#and heavy dark thunderclouds

[vingtetunmars]

Steady Now...

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: What started as quiet rendez-vous and stolen nights soon grew into something neither of you could deny. Joel Miller wasn’t a man of words, but in the way he touched you, in the way he kept coming back, you knew.

Part 1

Tags: NSFW, smut(18+), mutual pining, hesitant Joel, age differences (reader is in late 20s, Joel is 56-57), set between season 1 and 2, Jackson!Joel Miller, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it yall), oral sex f receiving, casual sex, secret relationship, "i'm old." "i dont care.", no physical description of reader. No use of Y/N.

A/N: I need that senior citizen bad 😩 If you have any requests, suggestions, or thoughts, feel free to send me a message. Reblogs are appreciated. Please do not steal or cross-post it on another platform without asking. Thank you.

Word Count: 6k

masterlist

It became a rhythm neither of you spoke about.

No promises.

No labels.

No staying till morning.

Just knocks at your door after dark, quiet and familiar. Some nights he’d mumble something about checking your pipes again, or that he couldn’t sleep. But most nights, he didn’t say anything at all — just showed up, kissed you without a word, and the rest would follow like a routine rehearsed too many times to forget.

You stopped pretending he wasn’t going to come. Sometimes you left the porch light on. Sometimes you didn’t bother changing out of your soft shirt until well after midnight.

It was always the same — fingers tangled in your sheets, his mouth on yours, his name a whisper against his neck. You knew the places on his back that made him shudder. He knew how you sounded when you were close.

He always stayed until your breaths evened out. Until his hand stilled over your ribs. Until your legs stopped shaking.

And then —

He’d pull his shirt back over his head.

Sit on the edge of your bed like he was fighting some invisible hand tugging at his spine.

Then leave. Every single time.

You never stopped him. Not once.

But tonight — something shifted.

You watched him silently as he buttoned his jeans again, his shoulders curved inward like guilt sat heavy between his blades.

And when he reached for his flannel and stepped into his boots — you spoke.

“You act like the world’s gonna end if you stay.”

Joel stilled.

Didn’t turn around.

Just ran a hand through his hair and exhaled hard through his nose.

“I’m just tryin’ to do the right thing,” he muttered. “That’s all.”

You sat up in bed, tugging the sheet higher around you. “By leaving me here alone? After every single night we spend like this?”

He turned then. Eyes unreadable in the low light.

“If this is such a mistake like you keep saying, then why do you keep coming back?”

Joel didn’t answer.

You stood. Crossed the floor and stopped just a breath away from him, his shirt loose in your hand. “Because I don’t think you believe that. I think it scares you that this might not be a mistake at all.”

His jaw worked, but no sound came out. Just that clenched silence, that thundercloud in his eyes.

“I don’t want to be a secret you feel guilty for,” you said, softer now. “I’m not asking you to shout it through Jackson. I just— I want to know if this means something. Or if I’m just some comfort you can walk away from before sunrise.”

Joel’s eyes finally met yours.

And for once — he didn’t look away.

Didn’t run.

Didn’t lie.

“I ain’t proud of it,” he said quietly. “But this... I can’t seem to stop. And that scares the hell outta me.”

You took a breath. Then reached for his hand.

“Then stop pretending like it’s nothing.”

He didn’t speak again.

“Stay.”

This time —

Joel didn’t leave.

He woke before the sun.

That wasn’t unusual — old habits like that never died. His body knew how to stir before the world turned gold outside, how to blink back sleep and remember where he was before full consciousness settled in.

But what was unusual… was the warmth curled against his chest.

Your leg was draped across his hip. Your hand rested palm-down over his heart. His chin had ended up on top of your head sometime in the night. You were breathing soft, steady, your face tucked into the crook of his neck like it was home.

Joel didn’t move. Didn’t want to move.

For a long time, he just lay there, eyes half-lidded, staring at the soft light slipping through your curtains. You shifted slightly in your sleep, and your nose brushed his collarbone. A sound, small and pleased, left your lips.

Goddamn.

He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed this. Not the sex — though that had damn near wrecked him in all the best ways — but this.

The quiet. The warmth. The comfort of waking up next to someone who didn’t flinch from him.

The feeling of not being alone.

And when you stirred — blinked your way into awareness and tilted your head back to look at him with the kind of sleepy-eyed smile that could undo entire armies — Joel’s heart clenched so hard he almost winced.

“Mornin’,” you whispered, voice rough from sleep.

“Mornin’,” he rumbled back, arms still folded around you.

You stretched slowly, reluctantly pulling back to sit up, the sheet slipping just low enough to make him look away with a mumbled Jesus. You grinned and tugged it higher with a mock-scolding glance.

“I was gonna make breakfast,” you said, fingers carding through your hair. “You want some?”

Joel sat up, rubbing a hand over his beard. “Only if you’re makin’ coffee too.”

You smirked. “Deal.”

The morning passed like something stolen from a life he never thought he’d have.

He helped you fry up some eggs and potatoes — chopping, mostly, since you didn’t quite trust him near the stove yet. You teased him about it. He grumbled half-heartedly and kissed your temple when you weren’t expecting it.

You ate together at your tiny kitchen table. No one rushed. No one talked about last night like it was something shameful.

You poured him a second cup of coffee just because he looked like he’d ask. And when you leaned over to hand it to him, you pressed a kiss to his shoulder without a word.

Joel watched you as you moved around your little kitchen, in your worn T-shirt and loose flannel pants, humming to yourself while you scraped the plates clean.

It didn’t feel like a mistake.

It didn’t feel heavy.

It just felt... right.

And for once — Joel didn’t argue with that.

Tommy wasn’t the nosiest man in Jackson — but he was observant. Had to be, as a leader, a husband, a brother. And it didn’t take a genius to notice something had shifted in Joel lately.

It was in the little things.

The sharp edge to him had dulled, not gone completely, but rounded enough that it didn’t cut like it used to. He was still gruff, still guarded, but… he wasn’t walking around like the whole goddamn world was about to turn on him every second.

He stood taller now. Looser in the shoulders. His voice didn’t snap as quick.

Even his silences had changed.

So, one afternoon, when they were fixing up fencing on the edge of town — just the two of them — Tommy finally said it out loud.

"You’ve been... different lately."

Joel didn’t look up from the wire he was tying off. "That right?"

"Yeah." Tommy squinted at him. "Less grumpy. Less ‘end-of-the-world.’ You even said ‘good morning’ to Jackson's baker the other day. Scared the hell out of her."

Joel huffed a quiet breath. Not quite a laugh, but close.

Tommy leaned on the post. “I’m just sayin’. You’ve been lighter. Happier. And I know you ain’t just suddenly become a morning person.” He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “Something changed?”

Joel twisted the wire tighter, buying himself a moment. Then: “Nothin’ to make a fuss about.”

That answer came a little too quick, too smooth.

Tommy raised a brow, but he didn’t press. “Alright. If that’s how you want it.”

They worked in silence again, but it wasn’t heavy.

And Tommy let it go.

But as Joel stood, wiping his hands and stretching his back, he caught the faintest smile flicker across his brother’s face.

Not smug. Just… satisfied.

Like he already knew the answer.

Like he was just glad Joel had something, someone, to be soft for.

Winter had passed.

Jackson was thawing out, snow giving way to mud, and the air held the first breath of spring — not warm, exactly, but softer. Lighter. Life crept back in through the cracks, quiet and slow, and so did Joel.

The stables smelled of damp hay and fresh soil. You were elbow-deep in a bridle strap when the barn doors creaked open, cold air rushing in behind a broad, familiar frame.

You looked up, brows lifted. “Didn’t expect you out this way today.”

Joel shrugged one shoulder. “Had time.”

He leaned against the stall, arms crossed, watching you work with that low, unreadable look he wore so well. But there was something different about it today — less guarded. Less weighed down.

You smirked, half-teasing. “If you came here to loiter, you better grab a brush.”

He gave you a look that said he might, but didn’t move. Instead, he stepped into your space — slow, sure — and you paused, confused but curious, as he reached for your wrist.

And then he kissed you.

Right there in the aisle, between the soft snorts of horses and the rustle of straw.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t feverish like so many nights had been. It was something else entirely — calm, deliberate, and a little daring.

You blinked when he pulled back, mouth parted slightly. “What was that for?”

Joel just shrugged again. But there was the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth.

“Felt like it,” he said simply, voice gravel and warmth.

You laughed under your breath, shaken in the best way. “And what if someone saw?”

He leaned closer, spoke against your ear, low and unapologetic. “Then they’ll know.”

And just like that, he walked off toward the pasture gate like nothing had happened.

You stood there, heart thudding like a drum in your chest, hand brushing your lips — not complaining. Not even close.

Because for once, he was the one stealing glances.

And you liked the view.

It started with a grunt.

Joel had bent down to tie his boot and froze halfway up, muttering a colorful string of curses under his breath. He pressed a hand to his lower back like it’d betrayed him, slowly straightening with all the grace of a man twice his age.

You looked up from the pot you were stirring, wooden spoon still in hand. “That your back, or did the spirit of an 80-year-old just possess you?”

Joel shot you a look, jaw tight. “Ain’t funny.”

You crossed the room to him without skipping a beat, placing your hands gently on his sides. “It’s a little funny.”

He groaned again as he sat on the couch, clearly trying to hide the wince behind a scowl. You weren’t buying it.

Without asking, you slid behind him, your hands firm but careful as they worked into his shoulders and spine. He exhaled through his nose, tense under your touch until your fingers found just the right spot. He let out something between a grunt and a sigh.

“Goddamn,” he muttered. “Where’d you learn to do that?”

“Spent a lotta years with a lotta sore horses,” you teased. “You’re just taller. Hairier. Grumblier.”

He didn’t respond — which either meant you were right or he was trying not to enjoy it too much.

You leaned forward a little, your breath ghosting over the back of his neck. “Maybe we should take it easy on sex for a bit,” you said innocently. “Can’t have you pulling something important.”

Joel stiffened — not from pain this time.

He turned his head slightly toward you, eyes narrowing. “That a joke?”

“Of course it is.” You circled to the front, crouching so you were eye level with him. “But even if it wasn’t, you think I’m gonna be less into you just ‘cause your back’s being an asshole?”

He didn’t answer. His gaze dropped for a second.

You softened. “Joel,” you said, voice low. “Don’t go quiet on me now.”

“I just…” he exhaled, leaning forward to rest his arms on his knees. “I’m not blind. You’re young. I ain’t. And I know I’ve got baggage. Hell, I am baggage. And now this,” he gestured vaguely at his back, “just feels like another reminder.”

You reached up, cupped his jaw gently with both hands, thumbs brushing the bristle of his scruff.

“Shut up,” you said softly. “I like your age. You really think I’d let just anybody wear me out and make me breakfast in the same week?”

He gave you a look, uncertain, the corners of his mouth twitching.

“You’re strong, and you’re steady, and you’ve lived through more than anyone I know. So what if your bones creak a little? You still got it, Joel.”

Now he was definitely fighting a smile.

“Besides,” you added with a wink, “I happen to think older men are sexy.”

That did it. He shook his head, grumbling something under his breath — but you saw the way his shoulders relaxed, the way his hand found yours without a second thought.

You leaned in, kissed his cheek, and whispered: “Now let me finish the stew before you pull something else.”

He didn’t argue.

The days were getting longer again — soft, golden spring light stretching past the windows as you rinsed out a bucket by the stable door. It had been a long day: the twins who’d been learning to ride were in a rare kind of chaos, and one of the mares had thrown a shoe. You were tired. Achy. Hair mussed and hands raw from reins and rope.

You didn’t hear Joel coming until his shadow passed over yours.

You glanced up, about to greet him, but stopped short when you noticed what he was holding behind his back — a mess of clumsy wildflowers. Nothing fancy. Mostly purple, with tiny white buds still clinging to their stems.

“…Did you pick those?” you asked, blinking.

He looked like he wanted the ground to eat him. “Don’t make a thing of it.”

“I’m not,” you said, fighting back a smile as he finally handed them over.

“They grow outside the old fence line,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Figured they might… look nice in a jar or somethin’.”

You stepped closer, flowers in hand. “They’ll look great in the mug you gave me.”

That made him glance over.

“You still usin’ that thing?”

“Every morning,” you said. “Kinda hard not to. You carved a horse on it.”

He didn’t respond, but his ears turned red — the only betrayal of how much it meant. The mug had shown up on your porch a few weeks ago, tucked in a wool sock for protection. Heavy ceramic, obviously made by hand, and bearing the unmistakable rough sketch of a horse’s head scratched into the glaze. The shape was uneven, one side thicker than the other, but it kept your coffee warm and fit in your palms just right.

You hadn’t asked about it. He hadn’t explained it. That’s how most things with Joel were.

He wasn’t a man of grand speeches. He didn’t shower you with compliments or drown you in attention. But he made sure your porch light worked. He sanded down the splintering corner of your workbench. He refilled your woodpile when you weren’t looking. And when he touched you, it was with purpose — with reverence, like every brush of his fingers meant something.

You stepped up to him now, flowers tucked against your chest, and kissed his cheek.

Joel exhaled through his nose, eyes softening. “Ain’t nothin’, darlin’.”

“It is,” you said. “But I won’t make a thing of it.”

He lingered a little longer, helping you walk the fence, not saying much. You didn’t need him to.

He was a southern gentleman — rough around the edges, quiet in his ways — but he loved loud in the silence.

It was early.

The kind of early where the sky was still gray and sleepy, fog clinging to windowpanes, and Jackson hadn’t quite woken up yet. Inside your house, however, things were very awake.

Joel stood between your legs, your back gently pressed against the kitchen counter, his hands planted firm on either side of you. The goodbye kiss had gone on a little longer than intended — nothing scandalous, but definitely not rated for public viewing. Your fingers idly hooked in the loops of his jeans, voice low and warm.

“Sure you don’t wanna stay for breakfast?”

He smirked, pressing his forehead against yours. “You tryin’ to keep me here forever?”

“I mean,” you shrugged with a grin, “could be worse.”

And then — the door opened.

No knock. No warning.

“Hey, you home? You left the stable keys in—oh my god.”

You and Joel both jerked apart like guilty teenagers. Dina stood in the doorway with a wide-eyed expression, keys dangling from her fingers, mouth half-open in sheer horror and glee.

Joel, to his credit, backed up and cleared his throat like nothing happened. “Mornin’,” he said, already pulling on his jacket like he could escape through the walls.

“I got this,” you whispered to him, brushing your fingers over his arm. “Go home. I’ll handle this one.”

He gave you a look that said good luck, then offered Dina an almost apologetic nod on his way out.

Dina didn’t even blink until the door closed behind him. Then she slowly, dramatically turned to face you.

“You—” she pointed accusingly. “You were—that was Joel Miller.”

You rubbed a hand over your face, already bracing. “Dina—”

“Him?! Out of all the people in Jackson?” she whisper-shouted, eyes wide with gleeful horror. “You’re hooking up with Ellie’s dad?”

“He’s not—” You paused. “Okay, he kind of is, but still. It’s not like I planned it.”

Dina paced a circle in your kitchen like she needed to physically walk through the realization. “You were pressed against the counter. That was not a casual goodbye. That was a pressed-up-I’ll-miss-you goodbye.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You done?”

“No. No, I’m not done,” she said, spinning on her heel. “How long has this been happening? You’ve been holding out on me.”

You exhaled and leaned against the counter, suddenly very aware that your shirt was rumpled. “A few months. Since winter.”

“Months?!”

“I wanted to keep it quiet,” you said. “And he… he did too.”

Dina stared at you for a beat, then crossed her arms. “Okay. I’m judging you a little bit. But I’m also not, because, I mean—good for you. Grumpy old man still got it.”

You snorted. “Wow. Thanks.”

“But seriously,” she said, finally relaxing, “does Ellie know?”

“No. And we’re not exactly rushing to tell her. It’s not… official. Yet.”

Dina stepped closer, suddenly soft. “Hey. I’m giving you shit, but I’m happy for you. He treats you okay?”

You smiled, quiet and genuine. “Better than okay.”

She nodded, satisfied. “Alright. You’re lucky I love you. ‘Cause if I caught anyone else kissing Joel Miller, I’d have to bleach my eyeballs.”

“Noted,” you deadpanned.

“Oh, and—next time? Lock your damn door.”

“How about next time you knock?”

Meanwhile,

Joel stepped through the door to his place, running a hand through his hair, still a little flushed from the rushed goodbye — your scent still faint on his shirt.

The door creaked shut behind him. He kicked his boots off with a sigh.

Then—

“I know you’ve been sneaking out.”

His head snapped up.

Ellie was sitting at the table, arms crossed, brow raised. Her backpack was slung over the back of the chair, her legs swinging like she’d been there a while. She looked equal parts annoyed and deeply smug.

Joel blinked. “The hell are you doin’ here?”

“I live here.”

She grinned. “And I know you’ve been leaving in the middle of the night and coming back at the butt crack of dawn.”

Joel sighed, rubbed the back of his neck. “You followin’ me?”

