. Luckily for him, it’s not a crowded corner. Not that he’d care if the place was crawling with people. He does not get to get away with hurting you like this.

“Dean, we should just go. He’s not worth it,” you whimper.

“Hi, do you have a reservation?” the hostess asks. Dean ignores her and walks further into the restaurant. “Sir?”

Oliver raises his glass to toast something, but the moment is short-lived. Dean reaches over and snatches the drink out of Oliver’s hand.

“Hey, man, what the--” Oliver’s eyes lock with yours and the breath is knocked out of his lungs. “Y/N, what are you doing here?”

“Don’t look at her. Look at me. You don’t get to talk to her. You’re done.”

“What’s going on?” Ainsley asks.

“I’ll tell you what’s going on. This piece of shit is dating her,” Dean points to you without taking his eyes off Oliver. “Has been for seven years. Based on the look on your face, I’m assuming you didn't know about her the same way she didn’t know about you.”

“Dean, we should go, please,” you urge.

Dean leans down and grips the back of Oliver’s chair. The latter leans back and can’t help but show the fear in his eyes.

“The only reason I’m not beating your ass is because she doesn’t want me to. You honestly think you can find someone better than her? She’s smart and beautiful and amazing. I bet you don’t know a single thing about making her happy. Did you know she hates pickles? I always have to take hers off her sandwich before I give it to her so she doesn’t know they were ever there. Did you know she’s allergic to strawberries? I never order anything with strawberries in case she wants a bite.

“She likes bedazzling her things. She likes rainbows and sunshine. Did you know she wants a huge farm with lots of animals because she loves them? You might have been with her for seven years but you don’t know her, not when you’re spending all your time with her. If you don’t want to be in a relationship, at least man up and end it instead of cheating. You two are done. Have fun with her all you want.”

With that, Dean turns and leads you out of the restaurant. You look back to see Ainsley almost in tears. You hate that she also had to suffer because she did nothing wrong. The rain is falling harder so you and Dean sprint back to his car, and you look at him as he wipes the water from his eyes.

“Did you mean everything you said?” you ask in a small voice.

Dean starts the car, but he doesn’t pull into traffic. “I never knew why you were with him, but I kept my mouth shut because you seemed happy. Now that I know you’re not… Baby, I can make you so much happier.”

“What?” you whisper.

“Don’t freak out. That’s a conversation for a different day. I need your head clear and right now, it’s messy so I’ll just settle for being your friend.”

“Dean…”

Dean perks up and moves the conversation along as if he didn’t just bare his feelings on his sleeve. “When I was leaving, Sam got the Switch hooked up to the TV at our hotel. How about you come over and we can play some Mario Kart.”

A smile spreads across your face, and you lean your elbow on the back of the seat.

“That’s my favorite game.”

“I know,” he winks before pulling out into traffic.

x

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[merxcywritesthings]

𝐼 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢, 𝐼’𝑚 𝑠𝑜𝑟𝑟𝑦.

A/N: This idea has been itching in the back of my head all day that I couldn’t help but write it down. Enjoy my lovelies.

TW: Cheating, Angst to Comfort, Yelling, Grief.

Word Count: 1.3K

Reader is Female

The evening air was thick with the usual hustle and bustle of Piltover’s streets, the city’s golden glow reflecting off polished steel and glass. You paced nervously in your modest apartment, going over your latest conversation with Vi in your mind. The room felt smaller than usual, closing in with every unresolved thought.

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

Before the fractures started to show, there was a time when everything felt perfect. You and Vi would lie together in the dim glow of lanterns, sprawled across the couch in her Zaunite hideout or tucked away in your Piltover apartment. She’d whisper wild dreams about a future where Zaun and Piltover weren’t at each other’s throats, where no one had to fight to survive.

“You know what I think about sometimes?” Vi had asked one night, her head resting on your chest as you absentmindedly ran your fingers through her pink hair. “A wedding. Ours. Somewhere at the border where Zaun and Piltover meet. A big bridge all lit up with lights. No sides. Just us.”

You’d laughed softly, your hand pausing in her hair. “You? Thinking about a wedding? That’s rich.”

She’d grinned up at you, punching your arm lightly. “Hey, don’t ruin my moment. I’m being serious here. Just imagine it, yeah? Everyone from both cities, sitting together, watching us make something real. Something they’d have to believe in because we believed in it first.”

Her words had filled you with a warmth so deep it made your chest ache. You’d cupped her face, looking into those sharp, determined eyes. “I’d marry you anywhere, Vi. Even if it’s just us on some rooftop in Zaun. But if that’s your dream, then I’ll make it mine, too.”

The smile she gave you then was unlike any you’d ever seen—soft, vulnerable, and full of hope. For a moment, it felt like anything was possible.

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

But dreams are fragile things, easily broken by reality. As the weeks passed, the cracks in that perfect vision began to show. It started with small disagreements, the weight of your responsibilities in Piltover colliding with her unwavering loyalty to Zaun. You’d tell her about the progress you were making in your work, trying to bridge gaps between the two cities, but she’d scoff, calling it naive.

