#Merchants of Terror
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Terror at Tenkiller (1986)
#valentines horror watchlist#not technically valentines set but it definitely has the vibe#terror at tenkiller#ken meyer#stacey logan#mike wiles#michelle merchant#80s horror#slasher#horror#final girl#women in horror#scream queen#80s slasher#horrorstills#1980s horror#1980s slasher#80s movies#valentines horror#valentines day
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Slowly approaches you but as I approach the skull merchants terror radius gets louder and closer with me
#dead by daylight#dbd#skull merchant#dbd skull merchant#adriana imai#I lowkey love her terror radius
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The Duke and I - N.K.
Synopsis. Dearest gentle reader, it is with great pride that we introduce this season’s most eligible bachelor, Duke Nanami Kento. However, ladies be warned, rumors swirl that our most gallant gentleman already has his eyes (and hands) set on a particular chambermaid. You.
Pairing. Nanami Kento x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem!chambermaid!reader, duke!Nanami, BRIDGERTON AU, duke x chambermaid, slight social clashes, he’s SO in love, courting, face-sítting (fem rec.), squírting, spítting, he’s FÉRAL, fíngering, overstím, breaking furniture, dóggy, “just the típ”, manhandIing, HEADLOCKS, creampíes, tummy buIges, chokíng, dúmbifícation, PÚSSYDRÚNK Nanami, the ton, proposals, happy ending, pet names, swéaring.
Word count. 9.0k
A/N. To that one nonnie that made it impossible NOT to think about this…

“And who–pray tell, is that fine gentleman, Shoko?”
“Who?”
“Him.”
It was like watching a parade, of sorts.
Monarchs upon nobles upon countless upper-class elites filtering in and out of the royal palace. Each with a long, satin gown fluttering about, or men with glinting medals that likely cost more than four lifetimes of your wages.
Debutante season had commenced.
And as part of the Queen’s chambermaids, it was your duty to pain-stakingly welcome each special guest deemed worthy of attending her highness’s garden parties.
Which is why - almost on instinct - you’d snapped your head towards the clip-clop! of a carriage steadying to a halt by the hedge-archway entrance. Catching just a flash of sleek blond, who…
Before the footmen swing open the carriage doors, and out steps the most handsome man you’ve ever seen in your entire life-
“Oh, him. That’s Duke Nanami Kento.” Shoko drawls underneath her breath, dipping into synchronized curtsy alongside the household staff. “And he’s staring intently right at you.”
Honestly, Shoko might be one of the Queen’s most favored healers- but you really think she’s been neglecting the health of her eyes lately. Daring to elbow her in the side, “Don’t jest!”
She snickers, and you’re sure you detect the nearby daughter of a merchant family haughtily sniff your way—“I do no such thing.” Though, not for too long, fortunately for the two of your necks, because just then Duke Nanami’s stepping into clear view of the party - and you’d never glimpsed so many aristocratic mouths drop.
So many ladies (and some gentlemen) fluster, and so many older heads of families water at the mouth like they’d just spotted the most delectable prey.
Understandable, however.
Because if Nanami was thoroughly agreeable to your eyes in the few peeks you’d stolen at him- then he was almost other-wordly now.
With the most charming, tidy golden hair pushed back, a few curls coiling at the nape of his high collar. A towering stature that made even the most accomplished generals hunch in on themselves, and you nearly audibly gulp at the broad flex of his arms within his navy jacket. Stern. Stoic.
His molten, intense eyes peek over thin-rimmed glasses at the buzzing guests ahead, and you swear that they begin to stray somewhere near you—
“Heavens! Must I repeat myself, you common scullion?”
Ah, at the way Marquess Zenin Naoya was saddled right behind you and spitting hellfire, surely.
You rush to bend into an apologetic bow, so low that the knobs of your spine start to ache- “Please forgive my impudence, My Lord-”
“Have you nothing between your ears but lint?” He’s growling, spindly hands tightening on his empty goblet of wine until you hear the silver material creak. And it’s hitting you right then n’ there that in your haste to ogle Duke Nanami, you must have failed to heed Naoya’s calls for more drink-
He turns his sharp profile to the side and spits on a patch of clean-cut grass, “A servant that knows not her place is no better than dirt. What do you gawk at like so?”
“N-nothing, My Lord.”
And you can only watch, in slow-motion terror, as Naoya flicks his beady gaze behind you- and his sour face tenses at the vision of the tall newcomer that’d easily - and very obviously - ousted his mantle as the most eligible bachelor present. “That ol’ duke? Heh- dreaming that he’d bed a wench, did you?”
“Forgive me, sir, it was not my intent to give offence.” You’re breathing out, first clenching as you feel the withering looks that were starting to prop up around you two. Everybody loved a scandal. Trembling hands reaching out for his cup, “I-if you would allow me to just refill-”
“Don’t touch me!”
CLANG!
It happens all at once.
The heavy goblet clatters to the floor, a warm chest nuzzles your back, and a strong hand was locked right around Naoya’s raised wrist. Right before he could strike.
“It seems her highness’s liquor is exceptionally strong.” Nanami’s deep baritone sounds above your head and makes your skin bead with a blanket of goosebumps.
And it’s slightly husky. So attractive.
Especially when he’s tilting his head down so close, something primal in his eyes that made it feel like he was on the very verge of devouring you whole. Right there in the middle of the bustling garden party. Humming sternly, “Yuji, please escort our impaired marquess somewhere ah…quieter.”
“Y-yes, Nanamin- I mean, Your Grace!”
You’re watching, speechless, as a younger boy with the most vibrant head of pink locks runs up from behind and grabs onto both of Naoya’s shoulders to bodily steer him away from you.
He must have been stronger than he looked, clearly, because the proud heir was being lugged away like a sack of potatoes no matter how much he squirmed and fought - much to the amusement of the party-dwellers. And you.
But you’re quick to bite back your startled laughter once you’re realizing that Nanami Kento was still holding onto you. And not just stood behind- you must have stumbled amidst all the commotion because he had a large hand gripped onto your hip to steady you.
You were in his arms.
Gasping, “O-oh.” You couldn’t have broken off faster from him, knees strangely weak as you’re forcing them into yet another curtsy, “I am so-”
“My deepest apologies, Honorable Miss.” The duke beats you to it, a strange smile playing along his stern lips as he bends into an even deeper bow. “I should have asked prior to touching a lady.”
“A-a lady!” You’re squawking, in what was most definitely an unladylike manner. Hands wringing to gesture him to straighten as much as you could without it being seen as defiance against one of the crème de la crème of nobility. “I assure you I am no such thing, Your Grace.”
Just then he kisses the back of your hand in greeting, “Please, call me ‘Nanami’- or ‘Kento’, should you wish, ma’am.”
“It- it is beneath you to be designated that by me-”
“I insist.”
And if everyone here was watching the upending chaos before, then they simply couldn’t remove their eyes by now.
Whilst Nanami - still bowed - only tilted his head up with a smile, looking at you through his long, pale lashes.
You lift the humble fabrics of your working dress, a thick, dark-colored wool that marked you different from the tittering daughters of the upper-class. “B-but I am only in service to her highness.”
“Is that so?” And you’re breathing a sigh of relief as he stands back to his broad, proud figure- finally, he’s understood and would prance off as all young bachelors did to- “For I only gaze upon the most beautiful lady that has graced the floor this evening, and my blessed gaze.”
What?
“Have a charmed night-” Nanami has a dimple- he has a dimple that winks from the side of his grin as he turns and nods down with the velvety brim of his hat. “-My Lady.”
My Lady.
Utahime’s hands clap down on your rigid shoulders. “Sole heir to the Nanami fortune. Rich, handsome, aware when to cease talking.” Her low whistle rings in the air- tinged with such scandal, “Fiend seize it! I should hasten to practice your new title then, Duchess Nanami.”
“You have a lamentable deficiency in wit-”
Utahime, reputably sensible tutor to the offspring of the royal ladies-in-waiting, and known blockhead around your little trio. “And you have a lamentable deficiency in eyesight.” Sighing, “The look he bestowed upon you, my dear…”
“Or would it be ‘My Lordliness.’” Shoko croons in as well, sipping on a flute of bubbly champagne definitely not meant for her. “Oh-so-beautiful wife of Duke Nanami-”
“Attend to your duties!”
.
.
.
Dearest gentle reader,
It has come to my attention - and certainly to that of all the ladies who frequent the halls of Mayfair - something for which you should do well to brace your hearts. Whispers spread that the most eligible bachelor of the season, gentle Duke Nanami Kento, erupted quite the scandal during her majesty’s garden soirée by fixing his much sought-after attentions upon none other than a humble chambermaid.
Yes, you read that correctly, dear reader. For someone reputed in the upper echelons of society for being as stoic as he is handsome, Duke Nanami shares his first spark of interest as he searches for a bride this season.
So heed this author’s advice; as the famed noble resides in the royal palace for the rest of his stay, keep an eye about. For you may just be lucky to be named Duchess of the House of Nanami.
Yours Truly,
Lady Whistledown.
.
.
.
“This is preposterous!”
“It is absolute truth-”
“It is a sham is what it is.” You’re nearly crying out as you shove Lady Whistledown’s latest scandal sheet back into Shoko’s arms. “He- the duke never fixed his attentions on me.”
And your best friend didn’t spare you a word, only a long, narrowed stare of her intelligent eyes that made your stomach twist.
Did Nanami fix his- no. While you and Shoko huddled into a hidden alcove within the sprawling walls of the palace to read the latest on-dit gossip, you smacked yourself back into reality.
The nobility often did have nothing much to entertain themselves with outside of fanning scandal. He was powerful. He was attractive. And he has as many prospects as there were knights in this palace, surely!
Because - of course, for the universe did love to laugh at your expense - he’d taken residency in the palace until the season ended, as one of the Queen’s guests.
Days later you could count every look, every smile, every bow- goodness, there was that one time that you’d been placing cutlery along the winding royal dinner table. Only for Nanami’s engulfing fingertips to brush against yours and make your skin scorch with his whisper, “Thank you, my lady.”
You’re almost befogged why that wasn’t splashed across Lady Whistledown’s writing- chambermaid loses her wits, hear ye!
“Wh-whichever way one looks at it.” You’re stammering out, realizing that you’d been quiet for much too long. “His grace is simply raising some kind of mischief.”
“Certainly.” She was not certain.
“Just you wait- by the end of this season, Duke Nanami will be married to a lady of high standing and I shall–”
“Be disengaged?” That wasn’t the monotone, sarcastic voice of your longest friend.
It was something masculine, something amused. And it was emanating right from the open space of the corridor reading up to the alcove.
You don’t have to turn your head to realize who it is - Nanami Kento.
Though, you do turn anyway. And you almost regret it when you’re stuck by the sheer intensity of his stare, of his face leaned down so close. So intimately that you can’t stop yourself from flitting a sharp glance down at his plush, curving pink lips.
Perhaps Lady Whistledown wasn’t all that wrong - especially about him being handsome…
“Apologies for startling you, ma’am.” Nanami cuts your traitorous thoughts short by slowly tilting something flat and cream-colored in one hand. “Permit me to explain- will you hopefully be disengaged to attend the upcoming Royal Diamond Ball? Perhaps?”
You’re bowing, confused. “Y-yes, Your Grace. I shall be of service during her highness’s ball.”
It was only the most anticipated assembly this entire year, the annual gathering right in the Queen’s Great Hall to announce the diamond of the season.
And in only a week, every single servant of the palace was to work themselves to the bone - welcoming, chaperoning, making note of the newly-made unions to titter over much later.
“Ah, allow me to clarify.” Rubbing a free hand behind his neck, the famed Nanami Kento almost looks…sheepish. “What I meant was- might you be disengaged to…” Staring right at you, hypnotic. “-join me?”
“…What?”
“Of course, it would be no trouble at all if you can not spare a moment, I should be happy to merely converse with you.”
It slips out- “Th-that’s madness. All those ladies-in-waiting-”
Then he’s clasping your hands, he’s pressing the invitation in- but, more importantly, he’s holding you. “And yet, I would like nothing more than the pleasure of your company.” Close. Too close. His breath wafts your lips, “I hope this is not too forward of me. But should you let yourself, trust that I will take care of everything, My Lady.”
And just as soon as you think he’ll kiss you - how uncouth (though, you admittedly wouldn’t complain) - he bends at the waist to gently grasp your hand.
“Everything.” Whispering a soft kiss into the back, Nanami lingers his lips - his gaze - for a long while. “I await eagerly for your word.”
He’s gone almost as softly, and sweetly, as he’d appeared.
Taking with him the scent of golden caramel, and the racing beat of your heart. You swear you’d have been stuck within the alcove staring behind his muscular back until nightfall had it not been for Shoko.
“So…” She plasters a wry smile once you’re turning her way, invitation trembling in your grip. And you’re noticing that upon its envelope dazzles swooping calligraphy of your name, almost certainly written by him. “Would you prefer ‘Your Gracefulness’ or ‘Duchess Nanami’?”
.
.
.
Dearest gentle reader,
The ton is abuzz as her majesty the Queen’s Royal Diamond Ball nears closer. And the sole heir to the house of Nanami is certainly no exception.
This author hears directly from a reputable source within her highness’s Chamberlain Office that Duke Nanami Kento was uncharacteristically fastidious in securing himself an extra invitation. Most claim this as confirmation of his grace’s dedication to finding a bride, most also claim they’d seen the aforementioned, infamous chambermaid being handed it.
Take care of artifice; but such intrigue of a commoner attending the most prestigious ball of the year may be much more than my readers may be able to bear.
So, ladies, grab your finest gowns and shortest shawls to make haste for a chance to snag the eligible bachelor’s heart once and for all this season! And I shall, of course, be in attendance to report on all the scandals that unfold.
Yours Truly,
Lady Whistledown.
.
.
.
“I look…”
“Enchanting.” Utahime nods.
“I was thinking more toad-eaten.” You have to mentally remind yourself to close your maw and do your very best not to gape at the reflection in the decadent mirror displayed in front of you.
Despite your words, even you couldn’t deny that the deep, sapphire-encrusted gown you were donning made you look every bit the noblewoman that you weren’t. Its Empire waist snugly crowning the flowing muslin, sleeves fashionably puffed, with tasteful gold jewelry that you wouldn’t have so much as dared to look at let alone be dolled-up into.
It was made for you.
Quite literally. Utahime had been the one to write your letter of acceptance to Duke Nanami (after shrieking herself hoarse in excitement first.) And through a week of hushed conversation with his grace, the ball evening had crept up closer and you had an army of modistes and maids knocking at your servants’ quarters.
Scrubbing you raw, painting your face, slipping you into a dress he’d ordered tailored to your exact measurements- how did he even know?
Shoko had to let you use her office, and she was deriving her payment back for it by beaming at the sight of you. “And I was thinking more Duchess of the house of Nanami-”
“Cease!”
“Ah, so you observe? You are noble in all but title already.”
Whilst Shoko and Utahime - the traitors - burst out into peels of laughter, you’re left fiddling with the silken coverings of your gloves. “You…you don’t suppose he’s making a mockery out of me, after all?”
That makes them quieten down, and Utahime hugs your shoulders in a way that thoroughly displeases the attendants and their ruffles. “You shine everyone else down, my dear. He should be lucky to have such a lovely date this evening.”
“Quite so.” Shoko nods, “And should he dare fool around, I have long sought a specimen upon whom to test my latest scalpel-”
“Shoko!”
“Do let me join.”
“U-um, ehem.” The tense, honestly frightened clearing of Itadori, his protégé’s, throat cuts your morbid conversation short. And as he looks at you, the poor boy blushes- whispering something shapes strangely like a little—“Divine.”
Before you know it, you’re being escorted down the high-ceiling corridor just as you’d always watched the sisters and wives of nobility being guided so.
It’s a pathway more than familiar to you, yet seems so foreign once you approach the grand, imposing double doors opened to the ballroom. It was a magnificent thing; one of the Queen’s proudest possessions - with diamond chandeliers that dripped yellow light like a second sun, and a grand polished staircase kissing down from the doorway to a dance floor at the bottom.
Faint orchestra and chatter tainting the sparkling atmosphere, you breathe in nervously and even the flower-scented air seems too expensive for you.
Itadori hands the chief footman your invitation - something that makes the latter’s bushy eyebrows raise as he recognizes your name. And then the boy squeezes your hand before he leaves you off at the edge of the entrance, “His grace will be utterly bewitched, My Lady. He already is.”
Oh- what?
In the blink of an eye, he’s melted back into the crowd of other youngsters networking outside. And with nearly every guest already inside - you could only descend.
Down.
Down.
Down, the massive carpeted staircase- and it felt like every pair of eyes were on you. Most stopping mid-dance. Some whispering behind their fans.
And one, Nanami Kento, staring at you breathless and awestruck where he’d been politely conversing with the Queen herself, and a gaggle of entranced admirers. But he only had eyes for you.
Almost frozen. Almost shocked-
Enough so that your satin-covered feet were just a few steps away from reaching down to the marble ballroom floor before you’re thinking of turning right back around and running-
“You.” A hand on your wrist, a soft pair of lips on the back of your hand. Nanami Kento had broken through just about every rule of aristocracy to storm through packs of nobles and catch your wrist before you escaped.
And when he kisses you, it felt like he was finally breathing for the first time after years. “I had- I had not dared to hope that you would truly appear.” Staring at you through thick, golden lashes as he bends deeper into a bow. “You have honored me with the presence of the most beautiful lady to ever grace these floors.”
Languidly, you’re twisting your body back to face him - to face the crowd - and the way that the distracted orchestra has to begin their slow quadrille from the top, several teary debutantes looking between you and Nanami before shoving their faces into their fans, and even Lord Naoya was casting great attention.
Muttering.
‘Might I inquire as to that lady? Does she have prospects-’
‘Do tell- is it true what Lady Whistledown’s paper said- Bollocks! I wanted to bed Duke Nanami.’
‘My, the chambermaid? The scandal! Oh, but they are a most remarkably striking pair…’
You’re gasping when you catch a glimpse of her highness shifting on her throne to peer over curiously. Nanami had authority- but this?
Gulping, “Is this…is this folly really alright?”
“Oh, My Lady.” He fixes you with a lingering look, “For you, nothing would be folly. May I have this dance?”
.
.
.
“M-mmm, Your Grace-”
“What did I tell you, My Lady?” Nanami’s hot, simmering pant tingles your lips as he’s lavishing you with the swirling edge of his tongue. “Call me Kento.”
And you didn’t have any reason not to.
Well, first of all you two were far, far from any of the prying eyes of the ball by now - tucked away inside the empty, luxurious royal office allocated to him by the Queen. And then he had you pushed against the corner of the wide mahogany table in the middle- hands fisted into your gown, mouth searing against yours.
Nanami flicks the slimy edge of his tastebuds between your spit-glossed maw and groans once you’re eagerly sucking. Gasping. Heaving. “O-open your mouth.”
You’d just made the stern, stoic Duke Nanami stutter. And the thought itself is enough for you to knit your brows together and unhinge your jaw even further, “Like this?”
“Wider.”
“Mmm- like-” A glittery ribbon of saliva slicks down the corner of your lips the moment he’s parting his plump, puckered mouth and kissing you in a way you’d never even heard of. “-this?”
So primal. So heated. He’s huffing out a clouded breath through his flared nostrils, and you’re all but melting with each sleazy scour of his tongue.
“Yeah, wider. Lest I be thought ungentlemanly-” With a thumb latching onto the point of your chin, he has one hand angling your face, and the other curving ‘round your waist to support your weakening knees easily. “Suck on my tongue, ma’am.”
Kissing you and kissing you like he’s parched and every drop of sweet, syrupy water was just drooling from your mouth.
Your whirling head barely even realizes when Nanami has you softly falling back onto the frigid surface of the table. Splayed out completely. His beefy forearm eases the impact, mouth decorating with a few strings of spittle when he’s pulling back with a dampened pwah!
Lungs still clouding out in scorching breezes, “If you would allow it, My Lady.” And you’re whimpering when the doughy mountain of his palm comes rovering down your front. Not resting for a split-second until it was right between your poor legs- “I confess, not a morsel crossed my lips throughout the ball- and I find myself quite famished.”
You’re gasping, trying to close your legs- but it’s like his palm was glued to your drivelling core. Hungry. Desperate. “B-but it is beneath your touch to do such a thing-”
“You’re never beneath my touch.” You swear you catch him look down at your clothed cunt and gulp. Fawny irises dark and dilated, “Never.”
And almost as if he’s proving his point, his free, left hand clasps around your own and flies down gingerly to the absolutely massive bulging tenting Nanami’s trousers.
Oh.
He groans.
Oh.
And he’s looking at you through narrowed, predatory eyes- words so gentle even though the way the thick cylindrical curve of his erection was anything but. “See how you make me?” And with a teary nod, your hips find themselves bucking- “Witness how you- ah.”
Rutting.
So carnally, with your gown and chemise falling back, it makes Nanami snap his half-lidded eyes down at you like he’d just stumbled upon a five-course meal. A predator blood-thirsty for prey.
Drooling in a thin, slow trail, he hastily wipes it away like a gentleman. He wasn’t just famished - he was starved.
And by the way his touch shakes ever-so-slightly on your body, it’s a damn miracle that he hasn’t just lost it right now. “We wouldn’t want to waste your talents on just my hand, ma’am.”
Before you can even begin to wonder what his cryptic words meant, Nanami’s making use of the years of his noble training in combat.
Flipping your two positions, laying himself out on the far table, clinging onto your squirming waist to seat you right above his heavily respiring mouth. With your chemise tugged off with one hand, he’s stealing a good look at your naked, geysering pussy and moaning–
“I-I really am quite famished.”
And his voice breaks.
Making you jerk your hips in a slight gyration- unsure where to rest. “Wh-what are you going to- oh.” Whimpering, once he’s planting a firm kiss near the inner parts of your thighs where slick travelled like an adhesive sheen. Only pushing your gown to bunch upwards, “Please!”
“I shall be having my dinner, My Lady.” Lurching you ever-closer, he had your knees straddling each side of his face and it still wasn’t close enough. “Bon appétit.”
All five of his coarse fingerpads digging into the cheeks of your ass, he flicks his wrist and drags you straight into the gaping cavern of his maw. His glistening tongue was propped out just right to spank the surface of your pussylips on his tastebuds.
“A-ah.” Thighs trembling, it feels so strangely and erotically wet with him salivating all over.
He feels a slippery splosh of your juices leak from your slit and straight into his gullet, the creamy taste flooding up his tongue. “O-ohhh–” Savoring. “Has anyone ever made you feel like hah- this?”
“N-not at all, Your Gr-”
“Kento.”
“K-Kento–!” It’s all that you can squeal when the flexible tendril of his muscle crowns your hole and you’re seeing stars. His tongue is just so long n’ girthy that it makes your poor, filthy entrance clench when he’s slipping just an inch inside. “Fuck- n-ngh- fuck–!”
“Charmed you’re enjoying, ma’am.” And he sounds so genuinely elated - breathy, shaken - at the pretty moans falling from your mouth like music.
Though, it’s not enough.
It might never be enough, so the duke can only prop up slightly on one of his strong elbows just to angle his mouth into the perfect French kiss with your cunt. Slapping his tongue right over the puffy folds of your pussy, he’s licking and licking each stray bead of slick bubbling out of you until you’re all tender and glossy.
Only then is he wafting his right thumb vertically down your cute slit, “Though, not to overwork my dear lady- but might you mind lending me a…hand?”
You’re snapping your head down so fast that your chin knocks against your heaving chest, “Wh-what do you need, Your- ah, Kento?”
“Oh, nothing much, my darling. Just…” Tilting his head, Nanami’s rendering you stupidly dizzy each time he twists the callused knob of his thumb in and out of your folds. “Spit in my mouth.”
“Wh-would that be appropriate?” He was filthy.
Feral. “I would love nothing more.”
And he meant it- he truly, completely, and utterly meant it. You’re watching his prominent Adam’s apple bob greedily once the bead of pearly saliva bubbles between your lips and dead-on into his mouth. Only swirlin’ inside for a mere second before spitting right back into your polished cunt. Hard.
Letting the fat wad slip between your lips, and Nanami doesn’t waste a single second before pushing his rugged middle finger inside your hole.
“There we go.” Gazing in pure lecherous wonderment at the way your needy ring of muscle was swallowing him up, every single solid inch right down to his mountainous knuckle. What a tight fit. “There- there, atta girl.”
“It just feels so- ngh- so-” You don’t even know how to control yourself, hips jerking back and forth, back and forth, back and forth until the globes of your ass strike his chin and make you keen. “Ah!”
“Eeeeeasy does it, ma’am.”
And he’s still grunting your name out with that title- even as he’s pryin’ apart your bloated lips and sticking in yet another digit. The fat ends of his index swiping across, engraving his family signet ring against your very walls-
“This is only a prelude, darling.” You’re flinching at the chilling scrape of the band on his second finger, and he grins. Glueing that very grin against your throbbing clit, he spits again- “Only just getting started.”
“Fuck- fuck!” Going against every policy you’d learned in polite society, you’re throwing your hips back and gyrating out looong sloppy drags of your cunt.
Straight from the treacly base of your pussy to where Nanami was nuzzling your sensitive clit with his nose. Again. And again and again- the duke’s kiss-bitten lips were burning and he’s still craning his neck for more. Panting, “Make a mess of me, My Lady. S’what I’m hah- here for.”
“N-ngh, it feels so gooood, Kento.”
And you don’t even have any inhibitions about that little slip-up of titles anymore, back arching into a perfect curvy ‘S’ shape at the way he’s salivating all over your pussy.
Rovering the ridged edges of his tongue in a cutesy lil’ heart over your clit, pressing down just enough pressure on it like a button. And it’s exactly what he needs to make you gasp, your hole winking- so that he can easily slide-slide-sliiide a third finger in with a resonating squelch!
“So wet. So divine.” He’s groaning at the sight of you suckling in on him and all his inches. Fitted in so deeply that your orifice is struggling to even squeeze, thighs clamping over his sweaty temples. Feeling inside you. Searching. “I must ask that you ruin me, darlin’. Ride me faster.”
Thighs aching, breaths shortening. His metal glasses thump the scorching front of your cunt and you whine.
“Faster.”
“P-pleeease!”
It’s like he’s ravaging your pussy with his thrusts, blond brows furrowing in so tight as he’s leaning in even closer. Tuggin’ apart your folds, he’s discovering every sleek, leaking inch of your cunt like he didn’t have enough time. Never would.
And it’s with only spank after spank of his metallic ring that he’s somehow skidding it right down your saccharine walls and directly into your g-spot. “H-here.”
“There.” Even with the kaleidoscope of tears dazzling your vision, you can make out the completely pussydrunken grin that smears across his face.
Rutting up against the swollen slope of your pussy, he laps up every sodden ounce of slick that escapes you once he hits his slimy target. “With greater fervour now, My Lady.” Your throat clogs up every time he reels his fingerpads down to the curvaceous edges and slams back in. “Harder-”
You grip onto the straight ends of his deltoids, flexing with muscular strength. “I-I’m not sure if that is possible-”
“Do not be gentle with me.” And it almost sounds like a command. Though he’s acting upon it like it’s a complete beg- swerving his palm to sticky clammily onto your left ass cheek and pushing you. “Let yourself hah- go. Give me all of you, I beg.”
You had the most powerful, stoic duke of all the season begging.
And he needed it- he was toying with the lacy circle of your garter and snapping it down onto your flesh with a flick of his fingers.
Only to make you wetter.
So wet with sappy, meady slick that he’s gulping down like his favorite liquor- splashing down between his lips and making him more n’ more inebriated by the second.
