#Fragrant Cloud Rose

[artbyisabelh]

Six on Saturday 04/27/2024

[bloddysnow]

Summary: You are an emperor, and you have your own harem consisting of four consorts.

Pairings: Sub! Sylus x Dom! reader

nsfw minors dni

Sylus’s on the balcony of your quarters, feeling a light breeze caressing his skin. The stars and the moon shone brightly in the sky, giving the night a magical shade. In this tranquility, he’s enjoying the silence, allowing his thoughts to wander freely.

He remembers, the first time he went to the emperor's quarters after the wedding as a ritual. He was carefully prepared for the first night with you.

It all started with a hot bath filled with fragrant oils and rose petals. The aromas of lavender, jasmine and sandalwood mixed in the air, enveloping them in a warm cloud of exquisite aroma.

After the bath, his skin was saturated with aromas and became soft as silk. The servants with respect and caution helped to dress up in the most chic clothes decorated with precious stones, which shone like stars. These outfits were made of the finest fabrics, decorated with gold and silver threads that shone in the light of candles. It was like art created specifically for this special moment. Thin bracelets and necklaces, sounding melodious with every movement, added even more elegance and refinement.

When the preparations were completed, the waiting moment came. His heart was beating faster, filled with excitement and anticipation. He stood at the door leading to your quarters, feeling the solemnity of the moment.

Sylus remembers how he was taught to behave on the first night. He must show his respect by kissing the hem of your clothes. Eyes shouldn't have met yours. He was forbidden to address you by your name. The most important thing concerned his innocence. That night there had to be proof of his purity - blood, that would be evidence of his virginity.

If the emperor was pleased, he remained in the quarters until the morning. If you found him attractive, he got the opportunity to be breed, which was the highest sign of favor and recognition of his beauty. This meant that you found him worthy to carry your seed, symbolizing the continuation of the family and the strengthening of the dynasty.

The emperor's quarters were magnificent. The soft light of the candles was reflected in mirrors and precious stones, creating a magical play of light and shadows. The air was saturated with aromas of incense, which filled the space with peace and warmth. Floor, covered with luxurious carpets, made his steps soft and almost inaudible. There was silence around, broken only by the light crackling of the flame of candles.

He held his head low when he carefully kissed the hem of your fabric. You gently took him by the chin, lifting his face. His eyes, full of passion and fear, met yours. Sylus was the embodiment of beauty that you wanted to keep in your memory forever. You ran your hand over his cheeks, gently straightening his hair behind his ear. He was so nervous that his hands squeezed his own clothes. There was a tense silence in the room, every sound seemed louder.

"Your Highness I..." you interrupted him with an unexpected kiss on the lips. His cheeks and ears were red, and his lips were slightly open and trembling.

"I'll please you. Do you want it?" you asked, your voice was soft. He forgot how to breathe for a moment. The look of his eyes became even more focused, he seemed lost at that moment.

"Thank you for your mercy your majesty. It's a great honor for me," he whispered, struggling to hold back the trembling in his voice.

Sylus cried in pain, feeling his body torn into two parts. You wanted the process to be less painful as possible, so carefully put only the tip. He held the white sheets tightly, moaned quietly, trying to cope with the overwhealed sensations. His hole was too tight for your cock to enter. You raised his legs to his shoulders, changing the angle of penetration. At that moment, he whined loudly, hugging your neck. His breathing was intermittent and his eyes were full of tears. Your cock entered with one sharp push. A drop of blood came out of his hole, indicating that his hole had lost its innocence. Your cock is deep inside him, and he felt a mixture of pain and pride. He was proud of himself.

He remembers how on the first night you thanked him by breeding him with your seeds. He was so young and naive that when you cum inside, he sincerely told you that he’s pregnant now. Your laughter filled the room. His youth and inexperience were charming. He still smiles when he remembers that evening. This moment has become one of those bright and unforgettable memories that he keeps in his heart.

Suddenly, he felt warm hands wrapped around his waist, and a light smile played on his lips. You came up from behind, pressing your face against the curve of his neck and inhaled his pleasant, soothing aroma. His hands gently caressed yours, twisting your fingers. He looked dreamily at the stars, which seemed to crumble across the sky with endless diamonds.

Moonlight fell on his face, illuminating his features and making them even more expressive. His skin seemed silvery, and his eyes twinkled in the dark, reflecting the light of the moon and stars. You raised your hands to his chest, gently squeezing it, feeling his heart beating. His chest rose and fell with every breath.

"It's beating for you, your highness," Sylus whispered, looking at the starry sky. His words sounded like a quiet prayer or a wish directed to an endless height. You kiss his neck, gently and affectionately. Your lips touched his skin with warmth and love, as if conveying all your feelings through this simple but meaningful gesture.

Masterlist

[ja3yun]

bro imagine tdh heeseung telling yn to come over real fast bcs he practically owns her and when she arrives he gave yn a bouquet of flowers just because like crazy but heeseung’s new cover just STUCK IN MY MIND

okaaaay my mind went wild with this so this might not be what you are looking for (sorry!)

warnings: heelzebub, smut (mdni), leg humping, coercion, blood, mentions of killing, not proofread

wc: 1.4k

the doll house masterlist

As you step into Heeseung’s room, the first thing you notice is his tall, broad back. His imposing stature always leaves you feeling unsettled. Each time he summons you, a sense of dread accompanies you, anticipating what task he might have in store. So far, it’s been manageable—spending time with Soonyeol, bringing her hard-to-find snacks, and anything else that might make her happy.

It would almost be endearing, if not for his persistent attempts to lure you into bed each time you cross the threshold.

You take a deep breath and prepare yourself for whatever Heeseung has planned today. He turns around, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that always makes your heart race.

"You're here," he says, his voice low and smooth.

Nodding, you hang your tote bag on the bannister of his bed and walk towards him. “With five minutes to spare,” you snide, crossing your arms. “So, what’s wrong with her now? You didn’t ask me to bring anything.”

His eyes trail over your body, taking in the sundress that perfectly hugs your curves. Delight paints his face, his tongue instinctively running along his bottom lip as visions of your naked form cloud his mind.

“You look breathtaking, baby. A vision in yellow,” he mutters, his eyes fixated on your cleavage. A sly smile spreads across his face as he takes a step closer, his presence overwhelming. "Wait here for a moment," he says, his voice a blend of command and charm.

Before you can respond, he turns and walks out of the room, leaving you standing there. You hear the faint sound of a door opening and closing, then silence. Your curiosity piqued, you glance around the room, taking in the expensive furnishings and the subtle scent of his cologne lingering in the air.

Moments later, Heeseung returns, his hands behind his back. As he approaches, he reveals a stunning bouquet of flowers, an array of vibrant colours and fragrant blooms. The sight takes you by surprise, and for a moment, your breath catches in your throat.

"These are for you," he says softly, extending the bouquet towards you. The gesture is unexpected, and you can’t help but feel a flicker of warmth beneath your guarded exterior.

You take the flowers, their delicate petals brushing against your fingers. "What's this for?" you ask, unable to hide your curiosity.

Heeseung's expression softens, a rare glimpse of sincerity breaking through his usual demonic demeanour. "Just a little something to show my appreciation. For all you do for Soonyeol. And for putting up with me."

But you don’t buy it, knowing that this is buttering you up for something worse than just a girl's day with his minder. You shiver at the thought, thinking the worst as your mind swirls with possibilities.

He sees your doubtfulness and snickers, “Baby, you don’t trust me?”

"I don’t, no," you reply bluntly, meeting his gaze with unwavering suspicion.

That causes Heeseung to laugh out loudly, shaking his head in disbelief. He knows you have no reason to trust him, but hearing you say it outright fills him with amusement.

Taking one of the petals between his thumb and forefinger, he watches it as it crumbles beneath his harsh touch, his signature smirk reappearing on his face. Something delicate like this deserves a gentle touch, something Heeseung is incapable of.

“You’re right not to trust me, angel,” he whispers thoughtfully, his hooded eyes meeting yours and eliciting a flutter of butterflies in your stomach. “Just like pretty roses. They’re beautiful on the surface,” he continues, his voice low and hushed as though sharing a deep secret. Taking one of your hands, he guides it to the exposed stems, squeezing your hand tightly around them.

That's when you feel the sharp cuts of the thorns digging into your palm, making you wince. His strength overpowers yours as you try to fight his hold. As you look up at him pleadingly, feeling the blood rush out and coat both your hand and his, he does nothing but stare intensely at you. “But they’re sinister the deeper you go.”

Your heart pounds as the pain sharpens, the cruel irony of the beautiful flowers cutting into your flesh not lost on you. Heeseung's eyes, dark and unyielding, seem to drink in your discomfort.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, not just from the pain, but from the helplessness of the situation. He finally releases your hand, and you immediately pull it back, cradling it against your chest. Blood seeps from the punctures and onto your dress and chest, only to the elation of Heeseung.

Taking your hand, he kisses your wounds tenderly, licking the blood from you with greed. You gasp as you feel his tongue slowly and tantalisingly heal you, causing you to hold back a moan. This shouldn’t be turning you on, yet as always with Heeseung, even things deemed evil have a way of making you feel lustful.

He focuses his attention on your chest now, licking the drops of blood from the flesh of your tits, dragging it up to your neck, sinking his teeth into you - not enough to puncture you but enough for you to wish he had.

That makes you mewl out, dropping the flowers as you press your body to his and cling to him. His aura pulls you in time and time again, making you a victim to his allure each and every time you see him.

But this feels more desperate than the other times, you need him now, more than you have ever; and Heeseung knows this.

Placing his leg between yours, he ruts his knee up to meet your pulsing cunt, offering you some relief as you grind down on him. “There you go,” he whispers in your ear, his hands holding you steady as you find a rhythm you’re comfortable with, “Doesn’t it feel good to give in? To surrender to your sins rather than keep your morals?”

You are so lost in the feeling of his knee and thigh and the pleasure you’re receiving from it that you simply nod, agreeing with him. You can’t deny this feels incredible, you aren’t a liar.

Kissing along your jaw, you feel his wicked grin as you comply with his words. “You want to give in, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You want to come back to me and live here with us again, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You want Soonyeol out of the picture, don’t you?”

“Yes!”

You feel your orgasm approaching as he guides your hips to grind your clit in the perfect position, picking up speed. You haven’t realised what you agreed to, too lost in the ecstasy that your mind isn’t thinking straight.

That only makes Heeseung happier as he has you exactly where he wants you. Pawing at your ass, he moves his body in tandem with yours, his focus to get you off and have you succumb to his offer, that one that has been hanging over your head since the first time he had you.

With your high approaching, you grip his shoulders and move your hips faster, that familiar coil in your stomach tightening and your heart picking up speed.

“Kiss me, seal in your well-deserved fate,” he coaxes you as you start to release over his leg. Shocks of pleasure rip through you as you cry out his name and your body crumbles where it stands.

But much like post-nut clarity, you somehow come to when his lips are a centimetre from yours, teasing you with the opportunity to have Soonyeol’s life once more. Quickly, you push him away before he can seal your deal, panting as your chest rises and falls in time with your heart.

“What the fuck, Heeseung!” you exclaim, frantically gathering your bag and scrambling away from him, “Don’t fuck with me like that.”

His eyes are flushed with that crimson hue that you hate to love so much, his hand palming over his cock. “Baby, I can seal it another way if you want, if you bring that pretty pussy over here I can make your dreams come true.”

Shaking your head, your back reaches the door and you open it, “I sold my soul to you for my dream, this is nothing but a fantasy.”

“I can sell you a fantasy, Y/N. Anything you want,” he chides, moving closer.

But before you get lost in him once again, you bolt out the door, hurriedly walking down the hallways. You can’t believe what you’ve just done, what you almost did, you betrayed Sunghoon and Jaeyun while almost getting Soonyeol killed, all for your own pleasure.

Poking his head out, Heeseung laughs, “Baby, you forgot your flowers.”

[sugarbcnes]

ADULT CONTENT: MINORS DNI

ELLIE WILLIAMS X READER — BRAINROT

WARNINGS PLOTLESS PORN, DRUG USE, SQUIRTING, NEEDY ELLIE, BRAINROT, SEMI PUBLIC, CAR SEX, NOT PROOFREAD, USELESS BRAINROT OF GETTING HIGH WITH ELLIE

sorry this is bad and short but i had to post something.

the car is fragrant of everything filthy. everything ellie loves. the moroccan rose incense, your vanilla hemp cigarettes touched with the musky scent of her weed. her citrusy cologne, sweet tea mixed with vodka that swirls in her black flask. the windows become cloudy, hiding the lustful affair behind its mist.

white soles of her scuffed black converse are planted on her dash, the rubber decorated with her drawings and your calligraphy. you kneel between her thighs, black jeans pooled around her ankles and your hands hooked over her knees. she whistles, inhaling her cloud as your tongue reaches that particular spongy spot in her pussy. her taste is your favorite. sweet and creamy, pearling from her soft folds.

the euphoria of her high always leaves her horny to the max, at some points, humping the air in hopes of far fetched friction. luckily, you were there for her to use. sex reeks in the hazy atmosphere, the warm lights of the parking garage dimmed by the foggy windows.