“You don’t get it, do you?” Vi had said, her voice low and rough during that fateful argument. “Piltover chews people up and spits them out. You think you can change that from the inside?”

Your reply had been sharp, almost desperate. “I have to try! I can’t just… sit back and do nothing. Not everyone in Piltover is corrupt. Some of us want to make it better.”

Vi’s jaw tightened, and she let out a bitter laugh. “And what? You think they’ll listen to you because you’re one of them? You’re just another cog in their machine. You don’t belong to Zaun, and you don’t belong to me if this is the path you want.”

The words had cut deep, and neither of you had backed down. The argument spiraled into accusations and misunderstandings until she stormed out, slamming the door behind her. That was two weeks ago, and you hadn’t seen her since.

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

The silence between you hadn’t lasted long before the news came. Vi had been arrested during a raid on one of Zaun’s safe houses, caught in the act of defending a group of children hiding from enforcers. She hadn’t gone quietly—they said she’d taken down three officers before being subdued. You heard whispers of her being transferred to Stillwater Hold, Piltover’s most notorious prison.

You wanted to help her, but what could you do? Your position in Piltover’s hierarchy was tenuous at best. Every attempt to pull strings was met with cold refusals and veiled warnings. The system you believed in had failed her, just as she’d always said it would.

The days stretched into weeks, and though you tried to visit, the guards at Stillwater Hold never let you through. Each rejection felt like another nail in the coffin of what you and Vi had shared.

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

The first week after her arrest, you had told yourself she’d come back. That somehow, some way, you’d find a way to fix things. But as days turned into weeks, the silence spoke louder than any words could. You threw yourself into your work, trying to drown the ache in productivity. Every morning you donned the mask of a dedicated citizen of Piltover, hoping no one noticed the cracks. At night, the silence of your apartment swallowed you whole.

Months passed, and the emptiness became a part of you, a dull ache that refused to fade. You told yourself you were moving on, but every corner of Piltover held memories of her—the way she’d smirk at the absurdity of high-society parties, or how her fingers felt laced with yours as you walked the streets together.

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

But tonight was different. Tonight, you couldn’t focus. The city’s energy only served as a painful reminder of the life you and Vi had once dreamed of together—a bridge between two worlds, something neither of you had fully understood but had hoped to build.

A loud cheer from the street below broke your thoughts. Curious, you moved to the window, brushing aside the curtain. A festival was in full swing, the streets alive with laughter and music. And then you saw her.

Vi.

She stood out effortlessly, her pink hair glowing under the lantern lights, her confident stance drawing eyes. But it wasn’t just her presence that made your heart stop. It was the way she leaned toward someone, her hands resting casually on Caitlyn Kiramman’s waist. The enforcer’s dark hair framed her delicate features, and her smile was bright and unguarded as she whispered something that made Vi laugh.

Your chest tightened as Vi’s laughter softened, her face inching closer to Caitlyn’s. And then they kissed. It wasn’t hesitant or fleeting. It was passionate, the kind of kiss that spoke of intimacy and trust—a connection.

Your breath hitched, and you stepped back from the window, your hands trembling. The sight was burned into your mind, a cruel reminder of everything you’d lost. The ache in your chest blossomed into a full-fledged storm, rage and sorrow intertwining until you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

You thought of the nights you’d stayed awake, waiting for her to come back. Of the times she’d held you close, promising that no matter what, you were her safe haven. All of it seemed like a distant memory, overshadowed by the reality of what you’d just seen.

The urge to confront her was overwhelming, but what would you even say? That it wasn’t fair? That you still loved her? That you’d been wrong to think you could make a difference in Piltover without her by your side?

You stepped away from the window, the walls of your apartment suddenly suffocating. With trembling hands, you grabbed your coat and headed outside, blending into the festive crowds. The music was too loud, the colors too bright, but you walked aimlessly, desperate to escape the whirlpool of emotions inside you.

Eventually, you found yourself at the edge of the festival, where the noise faded into the quiet hum of the city. You leaned against a cold, steel railing, staring out over the distant horizon. Zaun’s shadowed depths loomed below, a reminder of where Vi had come from and where you could never truly follow her.

Tears slipped down your cheeks, but you let them fall. For the first time, you allowed yourself to grieve—not just for the love you’d lost, but for the dream that had shattered between you. And as the city lights flickered around you, you made a quiet promise to yourself.

You would move forward, step by step, even if it hurt. Because if there was one thing Vi had taught you, it was that survival wasn’t about never falling—it was about finding the strength to rise again.