Glasses still on. Pumping his hips up into the empty air, all he could do was fuck his fingers into your hotly-glossed walls and pretend he’s doing it all with his aching cock. “Do you think you can handle a fourth, darling?”
Gasping, “P-perhaps-”
“Then…brace yourself…”
You couldn’t brace yourself. You couldn’t even intake a steady breath even if you tried.
Because while you’re perching your dripping pussy near the line of his straight nosebridge, Nanami’s slipping in the coiled edge of his lengthy tongue. Not his fingers. His tongue.
In addition to all he was rummaging your melty insides with, he swabs over the texture of his tastebuds down where you were the most delicate and strokes his tongue inside—
“Sh-shit- shit shit shit-” Your mouth juts out into such an adorable pout that makes the man beneath you thrusts his rugged hips upwards. “I-I think I’m…close, Kento.”
“S’that so? Gonna cum?”
So difficult to even breathe when he’s strobing his fingertips down your bulging g-spot, already battered and bruised with the slamming impacts. With the way he swats the side of your thighs stinging with your garter, “Mhm—hck!”
Probin’ every velvety nook and cranny with his touch, Nanami can’t have you on his weeping cock so he’s twisting all his three- now four fingers, and his tongue inside until his wrist aches. His jaw strained. Tastebuds raw, just as much as your pussy was.
“The orchestra is playing, you can be as loud as your heart desires. Say the words, ma’am- I beg of you to please just hah! say the words.”
It makes your vulnerable lips tremble just to formulate the next few scandalous words, never before having been so fucked-out. “Y-yes. Yes, please. Gonna…cum.”
And you swear that the ever-sensible Nanami Kento is gurgling out a wet giggle right between the space of your puffy pussylips, sending white-hot shockwaves down your bowed spine. “I would be-” He wetly gasps out, before slapping his handsome features right back down.
Addicted. He can’t even move.
“I would- hah- I would be quite-” And his spectacles dig in deep until the metal surface sizzles against your core, pushing and pushing himself back. His tongue’s going wild, stirring around with the wettest slurps. “I would be quite offended if you didn’t, my love.”
He doesn’t just mutter the words - he’s biting them right ‘round the perky knob of your clit. Teething his glinting canines just hard enough while he’s slipping his tongue back out - right on time, right at the very second to tastefully receive the way you throw your head back and squirt.
Hot. Hard.
It feels like your entire body’s caught on fire and no matter how much you’re slobbering your hips to the front n’ back, it only makes the sensation worse.
Your eyes water, mouth hanging open stupidly. “Yes- yes yes yes yes- I’m cumming-” Thighs trembling down upon either side of his eardrums at the friction- tight, and he doesn’t even care. “I-I’m cumming.”
“Squirting, My Lady.” Nanami corrects you, gently. Though, it’s a fucking miracle he even had the patience to considering that he’s gasping and panting for air but only pushin’ himself closer to the oodles of cute slick seeping out from you.
He doesn’t even care.
Doesn’t even need air- not when he can perk his head just right and push against your thighs. Wide maw unfastened gluttonously ajar to let the thick trickles of sap drip into his mouth after each zap! of bliss. Drowning him.
Mouth sagging further open, lungs screaming at him. So many bucketloads of syrupy sweet sap that sprays his features until they’re all glittery. “Squirt- oh. You’re- ngh-”
And something’s breaking at the back of his throat when he’s roaming his dexterous, looong tongue between the plumpness of your pussylips, and you’re taking him in so easily.
Overstimulated till you can let off only whines n’ sobs when he’s lazily dabbing his way inside your quivering hole.
“I’m so ruined, Kento.” Riding and riding. He wanted you to use him and you were- “It feels s-so strange.” The peak of your high was one big wave, and it tingles underneath your skin and makes your eyes roll.
Never - even during all those long, lonely nights with your hand slipped underneath the covers - did it ever feel like this. Never were you leaking your essence this much, with your sappy juices falling all down the sides of his rosy red lips. “Never f-felt this ngh- way before, Ken.”
And that makes him groan.
Slowly, gingerly - almost like it hurt for him to detach his hungry lips with yours, he’s pulling you off with one hand stuck to your hips. Surging backwards with- no, he can’t surge backwards.
The duke’s planting one more firm kiss onto your cunt, open-mouthed. And then jerking back- and forth. Another kiss. Another repeat until about five times later and he’s finally ready to say goodbye to your sweet, overspilling pussy.
But he’s not done with his little show- oh, the moment you’re finally spying a good, long look at him, you think you might cum again from just that.
Because Nanami Kento was ruined - blond hair astray, spectacles drooping down his nose, your pussy juices worn all over from the apples of his blushin’ cheeks down to his jawline like a lewd medal.
Waterfalling between the curves of his pectorals, gleaming wherever his pale skin was flushed. He looked as if there was a part of him that was feverish - barely even registering what he’s doing once he’s tugging off his slick-glazed glasses and sucking those pearly beads off of the frame.
Licking his completely wet glasses clean, Nanami tilts his head with a grin like he’s never been more accomplished. “I only live to please you, ma’am.”
“But that’s not fair.” You huff out a stubborn breath, shuffling down his tall body to try and cup the bulging outline between his legs that almost looked painful. “I, too, wish to-”
“Tonight is not the night, I’m hah- afraid.” He’s cleanly cutting off both your plea and your palm. Instead bringing up your shaky hand to kiss the inside of your wrist. Gloves off, his eyes primal and dead set on you. “I could never ask you to get on your knees. Tonight, I only ask that you let me drive you wild, darling. Let me devour you whole.”
And he meant it.
Oh, within sultry seconds Nanami was moving himself off of the tabletop and standing adjacent. Tall. Strong. Not letting you lift a single finger before he loops two hands underneath your thighs and draaaags you to the very edge.
Moistened thighs pasting to his obliques, “Pray, allow me to see to it. To everything.”
And you just wanted to rip the gossamer fabric of your dress off, but Nanami was oh-so-delicate with his hands all over you. Even though he’s fitting himself animalistically between your lewd legs and rutting-
“Why-” His breath catches once your petticoat and stocking are peeled off, both thumbs spreading your swollen pussylips like a lotus. Completely exposed now. “-hello, my love.”
Your mouth parts when you’re realizing that he’s not just talking to you- he’s talking to your cunt. Maw stretched into a smile so utterly lovin’, Nanami keeps that same dopey grin on as he’s leering his face down to spit.
Again.
“Please, Kento.” You’re bucking your hips up impatiently, still shaky with the aftershocks of your high but you wanted more more more. Needed it. “P-put it in.”
He groans- oh, was it him that taught your sweet mouth to say those words. Corrupting you with every second he’s drawing soppy circles on your wet outer pussy, the duke can only tear down his dress coat and his trousers. Careful with yours but he was ripping his own clothes off. “As you wish, my darling.”
It’s just then that he’s finishing tugging down his sensually tight breeches—and you’re drinking in all of him. And fuck- was it a sight only for your most light-skirted dreams.
Because Nanami Kento was naturally chiseled, to the point where you could count each of his eight washboard abs. Every dip and muscular curve of his hardened front just tensed when the cool air hit him, leading a path of gold along his middle.
A light happy trail down, down, down to where his red n’ aching cock sat heavily, so hard that his bulging tip looked just about ready to burst. Eight maybe even nine inches long, and so girthy that it made your mouth drop as if you wanted him fitted inside already.
You’re watching as his pre-glazed tip only coats an even more glistening layer of sap at your sinful attention. Trickling all the way down to his tightening balls, “You’re staring—”
“C-can you blame me?”
“I suppose not.” And the warmth of his towering proximity hits your body like a furnace, making you squirm restlessly when Nanami’s leaning over the edge of the table to tap-tap-tap his thick cockhead down between your legs. Rock-hard. “Brace yourself, ma’am, mhm?”
Then he’s splitting you apart-
And then he’s arching his sculpted shoulders to cage you underneath him and swearing–“Fuck.”
The first time ever that you’re hearing him spew profanities, just barely slipping the pointed globe of his shaft past the texture of your tight, hot cunt was ruining him.
“I-I apologize, My Lady.” It was making him gasp, “I apologize, how uncouth of my character. I didn’t mean to-” It was making him urgently snap his head down in panic and watch with primal awe as he ruts- deeper. “F-fuck!”
“Oh my god-” You’re throwing your head back at the pressure, only to be grappled back in by Nanami just so that he can sliiide his lips across yours. Open-mouthed. “H-how are you going in so deep-”
“I cannot help myself.” Grunting, Nanami doesn’t even feel the stinging pain when he’s slamming his capped knee down on the plane of the desk. Angling his slender hips to shove the slimy crown of his tip into your gooey entrance, “It’s simply- it’s just-”
And Nanami Kento, so articulate and calm, doesn’t have the damn words anymore.
Stuttering, falling over his panic to thrust in and in between your trembling legs. He feels the cute rimming circle of your cunt tighten ‘round his fattened girth, and snaps his head down in panic. Spitting. “I-I must have it fit inside, darling. Please, allow me just the tip, at least.”
“Will- ngh! will it even-”
“Of course.” And he’ll apologize for interrupting your sentence later - much, much later.
But for right now, the only thing that sparks in his fuzzy mind was to raise his toned left forearm up to your drivelling maw. Where you start gnawing wetly down on his skin, he spits-
“Bite down. Harder.” Hips sloppy, knee hiking up even further to maze his flared cock inside. You feel your elastic hole stretch a wider diameter as he’s slipping yet another solid inch in. “Come now, harder. You can ngh- take it.”
“It’s going in.” And you don’t know whether you wanted to slam your hips forwards or jerk vulnerably at the sheer weight of his body leaning down.
He breathes, “Yes- yes.” The breeze of his pants fanning your face, making your entire body erupt in flames by the time he’s squeezing past the tender slit carved onto his shaft. Cementing the bulging edge of his cocktip to the roof of your pussy with a raw sluuurp. “I have you. shall not let you fall- bite.”
And it’s all that you can do.
Because Nanami’s fucking you into office table like he wanted you to splinter straight through.
The half-lidded peripherals of his eyes latching onto where you were speared open like he was watching his personal show, “I hope you know…I’m no- hah- easily satiated man, my love.”
“Wh-what do you- fuck!”
Just on cue, he’s slamming the lines of his hardened hipbones against your inner thighs and making you recoil back near the edge of the table. Dangerously. Barely even giving you a second to pick yourself back up before he reaches over to lace both his rugged palms on top of your clammy scalp. Intertwining. Holding you there.
‘Just the tip’ he said. And yet here he was, pinning you down just to bully his vein-covered length between your snugly stubborn lips.
“Do not think to run from me-”
“Could never- ngh- could never-” You’re babbling easily at this point, because the curvy trails that his veins left along your walls were only driving you mad. “Just want more, Kento.”
“…Pardon?”
You blink your teary eyes up at him in a way that makes his throbbing girth fatten up, every ounce of blood in the duke’s head rushing to the ballooned-up knob of his tip. “M-more, I say-”
“More.” He’s echoing out, more to himself. Higher-pitched. Almost tasting the pure need in that one word, and the very repetition makes him half-thrust straight into the goopy depths of your pussy. “More…more.”
Nanami pants out a husky giggle—“More.” Oh, he’s just so in love with the way your cunt was struggling to swallow him whole n’ yet squeezing as you try. He leans back down and spits once more, thoroughly ungentleman-like. “Forgive my haste. You just m-make- me-”
And you swear you hear the tail end of that particular sentence break off into a whine once he’s finally, finally bottoming out.
So sensitive that all it takes is one, two, three lucious swabs of his drivelling orifice to get you to cum. Throat torn with hoarse moans, head throwing back- “I’m- once more…?”
“F-fuck. You are.” Easing in the girth of his cockhead to be spanked against your cervix and make you see stars. Nanami’s already flooding your pussy with a pour of his scalding hot precum. “What a wonder this enchanting body is for me.”
Again. He has you orgasming all over him again.
He’s feeling just a twinge of disappointment in himself for not making you squirt yet another time- but the night was still young. And your sappy cunt was already so wet, with beads of sparkly juices smearing down his happy trail every time he’s whipping his hips forwards.
Slam after slam.
Your entire body twitches with startles of euphoria, mewling. “Th-there’s so much- so- ah.”
Ah, how he would love to reach his hands over and wipe away the glistening tears streaming down your pretty face.
But no, right now he had them locked on top of your head and was using the leverage to pound you stupid. Harder. Spiking the peaks of your high with each thorough probe of his stout, mushroom tip. “I know. I know I know I-”
CRACK!
Oh.
The desk.
It takes a split-second for both your hazed minds to realize that the ancient mahogany table was sagging on one end, Nanami’s raw natural strength too much for it to handle. And then not even that for him to pull out his cock with a wet plop!
Manhandling you down onto the hardwood floors like a doll, on all fours. It’s such a sinfully new angle to have him looming behind you, tense core plastered against your back once his lengthy cock siiiinks in-
Orgasm still dwindling, entire body shaking. “Fuck- nghhh- fuck, Kento–!”
“You are doing so well, darling.” One hand glues onto the side of your left ass cheek and tugs you back down with his grip. The other carefully rovers just underneath your tummy, “M-makes it so easy to wish to hah- give away to my inclinations.”
A primal sob wrenches from your throat when you’re feeling the slimy drag of his globular, pointed tip. Drawin’ out a zig-zag down and down where you were most delicate, until he reaches the target of your cervix, spank! “Th-then proceed- I beg of you.”
You didn’t know what those guttural words would mean. You didn’t even know if you would make it out alive- but right now you’re starting to doubt it once Nanami gasps.
Once he’s slamming one of his flattened feets by the side of your thigh, deeper. The raw, sensual feeling so much that he can’t control himself. Rutting and rutting away as if he’s gone feral—
“Is this to- to your liking then, ma’am?” The duke’s gurgling out through a translucent froth of spittle, splat-splattering right down the middle of your arched spine. “H-how about now?”
He shutters his eyes furiously and rams the remaining few inches of his cock. Bottomed out and still trying to probe even deeper inside, so all he can do is plant his sock-covered foot over the top of your head and press. Bending. “N-now?”
“I adore it—” You’re keenly whining, “Love it- ngh- please.”
Proudly, Nanami dares to snicker as his left thumb brushes down the plump, roaming tummy bulge he was fucking into you. Pushin’ down just on the curvy tip of where you could feel his split-ended cockhead thrashing your poor insides. “And I should love to hah! make this gorgeous cunt mine- make you mine.”
And he was a man of action.
It was high time you realized that, because within exactly three repeated swats of his plummy, rose-colored shaft- he’s discovering your g-spot. He’s kissing that bullseye with a looong, soppy glide.
“Though…that is what I am doing, that should be no hngh- sham.”
Feeling all the crimson rush to your head, he presses down just as his aching hot cock presses in. “It’s- it’s just- fuck.”
Faster. Harder. So sloppy that the planks of the floorboards start to sing out in singing creaks of protest, soiling with a trickle of syrupy precum and slick being poured from straight between your legs. Constantly.
Rubbing himself swollen n’ redly raw on the cavern of your tight pussy, Nanami doesn’t even want to blink to break his staring contest with your bulging pussylips.
Milking himself.
The sweetest smooch for your sweetest spot, Nanami coos as you shake- struggling to keep your weakened arms straight as you hold yourself up in this lecherous position. “Come now.” Your overstimulated vision spots with pure white as he darts the hand at your stomach to loop around your throat like a necklace - a headlock. Springing you upright—“I have you, My Lady.”
Spittle waterfalls in embarrassing bucketloads from your mouth and stains the front of his beefy forearm, squeezing your airway. Dilated pupils swirlin’ stupidly every time his strawberry divot circles the entrance to your womb. Squealing, “Y-you…ngh!…mm–”
“Hmmm—?”
“You- hck! please, Ken-”
His warm, ravaging cock was so big that the constant stretch of your walls finally had you stupid. Your brain nothing but a pulp of melted mush every time he snaps his clammy hips to your ass with a stinging pap! of skin-on-skin.
“Me…I’m-” And it’s like each time the puffy veins decorating each side of his overworked shaft gets squeezed, Nanami finds himself seeing stars. Sweaty, bulging biceps tightening on your throat even harder- you scream. “I have you, My Lady- I’m yours.”
Your hole gaping, thighs wet. Just taking everything he’s giving as he finally cums—and you do, too.
Though, you’re not registering it at first.
Not when that leaky hole at the very end of his cherry-red shaft pipes out a creamy icing of cum, layering thickly across every inch and cranny of your rummaged insides. Pump after pump- each one has your pathetic pussy overspilling with so many knotted wads of seed, and yet he always had so much more more more-
“O-oh.” He’s grunting out, feeling a particularly big splash of sap at the base of his cock- and it’s only then that you’re both realizing that you’d just squirted. All over again.
It’s traveling down like a flood between your thighs, painting a glistening ring on the tawny curls at his hilt. Soaking him utterly n’ completely that Nanami finds each thrust to let off the most primal sluuuurp!
“You- you really are the most beautiful hck! lady that has graced this Earth, my love.” Your gaze, your smile, that soul. It was your soul he found most beautiful, the instant he laid his eyes upon you.
He simply knew.
“Y-yet, I’m a chambermaid-”
“I care not.”
“You’re just-” It’s a damn wonder that you even could still speak by now, because every rubbin’ massage of his fat cock only left your mind blank. “-saying- mmm- saying that, Kento.”
“I fear you are mistaken.”
His veins indent your walls with lightning bolts, his cum cobwebbed across your spongy cervix and was splashing after each jackhammer.
Nanami drills into you low and slow now just to help your dripping wet cunt suck him dry. Loving the cute, velvety way you were clamping around his rovering shaft tiredly, “Only allow me to prove my ngh- heart.”
You’re so fucked-out that you’re barely even flinching when he’s finally freeing you of his sinful headlock. Taking mere nanoseconds to pluck that infamous House of Nanami signet ring off of his finger- and pushing it straight down the ring finger on your left.
An engagement. A promise.
“I shall get you another ring- one that is proper, one you deserve, when- if you shall have me, My Lady.” The smoky tone of Nanami Kento’s bass tickles the side of your stinging throat, almost a purr. “I swear it upon my word-” He guides that very same boneless hand of yours to cup his plush, thumping left pectoral. “-and my heart, to forever keep you the most beautiful lady upon this Earth. You shall never want, for I pledge to you my body, my soul for your happiness.”
You whimper, thighs still shaking with your high. Tears slipping down your face that he kisses away, “I-if you’ll have me, Your Grace.”
“Kento.”
“Kento.”
And by the time the last of his wadded ounces of cum had finished spraying out, Nanami pulls his hips back with a bellowing squelch that makes your body heat flare. Such a creamy mess of ivory glossing your pussylips that he’s taking one glimpse at and gasping-
You mewl, “K-Ken, what are you-”
“It seems…” He drawls, manhandling you spread-out onto your back with his sculptured hands. Snaking his face down to mouth a hot puff over your swollen folds that stick together. Tasting. Drooling like he’d just happened across his favorite dessert. “-that the ball is far from finished, my wife.”
.
.
.
Dearest gentle reader,
It seems we have a rather special (and scandalously romantic!) special announcement. Yes, whilst your lips were whispering at her majesty the Queen’s Royal Diamond Ball the previous night, those of his grace, Duke Nanami Kento, have certainly been up to worse.
The ton reached new heights of hysteria over Duke Nanami’s attendance of the ball with his lovely chambermaid acquaintance. This author personally confirms that her highness’s royal orchestra was barely audible over the sound of shattering hearts!
However, if this was where the story ended, dear readers, we would still possess our wits. Not only had her highness titled this unnamed belle of the ball as the Diamond of the season; aforementioned diamond was not in audience of her naming!
Where was she, you might ask? Why, nowhere else but bedding a certain handsome duke—or so palace patrol whisper amongst the halls.
An impatient dalliance or stirring the pot? You tell me, dear reader, though it certainly doesn’t help that said new diamond was spotted near the end of the evening with both a real diamond and the Nanami signet ring upon one’s betrothal finger!
It’s said that the House of Nanami - and particularly a once-stoic Duke Nanami Kento - has been exceptionally lively in preparation for the blessed union and his new bride.
On the other hand, this author shall have to purchase new robes for a summer wedding.
Yours Truly,
Lady Whistledown.
A/N. Tell me why it was SAUR difficult to write in regency speak I feel like I don’t even know this language anymore pls-
Plagiarism not authorized.
#nanami x reader#nanami smut#nanami x you#jjk x reader#jjk smut#jjk x you#nanami kento x reader#nanami kento smut#nanami kento x you#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jujutsu kaisen smut#jujutsu kaisen x you#jjk#jjk fic#jujutsu kaisen#nanami kento#tonywrites#nanami
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O Castelo Assombrado
O Castelo Assombrado (The Haunted Palace) SINOPSE: Um feiticeiro queimado vivo há mais de cem anos continua assustando habitantes de pequena aldeia. Logo após a chegada de Charles Ward, começam a acontecer estranhas mortes pelo fogo. E o bondoso Charles é muito parecido com o maldoso feiticeiro. Baseado em obra de H. P. Lovecraft. Informações técnicas: DIREÇÃO: Roger Corman ROTEIRO: Charles…

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#1963#Cathie Merchant#Charles Beaumont#Coleção Clássicos MGM#Coleção Lovecraft no Cinema 2#Debra Paget#DVD#Edgar Allan Poe#Elisha Cook Jr.#EUA#Flashstar#Francis Ford Coppola#Frank Maxwell#Guia de Terror#Guy Wilkerson#H.P. Lovecraft#I. Stanford Jolley#John Dierkes#Leo Gordon#Letra C#Lon Chaney Jr.#MGM#Milton Parsons#O Castelo Assombrado#Roger Corman#Terror#The Haunted Palace#Versátil#Versátil Home Vídeo#Vincent Price
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ominous
(itsy-bitsy fanfic concept/idea/? under the cut)
[A page ripped out of a journal; the owner’s handwriting is messy and barely legible.]
february, 29th
i'm surprised i'm not dead now.
yesterday, in the late evening, as i was painting, it started storming. suddenly and hard. one second the dark sky is clear from any clouds, and the next moment the droplets are pelting me with a surprising force. i rapidly abandoned my easel and canvas (not like there would be anything lost—the piece was dull and not working out the way i desired) in favor of seeking cover.
i was still near the village, on its outskirts, but just a bit too far from my house to reach it quickly before my whole being was drenched through and through. so i ducked into one of the huts, all of which stand empty, desolate… or so i thought, at least.
only once inside did i spot the dim, ominous, red glow of the overhead lamp; the sound of a muted conversation; the overwhelming sense of “wrong”, like i was not meant to be here. abruptly silence fell and two sets of bright eyes stared me down.
terror froze my body. i felt like a prey caught in between two predators, i could practically feel their jaws snapping around my neck.
the dredger slowly smirked at me, barring her sharp, sharp teeth. (since when are they sharp? i may not have crossed path with her often, but i swear i would’ve noticed if she had shark teeth before.) i did not stay to see if the fisherman would further react to my presence too. the control of my body returned, allowing me to let out a panicked apology for interruption and bolt out of the hut, running home at full speed.
it’s been hours since then. i couldn’t fall asleep. i’ve been up the whole night, haunted by fear. the scene of those two beasts in the darkness, ready to snap me like a twig for overhearing something (i don’t remember what exactly, all the horror of the situation evaporated all my thoughts), got stuck in my mind’s eyes. so i’ve been doing what i know how to do best—painting.
[Attached to the diary entry is a typewritten note.]
That painter fellow is an impressionable and imaginative type. Needless to say, the actual interaction with the two fish merchants was likely a lot less… Dramatic.
The painter was reluctant to show me the painting mentioned in the last paragraph, but after some convincing I did manage to take a quick look on their recollection of the witnessed scene: it seems mostly useless for my research, but I noted down some details that might be of use in the future (refer to “AudioLog#143” transcript for more information).
Collecting data on “The Fisherman” continues to prove itself annoying. The subject is allusive: there’s not many sources mentioning him, and folk around here rarely witness him out and about. Currently the only lead I have is finding that one old newspaper article about the docks that, if I recall correctly, mentions him in an interview with workers. Perhaps, when I have time, I’ll try asking the collector from the other side of the river if he has a copy of that newspaper issue.
However, for now, I’m significantly more interested in “The Dredger” subject. There’s more than plenty info about her—I would actually say there’s too much info about her, all inconveniently inconsistent. In an attempt to get more reliable data I’m getting in contact with Mined since they have done scientific observation of this area and the people of interest. My request for access to their data has gone unanswered so far and, if shoving my anthropology degree in the faces of those bumbling idiots won’t work, I’m sure that that city nearby has enough hackers willing to do some dirty work for a pretty diamond.
I will get the data I want, one way or another.
#i need someone who isn't me and has more interest+skill in creative writing than me to write a whole epistolary fic ab these two freaks#so feel free to steal the idea. please steal the idea. and lmk if someone already has written smth like that. thank you#geminitay#grian#hermitcraft#mcyt#fanart#eyestrain cw
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A Barter
Warnings: suggestions of death.
Prompt: Arranged marriage where he saw reader and immediately go "That girl is mine."
Character: Geralt of Rivia
As usual, I appreciate any and all feedback and enthusiasm. Please reblog and leave a comment. Love! 😍
The corners of the chamber are dark, the air sombre and still. The old farmhouse is crowded with the frightened village folk, you among them as you shiver in the damp chill. The fog has not receded in weeks and at least a dozen of the sparse townsfolk have disappeared in its depths.
There is fear laced through the atmosphere, in the chatter of teeth, the twitch of the finger, and the whining of restless children. Some weep, others are silent, all are focused on the same man.
White hair, pale eyes, dressed in leather and silver, a braid behind his head, and a sword on his back. He stands before the guild master, Todrick. The mayor is among the missing and so it is him who must act as leader to the lost.
“Witcher,” Todrick addresses the newcomer. “We ask your assistance in clearing this fog. It has clung too long for us to think it a mere spell. We suspect something more sinister. Some beast.”
“Likely a fogler,” the man drones flatly. “Though I’ve never seen them in the flatland. They tend to linger in swamps and mountain caverns.”
“A fogler?” Esmeri whispers and others gasp. You haven’t any idea what it means. “Oh, my Clarence.”
She begins to sob into her sister’s shoulder. It cannot be good. The man tilts his head, unbothered by the ripple of terror. “Gold.”
Todrick sighs and taps his fingers on his leg. “We’re a village, we don’t deal in gold. Wool and wheat. We can offer you wares for your road, witcher. Sustenance, a room for the night.”
The man curls his lip, “I have food. I can hunt well enough. Gold or silver. Coin.” He rubs his fingers together.
Todrick is silent. He glances over at the other men, then his daughter. His wife is among the forsaken as well. “I’d heard witchers to be heartless misers,” he sneers.
“It is business.” The man replies as his eyes scour around the room placidly, glossing over you as if you were a part of the wall.
“You can sell wool for coin,” Marsell suggests. “Black barley brings a fair toll.”
“I am no merchant,” the witcher answers.
“Only coin...” Todrick mutters.
“Or...” the witcher intones then thinks better of it. He rubs his fingertips together in his leather gloves. “Do you know of how a fogler works?”
“They make fog, I assume.”
“The fog is a screen. They set traps, they lure in the young with pretty melodies or shadows of scampering animals, or a man by the voice of a beautiful woman... and do you know what they do when their snare has been sprung?”
“Nothing good, I should imagine,” Todrick says.
“I will spare the details for the young and the gentle,” the witcher declares. “How many?”
Todrick hesitates, “Thirteen by our count.”