“Nope. I got eyes, old man.” She leaned forward. “So, come on. Who is she?”

Joel grunted and made his way toward the coffee pot. “Ain’t none of your business.”

“Oh my god,” she groaned. “It is someone. Holy shit. This is so weird. You’re like—dating?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m not—”

“You totally are.”

Joel muttered something into his coffee mug that sounded a lot like a curse.

Ellie leaned her chin on her hand, unrelenting. “Okay, serious question. Are you like… actually into her? Or is this some ‘I’m old and sad and the world sucks’ kind of hookup?”

He paused.

That long, quiet pause said everything.

“…It’s not a hookup,” he said finally. Voice low. Truthful.

Ellie studied him for a moment — the stiff posture, the quiet conflict behind his eyes. Then, with less teasing, she asked, “Does she make you happy?”

Joel hesitated. Then he nodded once, slow. “Yeah. She does.”

Ellie leaned back in her chair, letting it creak beneath her. “Well, shit,” she muttered. “Guess I can’t give you too much shit then.”

“Would be nice if you didn’t give me any.”

“Can’t promise that,” she grinned. Then her eyes narrowed. “Wait—do I know her?”

Joel froze.

Ellie squinted like a bloodhound sniffing out a lead. “Oh my god. It’s her, isn’t it? The horse lady? The one who’s been teachin’ me how to ride?”

Joel groaned. “Don’t call her that.”

“I knew it!” Ellie practically shouted, banging a fist on the table. “You’ve been all weird and soft lately, and she keeps smiling every time your name comes up. This is so messed up. My riding instructor is banging my dad.”

Joel gave her a look. “Jesus, Ellie.”

“I’m not wrong!”

He sighed, rubbing his temples. “Look, we were keepin’ it quiet for a reason.”

“Because of me?”

“…Yeah.”

Ellie’s face softened, if only a little. She stood, walking over to him. “You’re allowed to be happy, y’know.”

Joel glanced at her, surprised.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she added quickly. “I’m still gonna mess with you about it. But seriously… it’s okay. Just maybe don’t make out in the stables or whatever.”

Joel laughed, low and reluctant. “We’ll try our best.”

The fire in the hearth flickered low, casting soft shadows across the wooden walls of her bedroom. The wind outside had muffled the world to a hush, as if time itself had paused to grant them this quiet.

You were already breathless when Joel's hands slid beneath the hem of your shirt, his calloused palms warm against your skin. His kisses were slower tonight, deliberate—like he had all the time in the world to learn every inch of you again.

He sank to his knees beside the bed, those dark eyes trailing up your legs like they belonged to him.

“You gonna let me take my time tonight?” he rasped, voice low and rough.

You huffed a laugh, the kind that melted right into a sigh. “You always do.”

His grin was short-lived, swallowed as he coaxed your thighs apart, guiding one leg over his shoulder, then the other. His mouth hovered close to your folds, the heat of his breath making your already hazy.

And then—no hesitation.

His mouth was reverent. Worshipful.

You gasped, hand flying to grip the sheets as his tongue dragged along your pussy, slow and purposeful. He kissed you there like he meant it—like it mattered.

“Joel—” Your voice cracked.

He didn’t stop, didn’t flinch. Just groaned low in his throat, the sound sending shivers through you. His beard scraped lightly against your inner thighs, and you could feel the strength in his grip as he pinned your hips, holding you exactly where he wanted her.

He found your clit with practiced ease, lips wrapping around it with gentle insistence, sucking softly until your spine arched and your fingers curled hard into his hair.

Your thighs trembled against his shoulders. “Don’t stop,” you whispered, barely able to get the words out.

He didn’t. He couldn’t have if he tried.

When you finally broke apart—shaking, gasping, your hand in his hair—he only slowed to kiss your thighs, your belly, pressing his face against you like he was anchoring himself there.

You were flushed, dazed, still panting when he finally looked up.

“You good?” he asked, voice wrecked with heat.

You blinked, then managed a shaky laugh. “You ask that like you didn’t just ruin me.”

Joel just chuckled, lips glistening, dragging a hand down your side as he stood up.

“You ain't seen ruined yet, darlin’.”

The room was quiet again, save for the gentle creak of old wood and the muted hum of the wind brushing past the window. The fire had settled to soft embers, casting a lazy orange glow across the room. You were lying beside him now, tucked against Joel’s chest, your fingers lazily tracing circles over the bare skin above his heart.

His arm was heavy around your waist, hand idly brushing the curve of your hip beneath the blanket. Neither of them said anything for a long while.

Until you broke the silence.

“So…” you murmured, voice still a little rough around the edges. “Are we gonna talk about this, or just keep pretending it's nothing?”

Joel stared at the ceiling for a moment before he looked down at you, his jaw tense.

“I don’t think this has been nothin’ for a while now.”

Your lips quirked. “Glad you noticed.”

He huffed a breath, not quite a laugh, and let his hand rest still against your side. “You sure this is what you want?”

“You ask me that every time.”

“’Cause it don’t stop bein’ a fair question,” he said, eyes dark, voice low. “I’m older. I’ve got my baggage. A lot of it. You could be with someone else—someone who doesn’t come with a lifetime of bad decisions followin’ behind him.”

You pushed herself up slightly, resting your chin against his chest to look him in the eye. “I don’t want someone else.”

Joel’s brows furrowed.

“I want you,” you said plainly. “And I’m not asking for forever. I’m not expecting you to be someone you’re not. But I’m not a kid, Joel. I’m not some wide-eyed girl with a crush.”

His jaw flexed, that muscle ticking the way it did when he was chewing something over he didn’t want to admit was true.

“And if I am in this?” he asked, voice quiet. “If I start... actually lettin’ this happen?”

“Then we figure it out,” you said, reaching up to brush a curl of graying hair from his forehead. “Together.”

The wind outside rattled the windowpanes softly. Spring had settled into Jackson with slow mornings and thawing rivers, and something in Joel—something guarded and weary—began to ease.

He exhaled, long and low, and pulled you tighter into him.

“Alright,” he said after a beat, almost like a sigh. “Alright.”

You smiled into his skin.

He didn’t say the word relationship. Neither did you. But it was in the way he didn’t leave that morning. In the way he lingered while you made coffee. In the way he kissed your shoulder and let you steal another one before breakfast.

Spring had a way of thawing even the most frozen things.

Even Joel Miller.

You hadn’t planned on walking into anything unusual. It was just a casserole. A warm, cheesy one with real chunks of meat — the kind of thing you knew Joel appreciated after a long day. You’d even let it brown a little extra on top, just how he liked it. You figured you'd both share it, maybe pour two glasses of whatever dusty wine bottle was still sitting in his kitchen, maybe eat with your knees brushing under the table like you had the last few times.

But you froze the second Joel opened the door.

Tommy was there.

He was leaned back in one of the kitchen chairs like he lived there, a half-drunk glass of whiskey already sweating on the table. He looked up and grinned.

“Well, hey now.”

You smiled, too wide, trying to keep it casual. “Hi. I, uh… brought dinner.”

Joel, to his credit, didn’t flinch. But you could tell he wasn’t expecting his brother either. His eyes did a fast dart between you and Tommy, and then back to the casserole like it was a ticking bomb.

“Oh,” Tommy said brightly. “Dinner? For the both of you?”

“Figured he might be hungry,” you said, clearing your throat and stepping inside. “This thing’s big enough for three.”

Joel gave you a quiet look — grateful, but also slightly panicked. He took the casserole from your hands like it was the one thing grounding him to the earth.

Tommy didn’t bat an eye. At first.

You all sat around the table. You served the casserole while Joel poured drinks, his movements a little too careful. Tommy made conversation, oblivious and easy, about the new gate repairs and how Ellie had accidentally let one of the goats out again.

You tried not to look too fondly at Joel.

You failed.

Halfway through dinner, Tommy glanced between the two of you and said, “You know, I been meanin’ to bring this up.”

Joel stiffened beside you. You kept your fork halfway to your mouth.

“I swear, my brother’s been... lighter, lately. Walkin’ around here with a spring in his damn step.”

Joel grunted. “Don’t start.”

Tommy smirked. “I’m just sayin’. Somethin’s got you all chipper and secretive. I told Maria—he’s gotta be seein’ someone.”

You choked a little on your food.

Joel’s hand paused as he brought his cup to his lips.

Tommy raised an eyebrow. “What?”

You smiled awkwardly. “That’s… wow. That’s an assumption.”

“Is it?” Tommy leaned forward, the glint in his eye sharpened now. “I don’t see him stayin’ out late for fun. Or smilin’ at nothin’ in the middle of the day.”

Joel cleared his throat. “Tommy…”

Tommy blinked. And then it clicked. You saw it. The exact second his gaze bounced from Joel to you and back again — how Joel didn’t deny it, didn’t even try, and how you suddenly couldn’t meet either of their eyes.

“No shit,” Tommy breathed, blinking in slow disbelief. “You?”

You tried to say something. Anything. Joel just stared down at his plate.

Tommy burst into laughter, loud and full and unkind only in that sibling kind of way. “Oh my god. You’ve been sneakin’ around?”

Joel groaned. “Can we not—”

“With her?” Tommy said, like he was pointing at the sun in the sky. “Jesus, Joel, I thought she was just being sweet, bringin’ you food. I didn’t know she was into old men.”

“Tommy,” Joel snapped, but it was no use.

You pressed your fingers to your mouth, trying not to laugh. It was too ridiculous. Joel looked like he wanted to dig a hole through the floor and crawl into it.

“She’s what, late twenties?” Tommy said with full-on glee. “You robbin’ cradles now?”

You finally spoke, trying to help. “I’ll be thirty soon.”

“Thirty,” Tommy echoed like it was the funniest thing he’d heard all week. “That’s still two decades under your belt, big brother.”

Joel muttered something under his breath that sounded a lot like Jesus Christ.

Tommy was already pointing at him across the table. “You know what? Good for you. Still got it. Damn.”

Joel finally looked at you, a long, resigned glance. You smiled, just a little.

He reached for your hand under the table. You let him take it.

Tommy caught the motion and whistled. “I’m tellin’ Maria everything.”

“No, you’re not,” Joel grunted.

But you could tell — for all the embarrassment and Tommy’s unrelenting teasing — Joel wasn’t really upset. He just looked like a man who’d gotten caught smiling. Like the secret wasn’t a secret anymore, and maybe that wasn’t the worst thing.

By the time the casserole dish was scraped clean and the plates stacked, Tommy had taken his teasing down a notch — not that he didn’t squeeze in a few more zingers between bites.

You and Joel shared quiet glances as you gathered the dishes, trying not to laugh while Tommy ribbed Joel about "old bones and young backs." Joel just shook his head, grumbled something inaudible, but didn’t let go of your hand under the table until he had to.

You were wiping down the counter when Tommy finally leaned back in his chair with a thoughtful sigh, watching Joel with an expression that no longer held mischief.

“You serious about her?”

The question cut through the room, soft but heavy. You stilled, hands resting on the dish towel. Joel blinked, then looked at his brother, the humor fading from his face.

Tommy went on, quieter now. “I mean it. I’m just—look, you know I’m all for you bein’ happy. God knows you deserve it. But you serious?”

Joel didn’t answer right away. He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes finding yours before dropping to the table.

“I didn’t expect it,” Joel said eventually. “Didn’t plan it. But… yeah. I think I am.”

You swallowed, warmth rising in your chest. It wasn’t the most romantic admission in the world, but it was Joel — which meant it carried weight. Truth.

Tommy nodded, lips pressed together in thought. “She makes you better.”

Joel gave a small huff. “She makes me somethin’, that’s for damn sure.”

Tommy looked over at you then, his tone shifting again. “You in this, too?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t,” you said honestly.

Tommy exhaled, nodding slowly. Then his voice dropped a little. “You got… room for that kinda thing? After everything?”

You could tell it wasn’t judgment. It was a real question — a brother checking in on a man who’d lost too much, asking if his heart had room left without reopening scars.

Joel looked tired for a moment. Then he looked at you.

“I don’t know what I’m doin’, Tommy. But I know it feels good. Right. And I ain’t had a whole lotta that in a long time.”

Tommy gave a quiet hum and pushed up from his chair. “Then that’s good enough for me.”

He clapped Joel’s shoulder on the way out, gave you a parting wink, and didn’t say another word.

When the door closed, Joel looked at you, slower this time. You stepped closer and wrapped your arms around his middle, letting your forehead rest against his chest.

“Didn’t go as bad as you thought, huh?” you murmured.

He kissed your hair. “You don’t know Tommy like I do. He’s gonna drag this out for weeks.”

You grinned into his shirt. “Good thing I’m not going anywhere.”

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

Winter settled into Jackson again — soft, quiet, and silver-edged. Snow clung to rooftops, curled along fences, and gathered on the tips of pine branches like icing. The air bit at your cheeks when you walked outside, but it didn’t bother you much. You had good boots, a decent coat, and Joel Miller’s hand in yours.

Things were different now.

Open.

You didn’t flinch when you reached for him in front of others anymore, and while Joel still hesitated now and then — rough fingers twitching before settling against the small of your back — he didn’t stop you. Not like he used to. Not when everyone already knew.

There were still stares. Here and there. Quick glances over shoulders in the market. A pause too long when you two walked past the bar together. You’d hear them sometimes, quiet comments exchanged behind a mug of beer, half-whispers about how “he’s old enough to be her—”

And that’s usually where you’d stop listening.

You took it with a stride and a smirk. Joel, though — he still had his days.

Sometimes it hit him in the silence between dinner and bed. When he was standing in your bathroom brushing his teeth and caught his reflection, lines deeper in the winter lighting. Sometimes it came after sex, when you were curled into him, skin warm, heart steady, and he’d murmur something like “You could’ve had someone easier.”

Every time, you reminded him.

You’d tell him you didn’t want easy. That the things worth holding onto in this world never were. That you loved his age. His scars. His quiet way of loving, built slow and solid. You’d press your lips to the crinkles beside his eyes, the gray in his beard, and remind him how lucky you felt — not the other way around.

And when you said it enough, he started believing you. Even if just a little.

You had support, too. The kind that mattered.

Ellie gave him shit from time to time — mostly out of love. Mostly. Tommy still wouldn’t shut up about it, ribbing Joel any chance he got. Even Maria had taken to calling you Mrs. Miller in passing, though always with a wink. Dina had become your favorite menace, constantly elbowing you during chores or sharing a look when Joel walked by.

But you knew it came from affection. From being seen. Being accepted.

One evening, walking back from the stables after a long shift — Joel at your side, both your breaths puffing in the cold — he reached over, fingers lacing with yours. You squeezed once, just to check he was really there.

He looked at you then, cheeks pink from the wind, expression soft in a way only you ever got to see.

You were bundled in layers, cheeks pink from the cold, as you walked hand-in-hand with Joel toward Tommy and Maria’s house. Ellie trailed just ahead of you, muttering about how snow always found a way to get into her boots no matter how tight she tied them. Joel grunted in sympathy, squeezing your hand as the house came into view — golden light spilling through the windows, smoke curling gently from the chimney.

Tommy was hosting dinner.

“In the name of the Millers,” he’d said with a grin when he invited you. “Figured it’s about time we all sit down like an actual family.”

The house smelled like roasted meat, fresh bread, and something sweet cooling by the window. Maria opened the door before you could knock, ushering you inside with a warmth that went beyond the fireplace.

“Coats off, boots by the wall,” she instructed, already pulling Ellie into a side-hug. “You’re tracking snow all over my floors.”

You were halfway through unwrapping your scarf when Tommy came up behind Joel and clapped him on the back.

“Look at this,” he teased, eyes crinkling. “My big brother cleaned up for once. You do that for her?”

Joel didn’t answer. Just shot him a look and muttered something under his breath, making you laugh.

Dinner was loud. Messy. Full of passing plates and teasing comments and stories retold for the hundredth time. Ellie argued with Tommy over the right way to gut a fish. Maria scolded them both for talking about guts at the table. You found yourself tucked beside Joel, knees bumping beneath the tablecloth, his hand occasionally brushing yours between bites.

At one point, Tommy raised his glass — water, not wine — and looked around the table.

“Well,” he said, voice softer now. “It ain’t perfect out there. And it’s never gonna be. But in here — this? This is good. This is real good.”

Joel shifted beside you, and when you looked over, his gaze was already on you. Something unspoken passed between you — a quiet, steady understanding. You squeezed his knee beneath the table.

Ellie caught the motion and snorted. “Gross,” she said with a grin, stabbing her fork into her potatoes.

“You’ll live,” you shot back.

Later, with bellies full and cheeks flushed from laughter, you helped clear the table. Joel lingered beside you in the kitchen, drying dishes you handed him one by one. His fingers brushed yours more than necessary, and each time, neither of you said a word.

As you left into the night, Ellie walking a few steps ahead again, Joel’s arm looped around your waist.

It was cold. Snow was falling. But the warmth from that dinner — from them — followed you home.

And this time, you knew it wasn’t going anywhere.