𝑃𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒 𝑑𝑜 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑟𝑒𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑜𝑟 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑔𝑖𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑧𝑒 𝑚𝑦 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑘 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑚𝑦 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛. 𝑇ℎ𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝑤ℎ𝑜 𝑑𝑜 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑏𝑒 𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑐𝑘𝑒𝑑. 𝑇ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑘𝑠! ❤️

𝐷𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑏𝑦: @𝑎𝑛𝑖𝑚𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑑𝑔𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑝ℎ𝑖𝑐𝑠-𝑛-𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒

𝐺𝐼𝐹 𝑏𝑦: @𝑎𝑟𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑒𝑔𝑖𝑓𝑠

[justmeexistinghere]

W H E R E S H A D O W S M E E T

pt.1 Trigger ˏ*⁀➷Masterlist

Summary:

You planned to leave your past behind and focus on keeping a low profile at Eunjang High. But when a violent encounter after school forces you out of the shadows, old instincts flare up and new connections begin to form. Sometimes, the fight you try to avoid is the one that changes everything.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･*✧･ﾟ:*⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

-> Geum Seongje x fem!reader (about to be) -> Warnings: violence / physical fights, bullying, blood / injury, swearing / strong language, mentions of past trauma, smoking (hopefully I didn't forget anything) -> Wordcount: 2.503 -> 📝English isn’t my first language & this is my first story — thank you for your patience ♡

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧:*⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Just like the past few days, the usually blue sky is hidden behind a wall of grey clouds. Even the sun surrenders, casting a heavy, oppressive mood over the city. Summoning any motivation for the lessons ahead feels impossible – not that you ever had much to begin with. 

Listlessly, you stare out the window, your gaze empty and unfocused. Occasionally, your eyes flick over to the clock above the door, moving so slowly it feels personal. You rest your head on your arms, knowing the teacher wouldn't say a word, since all of them have learned to keep their heads down, just like most of the students. You close your eyes, letting the hum of the classroom fade into the background as your thoughts drift away.

The bell finally snaps you out of it. Time for a break. Not that it matters... 

You are still new here, still alone – and, honestly, you prefer it that way. Choosing between bullies and their victims isn’t a choice you are interested in. Sure, a few students don’t fit into either category, but why take the risk? You know how quickly the wrong decision can blow up in your face.  

You hate this place. But it was your own fault. The thought had settled in your mind a long time ago. No sense denying it.

This place, Eunjang High, is infamous for brutal fights, relentless bullying, and a toxic atmosphere. Sounds fun, right? If one enjoys survival games, it would definitely get a five-star rating. 

You feel like an intruder in a system you had no desire to belong to. And honestly? You certainly don’t want to change anything about it, even if you are sure that you could. Maybe once, the old you would’ve thought about changing things. But not now. You have bigger promises to keep. Promises that tasted bitter the second you made them. Graduation isn’t far off. And you're counting the days – not to celebrate, but to leave this hellhole behind without a second glance.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

After what felt like an eternity, school's over. Another level of this horror game is done.  You don’t know why, but instead of taking your usual route – the one where you're least likely to run into anyone – you take the shortcut through the notorious tunnel where fights happen almost every day. For a second, the familiar smell of blood and sweat, probably from the most recent fight, finds its way to your nose. You tense for a second, listening.   Nothing...   Just your echoing steps. “Lucky me,” you whisper to yourself after realizing that you could have walked straight into someone's fist or something. You start playing some of your favourite songs over your earphones, which give you a decent soundtrack to your after-school walk, offering a small escape from your sickening surroundings.

You are almost home until you remember that your dad asked you to get some groceries on your way back. You enter the 7-Eleven, which is nearby, and gather everything you need. While browsing through the shelves, you see someone slurping their ramen, and its smell makes your belly long for it with a quiet noise, you hope only you caught. You stop your music – shit, reality hits again – and wait quietly until the cashier breaks the silence with the annoyed-sounding words, “That's all?” You nod. “That's 13,000₩ please,” he says while you are already looking for your card. You feel how he eyes you impatiently as he cannot wait to return to the game he was playing on his phone right before you interrupted him. The people in this area really do not care about their jobs, but honestly, you kinda understand them.

A loud crash at the window facade makes your hand jolt, almost dropping your card. Fuck, what was that? Your heart skips. And you feel your muscles tensing up, ready to defend yourself, as if your body never forgot how it's done. You turn around with a swift move and quickly capture the ongoing situation.  

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Outside the store, a group of teenagers – looking like wannabe gangsters from the Unit – have ganged up on some other students, one of whom was slammed into the window and was the source of the crashing sound. His dark hair is still being gripped by a taller guy who laughs shamelessly, looking not only at his "friends" but also at a dark alley, where a lanky figure with a lit cigarette is barely noticeable.  