“Hm,” the witcher rubs his clefted chin and his eyes startle you as they dart in your direction. You squirm and move closer to Caralyn. “Might you spare another?”
“Spare... you mean as bait?”
“As payment.”
“Payment?” Todrick scoffs.
“A wife. Even a witcher might wed.”
“Wife?” The echo rolls across the room through whispers and gasps.
“Unless you can dig up some gold somewhere...” the witcher shrugs. “I don’t intent to remain in fogler territory long without incentive.”
Todrick is quiet again. Once more, he peeks over. The guild men exchange looks then turn their attention to the women. No...
“Grynna--”
“No. My choice,” the witcher insists.
Todrick huffs and the tension rises. The witcher glances at you again and points. “Her.”
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Highlights from TGWDLMR's Final Countdown stream for those who missed it:
- The stream began with more behind the scenes interviews + some bloopers, with people like Paul Gabriel, James Tolbert, and Juliet Park speaking about TGWDLM.
- Nick Lang confirmed that there will be 16 Preformances for four weekends, doubling TGWDLM's run so everyone will get the chance to go see it. The show will be preformed in Los Angeles at the El Portal!
- Q&A time! First question was "What does the blue slime in TGWDLM taste like?" and the Langs said "It tastes like terror, horror, absolute divinity & godhood."
- "So like a wildberry celsius." - Matt Dahan
- Nick and Matt confirmed they've had many ideas for Charlotte Sweetly NMT stories. Most notably one where Charlotte kills the president and it's revealed she's always been an undercover assassin that CCRP experimented on. Hoooooly shit.
- "Every single character down to the Greenpiece Girl has a story written for them."
- To the question of would Ted commit to Charlotte if he was ever asked, Joey Richter said "Yes. 100%. Ted's whole arc in TGWDLM is realizing, 'Oh shit, I love this woman.'" Nick then confirmed that Charlotte wouldn't want or reciprocate that commitment.
- "How does Pete get infected in TGWDLM?" "When he had JUST spoken to Steph for the first time, he goes to beanies, gets his hot chocolate, drinks it, and dies. OR. Steph and Pete are walking to school together, Steph dies right in front of him, and then he dies."
- When asked about what happened to Steph's mom, Nick and Matt alluded to how Solomon Lauter had used The Black Book to become the Major, and that "The price for making a deal like that would be the thing you love most."
- The Langs know who Lex's father is, It's no one we've met yet. But they said Lex wouldnt be happy with the answer.
- "Does Ted regret becoming a sleezeball?" "I think Ted regrets everything about his life."
- "Who's your favorite LiB?" Matt and Paul said Pokey, Joey said Tinky, Lauren said Nibbly, & the Langs also said Nibbly because of a story they wrote that they havent shared yet.
- "The Lords in Black are immortal, and so they never gain wisdom. They're petulant children. Spoiled, petulant, everlasting children." - The Langs talking about the LiB.
- Nick lang has never heard of Ao3, but apparently Joey Richter has
- SAGE CAMEO !! DIANE CAMEO !! NEMO CAMEO !!!! SO MANY CAMEOS BECAUSE ITS THE FINALE !!!
- Mariah Rose Faith did 7 canonballs before joining the stream
- After more people joined they did tarot readings for the cast & for people in the chat! (If you're seeing this, Happy Birthday Elliott Bang!)
- Most notably: Corey Dorris got The Hunter [Max], The Alchemist [Hidgens], and The Fool [Ted]
- Matt Lang got The Watcher with a Thousand Eyes [Blinky], The Witch [Miss Holloway], and The King in Black [Wiggly]
- Nick Lang got The Collector [Sherman], The Merchant [Frank], The Man in Great Haste [Man in a Hurry!]
- Joey got The Artist [Ziggy], The Blade of Truth [General MacNamara], and The Father [Bill]
- "Lauren, I've got something I need to tell you, I'm pregnant” -Joey Richter out of context
- Nick Lang also pointed out that Corey got the Ted card for his reading and Joey pulled the Bill card. Billted shippers how are you feeling?
- Last but not least, some (paraphrased) writing advice from the Langs:
- "Tell your story to as many people as you can, you'll work out the issues as you tell it. An audience is the other half of the process. Without an audience, your story isnt done. When you show others, you might realize your work is better than you think it is."
- "If you want to be a writer, you actually have to write. When we were growing up, we never put pen to paper. Every single writer has to go through that period of knowing they'll never know what theyre doing until they actually do it, you have to try. You'll eventually figure it out. The sooner you can start, the better."
- We ended the campaign by counting down the last seconds, and we managed to raise 642k, with 9,575 backers. It has been a joy and an honor to have watched this project get funded in real time and to see everyone's excitement for TGWDLM's return.
- Thank you to everyone who donated, and thank you to Starkid for continuing to do insanely cool things. The apotheosis is officially upon us!
#starkid#tgwdlm#tgwdlm livestream#starkid livestream#live posting#tgwdlm reprised#eden's recap#this might be the last one lmao idk if i can sunmarize the dnd stream#if it is the last one ily guys. this has been an awesome experience#i cant wait for this summer to be filled with blue shit#the guy who didn't like musicals#hachetfield#nick lang#matt lang#paul matthews#emma perkins#ted spankoffski#bill woodward#charlotte sweetly#nightmare time#lex foster#stephanie lauter#peter spankoffski#the black tarot#starkid tarot#jon matteson#lauren lopez#joey richter#matt dahan#paul gabriel
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Holy Ground - Chapter 3
Summary:
Nobody knew that Azriel found his mate. Until she nearly died. This is the aftermath.
Warning:
Rhys Bashing (as usual), Inner Circle Bashing (kinda), Referenced/Implied Sexual Assault, Referenced/Implied Domestic Violence, Discussion of Religion(?), Chronic Injury/Pain/Illness, Minor Character Death (It's probably nobody you love), Magical Work Accidents, Explosions, Injuries
If any of this triggers you or makes you uncomfortable, please take care of your own mental health and don't read it.

The library was supposed to be a safe space. The priestesses were supposed to be sheltered there.
A place far away from the terrors of the world. A place where they could study and learn far from the grasp of those who would harm them.
But clearly today that peace had been destroyed, Rhys reflected weakly.
Merrill was dead.
Neither Cassian or Rhys had let Gwyn see the…carnage of that, Nesta and Emerie bracketing her away from…her fellow priestesses’ corpse…and Irena…
Rhys had to keep repeating the words to himself, over and over again. Like a litany, a prayer, desperately trying to make them stick.
Irena was alive. Irena would be fine.
She would be alright, even though she looked so, so pale, deathly pale in Azriel's arms.
Irena.
Irena, who Azriel had saved around two centuries ago…
Not from the horrors of the war but from her husband.
The daughter of a merchant, married off young, to one of the richest men in the midlands…she had been raised to run an estate…had excelled at it in fact. And her husband had excelled in killing young girls.
The things he had put her through... The things he had done...
Azriel, who had found her and brought her to Velaris had been shocked that she'd stayed in one piece to be honest. Rhys had been shocked too.
And once she had been in the library…she had excelled once more.
Rhys had gotten long used to see her handwriting, not long suffering Clotho’s, fill out the sheets with expenditures and acquisitions.
She had cut the fat, made sure that the House of Wind was self sufficient, thanks to research requests being able to be submitted, thanks to patents and the gardens…
Irena had been a godssend. Literally.
Rhys wasn't quite sure how they had survived before her.
But the last fucking thing he had expected was that…her and Azriel were…mates.
Rhysand had not seen that coming in a million years
But there was no question about it.
If Irena's thoughts, an utter mess of shock and pain and grief and agony...with the only thing that ran through it the whole time was her thread to Azriel wouldn't have been a dead giveaway...then it would have been Azriel's behaviour.
Azriel who had gone on his knees next to the priestess, his hands slick with her blood and had simply clung to her. He had begged her, his voice broken.
Rhys would never forget the sound of his brother's voice, the pure desperation bleeding from every single letter. Please. We haven't had enough time. I am going to be so furious with you if you die. We may have our first fight. Don't you dare. Open your eyes. Look at me, love. You can't go. Fight.
That look on Azriel's face as he had held her close, refusing to let go as he tried to will her back from death's clutches. The words he had kept murmuring like a prayer. A desperate mantra to the Mother, the Cauldron, anyone who would listen.
Azriel was never the most expressive of them. He rarely even showed a flicker of emotion for most things. To see him lose so much control, to beg. To see tears in his eyes. None of them had ever seen him like that before, had ever even considered the possibility of him acting like that.
He was always composed. Always calm, collected, in control. To see him on his knees next to Irena, begging her not to leave as he pressed kisses to her forehead and kept telling her to stay with him…
For a moment, it had felt like he had forgotten the others even existed. That nothing had mattered except her pulse, the slight rise and fall of her chest. The only thing that had mattered to him in that moment was that she was still with him, still alive.
She was important to him. There was no question about it.
Sometime during the last few years, that Priestess had become the Shadowsinger’s whole focus.
Sometime in the past, Irena had become Azriel's whole world.
And Rhys hadn't known. Had known nothing about this.
He could feel the guilt clawing up inside him.
Rhys had had no fucking clue this was happening, right underneath his nose.
That he had never noticed that Azriel's eyes lingered on Irena…had never noticed that Azriel sought her company…hadn’t known that Azriel had spent time with her…
Rhys hadn't known. Hadn't...hadn't even thought about it.
Azriel had pulled back from them after that catastrophic solstice and Rhys had let him. Had thought that Azriel needed to lick his wounds...that maybe then he would see it Rhysand's way...but none of this happened.
Azriel had kept his anger tightly leashed, even though Rhys had gotten a taste of it every time he badgered him. But Azriel hadn’t exploded.
Instead, he had been vicious in throwing Rhysan’ own words back into his face.
There didn’t pass one day where Rhys didn’t regret that one sentence, because Azriel was clearly… furious about it.
Azriel had grown distant...cold...unfeeling. And Rhys had badgered him and got on his nerves and figured that if Azriel would just get it out of his system… but he didn't. Didn't get angry. Didn't fight. Didn't scream...Rhys would have preferred it if he did.
What wouldn't he give to have that old Azriel back, the one who actually got mad? Who didn't just accept everything with a nod and a word of acknowledgment. Who talked to Rhysand, who told him when he'd done something wrong. Who fought with him if he went too far, who made his opinion known. Who told him to his face when he was being an arrogant prick, who didn't just accept his commands with a quiet nod.
But now it made sense. Azriel hadn't fucking cared what Rhys did, what any of the did, because his priorities had been rearranged completely. As long as he could get home to his priestess...he hadn't cared.
He did all the missions Rhys had for him and then went home to the House of Wind and found one quiet corner or another to romance his mate, out of the view from everybody else.
And that was the worst part. That Rhys had been such a prick to Azriel, so wrapped up in his own worries, his own fears, that he hadn't even noticed that something had shifted so fundamentally in his brother. Had pushed him so far away.
Rhys had thought that they were simply…in a rought spot. That in a few years, Azriel would be over Elain and it would be done. But now Rhys realised that…that it wasn’t about Elain. Not really.
Rhys had never realized how deep this was, how close to the breaking point he'd taken his brother.
Deep enough that the fact that Azriel had found his mate...that was something that Azriel didn't share with any of them. Something that happy... Azriel had just kept silent.
Azriel hadn’t trusted them with the most treasured and precious thing in his life.
And that hurt. Hurt more than he could put into words.
That Azriel had found the one person who he was destined for, the only one who was perfect for him in the entire world. The one person who would love and cherish him, who would complete him, who would accept him as he was, who would understand him...and he hadn't told Rhys. Hadn't told any of them.
Azriel hadn't told anyone that he had found his mate.
Had kept that to himself for who knew how long. Just how long had it been? When had he figured out they were mated?
“Bring her to her room,” Madja said at the moment. And Rhys watched as seemingly some colour went back into Irena's cheeks, her eyes closed, her breathing still laboured…her mind filled with Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. and Safe, Safe, Safe.
“My room,” Azriel corrected, his voice fierce. The mating instincts must have gone completely haywire at that very moment, not soothed at all, even when he had pressed a kiss against her forehead moments before.
.“Your room?” Gwyn asked sharply, staring at Azriel, then at still, quiet Irena. She seemed to be utterly shell-shocked, not that Rhys could fault her.
"Gwyn," Rhys said carefully. It was best if none of them...interfered right now. This was between Azriel and his mate.
"Az, how long have the two of you..." Cassian asked, clearly having come to the same conclusion, but Rhys interrupted him. *Leave him be,* he warned their brother.
*Leave him be?! I had no idea that he and Irena are...whatever the fuck they are!*
“Two years. She’s my mate,” Azriel answered, not even looking at any of them, completely concentrated on said mate.
"Mate," Irena agreed weakly. "Mine."
"Yours," Azriel agreed, his voice hoarse, as he picked her up carefully like his mate was made out of spun glass. "Let's tuck you into bed, Love," he told her softly.
And off his spymaster went carrying the priestess that was his mate.
Rhys could just stare after them.
"Did you know?" Cassian demanded sharply.
"I had absolutely no fucking clue," Rhys admitted weakly.
He felt the guilt swirling inside him, deep and bitter and vicious. He should have known. He should have realized and supported Azriel.
But it had been Rhys who had pushed him so far away that he hadn't told him. That he didn't even think that he could tell Rhys that he had found his mate.
And it hurt. Gods, it hurt. To know that Azriel had kept something that he should have been so happy about to himself just so he wouldn't have to deal with Rhys's bullshit.
Cassian started barking orders...About a stretcher and about Merrill's body...It would be taken away and prepared for the last rites.
It wasn't often that one of the priestesses died. It wasn't...They were safe here. They were supposed to be safe here...but whatever happened in this room…
“What even happened?” Rhys asked, as he turned around to surview the carnage.
It was bad. Really bad.
“Irena went to talk to Merill, because Merrill got…angry with one of the newer acolytes…” Gwyn said, her voice shaky. “Merrill was in a bad mood because Irena forbid her newest research project.”
Her newest research project? It was well known that Merrill was brilliant. So for Irena to…
"Why did she forbid it?" Rhys asked curiously.
"It involved some form of spell crafting. Irena wanted Merrill to have supervision from a spellcrafter, because it was a language that none of us actually understood and we didn’t eve know about what kind of spell it was…Merill didn't think that was needed," Gwyn said weakly, wiping away tears. "And now look where that got us. God, how could Merrill be this stupid?"
"It wasn't stupidity, it was probably arrogance," Cassian said with a sigh. "It's dumb luck that only...that only Irena got hurt.
Rhys couldn't but agree with Cassian's assessment. It was a miracle that Irena was alive. That she'd survived when Merrill’s body was…near unrecognisable….clearly it had been closer to whatever had blown up in their faces
Merrill had probably thought she knew what she was doing, but she didn't have the skill or training to work on advanced spell work. I
rena wasn’t the type of person who would deny research on a whim either. If she believed that Merrill needed supervision then Merrill had needed supervision.
Irena was clever. And cautious.
Azriel's mate was a damn good judge of character after all.
Gods, Azriel's mate. What a thought…
The spymaster and the priestess. Rhys’ near silent brother and…and gentle, caring Irena, the beating heart of the library.
Rhys would need to wrap his mind around that in private.
“I’ll seal…this room,” Rhys said quietly. So nobody could enter. And then he would probably turn Amren loose in it, to turn around every fucking stone, so that they figured out what that spell had been that had reacted like it. The last thing they needed was for the spell to have any sort of consequences that involved Irena.
"Clotho," he greeted the priestess as she arrived, inclining his head.
What happened? she demanded, holding out her usual piece of paper.
Rhys felt his stomach churn at that question.
How the hell were they supposed to tell Clotho that not only one of the priestesses had tragically died…but one of the others was currently holed up in an Illyrian warrior's room, recovering from injuries that should have killed her, and that said Illyrian warrior was said priestess's mate, so was probably not going to leave her alone anytime soon?
And that was just the tip of the iceberg when it came to the absolute clusterfuck this whole situation was. There was nothing to do except to simply tell Clotho the truth and hope that she didn't have a breakdown.
"There was an...accident. Merrill is dead," he told her bluntly.
For a moment Clotho was just frozen in place. But he could tell that his words had hit her hard. That she was shocked, horrified, stunned beyond belief. HOW?!
And Rhys took a deep breath, trying to find a way to explain what had happened.
To explain how one of her charges had been killed in a room where she was supposed to be safe…How her own experimentation, her own research had killed her…
And how no one had even noticed that a priestess had been mated.
No...how the shadowsinger had mated to a Priestess and hadn't even thought to tell them because Rhys had acted like such as bastard to his brotherthat Azriel had actually thought it preferable to keep his mating bond a secret.
"Merill didn't listen when Irena turned down her research proposal," Gwyn said suddenly with a shaky voice. "Irena went to talk to her this afternoon, because Merill made Meera cry...It looks like the spell that she was taking apart went...haywire. Merill was killed in the backlash...Irena was hurt.”
Rhys just nodded. It was a reasonable explanation, even if it didn't cover everything that had gone on. At this point in time, he was almost more concerned about Clotho than anything else. The poor female looked ready to collapse.
I told Merill to keep away from that spellbook. We still don’t know what it even contained, Clotho agreed, even her handwriting looking shaky.
He could tell that she was in shock and grief. Could imagine how she must be feeling. Clotho protected the Priestesses with all she had. They were her flock. To lose one of her charges...There was no way that Clotho would not blame herself.
She was going to blame herself for something that wasn't her fault at all. And the thought made Rhys feel sick to his stomach.
Clotho had enough weight on her shoulders already, the last thing she needed was guilt over something that was not even her fault.
IRENA?! Clotho demanded sharply.
"Alive, if just barely," Rhys informed her, trying to push down his own guilt at the thought. "Madja is with her."
In the dormitory?
"No, in Azriel's room," Cassian said bluntly. "Apparently they have been mates for... two years.”
Clotho's head snapped around, facing Cassian, her eyes wide.
Nobody had seen that coming, not even one of Irena’s closest friends.
It seemed like both of them had kept it quiet. Azriel must have so badly wanted to protect his mate from…from him, that…
The thought made Rhys feel sick. Azriel would rather keep his mate a secret than reveal to Rhys that he had found her.
Than tell him that he had found his perfect match, that there was a female in this world that loved him above all others, who understood him, who supported him.
And it was all Rhys' own fault.
He didn't have any other thought. There was no other explanation. If a friend didn't trust him enough to confide in him that he had found his mate, it was because he had done something wrong. So wrong that Azriel hadn't felt like he could tell him.
She wanted to be with him? Clotho demanded.
"From the look of it, she was barely conscious, but still claimed him as hers. And Azriel certainly seemed to think that she would want to be with him," Rhys told Clotho.
And why wouldn't she? He was her mate. Her mate.
"He won't do anything to her," Cassian said fiercely. "She's his mate."
Rhys agreed with that. Of all the males in existence, Azriel was by far the least likely to do anything that Irena would not like. Hell, he wouldn't do anything that might make her even feel mildly uncomfortable. And if she told him to back off, he would give her as much space as she needed.
"Mor, whatever Clotho needs," he told his cousin, who had brought Madja there, who just inclined her head, seemingly shaken. "I'll seal of this room...we'll need to...figure out what to do with it," he said softly. "Clotho, whatever form of memorial you would like to hold...take all the time you need and then let me know."
Clotho looked at him sharply before nodding weakly. She probably wouldn't need his help when it came to something like this. She knew how to handle something like this. How to give her fallen a last farewell.
"I want to check on Irena," Gwyn said, her hands shaking as she crossed her arms.
Rhys nodded. That was fair. Of course Gwyn wanted to check on her friend. And at this point all anyone could really do was wait anyway. "Let me seal the room and then we can go," he said softly. "But I need to warn you, Azriel will be...overprotective," he told her. "Chances are, he won't let you get close to her at all."
"I don't have any doubt about that," Gwyn said dryly. "But she's my friend. I should at least be allowed to check on her."
***
He cleaned the blood of her skin...The shadows procured one of Irena's nightgowns. She didn't protest when he held her up and Madja pulled the soiled, ruined dress from her body...didn't even flinch away from his touch on her naked skin.
They had never gone further than some heated...kisses...further than his hands slipping under her nightgown and pressing against her soft skin. He had never wanted to push. Azriel had been willing to give her all the time in the world.
It had taken months until she had been ready for a hug…longer for a kiss. And he had waited. Gladly. He had gladly waited, because it was worth the wait. She was worth the wait.
Her marriage wasn't something that she was just going to get over, and Azriel was never ever going to push her for more than she willingly offered him.
He had never wanted to undress her under these circumstances. So he closed his eyes, and pressed a kiss to her head, not looking at all.
Irena didn't make a sound, didn't even really respond...just stared into the distance. He wasn't even sure she really noticed what was happening to her. Wasn't sure she even noticed Madja cleaning the wounds…cleaning thin, silver lines, scars of her past, mostly hidden by her clothing, but still visible.
This was also when they saw the rest of the wounds...and the fact that her bad leg was broken.
Madja bandaged it carefully, stuffing pillows underneath it to keep it elevated, wrapped the rest of her bruises and scrapes with a tincture.
Still, once she was clean, no more debris in her hair, her skin as clean as he could get it...and the new nightgown was fitted over her skin, he tugged her underneath the thick goose feather stuffed duvet and then the furs.
There was no resistance on Irena’s part. She just let him do as he pleased, let herself be maneuvered and tucked in with the patience of a parent settling a little girl into bed. She didn't say anything. Didn't protest at all, even when he curled his own large body around her smaller frame, even when his wings came around her, shielding her from the outside world.
But she didn't move to snuggle up to him either. Didn't reach for him, didn't try to press her body into his. Just...allowed him to pull her close and hold her as tightly as he wanted. Her body was limp and unmoving, the only emotion on her face a sort of...emptiness. A blank expression that...it was terrifying.
He wrapped his arms around her with a sigh, running a gentle hand through her hair with a sigh. He knew that she was in shock. That she had just survived something terrible, something traumatic. So it wasn't surprising that she wasn't really responsive at the moment, that her skin felt like ice to him and that she was shaking slightly, trembling…
But the instinct to comfort her, to protect her from everything that might hurt her was roaring in his chest. He couldn't pull away from her, even though he knew he should. Even though he knew he should just be thankful that he had her, that she was here, in his hands, breathing.
She felt so thin in his hands. So fragile. Like she might break if he didn't hold her close. And that feeling, the knowledge of how vulnerable his mate was, it was almost too much for him to bear.
“I have pain potions and a sleeping draught,” Madja said quietly.
Azriel felt his jaw clench at the mention of a sleeping draught. He wanted Irena to rest, needed her to sleep away some of the horrors, but there was also some instinct in him that revolted at the idea of making her vulnerable like that. That revolted at the thought of knocking his mate out when she couldn't protect herself.
“Is that alright, love?” He asked her softly.
She didn't answer. Didn't even stir. The only sign that she had heard his question at all was the way her fingers clenched more tightly in his shirt. The only outward sign that she even understood that he was there at all. That she could even hear him. "Love?" He asked again, his voice a gentle murmur. "Do you want the sleeping draught, love?"
“Sleep?” She repeated weakly.
“Sleep.” He promised her.
She simply opened her mouth in response, letting him pour it down her throat and swallowed.
He ran gentle fingers through her hair as the potion began to take effect. As her eyelids drooped and her limbs went loose and he could almost watch the tension leaving her body. He couldn't help but press a soft, tender kiss to the crown of her head.
Azriel couldn't put into words how good it felt to have her in his arms like this. To have her safe and protected and healing.
Madja left with the promise to be back soon…and as soon as she left there was a knock at the door. He didn’t want to deal with his brothers.
*We could bar the door, master,* the shadows offered.
Azriel considered that for a long moment. It was tempting. Really, really tempting to just let the shadows seal the door and tell everyone to fuck off. That they could deal with the rest of the world later and he could just focus on Irena for now.
He knew that he couldn't though. Knew that he couldn't keep the world away from Irena. For all that he would like to protect her from all the harm in this world and lock her away into the safety of his arms, he knew that he couldn't do that. And that Rhys would throw a fit if he didn't let them in immediately.
He sighed softly, his arms tightening around his mate. He didn't want to deal with his brothers right now. Didn't want to deal with Rhys lecturing him about his decisions. Didn't want the pity and understanding in Cassian's eyes, his careful kindness. He didn't want to have to hold up the strong facade when his brother pushed and pushed and pushed.
“Come in,” he said flatly.
Azriel sighed softly as the door was opened and his brothers entered, both looking at him with concern. There was something else in Rhys' eyes, something that he wasn't sure how to name. The High Lord had an indecipherable look on his face as he moved to come stand next to the bed.
But it was Gwyn that shouldered both Rhys and Cassian out of the way, that immediately went to Irena’s bedside.
“She’s asleep,” he warned her softly. “Madja gave her a sleeping draught.”
The Valkyrie moved in silence, but Azriel could tell that she desperately wanted to reach out and touch her friend. Could tell that there was some instinct in her to touch Irena, to comfort her, that she was fighting against. He almost felt bad for her, knowing how hard it must have been to hold back that urge to offer comfort, knowing how desperately she had to want to soothe her friend's pain.
He knew that the two of them were close. That Irena was well liked by practically every priestess…That Roslin was her very best friend, but that she also got along with seemingly everybody else, including Gwyn.
And he wanted to let her get close to his mate. He really did. But the need to keep his mate safe was too strong. Was something that he couldn't fight against. So he just pulled Irena more firmly into his chest.
His only saving grace was that Gwyn seemed to understand. Didn't even try to argue with him or demand to get close to his mate. She just stayed at a respectable distance and didn't protest when he pulled Irena closer to his chest.
He could tell that she recognized his possessive nature for what it was. Just a desperate instinct to hold and protect his mate from further harm. And she didn't argue with him.
“You are the one who gets her the tea and the cookies, aren’t you?” She asked him suddenly. “I was wondering where she got them from. They were always good but the tea has definitely gotten better the last two years.”
*See, Master?!* the shadows cooed, seemingly heaving and then coming to blanket Irena in their very presence too. *We are getting her the best tea!*
They seemed very pleased with themselves.
Azriel knew that when he wasn’t in Velaris, some of the shadows even kept Irena company through the night, cuddling themselves beneath her blankets with her. He also knew that Irena loved it.
Knew better than anyone even his shadows that those moments of comfort, those little gestures, mattered more to his mate than any large gifts ever could. Irena had never cared about large gestures, about pricy gifts, didn’t care about gifts or public displays of affection.
But those little things…she loved those little things. Loved her shadows coming to spend time with her…loved it when he gave her a back rub to ease the pain in her back, or when the shadows brought her the tea that she liked or her favourite cookies.
And Azriel…he loved giving her that. He was happy to provide each and every one of them. He would do anything for her at this point. Would bring her anything that she asked for with enthusiasm. Because he loved it when her face lit up or when she smiled when he brought her something she didn't expect to get. That was something that he would never get tired of.
Azriel would never get tired of watching her face light up with happiness at the smallest of gifts that he gave her. Would never tire of feeling those little gestures bring her even a small moment of happiness. It brought him somuch joy to see her delighted by something so small. Made something inside of him fill with warmth.
“I’ll let her sleep,” Gwyn said softly. “Tell her when she’s awake that she owes us all the gossip. None of us had a clue that the two of you were seeing each other.”
Azriel inclined his head in response, a soft grin pulling at his lips despite everything. "I'll be sure to tell her." Not that he thought that there was anything to gossip about.
Gwyn left with another smile. Which left him with his brothers.
“Az.” Cassian said with a weary sigh. ”What the fuck.”
Azriel frowned sharply, a low growl rumbling in his chest as he looked at his brother. His arms tightened around Irena unconsciously, the protective instinct coming into play.