“baby,” she drawls out. her blunt hangs loosely between her fingers, hand on the back of your head, “need more.”

your cheek rests against her thigh, eyes glassed and rosy. full of lust fulled adoration. she looks so pretty above you. lips swollen, freckled cheeks flushed and eyes brimmed with the rosy hues of a dizzy haze.

she obsesses over the way your fingers disappear between her folds, hand coated with her milky release. her core grows numb but she still feels the tingling in her body as she curls her toes, kaleidoscope of pretty little butterflies in her stomach. she holds the blunt out to you, mouth falling open as she revels in the way you inhale it, pink gloss staining the ambered paper.

as you blow it out, your fingers curl and hook, hitting her soft spot at an unreal speed. she lets out a strangled scream, white knuckle grip on your hair as she squeezes her eyes shut and gritted her teeth. her juices squelching and shoot out to coat your chin, dripping down your chest to soak the white material of your top.

everything was better, prettier, when y’all were high.

REBLOGS AND INTERACTIONS APPRECIATED

[mellorine-dreams]

Primaniacs is going to be releasing perfumes based off of Blue Exorcist characters! Their perfume descriptions and scents are listed under the cut 💖

Rin Okumura:

Put your determination on the blue flame.

Watery citrus notebook that illuminates the darkness.

Through a refreshing citrus that is youthful and fragrant, the dignified scent of flowers spreads gently. What hides the breath in that shadow is the faint astringency of lavender that puts claws on the soul. In the background, the straight woody scent gives off a presence and tells the unwavering belief that I had at the end of regret. A clear fragrance that gives off an immature but warm glow.

TOP: Lime, Lemon

MIDDLE: Rose, Jasmine, Lavender, Marine, Coriander

LAST: Musk, Woody, Amber

Yukio Okumura:

Is it the devil or your own heart to shoot through?

Cool and cold clear floral note.

The indifferent scent of bergamot drifting in the shimmering amber. The sipley-like flowers with a pure impression that overlap there create a mature atmosphere without gaps. If you surrender to the calm sign of sandalwood that gradually envelops you, your real self is waiting for you. A fragrance that sinks into silence with lost weakness and firm determination.

TOP: Lemon, Bergamot, Amber

MIDDLE: Jasmine, Chypre, Rose, Muguet

LAST: Woody, Sandalwood, Musk, Patchouly, Vanilla

Shiemi Moriyama:

Wrapped in unprettined kindness.

Pure and gentle peony floral notes.

A delicate citrus scent that spreads quietly to tell the tension. The gorgeous peony blooming in the garden heals the girl's loneliness and anxiety. If you stand up with courage, the warmth of Amber will untie your frozen fingertips and bring you the confidence to open the door to a new world. A cute and innocent fragrance with colorful flowers giving you strength.

TOP: Lemon, Bergamot

MIDDLE: Rose, Peony, Jasmine, Lilac, Iris

LAST: Musk, Amber, Sandalwood, Vanilla, Peach

Ryuji Suguro:

The thoughts hidden in the sharp eyes.

Bitter woody note staring at the longing back.

From a sharp and hard citrus to a mature scent of rose with tranquility. It tells the sincerity of the heart that can't be hidden by appearance. If you think about the deep sweetness of sandalwood that embraces the atmosphere of the ancient capital, you will see the image of your father that you saw someday, and you will protect people with words that you will spun. An intelligent and warm fragrance with passion behind the strength of will.

TOP: Grapefruit, Lime

MIDDLE: Rose, Geranium, Jasmine, Melon

LAST: Musk, Vanilla, Amber, Woody, Patchouly, Sandalwood

Shima Renzou:

Like a light wind.

Fresh green notes drifting smoothly.

A refreshing green note that blows through while stroking the young leaves. It tells the story of freedom not to be bound by anything, like a blue sky that spreads everywhere. The supple scent of Lily, which is visible and hidden in the depths of a somewhat light atmosphere, deftly slips through the gap between the fingers like floating clouds. An elusive fragrance that hides some bitterness in freshness.

TOP: Lemon, Grapefruit, Leafy Green

MIDDLE: Jasmine, Muguet, Marine, Lily, Gardenia

LAST: Sandalwood, Amber, Musk, Woody

Izumo Kamiki:

Manipulate the power of the ancient gods.

Green floral notes that dance gracefully.

A fresh orange scent that blends with a mellow sweetness. The faint but dignified sign of hyacinth reminds me of a girl who fights alone. When you take the hand that kept refusing, if the warmth of Amber spreads brightly, it is the spirit of salvation that appears in the blood. A fragrance that is fleeting but graceful and fragrant and sticks to the will.

TOP: Orange, Almondy, Coconut, Peach

MIDDLE: Neroli, Rose, Hyacinth, Lavender

LAST: Sandalwood, Vanilla, Musk, Amber

Mephisto Pheles:

I'm misled by the dark sweetness.

Sweet and fruity notes.

Bananas and oranges that appear like magic tricks make a mischievous and cute scent like sweets. However, the gorgeousness of the rose is fragrant as if to cover the innocent impression. When the rich sweetness that oozesout before you know it spreads with a mysterious darkness, it announces the end of a pop and fun dream. A dark but seductive fragrance that is trapped in a sweet shimmer.

TOP: Banana, Orange, Lemon

MIDDLE: Pink Grapefruit, Rose, Jasmine

LAST: Musk, Apricot, Amber, Raspberry

[pearlwithgirl]

Wordless Conversations

John Price x gn!reader

Fluffy fluff - 1200 words

(a subtle hint of smut, but in the way that a La Croix seems like it has been flavoured by sitting in the same room as a strawberry)

~

A syrupy sweet drabble about words spoken without the need for speech.

It’s hard not to stare. The late summer glow slides across the expanse of your property, and John is leaned up against a quaintly crooked fence post, knitting his brow in mild exertion. Cushioned muscle draws your eye as he lifts his shirt to wipe the soil and dew off his face. He always loves a sun shower, gentle sheets of rain dyed golden by a low-hanging sun.

He’s harvested the last of the herbs and vegetables for tonight’s dinner - leeks, potatoes, sweetcorn, and dill. They’ll meld together so nicely, mellow and hearty as the whitefish flakes apart on your tongue. He’ll melt into his chair after polishing off the soup (an old family recipe) and give you a warm look, eyes crinkling, hand on his belly. The expression will say “This is just what I needed. This - and you.”

You’re busy getting a head start on dessert, fragrant steam from bubbling berries curling through the air in a saccharine wisp. Sweetened red currants, loganberries, and crab apples stew before you as John pops a cherry tomato into his mouth. The fruit will pair well with chilled cream and buttery shortcake - dessert with a nightcap before you meet in the shower and tumble into bed together. 

John’s face smooths out and he smiles as he watches Laska dart over patches of clover and between berry bushes - she’s always chasing butterflies. He snacks on a few pilfered strawberries as he reclines against the cedar planks, crossing his legs in front of him. Your pup playfully bows before she leaps into the air once again, arcing gracefully before barrelling into John’s side. He ruffles her fur as she wiggles in his lap and his laugh rings out above the tinny sound of the heirloom radio. 

You remember this song. So does he. The melody wafts through the window and he turns to face you, illuminated by tinted shafts of sunlight and whirling fractals cast out by the stained glass rim above your swimming head. Those strong brows quirk up and you know he’s thinking the same thing as you are.

“Remember that night in Copenhagen?” He asks you silently, grin turning sentimental and wry. 

Of course you remember. That’s where it all began - on glistening cobblestones outside of a cafe from a past life. Somehow, his eyes light up even more as your face grows dreamy, and that sarky smile goes saccharine - syrupy sweet.

You’ll never grow tired of that look. It says “You are my sunshine, my favourite thing in the world,” “You and I - it’s as easy as breathing,” “I miss you,” even though you’ve been apart for scantly more than a single chime of the clock. A lazy grin peels across your face and you catch a gentle quake in his shoulders.

He takes you in, chuckles, and brings two fingers up to tap his nose. - “You’ve got a little something right here, sweetheart.” 

Your face heats up as you wipe the smear off your face and suck the vanilla-speckled sweet cream from your thumb. You savour the little honeyed cloud, and with a tilt of your head, you beckon him toward the house.

It’s funny, isn’t it? The extensive communication that happens without a single utterance - hidden meanings and professions flowing easily over crags and cobbles that would have been hindrances for a pair less bonded. 

To others, he may come off as coarse or abrasive, while you could be glinting, sharp - but you’re nothing more than frosted sea glass to each other. Rare finds - blushing rose and stormy violet. You’ve smoothed each other’s edges, found yourselves moulded seamlessly to one another. 

Sweet words are shared in abundance, vocalized, but they’re not necessary much of the time. The two of you have learned to move in tandem, to have conversations with heated looks, gentle hands, vice versa, and everything in between.

“I need you, John,” as you walk through the door, face steeped in sorrow, little diamonds clinging to your lashes and tumbling down your cheeks.

“I’ve got you - I’ll always take care of you, sweetheart,” as he wraps you up in his arms and rocks you back and forth, rain playing a staccato lullaby while he cradles your head right next to his heartbeat.

“You’re mine,” in the midnight umbra, where heated breaths are exchanged and swallowed up greedily. 

“You fit so perfectly into my arms,” as he cages you in, bracketing you in between bulky forearms. You feel it again when he draws you in close, head tucked neatly under his chin, sleepy and satisfied.

“You are my comfort, my safety, my home,” while you blink slowly up at him, lashes fluttering around dripping adoration.

“You are the joy of my life,” as he levels you with a look of reverence and a mouth full of cake, legs touching under the table. Every hellish moment you’ve endured together holds nothing more than the weight of a papercut in comparison to the magnitude of what you feel for each other, what you've built. 

You delay the post-dinner cleanup so you can sway back and forth in the timber swing out back. With Laska tucked under one arm and you under the other, he downs the last sip of rhubarb cider, enjoying the view beside him in lieu of the remnants of rainbow and sunset. You know this expression too - better than any other. It paints a more colourful image than the one on the horizon. It holds memories, devotion, proclamations, and vows. He wore the same look on your wedding day - a strawberry-sweet smile and glassy eyes to go with the rosy pocket square from Copenhagen. 

After the dishes are done (he washes, you dry), you linger under the arch of the threshold, finger stalled over the brass switch as you look around the room. Your nostalgia-laden gaze roves from John’s grandmother’s old pie plates to the moss green tiles he installed around the picture window. Trinkets are scattered across the hearth, a lovely landscape filled with photos of found family and homemade knits and ceramics. Every bit and bauble, down to the simplest fruit-stained recipe card, has been carefully curated and cherished over years of blissful benediction. You think you’ve found heaven on Earth, and it’s not a place - it’s him.

He slings an arm around your middle and you rub a soothing thumb over his hand, leaning back into the crook of his neck. Your eyes fall shut as he presses his lips to the crown of your head. There’s a shared sentiment in your mutual touch.  

“Thank you for giving me this life.” 

You exhale in unison, shimmying around to face him, placing a palm on his cheek. His larger hand eclipses yours, and the expression on his face goes downy-soft. Right now, his baby blues hold your favourite look of all. It flickers warm and bright, comforting and exhilarating all at once, and it’s mirrored in your own half-lidded eyes. You know exactly what it means - it flavours every interaction and perfumes the room along with viridian herbiness and the sweet tang of berries. 

Three little words hang softly in the air as you flick the light off and stride down the hall hand-in-hand.

[euphietea]

To Skin a Lion.

Jo Togame. [ 1/? ] cw. angsty. tattooing mentions. yakuza mentions. note. linked reference list & websites used at bottom.

Jou Togame sits across from you at the floor table politely, legs folded under him and back straight. His shoulders curled forward, eyes lost in the waves of fragrant tea. He hadn’t touched the porcelain cup since it was offered to him. He hadn’t spoken in about fifteen minutes. Maybe he didn’t prepare for what this entailed.

He hadn’t left yet, which was a good sign. You sigh. He looks up to you. Lush green obscured by sunset-tinted lenses. Breaking your typical decorum, you reach across the table and touch the arms of the shades. At the slightest pull, he reacts. His calloused, scarred hands grip your wrists reflexively, digging into the nerve and numbing your senses. Your chest tightens and you search his fingers pointlessly. The days of Yubitsume were over, thus those in their twenties and even thirties kept all their digits.

He looked just like your usual clientele. Yakuza men were often muscular, imposing, and formal in their stature. They lose their ‘thuggish’ attitude years after recruitment due to training regiments under their elders. Jou, in his late twenties, fits the bill for a full fledged Yakuza. The thing was... He respected you. He didn’t question your ability nor did he ask for your master’s approval. He genuinely sought out your insight upon first meeting. You could tell by how he treated you that he was not one of them.

He recoils back, fingers curled around his forehead. His shoulders rise and fall in a deep, shaken breath.

“It’s fine, really,” You soften your voice, uncertain on how long he’d been fighting for to develop this type of reflex to a simple touch, “I just thought it might be easier without the shades. Keep them on if they’re more comfortable, okay?”

As his shaggy head pulls up, you see the ounce of pain behind his smile-crescent eyes, “No, you’re right.” He pulls the shades off and sets them on the table, “Isn’t there some phrase about rose tinted glasses?”

“Yeah, but those are yellow,” You note, trying to make a joke out of the obvious.

“Like piss,” he jests back.

“Like hope.”

Jou’s full attention was on you, mouth opening slightly. His stiff posture breaks for once as a strong, thick arm bears his full weight while he laughs. It sounds like the soft warmth of velvet.

Your own body melts tension away. Vulnerability is challenging, especially for someone who seemingly has steeled himself from enjoying those around him. You finally bridge the gap with a teasing lilt, “Are you ready to talk to me now? I can’t keep coaxing a lion to stop its pacing~”

“Yeah, yeah,” He waved off your teasing, the corner of his mouth cutting up in half-moon grin, “You’ll be jabbing me with those things if I talk right?” His chin jerks in the direction of the tebori hanging on the wall, “Ain’t that the opposite of torture? You’re supposed to jab me first then I’ll talk. You’re one backwards interrogator, miss.”