It is time to act fast – fuck – no trouble, you remind yourself over and over again, while leaving the store and trying to get past the troublemakers. “Hey, you!” shouts one of the guys, but you ignore it, trying to look unbothered by the scene. “Is this bitch really ignoring me?” he says while taking fast steps in your direction until he is close enough to grab your wrist. His grip is strong, and the sudden pain makes your eyes water. You try to shake him off, which only leads to him gripping even harder – you didn’t think that would be possible, but damn, it was. “Let go,” you say, trying to be as direct and emotionless as possible. “Why would you tell me what to do?” he responds, laughing, and turns to his gang, which still hasn't let the other guys they harassed before leave. Only then do you realize how bad the condition of the boy is that was hit against the window. He is bleeding from his head heavily, and you aren't sure if he is still conscious. You hear his heavy breathing, and it feels like déjà vu. Your heart starts to ache and a small shiny tear rolls down your cheek. The guy on your wrist notices that your eyes were glued on the badly injured and bursts out: “Feel pity for this motherfucker? Do you know this loser?” You look at the attacker with a disgusted face, not being able to hide your thoughts for a second. No trouble, you promised. But some promises are easier to break than others. Fuck it.

You then look him right in the eyes, putting on a small grin, and let out a short snort of laughter, trying to irritate him. “Pity? Yeah, maybe. I mean, who wouldn't be pitiful looking, after having a fight with someone, one cannot stand a chance with, huh? But you are the one I pity even more, you know?” you answer him cockily. His eyes pop open, since he hadn’t expected that as your answer. "You pity me?" his eyes get darker, and his voice lower. The other gang members start laughing, but you know exactly how to shut them up. “You too!” You raise your voice, making sure they hear you clearly, which succeeds. All eyes are on you now. God, you have a love-hate relationship with this exact feeling. But you must end what you have started.

“The ones that pick weaker and defenseless victims to bully are the most pitiful,” you continue. You feel relief at your wrist, realizing the guy transfers his weight to his rear leg, along with the arm that was on you just now. You catch that familiar glint in his eyes, you had seen countless times in the midst of a brawl. With a swift motion you avoid the rising hand that was now aiming at your cheek. He stumbles to the front, not expecting to miss. "Shibal," he screams directly at you, feeling the anger he has more intensely. It isn’t the first time you have to dodge a slap, knowing there is no going back anymore. Like in old times, you study the situation – every movement, every little detail about your surroundings. You need to know what your opponent is about to do. How you can use the things around you to obtain an advantage. You feel your old self banging at the wall you set up inside yourself a while ago, and you cannot help but let it break through.   Even if you fought a lot in your past, you are a bit rusty due to your lack of exercise. But hey, no risk no fun, right?

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

It's six of them. Too many. But starting with the one that seems to be their leader might scare them a bit, since they clearly underestimate you. That will buy some time to leave with the boys on the floor. You look at their exhausted and scared, pale faces once again, catching their collective shivering, which is almost imperceptible and speaks volumes of their terror. Long story short... You seize the moment of surprise, your foot lashing out in a swift, precise kick aimed at the balls of the bully who held you seconds ago. A strangled gasp escapes him as he sinks to his knees, not expecting your next move, already approaching. Before he can react, your fist shoots out, connecting with a sickening thud against his left eye. The others, just as you'd anticipated, are frozen, their shock palpable as they witness their leader's swift defeat. "Run!" you bark at the boys, who are as surprised as the bullies, but listen to your sharp and commanding voice. Except for one... The badly injured boy, stubbornly unconscious, has a crimson stain blooming on the pavement beneath his head.

You find yourself between the decision of helping him and risking a bloody fight or leaving without him. "No trouble your ass," you mutter under your breath, your muscles coiling in preparation for the inevitable fight. In the meantime, the leader groans, pushing himself up with agonizing slowness, clutching his injured groin. "Take that bitch down!" he roars, his voice thick with pain and fury.

Round 1!

A thick-necked guy with closely cropped hair charges forward, swinging a clumsy punch that telegraphs his intentions a mile away. Instead of meeting his brute force, you sidestep, narrowly avoiding his fist, and your hand instinctively grabs the heavy terracotta flowerpot sitting precariously on the ledge of a house's window next to the 7-Eleven. As he stumbles past his missed strike, you swing the pot, not to smash it, but to fling a handful of loose soil and grit directly into his face. He roars in surprise and claps his hands to his eyes, momentarily blinded.

Another one of his cronies, leaner and faster, sees his chance and lunges. But your attention is already elsewhere. You quickly reach for the plastic name tag pinned to your school uniform. With a sharp tug, you rip it free. As he comes at you, you grip the rigid plastic tightly between your fingers, using the pointed corner – ironically bearing your own name – to deliver a quick, stinging jab to the side of his neck, targeting a pressure point, leaving a message. He gasps, momentarily stunned by the unexpected sharp pain and the sheer audacity of the attack, giving you the opening to maneuver.  

Shortly after, some passersby step in, saying the police is nearby, which leads to the attackers finally leaving.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

The cloying scent of blood and sweat, the unwelcome aroma of the day, assaults your nostrils once again. You kneel beside the injured boy, the sticky warmth of his blood radiating faintly. His eyelids flutter open, revealing unfocused, pain-filled eyes. "Hey, you alright?" you ask gently, your voice shows a stark contrast to the earlier command, as you fumble for your phone to call an ambulance. The boy seems to have lost his voice due to the pain and shock he just experienced. You can feel the adrenaline slowly fading, and even if you are not as weak as you pretended for a long time, your knees are just like jelly in that moment.