Part 1

taglist: @started-with-f-ends-with-uck @havensucks @amyispxnk

[misaerabl]

The Other Side of the Ring

CAITVI X READER

𝝑𝑒 reader as cait's mistress

CW: actress caitlyn, caitlyn and vi are married, you're caits mistress, older cait and vi, infidelity, power dynamics, voyeurism, consensual but very complicated relationships, not proofread SUMMARY: You’ve been Caitlyn’s mistress for a while now, and things have been going smoothly—until her wife, Vi, walks in. You scramble to cover up, ready for the fallout… but instead of being mad, Vi wants you to continue

part 1 - part 2 (smau)

The elevator hums softly as it climbs. Gold-lit interior. Mirror walls. Polished floors. Your reflection stares back at you, lips rouged, dress clinging like sin itself, a coat draped over to feign decency.

The silence is thick with guilt and anticipation—though by now, the guilt barely registers.

You've done this before.

Same time.

Same hotel.

Same keycard slipped into your purse with a text that never says her name. Just: Room 1907. Use the back elevator.

She never texts twice.

She doesn’t need to.

You check your lipstick in the mirror, fix the slight smudge at the corner of your mouth with a practiced finger. Your heart should be pounding—but it isn't. It’s steady. Familiar.

You’ve learned how to breathe in stolen moments.

Ding.

The doors slide open to the private floor. Her floor.

The hallway is quiet, lights low and warm. Room 1907 is at the end. You walk slowly, each step echoing against plush carpet, pulse rising just a little. Not from fear. From want. From knowing what’s behind that door.

You don’t knock.

The door’s already cracked open.

Your hand brushes it, pushes it inward, and she’s there.

Caitlyn.

Hair swept back like she’s just taken off her earrings. White silk shirt unbuttoned halfway. Black pants hugging her hips. A half-full glass of whiskey in one hand, gaze heavy with recognition in the other.

She says nothing.

She doesn’t have to.

She closes the door behind you with her foot, and the lock clicks into place.

“You came,” she says, voice low and threaded with something between relief and regret.

You slip the coat off your shoulders. “You asked.”

Caitlyn sets the glass down. Crosses the space between you with slow, deliberate steps. Her fingers skim your cheek, trace the edge of your jaw.

“You wore the dress I like.”

“You never asked me to stop wearing it.”

Her lips twitch, just barely. “I never will.”

And then she kisses you—quiet at first, like a secret. Like the beginning of something wrong that already went too far.

You let her.

Because if you’re the sin she keeps crawling back to...

You might as well be unforgettable.

Caitlyn kisses you like she’s starved. Not for sex—no, she could have that with anyone. She kisses you like she’s starving for the illusion of control, for the moments where she doesn’t have to be the polished, perfect wife.

Your lips break with a slick gasp as she spins you around, back pressing to the door she just locked. Her mouth is already on your neck, teeth grazing skin that’s too soft, too exposed. You tilt your chin up to give her more.

“I thought you were at a premiere,” you whisper, fingers in her hair. “Playing the doting wife.”

“I left early,” Caitlyn murmurs against your pulse. “She didn’t notice.”

You hum, but there’s venom under it. “Maybe she did. Maybe that’s why you’re shaking.”

Her fingers tighten on your hips.

“Don’t,” she says—low, sharp, almost pleading. “Don’t talk about her right now.”

You smirk against her jaw, knowing that line is your power. The thing that makes her unravel, every time.

“Then make me forget.”

That’s all it takes.

Your coat drops to the floor with a heavy thud, and she’s all over you—hands dragging your dress up, lips bruising yours, fingers trembling as they find the zipper behind your back. She doesn’t take her time. She never does when it’s like this.

Once you’re stripped bare, she takes a step back to look at you, breath heaving, eyes dark like thunderclouds.

“You’re too fucking beautiful,” she mutters, voice nearly cracking. “It makes me hate you.”

You walk her backward toward the bed with a lazy kind of grace, eyes locked on hers. “You don’t hate me.”

Caitlyn sits on the edge. You straddle her lap without hesitation, your legs on either side of her expensive slacks, bodies flush.

She kisses you again, deeper, messier—lipstick smearing, tongues fighting for space. Her hands slide along your thighs, then slip between them, fingers finding you already wet and wanting.

Her breath stutters.

You roll your hips against her palm, biting her lip until she groans into your mouth.

“You do this on purpose,” she gasps. “You come here knowing exactly what I need.”

You nod, lips brushing hers. “Because you never take it like you want it at home.”

She freezes for half a second, then slams you back onto the bed like you just challenged her pride.

Clothes peel away. Buttons snap. Her shirt’s barely off her shoulders before her mouth is back on your chest—biting, sucking, leaving marks where only you will see them.

“You want me to ruin you?” she mutters into your skin.

“I want you to remember who you ruin me for.”

That sets her off.

Caitlyn kisses her way down your body with deliberate, burning hunger. No hesitation. No sweetness. Just teeth on your hipbone, tongue sliding through slick heat, lips dragging across sensitive skin until you’re writhing beneath her, moaning into the crook of your arm to keep the neighbors from hearing.

She fucks you with her mouth like she’s angry. Like you’re her confession and her punishment all at once.

You come once and she doesn’t stop.

The second time is more of a sob. You fist the sheets. Her name, her real name—not a stage name, not a lie—spills from your lips like it’s been buried in your throat all week.

Caitlyn climbs back up your body, flushed and breathless, hand stroking your thigh like she owns you now.

You wrap your arms around her neck and drag her into another kiss, tasting yourself on her lips.

Then you pull away and whisper, “When are you going to stop pretending this is just sex?”

And she does what she always does.

She looks away.

You know she’s about to lie again—but she doesn’t get the chance.

Click.

The door unlocks.

The doorknob turns.

And both of you freeze—half-naked, tangled, breathless—as the hotel room door opens.

Soft click. A long pause.

You don’t move. Neither does Caitlyn. Her body is half over yours, her lips still swollen, her fingers still ghosting over your thigh.

You think—maybe she’ll think Cait left something here. Maybe she won’t look. Maybe—

“Cait?”

Vi’s voice cuts through the silence.

You scramble, grabbing for the sheets, pulling them over your chest like that can cover up the guilt soaking the room. Caitlyn’s hand is already gone from your skin. She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even turn.

Vi walks in.

She looks tired. Still in her suit—tie loosened, jacket over one shoulder. There’s a beat where her eyes land on the pile of Caitlyn’s clothes. Then yours. Then Caitlyn herself, naked from the waist up, still between your legs.

And you. Flushed. Breathless. Marked.

The silence is strangling.

You open your mouth—maybe to apologize, maybe to run—but Vi just… laughs.

Not cruelly. Not even bitter.

A low, amused chuckle, like this was always going to happen.

“Well, damn,” she says. “Guess I was right.”

Caitlyn finally looks up. “Vi…”

Vi tosses her jacket to the chair by the window and steps further into the room.

“No,” she says calmly. “Don’t start lying now. I’m not here to scream, or throw shit, or cry. Just—keep going.”

You blink. “What?”

Vi shrugs. “I mean, clearly I walked in late. Don’t stop on my account.”

Caitlyn sits up. “Vi, this isn’t—”

“Isn’t what?” Vi cuts her off, voice still soft but firm. “Isn’t something you’ve been doing behind my back for months? Isn’t the same number I saw come up on your phone at 3 a.m.? Isn’t the reason you flinch when I kiss you too long?”

You don’t dare speak. You don’t even move.

Caitlyn’s mouth opens, then closes.

And Vi looks at you, really looks, for the first time.

Her eyes drag over your body—disheveled, wrapped in sheets, marked with Caitlyn’s lipstick and teeth. Her gaze lingers. There’s no disgust there. Not even jealousy.

Only… curiosity.

“You’re not what I expected,” Vi murmurs.

You swallow hard. “I didn’t mean for this to happen—”

Vi steps closer. “Maybe not. But you didn’t stop it either.”

Silence, heavy. Then she smirks—just a little.

“And neither did I.”

You glance between them, heart thudding in your throat.

“What are you saying?” Caitlyn finally whispers.

Vi slides her hands into her pockets. “I’m saying… maybe I don’t mind sharing, if it means I don’t lose you.”

Your mouth goes dry.

And then—her eyes flick to you again, dark with something unspoken.

“You up for that, pretty girl?” Vi asks, voice low. “Or do you only like fucking other people’s wives?”

The air shifts.

Caitlyn’s breath catches.

And you?

You don’t know if you’re about to fall… or fly.

[me-kume]

His pregnant wife | Sylus

Sylus x fem!Reader

The silence in the spacious bedroom was thick and heavy, like expensive velvet. Broken only by the steady ticking of the clock, it wrapped around you like a warm blanket, refusing to release you from the clinging embrace of sleep.

New life was growing and strengthening beneath your heart. Your belly had long since rounded, becoming heavy, making movement difficult, so you spent more and more time in bed. Under the strict supervision of your beloved husband, this life felt truly paradisiacal. Surrounded by care, tender as pure silk, you drowned in this intoxicating feeling. Pregnancy felt more like a resort with service above five stars. All inclusive, exclusively for you—for the one who first mercilessly stole his heart, then gifted him hope for a bright future. A future where he has a family. And Sylus would never tire of thanking fate for this.

Truly a gift from the universe—sensitive and shifting like hot coastal sand—yet it stirred all his senses, adorning his stern face with a barely perceptible smile.

A fragile sense of peace flickered where, by its very nature, it shouldn't exist. Sylus pushed away the nagging, acrid feeling of anxiety. The house was quiet. Even the floorboards didn't creak under the man's weight, and the black soles of his boots left no trace on the deep-pile carpet. Now everything was perfect. He was where he belonged—in love, boundless devotion, and the feeling of order, where everything was under control.

Sylus entered the bedroom without knocking. Not a single rustle under the veil of the first sunbeams. They avoided touching your face, wary of disturbing your sensitive sleep, tearing you from Morpheus's grasp. The baby was growing restless. Strong, healthy, robust like his father, he scarcely slept during the long autumn nights: tossing, kicking his tired mother in the belly and ribs, as if cramped in his allotted space. Such a tiny thing, yet already staking a claim to power.

In the pinkish-orange light of the morning sun, you looked especially pale. The dark circles under your eyes were more pronounced, and the hollows of your once-rounded cheeks struck Sylus as somewhat painful. His own flesh and blood was methodically destroying the most precious thing he had. It was cruel.

"Sy?" – still half-asleep, yet you sensed your husband's presence from a mile away. His aura, heavy and dense, enveloped the space like a grey thundercloud, and the saturated scent of ozone in the room overpowered any perfume.

How many times had you changed fabric softeners? Lit incense and placed diffusers, trying to add coziness, but his smell… thick and persistent, it seemed to have seeped into the very walls of this house, refusing to leave.

"There, there, kitten. I'm here. Why are you awake?" – His voice, deep and velvety, calmed your frantically pounding heart—an unwelcome remnant of nightmare, clinging like clammy sweat to your temples. "You look tired. Even more than yesterday."

You wanted to wave off his words, bite your tongue, keeping your worries to yourself, and just savor the moment where everything seemed too flawless. But his warm hands were already sliding behind your back, helping you sit up. That intuitive gesture of care lodged like a prickly lump in your throat, preventing a full breath. Some absurd sense of guilt settled deep within, as if lying to someone who sincerely, without a shadow of doubt, cared for you was fundamentally wrong?

"Don't waste energy on lies. You promised to be honest, remember?" – Long fingers carefully adjusted your pillow, fluffing the soft down inside. He did it so calmly, so matter-of-factly, as if he were born solely to lavish all his care upon his beloved—as if killing wasn't etched into his very destiny.

Reaching towards the nightstand placed right beside the bed for your convenience, Sylus picked up a glass cup with a chipped handle and handed it to you. The sweetish aroma of ginger, honey, and something more pungent—something you could never quite place—touched your sensitive nose. Your mouth went instantly dry, like a traveler's in the midst of an endless desert.

He knew your desires and needs better than you did yourself. Knew when it was time for vitamins, the exact time of your doctor's appointment, and the G-index of magnetic storms during which you constantly complained of migraines. He would never allow himself to miss the slightest detail and would always be there when needed.

"Drink. Nothing beats a vitamin bomb for morning sickness."

Your hands trembled almost imperceptibly as your slender fingers curled around the slightly warm, rounded sides of the cup.

Taking small, slow, careful sips, you tasted the water, slightly cloudy with lemon zest, and took a deep breath. The feeling of the night's nightmare on your skin evaporated as quickly as a trace of steam vanishes from a fogged-up bathroom mirror. Better, lighter—your body no longer felt like a heavy weight pulling you back into bed.

"Bothering you today?" – A broad, masculine palm gently covered the swell of your belly. Beneath that warm touch, faint kicks could be felt. Sylus found it amusing that this little one remained so active at any hour. "Little rascal. Already learned to demand attention." – A familiar note of mockery laced his tone. He enjoyed watching this new life grow within his woman, but you, attuned to his subtleties, saw the deep, almost indecent pride radiating beneath it.

"He's just active. Like his father."

"Then he needs to learn the cardinal rule: His mother is inviolable, and her comfort is the law for every member of this family. No exceptions."

[nhmkhnh]

ours.

pairings: top!hybrid!caitvi x bot!fem!reader

preface: two hybrids. one sweet, unsuspecting soul. and a storm of desire neither can escape.

author's note: OMG I WAS JUST CHILLING AND THIS IDEA POPPED UP?

wrn: lowercase, explicit content (minors &men dni) list: amab!caitvi ;; german shepherd hybrid!vi ;; black panther hybrid!caitlyn ;; possessive!caitvi ;; virgin reader ;; panties stealing ;; dirty talk.

masterlist / janitor ai / c.ai / carrd

it started with rain.

cold, biting, relentless—the kind that slicked your skin and filled your shoes and made the alley reek of wet cardboard and rot. and there they were, curled together in a tattered box: one sleek and black as a thundercloud, the other shaggy and trembling, golden fur soaked to the bone. hybrid pups. abandoned.

caitlyn had growled when you approached—low and warning—but you’d crouched anyway, gentle hands out, whispering comfort. vi had whimpered. shivered. nudged her face into your palm. that was all it took.

you took them home.

you gave them blankets, food, warm milk. let them sleep at the foot of your bed. they curled together every night, caitlyn always between you and vi like a silent sentinel. you swore caitlyn never slept—she just watched you, eyes glowing in the dark.

then came the morning.

you woke to a mess of limbs and breath and bare skin and heat—two women in your room, not pups. tall, inhumanly beautiful, naked except for the thin fur along their arms, their tails, their ears. vi grinning wide, canine teeth flashing. caitlyn still, quiet, crouched like a shadow at your side of the bed. you screamed.

they didn’t leave.

not that day. not the one after. somehow, they stayed. vi was a disaster—chewing wires, knocking over plants, chasing anything that moved. caitlyn barely spoke, but watched you like she was memorizing your breath patterns. together, they destroyed your wardrobe.

or rather… a specific part of it.

your underwear.

they stole it. bit into it. tore through delicate lace and soft cotton and left nothing untouched. you found pieces in vi’s room, stashed like trophies. caitlyn never denied it—just held your gaze while licking her fangs, like she had a right to it. like she was daring you to stop her.

it was humiliating. infuriating.

and it kept happening.

you started locking drawers. they started figuring out locks. you switched brands. they tore through those too. every month, a new trip to buy replacements, while your heart pounded and your body flushed and you told yourself it wasn’t on purpose. that they didn’t mean to make you feel like this—cornered, wanted, shaken down to your bones.

and then came the weekend.

it was quiet. for once. rain again, soft this time, tapping the window while you cleaned. you wore a big old t-shirt and a pair of simple cotton panties, barely decent. you were alone. or… so you thought.

you turned—and froze.

vi was behind you. caitlyn at your side. blocking the hallway. blocking escape. you opened your mouth to speak, to scold, but the words died as vi leaned in, her breath hot at your neck.

“pretty girl still can't catch my drift after all that shit?” her voice was feral. dripping with heat. lust.

her hands landed on your hips, heavy and sure. caitlyn’s nails grazed the hem of your shirt, sharp and slow. you whimpered, stepping back—only to feel vi’s body press up behind you, trapping you against the kitchen counter. her cock, thick and hot, strained against your lower back.

“i-i’m not— i didn’t mean—” you stammered.

caitlyn’s fingers slipped beneath the hem of your panties, claws scraping lightly against soft skin. her purr was low and dangerous.

“then why do you smell like this, little virgin?” she murmured. “you want this. you’ve always wanted this.”

“i’m not— i-i’m not ready—”

“you’re ready,” vi growled, grinding her hips slow against you. “been ready. you just needed us to make the first move.”

you sobbed a little—half from shock, half from the way your legs were already trembling.

they knew. they could smell it. your arousal. your heat. your ache to be touched. and they wanted you. now. here.

vi bent you forward against the counter, hand sliding beneath your belly to lift your hips up, caitlyn still kneeling in front of you, tongue tasting the skin just above your waistband.

“first time?” vi murmured, dragging her cockhead along the seam of your soaked panties.

you nodded, shaking.