“Glad we’re on the same page~.” you jest with a chuckle, resting your cheek in your hand. He truly was a beautiful man when he smiled, “Let’s start from the top, mkay?” You steadied your heart. People do not close up so tight because their life is easy.

“Alright,” Jou takes a deep, steadying breath. He recounts his life to you, immersing you in his cherished past. Reliving the good days surrounds him in wistful melancholy – steeped like the untouched tea in front of him in fond memories. His smile longed for days lost in heartfelt connection. The very sun graced the barren soil of his life with lush, vibrant flora. Striving for the path of strength and freedom lead the sun to hide behind the clouds, swept away amidst heavy beads of rain. Withering away with each brother he skinned with his own teeth and claws, a mere lion could do nothing but sacrifice himself for the hope that the rain will end.

“...I failed him.” This lion’s roar was but a weak murmur. Jou’s chin rose, aquiline nose pointed towards the sun. His tears flow freely like the very rain he wished away, trailing down his softly curved jaw.

Your heart twists. Your professional constitution melts at the edges. You did not wish to interject in his story. You held no place along the canvas of his life. He so clearly craved comfort - to lighten the burden eating away at his mighty frame. Instinctively you reach out, fingers dangling hesitantly. Your intention was to simply provide comfort along the curve of his shoulder – you are met with curve of his dampened cheek. You are a professional. You are to create a tapestry of his journey, his goals, his very essence. Nothing more.

“This will be a very long process,” You begin carefully, keeping your voice steady, “I won’t do a traditional bodysuit. It'll have munewari but no kame-no-koh. It will just be the front.” Your thumb strokes the curve of his cheek, sweeping up a drying tear, “Until you make amends in the way that you want, I won’t complete your mane. It’s fitting for one who skins their own pride for the sake of the sun.”

His softened gaze lingers on yours, lapping at the clear waters of your affectionate after years of fasting. They reflect the beauty of raw malachite, relentlessly purifying the blackened tar of those around him. To polish it is to take the risk of poison with the reward of its adamant protection.

A professional.

The word jerks you out of a shared mirage. You reluctantly withdraw your soothing touch. You were not a shelter from the monsoon. You could never be the reprieve from his own self sacrifice. He turns his cheek as you pull back. The flesh of his lips graze the soft pads of your fingers, desiring one last lap at the illusory spring. He sits back, not an ounce of remorse for his wanton action.

As if the moment hadn’t been shared at all, you collect the remnants of your so called professionalism.

“Come back tomorrow and we’ll start from there.”

He obliged, thanking you and scheduling his appointment. He waves to you solemnly as he leaves, lips tilted in wistful grin. The lion readily greets the melancholic downpour in hopes to see the sun.

You begin to sketch a plan – the feel of his lips haunting your fingertips.

references.

terms used.

tebori. traditional tool for tattooing. made of bamboo and used to manually insert ink into the skin using 1-6 needles. typically used for horimono and irezumi by a horishi.

horishi. tattoo master as well as a term for block print/block carving artesian.

horimono. term for tattoos. usually refer to traditional styled tattoos resembling block/wood prints and carvings. have a historical context, but also a general term for the style of tattoo. preferred over the term irezumi due to it having a more neutral context.

irezumi. term for a tattoo. in history, the name of tattoos given to mark prisoners. often used to describe body suit tattoos typically seen on yakuza, however the term has historical context expanding prior to yakuza.

munewari. the gap of skin in a body suit to give the illusion of a happi.

kami-no-koh. the back piece of a body suit. it is usually the centerpiece of the horimono and often contain the main subject.

yubitsume. practice of the yakuza of cutting off the tip of a finger for atonement when defying yakuza rules.

since there are not many academic sources for horimono references, here are some websites i used. xx xx xx xx

[wintersongstress]

— mornings ;

In the time of spring when the bark of trees and the flat of pavements were washed with rain, Simon liked to visit the farmer’s market after his morning run. He had left you today in your shared bed, doubtlessly still dreaming as the sun dithered behind the veil of clouds, and shrugged on a hoodie, getting his trainers out from a rack in the closet. His route was dewy with a gentle mist, not enough to keep people from going about their day, but it was the good kind that cleaned the city air and sweetened the long brooms of blossoms hanging over the sidewalks.

The canopy over a flower stall dripped onto his hood as Simon stepped underneath it. Bundles of flowers were arranged in buckets with chalkboard plates sticking out, the signs advertising 3 for £10, and he browsed for a bit, thinking of you.

There was a time when all Simon knew about flowers was the memory of a window box in his childhood kitchen. Long gone, he remembers his mother potting red and pink flowers and relishing the process—the fulfilling feeling of dirt beneath her fingernails and the satisfaction of roots tenderly planted. One day a hummingbird flitted to the window while he ate his toast before school, and it was a still moment of wonder as the tiny bird prodded the ruby petals before zipping on, quick as light.

Now he was in love with his own hummingbird. A love rare and fleeting, one that, when you don’t catch it in your hands and earn every moment of keeping it, would flutter away and never return. Love could speak in flowers, he decided, when he first began to visit your flat and admire the fresh bouquet you kept on your table every time he came. I like them, you had said simply, and he smoothed a petal between his two fingers. And though he saw himself as a brute with hands better suited for violence than caresses, he wanted to learn about the gentler things in life he once thought could never be part of his.

Simon frees his nose from his face mask to smell a strange spire of green, bell-shaped flowers he had never seen before.

“Those are called Bells of Ireland,” the aproned shop lady pipes up from behind her booth. He glances over and finds she isn’t put off by his tall, dark, and out-of-place presence in the least.

“I’ll take them,” he replies. Their scent was light and earthy, like mint and lavender mingled, and their bells resemble leaves with their vein-like texture. Rare and exquisite, and perfectly you. He also picks out a cluster of mauve roses and peachy ranunculus, thinking about the way you smiled with your eyes closed when you smell his bouquets, your lips still curved when you kiss him afterwards, and lays them all on the counter.

“What a lucky girl,” the woman comments, gathering his selections and bundling them in wax paper secured with a rubber band. Simon wasn’t so sure. He always thought you could do better than him, but you would never let him catch himself thinking like that out loud. No matter what he believed of his nature, he vowed to fight like hell to be the kind of man you did deserve. So he pays the woman and bids her good day, heading on to the next stall with you on his mind as he picks out fresh strawberries and bread for the beginning ingredients of a wholesome breakfast. 

At home, Simon fills a vase with the tap and trims the flower stems, arranging each fragrant bloom in harmony with the other. He brews one of your favorite teas and sets out the honey, tending to a sizzling pan in between, then decides to open your bedroom window to gently wake you.

A warm and pleasant wind sways the curtains. Amidst their wispy movements you lay on your back, breathing deep and slow, until the song of church bells and finches twittering from the chimney tops flutters your lashes to take in the tranquil morning. Simon draws his knuckles across your forehead and follows your cheek. With sleep soft in your pretty eyes, this was his favorite view of you.

“There she is, my everything,” he murmurs.

“Hmm. I was dreaming.” With a brush of his thumb over your smiling lips, you open your eyes and gaze at him warmly, happily, holding his hand there.

Funny…he muses.

You kiss his caressing hand. “You smell like oranges.”

“I made breakfast.”

And with that you’re throwing the comforter back, springing to your feet and wrapping a sweater around your nightgown-clad form.

“It’s not going anywhere, love,” he chuckles. These mornings were you had the whole day together were his favorite. You sat out on the balcony, taking in the trees with their sprouting green tips and cutting into your French toast, planning your day together with your bare foot resting over his socked one. The sunshine of your presence fills the depths of his chest to the brim with contentment, and he wants it to last forever.

[faenyra]

Prophecy

chapter 2 | targaryen!reader x helaena + aegon | word count: 2.4k | princess series

summary: Helaena's prophecies about the future are revealed. Aegon invites you to future picnics.

This can be read as a one shot.

It was a sun-drenched day at the Red Keep, the kind that made the sprawling gardens bloom with life and colour. You and Helaena had chosen this enchanting landscape for your midday stroll, seeking peace.

As you walked, your arms hooked together, a sense of sisterly love had enveloped you. Helaena’s whispers floated through the air like music, a welcome sound amidst the whispers of the court. She seemed to draw energy from the beauty around her, her long, flowing dress swishing gently with each step.

On either side of the cobblestone path, vibrant rose bushes flaunted their blooms, their petals kissed by the sun. Various flowers danced in the gentle breeze, their colours a vivid tapestry that delighted the eyes. Helaena paused occasionally, leaning down to peer closely at a delicate blossom, her fingers brushing the petals with a tenderness that reminded you of how fragile beauty could be.

At the end of the cobblestone path lay an outdoor gazebo, its intricate wooden structure entwined with climbing vines and bursts of colourful blossoms. The soft rustle of leaves danced with the gentle breeze, creating a serene atmosphere that contrasted sharply with the chaos behind you.

Sunlight filtered through the lattice, casting playful shadows on the stone floor beneath. The gazebo was a refuge, a sanctuary where whispered secrets and quiet conversations echoed, sheltered from the world outside.

The table was covered in an array of exquisite sweet treats, vibrant confections carefully arranged as if they were jewels sparkling in the sunlight. Tarts glistened with fresh fruit, delicate pastries were puffed to perfection, and chocolates were artfully crafted into whimsical shapes. Each morsel beckoned, waiting to be devoured by you and Helaena.

As you sat down, the inviting scene brought a smile to your face, momentarily lifting the cloud of anxiety that had settled over you. Your eyes wandered over the tabletop, absorbing the colours—golden browns, rosy pinks, and velvety whites—all harmonising beautifully against the worn wooden surface.

The comforting aroma of sugary pastries mingled with the fragrant blooms cascading from the garden. Sweet notes of jasmine and lilac wafted through the air, intertwining with the scent of honey and vanilla, creating an enchanting sensory experience that felt almost magical.

You glanced over at Helaena, her eyes sparkling with delight as she reached for a delicate vanilla cream puff.

“I can’t believe how beautiful everything is,” she exclaimed, her voice filled with childlike wonder.

You reached for a cake slice, which was topped with a strawberry.

One of your favourites.

"It truly is a delight to spend time with you," you said after swallowing a bite of your cake.

As you attempted to gently blow the tiny bug away, a fleeting flutter of annoyance flashed through you. The little creature buzzed insistently, drawn to the sweet treats laid out before you. The warm sunlight illuminated its delicate wings as it danced around, seemingly oblivious to your attempts at dismissal.

Helaena's attention shifted from her treat to you, her eyes lighting up with curiosity. 

“Look at that one! Isn’t it beautiful?” she exclaimed, completely enchanted. 

She had always been the sister who felt a kinship with creatures great and small, and her fascination was often a source of amusement—and sometimes exasperation—for you.

“Helaena, it’s just a bug! Can’t we enjoy our treats without an audience?” you protested light-heartedly, trying to wave it away once more.

“But it’s so interesting!” she insisted, her eyes glowing with wonder.

“It must’ve smelled the sweet pastries just like us. Look, it’s a damselfly!” She leaned in closer, her face alight with excitement as she pointed out the iridescent colours of its wings. 

“They’re harmless, you know," she carried on, her voice laced with sympathy.

Though you appreciated her enthusiasm, you felt a wave of irritation mingling with the sweetness of the moment. 

“Maybe so, but everyone loves a good dessert, and I’d prefer not to share mine with a bug,” you replied carefully, trying not to hurt her emotions, playfully swatting at the air.

With an exaggerated pout, Helaena tried to coax the tiny creature back toward the flowers of the vines instead. 

“Come on, little friend, there are plenty of sweet flowers over there. You don’t need to join us for tea,” her voice now low, almost a whisper.

Aegon’s voice carried a blend of urgency and frustration as he approached the gazebo.

“Jaehaerys won’t stop crying, can’t you help out?” he pressed, his tone shifting from protest to something more commanding, as if expecting an immediate response from his sister-wife, Helaena. The weight of his words hung in the air demanding action rather than a response.

Helaena's eyes met Aegon's, and a flicker of understanding passed between them, one steeped in the shared weight of their family’s plight.

As she stood up, her hands instinctively clenched together, the fingers intertwining in a nervous dance. Anxiety enveloped her, a palpable tension that seemed to amplify the heaviness in the air.

“Aegon, what if…” she started, her voice trembling slightly as worry clouded her brow. 

“What if we can’t protect him? What if whatever darkness has come here is beyond our control?” The tremor in her voice revealed a vulnerability that contrasted sharply with the fierce determination he had just declared.

Aegon stepped closer, instinctively reaching out to steady her.

“We can’t think like that, go on Helaena,” His words were meant to comfort, laced with command before he shooed her away with a wave of his hand, a desperate gesture.

As Helaena's footsteps faded into the distance, Aegon muttered a curse under his breath, the tension in his shoulders evident. He welcomed himself and sank into the chair she had just vacated, momentarily letting the weight of the world rest on his weary frame.

His gaze drifted across the table, lingering on the remnants of half-eaten cakes and pastries, the wine goblet glinting invitingly in the dim light. A bemused smile tugged at his lips. 

“Why don’t you spend time with me like you do with Helaena? You know, indulging in cakes, pastries, and wine?” he mused aloud, his tone light yet laced with a hint of longing.

"Well, why have you never asked?" you replied, meeting his gaze with a slight challenge in your eyes.