What you just did surprises you. You just have to think about Him. He would be proud, but also disappointed. He, the one who taught you to fight. He, the reason you never wanted to fight again.

But if you were brutally honest, you liked it. You liked the feeling of being in a fight, blood boiling, and always thinking about a divine move that made them lose against you, even if no one would ever bet on you. You find yourself being proud of something you wanted to ban from your life and even promised it to your dad and Him.

"Not bad," you suddenly hear from the direction of the dark alley, where you noticed the smoking figure before. A tall, slim guy, wearing an orange windbreaker and glasses, comes in your direction. You have to admit he looks quite handsome, walking casually with one hand in his pocket while the other has a cigarette between two fingers. You look at him a bit confused, but curious about what exactly he wants. "What do you mean?" "Your fighting. Not bad for a girl." The way you hate these words – for a girl – why is it always this statement? Unfazed, you turn around to finally go home. Gladly, the groceries are still all in the bag and mostly fine, after you threw them away before the fight. While walking, you perceive another pair of footsteps right behind you, before you can hear the person that follows you saying: "No really, I didn’t expect someone like you to be that tough. You turned them into cowards, which gives me a reason to beat them even more later. Thanks, sweetheart." Now you are even more confused about this guy than before. "You saw all that?" You keep your cool until you realize what it means... "So you were there the whole time and just watched? You know them? Are you behind the attack against the other students?" You stop walking and look at him furiously. He just smiles with that damn smile and look in his eyes. A look without any regret, rather just amusement. "Maybe, but sweetheart, it seems like you can handle yourself. No need to step in," he says, super relaxed. "You fucking–" you start but stop in anger, just continuing walking towards home. The guy laughs and just looks at you from behind.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

In bed, you cannot stop thinking about what happened. The usual morning at school ended in a sidequest, which seems to be just the beginning of something that may change your life for the time being. In your head, you replay the whole fight you went through and study all the movements you remember. How could you improve your attacks for your next fight... A next fight... three words you never thought would be formed like that in your head again... but they did and you do not regret... not at all... just that you didn’t hit that damn gummy smile of the windbreaker guy...

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

to be continued...

ˏ*⁀➷pt.2

Thank you so much for reading so far! I wanted to create atmosphere and some depth, why its quite a long start without the pairing actually know each other 😅 It's my first work ever so i hope you like it (please leave some feeback hehe). Would you like part 2?

picture was generated with Ai

[cozmicnymph]

People say, “Vi put on a badge for Caitlyn, but Caitlyn never took hers off for Vi.” That’s not just wrong: it’s a flat-out lie.

Caitlyn didn’t need to have some dramatic badge removal moment because she took it off every time she broke Piltover’s rules for Vi. Here’s the proof:

• She lied to a prison guard, faking Council authorization the very day Jace became a councilman, just to bust Vi out of prison.

• She traded her Piltover rifle for shimmer without hesitation the moment Vi got hurt, folding up the symbol of her old life like it was worthless next to Vi’s survival.

• She lied at a Council hearing, ready to commit perjury to protect Vi and Jinx from political fallout.

• She stood between Vi and danger countless times, fought battles in Zaun’s worst alleys, and allied with criminals she was trained to fear—all because she chose Vi’s side.

• She gave up her own Council seat and handed it over to Sevikanto become a Zaunite leader, so Zaun could finally have representation. That’s a political and symbolic surrender of her Piltover privilege. Not to mention it being SEVIKA, someone known to be loyal to Silco.

• She had multiple chances to kill Jinx but didn’t (when jinxs guard was down), because she realized Vi and Jinx were a package deal, and protecting Vi meant protecting her whole messy, dangerous world.

Caitlyn’s life was impacted by Zaun too.

Maybe not as deeply as Vi’s, who lost her parents to Enforcers, but Caitlyn grew up hearing about Zaun’s struggles constantly. She knew about the poverty, the crime, the corruption. It killed 5 enforcers in one of the first episodes in season 2 for seemingly no reason, other than just a straight terrorist attack. And when a notorious Zaunite criminal killed her own mother? That was personal.

Yet instead of turning away, Caitlyn chose to cross every line she’d been raised to protect. She chose to stand with Vi and Zaun, even when it meant betraying her own class, her own family, and everything she was taught to believe.

So no, Caitlyn never kept her badge. She took it off the day she busted Vi out of prison.

[espinosaurusrexex]

Remember Me

WinterSoldier!BuckyBarnes x Female!Reader

summary: After a fight against the most notorious Hydra agent of all, Steve and you discover that your assumed diseased friend Bucky is still alive. Old wounds resurface as you are confronted with the grappling reality that you have lived vastly different lives for the past 70 years. Will he remember your shared history? And most importantly: does he still feel the same?

word count: 3.1k

a/n: Just a short piece that I managed to finish. I know it's not a lot, but I hope you enjoy anyway 💕

warnings: a bunch of fluff and angst, mentions of war, mentions of sexism, swearing, Bucky is really broken in this one, happy ending (:

･ﾟ✫* 𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 ｡✭･ﾟ

“Proceed with caution, unidentified shooter on bridge. I repeat: unidentified shooter. It is not clear what the motive is. Take cover and shoot on sight.”