“good.” her voice dropped to a growl. “then we get to ruin you together.”

what came next was a blur of heat and whimpering surrender.

vi slid inside first—slow, careful, but unrelenting. she was huge. too big. your body clenched tight, trying to resist, but her hands held your hips firm and steady, whispering praises as she fed inch after inch into you.

“so tight, sweetheart. fuck—gonna stretch you open real good.”

you gasped, nails digging into the counter, tears slipping free as she bottomed out. caitlyn kissed them away. her hand stroked your hair, her lips brushing your temple.

“let her have you,” she purred. “she’s gentle. she’s so good for you. then it’ll be my turn.”

vi didn’t move at first—just held you full, trembling around her. you were panting, squirming, overwhelmed by the feeling of being filled for the first time. she kissed your spine.

then she started moving.

slow. deep. maddening. each thrust pulled a choked noise from your throat, your body jolting with every roll of her hips. your legs were shaking. you were soaked, heat-slick and dripping down your thighs.

caitlyn licked it. moaned into it. her hand slipped between your legs and rubbed gentle circles into your clit, her claws barely grazing the sensitive bud.

“look at you,” she whispered. “so fucked out already. and we’ve barely started.”

vi was panting now, pace quickening, cock pulsing thick inside you.

“gonna knot you,” she groaned. “gonna fill you up so good, baby—gonna make you ours.”

the word ours broke something in you.

you came hard. shaking. crying out. clenching around vi’s cock so tightly she cursed, bucked forward—and locked inside you with a deep, helpless growl. her knot swelled, locking you together. you gasped at the sudden stretch, body fluttering from the intensity.

she stayed there, panting, grinding shallowly with you pinned between her and the counter, her weight draped over your back.

“mine,” she whispered. “fuck—mine.”

then caitlyn stood.

“now it’s my turn,” she said, voice cool. hunger in her eyes.

vi carefully lifted you up with her still knotted inside, cradled you back into caitlyn’s arms. the panther hybrid kissed you slow—possessive, tongue stroking deep—and lined herself up beneath you, thick length brushing your still-throbbing entrance as vi held you open from behind.

“we’ll go slow,” caitlyn murmured, voice velvet. “we’ll make it good.”

she pushed in.

your body, already tender and trembling, screamed with sensation. her cock was thinner than vi’s but long, sliding in with slow, patient pressure as vi rocked her hips behind you, still knotted. you were sandwiched. stretched. fucked full.

and you couldn’t stop moaning.

your eyes rolled. your legs kicked uselessly. caitlyn kissed you again, muffling your cries, her hands on your breasts now, squeezing gently as she fucked up into you.

you came again.

and again.

they didn’t stop.

it was hours before the haze broke—before your body stopped spasming, before your throat stopped making desperate sounds. you didn’t remember collapsing. just… warmth. arms. breath.

you woke between them, cocooned in blankets, vi curled at your back, caitlyn curled at your front. their bodies pressed to yours, bare and hot and gentle. you couldn’t move. didn’t want to.

vi’s nose was in your hair, mumbling sleepy praise.

“so good, pretty girl. so sweet. all mine.”

caitlyn licked your cheek.

“ours,” she corrected, voice like silk.

you whimpered, flushed and half-dazed, and they both rumbled soft possessive sounds in reply. vi’s hand stroked your thigh. caitlyn purred against your chest.

and that’s how it stayed.

you. between them. claimed.

owned.

theirs.

[yeyinde]

PRAIRIE WOLF | hinterland

John Price x Reader

MASTERLIST. AO3. [PREV]

“So,” he drawls, eyes skirting down the length of your body before coming to a pointed stop on your midsection, belly hidden under a thick cable-knit sweater he gave to you to wear. “What's the plan?” 

It takes you a minute to realise he's talking about the baby.

allusions to abuse. descriptions of injury. trauma.

The sound of rain pelting against glass rouses you from a threadlike sleep, one full of loose, spooling dreams and fractured memories. 

(dirty, blood-drenched snow. a hole in your belly. the acrid burn of heated, melting metal in your nose. a grunt—

come on, Coyote, hold still—)

It hums there, even with your eyes open. Even as you blink into existence. Sitting on the edge; little clots, microcosms you can reach out and pop like bubbles. Hypnopompia. A strange place where dream and reality blur—surrealism in fatigue blue. Ghosts pulled into consciousness. 

It's dark in the truck when you blink again, sluggishly mapping the features that stretch out before you, all shaded in black. 

Through the windshield is a world of dark green. Thick, dense clouds gather above the angular tops of conifers and giant evergreens. Thunderclouds rumble overhead, groaning with the heavy rainfall that pours down over everything in a howling baptism. 

Only the orange of the truck cuts colour through the thick deluge of blue-green and slate. Warmed by the heat of the engine. The cable-knit throw covers the red leather seats. It's as close to comfortable as you think you've ever been. Swaddled in a Levi's jacket tucked under your bare feet resting on the bench of the truck, hanging loosely over your shoulders. It smells of smoke—thick and dense, but sweeter, earthier than nicotine. Scorched pine and soot. Bonfires. Laced with sweat and oil and dirt—humus. Like the soil after a rain shower. A summer storm. 

It smells good. You sink into it a little more—into this cosm that you know won't last. A blanket of succour, soft wool that tickles your nose and warms your cold hands. Chases away the tendrils of a grasping dream reaching for the edges of your periphery—all claws and teeth and misshapen memories. 

Fractured bones. Burst blood vessels. A knot your belly—

The radio crackles as the truck drives down the winding highway, crooning something low and melodic through the static:

—stopped into a church I passed along the way—

The clock on the radio reads that it's just after seven. A jarring thought; the slow, sinking realization that everything happened in the span of hours. Ended only an hour ago. And now—

He's a wild animal you're not sure how to breathe around. A bear. His hand curls loosely over the steering wheel, the other braced on the ledge of the window, fingers tapping to the music spilling out, filling the cab. 

He doesn't look over at you, but you get the feeling he knows you're awake. Watching him. Hunter. Hunted. 

—well, I got down on my knees and I pretend to pray—

You thought you knew better. Come on, Coyote—

“Gonna stop and grab some burgers,” he grunts, a low growl barely an octave higher than the brassy singer on the radio. Softly spoken—or as soft as a man like him could manage—to not startle you. “Takeout. Tha’ alright with you?” 

You're not sure what to make of it. Him, this. Being asked, maybe. That alright with you?

When you don't speak, he peels his eyes away from the road, glancing towards you. A brow raises. Waiting. 

You shrug.

He grunts again. “Fine.”

His eyes slip down briefly to the metal name tag still pinned to the faded pink of your shirt, staring at the slanted words stamped into the enamel pin. 

Taking them in. Their shape. Then: 

“Why Coyote?” 

Another shrug. It pulls at the hand-shaped, fist-sized ache in your shoulder blade. “It's what everyone calls me.”

“It's not your real name.”

“No.” 

“Why do they call you Coyote, then?”

You think of a different weight on your shoulder. Heavy metal. Stale, warm beer and cigarette smoke coming in a puff of air over your cheek. Stay still for me, pretty girl. Gonna be in a world a’hurt if your squirmin’ makes me miss my shot—

A hand on your thigh. On your neck. 

Hole in your belly. Blood on the snow. 

“They just do,” you mumble around the crooning verse that swallows the tremble in your voice. “They always have.” 

Come on, Coyote.

John brings to you a small, rustic-looking drive-thru with a menu that has less than ten items on it. 

It's made of log and glass and smells of sizzling grease. There's a small parking lot to the left of the rectangular shack with a big moose's head on the front. All long antlers and a broad snout. 

MOOSEHEAD the sign reads in faded, firetruck red. home of the moose burger. 

When he said drive-thru, you assumed McDonald's. Burger King. Harvey's. The small shack nestled in front of a looming, slate-coloured mountain was not what you were expecting, and as he twists the wheel, navigating the winding path to the bright yellow menu behind a brown box, something shifts in your belly. A knot. Hunger, maybe. 

You can't remember the last time you ate. Not good for the baby. 

“What d’you want?” 

You blink through the haze of rain, the thick plume of condensation that gathers at the bottom of the window, and read the boxy letters pressed into the lit board. HAMBURGER. CHEESEBURGER. MOOSEBURGER. FRIES. SOFT DRINKS. MILKSHAKES.

John rolls the window down. The heavy scent of wet, oil-slick pavement and rust fills the cab. 

The speaker crackles. “Hi. What can I get you tonight?”

“Moose burger and fries,” he grunts. “Coke to drink.” A glance is sent your way. “And—?”

“Um. The same.”

“Make it two of those.” 

“Sure thing, hun. Come ‘round the front. Your order will be ready. Total is twenty-two seventeen. Thank you.”

He doesn't roll the window back up. Mist sprays against your arm, glistening under the smear of neon lights glistening through the wet windshield. It's cool outside. The mountain air is clean. Crisp. 

You've never been to this part of town before. To this town, you suppose. An hour out from the flat valley that made up the port city. The bay at your fingertips. Claws in your neck—

It's nice here. Green. Dark. Everything shifts, like it's on an angle. A slope. And you know it is with the towering mountain that looked like craggy chevron from the valley below pressed, imposing and massive, at your back. Your ears pop at the elevation, and breathing is both easier and heavier at the same time. 

The air is thin here, but you're so far away from that city, from him, that it doesn't matter if you suffocate now because it'll be your choice and not—

His hands on your neck. Ever try to run away from me again, Coyote, and it'll be the last thing you ever fucking do—

The bag is wet when he presses it into your arm. Dropping it down on your arched legs when you don't take it from him quick enough. You startle. Blinking. He doesn't glance over, just slides your drink into the cupholder beside his, and after a moment, mind reeling because how much did you miss just—

Thinking.

You hurry to settle into place. Legs twitching, sliding out from their protective curl against your chest—

A hand on your covered ankle stops you. “Don't need to move,” he murmurs, glancing at you briefly. But not—

Not really. Not looking at you but out the window, you realise, the truck dipping down on an angle as he hovers near the exit, waiting for the thin line of cars to pass before he turns back onto the highway. 

“Get comfy.” It's a suggestion. “Eat.” But that's a command. 

Your inside twist at the sound of it. Military, you remember Elliot saying. You feel it acutely in your bones, still thrumming, pulse tripping over that growling demand. Eat. 

Your body moves without thought. Obeying. Hands snaking out of the warmth cradled on the back of his Levi's jacket, one he must have thrown over you in your sleep, and peel back the rolled paper bag that smells of grease and meat. It's warm in the bag. You fish out the first burger and can barely close your hand around the thick of it, blinking slightly in startled awe at the size. 

Moose burger. A fitting name, but you think of home, suddenly, painfully, and wonder if it's real moose. Feel the clench in your belly at the thought. Of moose steak drenched in fat, seared on the stove. Moose stew in the slow cooker, left to tenderise in the simmering broth. 

“Ain't real moose.” 

You wonder how he knew, and can't be sure if you like the fact that he did. Guessed right. Chiselled inside of your head. Read you like an open book. It makes your pulse thunder, a roaring in your ears that dulls the scattered thunderclaps from above. 

“Oh,” you say, and feel the disappointment trickling in, thick in your throat. “Just the size, then?” 

He hums, and reaches into the bag, rifling around for a handful of fries. “Yeah. Jus’ the size. Ever had it before?” 

You think of then, of being tucked inside pants that don't fit. A shirt that's too loose. Feet in boots a size too big. All tattered and aged, worn down. Holes. Patches where the fabric was ripped and sewn back together. Jagged lines from an unpractised hand. Loose threads. Knots. The scent of cigarette smoke clinging to your skin. A plastic bag. A bruised apple that your teacher slipped you during the first recess. Leftovers. 

Moose meat stew. Rabbit. Ew, Coyote's eating something weird again—

Thirteen and crouching behind a bush as your dad angles the gun over your head. Big boy, he whispers. Gonna be eatin’ good this winter. Look’it the size of ‘im. 

The smell of duck fat sizzling in a pan. The crack of a beer can. Squeals of wood on slippery, cheap vinyl. Fried dough resting on the counter next to a tower of pop cans and an old Costco popcorn bottle filled with tabs. remind me t’send Robbie in the mornin’ to drop ‘em off. need the money for cigarettes. 

Then:

Moose tonight. Go’an an’ get your sister.

It's mild. Like beef but better, you used to think. Less tangy. Less thick. Depends on the season, your dad would say. Best cut is when they're just on the end of their rut. When they're eating big. Getting nice and fat. Tastes better like that. A bull not in rut, a skinny one, ain't as good. 

Moose is a strange meat. Prey animal, but it tastes nothing like a caribou or a deer. Rabbit. Not gamey, like a predator, either—like bear (braised black bear with gravy to make it tender; the fat stored away for later—another staple you think about). It's good. Different.

You miss it—even if the idea, the memories, that come with it make you feel scraped out and raw. Hollow. Empty. 

Your tongue thickens. You don't think you can speak. Not right now. So you nod instead—this shallow, jerking thing. Too solemn. Too low. Chin to your chest. 

John hums, and sinks the handful of fries into his mouth before he turns on the highway, one hand on the wheel. Knuckles raised. Marbled mountain peaks. Purple and red. Blotchy in the washed out glow of the dashboard. Swollen and painful looking but he doesn't even flinch when he grips the wheel, and the clotted scab peels, lifting off skin. Oozing thick, syrupy blood out from under the cracked shell. 

He pulls back when it beads too much, wipes it on his shirt, careless and unbothered by the stain it leaves, and then puts his hand back on the wheel. Smeared ink black in the gloom. 

That hand sunk into his—Sam’s—face. Caught on his sneer, knuckles tearing. Leaving blood between Sam's teeth. A split on his lip that made you think of the one—the ones—he left on yours. Tender and painful and swelling up in an instant. A pulsing throb, a heat. 

Over and over again—

His hand rifles through the bag. “Eat,” he says again, low, muffled around the dangling end of a fry. “s’gonna go cold.”

It already is. Somewhat. A soggy, grease-soaked bun. Patty still warm. Dripping ketchup and mustard down the sides and onto the plastic wrapper. It's heavy. Thick. You bite the end flattened by the press of your thumbs, teeth sinking into the burger. Taste familiar on your tongue. 

It's good, you suppose. Filling. You eat half before dropping it back onto the paper, reaching for the fries in the bag. Thick cut and crispy. Salted. 

The truck smells of salt and grease, and when your stomach knots—too much food after too little for so long—you wrap the leftovers up and slip it back into the bag for later. 

He doesn't say anything after that. His hand slides over the wheel as he turns up the winding road. Up, up. Deeper into the mountains where the air thins, and the trees thicken. An endless sprawl of darkness cut only by the muted gold glow of his headlights illuminating the wet, twisting pavement. 

You sink into the silence. Feeling the heavy, warm weight of the half-eaten burger on your thighs. The stretch of leather beneath your ankle. 

Heavy-lidded. Stuck in the sticky cobweb of fatigue and hyperarousal. Never really sleeping for more than a handful of hours at a time. Survival, you think. It's what the text in the pamphlet said, the one the lady shoved into your hands when you went to buy a pregnancy test from the store. It's not your fault: how to seek help for domestic abuse. 

Her eyes were kind—like the paramedics. Oh, hun. It ain't your fault. 

The problem is you don't think that's true. 

He—Sam—was a good man before he met you, wasn't he? 

But every so often, your gaze will slide towards his hand still curled around the steering wheel, knuckles split. Eyes suddenly heavy enough that you think you could fall asleep again.

His cabin is perched on the maw of a bay, accessible only by boat. 

He seems hesitant as he unloads the luggage from his truck, throwing them into a sleek-looking fishing boat bobbing from where it's anchored in a dock. Wary. Watching you closely like he expects you to run. 

And you know there should be trepidation. A strange man you've had less than a handful of conversations with, one who stuck his nose where it didn't belong, and is now herding you into a boat late at night. 

Jarvis Inlet, he grunts. A place called Dark Cove. And then he looks at you, just stares, as if waiting for something. A fight, maybe. More questions. But you've slept in worse places, and the idea of being out of the rain as quickly as possible is more appealing than your potential doom. 

You slide into the boat, hands curled into his jacket. He follows after a beat, unlatching the ties holding it to the dock, and steps inside, murmuring something when it shifts under his weight. Starts it up. He digs under his seat for a moment, rifling through a box, before grabbing something out and turning towards you. A blanket. He tosses it your way, grunting under his breath about keeping warm. 

It's a short trip through the water. You spend most of it huddled under the blanket, hands squeezed between your thighs as he navigates around a massive, jutting rock with thick, dense conifers clustered along the sloping edges of the island. 

You expected it to be higher up. Hidden in the mountains. But it sits at an arcing curve that cuts through the ocean. Tucked in the protective curl of his land is the still, ink blue waters of the bay before it bleeds into the sound. 

Mainland is a craggy, green rock on the horizon. The ocean dips, dizzyingly vast and unfathomable, behind the jagged mass littered with the lights. A city in light polluted pointillism. 

He pulls the boat up to a bigger one. A yacht. Sleek and white and bobbing in the waters. It's tethered to a dock out in the lake. A bridge connects it to the shore. 