Aegon looked at you, a mixture of surprise and amusement flickering across his face. 

“I suppose I figured you were too busy enjoying Helaena’s company to even think about me,” he retorted playfully, leaning slightly forward, his interest piqued.

With a smirk, he rose from his chair and reached for the wine goblet. The heavy crystal captured the light as he poured himself a generous drink, the rich, dark liquid swirling inside. He took a moment to savour the aroma, his demeanour shifting ever so slightly as he relished the familiar comfort that wine brought.

"Maybe I should change that," he said, casting a sideways glance at you. 

“Perhaps we can make a habit of it—cake, pastries, and a bit of wine, just the two of us.” His tone was teasing, but the underlying invitation was unmistakable.

"I'll have to think about it," you replied, a playful smile spreading across your face as you rose from your seat. As you stood, you brushed off any crumbs that clung stubbornly to your dress, a whimsical gesture that lightened the mood.

Aegon watched you, an amused glint in his eyes, curiosity raised by your coyness. 

“Just think of the lemon tarts and wine,” he encouraged, the warmth of his voice inviting you to consider the possibilities.

With a playful flourish, you twirled back to face him, pretending to ponder deeply. 

“Well, you do make a compelling case,” you teased, your smile widening.

He looked down into his cup, swirling the wine.

“Forgive me, brother,” you curiously said, 

“Was Jaehaerys truly upset, or were you merely here to pitch your idea?”

A smirk played across his face, which gave the answer away.

The sun had dipped below the horizon, yielding the sky to the moon, which she unveiled herself gracefully from the clouds, casting a silvery glow across King's Landing.

You made your way to Helaena's chamber, one where you'd spend a lot of your time.

With a candle flickering in one hand, you reached for the doorknob with the other, its cool metal sending a shiver up your arm. You paused for a moment, taking a breath, before turning the knob. Helaena was expecting you. The faint glow of the candlelight danced across her face as the door creaked open, illuminating her eager smile.

She opened the rest of the door, her smile widening as she gestured for you to step inside, inviting you further into her sanctuary. The room was adorned with delicate trinkets and books scattered about, each corner revealing more of her personality

Her shyness would flutter away, like butterflies, in your presence.

Her room was aglow with the warm light of numerous candles, their flickering flames casting soft shadows that danced across the walls. The inviting, golden hues created a cosy atmosphere, enveloping the space in a serene, almost magical ambiance.

"Let's play some cards," you suggested, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled between you. 

Her eyes lit up with a spark of enthusiasm, and for a moment, her shyness melted away completely. She reached for the  pack of cards that were placed in a bag upon a shelf.

"Sure! I haven't played in ages," she replied, moving towards a small table in the corner, taking her seat.  As she shuffled the cards, the sound of them sliding against each other filled the air, a soothing rhythm that matched the growing excitement in the room.

You settled into your seats, and the game began. With each dealt hand, laughter bubbled up between you—playful banter and friendly competition replacing any lingering awkwardness. 

The card set was no ordinary deck, it was a cherished gift that you had bestowed upon her on her 17th name day, a day that held significance and warmth in both of your hearts. You had poured countless hours into hand-painting each card, infusing them with intricate colours and vibrant designs that reflected not just your artistic flair but the deep bond you shared.

Each card featured a different type of bug, meticulously rendered with an eye for detail. From the delicate wings of a butterfly in shimmering pastels to the fierce elegance of a dragonfly in rich, saturated hues, every image told a story. The beetles glistened with hints of metallic pigments, while the ladybugs boasted cheerful spots of red and black that seemed to leap off the card. 

The cards were not merely a means to play; they were a tapestry of memories, laughter, and creativity woven together.

She revealed more of herself with each play, her laughter ringing like music, and you felt a warmth spreading through the space, transforming the evening into an unforgettable moment of connection.

Though few words were ever exchanged between the two of you, a profound connection lingered in the silence, one that transcended the need for conversation. You had both bloomed in the same womb, sharing a space that nurtured both your lives before the world ever got the chance to separate you.

From the very beginning, there was an unspoken understanding—a bond woven from the tapestry of shared memories and experiences that only those who had once existed as one could truly comprehend. The rhythm of heartbeats, the gentle sways of anticipation, and the warmth of early life had forged an invisible thread between you, connecting your souls in a way that words could never encapsulate.

In the moments you spent together, whether stacked in laughter or enveloped in introspection, the weight of this history hung in the air like a cherished secret. A glance or a fleeting smile often spoke volumes, echoing the depths of your relationship. The world around you buzzed with noise, but within your small universe, silence spoke louder than anything you could articulate.

In shared experiences, a simple touch or a knowing look could ignite a flame of understanding that no amount of chatter could hope to replicate.

It was a deep-rooted familiarity, the kind that only those who had once been intertwined could recognize—a silent language that thrived in the spaces between your words.

In this way, your bond was as rich and complex as the array of colours on the cards you had gifted, each a vivid reminder of the connection that still flourished quietly, even in the absence of dialogue. Your minds were alike, a shared rhythm that flowed between you like an unbreakable bond.

You often found that in the quiet moments, you could sense when she was about to speak, a barely perceptible shift in the air that preceded her words. It was as if you could feel the thoughts gathering in her mind, ready to blossom into speech.

Helaena played with a strand of her hair, her lips parting slightly as if she were rehearsing something profound in her mind. You could see the way her brow furrowed, the way her breath quickened, and you knew that whatever was about to come forth would be something important.

She paused you, her violet eyes reflecting the golden hues that are casted across the room.

A moment of silence stretched between you, thick with a sense of anticipation.

“It’s strange,” she began, her voice almost a whisper, “how certain things seem to align in ways we cannot fully understand..."

Her eyes lit up with a strange mix of excitement and trepidation, a flicker of something wild sparking within her. 

“They were circling above, and I felt their power so vividly. I think…” She hesitated, her gaze settling on yours, and in that moment you felt the weight of her words hanging between you, electric and heavy.

“You think what?” you prompted gently, your curiosity piqued.

“I think they are coming,” she continued, a fierce intensity burning into fear, now visible in her eyes. 

“Not just for me, but for you as well. I have always known that our destinies are intertwined, but these dreams feel like a warning… a promise. There is an awakening on the horizon, a call for those who are meant to be more than just whispers in the dark.”

"Do you ever dream of soaring?" she asked softly, her voice like a whisper carried on the wind.

Helaena had always had a way of seeing beyond the surface of things; there was a depth to her perception that often left you in awe.

After finishing the card game, you returned to your room, reflecting on her words. 

The only way you could truly soar through the skies was on the back of a dragon, something you didn't yet possess.

masterlist

Dividers: @cafekitsune @targaryen-dynasty

[bullet-prooflove]

Fastest Girl in Town - Angel Reyes x Reader (NSFW)

Tagging: @witches-unruly-heart @annetje @infinity-mars @danzer8705 @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @the-wandering-lunatic @anime-weeb-4-life @vannabanana1995 @multifandomloversworld @camelia35 @harperdoodle @queeniesdiary @laylasbunbunny @est1887 @justazzie

When Angel first meets you, he’s playing getaway driver as a favour to Riz, who stuck taking care of Club business up in Vegas. After the whole fiasco with the tunnel, Angel figures he owes him, so he does as he’s told and parks a Buick at the corner of some disused farmland and waits for his passenger.

He’s in the middle of his third cigarette when he hears a ‘WOOSH’ and he sees a surge of flames erupt from a field in the distance. The bright orange blaze licking up towards the night sky, like forked tongues. He can feel the heat from here, the raw power of the fire searing through the quiet. The air is thick with smoke, it bellows across the landscape in a thick black cloud, bleeding into the heavens. The stench of kush is in the air, not the fragrant scent he’s used to smelling but something more earthy.

It's the gun shot that jerks his senses into overdrive. It’s a pop in the distance and he sees the figure clad in a black hoodie hauling ass towards the car.

Another bullet pings off the Buick and before he knows it, he’s fucking behind the wheel, turning the key and bringing the engine to life with a roar. The passenger door slams shut as you throw yourself inside, yelling for him to drive. He doesn’t need to be told twice, he shifts gear and puts his fucking foot down.

It’s a few minutes into the drive that you tear the hood from your head, and he realises that his fugitive is a woman. A fucking stunning one at that. Your hair is wild from its confinement. It falls across your features when you turn to look at him, your eyes shining bright from the light of the moon. Your cheeks are flushed with adrenaline, your lips curving up into a sinful smile as you try to catch your breath. Clasped in your hand is a silver Zippo, he watches from the corner of his eye as your thumb runs over an inscription etched upon the surface.

It takes him 120 seconds to fall in love.

It’s not the beginning of a traditional fairy-tale but it’s the beginning of his.

That night he fucks you in the back of the Buick, or rather you fuck him. He’s never been with someone so dynamic before, someone as wild and fucking untamed as he is. When you pin his hands above his head, he submits to you entirely. You could do anything you fucking wanted to him right now and he’d take it, if it meant that he could make this brief snippet of time with you last.

It blurs for him, emotions and feelings tumbling together as you sink down on his cock. There’s an intimacy in the madness that he craves, something he’s never been able to get anywhere else. Your taste like strawberries, your lips soft and tender as your tongue dips into his mouth. You mark his skin in the throes of ecstasy, biting down on the curve of his throat as your cunt squeezes him so fucking tightly, he sees stars when he comes. The intermingling of the pleasure and the pain, taps something inside of him, he lets out a fucking sob, because it feels so fucking good not to be the one in charge for once.

In the aftermath you share a blunt, one that you pull out of a silver cigarette case that matches the lighter in your pocket. He sees the emblem on the front and suddenly he understands who you are, why Riz needed someone he could trust to help you out.

The Kush Queen, they call you back at the MC.

He’s never laid eyes on you before tonight, it’s usually Riz and Creeper that take care of that side of things. He knows your semi legit, that you have one farm that you use to sell in the California and the other one on Riz’s land, that ships out of state.

He knows that you’re the proprietor of Rose Kush, he read the interview you did discussing how the ever-changing state regulations were putting a stranglehold on small farmers. People with excellent quality products, that could help folks who couldn’t afford medical expenses because the premiums were too high. He knows that you donate to the Sweetleaf Collective, to make sure patients on a lower income get the relief they need because they can’t get it anywhere else.

In the hazy afterglow you tell him why you set the fire, that Simon James, a rival of yours blinded one of your workers when he wouldn’t give up the location of your second farm, the illegal one. Angel understands that loyalty begets loyalty. It’s an eye for an eye, so to speak and you couldn’t let that piece of shit get away with hurting someone you cared about so you decided to hit him where it hurt, his bottom line.

You aren’t afraid to get your hands dirty and Angel respects that.

You tell him you fully intend to salt the fucking earth, so the bastard can never grow another crop again.

As he sits in the back of the Buick, high and fucked out, shirt hanging open over his unzipped jeans, he thinks there has to be a fucking country song about this kinda shit.

“There is.” You tell him, plucking the joint from between his fingers and taking a drag. He watches as you blow the plume out from between your lips, and he thinks it might just be the sexiest fucking thing he’s ever seen. “It’s by Miranda Lambert and it’s called the Fastest Girl in Town.”

He laughs because he’s heard that song and yea, it’s about right.

Love Angel? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[artbyisabelh]

Ooops, I did it again!

Yes, you already know my obsession with these roses that you can buy for a fraction of the price at Walmart, Tractor Supply store, and Aldi’s. Okay, let me go back to the store listings. I had previously posted about bare-root bagged roses that I purchased from Walmart. Today, I will be posting about two more roses from Walmart, two roses from Tractor Supply Store, and two roses that I bought…

[juneknight]

My heart goes out to you rn 💞 I'm going to tip the shit out of you I just get nervous about my account ever seeing the light of day 😬

So kind of a specific one, but could you do a situation with the boys where the reader feels unattractive bc she doesn't think she looks feminine enough? Possibly ending in some NSFW comfort 👀

(I'm afab and I've had two people assume I'm a boy in the last month bc I have a short haircut, feeling a little sensitive about it 😅)

Thank you so much if you have tipped or when you tip. Every penny is so appreciated. Also, as someone who has shaved her head a few times, I felt this!

About this: steven grant/ fem!reader, talks of femininity vs masculinity, some innuendo at the end, pretty soft and sweet with a hint of toppy Steven.

Reader gets a haircut and feels instant regret.

*

Steven isn’t supposed to check his phone at work. Donna takes the sale of overpriced stuffies very seriously (though she didn’t seem to care when Steven told her about the nuances between depicting Bastet with rounded ears vs pointed ears), and if she catches Steven even using his phone to check the time, she threatens to send him walking. But Steven’s phone has buzzed thrice in his pocket, and he knows that it is you. 

No one else messages Steven; no one but you. For a while he just daydreams about what your messages might say. What little update might you have sent about your day? Are you asking what the two of you should have for dinner? Perhaps you’re even sending something of a more personal nature, something that will have Steven rushing to the loo to cool himself off. You’ve done that once before. 

Maybe you’re even sending pictures. You had just gone to get a haircut that morning. If it had given you a confidence boost, Steven would gladly reap the benefits. Nothing drove him wilder than when you were so clearly appreciating your own allure…gods, but he has to look. 

Glancing around to make sure that Donna isn’t looming like a cloud about to rain on his parade, Steven works his phone from his trousers and sees that each message is from you. No pictures, though. 

I made a mistake. 

Five minutes later: In a foul mood. Called off the rest of the day. Be careful on the bus ride home. 