“Dispatch, this is Captain America - we’ll take it from here.”

“With all due respect, Cap, I will keep my men on site to keep your cover.”

“I appreciate it.”

“Least I can do for you, sir.”

“Stop chatting it up with the police and do your job, Rogers.”

“Alright, alright.”

You chuckled and turned to Tony. “How long are we out?”

“Three minutes, 46 seconds.” 

“You gonna survive that long, Stevie?”

“That guy’s got a good aim on him, gotta give him that.”

Muffled noises pushed through your earpiece before you stepped into the back of the Quinjet to gear up. 

“Can’t let him do anything. It’s one guy they’re fighting... one.”

“Yeah, one Hydra-trained assassin who’s apparently immortal and got more deaths on his record than Romanoff.”

You huffed as the meeting recollected in your mind. The Winter Soldier had been the newest pain in the Avenger’s asses ever since you discovered that Hydra was still operating in the shadows of S.H.I.E.L.D. 

“They’re just making a show out of everything, huh?” 

You strapped your gloves over your wrists and watched as Tony chuckled in the pilot seat. You and him had become good friends over the past few years. Ever since you and Steve had been discovered in the frozen airship of what you had thought to be your last mission about 70 years ago, you and Captain America had woken up in a vastly different world. One through which Howard’s son, Tony, gladly guided you. 

Both you and Steve were overwhelmed by the amount of changes the world had endured while you had soundly served your time as human popsicles, though Captain America seemed to struggle a little more with 21st-century technology and norms. 

It was fine, Steve had always been a little old-fashioned, even back in the day. You for one were delighted to learn about all the opportunities the world had to offer for women and other people who couldn’t have dreamed of any in the 40s. Because while Steve was celebrated for being the face of hope for the American people, you were still dodging snide comments doubting your place in the Army. And while you tried not to let anyone see the toll it took on you, it was the reason for enough nights you spent with Peggy sharing stories over a bottle of wine. 

You both decided the important men in your life should never find out. Though, of course, your not-so-secret didn’t stay hidden from Bucky for long. Which was one of the reasons you had jumped on that plane with Steve. Even when Bucky was already dead. Even when Steve was still oblivious. You constantly needed to prove yourself. But this one time, it had actually changed something – well, time had. 

You shook your head free of that thought and walked towards the cargo hatch. Tony had landed the Quinjet – it was go time. 

“Ready?”

“That guy won’t know what happened to him when we’re done with him.”

“Let’s rock his world, then,” Tony winked before his helmet closed and he flew out of the jet. You were close behind him, running the short distance from the ramp to the bridge from which you swung yourself off with a grappling hook. 

“What’s the status?”

“I’ve been shot.”

“I’ve got it, Bearcat check on Steve. He looks ridiculously helpless.”

“Roger that,” you sprinted towards the two fighting men on the street, as the Winter soldier threw Steve to the ground, his shield nowhere to be seen. 

“Okay, my turn.” You stepped in front of him, analyzing his movements, and dodging punches, trying to get some in yourself. 

“Oh come on, that’s not fair.” You huffed when he took a knife out of your leg holster and almost acrobatically threw it over your head just to graze your cheek with the blade. 

He had knocked off your guns at this point, leaving you with choking wire and some smaller daggers in your jacket. When he turned the right angle, you jumped his shoulders and locked your thighs around his neck, kicking the knife out of his hand and watching as he ripped your choking wire in half. Damn.

“Now, that’s not nice.” You threw the torn metal to the side as The winter soldier struggled to get you off him. A look to Steve told you he had a new plan, and with a short nod, you signaled your understanding to him. 

“But if you wanna be like that...” Steve threw you his shield and in a swift motion you managed to drag it over the soldier's head. He pushed his metal arm forward just in time, though your hit had already knocked the mask off his face. 

When the shield came down, you heard Steve’s footsteps halt next to you, the world going quiet. 

Your stomach churned when you watched blue eyes twitch between the dark smudges. Familiar and oh-so strange at the same time. 

“Bucky?” Steve stammered, and at the sound of his name, goosebumps rippled over your skin. 

The Winter Soldier’s look darkened before he reached for a gun. “Who the hell is Bucky?”

From then on, the day seemed like a blur. You remembered Sam knocking Bucky down and the lot of you flying back to the compound on standby. Steve was functioning a lot better than you were, considering the man you thought to be dead for over 70 years was currently handcuffed to a handrail on your jet. 

James “Bucky” fucking Barnes. Captain America’s best friend, founding member of the howling commandos, infamous war hero apparently turned assassin, and the man who stole your heart somewhere along the way. 