He reaches over when he cuts the engine, yanking on the makeshift hood you crafted from the loose throw until it covers more of your face. “Hold onto the railings when you walk. Gets slippery.” 

John turns away after, hefting your meagre luggage on one shoulder as he pulls the tarp over the boat, shielding it from the rain. You step back onto the dock, back nudging the pristine boat behind you. 

The world is awash in shadows. Dark, jagged peaks. Crooked trees drooping in the downpour. Ink black. An abyss that yawns out for an unfathomable stretch before kissing the dark mass of a mountain cutting out from the sprawling pool. 

You've heard people say before that places like this can swallow you whole. Slip beneath the waves, turn behind a tree, and no one will ever see you again. But you've always found that sentiment to be wrong. 

Cities are where you disappear. Indifferent places made of concrete and money. No one cares if you go missing, but out here—

You think this land spit you back out. 

“Come on,” he grunts, sliding beside you. His hand is heavy on your waist. Urging. “This way.” 

You follow, clinging to the firm hold he has on your back as you wobble along the slick bridge to the rocky embankment just up ahead. 

The bridge continues even on land, sloping up in a set of stairs before coming to a stop on a small cliff above the beach. 

You turn back towards the mainland when John stops, hand rifling through his pocket for the keys. 

The distance, the knowledge that this mass you stand on—all soft, wet moss; peat soil—is so far away from that place that it clumps, black and jagged and imposing, against the shoreline is calming. In shades. Small increments, like the loosening of your shoulders. The ache there, too. The breath in your lungs comes a little easier when you stare down at the mainland, at the stretch of blue between it and you. The little thread in the distance that ties it together. 

He nudges you quietly with the muted clearing of his throat. Not touching you, but—

Hovering. In sight. On the edge of your periphery. Making his presence known. 

You're not sure what to make of it. 

What to make of any of this. 

His chin jerks towards the cabin bracket between a dense thicket of trees. “C’mon. Let's get you outta the rain.”

His cabin is modest in size. 

The entrance is on a deck overlooking the bay. All open. Big, ceiling-to-floor windows. French doors. It's framed in thick cured timber. Logs stained a warm, honeyed brown. 

Inside is simple in design, too. 

The kitchen is to the left. A living room to the right. Straight across is a loft with a staircase angled into the kitchen. A small, dark hallway rolls out from beneath the balcony and leads to two bedrooms, the laundry room, and the bathroom.

The living room is cosy. An old, worn couch is pushed against the vaulted window overlooking the deck. A chair tucked beside it. Against the right wall is a hearth next to another big, open window angled into the forest. 

A coffee table sits in front, cluttered with stacks of books—carpentry, woodwork—and pieces of wood. Blocks shaved down into the idea of an object. Incipient creations. A knife lays overtop. Pens, markers scattered around. 

Along the log walls—all the same warm honey-coloured—are trophies. A moose head. Antlers. Books line the shelves. Newspaper rests in a thick stack by the armchair.

The kitchen is tucked into a nook, hidden behind an island. The same rustic brown as everything else, save for the faded, yellow refrigerator and the off-white stove. 

Where a dining table might sit, is a workbench. Tools. A saw. It spills over the surface.  

It's lived in, you know, but something about it feels detached. Cluttered madness, but—

Not really. 

Everything, even in this disordered chaos, has a place. From the scattered markers to the books on the walls. It all fits some unseen cohesion even if you thought his house would have been neater. Military. 

There's a blanket on the couch that catches your eye. The design—the pattern. Achingly familiar. 

“Loft or bedroom?” 

You tear your gaze away from it, swallowing down the acrid longing that surges in your throat. “What?”

He jerks his chin towards the balcony. “Wanna sleep up there or in the spare bedroom?”

“Don’t you sleep up there?”

“No. Used to. S’more of an office now.”

There's a guest house to the left of the cabin. A bachelor with the kitchen running into the bedroom. The washroom closed off. But it's not finished, he says, something frissoning over his expression. Knotting between his brows. Something about the look on his face screams don't ask because he'll never tell. 

You glance away. It's not in you to pry. To care. Whatever secrets he keeps are his and his alone. Just like yours. Why Coyote—

The only other choice is the spare bedroom tucked inside the dark hallway beside his. Close. Barely an arm's length away—

“Loft.” 

He nods like he expected it. Jerks his chin again towards the back, holding your duffle bag out for you to take. 

“Showers through there. Go get warmed up. And I'll heat up some stew.”

The bag dangles on the width of his hand, swaying from the momentum. This ugly, tattered black backpack—

“I don't—I didn't bring any clean clothes—” it's embarassing to admit now that inside your meagre bag is nothing but four hundred dollars and an old, tattered blanket. A sweater. Dirty, bloodstained pants. Everything else is with—

With Sam. 

The plan had been to cash your last cheque, and go back to the motel. Grab the rest. A stupid decision in hindsight. 

There's a tick in his jaw. A terse set to his shoulders. He lowers the bag, letting it fall to the floor, collapsing in on itself. Empty. 

“Nevermind,” you say, slipping the wet blanket from your shoulders, letting it pool in your arms. “I can just wear this—”

His eyes rive over the crumpled, wet uniform shirt. Faded pink—bubblegum, you think; with chocolate brown trim—and stained with grease. Coffee.

Another tick. His brow furrows. Knots. Anger slashing over his face, rucking three, jagged lines through his forehead. 

“No. I'll bring you somethin’ to wear. Somethin’ warm. Gets cold out here. Go.” Another jerk of his chin. A command. 

He does that a lot, you realise, shivering at the bite inside the cabin, the chill ghosting over your damp skin as he turns away from you, walking deeper into the house. Towards his bedroom. The broad expanse of his back bigger than anything you'd ever seen—

All height, and heft. Soft in the middle, but thickened with muscles. And with it, he commands. All biting, unignorable demands. Do this, eat. Go. Get warm. 

You're used to it, you think. Being told what to do. How to act. Marionette on strings. All you're good for. 

Sam used to say the reason you made him hit you so much is because you never listen. Gotta box you around the ears a bit, just for you to even pay attention to me, Coyote. It's not my fault, baby, you make me do it—

But there's something about his commands that sink beyond noise. Reaching into the slick, pulsing gyri, and sending off his own current of obeyance. Innate. Unconscious. He says eat and you find yourself taking a bite of a burger you didn't think you even wanted. Weren't hungry for. Chewing. Swallowing. Another bite. Chew. Swallow. Again. Again. Again. Utters watch your step and your eyes drop to the slick ground, carefully treading the planks. 

Get warm. Go shower. You drop the blanket on the back of the chair, covering up the other one, and walk towards the bathroom. Thoughtless. Head silent. Empty and still. Quiet for the first time since you were thirteen—

It's because you're tired, you think. Exhausted. 

That's all.

But when you finally sink into the bed—lumpy and thick and perfect—sleep evades you. Skirts just out of reach until you're staring up at the log ceiling, thinking about nothing. Everything. 

Sam. Blood on the pavement. The split in his knuckles. Grease. Burgers. Come on, Coyote—

The knot in your stomach—

Your hand goes there. Slips under the thick cable knit sweater he gave you to sleep in, the boxers that fit like loose shorts, and curls around your lower belly. Flat and empty because this thing inside of you isn't even really there. Small, the book said. Tiny. A speck. 

A life-changing, mind-melting thing. 

You—

A mother. 

The thought is soaked in the rotten, fetid sludge of the past. Of your own mother with her dark hair and her hard eyes. Her strange moods. Don't touch me, Coyote. I don't wanna be touched right now, fuck. Can't you ever listen? Mercurial. How come you never hug me? Actin’ like I ain't your mom an’ shit. Shifting. Evolving. Changing shape depending on who she was with at the time—

Unravelling at the seams ever since your dad died. You look like your dad, Coyote. It makes me fuckin’ sick—

You can't think about it. Won't. 

So you don't. Swallow it down. Cotton in your ears. Noise in the back of your head. 

Memories on your skin. Ghosts in your veins.

Come on, Coyote. 

You'd be a terrible mother, you think, and peel your hand away, knotting it into a fist by your side until your nails sink into skin. 

There's something a little grounding about the pain this time.

You stare up at the ceiling all night until the sun rises, golden and warm, and spills in through the vaulted window. 

Below you, you hear John stir. Rising. 

You follow his lead.

He does odd jobs, he says. 

Carpentry. Woodwork. Makes things that people want. That they need. Most of it gets sold in town—patio chairs, kayaks for the tourists—or by the few locals in the bay who need things made. Repairs, too. Easy fixes. 

Most of it is on backlog, but he'll get the occasional phone call asking for something to be done. 

And that's where you come in. 

The loft has a small space made up of a makeshift office. A phone. A ledger. Papers. Pens. It's pushed up against the railing of the balcony, right across from the top of the stairs. 

All you really have to do is answer when people call, take their information, and find out what they want him to build. He doesn't do cabins, he grunts. Say no. Always. 

Everything else goes into the ledger for him to look at later. 

“Don't worry,” he rumbles, scratching at the thick curls beneath his chin. “Most of the orders come from Elliot. You'll just be fielding local work. Kayaks, mostly.” 

And he's not wrong. The first week, you get all of a single phone call—a woman down in Osoyoos who wants a kayak. Her information is penned into the thick, waterlogged ledger next to the other names. Contact information. He'll get back to you soon, you say, but John just grunts when you tell him about the woman. 

Its mostly just—

Laying around. Organising the mess in the loft. The boxes he shrugs at, and tells you to put them in the closet along with whatever else is clogging the upstairs. Forgotten remnants he seems disinterested in going through. 

Or watching him. 

John fills space as easily as breathing. Makes noises. Commands. The order he's working on is spread out over the deck, and spills into the cabin. Little saws on the workbench. Tools. He wanders in and out with purpose, grabbing things, using them, putting them back. Silent as he works. 

He's a mystery. An enigma. Seems unbothered by you being here, sinking your fingers into his things. He adjusts in that strange, quiet way of his. Makes dinner for two as if he'd been doing it the whole time. Leaves clean towels in the bathroom. Runs into town and comes back with clothes—from Savannah, he grunts out, thrusting the bag in your direction; Elliot's wife, said she'd be about your size—and pads, tampons, that he shoves under the bathroom sink. An extra toothbrush. Shampoo that isn't five-in-one and smells of honey and oats. 

But it's not seamless. 

Sometimes, you think he forgets. Walks in—caked in sawdust and covered in sweat—and peels his shirt up, baring his thick, hairy damp chest without a second thought, scrubbing his face, his neck, with the bottom of his stained shirt. Or rips it off. Comes in drenched in sweat, and reaches behind himself, one hand curling into the fabric against his nape, and pulls—

Broad, slick skin. All covered in a dense layer of fur. 

Bearish. 

Remembers himself only when you make a noise. A huff. Silent laughter because this whole thing is a little unreal—

He doesn't apologise, though. Just shrugs. Reaches for a face cloth he keeps slung around the back of the couch and pats himself dry. 

Dinner is quiet, too. Sombre. He leaves food out for you, but eats between work. Often outside, reclining on the patio chair on the deck. Pours himself a glass of whiskey. Has a cigar. Inhales his food before you've even put together a plate, and then the saw starts up again. Back to work. 

It's tense. The atmosphere is thick. It feels like you're dancing around each other, trying to make room in a space too small for even just himself. 

You stay upstairs most of the time. Staring out at the sprawl of glinting blue. The jagged green.

The bay is prettier in the daylight when the sun is high in the sky casting a golden yellow arch across the veridian world around you. Still. Silent. 

The city was loud. Cars on the pavement. Horns. Chatter. Noise. People. An endless spill, a cacophony of life. Sirens. Motors. Barking commands. 

Sam's condo downtown was never quiet. Too close to the harbour—foghorns, the roar of ships entering the port. Television playing something he was interested in at the time. The radio on. The sounds he made spilling out—fuck, Coyote. Can't you do anything right?

Noise, noise, noise—

More coffee. When's my breakfast comin’ out. Hey, cutie, what time you done work at? 

You should really leave him, Coyote, because what the fuck? Have you seen your eye? It looks worse with makeup, come on, girl, you're fuck up our tips!

And now—

The saw. Scrape of a knife on wood. A grunt. Fuck. A loon in the distance. A splash. Watch your step on the deck, Coyote. Got shit everywhere. The lap of the sea against the rocks. The rustle of the trees in the breeze. Makin’ stew tonight. Want some? The ringing of the telephone. Etta James crooning on the radio. The knock of the metal boats against the dock. Grab yourself a beer if you want. Only got that or whiskey. Help yourself. The soft shlick of the fridge peeling open. The hum. Clink of a bottle on glass. The hiss when you open it. A saw. A splash. Rain on glass. The thunk of his boots across the deck. The soft thud of a door. 

Anyone call? A grunt. The rip of laces as he peels his boots off. You shake your head, reaching for a bun. No. A sigh. Good. 

Most of the noise is in your head. 

Memories. Malformed dreams dancing in the recesses of your mind. 

Crack of a twig. Hands on your throat. Come on, Coyote—

Inescapable. 

Inevitable. 

And that's what it all is, isn't it?

He stares at you, too. Sometimes you catch him watching in that careful, measured way of his. The same look on his face as before, in the diner—anger: what happened to you; wariness: whatever it is, don't bring it over here—but morphing. Shifting. Dropping from the curve of your neck tucked under the fold of a pink collar, bruises melting seamlessly into your skin, to the roll of his sweater over your midsection. Pausing there, like he's expecting to see something more than the curl of cream yarn woven together. 

It makes you a little sick. Like that time when he and the paramedic hovered. You hate them both, you thought. Felt. An acid burn in your chest. Go away, stop staring. Stop gawking. Leave! 

The woman in the drugstore. Oh, you poor thing. Pushing an unwanted pamphlet into your hands. Don't worry, hun, it'll get better. 

People look at you and see what they wanted to see. Unwrapping you until they found the hurt below. A reason for their sympathy. 

Because girls like you aren't deserving of pity unless you're all broken up. Shallow graves and forgotten names. A box collecting dust. 

They looked for the marks, the bruises, and sighed with relief when they found them. Oh, you poor thing. 

It's petty, and you hate yourself for it. Just a little bit. But you know how far sympathy will go before it dries up and oh, you poor thing becomes well, you kinda deserved it. 

You're not special in this regard. All of your friends had similar stories growing up but what always set them apart is that people would have looked into that room, seen a grown man with his hand on their thigh, a sixteen-year-old child, and thought oh, your poor thing.

When it happened to you, their lips curled in disgust. Stay away from my husband, you slut—

Because at the end of the day, it's always your fault for looking the way you do.

("Like you want it," he grunts into your ear, spiteful and ugly, fingers digging in because they can.)

You figure it's only a matter of time John, too, stops finding reasons for his pity. 

His charity. 

Because, really—

"What makes you so special, Coyote?"

A pretty face. Split thighs.

The only thing you're good for is being on your knees—

Come on, Coyote. You should know this already.

But the dance continues. 

He leaves in the mornings. Goes on runs. You haven't gathered the courage yet to go farther than the deck, too worried about the call of the forest. The sprawling blue. Of sinking into evergreen and sleeping forever—

John doesn't seem to mind your reclusiveness. Only a matter of time. He brings back books when he leaves the island. Little things for you to occupy yourself with. You never ask, won't. The fewer favours you owe, the more of yourself you can keep when the good Samaritan act has run dry. 

You don't say thank you. It wasn't your choice to begin with. You clean up after yourself, but that's it. A guest in his house. Nothing more, nothing less. 

You do your job, even though it's obvious it was a joke. 

No one calls besides the woman in Osoyoos and Elliot—

Something that shouldn't have surprised you as much as it had. Military dogs, he once said as you poured him another cup of coffee. We tend to mingle. 

But hearing his voice is a cruel relief. The only exception to the rule has ever been Elliot, a man who seemed to adopt an uncle stance when it came to you. 

Kin, he'd said, and laughed when you scoffed. We're practically cousins. 

“Might stop by soon. See how you're holdin’ up.”

“Don't bother. I'm fine.” 

“Well, maybe I'll come bother Price. He loves it when I visit.” 

“I'll pass on the message.” 

“No, don't do that,” he laughs, loud and free. It tickles your ear. “He'll call the dock and tell ‘em not to rent me a boat.” 

“Should take it as a sign, then. That John—Price doesn't wanna be around you.” 

“Ah, cruel girl. You wound me.” 

“You don't wanna get hurt, then stop calling.”

“Gotta check in on ya. You get into all kinda trouble when I’m not around.” 

It makes you tense. Belly knotting. “No one asked you to do that, Elliot. I didn't ask you to.” 

“You're a lot like Price, you know. Both of you…you don't like askin’ for help even if you need it.” He breathes into a line. A heavy sigh. 

Elliot is a good man, you know. The best. But—

“I'm fine, Elliot.” 

You tend to hurt people like that. 

“You're a good kid,” he says instead. “Just—be gentle with him, huh? Been through a lot.” 

“He's six foot and like, three hundred pounds. How much damage could I really do?”