A half hour ago: Bring something home for dinner? Xx

Steven frowns. Not quite any of the things he had imagined you might be saying. What sort of mistake had you made? Something at work? He knew that fouling up and pissing Donna off could put Steven in the most dismal of moods. Well. He made a silent vow to pick up your favorite take-away on the way home. Maybe even flowers. Or—

“Better be the bloody King calling you, or I’ll ban phones on the floor altogether,” Donna says from behind him, giving him a proper jumpscare.

*

Three hours and twenty-three stuffies later, Steven slips through the flat with fragrant Italian food under one arm and a bouquet of mostly-non-wilted roses tucked between the crook of his elbow and his side. 

“Hellooo,” he calls lightly, a hint of trepidation filling him when you aren’t immediately visible. He sets his flat keys aside and puts the take-away and flowers on the kitchen table, eyes scanning the flat for you. You aren’t curled up in your armchair (the one right beside his). You aren’t lounging on the loveseat watching the a documentary on the latest anthropology hot topic. You aren’t curled up in b—

Ah. You are. Except…

“Darling, are you hiding from me?” Steven wonders, looking at your figure completely obscured beneath the blankets. The blankets don’t move, though he hears your sigh. “Oh gods, she’s dead.” 

Steven throws himself beside you on the bed, tossing an arm over your figure and dragging your blanketed body towards him. He presses his face into the crook of your neck (or possibly your armpit, difficult to tell beneath the thick coverlet) and lets out a showy sob. Immediately your figure snorts, struggling against him. Steven yelps and jerks away. 

“Come out, you Osiris, freshly raised from the grave—” 

His breath catches. 

You have cut all your hair off into a short, modern style. It isn’t at all like anything you’ve done in the past, and it isn’t anything like what you had hinted you planned for the stylist to give you at the shop earlier that morning. 

“Oh, darling. Be still my heart. You look amazing!” 

Something passes over your face, some shadowed, vulnerable crack in your strong veneer. Your hand lifts, patting at the hair softly. “Do you really think so? Be honest.” 

“I do! Not that I think I could ever feel otherwise, but you look incredible.Was this your mistake? Did the stylist take a little too much off the top?” 

“No–no this is what I wanted her to give me,” you admit, wiping at your nose gently. Steven sees then that your eyes are red, a little swollen from tears. “I thought that it was going to make me feel so…badass. And it did! But then at lunch the waiter said, Yes, Sir, when I asked him if I could have another glass of iced-tea, and then a coworker pulled a face and said that I was so brave and it was far too masculine for her taste and I just…this isn’t what I wanted.” 

Steven scoffs. He rolls onto his back and opens his arm, making room for you to wiggle up against his side, your head resting on his shoulder. Your hair smells like the posh shampoo and conditioner they use at the stylist you go to, when he kisses the crown of your head. 

“That’s bollocks. Poor waiter must have been blind—I don’t want to imagine all the dishes he was breaking in the back. And too masculine for her taste? Well it’s a bloody good thing it’s not her hair, nor her taste you’re trying to appeal to! You know, I have half a mind to go to work with you tomorrow and tell her what’s what—” 

“Do you mean it? I’m not too boyish, like this?” 

Steven softens even further, running a hand up and down the length of your side that he can reach. “No. I don’t buy in to all that, love. Hair is just hair, long or short or anywhere in between. It doesn’t change who you are. You get to decide what’s feminine or not, and to hell with anyone who thinks otherwise. But if my two-pounds helps at all…you know I’m only attracted to women. If I’m attracted to you more than any other woman—what’s that say about you?” 

“That I am the most womanly of womans,” you say with a wet little laugh, wiping at your eye. 

“I mean it,” Steven says lowly. Moving his hand from your side to your back, he rolls you onto him until your chests are flush together, relishing in the weight of you against him before you sit up, straddling his thighs. His eyes move over you: your hair, your features, your clothes. All of the pieces that come together to create a picture of the woman he loves. “You drive me mad, you know that don’t you?” 

A little breathless, you shift against his lap. “I think I can feel it.” 

“You think?” 

“Yeah.” 

“I think I’d like to kiss you.” 

You lean down, one hand against his chest, feeling the firmness of his pecs through the kitschy short-sleeve dress shirt he had donned underneath his jacket that day. His kiss is already hungry, the way Steven’s kisses usually start: a little desperate, a little like he is afraid you will stop kissing him any moment. But then he relaxes, licks languidly into your mouth. Beneath you, his cock hardens the rest of the way, and you can’t help but shift against it, working til it is in that perfect spot dead center between your legs. 

“I love you so much,” you murmur, trailing kisses down his jaw and into the juncture of his neck. 

Suddenly there is a bright burst of tension on your scalp as he grips your hair and tugs you back away from his neck, a gasp slipping from your swollen mouth. His eyes are dark, the pupils huge, liable enough to swallow you whole. 

“Still plenty for me to grab on to, isn’t there?” Steven breathes. 

You let your eyes flutter shut as he tugs again, feeling the ache all the way down between your thighs. 

“Better make good use of it…” 

[heartofmuse]

My heart is soft like a cloud,

Fragrant as a rose,

Fire and water in its song,

Sensitive as a mimosa leaf to your touch.

e.v.e.

[kingofthe-egirls]

I just read of the the brothel au and first of all, I absolutely love all of it!! Second, I understand if you’re not taking requests but I’d love to see more Sanji or Zoro in the brothel au, maybe Sanji with a sugar mama kind of frequent customer, one who loves to spoil him?Regardless I’m a fan now of your work and I can’t wait for the next piece!!

ok ok ok ok ok

SANJI x OC (you're still the narrator)

brothel au

(cw: service!sanji, cunnilingus, weed, brothel/sw, shanks dirty talk)

Songs: "Heaven" by Maude Latour, "Dress" by Charlotte Sands

words: 1.2k

"Here you are, darling," Sanji croons as he hands you the handrolled joint. It's stuffed with pink flowers and sticky bud, and you can't wait to smoke it with him. This is more or less your nightly tradition, when both you and Sanji are available. If you're doing paperwork or seeing high-name clients, or if Sanji is tending the bar or having his own fun surrounded by eager young girls, then you both just collapse into your separate beds until the next day.

But tonight, you both are free, having taken the night off for each other. Sanji is kneeling at your feet, in between your legs. He's staring up at you with adoration, his lover and friend.

The smoke tastes thick and heavy, burning the back of your throat with a floaty aftertaste. The cherry buds taste sweet on your tongue, and you lean forward to blow smoke into Sanji's waiting mouth. His lips are soft as feathers, as they flutter around your own. He inhales the fragrant smoke, then pulls away to blow it to the side. Wispy clouds curl up and around the air of your boudoir.

He gently takes the joint from you, and inhales for himself. It's hot, and he coughs. The paper is softly crackling as he he taps off the ash. Sanji leans into you, resting his head on your knee. You softly stroke your fingers through his flaxen hair. It's shiny, and you watch it flash gold in the amber light. Music floats in from a festival down the street: something to do with pumpkins, and...ghosts?

Sanji presses a kiss to your knee.

"How was your day, my lovely?" He passes you back the joint, and you take a long hit. You keep it between your fingers: deference always paid to the madame. He strokes a slender finger down the inside of your calf. He traces your ankle, delicately wrapping his strong fingers around your foot. His thumb presses on the inside of your arch. You both sigh, relaxing into each other's presence.

"Oh, the usual," you hum, tapping the ash off into a silver tray left on your vanity, scattered with ribbons and beads at the moment. Your second hit burns faster than the last. Swiftly, you duck the joint back down to Sanji's lips, letting him take the rest of the sweet smoke himself. "Hired the new gardener today. She's been spending lots of time with Luffy lately," you muse, clicking your fingers together.

"Hm," Sanji snubs out the smoking joint. He lifts up, bracing himself with a hand on each of your knees. He leans closer, and kisses you. You brush his hair back from his face as he pulls back, deigning to gaze over both sides of his face. His hand comes up to cup your own cheek. He strokes his thumb softly over your skin. His touch feels like rose petals, and you sigh.

"Darling," you say, stroking his cheek, "Would you like a massage today?"

Sanji hums, leaning in to press hips against your temple. He smells like sweet wine and roses. Your high is creeping up the back of your legs, and you swoon a bit as Sanji scoops you off the chair and into his arms. He carries you bridal style to the bed, and lays you down gently. He pulls at the sash of your kimono, and lays it open to expose your bare breasts and stomach.

"I'd rather please you," he admits, kissing at the soft plush of your lower abdomen. He skims his fingers over your thighs, meeting your gaze with hungry eyes. "You're so beautiful," he whispers, lips hovering above the soft hairs between your legs.

Sanji runs his hand over your left hand, sticking at the purple jewels on your fourth finger. He hums, quirking an eyebrow. "Shanks came to visit last week," he mentions, hooking your legs over his shoulders.

"He's my pirate," you admit, roses blooming on your cheeks. "He's my friend," you say softer, more importance coating the word. It hangs heavy on your tongue, like dripping honey.

"Tell me about him," he croons, licking a stripe up your pussy. He has both slender hands wrapped around your thighs, keeping you in place. You lean back, nestling into the comfort of your own pillows.

"His hair," you say immediately (surprising no one), "I can't help running my fingers through it. It's thick, and wavy, and salt-drenched," you moan, arching your lower back into Sanji's touch. He pets your pussy with two fingers, licking at your clit. He loves hearing about your other men as he pleasures you.

"His chest," you say, running your fingers through Sanji's own, golden hair. It's thin and flaxen, but softer than silk. "His muscular build," you grunt, eyebrows furrowing as Sanji speeds up, his fingertips pressing inside you. He keeps them there, just an inch past your entrance, and rubs them softly against your fluttering walls. "He's so strong," you say, "He can pick me up with one hand, it's so fucking hot--,"

"Tell me more," Sanji murmurs, his tongue replacing his fingers inside you. He stretches it out as far as it can go, warm and wet as he finds your sweetest spots. Sweat starts to bead at your temples. "Tell me how good he is to you, princess."

"He's so good!" You moan, thighs trembling as Sanji rubs at your clit, tongue-fucking you like a fucking prince. "He's so protective over me, and he's so--so masculine, it makes me feel so safe. He used to--to beat up clients that were rough, he used to just--cast them into the sea," you squeeze your eyes shut, voice trembling as Sanji brings you closer to your high. Sanji never lets you wait for long.

"How does he fuck you, madame?"

"He fucks me so good!" You yell, hips bucking into Sanji's delicate fingers. He's replaced his tongue with four long digits, rubbing at you so, so sweetly. His tongue flicks your little rosebud, soft and fast and tickling you towards an orgasm.

"He's so fucking strong," you say again, imagining your fiance's hot weight above you, fucking you with a dick thicker than a wine bottle. Your high is fully sweeping you off your feet now, waving over you in sea breezes of comfort.

"Does he make you cum, angel?" Sanji brushes his tongue flat against your clit, pulsing slightly as he maintains pressure. You shudder, trickling tingles running down your spine.

"He makes me cum so fucking hard--," you gasp out as an orgasm overtakes you. The high bolsters your pleasure, running you along Sanji's fingers as he rides you out. He kisses your inner thigh, thumb deftly twirling at your clit as you cum.

"Darling," he croons, lifting up as you finish twitching on the bed, "You're so beautiful for me," he rises up to kiss your cheeks, skimming soft lips over your flushed skin.

"Thank you," you breathe, wrapping your arms around Sanji's neck. He smells like sweet rosé, and you inhale deeply. He chuckles, breath puffing against the soft hairs at the nape of your neck. It tickles.

"Thank you," he counters, "The pleasure's all mine."

****

[crypt-tids]

A Gift Unto the King

19

Curses and Burdens

Carmilla knelt in the garden near the rose bushes, the fragrant floral scent wafting through the gentle breeze. Despite summer soon coming to an end, the flowers bloomed with the same brilliance as they had in spring, their bright colors beautifully contrasting against the lush greenery of their hosts. Angelique certainly did have a way with flowers, just as Alistair had said.

She delicately folded her hands into her lap and closed her eyes, taking slow, deep breaths. Her body relaxed, and her mind calmed as she began to meditate. That moment, amongst the flowers, was the only moment that existed, and she found herself fully melting into it, becoming one with the garden. It wasn’t until she felt the soft vibrations of growing leaves that she truly realized how long overdue she was for an energy cleansing.

“I was wondering when I might find you here.” A voice came from behind the young queen, snapping her from her meditation.

Carmilla glanced over her shoulder, meeting the green eyed gaze of a young, red haired woman. In her arms was a woven basket filled with freshly picked flowers. Dark gray tights clung to her thin legs, a loosely fitting blouse hanging past her hips, belted with a braided leather cord.

“Angelique,” Carmilla greeted, “my apologies if I intruded.”

“Of course not.” Angelique smiled. “It is your garden, after all.”

“It’s your labor. I can hardly feel justified in claiming something as my own that I had no hand in building.” Carmilla replied, returning her gaze to a rather large rose, lightly bobbing in the breeze. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s more yours than anyone’s.” 

Angelique knelt down beside the queen, delicately resting the basket on the ground in front of her, ensuring none of her harvest spilled from its wicker confines.

“This garden belongs to the castle. I merely maintain it, and harvest it as needed.” The witch stated kindly. “Either way, you’re entitled to use it however you wish.”

“Thank you.” Carmilla replied, softly.