He knew Cassian, knew all too well that his brother liked to be a pain in his ass, liked to push him further than he wanted to be pushed. "I'm not in the mood for your bullshit, Cassian," he warned his brother in a low growl. "Say whatever it is that you feel the need to say, and then get out."
He knew that he probably looked completely insane. Knew that he looked like a madman clutching onto Irena with an iron grip and growling at anyone who dared get too close. But he couldn't help it. Couldn't help the instincts that seemed to be pulling at every muscle in his body, couldn't stop the tension that was coiling tight as a spring.
“How long has… this been going on?“ Rhys asked delicately.
“Two years at next Starfall,“ Azriel answered flatly.
Cassian whistled softly at that. "Two years?!" He asked incredulously. "And you didn't think to tell us?"
Azriel's jaw clenched automatically at the words.
He had thought to tell them. Numerous times.
He had just never wanted to.
First he had wanted to let things settle and solidify before announcing it to his family and letting them come swarming in to analyse their relationship…Later…later he just hadn’t wanted to.
They were completely happy when nobody knew. Why change it?
Azriel knew that he probably should have anticipated this reaction. Probably should have expected his brothers to be confused and annoyed, probably should have anticipated them wanting to know more. But he just hadn't wanted to deal with the questions and inquiries and curiosity and judgement.
So he had kept his relationship with Irena a secret.
“It was none of your business,” he said simply.
Cassian stared at him, dark eyes pained. “We are your brothers,” he said quietly.
“Quite frankly, I just didn’t want to deal with whatever opinion you cook up about us,” Azriel said flatly. His brothers were way too nosy and curious for their own good. Always had been. “We are happy. I didn’t want you to ruin that.”
They would have never respected his privacy or any boundary he had tried to set up.
He knew that Cassianwas probably annoyed that he hadn’t told him about his relationship with Irena. Knew that he was probably feeling left out and...excluded. That he was hurt that Azriel had kept this from him. But he just couldn’t find it within himself to feel any sympathy at the moment. Not when his patience was already wearing thin. Not when he could still feel the fear of almost losing Irena thrumming under his skin.
He couldn’t deal with this right now. Couldn’t handle whatever pity or lecturing his brother would give him. Just wanted to hold his mate and try to keep the fear of losing her at bay.
That fear was already too much, already consuming him and threatening to swallow him whole. The only thing that kept him sane, the only thing that kept him from falling apart was the knowledge that his mate, his Irena, was safe in his arms. And he needed to focus on that if he wanted to keep it together.
“Azriel.” Rhys’ choice was choked.
Azriel stiffened at the sound, his attention flicking to his brother automatically. There was something in Rhys’ voice, some emotion in his eyes that Azriel couldn’t quite discern right now.
He had heard his brother choked or emotional or desperate before, but this was something else. This was emotion in his brother that he had never seen before: raw, unfiltered, and painful.
The tone of Rhys’ voice, the almost anguished look in his eyes had Azriel holding his breath for a moment. Had his heartbeat picking up speed as he waited for his brother to speak.
The tension was heavy and thick as he waited, his muscles coiled tight as he waited for Rhys to speak. His whole body tense like a tightly wound spring.
“I am sorry,” Rhys whispered quietly.
Azriel stiffened slightly at that, his eyes widening almost imperceptibly. His muscles were still tense, still ready for a fight, but the raw apology in Rhys' words, the emotion in his voice...it surprised him.
It was unexpected. He had expected the anger and the hurt and the bitterness, not the raw emotion in his brother’s voice. Not the apology.
He almost couldn’t believe his ears, almost wanted to ask his brother to repeat himself. But he just stayed quiet instead, just tensed and listened and waited for his brother to continue speaking.
He couldn't even blink as he waited, as he hung on every slight movement or small change in expression on his brothers face. The tension was so thick, so heavy he could almost taste it. But he still didn't move an inch. Just waited, every muscle still as a statue as he watched his brother with an almost desperate intensity.
“I am sorry. I didn’t…I didn’t want to hurt you,” Rhys said quietly. “I…we would have been happy for you,” Rhys promised him fiercely.
Azriel felt his throat go dry at the words. The apology, the admission of his brother's intent to protect him, it was so unexpected that he almost couldn’t comprehend it. He felt some of the tension drain from his body, some of the tightness in his muscles loosening slightly.
Azriel's eyes widened almost imperceptibly, his heart pounding so hard in his chest that he almost couldn't hear anything else over the sound. The raw emotion in his brother's voice, the sincerity in those simple words...it was overwhelming.
“You were hurt,” Rhys said softly. “I understand. But you could have come to us any time over the last two years and told us and we would have been a happy for you,” he promised him fiercely.
"Would you have really?" Azriel asked softly. "Would you really have been happy for us and not made a problem out of nothing?"
He wanted to believe his brother, truly he did. But there was still a small part of him, the small part that had been hurt and mistreated and rejected so many times before, that was waiting for the other shoe to drop. The part of him that was looking for a catch, looking for the sign that this was just another manipulation.
He didn't want to feel this way, didn't want to look for the betrayal and rejection that had been written into his very soul. But he couldn't help it. Couldn't help the small part of him that was constantly looking for the next blow, bracing for rejection and hurt.
“We would have,” Cassian said fiercely. “You found your mate, Az.”
Azriel nodded slowly.
“How did you even hide it?” Cassian demanded, crossing his arms.
“I do know how to use a sound shield,” Azriel gave back flatly.
Cassian let out a low chuckle at that, shaking his head as he grinned. "Well, you've always been more adept at keeping secrets than I am," he teased, a sly grin pulling at his lips. “ Since when do you sleep surrounded by furs by the way?” Cassian muttered.
“Irena gets cold,” he said simply.
“Wait, she spend the nights here with you?” Cassian suddenly realised.
"None of your business," Azriel replied flatly, not even trying to hide his annoyance with the nosy question. "Just focus on keeping your own mate happy, brother."
“How do you even sneak her up here?!”
"None of your business," Azriel repeated flatly. "My relationship with my mate is my own business, not yours."
He knew that he was being stubborn, that he was probably being unreasonable right now. But he couldn't help it. His emotions were too raw, too overwhelming for him to handle the intrusion into his personal life. He just wanted to focus on Irena and making sure she was okay, not on his brother's questions and prodding into the details of his relationship.
It was none of their business how he and Irena spent their time together, how they snuck around the house without being caught. That was something private, something sacred between them. And he wasn't going to share it with anyone, not even his own brothers.
He just wanted to protect that intimacy between him and his mate, wanted to keep it safely guarded from prying eyes that might not understand. He knew that his brothers cared about him, but he also knew that they could be too nosy for their own good sometimes.
“…is she aware what these furs mean?” Cassian asked him pointedly.
Was she aware that Azriel was laying claim to her with every single one of those furs that he hunted for her? Aware that he was following Illyrian tradition, regardless of how much…of how fucked up it was in many senses?
“Yes,” he said simply. Kinda. A little bit.
"So it's...serious?" Cassian asked him.
"She's my mate," he snapped back.
Cassian held up his hands in a pacifying gesture, a sheepish expression on his face.
Azriel let out a low groan, rubbing a hand over his face. "Just…leave it alone," he said tiredly. "Please. I'm not in the mood for any more questions right now."
He just wanted to be alone with Irena, wanted to hold her close and let the warmth of her body soothe his frayed nerves. He didn't want to deal with his brothers and their incessant questioning. Didn't want to talk about his relationship with Irena or how serious it was. He just wanted to be with her and that was it.
. His emotions were just too raw, too close to the surface for him to hold back. He just wanted a moment of peace, of quiet, with his mate.
He just wanted to hold her close and breathe in the scent of her skin, wanted to feel her warmth against his chest as he wrapped his arms around her protectively. He just wanted to know that she was safe, that she was still here with him. Was that really too much to ask?
He let out a long breath, trying to calm the whirlwind of emotions swirling within him. He didn't want to be angry, didn't want to be frustrated. But he couldn't help it, couldn't help the surge of protective instincts that came over him every time he thought about how close he had come to losing his mate.
"If you need anything, let us know," Rhys said quietly.
Azriel stiffened at the words, his hands curling into fists at his sides automatically. He knew that Rhys was only trying to be supportive, that he was only trying to offer his help. But Azriel didn't want that. Didn't want his brother's help or sympathy. He just wanted to be left alone with his mate.
He wanted to protect her himself, to take care of her and keep her safe without his brothers' interference. He knew that Rhys only meant well, but that knowledge did nothing to calm his instincts. All he could think about was how close he had come to losing his mate, how close he had come to never seeing her again. And the thought terrified him.
It made his heart clench and his gut twist in fear and pain, his hands clenching tight as he struggled to keep his emotions under control. He didn't want to be vulnerable, didn't want to let his brothers see how much this had affected him. But he knew that it was pointless to try and hide it, that his brothers could probably see the rawness of his emotions written all over his face.
Azriel didn't try to argue with his brother, didn't try to explain himself. He just nodded.
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Daughter of Water
Pairing: Oberyn Martell x Female Reader (OC)
Warnings: Sacred virginity nonsense, Smut, +18, loss of virginity, sex with a stranger, fingering, standing sex, sexuality leaning more toward body-worship, dirty talk, fluff, mockery of absurd beliefs, use of the title “sacred whore” (though not to degrade the woman — you’ll understand when you read it), manipulative and mischievous Oberyn, Rough, Language!
Y/N: Your Name S/T: Skin Tone H/C: Hair Color
Word Count: 8.5k
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A/N: I'm not a professional when it comes to fanfiction. I just write as a hobby. I started writing thanks to the amazing people who do this perfectly. So if you're going to focus on my mistakes, please don't read it.
A/N 2 : I apologize for the mistakes I made in English that is not my native language and I am trying to improve my writing skills.

The dunes of Dorne shimmered even on starless nights, yet that evening felt dark and silent to Prince Oberyn Martell. The decision to exile him had begun with news from Highgarden. A covert assassination attempt against House Tyrell had failed, and subtle clues cast a shadow of suspicion upon Oberyn. The true perpetrator was never confirmed, but the delicate balance of power within the Seven Kingdoms was fragile enough to threaten Dorne's independence. Oberyn's courage and rebellious spirit made him an easy target for such intrigues. His brother, Doran Martell, saw no alternative but to send him into exile.
"The best thing you can do for Dorne," Doran said, "is to leave. This will be the salvation not just for you, but for our house."
As always, Oberyn responded with a smile.
"Exile me? Perhaps you're doing me a favor, brother. A fine excuse to explore the world beyond the Seven Kingdoms."
Upon leaving the warm sands of Dorne, Oberyn stepped into the complex and ruthless world of Essos. Exile offered him not just freedom but also the opportunity to discover the extent of his own boundaries. His first destination was Lys; known as the island of love and passion, this city was famed for its golden beaches, wealthy merchants, and renowned beauties. However, Lys's seductive façade quickly became monotonous for Oberyn. Dazzling women, gold-embroidered wine goblets, delicate incenses... These could not fill the void within a Martell's soul.
"Beauty becomes dull quickly," he muttered to himself, sipping wine on the terrace of a Lys inn. "The essence of pleasure lies in the unexplored."
After spending a few months in Lys, Oberyn set his course for Myr. Known for its fine craftsmanship, glassmaking, and ancient poison masters, Myr offered more than just hedonistic pursuits—it provided something to satiate his curiosity: the fine art of death.
While wandering through Myr's narrow, labyrinthine streets, Oberyn's eyes caught a shop he'd heard much about. Known as Tanith's "House of Spices and Elixirs," this establishment was a hub for poison dealers from across Essos. Upon entering, the air was thick with the scent of spices; dried herbs, snake skins, and finely ground mineral powders lined the shelves.
Tanith was an elderly woman; her eyes bore the faded memories of something once vibrant. Upon seeing Oberyn, she immediately recognized not just a customer but a student hungry for knowledge.
"Poison isn't wielded like a crude dagger, prince," Tanith said, retrieving a dark red powder from a shelf. "Poison requires patience and intellect. In the right hands, it's an art; in the wrong, a disgrace."
Under Tanith's guidance, Oberyn began to learn the secrets of poisons. He delved beyond the common toxins sold in Myr's markets, seeking rarer and more lethal concoctions. The impact of poison lay not just in the victim's physical agony but also in the psychological terror it induced.
Tanith taught Oberyn three fundamental principles:
1. The Power of Time: Some poisons acted instantly, while others consumed their victims slowly over weeks. Oberyn learned that a poison derived from the blood of the Lys snake left its victim debilitated for days, with death arriving only during sleep.
2. Deceptive Taste and Aroma: The deadliest poisons often appeared as innocent as a dessert. Oberyn tasted a poison from Old Volantis; when mixed with wine, it left a sweet, spicy flavor, yet a single sip ignited a burning sensation in the victim's veins.
3. Poison and Intrigue: Poison was not merely a physical weapon but a message. It was used not just to kill a king but to instill fear in a kingdom. Oberyn understood the importance of poisoning not just the victim but also those around them.
Under Tanith's supervision, Oberyn began crafting his own poisons. One of his most successful creations earned him the title "Red Sand" among the people of Myr. This sand-colored powder induced a sensation of sand coursing through the victim's veins, leading to death within hours. However, Oberyn used his poisons not solely for killing but also to slowly subdue his enemies and leave them in terror.
During his months with Tanith, Oberyn began to grasp the philosophy of poison. It was quieter than a sword, swifter than an arrow, and as powerful as a word. He researched the great poison masters of history; he listened to tales of a poison made from dragon blood used in the final years of Valyria. Compared to Myr, Westeros's tradition of poison seemed primitive.
One evening, he turned to Tanith and said,
"Poison is like a gift stolen from the gods. A swift death can make a king feel powerless; a slow one can strike terror into an entire people."
Tanith smiled and replied,
"But remember, prince. Poison consumes the one who wields it as well. If you go too deep, in the end, you may find nothing but yourself."
Oberyn, satisfied with the knowledge he had gained and the poisons he had crafted in Myr, still felt an emptiness within a longing for new places to discover and desires yet to be fulfilled. He had mastered the subtleties of poison, but now it was time for a different kind of adventure.
Leaving behind the warm, salt-scented air of Myr, Oberyn Martell burned with the yearning for his next journey. During his time in Myr, he had fed both his mind and his soul, yet the restless passion in a Martell's blood drove him to seek more. It was then, in a harbor tavern, that a tale sparked the beginning of his journey to Pentos.
The tavern, a wooden structure overlooking the port of Myr, was filled with the scents of wine and bursts of raucous laughter at dusk. Oberyn was drawn in by a drunken merchant’s tale. He spoke of the Prince of Pentos, who, as part of an age-old tradition, would be sacrificed to the gods after a season of poor harvests. A new prince would then be chosen in his place. But what caught Oberyn's interest most was the central figure of this ritual: Daughter of Water.
"Daughter of Water ," the merchant slurred, wine dripping from his lips, "is seen as a gift from the gods. She must be so pure, so beautiful, that when the new prince unites with her, fertility and peace return. The city waits for her for years, dedicates her to the gods. They say there's one now… her name is Y/N."
Oberyn listened to the words with a deep smile. He slowly lifted his wine glass and leaned toward the merchant. “Tell me, my friend. What is the story of this Y/N? And what kind of place is Pentos, that even the gods marvel at the beauty of its women?”
Pentos, a golden city overlooking the sea on the western shores of Essos, began to take shape in Oberyn’s imagination. Known for its brothels and harbor, Pentos was a hub where merchants, pirates, and nomadic warriors converged. But the city held far more than outsiders might suspect.
The narrow, stone-paved streets of Pentos were adorned with ancient mosaics, each telling a story from the city’s past. Golden-domed palaces stood as symbols of wealth, yet beneath this splendor lay a sharp game of fear and balance of power. Though it seemed as if Pentos was ruled by its lords, true power rested in the hands of merchants and wealthy families.
The people of Pentos fed their city with the gifts of the sea. Spices, exotic fabrics, fish, and precious stones from the East kept the port alive with motion. But behind this wealth were also the marks of poverty. Most of the houses were narrow, leaning on one another, barely letting sunlight pass through. The streets echoed with both the laughter of wine merchants and the silence of beggars crushed by hunger.
And in the middle of all this chaos, like an offering to the gods, the name of Daughter of Water, Y/N, was whispered among the people. Y/N was on the verge of becoming a legend.
What the merchant said had stirred Oberyn’s blood. The mere fact that Y/N had been chosen as Daughter of Water was enough to convince him to embark on this journey. But it was not just about a woman or a ritual. For Oberyn, Pentos was a new playing field. When the merchant said, “Pentos lives like prey caught in the talons of an eagle. It looks strong, but it always fears,” a sly smile spread across Oberyn’s face.
“Is it easy to get to Pentos?” Oberyn asked.
“Finding ships in the harbors isn't hard. But be careful—Pentos lords don't easily trust outsiders,” said the merchant.
Oberyn paid little mind to the man's warning. He was confident that with his wit and charm, he could get whatever he wanted in Pentos. At the port of Myr, he boarded a trade ship called the Silver Scorpion. The vessel was filled with exotic spices and rare fabrics, but for Oberyn, this journey was not about commerce—it was about discovering a woman and the dark secrets of a city.
As the Silver Scorpion glided over the waves, Oberyn pondered what lay ahead. The beauty of Lysandra, the ritual of the Water Maiden, the mysteries hidden beneath the golden domes of Pentos... This voyage promised to be one of his greatest adventures in Essos.
“Pentos,” he murmured to himself. “The gods truly know where to hide their gifts.”
As the Silver Scorpion approached the harbor, the grandeur and darkness of Pentos slowly entered Oberyn Martell’s view. The city’s golden domes and elegant seaside palaces suggested peace and order, but beneath that splendor was a chaos waiting to be uncovered.
The moment he disembarked, Oberyn scanned his surroundings. His eyes sought the order beneath the harbor’s chaos. Pentos seemed disorganized at first glance, but deep within its heart lay a hierarchy. Here, power was shaped in silence and shadows. Oberyn trusted his instincts—they would lead him to Daughter of Water, for a Martell never strays from his path.
He acted on the information given to him by the merchant he met in Myr. Daughter of Water was no ordinary girl. She was seen as a gift from the gods, venerated by the people. Such a being would not be hidden among the common folk; she would be kept in a special place, protected like a living icon.
Crossing the cobbled roads beyond the harbor, Oberyn made his way to the quieter and more noble part of the city. The northern quarter of Pentos was home to wealthy merchants and lords. Here, grand structures rose toward the sky, courtyards adorned with marble statues. But Oberyn knew Daughter of Water would be kept not just in wealth, but in sanctity.
As he traced her trail through the city’s bustle, a wine merchant whispered to him, “Daughter of Water? She’s in the Garden of the Gods. Beneath the golden arbors... but you can’t just walk in there.”
The Garden of the Gods was one of the oldest and most sacred parts of Pentos. Located on the city’s western slope, this area was a sanctuary dedicated to the old gods, filled with graceful statues and exotic flora. According to rumor, Daughter of Water resided there, under the watchful eyes of temple priests. The temple was open only to the chosen; within its walls, magic, tradition, and faith intertwined.
Before reaching the Garden of the Gods, Oberyn sought out more knowledge of Y/N from merchants and priests. Each described her divinity and beauty in their own way.
Y/N’s S/T skin was said to shine as purely and brightly as moonlight reflected on water. Her luminous complexion was viewed as a sacred sign by the people—as if the gods had touched her and crafted her with a purity unlike any other. Her H/C hair resembled the night sky: long, silky, and moving like waves in a gentle breeze. But what truly set Y/N apart wasn’t merely her physical beauty.
The priests said that the real reason people believed Y/N was sacred was because of the Blood Moon that appeared on the night of her birth. That night, Pentos fell into an eerie silence, and the city’s oldest priest declared that Y/N was “the rebirth of the gods.” Even more impressive was her voice, which seemed to enchant everyone who heard it. Her songs touched the hearts of those who listened, filling them with a kind of peace and awe. The people believed they heard the voices of the gods in her melodies.
Oberyn knew that entry to the garden was only possible for chosen individuals. But a Martell possessed the wit to turn obstacles into opportunity.
As Oberyn Martell moved through the narrow streets of Pentos, he gathered clues step by step to locate the Garden of the Gods. Every time he heard its name, he sensed a tremble of reverence in people’s voices. This place held not only beauty, but also mystery and power.
In the marketplace, he spotted one of the priests. The man was different from the others—his robe was cleaner, his walk more dignified. Most likely, he held a significant place in the temple’s inner hierarchy. Oberyn decided to follow him. He watched as the man began speaking to a merchant in a spice-scented alley. Observing from a distance, he noticed their interaction was based on mutual trust.
This insight offered Oberyn an opportunity. Even among the temple priests, some could succumb to worldly desires; for gold or prestige, no door was truly sealed. He needed only to wait for the right moment.
The next day, he witnessed a priest examining fresh flowers being taken into the Garden of the Gods. Oberyn seized the chance and approached, introducing himself as one of Pentos’s prominent merchants. He centered his conversation on the people's devotion to the gods and his "admiration" for the sanctity of the temples.
“Honored priest,” Oberyn began, with a subtle smile. “I’ve heard stories about the Garden of the Gods in Pentos. They say the gods left traces of themselves there. Tell me, what does such a sacred place look like?”
The priest responded with a cautious expression. “The garden is for the gods and their servants alone. Entry is not permitted for someone off the street.”
Oberyn’s lips curled slightly. “Someone off the street? Perhaps. But I didn’t come to Pentos as just another merchant. I’ve spent most of my life uncovering the mysteries of Essos. In Myr, Lys, Qohor... I’ve seen the signs of the gods. I believe in what you say, and I cannot help but admire what has been granted to you.”
The priest examined Oberyn’s confident tone. Still, he seemed ready to object. At that moment, Oberyn lowered his voice, speaking in a tone that balanced between a subtle threat and a tempting offer. “In this city, many speak of the sacrifices made by the temple priests, and of the sacred relics you guard in the Garden of the Gods. But sadly, some rumors suggest that this sanctity is no longer well protected. Such whispers could tarnish the priests’ reputation. However, a foreigner like me could see things in a very different light. I could help exalt the temple’s name, if we worked together.”
The priest evaluated Oberyn's words, sensing the subtle threat and flattery woven together. Turning him away carried risk; remaining silent, however, might make an enemy of a man as clever as Oberyn. In the end, they reached an agreement. The priest would lead Oberyn to the edge of the garden, but crossing the temple's boundaries would depend entirely on Oberyn’s own skill.
The massive stone gates of the Garden of the Gods were more magnificent than even the grandest structures of Pentos. The carvings above depicted ancient deities, each holding a different element of nature: fire, water, earth, and air. As Oberyn studied these representations, a phrase etched beneath the gate caught his eye: "Peace is found only in places blessed by the gods."
As the priest opened the gate, he turned to Oberyn. "Not everyone who comes here can feel its sanctity. But this place sees the soul. If you lose your way during this journey, it will be by your own choice."
When the gate opened, Oberyn felt the presence of another world. The Garden of the Gods was no ordinary garden. Towering marble columns reached toward the sky, and birds danced around them, transforming the temple grounds into a work of art. Water whispered from every corner, flowing through narrow channels that connected the courtyards.
Oberyn tried not to be swept away by the garden’s enchantment. "The blood of a Martell is sacred too," he reminded himself. Even amid such beauty, he remained focused on his mission. He could sense that Y/N was at the very heart of this garden. His eyes scanned every corner, every step calculated.
Oberyn Martell relied on his intelligence and sharp observational skills to move through the Garden of the Gods undetected. His desire to reach Y/N gave him a renewed sense of determination. As he watched the garden and its routines, he carefully noted the behavior of the priests, the patrol paths of the guards, and every small detail around him.
The first thing he noticed was the sacred order that governed the garden. The priests moved in a constant ritual rhythm, traveling to different sections of the garden at set times. The guards were vigilant, especially near the central pergola that lay at the garden’s core—an area under tight surveillance. Oberyn realized that a direct approach was impossible; he would need to find a flaw within the system’s structure.
Through his observations, Oberyn noticed that at specific times the priests gathered beneath a small pavilion in the garden’s corner. There, fruits and wines were offered as symbols of the garden’s sanctity, and the priests partook of these gifts while expressing their devotion. Yet Oberyn saw beyond the sacredness—he saw a glimpse of human nature: despite their faith, the priests consumed the fruits and wine with eager appetite, surrendering themselves to the moment’s comfort.
Oberyn recalled the months he had spent in Myr, learning the arts of poison. In the small leather pouch he carried, one vial contained an extract of a plant called Silent Shadow. The poison was not deadly; its effects were more subtle. It clouded the mind, dulled awareness, and slowed reflexes. For his goal, it was a perfect tool.
His next step was to mix the extract into the fruits and wine offered to the priests. But it had to be done without drawing attention. Oberyn purchased a few pomegranates and figs from a small fruit stall outside the garden. In a secluded corner behind the stand, he used a thin syringe to inject the poison into the fruits. He also treated a bottle of Pentoshi wine in the same way, preparing everything for his plan.
Oberyn discreetly placed the fruit and wine on a table near the pavilion, blending them in with the other offerings. When the priests gathered at the corner of the garden, they unknowingly included Oberyn’s contributions in their ritual. Soon after, he watched as they began to taste the sacred offerings, all while his plan took root.
The effects became evident quickly. The priests' movements grew looser, their speech slowed. Some chuckled softly; others gently swayed where they sat. Even the guards, having sampled a few bites, started to show signs of the same dazed state.
Oberyn knew this was his moment.
Oberyn, knowing this distraction would continue, decided to act. At this point, the most crucial part of his plan was to silently find the path to the center of the garden, to Y/N’s arbor.
The water channels running through the garden were another detail that hadn't escaped Oberyn’s notice. Passing under delicate stone arches, these channels connected every corner of the garden, extending silently toward the center. When Oberyn realized they were wide enough for a person to pass through, he decided to use them.
Taking advantage of the priests’ and guards’ scattered attention, he slipped into the most secluded part of the garden. There, a small arched tunnel marked the origin of the water. As he entered the tunnel, he stripped off his outer garments and began to move carefully, clinging to the damp stone walls. The humid, dark atmosphere tested both his mental and physical endurance. But Oberyn was used to such challenges; a Martell did not succumb to fear when opportunity presented itself.
As he moved forward with the sound of the water guiding him, he noticed a small stone staircase at the end of the channel. It led directly beneath Y/N’s arbor. Climbing the damp steps in silence, Oberyn advanced like a chess piece moved with careful intent. At the end of the tunnel, he spotted a sentry priest standing alert in the dim light. Now, intelligence and creativity had to serve as sharper weapons than any blade.
Looking around, Oberyn noticed thinly carved stone holes reaching up to the ceiling of the channel. These openings, combined with the sound of the water, created echoes that carried whispers across the garden.
A clever idea came to him to distract the priest. He picked up a small stone from near the entrance of the tunnel and placed it in the flow of the stream, waiting patiently. As the stone drifted with the current and clattered against others, it echoed, making it seem as though the sound had come from a distant part of the tunnel. But Oberyn wasn’t finished; to amplify the illusion, he gently blew air into one of the stone carvings, adding a whisper that blended with the rhythm of the water.
The priest suddenly stiffened. The rhythmic sound of the stream mixed with faint whispers must have seemed like a divine warning or sign. With unease, he turned his head and began to approach the shadowy entrance of the water channels. At that moment, Oberyn's cunning triumphed once again; while the priest waited for a sign from the gods, Oberyn glided up the stairs like a shadow.