More’in you think, is what he says after a long pause, low and solemn; voice full of things you can't unravel. Unwrap. And you scoff in response because what does he know? Huh, Elliot? Be so serious, ta. 

A man like John—Price—could rip you apart before you even put a scratch on him. 

“Not everyone hurts with their hands, Coyote.”

John's been through a lot. Please remember that. 

Something has to break, you think. 

And you can feel it, too. This thickness in the air. In the coil of his shoulders. The line between his brow. Anger, inward. The heavy, measured way he stares as he dances around you. Moving in circles. A clumsy routine built on mutual avoidance. 

It's I didn't ask for help and don't bring that over here merging into a whitewater confluence. A narrow channel where one must go under first in order to fit. 

You're tired of it being you, but you don't think a man like Price has ever backed down from anything in his life. 

Stalemate, maybe. 

Or—

It cracks after dinner when he lingers. Hovering in the kitchen as you slip down the stairs in search of something to fill the chasm in your belly. The thing growing—

He meets you there, shoulders tense. His head is bowed between them, hung low as he looks over the plans spread out on his workbench. You make to skirt around him, but he looks up when you get close. Pins you in place with his stare. 

“So,” he drawls, eyes skirting down the length of your body before coming to a pointed stop on your midsection, belly hidden under a thick cable-knit sweater he gave to you to wear. “What's the plan?” 

It takes you a minute to realise he's talking about the baby. 

“Adoption,” you force out, squeezed between the ache of the past chiselling inside rotted marrow and the shape of your future; a hole in your belly. Blood on the snow. 

You were always meant to die, you think. Snuffed under the heel of a boot or at the end of a shotgun—the how never mattered much over the spread of a carcass on the ground. Inevitable, maybe. Just like—

Just like your mother. 

But at least this way, this little thing leaching off of you, an unwanted seedling, will grow. Might have a chance to be different. Escape the generational trauma that plagues your lineage—an inherited curse. Inescapable. Maybe it'll be different. Better. 

“I think—adoption might be best. Maybe.” 

He says nothing, just stares in that strange, measured way of his. But then—

Why would he? It's not his kid. Not his choice. 

It seems to dawn on him all the same. His jaw clenches tight, bruised knuckles peaking as he curls his fingers into a fist. 

Something fractures over his expression. Gaze turning inward. Shuttered. Haunted by ghosts older than you, maybe. But he's good at shaking them off. Putting them away. 

He catches your stare, eyes following it down to his bloodied knuckles, and his mouth pulls into a taut, absent smile. He knocks them on the wood once, twice. Leaves a drop of blood smeared on the grain. 

“Alright,” it's strained, pinched. “If that's what you want.” 

It is. It's an unfathomable kindness you wish your mother graced onto you. It—it—will understand. Eventually. With time. Once they realise the only thing in their future was sleeping in the back seat of a car while you worked odd jobs—waitress, stripper, labourer in a factory—and barely having enough money to scrape together to get a happy meal, they'll come to thank you for this choice. 

You nod instead, and his lips twitch again in that mockery of a smile. Something shatters. Breaks. 

There are more ways to hurt, Coyote, than with teeth and claws. 

He peels away after a beat, muttering something under his breath about an order. A kayak the neighbours ordered. 

You don't watch him leave. You're too busy staring at the smear of blood left behind, the smear he didn't seem to notice. 

for those wondering what John's cabin looks like. Jervis Inlet is just perfect for this little fic.

[ijustwannabecool]

Left On Read

Carlos Sainz x Reader

Summary… A barista leaves little motivational quotes on coffee cups. A quiet regular starts replying on the back of the cups.

A/N: As always I hope you guys enjoy this little story. Feedback is always welcomed. Happy reading and have a beautiful day today!!

Request are open (:

Like, reblog, comment, enjoy!

——

You don’t know his name. Just that he always orders the same thing: café con leche, no sugar, extra hot. And that he tips with coins—heavy, clinking, deliberate. And that he always, always, looks a little tired. A little too quietly handsome for your peace of mind.

You start leaving motivational quotes on the coffee cups in early October, mostly out of boredom. Your boss thinks it's cute and tells you to keep it up. Customers start noticing, smiling, even snapping photos.

But he—the guy with the jawline carved by the gods and the hoodie pulled over his face like he’s hiding from the world—he doesn’t say a word. Just picks up his cup, nods once, and disappears into the Madrid morning like fog.

Until one day, you see something new.

The back of the cup.

“You always write them for everyone else. Thought you deserved one too.”

‘The world is better because you’re in it.’ – C.S.

Your heart does a weird little flip.

You glance up, but he’s already gone.

——

After that, it becomes a silent ritual.

You write something soft, hopeful, maybe a little poetic. He responds.

Sometimes seriously:

‘Hope is the thing with feathers.’ I like that one. Reminds me of my mom.

Sometimes playfully:

“If the coffee doesn’t wake you up, your handwriting will.” – C.S.

And once:

‘I needed this today. Thank you.’

That one sticks with you.

——

You don’t know that Carlos Sainz is a famous athlete. That he’s a driver.

You just know he’s always got a cap pulled low, a hoodie even lower, and those dark eyes that feel like thunderclouds and honey all at once.

He’s never brought up racing. Never rushed. Never dropped a single hint.

Just a man who likes his coffee and, apparently, your quotes.

——

One particularly rainy Thursday, you take a risk. You write:

“Sometimes I think we leave pieces of ourselves behind in places we love.”

And on the back, his reply:

Maybe that’s why I keep coming here. – C.S.

You stare at the cup longer than you should, wondering what kind of person says things like that with so much quiet weight.

——

Two weeks later, he doesn’t show up.

Or the next day. Or the next.

You don’t want to admit you notice, but your hand hovers longer over the cups now. The quotes feel a little more hollow without a reply. You try to brush it off. People have lives. Coffee isn't a commitment.

But the silence is deafening.

——

He shows up again on a Monday. Hair damp from the rain. Hoodie soaked. Eyes tired but warm.

You don’t even think. You just say, “Rough day?” as you hand him the cup.

His eyes lift to yours—sharp, searching, like you just caught him in a lie he didn’t mean to tell.

Then he smiles, slow and sheepish. “You could say that.”

On the cup, you’ve written:

“You’re not behind. You’re right on time.”

And this time, when he turns the cup around, he doesn’t write anything. He just says it. Out loud.

“Gracias. I needed that.”

Your heart trips. You smile, a little breathless. “Anytime.”

——

That weekend, your friend drags you to watch Formula 1 for the first time. You're halfway through the broadcast when the camera zooms in on one of the drivers.

Brown eyes. Familiar jawline. That same curve of a smile that lives rent-free in your mind.

You nearly spill your drink.

“Wait. WAIT. IS THAT—” You scramble for your phone, googling him so fast your fingers fumble the letters.

Carlos. Freaking. Sainz.

Your quiet regular is literally a world-famous F1 driver.

——

The next day, he comes in late. Hoodie, cap, sunglasses—a whole disguise. You try not to smile as you write on his cup.

“Thought I’d seen you somewhere before. Nice helmet.”

When he sees it, his mouth twitches. He lifts his eyes to yours, mock-serious. “You found out?”

You nod, biting back a grin. “Let’s just say you left me on read long enough to google you.”

And finally—finally—he laughs. A warm, chest-deep sound. “Guess I’ll have to start leaving you real notes then.”

You hand him a pen. “Back of the cup’s yours.”

He doesn’t write anything this time either. Just sips his coffee.

And then—softly, without looking— “Dinner sometime?”

[novaursa]

The Last Dragonslayer (1/2)

- Summary: When young Luke came to Storm’s End as his mother’s emissary, Aemond wasn't the only one there to greet the young Prince.

- Pairing: female!reader/Rhaenyra Targaryen

- Note: Reader is a Dragonslayer (a warrior) that saves Rhaeyra's child and fights for her. This is based on the request below, with my own twist in it, and it's the result of the votes that ended yesterday:

- Rating: Mature 16+ (last part will be rated higher)

- Word count: 8 000+

- Next part: 2

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

- A/N: male!reader/Rhaenyra Targaryen is currently under construction. It will be posted once the second part of this work is out. Also, for more of my works visit my blog.

The storm rages fiercely over Storm's End, the winds howling through the stone walls of the castle like a restless beast. You stand in the shadowed alcove, your eyes tracking the young prince as he dismounts from his dragon, Arrax. The creature’s scales gleam wet in the flickering torchlight, its eyes wide with agitation. The beast feels it, the looming presence of something much older and much deadlier. You know without looking that it is Vhagar, the monstrous she-dragon that casts her shadow over the stormy skies.

Lucerys Velaryon, the boy prince, has the look of a cornered deer as he glances around the courtyard, his gaze inevitably drawn to the dark silhouette of Vhagar looming ominously in the distance. His heart beats wildly in his chest, his breath coming in shallow gasps. The dragon he rides is no match for the ancient beast that waits, almost as if it hungers for the boy’s fear.

But it is not Vhagar that makes Arrax twitch nervously, shifting its massive claws on the slick stone ground. No, there is something else—another presence that unnerves both dragons. A primal fear ripples through the air, a fear that runs deeper than any rivalry between dragonriders.

You know what they feel. It is the Banshee, your mount, your companion. She lies in the caves beneath the castle, her leathery wings folded, her shriek an unspoken warning to all dragons that a Dragonslayer is near. You’ve ridden her across the skies of Essos, and now you have brought her to this cold, storm-battered land, a place so different from the sunlit shores of your origin.

As Lucerys is escorted into the great hall, you follow silently, a shadow among the guards, your steps barely a whisper against the stone. The hall is dimly lit, the flames flickering in their sconces as the storm rumbles outside. Lord Borros Baratheon sits upon his chair, his face a thundercloud of displeasure, while Aemond Targaryen stands off to the side, his single eye gleaming with malicious intent.

“Prince Lucerys Velaryon,” Borros announces with a voice as heavy as the storm, “sent by your mother, the Queen.”

Lucerys takes a breath, standing tall as he faces the Lord of Storm's End. His voice is steady as he presents his mother’s terms, but you can see the tremor in his hands, the boy struggling to maintain his composure under the weight of the situation.

Aemond steps forward, his presence dark and threatening, a cruel smile playing on his lips. “You’re a brave boy to come here alone, nephew,” he sneers, his hand hovering near the hilt of his sword. “But bravery only goes so far. You owe me an eye.”

The demand hangs in the air like the threat of lightning. Lucerys’ eyes widen, his breath catching as the terror grips him. He steps back, his hand instinctively moving to his sword, though you can see he knows it is futile. 

Aemond’s voice drips with venom as he draws closer, reaching for the sapphire in his empty eye socket. “Don’t be afraid, boy. It’s a simple thing, really. Just a payment for what was stolen from me.”

Your movement is like a shadow across the floor as you step out from your place against the wall, your boots making soft, deliberate sounds against the stone. Aemond’s attention snaps to you, curiosity flashing in his eye as he sees a figure unlike any other in this hall.

“Who are you?” Aemond demands, his voice tinged with both suspicion and interest. The hall seems to quiet, even the storm outside pausing as if to hear your reply.

Lord Borros rises from his chair, turning his gaze to you, and his expression is a mixture of awe and unease. “This is the emissary from the Free Cities,” he says, his voice uncertain. “She arrived a few days ago, from across the Narrow Sea. An emissary, she claimed, from an ancient order.”

You tilt your head slightly, regarding Aemond with those eyes of yours, eyes that many have said carry the weight of ancient knowledge, of secrets lost to time. When you speak, your accent is thick, your voice smooth, yet carrying a hardness beneath it, like a blade wrapped in silk. “The boy will return to his mother,” you state, your tone leaving no room for argument.

Aemond’s eye narrows, his curiosity turning to annoyance. “You think to order me around in my own land? I am a Targaryen, the blood of the dragon. And you—what are you?”

“I am Y/N,” you say simply, letting the name hang in the air, as though it should explain everything. And to those who know, it does. “And I have no interest in your games, dragonrider. The boy leaves. Now.”

Lucerys looks at you with wide eyes, relief and confusion mixing on his young face. He knows not who you are, nor why you would intercede on his behalf, but he knows better than to question the chance at survival you offer.

Aemond, however, is less easily swayed. “You do not command me, woman,” he snarls, his hand finally gripping his sword hilt.

Your eyes lock onto his, and there is a cold, ancient fury in your gaze that makes Aemond pause, just for a moment. “Do you hear that?” you ask softly, almost a whisper.

He frowns, confusion crossing his features. But then he does hear it—a low, keening wail, barely audible over the storm, but there nonetheless. It is a sound that twists something deep in his chest, a primal fear that is older than his bloodline, older than even the dragons themselves.

“That,” you continue, your voice never rising, yet commanding all attention, “is a Banshee’s call. Do you know what it means, dragonrider?”

Aemond doesn’t answer, his grip tightening on his sword. But you see it, the flicker of doubt in his eye, the instinctive fear that his ancestors would have known all too well.

“It means,” you say, taking a step closer to the prince, “that the Dragonslayers are near.”

Silence falls heavy in the hall, the only sound the storm raging outside and that distant, eerie wail of your mount. Aemond’s confidence wavers, just for a heartbeat, and you seize the moment.

“Return to your mother, boy,” you say to Lucerys, your tone softening slightly as you address the prince. “And tell her the Dragonslayers have not forgotten.”

Lucerys doesn’t hesitate. He turns and strides from the hall, the guards parting before him. Aemond watches him go, his eye flicking between you and the retreating prince, torn between pride and the icy fear that grips his heart.

As the doors close behind Lucerys, Aemond turns back to you, but you are already gone, melted back into the shadows of the storm. The Banshee’s wail echoes in his ears, a sound that will haunt him long after this night has passed.

And in the distance, through the storm and the dark, Lucerys Velaryon rides his dragon into the night, the words of a stranger echoing in his mind as he returns to his mother—a warning, a promise, and a name that will not be easily forgotten.

The storm's fury is unrelenting as Vhagar takes to the skies, her wings cutting through the tempest with the power of a creature that has lived through centuries. Beneath her, the world is a blur of rain and lightning, the roar of the wind nearly drowning out the beat of her wings. Aemond’s eye is fixed on the smaller silhouette ahead, the young prince Lucerys and his dragon, Arrax. His pride, his rage, they drive him forward with a singular, furious intent.

"Do you think you can escape me, boy?" Aemond mutters to himself, the thrill of the hunt coursing through his veins. His grip on the reins tightens as he urges Vhagar onward, the ancient beast responding to his will, her massive form gaining on the fleeing dragon.

But then, something shifts.

It begins with Vhagar. The she-dragon, who has known no fear in over a century, falters mid-flight. Her great head swivels, nostrils flaring as if sensing something that doesn’t belong in this world. A deep, rumbling growl escapes her throat, a sound of unease that Aemond has never heard from her before.

"What is it, girl?" Aemond calls out, his voice straining against the storm, frustration creeping in as Vhagar slows her pursuit. He yanks at the reins, but the dragon resists, her great body twisting in the air as if trying to turn away from something unseen.

Then it comes—a sound like no other. Piercing, shrill, it cuts through the storm with an unnatural clarity. A cry that chills the blood, a scream not of any living thing, but of something that should never have existed. Aemond feels it like a knife in his gut, a primal fear that shakes the core of even a Targaryen prince. Vhagar responds with a bellow of her own, but this is not a sound of defiance—it is one of terror.

Through the torrential rain and flashes of lightning, Aemond sees it. Emerging from the swirling clouds above, the Banshee appears, its form massive and menacing, a creature out of nightmares and ancient legends. It is larger than any dragon, its wings long and leathery, resembling those of some dark, twisted bat. Its body is sinewy and powerful, covered in scales as dark as midnight, its maw filled with razor-sharp teeth that seem made to tear through dragon flesh. Eyes that glow with a sickly green light fixate on Vhagar, and in that gaze, there is nothing but hunger.

A hunger that could swallow the world.

The Banshee shrieks again, and this time, the sound is closer, more intense, reverberating through the storm as if the very heavens themselves are crying out in fear. Vhagar roars back, but her voice wavers, no longer the dominant force of the skies. She tries to pull away, her vast wings beating furiously as she begins to ascend, desperate to escape the horror that has locked its gaze upon her.

And there, atop the Banshee, you sit. The storm whips around you, yet you are steady, your body moving fluidly with the creature’s every motion. Your eyes are fixed on Aemond, a cold determination set in your features as you close in. The distance between the two monstrous creatures shrinks with every heartbeat, the Banshee’s speed unnatural, as if it is not bound by the same laws of the world as other beings.

"Vhagar, no!" Aemond shouts, desperation creeping into his voice as he feels his mount’s fear, her once obedient nature slipping through his control. He pulls harder on the reins, but the ancient dragon does not heed him. She banks sharply to the side, attempting to flee, the instinct to survive overpowering all else. 

"Stay and fight, damn you!" Aemond roars, but his voice is lost to the storm and to Vhagar’s terror. For the first time, Aemond realizes that he has lost control. Vhagar, the greatest of all dragons, is fleeing like a hunted beast.