They spent a few moments in peaceful quiet, admiring the witch’s handiwork. However, the longer Angelique sat with her, the more she could feel the queen’s energy fluctuating. It felt a bit like a dark cloud fighting against the sun. There were times when Carmilla's energy would glow so brightly that it would nearly blind the third eye, and then it would dampen, as if a shadow had haphazardly waltzed between them. Even though Carmilla’s face remained calm and still, within her, a deluge of emotions were brewing.

“You’re troubled.” The young healer spoke with concern.

“I suppose that’s one word for it.” Carmilla replied, stoically. “I thought the garden would help. Well, it did help, in a way. It’s just…” She sharply exhaled through her nose, her face beginning to betray her bluff. “I’m not quite sure what else to do to help.”

“Then perhaps I can.” Angelique smiled kindly, her wavy red hair curling delicately around her thin face. “I am a healer, after all.”

Carmilla thought for a moment, lightly nibbling at her bottom lip, before reaching out and plucking a rose bud from the bush, allowing it to rest on her flatly extended palm. Easing her mind, her breathing deepened. She closed her eyes, directing all of her focus towards the small bud. Slowly, and with great hesitation, the petals began to shuffle, leisurely opening. Carmilla clenched her jaw and furrowed her brows as she strained, but the flower refused to open any further beyond a half bloom. Finally, she opened her eyes, defeatedly holding the stunted rose out towards Angelique.

The young witch studied the half opened flower, bewildered, her eyes darting confusedly between the queen and the rose.

“That’s all I can manage.” Carmilla added, dejectedly.

“Curious.” Angelique whispered to herself, not entirely sure what to make of it off hand.

Carmilla frustratedly tossed the stunted bud aside with a huff.

“It doesn’t matter what I do, or how many different plants I try, it’s always the same.” She shook her head, curls lightly bouncing against her cheeks. “What kind of elf can’t do simple plant magic?”

“Well,” Angelique thoughtfully tapped her lips with her finger, “there have been quite a few substantial changes in your life recently. It may be nothing more than that.”

Carmilla frowned, twiddling her thumbs in her lap. As much as she wanted to accept the optimism, the assessment felt less than satisfactory if she was being honest.

Sensing her unease, Angelique placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“Pregnancy can be very draining on the body, your majesty. Even at such an early stage, babies require quite a lot of energy to grow.” Her thumb gently stroked the queen’s arm. “It may very well be nothing to worry about. And, after a while, your magic may even return, just as it was before.” She spoke softly, a warm smile gracing her lips.

“I’ve never met an elf that lost their magic, even when carrying a child.” Carmilla’s voice was low, and laden with worry.

Angelique’s smile faded, her brows upturning slightly—though the elf did not see it as her eyes had fallen to her lap. 

Elves are defined by their magic, it’s what makes them whole. Their connection to it runs so deep that it is firmly embedded in their souls. That kind of bond is nearly impossible to break, and Angelique knew that. Having lived amongst the Elvijah, she had met a few pregnant elves, and learned a great deal of magic from them. Their abilities had never diminished with the presence of a child, even if they needed more rest than they would have otherwise. Carmilla’s situation was highly unusual, and the fact that Carmilla was aware of it forced the healer into being much more cautious regarding her display of concern.

“The child is a half-blood, your highness. A curse-born.” Angelique spoke calmly. “The elves you knew were carrying full-blooded, elvish children. It’s quite possible that it’s nothing more than that.”

Carmilla did not reply right away, instead continuing to fiddle with her fingers. She supposed, there was a chance that everything was fine—completely normal for a rather unusual situation, as it were. After all, it’s not exactly like she had any real experience with growing a child herself, much less a cursed one.

“I’m sure you’re right.” Carmilla sighed with resignation. “It’s probably nothing.”

Pushing herself up from the ground, she brushed the dirt from her knees, and extended a hand towards the healer. Graciously, Angelique accepted it, and allowed the queen to guide her to her feet.

As Angelique clung to the queen’s hand, she felt two, very distinct energy signatures glowing deep within her. The brightest of them was Carmilla’s, brilliant and warm. The other was her child’s, a tiny, dimly-lit spark. It was an underwhelming little thing, that tiny glimmer, but with a pregnancy so new that it would otherwise have yet to be found if she hadn’t been expressly looking for it, Angelique supposed it was just as it should be.

“Are you alright?”

Carmilla’s voice snapped the young healer out of her daze, and she quickly released her hold on her hand.

“My apologies, your highness. I fear I may have lost myself for a moment.” Angelique collected herself, readjusting the basket of flowers hanging from her arm.

Carmilla nodded, kindly smiling to hide her own concern about the brief shift of expression she had noticed on the healer’s face.

“I think I’ll take my leave. It appears my failed magic trick may have drained a bit more out of me than I had to give.” The queen let out a light, somewhat unspirited, giggle.

“Of course, my queen.” Angelique slightly bowed her head. “Rest well.”

She watched as Carmilla walked up the path, back towards the castle, her fingers lightly brushing against the flower blooms as she passed them by. Everything seemed so normal, just as it should be. The garden bloomed radiantly, despite the growing season coming to an end, and the harvests had been abundant, and would continue to be so for the rest of the year. The sun rose and set each day as it always had, and birds sang their chipper melodies in accompaniment. But Angelique couldn’t shake the feeling that something deeply unsettling would soon come to pass. Almost as if the energies had shifted to align with some cosmic catastrophe that not even the universe was yet aware of. A heavy darkness sank to the pit of her stomach, settling hard.

Perhaps a few more protective charms would do us all well.

The drapes had been partially drawn, by Carmilla’s request, as she had found herself uncaring for such bright, midday sun bouncing about the walls of her chambers. What was left was a softly radiant glow, just bright enough to illuminate the room without the need of candles.

Aoife handed a cup of cool water to Carmilla, which she graciously accepted with a nod of appreciation, before taking a modest sip. Moving towards the queen’s back, she gently lifted the golden circlet from her head, paying special attention to not snag it on her curls, and placed it on the dressing table. Returning to Carmilla, she lightly brushed her finger tips against her back, and began unlacing her silk gown. It was something she’d now done dozens of times, yet she still found her heart racing each time her fingers fumbled around the laces. While the glow of the elf’s energy had faded to her eyes, her heart remained blinded by it. For some reason, she just couldn’t acclimate, no matter how hard she tried.

“Is everything alright?” Carmilla asked.

“Hm?” Aoife snapped out of her daze, realizing she’d been spending far too long untying the gown’s laces. “Oh. Yes, your highness, everything is fine.” She finished with the laces and gently slid the sleeves down over her shoulders.

The dress shuffled lightly as it slipped to the floor, leaving Carmilla in only her white chemise. Gingerly, she lifted her foot, stepping over the bunched up fabric, before turning to face Aoife.

“You’re flushed.”

Aoife blushed harder, averting her eyes out of embarrassment. Carmilla smiled, stifling a small giggle as she found herself enjoying the young maid’s flustered state far more than she should have.

“My apologies, your highness, I suppose I haven’t yet gotten used to you.”

Carmilla brushed her fingers across Aoife’s cheek, trailing them down to her chin, and gently lifting her gaze. Shivers ran down the ginger’s spine as her heart skipped a beat.

“You must have a very sensitive heart.” The elf studied the girl’s flickering hazel eyes for a moment, before dropping her hand, and turning towards the bed. “Admittedly, I did not spend an abundance of time with humans in Elvenwood. I apologize, I may have misjudged how long my glow would take hold of you. I would understand if you wished to take leave of your duties tending to me for the time being-”

“No!” Aoife blurted out impulsively. Catching herself, she violently blushed, bowing in apology. “I mean, your majesty, I am more than capable of caring for you as much as you desire.”

Carmilla glanced over her shoulder, amused by the maid’s seemingly strong feelings on the matter.

“Are you certain?”

Aoife nodded, her hands firmly clasped in front of her, thumbs anxiously twiddling.

“Very well.” The queen returned her attention to the plush bed, sitting down atop the soft silk sheets. “Would you care to keep me company, then?”

Aoife’s brows creased slightly as she tried to process just exactly what it was Carmilla was implying. Her mind raced through a dozen possibilities—some of them more than once, but those were the ones her heart held a particular, and rather untoward, yearning for.

“I-I beg your pardon?” She squeaked.

“If I’m not mistaken, there is still a conversation we have yet to finish.” Carmilla smiled softly.

“A-ah. Right.” Aoife whispered to herself. “I would hate to disrupt your rest…” She tried to protest, but as Carmilla gestured to the elegantly tufted chair beside the bed, she found herself unable to refuse.

Cautiously, she stepped towards the chair, gingerly sitting upon the plushly cushioned seat. Her hands folded across her lap, tightly gripped together, as her heart nervously raced. At this point, it wasn’t as much about being in the queen’s presence as it was the conversation that she had been desperately praying the queen would forget.

Carmilla adjusted herself on the bed into a more comfortable position, propping pillows against the solid oak headboard for some extra padding. Cozying herself into the fluffy down pillows, she straightened out her chemise, and with a small, satisfied huff, she once again directed her attention to the red-head.

“Now,” the queen gave her a playful nod, smoothing out the blankets over her lap,  “where were we?”

Nervously, Aoife wrung her hands, at some points so intensely that the bones within them would ache. She bit her lip, a lump forming in her throat. Oh, how she hated herself for mentioning anything of it at all.

Carmilla patiently waited, though her brows began to crease as she noticed the unease radiating from her maid. Granted, she may have forgotten the exact words spoken—she had been quite distracted that day—but she did remember a somber weight to their conversation. Perhaps, further inquiry into it was overstepping, but if they were to be spending so much of their time together, it was probably best to be without secrets. At least, that was how Carmilla justified her steadily growing guilt.

“It’s not exactly a great story. I wouldn’t say there is even much to tell, your majesty…”

“Then telling it will be quick and painless, no?”

Aoife took a deep breath and nodded, resigning herself to accepting the consequences of her loose tongue.

“I’m not… my family isn’t…” She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. The words currently gathering in her throat had never been spoken aloud before. She’d hoped they’d never have to be. Yet, here she sat, with a queen of all people, about to divulge a family secret that she had dutifully hidden away ever since she was a child. “I’m not… human.”

Carmilla furrowed her brows, thoroughly gripped with confusion. She certainly couldn’t be wrong about her little maid. No, of course not. The energy signature she’d glimpsed before was certainly human. At least… it felt human.

“I mean, I am human. Mostly.” Aoife stammered. “I’m not a curse-born, or anything, I’m just. Well...” Giving her aching knuckles a rest, she began fiddling with her dress. “I’m a hereditary witch.”

“A… hereditary witch?” Carmilla had never heard the term before. As far as she, and all other elves were concerned, a witch was a witch and that was all there was to it.

Aoife gave a shameful nod.

“I have witch ancestry. I’m not a witch myself, the witch’s blood is far too thin for that, but it’s there, nonetheless.”

“I thought all witches were born from witches.”

“They are, mostly, but not always.” Aoife gnawed at the inside of her cheek. It felt strange explaining witchcraft and magic to an elf. Aside from the fae, they were the most magical creatures to ever walk the mortal plane. She found it difficult to grasp that there may be things in the world elves didn’t know, or didn’t care to know. “Magic exists in the most unsuspecting places sometimes. Witches can come from an ancient bloodline, or be blessed at their birth by a blood moon… or even make a deal with the divine if they’re feeling charitable.”

“But you were born to it.” Carmilla stated.

Aoife nodded. Oh, if only that small confession had been the extent of her secret. The pace of her heart quickened with dread as the conversation rapidly approached something she could never take back once it became known.

“I’m human enough to never cast a spell. My family spent generations dutifully diluting the witch’s blood within us, but…” Her voice went frail. “It doesn’t erase what my ancestors did.”

“What did they do?” Carmilla pressed, gentle and comforting.

The maid pressed her lips together, her brows scrunching with shame and disgust. Her chin quivered with frustration as her mind surveyed the memory of the day she herself first came to know of it. The day she swore to atone for that sin, even if it was not her own.

“Do you know the name Gunnilda Payne?”

Carmilla shook her head.

“I’m not surprised.” Aoife spoke through a sigh. “Elves typically don’t care to involve themselves in the affairs of witches. No offense intended, your majesty.”

Carmilla brushed it off, gesturing for her to continue. It wasn’t exactly like she could take offense to the truth.

“She was a very powerful witch. There’s hardly a witch or curse-born alive that doesn’t shudder at the mention of her.” Aoife’s eye twitched once, which she quickly shook away before continuing. “She’s nearly four-hundred years my ancestor, and I don’t say that proudly.”

“Why? What did she do?”

“Most curse-borns can trace their lineage back to someone who, at one point or another, had crossed Gunnilda Payne, and I use the word ‘crossed’ quite loosely.”

“Are you saying that… Gunnilda was responsible for creating cursed-bloodlines?”

“The oldest of them, yes. But it wasn’t just that she cursed people. It was the way she cursed people.” Aoife’s eyes flickered as her body began to tremble. “Some curses are… manageable. Like, if someone was caught stealing potatoes from the garden, a witch might think it funny to curse them with a violent distaste for them. The curse might wear off over time, or be lifted after a debt was paid, but even if the curse remained, it was never passed down.” She uneasily picked at her dress.

“Gunnilda was the one who found a way to make curses hereditary, wasn’t she?”

Aoife shakily nodded, her eyes drifting away from the queen’s.

“Her curses were so… vile.” Her voice cracked. “They stripped people of their humanity. She made them prey on humans, and because of that, they became no better than feral beasts. Monsters.” The maid folded her arms across her middle, gripping them tightly, as if she were trying to hold herself together. “Vampires were probably the luckiest of them all, even if she considered her first attempt at the curse a failure.”