The stairs led Oberyn to a chamber beneath the arbor. Here, on the surface of the stone walls, he saw carvings resembling ancient Valyrian symbols. Yet among them, Oberyn recognized the subtle outline of a mechanism. The stones shifted slightly when touched with care. With the patience honed under Dorne's blazing sun, he studied their arrangement. Moving with near-blind sensitivity in the dark, he found the correct alignment. As the final stone clicked into place, a soft mechanical sound whispered through the air and a stone door slowly opened.
A narrow passage led Oberyn just a few steps from Y/N’s arbor. Yet he could already feel her presence; the air itself seemed to hum with divine energy around her. It was as if her very breath filled the chamber.
But for Oberyn, the real challenge was how to approach her. It would take more than wit—it required a captivating strategy. This meeting with Y/N was less a hunt and more the final steps of a dance. He had reached the most sacred part of the garden, but as he neared Y/N, he prepared to don his mask: one of charm, danger, and cleverness.
When Oberyn Martell stepped into the sacred chamber of the arbor, his eyes lingered for a heartbeat. Y/N was far more than what the priests and the people of Pentos had described. The young woman seemed shaped by the very hands of the gods. Her S/T skin, so rare and pristine to someone who had grown under Dorne’s scorching sun, was like a canvas—pure and mesmerizing. The smoothness of her complexion reminded him of a mountain peak kissed by the first snow; cold, yet with an untouchable allure.
Her H/C hair, catching the flickering light of the torches in the room, resembled the night sky itself—each strand a shadow of starlight cloaked in darkness. It flowed down to her waist like a silken veil, framing her face in a way that made her seem like she belonged in a sacred portrait. But what struck him most were her eyes: deep, intense, caught between the golden flame of a dragon and the silvery gray of Valyria. Those eyes pierced through Oberyn’s gaze like an arrow.
Y/N left a divine impression not just with her beauty but with her very presence. Her movements were graceful—not in the way of a trained lady, but as though gifted by the gods themselves. The golden bracelets on her slender wrists, bestowed by the priests, chimed softly with each subtle motion. Yet Oberyn sensed those bracelets were shackles; Y/N was a bird in a cage, condemned to a fate she had never chosen.
A faint smile touched Oberyn’s lips—not one of victory, but of something deeper, a recognition. Y/N was not simply beautiful. She possessed a uniqueness unlike anything he had ever seen or experienced. This young woman could make him forget the flower gardens of Dorne, yet behind her beauty lay fragility and solitude.
"As beautiful as a goddess, and as fragile as a bird," Oberyn thought. "But a Martell fears neither gods nor cages." Y/N’s beauty stirred not only his admiration but also a hunger. He was not a man content with watching—he was a man of pursuit. But with Y/N, that pursuit felt elevated. This woman was more than a symbol offered to the gods—she was powerful enough to deceive the gods themselves.
Oberyn was captivated by not just her appearance, but the aura she emanated. The priests may have marked her as chosen by the divine, but in Oberyn’s eyes, Y/N held a power beyond their reach. The sorrow in her gaze ignited the fire in his Martell blood. His fury at her caged destiny, and his desire to truly know her, made him more resolute than ever.
"To only look upon her," Oberyn thought, "would be like gazing at stars and never daring to make a wish." Every movement she made, every breath she took, became less an image and more a melody in his mind. The fire of Dorne met the elegance of Y/N, and he knew this was merely the beginning.
Oberyn Martell would not accept that Lysandra belonged to the gods. In his eyes gleamed the resolve of a warrior and the passion of a lover. This bird would not remain caged—for Oberyn was a man who broke cages.
The Garden of the Gods in Pentos had lost none of its grandeur, even under the night’s shadow. Marble columns rose like phantoms in the moonlight, while the ancient trees overhead formed a canopy that veiled the sky. The soft trickle of water and the occasional chirp of birds gave the garden a sacred harmony with nature. The holiness of this place weighed upon the hearts of all who entered—but Oberyn Martell’s heart bore only one thought: Y/N.
“Y/N,” he said, stepping from the shadows with his usual confident, cunning smile. His attire—rich in black and red—was embroidered with golden suns of House Martell. He looked both noble and enigmatic, moving with the ease of a predator who cared little for the sacred. Y/N, under the moonlight, shone like a tale brought to life. But to Oberyn, this was no tale. This was the beginning of a mystery waiting to be unraveled.
“The Garden of the Gods... they say it’s a sacred place. But I’ve always been intrigued by how fragile sacred things can be. Just like you, shining here tonight.”
Y/N was sitting on the bench by the window; she quickly turned around and frowned at the stranger standing before her. There was more discomfort than fear in her eyes. "I don't know who you are, but you shouldn't be here. Only priests and the divinely chosen are allowed to walk in this garden."
Oberyn took a few steps toward her, and when the moonlight hit his face, that famous smile of his became more pronounced. "I did not claim my right from the priests, but from the night itself. I’m looking for something, Y/N. And I’ve found it."
Y/N's brows furrowed. "This isn't a place for games. Tell me who you are and leave."
Oberyn didn't seem affected by her authoritative tone. On the contrary, the smile on his face grew wider. "I am Oberyn Martell," he said, each word carrying the power of his name. "Prince of Dorne, son of the Snake, a wanderer who sings songs of love and death across the Seven Kingdoms. But tonight, I am only a man. And perhaps the Garden of the Gods has summoned me."
Y/N stared at Oberyn. "You came all this way just to find me? If achieving that makes you feel divine, I'm afraid you'll be disappointed. I'm not a miracle, nor the embodiment of a prophecy. I'm just... someone born in the wrong place at the wrong time."
Oberyn took a step to sit beside her, but Y/N stopped him with a motion of her hand. "Don’t come closer. I don't care who you are. I’m in no state of mind to talk to anyone on behalf of the gods."
"I'm not speaking on behalf of the gods," Oberyn said, his voice warm enough to slowly melt Y/N’s defenses. "I speak for myself. And when I look at you, I don’t see a prophecy or a miracle. I see a woman. A woman who has bewitched me."
Y/N turned her eyes away from Oberyn. "Bewitched? I suppose after growing up in a brothel, being seen as sacred is somehow less unbelievable."
Oberyn was quiet for a moment. "A brothel?" he asked, his voice curious rather than mocking.
Y/N paused for a second, then shrugged and continued speaking. "Yes. I was born in one of the famous brothels of Pentos. My mother worked there. The women did everything they could to protect me, but I grew up in the middle of that life. If you’re wondering how I remained a virgin, the answer is simple: I was scary enough."
Oberyn raised his eyebrows slightly. "You were scary?"
"Yes," Y/N said with a sharp smile. "From an early age, I didn’t let anyone come near me. I outsmarted them, protected myself with fear. Eventually, the priests came and told me I was the chosen of the gods. Funny, isn’t it? Someone who grew up in the back rooms of a brothel suddenly becomes Pentos’s sacred symbol."
As Oberyn listened to her words, the smile on his face faded into a more serious expression. "I can’t say your story surprises me," he said at last. "But I must admit, it makes you even more captivating. Because it's impossible to believe that a woman who defends herself so perfectly could ever be ordinary."
Y/N shot him a sharp look. "Don't flatter me. I've heard enough praise before you ever walked into this place. If you want something from me, just say it!"
Oberyn took a few more steps closer, locking eyes with her. “You wonder what I want from you? I want the truth. I want to know what guides you beyond this prophecy nonsense, what makes you feel like a pawn in the gods' game. But most of all, I want to understand you, Y/N. Because your story is more sacred than anything in this garden.”
Y/N remained silent for a moment. The sincerity in Oberyn’s voice had begun to chip away at her walls. Yet deep down, she still questioned how trustworthy this man truly was. “Your tales and my truths are very different, Oberyn Martell. I gave up believing in fairy tales a long time ago. But if it’s the truth you want, I might keep talking.”
Oberyn lowered his head slightly, wearing that famous smile again. “I’m not just a storyteller, Y/N. I’m a man who knows how to seek the truth, and live it. And tonight, here with you, I’m ready to uncover the truths that touch your soul.”
In his eyes, Y/N could see the dark shadows of her own fate. This man could be the most dangerous and the most captivating person to cross her path. But standing before him, she was determined to keep whatever she felt tonight a secret.
Oberyn stood in silence before her. Her sarcastic gaze, tired smile, and disbelief might have dissuaded another. But for Oberyn Martell, this was nothing short of a challenge. His intelligence and charm were often sharper and deadlier than any blade.
“The chosen one,” Oberyn said, adding a sly warmth to his voice. “You once said how foolish you thought that title was. But I’ve been wondering something. When you reject it, is it truly because of disbelief? Or is it rebellion against something that was forced upon you?”
Y/N turned to him, brows furrowed. “You’re trying to understand me, aren’t you? Others have tried before. Priests speaking in the name of gods, dragging my mother through the dirt while lifting me up… They all told the same lies. But my mother… she was different. She was the only one who taught me how the world really works.”
Oberyn took another careful step forward. “Your mother was a prostitute. But she did everything she could to protect you from her fate, didn’t she? A girl who grew up in a brothel and managed to remain a virgin… That alone is an incredible story. What protected you, Y/N? Your mother’s love? Or your own will?”
Y/N looked down in silence. The sharpness in her voice had faded, replaced by sorrow. “My mother trained me. Not just to protect my body, but my soul too. It had nothing to do with the gods. But that doesn’t make me sacred. It just… means I survived.”
Oberyn didn’t let the moment slip away. “Survival is already a miracle, Y/N. Especially in a place like that, with a past like yours. Staying a virgin doesn’t have to be a sign from the gods. But it is a power. A power only you know, and only you can control.”
Y/N narrowed her eyes. “Are you trying to persuade me? Because if you are, you’re talking to the wrong person.”
Oberyn leaned in, his face close to hers. “No, I’m talking to the right one. Because you’re someone who rejects titles and prophecies. That makes you stronger. The reason so many people cling to you like you’re divine isn’t just your beauty, it’s your resolve. Y/N, they want to make you sacred because you control your own fate. And now, we can write that fate together.”
When Y/N saw the sincerity in his eyes, she hesitated for a moment. His words were chipping away at her walls. “What do you want, Oberyn? What do you really want from me?”
Oberyn shrugged with a soft smile. “Just one night… just one moment. To be with you, and leave all this prophecy nonsense behind.”
Y/N, while weighing the meaning behind his words, remembered her mother’s advice. Oberyn’s charm and wit offered her a world she had never known. But within that world, she realized she could make her own choices. This man was offering her an option.
She looked at Oberyn in silence for a while. Then, with a slight nod, she spoke. “If that’s what you want, then I will be with you. But that doesn’t make me sacred. It makes me a woman. A woman who can make her own choices.”
Oberyn leaned in with a look that was a mix of triumph and tenderness, taking her hand. “What is sacredness anyway? Where there are choices and freedom, there is true power. And being with you will be a source of strength for me.”
Y/N smiled softly. This man had reached the vulnerable parts of her. But most importantly, he reminded her that she could choose something of her own free will. A gift from the gods? Perhaps. But in that moment, she chose to simply be a woman.
Y/N stood up to come level with Oberyn. The room was cloaked in semi-darkness. Her cheeks flushed at the thought of experiencing such an intimate moment with a man for the first time, but the shadows would conceal her. Yet her skin glowed like porcelain in the candlelight, making it impossible not to notice the change in her color. Oberyn gently cupped her chin between his fingers and lifted it, making her look into his eyes. Her eyelids carried a subtle weight. Her gaze became more alluring, more intimate than ever before. As Oberyn looked into her eyes, he felt both a kingdom to be conquered and a goddess to be worshipped. Then his eyes wandered to her lips, curving softly upward. He slid his thumb down to her lower lip. Its hue resembled a rose fed with fresh blood. Her lower lip was fuller, each word she spoke a silent invitation for a kiss. He could no longer resist. As their faces drew closer, their skin touched, and he kissed her lips—an innocent yet sinful kiss.
Oberyn Martell’s kiss carried layers of meaning, passionate yet always in control. Y/N’s body trembled involuntarily. This was the first true intimacy she had ever experienced. Her lips were soft and shy, while Oberyn’s were like a storm of experience overtaking them.
The kiss began gently. Y/N’s trembling breath made the warmth of Oberyn’s lips even more vivid. When Oberyn slipped his tongue lightly between her lips, Y/N’s entire body reacted as though washed in fire. For the first time, she discovered the depth of her own desire. When Oberyn’s tongue touched hers, she instinctively held onto his shoulder.
The kiss became more and more sensual. Oberyn’s experienced lips tore through Y/N’s shyness, urging her toward boldness. Their tongues began to dance, as though trying to taste each other more deeply; with each motion, the dance became bolder and more intricate. Y/N’s first hesitant touch of her tongue drove Oberyn wild. Her fresh and innocent responses only fueled the fire burning within him. As he deepened the kiss, his hands slowly moved upward. His palms caressed the sides of Y/N’s delicate neck, tilting her head back slightly to make her fully surrender. His thumb pressed gently on the spot where her pulse throbbed; this small gesture allowed him to feel how alive and sensitive her body was. The rhythm of her heartbeat pulsed beneath his fingers like a melodic song.
The moisture of the kiss blended with the warmth that spread from Y/N’s lips to Oberyn’s beard. Oberyn deepened the kiss as if he wanted to savor the taste of her lips a little longer. His free hand slowly moved down to her waist. Y/N’s slender figure, for Oberyn’s strong hands, was as precious as the gold and diamonds that adorned her body. His other hand gently touched the small of her back, fingers gliding beneath the fabric as they explored the curves of her body. His fingertips traced the bends of her spine, offering both reassurance and a subtle invitation to his fire. With every touch, he could feel Y/N’s faint shivers. Her deep breaths were a sign of how willingly she was surrendering to his passionate caress. While Oberyn honored her innocence, he was also relishing the pleasure of breaking it with her.
When Oberyn finally slowed the kiss and pulled away from her face, a soft breath escaped her lips. Y/N’s cheeks were flushed with desire; her lips slightly parted, marked by the trace of his bite. Oberyn studied her face and spoke with a mocking smile. "The taste of innocence is so sweet. But you will never be innocent again, Y/N. Not with me."
Then, Oberyn bent his knees slightly, one hand behind her back, the other under her thighs, and lifted her into his arms. His feet glided over the carpet embroidered with pomegranate motifs symbolizing fertility and sanctity. Though his movement was graceful, it held the decisiveness of a warrior lifting his sword. Y/N’s body felt light in his powerful embrace. When Oberyn's hand held her back, his fingertips discovered the smoothness of her skin—silky, warm, and fresh.
As he carried her toward the bed standing at the center of the room, the walls carved from black marble and inscribed with ancient symbols seemed to close in around them. The heavy velvet curtains darkened with each step, surrounding them like a lingering echo.
The bed was draped in deep blue silk covers, rippling like sea waves, adorned with shimmering white floral motifs. An ornate golden headboard stood tall like a symbol of sacredness. But for Oberyn, it was merely a vessel—not for the gods, but for surrendering to desire.
As he laid Y/N down, his movements were as delicate as a sculptor placing a masterpiece, yet as assertive as a conqueror celebrating victory. When her back met the softness of the bed, every fabric and texture on her skin suddenly felt foreign. Oberyn paused for a moment; leaning over her, his lips nearly touching hers, his breath stirred her skin. "The gods offered you as a sacred body," he whispered, his voice a reverberating tone in the darkness. "But here, in this bed, your sanctity will be undone. The gods misplaced you... They left you in my hands, not theirs."
His hands glided gently down her sides, as though drawing a boundary between her smooth skin and the bed's fabric. Oberyn read both her fears and desires. As his lips returned to hers, his hands moved over the curves of her breasts, the fullness of her hips, her skin burning like fire under his touch.
The dress Y/N wore hugged every curve with its thin and soft fabric, yet it drew a line Oberyn had yet to cross. His hands moved toward the elegant slope of her neck. As he gently slipped the fabric from her shoulders, his fingers made their first direct contact with her skin. There was a beauty that was both inviting and provocative, stoking the flame already burning low in his loins. "Being this flawless... is it merely a coincidence?" he asked, already knowing the answer.
He slowly slid the dress down to her wrists. The fabric stretched slightly over the fullness of her hips before falling freely again. The idea of a man seeing her bare body excited her; her nipples hardened, the fine hairs on her skin stood on end, her breathing grew erratic, and her chest rose and fell with intensity. How long could Oberyn withstand such an enticing sight? He climbed on top of her, supporting himself with one hand on the bed while the other cupped her breasts. Their round shape echoed nature’s symmetry. When he rolled the hardened tips between his fingers, a shiver erupted from her spine and surged toward her loins. Oberyn, alternately soft and firm in his caresses, bent to kiss her lips once more, ensuring her body met each touch with delicate sensitivity.
His fingers, feather-light, traced a path from her breasts to her stomach and down to her waist, brushing her body with teasing strokes that danced along the curves brought to life by the deep contrast of candlelight. Y/N trembled under Oberyn’s every touch, her body tightening in pleasure as she tasted such new and overwhelming sensations.
When Oberyn released her lips and moved down to her breasts, she gasped in surprise as if she had discovered something unknown. Her areolas were enveloped by his mouth, her nipples caught teasingly between his teeth while his tongue continued to provoke the untouched areas. Yet his hands never strayed from her sinuous figure.
In the midst of all this lustful passion, Y/N noticed something—an ache pooling low in her body, unlike anything she’d felt before. The tension gathered in her pelvis, and her most intimate part pulsed with heat. One leg rested on the bed like a column, while the other bent slightly inward, as if trying to contain the trembling arousal spreading through her. She felt embarrassed. Oberyn’s sensual touches had awakened every sensitive cell in her body, preparing her for a climax she couldn’t fully comprehend, while a warm, slick moisture began to seep between her thighs.
Oberyn finally released her breast from his hungry mouth, and without lifting his face from her skin, he trailed his nose, lips, and tongue between the swell of her breasts down to her navel. He licked each spot the candlelight revealed, and the trail of saliva he left behind cooled her delicate skin like a breeze across silk.
Kisses soon accompanied the strokes of his tongue. As he moved closer to her pelvis, the pleasure seemed to intensify; when a soft moan slipped through her teeth and filled the room, Oberyn lifted his head and smiled. "You're finally starting to let yourself go," he said, not with mockery but with the feral intensity of an impatient bull. "How about mimicking the sounds you heard in the brothel, Y/N? You may have kept your virginity, but surely you've been exposed to memories you didn't ask for."
Y/N froze for a moment. It was as if she had forgotten how to breathe. She saw the certainty in Oberyn’s eyes. She had grown up in a brothel and witnessed the orgasmic expressions on women's faces—grimaces that seemed to mix pain and desperation, as if they hurt but still begged for more. Her mother always said the women in that house were on a wicked path, that they sold their feelings for money, and ever since, a woman's moan had felt like something shameful to her. But now, she understood—resisting the overwhelming power of the pleasure she was experiencing would be absurd. As Oberyn continued to taste her body, a louder moan escaped her lips. The tension in her muscles had eased, and she could feel his touch much more deeply now. Her mind had surrendered completely to the spell of lust.
But it seemed even this wasn’t enough for the prince. He straightened up and gazed at Y/N’s sculpture-like, flawless face with desire. "Come on, gift me the sanctity of your moans," he said, "let me help you—lie on your stomach, and part your legs."
She hesitated at first. Her womanhood was like a vault where an artist hid their most precious works—a mysterious sanctuary. And now she was about to open that mystery to a man she barely knew. Her nervousness slowed her movements, but she did as he asked, supporting herself with her arms. She lay face down, pressing her elbows into the mattress while her head and breasts hovered above. She slowly dragged her feet across the sheets and opened her legs. When the cool air from the window brushed against her burning sex, she realized just how ready she was for this man.
Meanwhile, Oberyn began removing his clothes. The sharp sound of skin sliding against fabric, the gentle thud of garments hitting the floor filled Y/N’s ears and echoed in her mind like a melody announcing the carnal pleasure to come.
When Oberyn moved to position himself on the bed, his knees on the bed again, the bed trembled with his movements. And when he finally placed his body on top of Y/N’s, she felt his strength and weight down to her feet. When Y/N’s body, which would make the gods jealous, merged with Oberyn’s, the missing piece of the puzzle was complete, they were in such harmony.
On the ceiling was a fresco dedicated to the gods. The fresco depicted dragons piercing the sky and sea goddesses. The pale light filtered through the fresco, adding a mystical air to the room and illuminating Oberyn’s bronze skin and Y/N’s S/T. The light from the fresco surrounded their bodies in harmony like a sacred halo.
Oberyn’s hand moved along the edges of Y/N’s body, stopping at the edge of the bed and her body, his fingers began to push the edge. “Come on, Daughter of Water, help me,” he said, leaning into her ear, his warm breath mixing with his words. His lips were so close, the goosebumps of his breath brushing against her skin.
Oberyn slid his hand from her waist, wedging himself between her and the bed. He struggled toward her groin, his fingers finally meeting a warm slick, a soft moan escaping her lips.
Y/N felt trapped beneath Oberyn. His weight, his strength, and the way his arm wrapped around her waist and lowered his hand to her fresh pussy made her feel like a captive, a prisoner who had forgotten her freedom. Her movements were completely restricted, and she realized that she had to surrender herself only to his touch. But what she was trapped in was the orgasmic moment Oberyn would give her, and she could remain in a prison of lust forever.
As uncomfortable as Oberyn thought it was when his beard dug into her skin when he placed his head on her neck, even that discomfort gave her a reason to get wet when the prince’s fingers started moving. The sloshing sound of her wet pussy caught her ears. Oberyn was slowly caressing the girl's clitoris in a circular motion, moving his fingers to the left side with a certain tempo, and with the sudden change of direction, he could feel the girl's whole body shaking under him. Then he dipped his index and ring fingers into her outer lips, stretching her swollen flesh on both sides, and reached the entrance of her vagina with his middle finger, and while stimulating this area, he continued to stimulate it with frequent up and down movements, sliding the precum he had collected up to her clitoris and pressing it hard.
Oberyn had passed his other arm under Y/N's ribcage and placed his hand on the girl's neck. As the girl was exposed to the naughty movements surrounding her inner lips, her tensed muscles struggled to lift her off the bed and get some rest from this maddening pleasure, Oberyn wrapped his arms and legs tighter around her body. Y/N was moaning now, as he wanted. A deep moan coming from her chest, a combination of pain and pleasure.
"Does this feel good?" he asked, knowing that the girl was in no mood to speak. And as he had expected, no words came from her lips except a groan. A dark and threatening air swept through the room as Oberyn repeated his question. The fingers around her neck tightened slightly.
Y/N's mouth let out a series of painful, broken cries, then she answered, her voice trembling. "Yes, I've always wondered about that feeling," she admitted.
“Oh, good,” Oberyn said, his fingers softly against her throat. But Y/N had become so sensitive to the sudden stimulation from her entrance to her clitoris that she buried her head in the pillow. She was moaning much louder now. But he was forgetting something. Oberyn wanted Y/N’s moans to echo throughout the room. So he pulled his hand from her pussy, tangled his damp fingers in her hair, and lifted her head violently off the pillow until his ears brushed her lips. He breathed through his teeth. “You will not do this, Y/N! If necessary, the priests and guards will hear your moans and come here, but you will never lower your voice, do you understand me?”
Y/N was afraid. She was disturbed by this rough treatment, by the disregard for her will. But she also wanted, absurdly, to continue this fear and for Oberyn to be harsher with her. And she was too ashamed to tell him.
She did as he said. When Oberyn placed his hand between her vulva and the bed again, his voice grew louder with the intensity of his caresses. Oberyn was pleased with her. He laughed softly. "Well done, Y/N," he said, "as long as you listen to me, it is inevitable that you will lose yourself in the 'sacred' pleasures of sex." As the girl moaned and shook more, a hardness that belonged to Oberyn continued to swell in her ass. He wondered how hard it would get, and was equally surprised. Back in the brothel days, she had watched the son of a young, rich family fucking one of the girls in the house. When he had withdrawn his penis from the woman's vagina while he was secretly looking at them through the open door, he had seen that it was a small and slender organ. It did not look very hard, though. Now, as the hardness she felt behind her increased, she felt sorry for the boy. And she understood why he had come there.
Oberyn rose from Y/N, choosing to look down on her squirming body, and when he placed his strong hands on her waist, turning her like a wooden puppet, he spoke in a tone that showed his admiration. "To touch you is like defying the gods. But it is worth it; I am willing to burn with your fire."
Y/N tried to catch her breath and digest his words. The intensity of Oberyn's gaze startled her, but it also made her feel stronger than she had ever felt before.
The invisible attraction between them grew stronger with each second as the captivating scent of basil and sandalwood filled their lungs.
Oberyn would prepare Y/N for their new position. She was wet enough, eager enough... But she was still just a young. This time he didn't ask her. He placed his hands under her knees and made her stretch her legs. This way, Oberyn could easily slide between her legs, making sure her slit, which was burning with pleasure and completely covered in precum, was spread apart so he could insert his cock between them.
Y/N gasped as her prince's vein-throbbing cock pressed against her inner lips, and she punched the bed with sudden force. "Fuck," she screamed. Oberyn laughed with pleasure. "What would the priests and common people do if they knew that Daughter of Water they worship as a sacred virgin was screaming lust under a foreign man?" he asked breathlessly, his voice stinging and mocking. The girl's virgin pussy was so wet that the liquid leaking from her legs began to spread on the blue fabric of the bed.
Oberyn was forcing his way into her vagina, first grabbing his cock in his hand and flicking it against her clit, then stroking it all the way around her vagina a few times, then inserting a few millimeters of his tip into her vagina, but it never went in. This was driving Y/N crazy. "Fuck you, Martell!" she screamed, a phrase she had heard a whore say in the past. "I want you inside me now." As rude as it had sounded at first, she now realized how useful it was.
Oberyn was provoked by the girl's words. With sudden movements, he grabbed her by the arms, straightened her up, and hugged her as if he wanted to crush her. He pulled the hair covering her ears hard and growled through his teeth. "Do you want me to fuck you like your whore mother, Y/N? Turn the holy virgin into a holy whore?"
Y/N was aroused by these words. It was interesting that Oberyn treated her differently than other people. "Yes," she moaned, "I want you to fuck me like a whore."
The more the girl begged him, the more Oberyn became greedy. "You really need to be fucked hard by a strange man, don't you, Y/N, huh? Tell me!"
Y/N moaned breathlessly, "Oh, yes, I just want to be Prince Martell's bitch!"
Oberyn got off the bed without letting go of the girl's arm and stood on his feet. He turned the girl's back to him and placed his chin on her shoulder. One of his hands was pushing her back as he spoke. "Bend over, my holy whore," he commanded.
Y/N did as he said immediately and pressed her upper body against the bed. Oberyn placed his strong hand on the girl's back to find the position she needed and made her chest press a little more against the bed. Y/N's full ass was now clearly visible to Oberyn's eyes. Smooth as porcelain and as aesthetic as a statue. Just below, between her ass cheeks, her full pussy lips were glistening with precum reflected by the candlelight. So needy, so delicious and worthy of being spanked without tolerance...
Oberyn first placed his fingers on Y/N's right ass cheek. He caressed it gently. Then he repeated the same for her left as he now held her cheeks with both hands and stretched them to the sides. And suddenly he slid his penis into the girl's vagina. Y/N was startled and breathless when she suddenly felt his cock in her vagina. She wanted to get up, but Oberyn's hand was still on her back, keeping her steady.
Oberyn’s cock completely enveloped Y/N’s vagina. It was neither too tight for him. He threw his head back in pleasure as the rough, warm walls of her vagina encased Oberyn’s smooth manhood. “Oh, gods! I hope they’re watching us.”