You dared a glance at the chained-up, unconscious brunette in the corner as Steve sat down next to you, a calming hand squeezing your shoulder. 

“Can I get you anything?”

You ignored him. “How are you not freaking out?” You whispered through glassy eyes instead. 

Steve’s expression softened when he pulled you into his chest, his other hand pressing your head further into him. His heart was hammering beneath his ribcage, his fingers cold to the touch. 

“I am. Just trying to be a captain.” His voice was strained when he mumbled into your hair. 

You just nodded in understanding, finding comfort in the fact you weren’t the only one feeling this way. 

❁ ❁ ❁

You watched him through the glass of the interrogation room with your arms crossed before your chest. Buck was sitting at the table, his head hung low, his dark hair falling in wet stands into his face. He didn’t move a muscle. For half an eternity, he stared at the table his wrists were chained to, almost statue-like. But when he finally looked up, you could see the confusion and nervousness in his ocean-blue eyes. 

They had given him time to recover, to shower, and feel like a human again. They forced him into normal clothes and offered him a bed to sleep. But it wasn’t enough. The man you were looking at was terrified and lost - exhausted and overwhelmed. 

Bucky visibly tensed when the door opened and Steve stepped into his sight. They spent the next hour reconstructing his past. Steve told him how he had ended up in the 21st century and by the end of their conversations, the tension was a lot less static.

“She’s alive,” Bucky stated and tore his eyes away from Steve to look at the one-way glass.

“She’s a tough one. Survived the crash without super soldier serum and came out of the ice just as unharmed as I did.” 

“What are the odds?” Bucky chuckled bitterly. “What are the fucking odds we all end up together again?” 

Steve only gifted his friend a sympathetic smile along with a squeeze to his shoulder. “Take it as a chance.”

“Feels like a punishment.” 

They were locking eyes and even though you were watching the interaction from the outside, you could feel the atmosphere turn somber. The men were staring at each other in silence for a while, though you knew there was an entire discussion happening in their eyes.

“Does she... does she want to see me?” Bucky’s voice was hesitant and broken. And you couldn’t help but somehow imagine a different question nestled in his words. 

You almost had to stop yourself from touching the glass with your hands, wanting to tell him that you were already seeing him - really seeing him. 

“Why don’t you ask her yourself?” Steve stood and with a last smile to Bucky, he exited the room. 

This was it. The door was open. The love of your life sitting only a few feet from it. Though it seemed like he was trapped inside another’s body. 

“I’ll give you some privacy,” Steve murmured as he stood in the doorway looking at you by the window. And you just nodded, trying to suppress your pulse rushing in your ears. 

“Thanks.” It was only a whisper. You weren’t used to your voice being this small. And Steve didn’t seem so either. He was looking at you with sad eyes, fists clenched by his sides. There was nothing he could do to make you feel better. Not this time. And he seemed to know so. With one last tight smile, he sent a short nod your way and then left. 

❁ ❁ ❁

Bucky didn’t look at you when you finally built up the courage to step inside his room. He was much bigger than you remembered. Thick muscles adorned his arms and shoulders. Shaggy, longer hair fell from his head and over his scrunched brows. His left arm was entirely of metal, a red star reminding him who had taken claim to him several decades ago. 

If you hadn’t known, the man before you had almost no resemblance to the soldier you loved in 1941. He had been lean and full of life. He was broken now. And you were terrified someone had taken the very thing from him that would keep him from becoming himself again. 

Without a word you approached Bucky, cupped his hands with yours, and undid the restraints that tied him to the table. And this was the first time he looked at you. Really looked at you. Bucky’s piercing blue stare was full of awe and sorrow, a deep pain etched beneath the grey flecks within the vibrant color. 

You sat down beside him. 

“Hey.” Your voice was shaky, dragging a long silence in its wake that only made your heart beat faster. 

“Hello,” Bucky finally whispered, breaking the spell. His voice was a raw timbre, like a long-forgotten melody. And so much more tangible now that you weren’t listening to it through a speaker. 

But that was it. Neither of you spoke afterward. 

There was so much that could have been said, so much that could have been exchanged, known, explored about the other. And yet it didn’t feel like any of the words known to you were enough to break the static tension in the room. You were just looking at Bucky, scanning every part of his body like it was a flash card for the most important test of your life. 

So, here you were: With the opportunity of a lifetime right at your fingertips and the confidence of a kicked puppy settled deep in your wounded soul. The person you had known for the longest looked so timid as if he were looking at a stranger. Not that he had ever been shy about strangers back in the day. But this was different. This was strange and beautiful, and scary, and exciting. No book in the world held the answers as to what to do in this situation. 

And the solution was so easy: you just had to say something. So why didn’t your damn mouth open?

The speaker above your heads crackled and then Tony’s voice rang through the room. And for the first time in what felt like hours, a tiny bit of the weight on your shoulders lifted with it. “Bearcat, If you don’t open your mouth and put the guy out of his misery in 5 seconds, I’ll personally mediate this incredibly static confrontation.”