From behind, Lucerys and Arrax, seeing their chance, dart downwards toward the safety of the clouds below. The boy doesn’t look back, but his heart pounds with both fear and gratitude, his only thought now of returning to Dragonstone and the safety of his mother’s arms. The storm swallows them, the smaller dragon vanishing into the darkness, seizing the slim opportunity for escape that has been granted by the terror you’ve unleashed.

You see this, the boy’s escape, and though you could chase, though you could end him as well, your focus remains on Aemond. This is a message, a warning, and it is Vhagar who must carry it back. 

Aemond’s face twists with a mix of rage and helplessness as he feels Vhagar’s massive body turning, wings beating harder now, not in pursuit, but in retreat. You let out a command, your voice carried by the storm, not in words that Aemond understands, but the Banshee does. She dives, a predatory speed that belies her size, closing the distance between them in seconds.

Another scream from the Banshee, and this time, Vhagar shudders violently, nearly throwing Aemond from her back. The ancient dragon, who has seen countless battles and burned entire cities to ash, is utterly broken by the presence of this creature from a bygone era. She dives desperately, fleeing into the clouds, seeking any refuge from the horror that chases her.

For a brief moment, as you pull back, allowing Vhagar to escape into the storm’s embrace, your eyes meet Aemond’s. In that gaze, he sees something that shakes him more than the sight of the Banshee or the fear in Vhagar’s eyes. He sees the cold, unyielding power of an order thought extinct, a legacy that has returned from the shadows of history. 

And then you and the Banshee vanish into the storm, your form melding with the darkness as if you were never there. Only the lingering echoes of that terrifying scream remain, fading into the storm, a sound that will haunt Aemond for the rest of his days.

Vhagar continues her frantic flight, the once-proud dragon now reduced to a fleeing beast, her rider clinging to her, his pride shattered, his mind reeling. Aemond’s thoughts are a whirlwind of anger, fear, and humiliation. He came to these skies with the intent to prove his dominance, to assert his strength, but now he returns with the bitter taste of defeat and the knowledge that there are forces in this world even dragons fear.

And far below, Lucerys and Arrax race through the storm towards the safety of Dragonstone, the boy’s heart pounding with relief and terror. He will make it home, but the memory of this night will stay with him—the night he was spared not by his own hand, but by a mysterious stranger on a creature of nightmares.

The Dragonslayers have returned. And the dragons of Westeros will never be the same.

The skies over Dragonstone are dark, heavy with the remnants of the storm that raged over Storm's End. The air is filled with unease as the guards and retainers of the castle stand vigilantly on the battlements, their eyes scanning the horizon. They know who they are waiting for, though they dare not speak of the dread that gnaws at them.

Suddenly, through the mists and rain, a shape emerges. A dragon, smaller than most, with wet and weary wings straining to keep it aloft. Arrax lands heavily in the courtyard, his scales slick with rain and his breath labored from the flight. The beast's eyes are wide, pupils darting in a way that betrays its fear. 

Atop him, Lucerys Velaryon sits slumped in the saddle, his small form trembling, soaked to the bone. He barely has the strength to dismount, nearly collapsing as his boots touch the ground. His hands are shaking uncontrollably, and his eyes—those eyes that should be bright with the fire of youth—are wide and haunted, filled with the terror of what he has just endured.

From across the courtyard, Queen Rhaenyra breaks from her retinue of Queensguard, her heart seizing as she sees the state of her son. “Luke!” she cries, her voice cracking with fear and relief as she rushes to him, her skirts billowing as she nearly stumbles in her haste.

“Mother,” Lucerys gasps, his voice a whisper against the wind. He’s shivering violently, his teeth chattering as the cold and fear clutch at him.

Rhaenyra reaches him, wrapping him in her arms, her grip firm and protective as she pulls him close, heedless of the rain that soaks through her own clothing. Her heart pounds in her chest as she feels the tremors racking his small frame. “Gods, what happened?” she whispers, her hand cupping his face as she tries to meet his eyes, searching for any sign of injury, any indication of what has terrified her son so deeply.

Lucerys buries his face against her shoulder, his breath hitching as he tries to find the words. “I—I saw him, Mother,” he begins, his voice shaking as badly as his body. “Aemond was there… at Storm’s End. Vhagar was with him.”

Rhaenyra stiffens, her blood turning to ice at the mention of Aemond and his dragon. “Did he harm you?” Her voice is fierce, though a mother’s terror lies just beneath it. “What did he do to you?”

Lucerys shakes his head frantically, clutching at her arms as if grounding himself in her presence. “He… he wanted to take my eye, Mother. He said… he said it was a debt. But…” His words trail off, his breath catching as he struggles to explain the horror he witnessed.

Rhaenyra’s grip tightens, her eyes narrowing with a mixture of rage and fear. “But what, Luke? What happened?”

Luke pulls back slightly, his wide eyes meeting hers, filled with a confusion that mirrors his terror. “She… she saved me, Mother. A woman… a stranger. She stopped Aemond.”

Rhaenyra blinks, her mind racing. “A woman? Who was she? What did she look like?”

Luke swallows hard, his voice trembling as he continues, “She… she wasn’t from here. She looked… different. Like no one I’ve ever seen before. She had an accent I didn’t recognize. Lord Borros called her an emissary from the Free Cities.” His voice drops to a whisper, as if saying the next words might summon the creature back. “And she had a… a beast with her. Not a dragon, but something else. It was… it was terrifying, Mother. The dragons, even Vhagar… they were afraid of it.”

Rhaenyra’s heart pounds faster as she listens, trying to make sense of her son’s words. “A beast? What did it look like?”

Luke’s eyes glaze over slightly as he recalls the image burned into his mind. “It was… huge, bigger than any dragon I’ve seen, with wings like… like a bat’s. And its scream, Mother… it was like nothing I’ve ever heard. It made the storm itself seem quiet. And she was riding it… commanding it.”

Rhaenyra’s blood runs cold, her mind racing through the possibilities, but nothing matches the description her son gives. A creature that could frighten Vhagar, the largest and oldest of the Targaryen dragons? It sounds like a nightmare given form, a horror from ancient times.

“Are you sure of what you saw, Luke?” she asks gently, her tone softening as she brushes his wet hair from his face. “Could it have been… something else? A trick of the storm?”

Luke shakes his head vehemently. “No, Mother. I saw it. I heard it. She told me to go, to return to you. And when I left… Aemond was chasing me, but then the creature came after him instead. Vhagar fled, Mother. She was terrified.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes widen, a shiver running down her spine at the thought. If Vhagar, the mightiest of all dragons, could be driven to flee… what manner of beast had her son encountered? And who was this woman, this stranger who had saved her child from a fate worse than death?

A feeling of unease settles over her, a realization that something far greater and more dangerous than she had anticipated is at play. The knowledge that ancient powers, long thought to be myths, might have returned to the world shakes her to her core.

But for now, all that matters is her son. She pulls him close again, holding him tightly as if to shield him from whatever darkness lies out there, whatever force has set its sights on the Targaryen bloodline. “You’re safe now,” she whispers, trying to convince herself as much as him. “You’re home, and you’re safe.”

But even as she says the words, her mind is already racing ahead, planning, fearing, wondering what this new player on the board means for the future of her house, for her claim, and for the survival of her children.

The night is still and heavy with the remnants of the storm, the winds howling softly through the dark corridors of Dragonstone. Rhaenyra is deep in a restless sleep, her mind troubled by the events of the day, her dreams haunted by the image of her son, drenched and trembling, speaking of a beast that defied all she knew of the world.

But suddenly, her sleep is shattered by a sound so primal, so raw, that it feels like the earth itself is tearing apart. The roar of dragons, rising in a cacophony of fear and fury, echoes through the stone walls of the castle. It’s not just any dragon’s roar—it’s the sound of dragons in terror. Rhaenyra bolts upright in her bed, her heart pounding in her chest as the walls seem to tremble around her.

She hears another roar, louder this time, unmistakable in its ferocity—the Cannibal. The ancient, wild dragon’s scream is so powerful that it seems to shake the very foundations of Dragonstone. The deep, guttural sound reverberates through the castle, making the torches flicker as if the flame itself is afraid.

And then, cutting through the night like a blade, comes another sound—a wail, high-pitched and unnatural, unlike anything she’s ever heard. It’s the cry of the Banshee, echoing through the skies above the island, a sound so filled with dread that it makes her blood run cold.

Rhaenyra leaps from her bed, pulling on a robe as she rushes toward the door. Her heart races, a mix of fear and adrenaline driving her forward. She flings open the door, her voice breaking the silence of the corridor. “Daemon!”

As if summoned by her cry, Daemon Targaryen appears, already dressed and armed, his face set in a grim expression. He doesn’t need to ask what’s happening—the screams of the dragons and the wail from the skies tell him all he needs to know.

“They’re afraid,” Daemon says, his voice rough with tension as he strides toward her, his eyes blazing. “The dragons are terrified, Rhaenyra. Whatever it is, it’s here.”

Rhaenyra nods, her breath coming in shallow gasps as she hurries to follow him. The two of them rush through the castle, Daemon’s men falling in around them, their faces pale as they hear the screams that fill the night. The ground beneath their feet seems to tremble as if the very earth is trying to recoil from the presence that has arrived on its shores.

They reach the courtyard just as another roar shakes the air, but this time it’s different. This time, it’s a sound of submission, of retreat. In the distance, high atop Dragonmont, the dragons that make their home in the ancient volcano are pulling back, their massive forms retreating into the dark, smoke-filled caves, away from the open sky. Even the Cannibal, the most feared and untamed of all the dragons, has gone silent, its defiance turned to fear.

Rhaenyra’s eyes follow the direction of the retreating dragons, and there, near the rocky coastline, she sees it—the Banshee. It stands on the blackened sand, its vast wings partially spread, casting an ominous shadow that stretches out over the churning waves. The creature is even more terrifying than she had imagined from Lucerys’ description, a monstrous form that seems to absorb the darkness around it, its eyes glowing with that sickly green light that cuts through the night.

And before the Banshee, standing with an air of calm command, is the woman—Y/N. She stands tall, her presence as formidable as the beast behind her, her eyes fixed on the castle. Even from this distance, Rhaenyra can see the confidence in her stance, the ease with which she controls the horror at her side.

Daemon’s hand moves to the hilt of his sword as he stares at the woman and her beast, his eyes narrowing in a mix of fury and awe. “Is this the creature the boy spoke of?” he asks, his voice low and dangerous.

Rhaenyra nods, unable to tear her gaze from the sight. “It is,” she whispers, her voice tinged with fear and a growing sense of foreboding. “And that… that is the woman who saved him.”

Daemon takes a step forward, his gaze shifting to Caraxes, who is visible in the distance, his great head peeking out from the entrance of his cave. The Blood Wyrm, who has faced down dragons and men alike, recoils, his body pressed low to the ground as if trying to melt into the rock itself. He refuses to come forward, his instincts telling him that this is not a foe he wishes to face.

Rhaenyra watches as Daemon's knuckles turn white around the hilt of his sword. “Even Caraxes is afraid,” he mutters, almost to himself. “What manner of beast is this? And who is this woman?”

Before Rhaenyra can respond, Y/N takes a step forward, moving with a grace that belies the danger she embodies. Her voice carries across the distance, strong and clear despite the howling wind. “I come not as an enemy, but as an emissary.”

Rhaenyra feels a shiver run down her spine at the sound of the woman’s voice. There is something in it, an authority, a power that feels ancient, something that commands respect and fear in equal measure. She steps forward, placing a hand on Daemon’s arm to still him, her eyes never leaving Y/N.

“You saved my son,” Rhaenyra calls out, her voice steady, though her heart is pounding in her chest. “Why?”

Y/N’s gaze meets hers, and for a moment, Rhaenyra feels as though she’s being weighed, measured by a force that sees far beyond the physical. “Because the time has come for old debts to be paid, and old alliances to be rekindled,” Y/N replies, her accent unfamiliar, each word carrying an air of inevitability.

Daemon steps forward, his posture rigid, every muscle coiled with tension. “What are you?” he demands, his tone edged with suspicion. “And what do you want from us?”

Y/N regards him calmly, her eyes as unreadable as the stormy sea behind her. “I am the last of the Dragonslayers,” she says, her words cutting through the air like a blade. “And I seek what was lost to time—an alliance, forged in blood and fire, that will reshape the fate of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Rhaenyra’s breath catches at the mention of the Dragonslayers. The name is one of legend, spoken of only in whispers, a myth more than a reality. Yet here stands proof, undeniable and terrifying. “An alliance?” she echoes, her voice a mix of intrigue and caution. “With whom?”

Y/N’s gaze sharpens, and a ghost of a smile touches her lips. “With House Targaryen,” she says, the name carrying weight as if it alone could alter the course of history. “If you will accept it.”

The words hang in the air, filled with promise and threat alike. Rhaenyra and Daemon exchange a look, the gravity of what is being offered sinking in. The roar of the dragons has died away, leaving only the sound of the wind and the waves crashing against the rocks.

The Banshee shifts behind Y/N, its wings rustling like the ominous whisper of death itself. Rhaenyra takes a deep breath, stepping forward, her voice firm as she speaks. “Come inside,” she says, a queen’s command, but also an invitation. “We will speak more.”

Y/N inclines her head slightly, a gesture of acknowledgment, before turning to her beast. With a simple, fluid motion, she mounts the Banshee, the creature responding to her touch with a soft, almost affectionate growl. “I will come,” she says, her voice carrying across the distance. “But know this, Queen Rhaenyra—what I bring is not just an alliance, but the power to change the very destiny of your house.”

With that, the Banshee lets out one last, bone-chilling wail that echoes across the island. The creature takes to the skies, its massive wings beating against the wind as it rises into the air, carrying its rider away from the shore and into the stormy night.

Rhaenyra watches as the dark silhouette disappears into the clouds, her mind racing with a thousand questions, her heart heavy with the knowledge that whatever comes next, it will be like nothing Westeros has ever seen.

Daemon stands beside her, his eyes still fixed on the sky where the Banshee vanished. “We must be ready,” he says quietly, his voice laced with both determination and unease. “Whatever she brings, it will not be easily controlled.”

Rhaenyra nods, her gaze steely as she turns back toward the castle, already thinking of the steps she must take, the alliances she must forge, and the preparations she must make. “Then we shall be ready,” she replies, her voice firm with resolve. “For House Targaryen will not be brought low, not by dragons, and not by beasts.”

Together, they walk back into the heart of Dragonstone, the weight of their decisions pressing heavily upon them, the storm outside now a mere whisper compared to the storm that is yet to come.

The great hall of Dragonstone is eerily quiet, the only sound the occasional crackle of the fire in the hearth, its flames dancing in the dim light. The storm outside has settled into a steady, rhythmic beat against the stone walls, as if the very island holds its breath, waiting for what comes next.

Daemon Targaryen stands by the fire, his eyes fixed on the flames, deep in thought. The warmth of the fire does little to chase away the cold unease that has settled in his bones since the arrival of the stranger and her beast. Rhaenyra sits at the head of the table, her posture regal and composed, though her gaze is sharp and searching as it rests on the woman before them—Y/N, the self-proclaimed last of the Dragonslayers.

You stand before them, calm and composed, the flickering firelight casting shadows across your face. Your expression is inscrutable, your eyes reflecting a depth of experience and knowledge that stretches far beyond the walls of this ancient castle.

Daemon finally speaks, his voice low, but filled with the weight of old memories. “When I was a boy, I used to sit at my wet nurse’s feet as she told me the tales of old Valyria. Stories of dragons soaring above the world, of their might and majesty… and of the terror that once threatened them.” He turns his gaze from the fire to you, his eyes narrowing slightly. “She spoke of the Dragonslayers, warriors from an ancient order, born from the fear and hatred of those who had no other means to fight back against the dragons. It was said their beasts were as fearsome as the dragons themselves—monstrous creatures that could strike terror into the heart of even the most battle-hardened Targaryen.”

He pauses, his lips curving into a wry smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “But those were just stories. Tales meant to frighten children and remind us of our place in the world. When the Doom of Valyria came, the Dragonslayers were said to have perished along with the dragons. Swallowed by the same flames that consumed the Freehold.”

Daemon’s smile fades, replaced by a hard, calculating look. “So you must excuse me, Lady Y/N, if I find it difficult to believe that I now stand face to face with a ghost from those old tales. A Dragonslayer, here to negotiate with the very people her kind once hunted. It seems… unlikely, doesn’t it? Like a dragon holding court with a woman who eats dragons.”

Rhaenyra watches you intently, her fingers lightly drumming against the arm of her chair as she waits for your response. The tension in the room is felt, the air thick with unspoken questions and unvoiced fears.

You meet Daemon’s gaze without flinching, your expression unreadable as you consider his words. When you finally speak, your voice is steady, carrying an authority that demands attention. “You are right to be cautious, Prince Daemon. The tales of the Dragonslayers are shrouded in myth, and much has been lost to time. But make no mistake—those tales were born from truth. My order existed long before Valyria rose to power, and our purpose was never simply to destroy dragons.”