It had been a long time since Oberyn had been inside such a tight vagina, and he was lost in longing for the pleasure it gave him. Each time he pushed his huge snake inside her, his swollen balls slapped against her clit, stimulating both her g-spot and her clitoral, nearly bringing her to tears.
“You like that, don’t you?” Oberyn asked between growls. “Tell me you want me, Y/N, tell me you want your prince’s big, hard, juicy cock in your horny cunt!”
Y/N was panting. With the intensity of the pleasure she experienced, tears started to flow from her eyes and she started to cry, her moans became louder and echoed in all the frescoes. "Oh, yes, I want my prince's cock inside me."
A wild moan came out of her throat with each impact as he rooted it into her tight hole. And he continued to push rhythmically. "Feeling you from the inside is like a mortal tasting heaven."
Both of them were about to reach the peaks of pleasure. Y/N's tight vagina felt Oberyn's hardness and veined surface down to its smallest cell. Oberyn's penis, on the other hand, was wrapped in Y/N's warm and knotted walls, twitching like a pulse.
At this moment, Oberyn's attention was drawn to a mirror hanging on the wall opposite the bed.
Its frame was delicately shaped and decorated with mythological figures. Women's faces, looking up as if praying to the gods, were intertwined among sacred texts embroidered in gold. Its surface was like natural water, radiating a wavy light.
Oberyn grabbed Y/N's arms before he could pull her toward him. His head found its place in the curve of her shoulder, his lips caressing her cheek as he asked if the mirror was related to her sacredness nonsense. Y/N tried to regain her composure, her breath coming back to her. Then he answered. It was a mirror made solely to reflect Y/N's virginal and "sacred" body.
There was irony in Oberyn's eyes as he emerged from Y/N, examining her as if she were a being as fragile as glass. He gently wrapped his fingers around Y/N's arm and led her to the mirror, speaking in a voice that echoed off the cold stone floor of the room. "Is this it? Is this the holy light they believe in?
The mirror had made Y/N an icon in this world. To the priests, her silhouette on the mirror's shiny surface was a mark as pure as the touch of the gods. But now... this was a night when that holy glow would be tested.
He entwined his fingers in her hair and stroked her encouragingly. "A reflection, a vision shining on the surface of the glass..." then Oberyn touched her perfect curves as if introducing their naked bodies. "But you are the real thing, Y/N. Blood, living, human..." he pulled aside the hair covering her neck and kissed her passionately. Each kiss was wet and sincere.
Y/N turned her gaze away from the mirror. But Oberyn held her chin and turned her face back to the mirror. Now her reflection was not of the godlike light she was used to, but of the heat of excitement in her body.
"We will continue here," Oberyn said softly, almost a whisper. "You will see the girl reflected in the mirror free from her chains. Now...bend."
Y/N felt guilty despite everything. When she saw herself in the mirror, she felt in her heart that she had broken the trust of the people, the priests, and even her mother in her. While the words that had been flying in the air just now disappeared, the image reflected in the mirror hit her with all its concreteness. But she never gave in to the impositions of the people, she did not really want to play the role assigned to her. The reflection she saw had changed; she was no longer an innocent icon, but the silhouette of a woman who did not hide her feelings.
Oberyn ordered her in a harsher tone this time. And he grabbed her waist tightly and helped her bend forward with a rough intervention. Y/N spread her legs. Her clitoris and vagina were still pulsing, and the colorless fluid was leaking from her legs. And when Oberyn slid back inside her, she groaned, realizing that she was still as hard as iron. He fucked Y/N much faster now. He gripped her arms to support himself comfortably and control his movements, and pressed his fingertips tightly into her flesh. Her firm breasts, defeated by gravity, shook and quivered as Oberyn moved rapidly inside her. Her vaginal walls tightened and pierced her joints each time he entered, announcing his presence to her entire body, and when he left, he created a huge void.
Oberyn leaned toward her ear, his voice trembling with a snarl. "You want their imposed sanctity to be destroyed, don't you?" She was out of breath, her moans mixing with each other. "Look in this mirror," he said, his voice so firm that Y/N obeyed. "Your innocence, your beauty, the reflection they loved so much to worship. But tonight, the gods saw you differently." He pulled her arms tightly toward him, still thrusting; he pressed his lips to her ear. His growls were still wild and ambitious. "You are breaking free from being their temple and carving your own path." When Y/N looked into the mirror, the smooth, godlike silhouette that had symbolized her virginity was replaced by the traces of sin. Now, on the surface, a body moved by Oberyn's hands, a body shaking with passion, a lustful cry on her lips. This was the story not only of a body but also of the liberation of her soul. The moment came with a mocking smile that came from Y/N’s own voice. The words she managed to squeeze out between her moans were, “Perhaps the gods are not jealous of me, but of the pleasure I feel in sinning.”
Oberyn laughed softly at her words, then took her chin between his fingers, holding her face in the mirror. As if he were addressing the gods who ruled the room, he spoke into Y/N’s skin, almost a whisper but threatening. “Look and learn. This woman has rejected your lies, and now she lives here, with her own desires, her lust. That is true holiness. That is true power.”
With the spasms and twitches that betrayed the coming of a perfect orgasm, Oberyn pressed his lips to Y/N’s. They were kissing wildly. Wet and hard. Their tongues danced in harmony. He continued, his rasping voice not taking his lips away. “I will miss this night so much… I would take you to my palace.”
Y/N could not even answer for all the pleasure she was feeling. Oberyn continued to bite and kiss her ears, neck, and jawbone. They were now close to their orgasm, their moans echoing through the room.
"Y/N, are you ready?" he moaned. Y/N was in sync with Oberyn's pace. He spoke without taking his lips off hers. "Oh, Y/N, you're perfect for me." Oberyn let go of her arms and grabbed her waist to increase his pace. He sped up, faster and faster. The "snap" sound of their flesh slapping against each other drowned out his words.
Y/N closed her eyes tightly and breathed deeply. Her chest rose and fell. The pleasure made her head spin so much that when she stretched her arms out to the wall to keep her balance, her hands gripped the edge of the mirror tightly. "Oh, my prince!" The sacred mirror trembled along with Y/N's shaking body as Oberyn continued to fuck her at a steady pace. Her balance was completely off and she was leaning to the left, at an acute angle to the wall.
Oberyn finally came inside Y/N. He clenched his glutes so tightly in pleasure that her pits were clearly visible. Y/N came at that moment. As the electrifying electricity of her orgasm coursed through her body, she used her power disproportionately against the mirror, causing the already unbalanced sacred mirror to slide down the wall and fall to the floor as Oberyn wrapped his arms around her. The sacred mirror, now shattered into hundreds of pieces, now reflected Oberyn and Y/N's lust from every angle.
Both were out of breath. Y/N’s head was resting on the prince’s shoulder, her eyes closed and her legs shaking in exhaustion as she tried to control her breathing. If Oberyn hadn’t wrapped his strong arms around her, she would have collapsed to the ground. Her juices mixed with Oberyn’s cum and seeped from the sides of his massive penis, branching out from her legs and running down to her ankles.
Y/N’s eyes caught her reflection in the broken mirror on the floor. The impositions of virginity, sanctity, the gift of the gods had vanished one by one.
Her ears were still ringing when Oberyn released her. “No more sanctity,” Y/N said, her breath coming in short gasps, her voice carrying a dark pleasure and a hint of mockery. “The Water's Daughter of Pentos, destroyed by her own decisions.”
Oberyn took her face in his hands and kissed her passionately on the forehead. “Holiness is a chain only for the weak,” she said, her voice a whisper of defiance. “You are not a daughter of the gods, but of your desires and your freedom. If you have power in this world, it is your will to be your own.”
The reflection in the shards was a sign of chaos for Y/N’s people. The holy virgin was now tainted; a crisis of faith would erupt between the priests and the people who believed that her body would bring fertility. When the land lost its fertility, the priests would surely blame Y/N. But Y/N felt the lightness of freedom, not the weight of her sin, in the mirror.
“Oberyn,” she said, her eyes now on Oberyn’s. “These people sought to enslave me to their gods. But now I will show them that I am only mortal. I am neither holy nor cursed. I am only myself.”
Oberyn smiled, with the pride of a victorious general. "And so I chose you," he said, his fingers touching her cheeks. "These people wanted to use you for the gods, but you lit your own light. Now all will see that you belong only to yourself."
The mirror no longer symbolized holiness, but rebellion and freedom. Y/N's reflection reflected her own choice instead of the definitions that had once been imposed on her. The chaos of the people and priests would echo a revolution that had begun in front of the mirror.
The morning sun of Pentos rose above a continual chaos. The streets of the city were filled with talk of the fall of Daughter of Water and the lies of the priests. Whispers of Y/N’s loss of sanctity had spread to every corner of the city; the woman who had been seen as a symbol of fertility was now a sinner in the eyes of the people. The priests tried to erase the traces of this event that had shaken their faith, making promises to keep the people in check. But the roots of the chaos were too deep. The lands of Pentos would never be the same again.
Oberyn Martell stood on the deck of a ship that waited silently in the harbor, taking one last look at the city he had left behind. A wry smile was on his face, a combination of the destruction he had left behind and the freedom he had gained. Y/N had chosen her own path, and with Oberyn’s touch she had broken the chains imposed on her. Her virginity may have been sacred, but no one could offer that sacredness to the gods anymore.
This city was merely a stopover for Oberyn, the beginning of another adventure.
“Prince Oberyn,” the captain said, coming up behind him. “We are ready.”
Oberyn turned once more to Pentos. His eyes scanned the horizon of the city, his thoughts following the chaos he left behind. “Divinity,” he muttered to himself, “is a lie invented only by the weak. But chaos… that is the true gift.”
He walked across the deck to the prow of the ship. He leaned his hands on the side rails as the salty air rising from the sea filled his lungs. His heart beat with the excitement of a free man. The marks he had left on the city would not be forgotten for long, but Oberyn had no place in his life for the burden of the past. The seas and new horizons, pleasures to be discovered and vengeance to be taken, answered his call.
The skyline of Pentos grew smaller as the ship slowly left the harbor. Oberyn turned and looked to the horizon. The sun was drawing a golden path across the seas, heralding a new adventure. "The story of Pentos is over," he said to himself, "but mine is just beginning."
And so The Red Viper of Dorne set sail for new adventures, leaving a city full of chaos in his wake. The lands and peoples that awaited him were ready to bear the mark of Oberyn Martell.
#pedro pascal x reader#pedro pascal smut#pedro pascal fanfiction#pedro pascal imagine#oberyn martell#oberyn martell x reader#oberyn martell x you#oberyn martell smut#oberyn martel x reader#prince oberyn#oberyn martell x f!reader#forbidden love#daddy’s babygirl#game of thrones x y/n#game of thrones x reader#pedro pascal x y/n#got smut#jon snow#daenerys targaryen#house martell#pedro pascal x you#pedro pascal fandom#pedrostories#my writing#pedro pascal characters#game of thrones#pedro pascal#daddy's good girl#pedrohub
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The Sea's Call
Azriel x Reader
Synopsis: You belonged to the sea in every and all sense of the statement. Pirating the seas was just who you were and you loved it, its where you belonged until a pesky Spymaster takes an interest in your activity, quickly finding himself captivated by you in more ways than one.
Warnings: Flirty back and forth, snark, angst, near drowning, seasickness, light smut, enemies to lovers to omg could this be mates!?!?!?!?!? Rough editing (its exam season yall)
A/N: Hello! For this to make sense lets pretend that Azriel was with Amren and Feyre when they went to get the Book of Breathings! hehe, okay sound good? good!
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The feeling of solid ground beneath your boots was always a source of discomfort for you, a child of the sea would never feel at home on the solid soil of Prythian. Rarely did you leave the comfort of the ship you captained, only coming to shore for the more lucrative deals. Passing through Adriata, you felt yourself admiring the shimmering buildings, catching yourself in an instant and banishing away the thought. You practically counted the cobblestones back to the port, where a smaller sailboat would bring you back to your floating home. You passed a building that was in the process of being rebuilt, the whole city still practically on stilts after Amarantha’s reign of terror, the stories your crew told you enough to keep you awake at night.
“Excuse me” A broad, winged male apologises as he gently bumps into your shoulder, your cloaked head unlifting from your course home as you pass. Never noticed, never seen, the main attribute that landed you at the helm of one of the most infamous ships at sea.
Through the crowded area before the final dock, tradespeople called from their port, customers eager to obtain the precious goods they brought from their travels. You quietly noted who sold what and for how much, marking their ship's colours in the back of your mind for later. You chuckled lightly to yourself at the plethora of unassuming fae, all ripe for the rip-off at the hands of these merchants, their financial gain ultimately trickling into your own. A sudden shudder shot up your spine as you found your feet instinctively taking you to shield yourself behind the canopy of one of the port side stalls. A large crowd of people stood in awe and fear as Tarquin transversed the crowd, a female in Night Court clothing on his arm with Cresseida and the Lord of Night following closely behind. You sneered at the sight of the foursome, playing Court to the crowds and clearly winning favour with all.
“How am I going to pass by their giant egos?” You scoffed quietly to yourself for no one to hear.
“I know the cape is a bit overkill on the Lord of Night Court’s part” You laughed lightly at the comment that came from the warm voice behind you, your movement then stilling completely. On the ball of your foot, you turned to face the wall-like male who you had passed earlier. Azriel raised an eyebrow to you, clearly feeling cocky he had caught you off guard, something that made you feel bare. Your eyes fell briefly on the Night Court emblem on his chest, its gleaming blue goldstone flickering in the unrelenting Summer sun.
“Shouldn’t you be part of the other swans?” You asked boldly, your hood still slightly obscuring your full face, a smirk dashing for a moment across Azriel’s face.
“Not my style, besides, who would keep an eye on the ones who normally avoid all observation?”
“I know know what you’re implying sir” You did your best impression of the confused damsel, the type you were sure Azriel spent countless nights with before you turned away to head into the flowing crowd, the royal four now nearly at the exit of the port marketplace. Azriel caught hold of your wrist, the leather of his glove crinkling under the light pressure on your skin. You turned to watch him lift your own hand between you both, his eyes falling on the toughened skin before sweeping away your hood. Azriel swallowed what gasp rose in his throat, trying to stay with his feet on the shore as your marine blue eyes seemed to flicker back iridescence.
“A seafarer?” He questioned gesturing with his head to your waterworn digits.
“I dabbled briefly” You lied, taking your hand back from him and a step to put some distance between you.
“What brings you to shore? You don’t seem to have a stall here? Or not one that I see that hasn’t recoiled on sight of you?” He quizzed, the mystery prickling along every nerve.
“Maybe I’m a tough of a boss?”
“I don’t doubt that somehow” he laughed as you fought to not show your offense.
“I have no business with the Night Court right now, no cause for this line of questioning” You bristled, turning your back on the Illyrian and striding away, the end of the dock in sight. You thought of your contact waiting beneath the boardwalk, you unable to meet him with the Night Court’s Spymaster breathing down your neck.
“Interesting how you said right now. What previous business had you with my cour?t” He called out to you, stopping you in your tracks. You balled your face into a knot, rookie rookie mistake you cursed yourself. The sound of the rising tide crashed beneath the tall boardwalk. Beneath the gnarly warped boards, you could make out the silhouette of your contact, gently swaying back and forth between the slats of the wood. The end of the unfenced dock now a mere metre away.
“I meant… I’m always open to business with all courts, perhaps we have business to agree to down the line” You lied again, the business you occupied yourself with would never be agreed to by any Court inner sanctum.
“I somehow doubt the business you deal with would be in the interest of my Court unless it is to stop it?” Azriel’s voice danced the line between playful and arrogant ease similar to that of a cat with a cornered mouse.
“I spoke out of line sir, I have nothing to offer anyone, I was simply shopping for wares for presents” You decided to change tacts entirely.
“And the large bag of rare gems and crystals you have in your shoe, is that the payment for these invisible presents?”
“How di-” You cut off your own question, Azriel’s eyes fully aligned with the thrill of the catch, he would have to try harder to catch you. You scoffed, your face changing from faux concerned cornered damsel to the hardened confidence in your ability that years of trade had given you. Your hands clasped together in front of you before you clapped slowly, the action seemingly catching the Illyrian off guard.
“Nice catch, tell me is your outfit fully leather?” the question surprised Azriel, his eyes looking down briefly.
“Are you a fashion consultant now?”
“No no, just making an observation, you seem so fond of those” You rocked back and forth on the balls of your feet, ever so softly inching your way to the edge of the dock.
“And what observation is that?”
“Quite a heavy material when it's wet” Azriel didn’t have time to further question you before your foot slammed harshly down on the rotting board, Azriel narrowly but nimbly dodging the gap created by the crumbling plank, its reminisce crashing into the swirling tide 20 feet below.
“Cute, any other party tricks?” Azriel straightened himself.
“Just one” You saluted him with two fingers against your forehead before once again surprising the Illyrian and launching yourself backwards off the dock to freefall into the rushing wild tide below. Azriel ran to the edge of the dock, foamy white circles fizzed around your entry point into the water. The heel of Azriel’s ankle slipped from his boot as he prepared to follow you the moment you came up from the air. Except you didn’t. He waited and counted to at least 2 minutes before planting his foot back into the boot. Azriel looked out towards the growing swell in the ocean where he squinted to bring the very distant hazy grey outline. He couldn’t understand how you had made it so far, so fast, clearly at home in the crispy sea.
“Azriel, if you’re gonna off yourself you have to at least warn me so I can get a jumpstart on the funeral speech” Rhysand laughed from behind the Spymaster, his voice making Azriel jump slightly, the sight of it confusing Rhysand.
“Hey you okay?” Rhysand clapped a hand on Azriel’s shoulder, ever so gently guiding his friend back from the edge of the dock.
“Yeah I eh..” He couldn’t find the words.
“Oh Azzie I know that look, well keep it in your pants, we’re here to get the book and go, I’m sure you can find someone just as fun at home” Rhysand laughed, turning Azriel’s body away from the edge of the dock, guiding him back up the boardwalk. Azriel took one more quick glance, no longer able to make out your distant shadow.
—--------------------------------------
Azriel cursed every moment of his life that led him to this one that he shared with Feyre and Amren. This was the Spymaster's ultimate nightmare as the floods of endless water crashed into the chamber room, Feyre seemingly having a psychotic breakdown while clinging to the Book of Breathings. Every nerve was screaming at Azriel to entirely freak out but watching Feyre struggle with whatever the Book was giving her kept his head between his shoulders. As quickly as the water flooded in, the pulling force wrapped around the friends and tugged. Feyre and Amren seemingly had a silent discussion that pulled the three through the smothering water.
The first swallow of salty air was choked down by the three as the wraiths pulled them upward through the blasted door, the dehydrating water still keeping a tight hold on Azriel. Alarms blared in any and all directions as Rhysand clearly had his own trials during the retrieval of the book. Wraiths suddenly squabbled over Azriel, their sharp talon like nails clawing along his wings, his yelps drowned out by the waves. Swelling currents pulled and pulled as the wraiths clung to Amren out of fear and Feyre out of repayment of debt leaving Azriel to fend for himself against the violent washes of water. Azriel had felt all his energy sapped by the fight for air inside the chamber being challenged again by the pulling force of the water. Out of bloodshot eyes, he saw the wraiths successfully bring his friends to shore until he could no longer fight the fray and instead allowed it to sweep him out.
—--------------
Azriel’s face was swollen in the colours of choking purple and blue as his lungs fought to cough up the swallowed seawater. He felt his bones sink into the water-swollen wood of the ship he found himself hauled up onto. The sound of his body being dragged along the wood rattled against the strong gusts of wind.
“Well, who did you piss off this time?” You laughed down towards the greying Spymaster as he tried to blink you into focus. He could only groan in reply before you jerked your head to the side, the large males dragging him across the deck continued their course, tossing him into the bowels of the ship. A smaller fae quickly clasped heavy chains on him, energy stores still depleted from the fight with nature.
Azriel couldn’t tell if it had been minutes, hours or days since he had arrived on board the next time he woke up. He took in the musty surroundings, unable to detect any other living creatures in the room with him.
“I told you leather was a heavy material when wet” You smirked from atop the beam above Azriel before jumping down to land in front of him.
“Remind me to take the fashion advice next time” Azriel rasped out, his throat raw from the salt. You circled him briefly before retrieving a tray from a darkened corner of the room, the swells of the wave lifting and dropping the boat in a natural rhythm, it never throwing off your stride. You placed the tray down by his side as he squared off his hips to sit upright on the sodden wooden floor.
“Drink” You half ordered, Azriel looking from the liquid lifeline to your eyes of equal colour.
“To have you poison me?” he scoffed.
“The salt in your system will do that work for me if you don’t drink” Azriel looked back down at the water, weighing up the options before deciding to take it with a heavy chained hand. The water tasted of pure light itself as you watched him carefully swallow it all while attempting not to drool yourself. Another swell hit the side of the ship, causing Azriel to fall to his side.
“You’re going to want to find your sea legs soon Leathers if you want to be able to keep your lunch down” You laughed, removing a cloth from the tray to reveal a thick, nutritious stew.
“Where are we going?” He managed, trying his best to keep his sickly grey cheeks from turning green.
“We're chucking you out closer to home, a courtesy” you squatted down to his eye level, drawing his amber eyes into meet you.
“Why?”
“What can I say, I don't love the drama it loves me” you laughed standing again, pushing the tray closer to him with your foot.
“Real answer” the stew bubbled in the dish, punctuating Azriels words.
“I fish a prize out of the ocean, I'm going to collect”
“Aw you think I'm a prize” Azriel batted his eyelashes in faux flirtation, righting himself. You squatted back down, catching his chin lightly and to his own surprise he allowed you.
“No, but the High Lord of endless wealth does” you let him go with a jerk.
“Now eat, we've a few stops to make” You left him to his thoughts.
-
Azriel picked at the food, before falling in and out of a state of pure exhaustion, it had been at least 3 days since he was sent out to sea. He gave into the food after 72hrs of deciding whether or not it was poison until it's filling nature sent him to as comfortable sleep. Azriel woke to the feeling a cool liquid dripping down his wings.
“Don't touch me” he jerked his wings out of your reach, the cloth going slack in your hand.
“Listen here Leathers, either the wounds are cleaned or you lose the wings” You bit, Azriel weighing up your words, the cuts the wraiths left fighting to heel under his diminished energy.
“Fine, do it yourself” You wrung out the cloth before dropping it to his side.
“Why do you care?” The thought rattled around Azriels head for the hours you had left him in the dark, he had to try to find the answer. He reached for the cloth, dripping the liquid down what wounds he could reach under the constraints of the chain.
“You're less valuable to me dead” You lied, trying your best to ignore the cuts he missed. You ran your tongue across your teeth, and Azriel took note of your inspection.
“Seems you care an awful lot about someone you see only as monetary gain” he smirked, unable to hide how your interest made him feel. He then proceeded to miss the wounds on purpose until you finally snapped, whipping the cloth from hands.
“Just let me!” You snapped harshly and then met his wing with surprising tenderness. Azriel watched you from the corner of his eye, afraid to blink and you'd disappear.
“Damn wraiths” you whispered, the deep claw marks fighting against the healing solution.
“The way you swim, I thought you might be one yourself” You met his eyes with a grin, the cloth slipping from your hand.
“Don't belittle me like that Spymaster-” Azriels eyebrow raised again at your coy response “-yeah I knew the moment I met you who you were and how much it drives you crazy that you have no idea who I am”
“I'm piecing it together” he said softly, watching you trace your eyes over his wings. Veins of opal and midnight blue liquid leaked from your hand, flowing over the deeper marks and sealing the shut-on contact.
“And more pieces fall” Azriel said, watching in amazement. You brought a finger to your lip and whispered shh, a banging then coming from behind.
“Captain, we're here” a burly voice came from the door, you stood before they could see what you were doing.
“Business to attend” You grinned down, wiping your hands on your trousers and leaving Azriel once again.
—------
The boat soon after began to rock again, Azriel still not finding comfort in the waves. He tried to map out mentally the course you had taken him and why his family had yet to appear and save him. He knew the importance of the Book of Breathings and its vitality in a successful mission but he thought he was equally as vital. The swells rocked the boat to almost vomit-inducing levels as it reached the peaking waves of the thick sea once again.
On the main deck you glided with ease, your whole crew used to wild seas and never wanting to change any part of them. A long day of scouting out treasures and seeking payment for your protection had you staring up at the ceiling of your cabin, contemplating it all. The rush of waves hitting the solid oak of the massive ship sent you to welcome sleep shortly, the whole ship falling into well-earned rest after a day of various activities. Hours later you woke with the feeling of a true unfamiliar sickness. You ran quickly to the private washroom adjacent to your room, your skin a sickly green colour, your body at the will of the ocean for the first time in centuries.
“What the fuck?” you said to yourself before wrapping a cloak around you and heading to the deck. Stray waves washed over the rim, flooding the deck as your crew fought with the sails, waves almost as tall as them made an attempt to claim a prize. You raised a stray hand, deflecting the walls of water from any serious damage, still unable to fight off the full feeling of sea sickness. You were always one with the ocean, allowing it to reek it havoc but keeping it from toppling the ship. The boat rocked nearly level to its starboard side before you willed the water to keep the mast from tilting, your crew ever happy to have a master of the elements at the helm.
“Just keep the fucking sails straight” You barked, your crew scrambling to obey as lightning cracked across the sky, illuminating the flooding deck, your stomach doing somersaults to match the movement. You rushed from the wheel down the decks again before entering into the depths of the ship, shielded from the rain.
“For fuck sake, drink this before I vomit” You fired a small vile at the green Illyrian who caught it through his disorientation. Azriel always hated being at sea, doing his best to avoid it during his training and having a stark reminder of why now that he found himself at the centre of a colossal storm.
Azriel’s eyes locked on you as he fiddled with the lid of the bottle, he no longer cared if it was poison, if it ended the hellish seascape he’d drink it happily. Your eyes rolled like the waves before you made short work of the distance separating you both and in quick movement you separated the blade strapped to your thigh from its holder, sinking it into a miniscule chink in one of the chains on Azriel’s arm. You quickly hauled him upwards, the movement rattling his head to accompany the severe seasickness as you hauled him over to the side of the room. With your bare hands, you pulled the small wooden sheet nailed to the wall down, revealing a porthole. In a swift motion, you whipped it open, pressing Azriel’s face out into the swirling sea air.
“There! See that line, thats the horizon, stay on that!” You barked at him, the ravenous waves crashing up to meet Azriels face through the hole as sea spray. He rocked from foot to foot, allowing his weight to rest in your strength as he found the horizon, nearly boring holes in it with his eyes as he focused.
“Just focus on the centre of your world Azriel, focus” You tried more softly this time, his name from you striking some deep nerve he always neglected. He caught as much air as he could before turning to lock eyes on you, colour drained from his face.
“Not on me, the horizon!” You snapped, catching the back of his head and forcing it forward again. The curling, twisting sensation in your stomach was quickly replaced by a different sinking sensation.
“Okay, okay, I’m okay” Azriel called out, your pressure releasing slightly on him, allowing him to sink back to the floorboards, one arm still tethered to the bowels of the ship. You followed his lead, sliding down the wall of the ship to meet his side. He curled his knees into his chest like he did as a child and you found your thumb tracing small soothing circles on the back of his hand before realising. He scanned you in almost horror, panting deep breaths into his lungs.
“That vein in your head is gonna pop if you keep thinking that hard” You found yourself laughing breathlessly, thankful for the end of the illness you so rarely felt.
“Do you make this many visits to prisoners normally?”
“I guess you’ll never know, maybe this is how I am with all my guests” You rolled your head against the wall to look at him.