“First attempt?” Carmilla asked, unconsciously leaning closer to the maid. “You mean, she tried different variations of the same curse?”

“Mm-hm.” Aoife confirmed. “The vampires you know of were her second attempt.”

“Well, what about her first attempt? What happened to them?”

“She cursed them to only walk the earth by night, under threat of burning death.”

Carmilla raised a curious brow, not quite understanding Aoife’s implication. Upon seeing the elf’s confused expression, the maid moved to clarify.

“They stepped into the sunlight, and burned to death.”

Carmilla bobbed her head back, trying to make sense of the wicked old crone’s intentions, but still falling short.

“But… how would it be a failure if death was the goal?”

“Death wasn’t the goal.” Aoife shook her head, somberly. “Suffering was. She’d simply overestimated their will to live.”

“How utterly wretched.” Carmilla gasped, her face twisted with disgust, and for a moment, she thought she’d be sick.

“And I can’t do a single thing to fix it.” Aoife muttered to herself.

The queen’s face began to soften as she studied Aoife, the girl slightly hunched over herself, tightly clinging to her arms as if she might otherwise split in half upon their release.

“That’s not your burden.” Carmilla assured.

“Isn’t it?” Aoife’s eyes had misted over, her lips firmly pressed together, fighting a pained frown. “I’m her descendent. I will forever be part of her, forced to walk amongst those that suffer because of her. That is my curse.”

“But you aren’t her.” Carmilla insisted pleadingly.

Aoife looked away, her shoulders slumping further.

“You had asked if I’d still be so generous, even if the cost of that generosity was my own life.”

Carmilla’s eyes surveyed the maid, her face lightly obscured by her fiery ringlets, as she tried to recall their former conversation.

“I would.” Aoife finally spoke, her voice small and broken.

Carmilla let her words sink in for a moment. Aoife had always appeared to be a simple, mild-mannered woman. Sweet, and kind, and certainly beautiful enough in her own right, but one she’d hardly consider giving a second glance to had she not been assigned to her side. Everything about her seemed painfully ordinary—just as Aoife had willed it. But now, it was like looking at her with new eyes. A woman secretly haunted by the ghost of someone she had never met, dedicating her life to righting their wrongs, hoping to achieve some level of peace in her soul, but knowing it would never come.

“You shouldn’t.” Carmilla finally responded.

“I have to. For me.” Aoife returned her doe-eyed gaze to the queen. “The same blood that made her wicked runs in my veins. Even if it is little more than a ghost, it’s still there.”

Carmilla sat quietly, staring into the maid’s hazel green eyes, watching as a single tear fell down her pale, freckled cheek. Slowly, she leaned over, reaching out and grabbing Aoife’s hand.

“Nothing you do in this life will ever take away what has already been done, and you certainly don’t have to try so hard to prove to the world that you’re nothing like her.” Carmilla gently stroked her hand with her thumb.

Aoife nibbled at her lower lip, her heart racing from the queen’s delicate touch. Suddenly, her mind was no longer occupied with witches and curse-borns. It was her, and only her. 

“I-” Aoife started, unsure exactly where her train of thought was going. But, wherever it was going, certainly wasn’t becoming of a maid. Nervously, she cleared her throat. “You should rest, I’ve bothered you enough.”

“Would you…” Carmilla’s face felt hot as the thought crossed her mind. “Um.”

Oh, gods, what the hell am I doing? She thought to herself, her heart beating heavily in her chest.

“W-what is it, your majesty?” Aoife asked with a blush.

“Ah, um.” Gods, this is a terrible idea, what am I thinking?! “Perhaps, you wouldn’t mind…” What a silly, stupid, horrible idea! “Er-” Drawing a deep breath, her eyes fell, as she resigned herself to letting the silly thought fade away. “Could you bring me some water before you leave?” She spoke breathily through a long exhale.

“Oh.” Aoife’s heart deadened. “Right. Of course, your majesty.” She pushed herself up from the chair, shuffling over to the dressing table. Grabbing the ceramic pitcher, she poured some fresh water into the cup, quickly returning to Carmilla’s side.

Their fingers lightly brushed against one another’s as the cup exchanged hands, causing Aoife to quickly release her grip to properly return her hand to her side. Surely, her confused heart had undertaken enough for today, and she couldn’t bear the thought of allowing it to convince her of something she ought not be convinced of.

Carmilla took a small, awkward sip. She hadn’t been even the slightest bit thirsty, however, she drank regardless.

“Is there anything else, your majesty?” Aoife asked, her voice firming up into a more formal tone that seemed almost out of place provided their previous conversation.

“Ah, no, Aoife. That’ll be all, thank you.” Carmilla replied.

With a slight bow, the young maid walked out of the room, firmly shutting the door in her wake.

Setting the mostly full cup down on the side table, Carmilla shuffled her pillow, and flopped down on the bed. Her exhaustion had stalled for a while, but seemingly returned with a vengeance as she suddenly found the weight of her eyelids nearly unbearable. The rapid beating of her heart hesitantly returned to its normal pace as she laid silently, staring at the ceiling.

She tried to rationalize it all in her mind, convincing herself that she was merely a victim of sympathy and hormones. There was nothing there, and there never would be. It would be horribly unfair to make Aoife believe there may have been any kind of true stirrings within her, especially while she was still under the spell of her elven glow. While her mind was too clouded to easily refuse her.

No. She decided. I will not take advantage of her this way.

And with that firm thought concealing behind it every feeling her heart had tricked her into holding, she closed her eyes, and drifted to sleep.

[the-lonelybarricade]

As the River Flows - (7/8)

Summary: As Feyre lamented quietly over the misfortune of her life, there, in the marketplace, she heard a merchant instruct to its patron: Place a butterfly wing under your tongue before you sleep, and you will dream of your true love.

A gift for @sideralwriting 💕

Read on AO3・Previous Chapter・Series Masterlist

-

Magic always comes at a cost.

Feyre couldn’t count how many times she had heard that warning from her governess. From Nesta. Sometimes, even from Elain.

She supposed the evidence of their warnings now laid on her skin in permanent ink, binding her to the man who stood just over her shoulder. Magic did come at a cost. And that cost, apparently, was three copper coins.

“What does it do?” She asked the shopkeeper, staring at the glossy surface of a translucent sphere. It shaped perfectly to her palm, small enough that she could close both hands around it. No larger than a ripe apple.

“It allows you to share memories,” the shopkeeper answered.

Feyre raised the orb higher, watching it catch and twist the sunlight, throwing a multitude of colors against the cloth drapes of the stall. When Feyre turned, she could see the reflection cast on Rhysand’s cheek. Red and blue and green. And sparkling violet, staring at her with open delight.

She quickly flitted her attention back to the shopkeep and the velvet-clad table of magical wares. On one end, there was a jar with several thin sticks of wood, wafting a thick, fragrant smoke. Smoke—but no fire. She wanted to ask if that was magic, too, but held her tongue. It was enough to take a deep breath, inhale the scent of rose and jasmine that she wished she could bottle and take with her when they left.

Oh, how she never wanted to leave.

“How does it work?”

The shopkeeper shared a grin over Feyre’s shoulder, at Rhysand, who was undoubtedly preening at Feyre’s enthusiasm. The elderly woman held out a wrinkled hand, adorned with rings and bangles and sharp plum painted nails.

Feyre placed the orb delicately into the shopkeeper's palm, watching with fascination as the glass emitted a soft, misty glow. Like a deep fog was trapped beneath the surface, and someone had lit a lantern from within its center. She swore smoke lifted from the orb and as she stared, images began taking shape. A man and a woman, undetailed at first, but then she could make out the blue-black hair and winning smile of her husband. And spinning in his arms, eyes sparkling with unfettered joy, was… herself.

“You made quite the handsome pair, on that stage,” the shopkeeper said.

Had she really looked that… happy? Feyre blinked, staring at that laughing girl, hardly recognizing herself. The image faded, drifting back into shapeless clouded glass. And the orb was just an orb again.

“Focus on a memory,” the woman said, handing the sphere back to Feyre. “The veritas will show it to you.”

“Does it have a cost?”

“Three copper pieces.”

“No,” Feyre said, a bit bashful. “I mean the magic. Is there a consequence to using it?”

The shopkeeper shrugged. “Some memories are better left unvisited. You would be surprised how many people become trapped in their pasts.”

An arm stretched over her shoulder, and the proximity of Rhysand��s body warmed Feyre’s back, making her feel again as breathless as she had felt dancing on the stage. Perhaps she still had yet to recover from the exertion.

He dropped three copper pieces into the shopkeeper's hand, murmuring behind her, “We’ll take the veritas.”

Rhysand had been doing that all day. Indulging every whim, whether Feyre asked him to or not. It was how she’d earned herself a sugar covered apple and a cup of spiced rum and now, a magical orb that could revisit any memory.

As they wandered out of the women's draped stall, Feyre wondered how many times she’d revisit this one. Her cheeks bloomed from the contrast of the sudden cold. It had been warm in the shop—through magic, Feyre was certain, since aside from the thick fabric of the tent, there was nothing in the shop that could have fought off the winter air.

“Is it time to go?” She asked, solemnly.

Rhysand had been making passing glances at the sun, and at the carriage parked on the other end of the market. She supposed they had wasted most of the morning; the sun was at its peak.

“We could stay here another night,” he suggested.

Delaying their arrival to the Northern Kingdom was a tempting offer. But it also added another day to their journey—another night at an inn, a far more intimate setting than a palace where she imagined they would stay in separate rooms.

She mulled that over, before shaking her head. “We can go.”

“There are plenty of markets like this in the North,” he said, reaching for her hand. She let him take it, surprisingly compliant in allowing him to raise her gloved fingers to his lips. That was becoming a habit of his.

Their eyes met. She again seized the opportunity to relish the sight of him in the daylight. There was more blue in his eyes. They were so much darker at night.

“I’ll take you to all of them,” he promised.

Feyre couldn’t imagine a prince and princess roaming around the street markets in a place they would be recognized. His words were simply a condolence, a means of coaxing her back into the carriage. She was tempted to tell him her older sisters used to play the same trick on her. But perhaps it was to her benefit that he thought her naive.

And maybe the little girl who climbed to the treetops, risking injury and more importantly, her smart clothes, just so she could peer over the manor walls to see what laid beyond—maybe that girl wanted to believe he was telling the truth, despite every rational reason she had to believe otherwise.

Feyre breathed, “Are they all like this?”

She thought she could see the memory behind his smile. The veritas hummed in her hand like it could sense it, like it wanted her to place it in his palm so it could shape the images in his mind. Feyre was tempted, if only for the opportunity to reveal what he kept beneath his mask. She wanted to measure the light and darkness that warred inside of him, to know which side won, and how closely it mirrored her own.

“In essence,” Rhysand said, elbow looping through her own to guide Feyre through the crowd of bellowing merchants. He murmured at her ear, “Though you’ll find some are more exceptional than others. Ones that are held in jeweled caverns, obscured beneath waterfalls. Some, even, are held at the bottom of lakes.”

Feyre scowled at him, “Don’t make fun.”

“I’m not.”

He said it off-handedly, more concerned with turning to pluck a flower from a passing wagon piled with red and purple asters. The merchant’s back was to the prince, calling to the market that he was selling the flowers for one copper a bunch.

“And I’m supposed to trust a thief?” Feyre asked, raising a brow at her husband. Rhysand ignored the accusation in favor of sliding the aster stem into a notch of her braid.

“Hold on to that,” he said. “Asters are a key ingredient for most love potions.”

“And praytell, what use do I have for a love potion?”

“As you said, there aren’t many butterflies in the North.”

It was remarkable to Feyre how easy it was to suddenly lose her footing on the ice, especially when Rhysand said things that made her chest feel little more than a wooden cupboard he’d pried open, exposing her heart to the cold elements and his careful scrutiny.

Did he know, then? That her true love had visited in her sleep? The stone wall around her mind was still in place, but he could have simply guessed. In all of his charm and sweet whisperings, she’d nearly forgotten how he’d attempted to deceive her at the ball by pretending he was her true love.

The rumours are true, that you have eyes like stars. They are the most beautiful color I have ever seen.

He’d known about it then, and even in their argument that morning he’d attempted to assume his identity.

You presume I’m not your true love?

He wasn’t. He had known the phrase because he’d plucked it from her mind. Tamlin had known without magic, though Tamlin had also arrived empty handed, where Rhysand had brought a necklace laden with blue gemstones, just as her true love had promised.

Feyre’s head spun. What on earth was she thinking? She had met her true love just last night and he had been utterly distraught at their circumstances. Why would Rhysand have reacted that way? He’d gotten what he wanted.

It was evident by the curve of his mouth as he caught a stray strand of her hair and twirled it around his finger, whispering, “Perhaps if you get tired of longing for your true love, you can learn to love your husband instead.”

And there—confirmation from the liar himself. His violet eyes flickered to the flower in her hair and Feyre resisted the urge to pull out its stem and throw it to the ground.

A stolen aster for a stolen bride.

“Let’s get in the carriage,” she said, mood now soured despite the lovely time she’d had at the market.

Rhsyand sighed, clearing sensing the shift. He led her away regardless, the two of them dodging shouting vendors and aimless shoppers.

Molten chocolate—two for a copper.

Come see the spectacular Koschei juggle six daggers!

Newlyweds, having trouble sleeping? I can brew a special potion—

—break any spell or bargain.

Feyre grinded to a halt, cocking her head towards the hunched man sitting at an empty table. There were no trinkets, or any signs, but he grinned when he saw Feyre. A serpent's smile.