You rolled your eyes and then glared at the mirror, knowing full well Tony was watching you despite your asking him to leave. You mouthed a ‘shut it’ towards the glass and then turned in shock when a familiar voice rose from the silence.”

“Bearcat?”

You stared at Bucky with soft eyes. There was an innocence in the way he slowly guided this conversation - almost like he’d always had. It was an easy question, a nice entry to the heavier stuff that was bound to be discussed. 

And just as you began to explain, it dawned on you how much you had missed about each other. How differently your life could have been if it weren’t for the cruel turn of fate.

“When Steve and I were discovered, S.H.I.E.L.D. was our home for a long time. They tried to put us in apartments, even set us up with chaperones to guide us through the new century.” Bucky looked intrigued, even leaning forth as he listened intently. You wondered if he ever realized how much time had passed when he was the winter soldier... if anyone ever cared to tell him. “But it wasn’t until I met Natasha that I felt like I had arrived. She showed me so many things and trained with me until I became an agent here. Howard’s son came up with the nickname. He reminds me of him.” You smiled and shook your head “He’s a pain in my ass but a genius that can be genuinely helpful even though I don’t want to admit it at times. I haven’t grasped the explanation fully, but apparently, my fast learning and efficiency when it came to fighting reminded him of one of those small powerful fighter jets that were finished just after the war.” You chuckled at the memory before your eyes found Becky’s again only to see pain all over his face. 

A silent tear rolled down his cheek and hit the floor before you could see it stain his skin. “I'm so sorry.” His voice was shaking, his body trying to make itself smaller but failing miserably with all the muscle surrounding it. He took up the room and your heart right along with it.

“Hey you have nothing to apologize for, you hear me.” You cradled his face and his hands instantly covered yours, only for his metal one to retract just as fast again. He was sorrowful and it made your heart ache. 

“You’ve been navigating through so much alone and this is yet another thing you had to do without me.” He confessed through his tears and squeezed his eyes shut. He hadn’t changed within - always caring for everyone around him and never putting himself first.

“I’m fine. Was then and am now.” You ensured him. “If you want to worry about someone, take Steve. He’s a lot more overwhelmed than I am.” Bucky chuckled through his tears, a deep seriousness settling in his eyes. “If anything, I’m sorry we didn’t save you sooner.”

He shook his head. “You couldn’t have known.” And there it was: a glimpse of the loving, caring, charming man you’d known so many years ago. A small smile snuck onto your face at the revelation and a spark of hope shot through your body. 

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you,” you confessed, "We never had the time to actually be just us. To live all the dreams we shared back then.” 

Bucky's eyes were full of sorrow before he closed them and pressed his forehead to yours. “I wish I could say I missed you,” he whispered and slung his arm around you, “But I didn’t remember.”

“And that’s not your fault, you hear me.” Your hand stroked over his damp hair, pulling it back and making Bucky look at you again. “None of this is your fault. Don’t you ever doubt yourself. What happened to you is horrible. And I vow to kill every single person responsible for keeping us apart for this long. But not once will anyone ever consider this your fault.”

Bucky averted his eyes and turned his head but you were quick to catch his face with your hand. “Promise me you won’t beat yourself up. Please. That’s all I ask of you. Let Steve and me handle the rest and focus on becoming comfortable in your skin again. I can’t wait to meet the man you can become.”

“You don’t want to know me, doll. Not anymore. Even if it wasn’t my fault, it changed me. I’m not the man you-“ he stopped talking as you watched regret flash over his features. “I don’t think I can give you what you deserve.”

“I don’t care what I deserve, Bucky. I want you. I always have and that won’t change because some bullies tried to brainwash you. The very fact that we are here talking like this shows how much stronger you are than them. How the good in you never wavered.”

“But I can’t even trust myself. How can I expect you to do so of me?”

You cradled his head harsher as you felt your own tears roll down your cheek. “All I need is for you to try and trust me. We’ll figure this out... like we always do.”

Bucky’s flesh hand had fallen to your thigh, a soft thumb stroking over your leg and he watched the movement in awe. You didn’t know how long it had been since he had last felt comfort but you were determined to make up for all the lost time. With the wild beating of your heart, you took his metal hand and laved your fingers with his, watching as Bucky’s eyes glued to your smaller hand in his. There was no fear of what could happen, no aversion towards the alien element attached to his body. And then, finally, he encased your hand with his silver fingers. 

Your other hand still stroked his cheek and you waited until he caught your gaze again. And once he did, you did not hesitate to slowly push your lips to his. 

Just a short, sweet kiss. One that held more words than you could ever say. And then you waited. What for? Maybe a rejection, the shake of his head, or the sheer confidence with which he used to kiss you decades back. 

Bucky’s breaths were shaky, his hands still touching you and sending softly timid comfort through your body. He held your gaze for a second... and then, he finally kissed you back. 

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