“An interesting way to treat your guests” He jingled the chains.
“Chains make it more fun” You whispered, the words rolling over his nerves like a wave at sea.
“More pieces, Captain” his rusty voice stopped your thoughts under his warm gaze.
“You’ll never have enough to understand”
“Oh yeah?” In one smooth movement, Azriel swerved his chained arm over his head, hooking it around your throat. He pulled until you found your back flush with his chest, his legs like vice grips around you from behind as you dug your nails into the betraying chain.
“Chains make it more fun-” He whispered into the crook of your neck, the hairs on your neck standing on their end “- Now tell me how you knew I was sick down here?! Have you spelled me?” He ordered, rolling his hands into tighter fists around the chain, ensuring you were fully at the will of its biting metal jaws. He released enough pressure for a life-saving gasp of air you took hungrily.
“The-the same way you-you knew how to find me on-on the dock. How did you see m-e that day?” You rasped, Azriel allowed more slack on the chain as he thought, the answer rolling off his tongue like a rogue wave.
“How could I not?” he admitted in a whisper, the only sound filling the room.
“Then that is my same answer to you” You thought of the ways you could overpower him at this moment, the simple ways you could will the sea to save you and yet you didn’t. You weren’t ready to end this moment and you weren’t fully sure why, well not in a way that you’d admit to yourself yet.
“I just-I felt someone need me, call to me without a voice… I just saw you through it all” he realised aloud.
“People don’t usually”
“I thought you were a Captain, or was that just a pet name?” his head tilted in question, “I’m no ones pet” More tension was released from the chain, enough for you to put your fingers between it and your marbled throat.
“I bet I could change that” his warm breath coated your ear, some force pulling him forward until the full slack was released from his chain, it clattering to the floor along its captivated wrist, his other hand tracing along your chest to gently catch your chin. You felt your back relax further into your chest until you instinctively fell to the side allowing the Spymaster the access to your neck he desperately craved. Fresh, electrifying bittersweet pain rattled through your body as Azriel sank his teeth into your tender flesh, his chained hand anchoring you to his chest by curling tightly around your abdomen. You released the air from your lungs that felt as though it had been held forever. Azriel’s hand left your obedient chin to trace down your body, landing at the fraying waistband of your favourite sleep shorts. His thumb traced beneath the band, his nail skirting along your skin, a shiver shooting up your spine.
“Tell me your name” He whispered with tantalizing ease.
“YN” You replied, not often telling those outside the inner sanctum.
“The name I’ll thank the sky for and wish on every star to hear” His hand finally sank beneath the elastic, stroking small circles to coat your throat in soft moans you fought to keep hold of. You could feel him against your backside, feel how much he wanted this and you and yet you didn’t want him to know the same about you.
“For you, only you” He groaned, pressing further into you as if hearing your thoughts, a rewarding groan this time unable to be stopped from leaving you. As quickly as he had trapped you, you turned, hooking a leg over his to press him back into the deck, straddling either side of his waist, his chained arm clanking against the wood. Your hand traced his cheek and he allowed himself to rest against your palm, his wings relaxing outwards, the wraith marks on show. You felt rage boil beneath the surface at the sight of their claim to what you felt was yours. You lowered down to his mouth, eyes swirling into his as he drank your energy in.
“I’ll kill them for hurting you”
“And I’ll do the same to those who look at you in any unkindness, or look at you at all, unworthy of the pleasure” His free hand found the nape of your neck, magnetic forces guiding you down until a wash of the purest release met you both in one another's lips. Nirvana. Then unrelenting hunger. Your mouth parted slightly causing him to eagerly take the invitation, his tongue conducting teasing strokes that you happily match. Your hands clutch the material of his shirt, afraid to let go of him and the movement.
“Land!!!” An unwelcome shout came from far above where the two of you were deep in entanglement. The voice of your second mate pulled you back from Azriel, who tried his best to not whine at the movement. You quickly shot from his grasp, retucking your shirt and pulling your damp hair to one shoulder. You looked frantically at the broken chain before darting to cover the porthole again.
“What-what just happened?” Azriel asked, doing his best to stand.
“We just reached your drop off” You left a sad smile paint your face as Azriel bolted towards you, his chain dragging.
“But we-I just- we just-”
“I know but they’ll be expecting you and my crew will be expecting the payout I promised them when we diverted course to fish you from the sea” You caught his knotted hands in yours, the marks of your years of hard work melting into his of deepest cruelty.
“Run with me, come with me, just don’t leave me” he found himself begging.
“This is my world, that’s yours, I don't have land legs just like you definitely don’t have sea legs-” you laughed “-besides, I don’t think we’ll be welcomed in this Court after our capture of one of the favourite children” You joked, your hand tracing his cheek.
“YN, I’ll tell them the truth, tell them how you saved me, how you will save me in so so many ways” A knock came at the end of Azriel’s plea, your sign to say goodbye.
“I’m sorry Azriel, my crew are my family and I owe them what they deserve” you stepped back outside the range of what his remaining chain would allow. You reluctantly opened the door, towering males like those who dragged him aboard entered, your back facing him unable to look. Azriel wasn’t sure what happened yet, wasn’t even sure he cared.
—------
“Is he dead?” Azriel heard Nesta through the screeching song of overhead seabirds. He rolled onto his back, the sharp sun scratching his retinas after a few days in the dark.
“Azriel!” His friends said in unison, helping him to sit up in the soft sand.
“They didn’t drop you where they said, sorry it took so long to get to you” Feyre smiled, dusting the sand from his hair as Rhysand and Cassian scanned the horizon for any semblance of your ship, long long gone.
—-----------------
The following weeks were rough for the whole Night Court, all unsure of their next moves to save their world from Hybern. Countless nights watching the bay allowed Azriel time to devise plans and hatch ideas. All paths lead to you more so than success against Hybern.
That Starfall his family rejoiced in their full reunion, their first in 50 years and yet Azriel still felt a missing part of him, it cast out to sea. He watched Rhysand take Feyre by the hand up the stairs, a smile decorating his face at his brother's deserved happiness. His rusty coloured liquor reflected the moon, the party danced around him, the noise of it all not enough to drown out what he felt was a call he had to answer.
Azriel landed on the shores of Velaris, the hidden home he’d die for, thinking about the hidden love he’d do the same for. An idea pinged into his head at the sight of Velaris residents releasing lanterns from passing canoes.
Without full coherence, Azriel found himself rowing a small dingy of a boat out of the Velaris port. He dug deep against the slowly growing waves, the House Of Wind and it’s gleaming party lights in the growing distance. He rowed until he could no longer see his home over the crests of the waves before he stood on rattling legs and found the bow of the small boat. With one deep breath, Azriel swan dived into the crystal clear depths, allowing it to overwhelm him and pull him down. Cautiously, Azriel opened his eyes beneath the water, adjusting to he burn before swimming deeper. Lactic acid began to build in his muscles and beg him not to swim deeper into the pressure of the unforgiving water. Black blots inked across his vision as the darkening water began to overwhelm his system once again until right before blacking out an arm wrapped around him.
“You have to be fucking kidding me” Was the first thing Azriel heard you say in weeks as you both breached the surface. He almost howled with laughter and exhilaration of his near-death experience and seeing you again.
“I-I knew you’d come” he rasped out in giddy excitement.
“Risky game Leathers” You laughed until he kissed you, the lapping water supporting you both. Overhead the sky began to fill with lights on their journey, reflecting off the water with pure light but in that moment Azriel knew that even the darkest night would be illuminated by you.
---------------------------------
Teehee Whatcha think?!
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Shadows of the Past - Soft Things Survive
omg okay i’ve been working on these chapters for the past week and debating if i want to post it or not but i finally decided to just say fuck it. even if nobody reads or enjoys this story i still get joy from writing it and this is the first time i’ve actually spent longer than a night writing a story so this is my pride and joy lmao. using different dividers than my usual ones to match the cover theme:)
warnings: refer to series masterlist
pairing(s): refer to series masterlist
word count: 2.49k
series masterlist | main masterlist
Six months after the Second Rebellion ends, you return to District 12. You don’t fully understand why—why you would willingly walk back into a graveyard of memories, why you expect to find anything other than ghosts. You haven’t set foot here since the night of the bombing. Part of you clings to the foolish hope that something, anything, survived. That the Capitol, in all its cruelty, might have left some part of your home standing. But you know better. The Capitol was never merciful. Not to District scum like you.
The train groans to a stop, and as you step onto the platform, your breath catches. The ruins of 12 stretch before you, a wasteland of ash and silence. The town square—once the cold heart of the district—lies in shattered remains. It was never truly a place of joy, at least not for most of you. It was where you were herded once a year to watch children be sent to die. Where Peacekeepers patrolled with sharp eyes and loaded guns. Where only the merchant families, with their fuller bellies and lighter burdens, found any sense of comfort. And yet, even here, there were moments—fleeting and fragile—where life had tried to bloom.
Charred beams jut out from skeletal structures, the last remnants of homes and businesses that once held warmth, laughter, and whispered dreams of escape. The air is thick with the acrid scent of coal dust and smoke, the same scent that clung to your skin your entire childhood. You let out a choked laugh, realizing that the thing you once loathed—the ever-present reminder of your district’s suffering—has become a strange sort of comfort.
You pick your way through the wreckage of the train station, each careful step crunching over shattered glass and crumbling stone. The sound grates against the silence, an eerie symphony to the slow-breaking of your heart. You don’t know what you expected, but it wasn’t this. Wasn’t the absolute emptiness.
Then, your feet touch the cracked concrete of the town square, and the world tilts. The air is knocked from your lungs, and suddenly, you’re fourteen again. You’re standing among a sea of terrified faces, the silence heavier than any scream.
And you’re watching helplessly as Effie Trinket calls Fiza Prosser’s name.
The moment her name is called, it’s as if the world stops breathing with you. The air, thick with anticipation, turns suffocatingly still. The crowd freezes, a sea of held breaths and unspoken prayers, as if time itself has fractured. Your gaze snaps to Fiza.
She turns to you, her face ghostly pale, eyes glassy with terror. Her lips part, but the words barely escape.
“I— I can’t,” she squeaks, shaking her head violently, as though she can will herself out of this nightmare.
Effie’s voice cuts through the silence like a polished knife. “Fiza, dear, come on up!” she chirps, her tone bright and empty. Too cheerful. Too pleased to be calling a girl to her death.
Hope is a dangerous thing to cling to, and you know better than to let it fester. Fiza won’t come home. She’s too frail, her body a roadmap of every missed meal, every long winter spent starving in the Seam. Her father ran off years ago, leaving behind nothing but an empty space where love should have been, and her mother—too drowned in sorrow and liquor to care—was no savior. You used to beg your mother to let Fiza eat with you. Every time, it earned you nothing but scoldings.
Tears spill down her cheeks, and you brush them away with trembling fingers. Your own throat is tight, every muscle in your body screaming against the cruelty of this moment. But if you break, she’ll shatter.
“Hold your head high, even if you’re crying,” you whisper, cupping her face between your hands. “Wear your tears with pride. They do not make you weak.”
The Peacekeepers are coming. You barely have time to press a quick kiss to her forehead before you give her a gentle push forward. Her legs wobble like a newborn fawn’s, but she moves. She stands tall, her head high even as her fingers twitch with fear.
Effie claps her manicured hands together, beaming. “Aren’t you just the cutest little thing?!” she squeals, as if Fiza is some delicate doll instead of a girl marching toward her death.
A hot, pulsing rage surges through you. Your hands clench into fists at your sides, your nails digging into your palms so hard they nearly break skin. You have never been one for violence, but in this moment, you want to tear onto that stage, claw your way to Effie, and scratch the paint right off her doll-like face.
The male tribute’s name is called, but you don’t hear it. You can’t. You’re too busy burning every detail of Fiza into your memory—her trembling fingers, the stubborn lift of her chin, the way the sun catches the tear tracks on her face.
The second the square is dismissed, you shove your way through the dispersing crowd, heart hammering as you storm into the Justice Building.
“Fiza Prosser,” you demand breathlessly, locking eyes with the first official you see. “I want to see her.”
“No time for goodbyes today. We’re running behind.” He doesn’t even look at you. Just turns away.
Something in you snaps. You want to scream, to claw at him, to beat your fists against his back until he acknowledges the cruelty of what he’s just stolen from you. But all you can do is stand there, frozen, empty, unable to cry.
You don’t move until your father comes. He picks you up like he did when you were small, cradling you against his chest as he whispers soothing words you can’t even process.
And for the first time since her name was called, you let yourself sob.
Time shifts again, and you’re twelve years old, standing in the town square, watching Dewydd Comey climb the steps of the stage. Your first love. The boy with soft gray eyes and a smattering of freckles you used to trace with your fingertips. Everyone called it puppy love, something fleeting, something childish. But love doesn’t fade just because the world refuses to take it seriously. What you felt for him then still lingers, untouched by time.
Your goodbye in the Justice Building is one of your most cherished memories—despite how god-awfully painful it is.
The moment you step into the room, you throw yourself at him, and he meets you halfway, crushing you against his chest. His arms lock around you so tightly that your ribs ache, but you don’t care. You bury your face in his shoulder, your sobs coming in broken gasps, your tears soaking into the fabric of his shirt. His hand moves up and down your back in slow, soothing strokes, whispering reassurances he doesn’t believe. You should be the one comforting him, but you can’t. Your grief is selfish, swallowing you whole.
He gently pulls back just enough to see your face, his fingers trembling as he tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His storm-cloud eyes search yours, memorizing. His fingertips trace the curve of your cheek before cupping it, warm and soft. You press into his touch, desperate to burn the feeling into your skin. A small, keening sound escapes you as your gaze drinks in every last freckle, every tiny imperfection, terrified that someday they’ll blur and fade in your mind.
“I’m gonna win and come back to you, okay?” His voice is steady, but his eyes betray him, glistening with unshed tears. “Then we can finish school, get married, and I’ll take good care of you.”
You nod against his palm, biting back a wail.
“Promise?” Your voice cracks, the word barely escaping as you see his lower lip quiver. His shoulders sag, his breath shuddering. He bows his head, his hand slipping from your cheek.
You cup his face, forcing him to look at you, to hold on just a little longer. His tears fall freely now, streaking down his cheeks, and the sight of them unravels something deep inside you. He doesn’t have to say it—you see it in his eyes. He knows. He knows he won’t come back.
You take a shaky breath, your heart pounding so hard it hurts. Neither of you has ever kissed anyone before. Not each other, not anyone. You always talked about saving your first kiss for something special. For when you were older, when you had time, when the world wasn’t so cruel.
But there is no more time.
A sob tears from your throat as you surge forward, pressing your lips to his in a desperate, trembling kiss. It’s clumsy, wet with tears, full of fear and love and everything you will never get to have. His hands find your waist, anchoring you together for just a second longer.
Then, the door swings open.
A Peacekeeper’s voice cuts through the moment like a blade. “Time’s up.”
Dewydd and you barely manage two more frantic kisses before the Peacekeeper wrenches you away, their grip bruising around your arm.
“Don’t forget me!” he cries, his voice raw and broken as the door slams shut between you.
You never did.
You take a shaky breath, but it does nothing to steady you. Pain lances through your chest as the past fractures around you, dissolving like ash in the wind. You are twenty years old, standing in the graveyard of your childhood. Every memory you have is buried beneath the rubble of homes and businesses, scattered like remnants of a life that no longer exists.
Tears streak down your cheeks as you step forward, each footfall heavy with ghosts.
Dewydd and you dance through the remnants of the Fall Festival, your laughter twirling between the ruins like autumn leaves. The festival had once made the town square almost beautiful—lanterns casting golden light against the cold, music drowning out the ever-present hunger in your bellies. But now, the echoes of your joy only deepen the hollowness inside you. That night was his last Fall Festival, and you hadn’t known. Hadn’t cherished it enough.
You pass the half-standing remains of the mayor’s house, and specters of Fiza and you flit by in your periphery, your breathless giggles carried away by the wind. You were just children, running through the streets of a district that had already doomed you, too naive to understand how cruel the world would be.
The merchant section appears next—once untouchable, a world of goods you could never afford. Fiza, Dewydd, and you used to press your noses against the shop windows, dreaming of stepping inside, of running your fingers over silks and pastries and gold-tipped fountain pens. Now, those once-grand storefronts are nothing but scorched skeletons, their vibrant colors reduced to soot-streaked debris. The dreams you had here are as dead as the district itself.
You force your feet toward the Seam, bracing yourself for the devastation you know awaits you. But nothing could have prepared you for this.
Fiza’s house, or what’s left of it, is the first thing you see. A single doorway beam stands defiantly against the wreckage, a marker for a home that no longer exists. Your fingers graze its surface, splintered wood biting into your skin, and suddenly you can’t breathe. A sob rips free from your throat, shaking you to your core.
Then you see them.
The charred skeletons of a family, their bodies half-buried beneath the rubble of their home. Your stomach lurches, bile rising fast, and you stagger away just in time to vomit onto the broken earth. The acrid taste burns your throat, but you barely notice—you can only stare at the bodies.
You keep moving, though your legs tremble beneath you. The deeper you go, the worse it gets. More bodies. More homes turned to dust. Your cries dissolve into the wind, lost in the sea of death that stretches before you.
You find Dewydd’s house.
His parents are still inside, their bodies burned but unmistakably entwined, wrapped in each other’s arms in the remnants of their bedroom. Your breath catches, your stomach twists violently, and you clap a hand over your mouth as another wave of nausea surges through you. You tear your gaze away, but the image is seared into your brain.
Then, your house.
The second your eyes land on it, your body betrays you, and you retch onto the ground, emptying what little is left inside you. The foundation is all that remains, a shattered skeleton of a place that never felt like home.
You take a step forward, then another, but your knees buckle the moment your feet touch the foundation. Shards of glass and jagged stone slice into your skin, but you barely feel it. Your mother’s voice rises in your head, a low whisper at first, growing louder with every breath until it drowns out everything else.
Useless. Pathetic. A burden.
The words scrape against your skull like rusted nails, twisting and warping until they are all you can hear. Your eyes land on a hand protruding from beneath a massive slab of cement, fingers curled slightly, frozen in time.
You don’t know when you stand. You don’t know when you start running.
All you know is that her voice follows you, chasing you through the ruins of the Seam, its venom echoing off the broken walls. Your foot catches on a loose rock, nearly sending you sprawling, but you manage to keep going.
Your lungs burn. Your ribs ache.
You only stop running when the echoes finally fade.
When you finally stop running, you double over, bracing your hands against your thighs as you struggle to catch your breath. Your lungs burn, your ribs ache, and your entire body trembles from exhaustion. For a moment, all you can hear is the pounding of your own heart in your ears.
Then, silence.
As your breathing evens out, your eyes drift upward—and you freeze.
The Victor’s Village stands just ahead, untouched by the destruction that swallowed the rest of District 12. A chill seeps into your bones.
Every house is pristine, their exteriors unscathed, their windows gleaming as if the fires of war never reached them. It feels wrong, like a cruel illusion amidst the ruins. While everything else has crumbled to dust, this piece of the Capitol implanted into District 12 remains eerily whole.
You take a step forward. Then another.
A flicker of light in one of the houses catches your attention. Your brows knit together as you inch closer, your fingers hesitantly curling around the gate’s handle. You push it open, wincing as the rusted hinges screech through the stillness. The manicured lawns and cobblestone paths feel like relics from another world, a world where people lived in comfort while the rest of you starved. You barely notice the front door of the illuminated house swinging open—until a voice startles you.
Next Part
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Twst but mafia au headcannon?
Heartslabyul Mafia – The Red Court
Theme: Order, rules, loyalty, and execution Territory: Casinos, underground courts, and high-society clubs Leader: Riddle Rosehearts – The Red Judge
Known for strict enforcement of "The Queen’s Laws" (a literal written code).
Break the rules, lose a finger—or worse.
Ace and Deuce are his enforcers, often sent to “clean up messes.”
Cater handles info networks and social media manipulation. Trey manages cover businesses like bakeries and tearooms.
Savanaclaw Mafia – The Wildfangs
Theme: Strength, dominance, and territory Territory: Fight clubs, illegal betting rings, and scrapyards Leader: Leona Kingscholar – The Desert King
Ruthless and cunning. He doesn’t speak often—but when he does, people obey.
Has an entire underground fighting ring to test loyalty and skill.
Ruggie is the street rat who handles dirty work and extortion.
Jack is the "new pup" with a moral compass but deadly fists.
Octavinelle Mafia – The Abyss Syndicate
Theme: Deals, manipulation, debt, and secrets Territory: Luxury lounges, speakeasies, blackmail markets Leader: Azul Ashengrotto – The Merchant of Sins
Makes contracts with high interest. If you default, you belong to him.
Jade and Floyd are the twins who "collect debts" in their own twisted ways.
Their nightclub, “The Mostro Lounge,” is a neutral ground—but don’t get too drunk, or you’ll wake up in debt.
Scarabia Mafia – The Sun Serpents
Theme: Wealth, charm, and desert cunning Territory: Smuggling routes, artifact black markets, private villas Leader: Kalim Al-Asim – The Golden Smile
Kalim’s family is old money; he’s the face, but Jamil runs the operation.
Jamil handles poisonings, discreet assassinations, and laundering.
Their operation is flashy, but don’t let that sunshine fool you—one wrong move and you’ll vanish in the sands.
Pomefiore Mafia – The Glass Thorns
Theme: Beauty, perfection, and deadly pride Territory: High fashion, cosmetics, and assassination-for-hire Leader: Vil Schoenheit – The Poison Prince
Dresses his crimes in silk and scent. A clean kill is an art.
Rook is the eerie hitman who tracks targets like prey.
Epel is the underestimated “babyface” who snaps necks with a smile.
Ignihyde Mafia – The Ghostline
Theme: Technology, surveillance, and cybercrime Territory: The darknet, encrypted bunkers, digital weaponry Leader: Idia Shroud – The Phantom Executor
Doesn’t leave his bunker; he controls everything from screens.
Ortho is the AI/droid who enforces missions and wipes traces.
If your tech fails or your secrets leak, it’s probably Ignihyde’s doing.
Diasomnia Mafia – The Obsidian Court
Theme: Legacy, terror, and immortal rule Territory: Ancient castles, arcane weapon trafficking, elite rituals Leader: Malleus Draconia – The King of Thorns
Feared across all territories. Few dare speak his name aloud.
Lilia was once a deadly assassin—now he mentors the young bloods.
Silver protects Malleus like a shadow. Sebek is a loud, loyal enforcer.
Their power is mythical, and their reach is endless.
👻 Ramshackle Mafia – The Outlaw Union
AKA: The Hollow House, The Stray Pact, or The Neutral Syndicate Theme: Found family, chaos, cleverness, and impossible alliances Territory: The forgotten zones between dorm borders—neutral land, black market roads, the shadows of the walls
Leader: Yuu – The Phantom Boss
The backbone of this misfit empire.
They didn’t just survive NRC’s chaos—they recruited the forgotten, abandoned, and rogue players.
They lead with sharp instincts, mad charisma, and a knack for turning enemies into allies.
Every major dorm sees them as a threat now—not just because of power, but because they’re unpredictable and loyal only to their people.
Grim – Their "guard dog" with a short temper and big fire. Basically the mafia mascot and bodyguard.
Crowley (ugh) – Might be funding them under the table to keep balance between dorms, but is ultimately useless. Claims to be “advisor.”
Ramshackle’s territory is small, but everyone passes through it eventually. It’s a neutral ground for forbidden negotiations and secret alliances.
The house itself is a trap-laden fortress disguised as a falling-apart mansion. No one invades twice.
Chenya – The Cheshire Blade
A wildcard spy and info broker who left RSA and the Heartslabyul underworld.
Appears and disappears at will—no one ever knows whose side he’s on (except Yuu’s).
Master of illusions, sabotage, and surveillance. He’s everywhere and nowhere.
Keeps the others laughing—right before he slits someone’s throat mid-sentence.
Neige LeBlanche – The White Lie
Publicly still a "darling" singer and model—secretly Ramshackle’s social smokescreen.
Handles PR, public image, and propaganda for the family. Butter-wouldn’t-melt aura hides a manipulative mastermind.
When he's not smiling, he's pulling favors, blackmailing media execs, or sweet-talking other mafia heirs for intel.
Rollo Flamme – The Viper Bishop
Formerly an anti-magic radical. Now? He realized the system itself was the problem.
Handles information control and religious contacts—he runs the cult underworld, no biggie.
Cold, calculating, and eerily calm. Uses fear and righteous speeches to demoralize opponents.
Some say he joined Yuu to balance them; others say he's waiting for a perfect betrayal. Either way, he's useful.
Fellow Honest – The Trickster Boss
Old-school mafia type with showman flair. Originally neutral, now Yuu’s inside man for old money trade routes.
Handles weapon deals, smoke-and-mirror diplomacy, and nostalgic criminal connections.
Thinks of Yuu as a “young boss with real moxie.”
Keeps Gidel on a tight leash (most of the time).
Gidel – The Cannery Butcher
Extremely unhinged—used to work with the mafia as an executioner-for-hire.
Now works as Ramshackle’s interrogator and "cleanup guy."
Think chainsaw, bloodstains, and a sense of humor that makes Floyd look tame.
Yuu is the only person who can tell him “stop” and live.
Skully – The Phantom Enforcer
Quiet, hulking presence. Doesn’t speak much, but when they do? It's with fists or a cold death glare.
Bodyguard, smuggler, demolitions expert.
Comes from a cursed bloodline—people say they’re immortal. No one’s tested it twice.
Their loyalty to Yuu is absolute. When Skully stands behind you, you’re safe.
Dynamic as a Mafia:
Not bound by dorm politics.
Deals in everything: black market goods, intel trades, bodyguard contracts, “favor-for-favor” diplomacy.
Known for sudden, chaotic moves that disrupt the careful balance between dorm mafias.
The other dorms see them as an unstable alliance, but that’s what makes them terrifying. No rules. No limits. Just loyalty and survival.
(I accidently made ramshackle's bigger)
#twst x reader#twst#twst wonderland#twst yuu#twst headcanons#mafia au#twst au#twst mafia au#oops i made ramshackle bigger
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Sandwing cowboys
late night au cause im re-reading darkness of dragons
Vulture is a very cool villain I wish we could have seen more of him. Truly he is a villain I feel even with his short screen time was perfectly shown to be absolutely terrifying and ruthless. Which then also made me think about how cool it would be if he was like an outlaw/ cowboy villain.
As well as if he was more bird/ vulture like.
while I didnt doodle it I imagine him to be a bit more wyvern like. Gives him swifter and more agile movements in the skys. An absolute terror in flight. Then with his crew they are a travelling merchant's worst nightmare
Qibli in this cowboy au would be more of an actual cowboy. Trading his past to help out thorn with actual cattle for the scorpion den. So think of those western movies where theres always the good cowboy and the evil cowboy. Pretty much qibli vs vulture.
Overall this way made late at night and i havent thought too terribly far into it 💀 but who doesnt enjoy a good western every now and then
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Lucid Submission - chapter 3
(feudal lord!sukuna x reader)
Synopsis:
The fearsome demon king, Sukuna Ryomen, is reborn as an immortal human man as punishment for ruining the balance of good and evil in the divine realm.
To lift his curse and return to his original form, Sukuna must complete the condition bestowed upon him by the deities.
However, it requires him to have a child with the street thief who stole his coin pouch.
fanfic masterlist
You couldn’t bring yourself to sleep that night. You could feel each tired vein in your eyelids latching on to every bit of rest they could get every time you blinked. You looked down and cursed yourself for being so fearfully compliant with your new husband. His heavy arms encased around you like he was sure you would run away.