“Bound by bargain or law?” He asked. “I can only assist with one.”

“You can break a bargain?” Feyre asked.

They were just on the outskirts of the market, within seeing distance of the carriage. Rhysand pulled at her arm, urging. “You can’t. He’s trying to swindle you.”

“An interesting accusation, given you have just lied, and I have yet to make a single promise—false or otherwise.” The man’s beady eyes turned to Feyre. He crooned, “Yes, madam. Bargains can be broken. But doing so requires powerful magic.”

“Feyre,” Rhsyand said. Not a warning, but a plea.

“What kind of magic?”

The man leaned forward, eyes sparkling in a way that caused the hairs on her arms to stand on edge. He turned his head like an owl, before licking his lips and answering, “That will depend on the bargain in question. A small debt is more easily broken. How has this man bound you?”

Feyre glanced over her shoulder at Rhysand, studying the way he held himself still. He was staring at her, not the man, his expression so guarded she couldn’t say if it was anger or fear that held the tension in his back.

She held his gaze as she answered the man, “an eternity of obedience.”

The vendor laughed, an awful wheezing sound that stretched long enough to transcend into mockery. “What a foolish thing to promise.”

Her cheeks burned. Rhsyand touched her arm like he was intending to comfort her, but his jaw was clenched tight, and the anger burning his eyes was far from consoling.

Feyre forced her pride to heel, turning herself to the man still laughing at her expense.

“Can it be broken?”

“Not by any spell I can offer you.”

“But it can be broken?”

The man gazed over her shoulder, at Rhysand, and smirked. “Yes.”

It was clear he wasn’t going to provide any more information. Not for free, and clearly nothing that he believed would be helpful to her. Feyre huffed, pulling her arm out of Rhysand’s grasp to shuffle the rest of the way to the carriage. She would have stomped, if she wasn’t afraid of slipping on the ice. Rhysand trailed after her, maintaining the quiet in what she suspected was his own ire—but was it directed at her, or the shopkeeper?

He opened the carriage door for her, regardless, and she climbed in without looking at him, arms crossed over her chest. Rhysand said something to the footman before stepping in across from her, and the carriage jolted forward. Onwards to the North, once again.

She could feel him staring. But Feyre was still sifting through all her thoughts, trying to reconcile these different, confusing fractals of her husband. A liar and a thief and a prince who was gentle and cruel and manipulative and devoted. Which pieces were real? They couldn’t all be, could they?

“Feyre—“

“Do you know how to break the bargain?”

Rhysand slumped forward, running his hands through his thick, frost-dampened hair.

“As one of the five questions—“

“Feyre.”

“—do you know how to break the bargain?”

“You only have two questions left.”

She gritted her teeth. “Answer it.”

“Yes.”

Feyre exhaled, waiting for more. But that was all Rhysand would say. His lips were pressed tight, his brows bunched together.

“Tell me how,” she demanded hotly.

His golden brown skin had been flushed from the cold, but now she watched it drain of color. “That would be another question.”

Feyre shrieked, wanting to throw something at him and, having nothing besides the veritas, she lobbed it at his head.

He caught it between two hands, lips twitching to hide a smile that only kindled more of her rage. “This would be your final question, do you still want me to answer?”

“Tell me every possible way,” she amended, learning her lesson. “I want to know precisely what I must do to break the bargain.”

Rhysand sighed, staring at the veritas like he hoped it might transport him away from the carriage, towards a memory that did not involve angry wives who shouted and threw things in his direction. She quietly felt smug that the veritas could do nothing more than show Rhysand his own dastardly reflection.

“There are two ways,” he said, finally. “The first is to see the bargain through to its terms. Since each of our bargains is a lifelong commitment, I’m afraid you would need to see it through to your death. The second way is to break the bargain’s spell by using a more powerful magic. The only thing more powerful than a lifelong bargain is…”

Rhysand swallowed like he was trying to push down the truth as it rose in his throat, but the magic forced it to his lips, until he practically spat the words: “A kiss from your true love.”

Feyre’s heart sunk into her stomach.

It’s rumored that true love’s kiss is the most powerful magic in existence.

Her true love had said that, hadn’t he? But… he had kissed her last night, and the bargain remained. Did they need to kiss with the intention of breaking the spell? Perhaps it had not worked because they had kissed inside a dream.

“I don’t need to be in your mind to see what you’re thinking,” Rhysand said. “And I’ll remind you that regardless of bargains, you are my wife. No magic will change that.”

Feyre stared out the window, not wanting to let him see how much that thought deflated her. She knew he was right. He had already told her that if she ran, he would stop at nothing to find her again. Knowing the bargain could be broken changed very little, especially if true love’s kiss didn’t work in her dreams.

The silence between them stretched, becoming a heavy, tangible thing. She could hear Rhysand shift, felt his legs—so much longer and more constrained in the small space—bump hers. He was trying to get her to look, and Feyre refused.

Until she saw something shining in the window’s reflection. Then, she turned to find Rhysand cupping the veritas in his large hands. He was looking at her, and she wished she didn’t notice the way his face lit up at her attention. The soft glow of the veritas left two silver disks shining around his pupils, and the contrast with the violet made his eyes look impossibly wider, more childlike than she’d ever seen him, but still filled with mischief.

“Can I show you something?”

Feyre hesitated. He was leaning toward her conspiratorially, and the smile he wore offered no hint of the man who had warned her, just a mere moment ago, that she was to be his reluctant bride for life. Was this his attempt at smoothing things over?

He leaned his broad shoulders forward to extend the orb into the space between them. It was humming—no, roaring. Feyre jumped as a spray of white mist burst out of its surface, crashing over her.

“It won’t hurt you,” he said, gently. “It’s just a memory.”

Indeed, the mist was intangible and brushed straight through her, then retreated, folding back into a pool of rock and water just beneath the vantage point. Then, a dark wave rose in the distance, curling at the top before it, too, crashed against the rocks, its momentum more violent, causing the white-tipped water to shoot towards the sky.

Feyre reached out a hand, trying to feel it. “What is this?”

She recognized the soft call of birds, nearly drowned out by the sound of the powerful push and pull of water. She could guess what it was.

“The ocean,” Rhys said, his eyes shining.

“It’s…” she frowned. “It seems so dangerous.”

And it was louder than she imagined.

“It can be,” he murmured. “But it can be gentle, too.”

The vision shifted, and Feyre could see a smooth, beige beach where foamy water rushed to the shore like a playful lover, clinging to the blushing sand, reluctant to return to the sea, but always rushing back. She could see the low light of sundown, reflected not just against the water, but on the wet, polished sand, gilding everything in sight in bright orange and gold. And if she shut her eyes, she swore she could feel a warm breeze tangling in her hair.

“It can be warm in the North,” he said. “I used to take my little sister to the beach in the summers. The water stays cool, even with the sun shining against it all day long.”

Feyre studied the surface of the glistening water, awed and fascinated that something so majestic could truly be real. “What’s it like?” she whispered. “Swimming in the ocean?”

“It’s wonderful,” Rhysand said.

And then the image rippled, like they’d dived beneath the surface. The sound of the lapping tide immediately muted, replaced with the soft, lulling sound of bubbling air, rushing to the shining surface above. But below… Below was deep, beautiful blue water, crowded with schools of colorful fish and the most curious rocks Feyre had ever seen. She hadn’t known there were plants that could live underwater, but she could see their long vines swaying leisurely to-and-fro as striped fish darted by. The backs of her eyes stung. Feyre raised a hand to cover her mouth, uncertain why she was crying, just—that it was so beautiful. So tranquil and vibrant, flush with a diversity of life that Feyre had never even imagined, could never fully describe, it was so outside of her exposure to the world.

“I’ll take you there,” Rhysand promised softly. He offered her one of those rare, sweet smiles. Devoid of any mockery or pride. He said, “You’d need to let me teach you how to swim, first.”

Feyre fought a sob, but it came anyway, bursting out at her first attempt at speaking when she asked, “Is it hard?”

“No,” he soothed. “You’ll love it.”

Bashful, Feyre sniffed and brushed away her tears. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m crying.”

Rhysand shifted the orb to one hand so he could reach forward to cup her face, chasing away the tears he could reach with his thumb. “There is a great, beautiful world that has been waiting for you, Feyre, and I intend to show you all of it.”

She should have pulled away. She was angry at him, wasn’t she? Feyre grabbed his wrist and instead of pushing, she tugged him across the carriage until he was seated beside her.

“Show me more,” she said. “Show me the North.”

He made a quiet noise, something she interpreted as compliance though it sounded more as though he’d been punched in the stomach. But when Feyre turned her head to gauge his expression, he was wearing his usual sideways smile, nothing more than pleased she’d taken an interest in his kingdom.

Feyre nearly asked for him to forget it, not wanting to offer him the satisfaction, before the image changed again and she could see a city nestled between ocean and mountain and sprawling river. They flew past boats and piers, past homes and streets and theaters. Past a colorful plaza teaming with stalls and restaurants and artwork. People wandered about, happy and thoughtful, kind and welcoming, and they waved to the memory’s observer—to Rhysand, their Prince. Waved, not bowed.

“This is Velaris,” Rhysand said. A note of warmth in his voice, one that wasn’t entirely foreign. “This is the heart of the North, the city that you will call home.”

Moment after moment, images of marketplaces and townhomes and the glistening river that ran through it all. And though Feyre could not explain how, she could have sworn there was love in the images. She did not understand how the veritas conveyed it, but the colors, the light… They were rooted in something deeper, something linked to Rhysand and his memories.

“It’s beautiful,” she admitted, still waiting for the sight of the castle and walls that would contain her.

But they never came. Instead he showed her a townhouse and a palace carved into a mountain and he walked her through each section of the city, and she realized, with every passing citizen who greeted him by name, that the walls wouldn’t come. Her eyes began to sting again. And even though she fought the tears, Rhysand must have noticed, because he wrapped an arm around her shoulder and she didn’t stop him. He was warm, and he smelled like she imagined the ocean might. Salt and danger and freedom.

“Do you want me to keep going?” He asked.

She would never admit it, but she tilted her head to move closer, so she could let his scent soothe and steady her. When she nodded, Rhysand swept his cape over her shoulder, settling into a position they both knew they would stay in for the indefinite remainder of the carriage ride. Her head fell against his shoulder, and she could feel the quiet exhale of his breath at her temple. She could hear his pulse, and she nearly joked that she was surprised he had one at all. But somehow, through the combination of his warmth and his scent and that ever-beating metronome, Feyre drifted to sleep in her husband’s arms, while his memories of their kingdom continued playing.

-

She woke to darkness.

Feyre sat up in bed, waiting for the sound of strolling footsteps.

They didn’t come, and slowly she pushed through the disorienting haze of sleep to realize a hearth was crackling in the corner of the room, and she could still see its light.

She wasn’t dreaming, then.

The lighting was dim, but slowly her eyes adjusted until she could make out the details of the inn’s bedroom. She didn’t remember leaving the carriage, which surely meant her husband must have carried her in. Thankfully, she was still wearing the elegant navy dress she had put on that morning.

Slipping quietly out of bed, Feyre measured each footstep against the old wooden floorboards, unaware if Rhysand was a light or heavy sleeper. He again had chosen to occupy an armchair in front of the hearth.

Feyre reminded herself, sternly, that it was not charming he’d decided not to share a bed with her when she was not awake to protest otherwise. But… it’s what other men would have done. He was a prince, and it was the second night in a row he’d claimed the armchair without complaint, without her asking. It was a little charming.

It was the least she could do not to wake him up now as she searched for a nightgown. He’d placed their trunks in the window bay across the room, and Feyre was able to easily find a silken negligee at the top of the folded clothes—short and delicate and pink and certainly not one that she had packed for herself. With a sigh, Feyre threw the fabric aside and began digging for something more suitable. She pushed past the heavy cloaks and dresses, searching for the unmistakable feeling of silk.

While she searched, her hand brushed against something thin and solid, which made a crinkling sound beneath her fingers. Parchment. She froze, head swiveling over her shoulder to see if Rhysand had overheard, but he remained still. Holding her breath, Feyre carefully pulled the parchment from beneath the heavy piles of clothes—buried so deep he had clearly been trying to hide it.

Thinking perhaps she had finally unburied one of his secrets, Feyre eagerly held the paper to the moonlight. The moonlight, which was always honest with her. It was hard to read the black ink in the dim lighting, but as Feyre pulled the crumpled parchment close to her face, she immediately recognized her own handwriting.

My dear rake,

At first, her mind couldn’t truly make sense of what she was reading. Had he found the letters she had kept from her true love? But—no. This letter hadn’t received a reply.

Perhaps this will be the last letter I ever send you.

Feyre dropped the parchment back into the trunk, trying to make sense of this. Had he… had he been intercepting their letters? Is that how he’d known about the identifying phrase, and the gift, and—and when to intercept her, before she made it to the Archeron gate? Had any letter ever reached her true love? Did her true love exist at all? Or was he… was he…

She scrambled to rearrange the trunk to its original state, burying the letter and her fears beneath the heavy piles of cloth. With shaking hands, she tore at the eyelets on her back, leaving her bodice and skirts as a heap on the floor before shrugging into the indecent nightgown.

Rhysand stirred as she walked past, but he didn’t wake. Which was just as well, because Feyre had no intention of letting him see her in the nightgown—ever. She crawled back into the large bed, still reeling at what she had discovered. At what it could mean.

Feyre only knew one thing for certain: she needed to trap a butterfly.