He chuffed like a stallion every time he snored into your neck, terrifying you to your core as you tried to make as much space between yourselves as possible. Of course, your efforts were in vain as he made sure that you would not be able to move an inch while lying next to him. Much too paranoid about his ‘pearl disappearing.’
The rest of the day after the wedding was dull. Uraume had left with Sukuna for some urgent merchant business (apparently, he controlled many ports around the area), while Yuuji and Megumi went to train little children at a local school. Nobara wasn’t much of a conversationalist, only choosing to observe you–possibly to see how you could plan to escape.
Your life as a thief wasn’t as exciting as being a rich wife, but at least you had the repugnant thrill of constant aversion. All the riches that came with being Sukuna Ryomen’s wife made you cautious, like your new comfortable lifestyle would be snatched away as soon as you got used to it.
But it wasn’t like you planned to stay that long anyway. Any kind of freedom was going to be better than staying as an egotistical rich man’s wife–a life so suffocating and mundane that even the poor wouldn’t dare dream of living it.
The claustrophobia was now in its final course of setting into the core of your chest. You scratched and slapped the arms that held you, hoping for some kind of relief. Mental or physical. Sukuna grunted and simply turned, taking you with him. Your body now splayed on top of his, arms holding you still against his chest as your face mushed against his collarbone. His scent enveloped you even more, now becoming the air you breathed. If you didn’t crave worldly freedom so much, you would’ve held your breath and surrendered to a supposed afterlife.
“Lord Sukuna, I wish to ask you something,” you mumbled into his neck. The man didn’t even let out a grumble of acknowledgment. “I also cannot breathe.”
Your husband yawned loudly as he mumbled incoherent words. The deep rumble in his chest managed to jolt you like you were a feeble doe. Legs quivering and heart racing. He wasn’t much different from an animal, either. A monstrous bear, tiger, or any uncomfortably large and loud beast would suit him best.
He rolled you back down to the mat you two were sleeping on. However, before you could get up and finally breathe air that didn’t smell like herbs and possibly blood, the man rolled on top of you, pressing his heavy frame on your body. You were afraid that he would be able to feel your racing heart with the way his chest pressed flat against yours. At least his eyes were closed, so he couldn’t see your sheer terror.
“You must take me for a fool if you think that I am falling for your little thief tricks. Lying and scheming are your forte, are they not?”
“Lord Sukuna, please, let your wife at least live for a few days before killing her. It will give you more satisfaction,” you quipped, prideful even during your panicky state. His eyes squinted as he stared down at you.
“Tongue still sharp as ever, even in the dead of the night. Had I been in my former glory, you would not have been so quick to reply like that.”
“My sharp tongue comes with my body that you have forcefully married.” His tired red eyes rolled at your response. “What is it that you wished to ask me, wife?” You try not to shiver at his reference to you.
“I wish to… relief myself.”
He silently blinked at you before groaning and pulling out a small pebble from underneath his side of the tatami mattress. He threw it across the room, hitting the paper sheet of the sliding door. Curious, you frowned at the sound of slight rustling outside your room.
The door slid open to a grimacing Nobara. “At least warn me before I see something like this.” You could see her blench as she rubbed her eyes.
You gasped as you pushed your husband off, who was now more compliant with you. You yanked the covers off you and threw them at your husband, who was lying with his arms across his face. “You are lucky I am tired, wife.”
Your chest ached slightly when you saw the tatami mattress right outside your bedroom door. Your years of hardship may have turned you a little selfish, but you still had a heart. It felt like seeing a bleary-eyed little sister waiting for you after your long journey.
“Were you cold?” you asked as you followed her out to the water closet. “I have not felt even the chill of spring nights under the care of Master Sukuna,” she responds curtly.
You stop in your tracks, and so does she. The snow blankets everything—all your thoughts, worries, and concerns. “I do not actually want to go to the water closet. I just wished myself a moment. If it is possible, can we sit outside for a few minutes?”
It felt strange asking someone younger for permission, but you let it slide. It’s not like living as a thief made you a stickler for the rules. “Few minutes.” She walks you back to the estate’s courtyard, and you both sit side by side, covered in warm robes, watching the snowfall. The large cherry tree in the middle of the courtyard was now almost entirely white.
You didn’t expect any kind of camaraderie from Nobara. Your cases were wildly different–you were a ratty and uncivilized thief picked off the street to be Sukuna Ryomen’s wife, while Nobara was a uniformed…soldier. To be quite honest, you weren’t sure what to refer to her as. Her skills as a fighter were too sharp for her to be called a simple maid.
There was something more to her; you were sure of it. Her tone was too harsh to be a nobleman or aristocrat’s daughter–perhaps a merchant’s daughter. Her taste in clothes was great, and her sword’s sheath was of impeccable craftsmanship. Even an austere like you could tell.
You wondered if someone had taught her all these things. She sure looked like she was well-loved as a child. So were you, but there was always a chronic emptiness in your heart. No parents to dote on you after work, only a sick and tired grandmother who tried to give you everything she could before taking her last breath.
You even thought you could have a chance at having a family when you met your first love, but you soon gave up that hope after nearly being sold off as a wife to an old rich geezer. It had taken you ages to run away from him, to run away from a forceful marriage, only to land back in the same predicament but with a different person.
“I do not understand him,” you speak out in the silence, echoes of your voice getting swallowed up by the snow. Not even your murmurs could leave the estate. “Nobody does. That is just how he is.” Nobara doesn’t look at you as she replies. “No, he could just take the marble from me–if I even have it. Why does he need to marry me for it?”
“He believes you have it, but you are just unaware. He plans on coaxing it out of you sooner or later. And as long as the townsfolk know you are his wife, you cannot leave Seion.”
So you were trapped. If not under Sukuna Ryomen’s thumb, then under the people’s watchful eyes.
Unlike divine beings and spirits, human beings usually follow a daily routine. Sukuna Ryomen was surprised to learn that they meticulously followed everything–even down to how many bundles of firewood they would collect for the day. So, to make his life more comfortable, the former demon king also devised a routine.
His day usually starts with a quick exercise regime to keep himself strong. Should the day come that the Deities have finally returned to their senses and want him back, he can easily fight them in his human form. However, the four demon companions who followed him to the mortal realm out of their loyalty to him would beg to differ. Uraume, Nobara, Yuuji, and Megumi were well aware that even the most swole of humans would be like a small piece of twig for the weakest of deities. Sukuna Ryomen just enjoyed imagining the ones who punished him in pain, including that no-good Divine Judge, Higuruma Hiromi.
He would then eat a hearty meal and set off for business meetings. After his first hundred years on Earth, Sukuna learned that the only way to earn respect and power was to be rich. So he did exactly that: he spent decades earning money and bought out most of the shipment ports around his town. The fact that people forgot who he was every ten years immensely helped him. Divine punishment magic and all.
And at last, he’d end his day by meditating beside his old statue. Getting to the abandoned shrine was a bothersome journey, but the peace he felt there was unlike any other. It was the closest he felt to his former life.
His new wife, however, was ruining everything. He couldn’t exercise with his normal concentration because he needed to always have his eyes on her. He did trust Nobara, but he needed self-assurance. He could easily take her with him for errands for the day, but he didn’t want the old bastards he traded with to land their leery gazes at her. She was still very jumpy, and something about another man, even a few feet in her presence, made him want to burn his hair. Other than his trusted bodyguards and servant, of course.
“She just won’t sit still, and even refuses to eat. I’ve tried everything. You deal with her,” Nobara huffs as she smacks fresh new clothes on Sukuna’s unclothed chest, which was redundant because they had soaked in some of his sweat. He didn’t bother dressing up after his workout and charged to his quarters, noticing his wife had taken solace in the furthest corner from the door.
“I am not going to eat you,” Sukuna sighed as he walked over to her, making her only pull her legs closer to her chest as she scrambled to throw what was closest to her–a lacquer box pillow. Sukuna, of course, easily dodged her attempt to attack him. He veiled his amusement at her discontentment.
“Who’s to say you won’t? After all, you said you were a demon,” she tried her best to sound assertive, but her shivering body gave way to her veracity. Brave woman. She quickly dragged herself across the floor of the room, hoping to make it past Sukuna to get out, but he grabbed onto her ankles and pulled her to him. No grunt or sound of effort escaped his lips. She could only groan as he grabbed both her wrists and sat her up.
“I am here to give you clothes, woman. Calm down!” he reasoned as he sat on his haunches, giant hands still holding her wrists. His wife wriggled, trying to throw off his balance, but his exercise regime had made him sturdier than a raging bull. It wasn’t a shock to him that he was much bigger than her, but the sight of his arms being much larger and stronger than hers stirred something dire in him. Snow falling like dust before the avalanche.
“I don’t need clothes. I am already wearing them. I’ll change when these get dirty. You rich folk sure do love draining every single resource you have–warm water for baths–”
“Which you clearly enjoyed. I could hear you groaning and moaning like old wood yesterday.” Maybe it had been a while since he had a woman in close quarters, but he barely held himself together when he heard her across the estate.
“That was because your little servant scrubbed me so hard that I bruised everywhere!” she yelled as she tried to wriggle some more, but his grip was taut. He pushed her down on the ground, her back hitting the wood with a thump.
“Your stubbornness will simply not do. I always considered myself a patient man, but now I am unsure. I will put you to work and exhaust you so much that you won’t have the strength to even think about escaping.” And with that, he dropped her clothes on the ground and lightly shoved her to the side. Only to remind her of his strength.
And not because the sight of her being dragged around made him feel light-headed and lecherous.
After calling for Nobara to dress his wife up for the day, he called on Uraume to allot his new bride her wifely duties for the day. “She’s been on the street for most of her life so I doubt she knows how to cook. I also do not want her near fire, blades, arrows, or anything that can be a weapon. Have her organize my accounts by name. Nothing too extensive, but enough to make her want to lie down as soon as she’s done.” Uraume quickly nods before packing his things and handing them to him.
He never enjoyed working anyway. It was a good thing he had her to help out now.
“How long will you be meditating for, master?” Uraume asked as he walked Sukuna to the estate’s main entrance. Sukuna left with a swift response, “I expect to be back before sundown.”
The scenery around his statue was always beautiful. Stalky bamboo trees made everything look like a maze in this part of the valley. A stream nearby always had small foxes drinking from it, and the sun shone perfectly for their red fur to glitter.
Three hundred years ago, this place was bustling with people, buying talismans and offering fruits at the foot of the statue. Now, it is just a husk of what it used to be–weathering and moldy wood turning to dust as soon as one touches it. His statue had all smoothened out, his extra pair of eyes were invisible and his horrifyingly glorious mouth on his abdomen was gone too. There was not much difference between his human form and the statue.
Time stood still when Sukuna Ryomen was at his abandoned temple. He touched the smooth, worn gravel of his face and sighed. After a little more time, this statue would return to being taken care of. Offerings and people would return. So would his former glory. But where would his humanity go? Would he take it with him? Or would his sudden return to his former form make him forgo everything he had learned as a human being?
Most importantly, how would his return affect his wife?
“I see you finally found her,” A familiar voice echoes in the forest. Sukuna already knows who he is before turning around. The Tengu spirit was here.
“Why do you suddenly show yourself when I found my path of return, Geto Suguru?” Sukuna still didn’t turn. The spirit laughed, velvety rich voice raising hairs on the back of Sukuna Ryomen’s neck. He hated how humans were so expressive; it was no wonder they never had the upper hand with Deities and spirits.
Cool air blows all around Sukuna as the sound of wings flapping gets closer to him. If he turned around, he’d be face to face with someone he could’ve easily snapped in half if he were a demon again. “Because you haven’t.” Sukuna shivered as the tengu spirit whispered in his ear.
“What are you talking about? I saw her eyes; she has the marble!”
A dark claw digs into Sukuna's shoulder as he is ripped from his spot, and is turned around to face Suguru. He looked the same as he did hundreds of years ago–long black hair falling around his shoulders, dark pools of obsidian that never had a hint of good or evil behind them, and his signature smirk. Sukuna Ryomen hated tengus–they played around too much. Ambivalent creatures. They never lied, but they weren’t the friendliest company either. Only came around when they were bored.
“Are you still angry that I told you about the souls passing by your domain?”
“You said they were rejuvenating!” Sukuna exclaimed but caught himself when Suguru dug his nails into his shoulder. “Careful with your tone. Remember, you are a mere human now, and I could easily end your pathetic little life right this moment.”
“Do it. I’ll only come back to life within a few mere minutes. I am cursed, remember?”
“Oh, I know, which is why I’ll keep killing you, making each death more painful than the last. It’ll keep you stalled long enough for your little bride to run off or die with time. Human lives are just so frail, you see.” Suguru stretched a wide, ugly smile, baring his pointed teeth at Sukuna. A loud message.
Sukuna was sure the spirit could hear his pathetic human heart beating rapidly along with the sound of his blood rushing to his face. The veins in his neck bulged out as he tried to restrain his anger. The mere thought of someone taking his marble away from him angered him.
“Tell me what you are here for and leave me immediately.” The sooner Suguru left, the sooner Sukuna could go and protect his wife.
“You are a foolish demon.”
“If you’ve come all the way to the mortal realm to tell me that, then I believe you are the foolish one,” Sukuna’s attitude angered Suguru as he shoved him, his taloned foot slammed on Sukuna’s chest as he cemented him to the ground. Sukuna groaned as he tried to grasp onto the spirit’s foot, but his hands went through them like he was trying to catch onto the air.
Right, humans couldn’t touch spirits, but they could do whatever they wanted to them. No wonder folktales and legends were such a big part of human culture.
“You have become even more bold. I was only here to say that you asked the wrong question at the trial.”
“What are you waiting for then? Tell me,” Sukuna could barely wheeze out the words with the pressure on his chest. Taking pity at the pathetic man’s state, the tengu spirit lifts his leg off and clutches Sukuna’s collar, sitting him up against his will—a man at the mercy of myth.
“Your pearl–she doesn’t have it. Don’t bother torturing it out of her.” Sukuna wasn’t surprised that the Suguru assumed he would’ve done that. But something about his newfound humanity irked him enough not to perform needless acts of violence.
“What are you talking about?”
“The pearl is from the Divine Realm. A human cannot fathom its existence. It only exists as dust in her blood as in yours,”
The former demon’s pathetic human heart beat rapidly like thunder trapped in a cage. He let out an aching sigh as cold sweat dripped down the back of his neck. “You want me to kill her to get the pearl?”
“No, all you need to do is mix your blood with hers, and you will have the complete marble.”
“I cannot make her go through bloodletting–she’s too weak.”
Suguru laughs loudly and the ground beneath Sukuna’s body trembles. Fresh snow is shaken off the bamboos.
“There are less…practical ways of mixing blood. One of them will surely give you your complete marble.” Still confused, Sukuna could only squint at Suguru’s all-black eyes.
“A child, you daft demon. You must have a child with her to return to your original form.”
—
taglist: @sukubusss @lady-of-blossoms @gradmacoco @cheriiepies @brunnetteiwik @poopooindamouf @miakxn @emochosoluvr @sunasgf1
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Regret AU: Part 8b
The hunt unfolds...
x~x~x
It was mid-morning when they departed Gulltown, and even though it was at his urging, Daemon found himself unprepared for how long Caraxes was able to maintain what felt like a dragon’s sprint. It took time to adjust to breathing with the wind roaring in his face, and he had never felt more grateful for the security of a saddle and harness, because his already-trembling thighs were spent after the first half-hour.
He could feel Caraxes’s strain as if it were his own, and Daemon had to urge him to take spells of slower-paced gliding so that he could partly recover. Their hearts beat with the same urgency, and it was that shared fear and fury that kept Daemon upright in his seat.
Hours passed, each of them yielding a fresh horror for Daemon to contemplate, from never finding his children, to his sons being lost at sea, to threats beyond his control like raiders or vengeful Triarchy hunting them down over land. Are they frightened? Who comforts them?
Visions of them clutching one another, crying for love and safety of a parent, tormented him. They do not even know me. What if they never shall? Would they be beaten and cowed like slaves, forged into mindless tools for Volantis?
The sun beat down ferociously at the height of the afternoon, then set beyond the horizon, and the stars blinked into view above them, the moon’s glow reflecting off the ocean waves below. They passed over dozens of ships in that span, none of which Daemon bothered with; it was too early for them to be upon the Volantene ship.
In the hours before dawn, Daemon judged them far enough to be able to begin searching for the ship. Caraxes eased his pace with a sense of relief, the raw edges of his fatigue blurring into Daemon’s. The longest stretches of battle in the Stepstones could not compare; those had been hours at most, whereas Caraxes had been tearing through the skies for nearly a full day on little rest.
They were looking for a two-masted galley, which many trading vessels—and pirates—crossing the Narrow Sea tended to be. He descended upon at least a dozen over the course of two hours, to the terror of their crews. Eventually they passed over a tiny isle that was just large enough for Caraxes to set down upon for a rest.
Only for an hour, Daemon had decided, even as he struggled to keep his eyes open. The winds, which had favored ships sailing south, had shifted over the past few hours. Doubtless the Volantenes would employ their rowers, but they would not be nearly as fast without the tailwinds of the past day.
Caraxes made a small meal of the fish along the shores of the isle. Not nearly enough to sate his mount’s ravenous hunger after such a flight, but it took the distracting edge off. Daemon availed himself of the stores in his saddlebags, tiredly chewing on dried beef before draining two flasks of water. He did not dare sleep himself, keeping watch instead while Caraxes dozed.
It hurt to wake him, his dragon’s exhaustion bleeding ever deeper in Daemon’s own bones. “I am sorry,” he said. “We must press on.”
He knew that this could be a long hunt. That they might not stumble across the vessel at all, or that he might have judged their destination incorrectly. It could be days or weeks before Daemon held his sons. If you ever hold them at all.
Their stolen respite on the isle was likely closer to two hours, but it was enough, just barely enough. Daemon gritted his teeth as he mounted the saddle once more, availing himself of the straps that he usually employed only in battle in case an unlucky arrow found him. He no longer had the grip to trust that he would not fall if there was a hard bank.
They scoured the waves below them, dashing from trade vessel to trade vessel. At one point, they happened upon a merchant galley being boarded by pirates. Daemon drew close enough to be certain that neither was the ship he sought, then left them to their fate.
Near midday, Daemon found himself considering yet another rest for Caraxes. His dragon was flagging, his strain causing Daemon’s own heart to labor, to the point of lightheadedness. There was another ship off in the distance, just visible near the horizon. One more. He did not have to speak the words; he could sense Caraxes’s weary acknowledgement.
As with most of the galleys they had encountered thus far, the rows were being employed in the near absence of wind, allowing them to overtake the ship within minutes. Caraxes looped around, drawing near enough for Daemon to glimpse the mast, seeking the figurehead that had been described to him: a heron atop a dolphin.
When Daemon’s eyes locked upon it, it took a moment for the realization to pierce through the fog of exhaustion. Then he sucked in a breath, gaze shifting to the deck of the ship. The crew were usually plunged into terrified chaos at the sight of a dragon drawing close, but on the ship below, he found men lining the deck, bows in hand. Toward the center of the deck, a lone man in robes was kneeling as though in prayer.
There had been time aplenty to decide how he would reclaim his sons. He did not dare set the ship itself aflame, but there were other ways to cripple it. Daemon circled around the ship once, surprised that the men had not yet loosed their arrows. Did they seek to negotiate in order to spare themselves? Or would they threaten his sons instead?
At Daemon’s nudge, Caraxes circled closer before slowing to a near halt at the ship’s starboard side, each flap of his wings buffeting the men with powerful gusts.
“You know who I am,” Daemon called to them. “Bring me my sons and you may yet live.”
The men looked to each other, and one glanced behind, toward the kneeling figure, before stepping forward. “Once you have them, what is to stop you from burning us all?”
The man’s High Valyrian was free of the imperfections that had crept into that of its sister cities, all but confirming his origin. Volantis.
“Nothing at all,” Daemon said, hands tightening around the grip of his saddle. “But you will most surely burn if you deny me.”
There was a strange tension to the Volantenes, and the way the man he had spoken to kept turning back to the robed man, as though seeking guidance, made it clear who was in command. Whatever gods he was praying to, however, would not save them.
“Show me,” Daemon growled, a matching rumble building in Caraxes’s chest. “Show me my sons.”
The Volantene licked his lips nervously, gaze shifting between Daemon and Caraxes, but before he could respond, the deck erupted in light. Daemon’s instinct was to shield his eyes, but the light was not blinding so much as—strange. As he stared at it, the color seemed to bleed from the ship, and then the sky. The figure at its center rose to his feet, but Daemon’s focus remained upon the source of the light: a tall, twisted candle that almost seemed to beckon him.
“Daemon,” someone called, the voice almost familiar.
He closed his eyes, trying to place it, and when he opened them again, he was deep within the jagged peaks of Dragonstone, mist flowing around him as he inhaled the damp scent of sulfur. A figure stood just beyond on a ledge of stone, shrouded in mist.
“Daemon,” the voice called again.
Daemon’s heart caught, recognition flooding him. “Father?”
The figure stepped closer, the mists parting around him to reveal a head of short-cropped, silver-blond hair, topped by a golden circlet. His eyes, the very same purple as his own, met Daemon’s. “Will you not greet me?”
A bleary confusion gripped him for a moment. I should not be here. I am searching for— “My sons,” he said, looking about wildly. The mist had rolled in, obscuring everything around them.
“They are here,” his father said, and when Daemon’s head whipped back to him, he was carrying two toddlers in his arms, one dark-haired and one fair. “Come see them.”
There was a wide chasm between them, and Daemon eased Caraxes down upon the ledge, fingers clumsy as he unstrapped himself from his saddle. His legs gave out as they hit the ground, sending him to his knees, and two unfamiliar men garbed in the white cloaks of Kingsguard helped him to his feet.
Daemon tensed as one began removing Dark Sister, sheath and all, but then he heard one of his sons giggle, and he looked up to see one of his sons tugging at his father’s hair. “Kekepa.”
“Send Caraxes on ahead,” his father said gently. “He needs rest.” And when Daemon drew near, hungry for a glimpse at his sons’ faces, his father kissed him on the cheek. “You need rest.”
His lips were hot, like a stone left to bake in the sun. “I want—” Daemon’s voice faltered, sorrow and longing catching in his throat. I want you to know them. But he was right before Daemon, holding them, so why—? “I want to see them.”
They had not yet turned to him.
“First you must rest,” his father said.
Daemon shook his head. “No, I must see them.”
The longer he gazed into his father’s eyes, the less familiar they became. The purple darkened then lightened, the softness in them turning sharp and piercing. Daemon was frozen in place, feeling himself stripped bare, teased apart, weighed and assessed—
“Sleep.”
Daemon slept.
x~x~x
This is fine, everything's fiiiiiine...
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It would be sooo cool if you wrote about a sailor making offerings to the sea, and the sea helping him back during a privateer attack. The sea being a sea monster (properly monstrous, properly grotesque) who has been waiting to return the sailors kindness.
(I suggested a privateer attack, not pirates, since I feel like a sea monster would have plenty of reason to hate the empires who poisoned their waters)
Your choice if you make the monster more human-minded and create a monster fuck scenario, or if you wish to keep it platonic and protecting only. Or a secret third option of course.
love this so much. water deity x reader. warnings/tags- god worship, monster fucking
word count- 961 words.
The sea is a cruel thing, or so your shipmates always say. The sea takes more than it gives, steals men from their homes, swallows ships whole. But you have never believed that.
You’ve sailed these waters for years, and you know the sea watches. It listens. And sometimes, in ways small and strange, it answers.
he first time you made an offering to the sea, it was nothing but a simple ritual. A bit of salted bread, a silver trinket, and a whispered prayer cast into the waves. A habit picked up from your grandmother, who swore by the old ways, though no one else on your crew paid the ocean much mind beyond cursing it. But you had seen the way the waters turned calm after a gift, how the storms held their breath when you spoke softly to the waves.
You had no way of knowing he was listening.
He—if such a thing could be called a man—was old. Older than the charts, older than the empires that had carved their borders across the seas. His body was the deep, vast and unknowable, his limbs were long things of shifting shadow and sinew, slick with brine and lined with ridges like the belly of a great fish. When he swam beneath your ship, the waters grew dark, as though the sky itself had plunged into the sea. His eyes were like pits, the color of the abyss, but within them burned something unmistakably alive.
And he had watched you.
Watched you kneel at the ship’s edge, murmuring your prayers, your offerings set adrift on the current. Watched you work, tireless and steady, the only one aboard who did not spit into the sea or demand from it. You were different. You were kind. And in all the years he had endured—watching men slaughter whales, pour filth into his waters, carve their wars into his depths—you were the first to show him reverence without fear.
So when the privateers came, he rose.
The attack came swift and merciless. Your ship, a modest merchant vessel, was never meant to withstand the wrath of empire-sanctioned cutthroats. Cannon fire split the hull, sending shouts and splinters into the air. You fought, though you were no soldier. You were thrown to the deck, the scent of salt and blood thick in your nose, your hands bound as you watched your crewmates slaughtered. The privateers laughed as they kicked you onto your knees. You had nothing left but a prayer.
And this time, the sea answered.
A shadow unfurled beneath the waves, vast and slow, the water itself recoiling. The first to notice it was a privateer standing too close to the edge—he barely had time to scream before something yanked him under. The others turned just in time to see the waves boil over with darkness, tentacles slick with salt and spined like the deep-sea beasts of nightmare, a body rising from the depths, twisting, shifting, too large to be real. A maw opened in the water, lined with jagged, bioluminescent teeth, its throat glowing like the lantern-lit caves beneath the tides.
The sea had come to claim its due.
The privateers fell into chaos, some leaping overboard only to be dragged under, others frozen in terror as the creature moved through them with deliberate, inevitable force. He did not fight like a beast—he fought like a god, ancient and wrathful. A tentacle curled around you, slick but gentle, lifting you from the deck as the ship beneath you was torn apart. He cradled you in the crook of an armored limb, his touch lingering, careful. You did not struggle. You knew, somehow, that you would not be harmed.
And when the wreckage sank, when the last screams faded into the quiet hush of the waves, he finally spoke.
“Mine.”
His voice was the grind of shifting tides, the hum of the current against the hull of a ship, the rasp of sand against stone. You shuddered, not in fear, but in the weight of knowing. You had always known the sea could be cruel. You had not known it could be devoted.
He carried you to a place far beyond the reach of men—a cavern where the walls gleamed with mother-of-pearl, where the tide pooled in bioluminescent blue, where the air was thick with salt and the echoes of something ancient. He placed you upon the smooth, sea-worn rock and did not let go, curling around you like the tide itself.
“You gave to me,” he murmured, voice like the whisper of waves against a forgotten shore. His great, abyssal eyes peered down at you, hunger and adoration twining together. “No man has ever given to me.”
You swallowed hard. Your pulse thundered, but not in terror. The way he looked at you, the way he touched you—it was possessive, but not unkind. It was as if you had called to him all those years, and he had finally come to answer.
“…And now you return the favor,” you said, your voice quiet, testing.
His mouth curled, something like a smile but far too sharp. “Yes.”
You reached out, hesitant, your fingers brushing the slick, scaled ridge of his arm. He trembled beneath you. Something deep in his chest thrummed, like the rolling echo of waves against a cliffside. He leaned in, impossibly vast and terrifyingly gentle.
“Mine,” he rumbled again, but this time, it was a plea.
You could have denied him. You could have fought, could have feared, could have rejected the devotion of something so monstrous, so inhuman. But you had spent your whole life at sea, and you knew better than to deny the tide.
“…Yours,” you whispered.
The cavern filled with the sound of the ocean’s joy.
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