You pause, your eyes flicking between Daemon and Rhaenyra, measuring their reactions. “Our purpose was—and still is—balance. The world must be in balance, or it risks falling into chaos. The dragons of Valyria were a force of nature, powerful and wild. But when they were allowed to spread unchecked, to conquer and dominate, the balance was threatened.”

Rhaenyra leans forward slightly, her brow furrowed in thought. “And now? What is your purpose here, in Westeros? You say you seek balance, but what does that mean for my house? For my children?”

You turn your gaze to her, your expression softening slightly as you consider your words carefully. “The balance is delicate, Queen Rhaenyra. It is not my intention to see the dragons of Westeros wiped out. That would tip the scales too far in the other direction. The dragons are a part of this world, just as you are, just as I am. But if they are allowed to overwhelm this continent, to destroy all in their path, or if they are allowed to die out entirely, the balance will be lost. And when the balance is lost, it is not just the dragons that suffer—it is the entire world.”

Daemon’s eyes narrow as he considers your words, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, though he makes no move to draw it. “So you would see yourself as some kind of guardian, then? A protector of the balance? And what if that means turning against the very dragons you claim to protect?”

You meet his challenge with a steady gaze. “If it comes to that, Prince Daemon, then so be it. But understand this—my purpose is not to hunt dragons for sport or to seek vengeance for old wrongs. My purpose is to ensure that the world does not fall into chaos. If that means working with the dragons and their riders to maintain the balance, then that is what I will do.”

Rhaenyra exchanges a glance with Daemon, her expression one of deep contemplation. “And what would you ask of us, then?” she inquires, her tone thoughtful, though there is a note of steel beneath it. “What role do you see House Targaryen playing in this balance you speak of?”

You take a deep breath, your gaze steady as you address both of them. “House Targaryen is at the center of the storm that is coming. The dragons you command are both a weapon and a symbol, and their power must be wielded wisely. I offer you an alliance, a way to ensure that power is used to preserve the balance, rather than disrupt it.”

Daemon raises an eyebrow, his skepticism still evident. “And if we refuse?”

You smile faintly, a hint of something ancient and knowing in your expression. “Then the balance will be lost. And I will do what must be done to restore it, with or without your cooperation.”

Silence falls over the room, the weight of your words sinking in. Rhaenyra’s eyes flicker with a mix of emotions—fear, determination, and something akin to respect. She finally rises from her chair, stepping toward you, her gaze unwavering.

“You speak of balance, but know this—we are not easily swayed, and we do not take threats lightly,” she says, her voice strong and clear. “But if you are truly here to preserve this balance, then we will consider your offer. For the sake of our children, and for the future of this realm.”

You incline your head slightly, acknowledging her words. “That is all I ask, Queen Rhaenyra. Consider my offer, and know that I am not your enemy. Not unless you make me one.”

Daemon watches you closely, his hand still resting on his sword, but for now, he remains silent, his thoughts unreadable.

Rhaenyra turns to him, her expression one of quiet resolve. “We will speak more of this, Daemon. But for now, we must be cautious. This alliance may be what we need to ensure the survival of our house.”

Daemon nods slowly, his gaze still locked on you. “Very well,” he says, his voice low and thoughtful. “But know this, Lady Y/N—if you betray us, if you threaten what is ours, you will find that dragons are not so easily tamed.”

You smile slightly, a knowing glint in your eyes. “Nor are Dragonslayers, Prince Daemon. But I hope it does not come to that.”

With that, the tension in the room begins to ease, though the underlying unease remains. The fire crackles softly in the hearth, and the storm outside continues to rage, a reminder that the true storm has only just begun.

The night has settled over Dragonstone with a profound stillness, the earlier storm having finally exhausted itself. The air is cool and crisp, carrying the scent of the sea, and above, the sky is a vast canvas of stars, twinkling like distant, forgotten fires. The castle itself is quiet, the flames of the torches flickering softly in their sconces, casting long shadows across the ancient stone.

Rhaenyra finds herself drawn to the open balcony, her steps light as she moves through the corridors, her thoughts still heavy with the weight of the day’s revelations. As she approaches, she sees you standing there, your back to her, gazing up at the night sky with a stillness that almost seems inhuman. The soft light of the stars bathes you in an ethereal glow, and for a moment, Rhaenyra is struck by your presence. There is something otherworldly about you, a beauty that is both mesmerizing and unsettling, even to one of Targaryen blood, who is no stranger to the idea of beings who are not entirely of this world.

Your figure is tall and graceful, your hair catching the faint light as it moves gently in the breeze. Your clothes, simple yet elegant, seem almost to blend with the shadows, as if you are a part of the night itself. There is an air of timelessness about you, something ancient and enduring, and it stirs a deep curiosity within Rhaenyra, a need to understand the enigma that is Y/N.

You speak before she can announce her presence, your voice soft but clear, carrying the weight of knowledge and memory. “It is said that my people came from those stars,” you begin, still gazing upward, your eyes tracing the patterns in the sky. “Long ago, when the world was young, their ship crumbled down in fire, crashing into what would become the Valyrian Freehold. Can you imagine it, Rhaenyra? A ship that sails among the stars, crossing the vast emptiness between worlds?”

Rhaenyra pauses at your words, her breath catching as she considers the image you’ve painted. The idea is both wondrous and terrifying, something beyond the scope of anything she has ever known. She steps closer, her eyes moving from your figure to the sky above, trying to see what you see.

“It’s a beautiful thought,” she says softly, “but also a frightening one. The idea that something so vast, so unknowable, could exist out there. Or worse, that there might be nothing at all. We would be so small… so insignificant.”

You finally turn to face her, your eyes meeting hers with a look that is both kind and ancient, as if you hold secrets that span the ages. “That is the truth of it, isn’t it? The vastness of the universe, the endless expanse of stars… it can make one feel so very small. All the battles we fight, all the kingdoms we build… in the end, they are but whispers in the wind compared to the forces that drive this world and all the others.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze softens as she looks at you, the intensity of your words resonating deep within her. She takes another step closer, her voice tinged with gratitude as she speaks. “I wanted to thank you… for what you did for Lucerys. You saved my son’s life. For that, I am in your debt.”

You incline your head slightly, acknowledging her thanks with a faint smile. “What I did was just,” you reply simply, as if there could be no other course of action. “The boy’s life was not meant to end that day.”

Rhaenyra studies you, her curiosity growing, fueled by the mysteriousness that surrounds you. She has faced dragons and men alike, but there is something about you that captivates her in a way she does not fully understand. “You said you were the last of your kind,” she begins, her voice gentle but probing. “Does that mean you have no family left?”

You turn back to the sky, your expression unreadable as you consider her question. “There are a few others of my order,” you say after a moment, your voice touched with a hint of melancholy. “They are scattered across the world, trying to survive as best they can. But they are not of my blood. My true family… they are gone.”

Rhaenyra feels a pang of sympathy at your words, a sudden connection to the pain you carry. She knows the weight of loss, the emptiness it leaves behind. “I am sorry,” she says quietly, her voice filled with genuine compassion. “To be the last of your kind… it must be a heavy burden.”

You nod slightly, your gaze distant as you continue to stare at the stars. “It is,” you admit, your voice softening with the weight of memory. “But it is the burden I was born to bear. The last of my bloodline, the last of those who once stood against the might of dragons. My family was everything to me… and now, they are nothing but memories and dust.”

Rhaenyra steps closer, standing beside you now, her gaze also turning upward to the stars. She feels a strange sense of kinship with you, this woman who has seen so much, who carries so much pain within her. “I understand what it is to lose those you love,” she says quietly, her voice filled with a sadness that mirrors your own. “I have lost many, and I fear I may lose more before this is over.”

You turn to her, your eyes searching hers, seeing the strength and sorrow within her. “That is the way of the world, Rhaenyra,” you say softly, your tone both comforting and resigned. “We are all bound by the same fate—loss, pain, and eventually, death. But it is what we do with the time we have, the choices we make, that define us. We must find the strength to carry on, even when all seems lost.”

Rhaenyra nods, her heart heavy with the truth of your words. She takes a deep breath, trying to steady herself, to find the resolve she needs to face the challenges ahead. “I will do what I must,” she says, her voice filled with quiet determination. “For my family, for my children… for the future of this realm.”

You give her a small, understanding smile, a flicker of something almost like pride in your eyes. “You have the strength within you, Rhaenyra Targaryen,” you say, your voice firm with conviction. “I see it, just as I see the stars above. You are meant to be more than a queen—you are meant to be a force that shapes the world.”

Rhaenyra feels a surge of emotion at your words, a mix of fear, hope, and a deep, unspoken bond with this woman who seems to understand her better than anyone. She looks back at you, her gaze filled with both gratitude and a growing respect. “And what of you, Y/N?” she asks softly. “What is your place in this world, now that you are the last of your kind?”

You turn away from the stars to meet her gaze once more, your expression resolute. “My place is wherever I am needed,” you say simply. “I will do what must be done to preserve the balance, to ensure that this world does not fall into chaos. Whether that means standing beside you, or against you, remains to be seen.”

Rhaenyra nods slowly, understanding the gravity of your words. She feels a deep respect for you, for the strength and resolve you carry, and she knows that your path and hers are now intertwined, whether by fate or by choice. 

For a moment, the two of you stand together in silence, gazing up at the stars, each lost in your own thoughts, yet connected by the shared understanding of the burdens you bear. The night is a vast and heavy dread of what lies ahead, but in this moment, there is a sense of calm, of quiet resolution, as if the stars themselves have blessed this fragile alliance.

The morning sun has risen over Dragonstone, casting a warm, golden glow across the ancient stone walls and the restless sea beyond. The storm of the previous night has left the air fresh and crisp, with only a few lingering clouds on the horizon. The castle is stirring with life, as servants go about their duties and the guards stand watchful at their posts.

You are standing in the courtyard, the early light catching in your hair, giving it a strange, almost ethereal sheen. You are calm, composed, your posture relaxed as you watch the sea, seemingly lost in thought. The events of the previous night, the tension, and the conversations have left their mark, but you show no outward sign of it. You stand there, a figure of quiet strength, almost as if you belong to another time, another world.

Luke approaches you cautiously, his small feet making soft sounds against the stone. He is dressed in simple, practical clothing, appropriate for the heir of a noble house, but his expression is one of nervousness and gratitude. His young face is still pale from the fear of his encounter at Storm's End, but there is also determination in his eyes, a resolve to confront what haunts him.

He stops a few paces away from you, hesitant at first. “Lady Y/N,” he begins, his voice small but earnest. “I… I wanted to thank you. For what you did at Storm’s End. You saved my life.”

You turn to him, a gentle smile curving your lips as you look down at the boy. There is a kindness in your eyes that seems to ease his nerves, though the depth of your gaze still holds a mystery that he cannot quite grasp. “You owe me no thanks, young prince,” you say softly, your voice steady and warm. “I did what was just.”

Luke swallows, glancing down at the ground for a moment before looking back up at you. “But… Aemond,” he continues, his voice trembling slightly at the name. “He won’t forget what you did. He’ll come after you. He won’t stop until… until he gets what he wants.”

You regard him with calm assurance, unbothered by the warning. There is a quiet power in the way you stand, as if the threats of men and dragons alike hold no sway over you. “Let him come,” you reply, your tone even, as if discussing something as mundane as the weather. “Aemond Targaryen is not the first to seek revenge against me, nor will he be the last. I have faced dragons before, and I have survived them. If he wishes to challenge me, then he will learn that some battles are not so easily won.”

Luke looks at you with a mixture of awe and confusion, struggling to understand the depth of your confidence. He is young, and the world is still a place of fear and uncertainty to him, but your words carry a weight that he cannot ignore. “But… aren’t you afraid?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

You tilt your head slightly, considering the question with a faint smile. “Fear is a natural thing, young prince,” you say gently. “But I have learned that there are things far greater and more terrifying than a man or his dragon. We are all small in the grand scheme of things, and what we fear today may be forgotten tomorrow. What matters is how we face that fear—whether we let it control us, or whether we rise above it.”

Luke nods slowly, taking in your words. There is a wisdom in them that speaks to him, even if he doesn’t fully understand it yet. He looks up at you with a newfound respect, feeling a little braver, a little stronger in your presence. “I’ll remember that,” he says softly, his voice filled with a quiet determination.

As you and Luke speak, Rhaenyra watches from a distance, her eyes flicking toward you every so often. She stands near one of the arches that lead out to the courtyard, her gaze following the interaction between you and her son. There is something in the way she observes you—a mixture of curiosity, admiration, and perhaps a touch of something more that she doesn’t fully acknowledge, even to herself.

Rhaenyra notices the ease with which you speak to Luke, the way your presence seems to calm him, to give him strength. There is a grace in your movements, a calm assurance that draws her attention, almost as if you are a beacon of light in the chaos that surrounds them all. She sees the way Luke looks up at you, his young face filled with awe, and she cannot help but feel the same pull, the same captivation.

She remembers the conversation from the night before, the way you spoke of balance, of the vastness of the universe and the insignificance of their struggles in the grand scheme of things. It had left her feeling both humbled and intrigued, as if she were standing on the edge of some great revelation, something that could change everything she thought she knew.

But now, as she watches you with her son, she sees another side of you—a protector, a guide, someone who understands the fears of a boy and can ease them with nothing more than a few well-chosen words. It is a quality that Rhaenyra cannot help but admire, and it deepens the connection she feels toward you, a bond that is growing stronger with each passing moment.

Luke takes a deep breath, standing a little taller now as he looks up at you. “Thank you, Lady Y/N,” he says, his voice more confident this time. “For everything.”

You nod, giving him a reassuring smile. “You are a brave young man, Luke. Never forget that. The world is a dangerous place, but you have the strength within you to face whatever comes. Trust in that.”

Luke smiles, a small, genuine smile that lights up his face, and then he turns to go, feeling a little more at peace with the world. As he walks away, he glances back at you one last time, as if to hold onto the strength you have given him.

Rhaenyra steps forward as Luke leaves, approaching you with a mixture of caution and curiosity. “He admires you,” she says softly, her voice carrying a note of gratitude and something more, something she does not name.

You turn to her, your expression thoughtful as you meet her gaze. “He is a good boy,” you reply. “He will grow into a strong man, one who will carry the weight of his name with honor. But he is still young, and the world is full of challenges he has yet to face.”

Rhaenyra nods, her eyes lingering on your face, taking in the details of your features, the way the light plays across your skin. There is something almost hypnotic about you, something that draws her in, and she finds herself feeling a connection that she cannot fully explain. “I can see why he admires you,” she says softly, her voice tinged with both respect and something deeper, something that stirs within her like the rising tide.

You hold her gaze, your expression unreadable, but there is a softness in your eyes, a recognition of the connection that is forming between the two of you. “And I can see why you care for him so deeply,” you reply, your voice gentle, almost tender. “He is your son, your legacy. You have given him strength, Rhaenyra, just as you will need to give him guidance in the days to come.”

Rhaenyra nods again, feeling a surge of emotion at your words. There is a bond forming between you, something that goes beyond mere friendship or alliance. It is a connection born of shared understanding, of mutual respect, and perhaps even of something more, something that neither of you is ready to name just yet.

For a moment, the two of you stand there in the courtyard, the world around you falling away as you share a quiet, unspoken understanding. The sun continues to rise, casting its golden light across the castle, and in that light, the bond between you and Rhaenyra grows stronger, deepening with every passing moment.

And in the distance, the sea continues to churn, its waves crashing against the shore, a reminder that the world is vast and full of challenges. But in this moment, on this morning, there is peace, and there is a connection.

[velvetinks]

Stuck in the Storm

Joel Miller x f!Reader

warning: Joel and reader get stuck in a storm and things get pretty heated — rough sex, dirty talk, and lots of intense feelings.

The sky was an angry bruise, dark and swollen with thunderclouds that spat rain in torrents. The wind howled, rattling the shutters of the cabin nestled deep in the woods. Outside, the storm had trapped Joel. No way to go, no safe passage until the morning. Just the fire, the cold, and the relentless roar of the tempest.

Joel sat slumped by the hearth, boots kicked off, sleeves rolled up, his scars and calluses catching the flicker of the flames. His eyes, sharp and haunted, were fixed on the fire, but you could see the weight pressing on his shoulders, years of survival, of loss, of constant fighting just to stay alive.

The door suddenly groaned open, slamming against the wall, and you stumbled inside, soaked to the bone. Water dripped from your hair in rivulets, soaking the faded shirt clinging to your skin. You shivered, the cold biting through the wet fabric.

Joel’s eyes caught you immediately, hard and assessing, but there was something softer beneath that gruff exterior, a flicker of relief that you were safe.

“You made it,” he said, voice low and rough like gravel.

You nodded, teeth chattering. Without a word, Joel reached out, his big hands rough and sure as they grabbed the hem of your shirt, peeling it off over your head despite the chill in the room. His fingers brushed over your damp skin, tracing the curves of your collarbones, the swell of your chest. The heat from the fire mixed with the cold still clinging to you, sending shivers down your spine.

Joel pulled you close, his broad chest warm against your back. His breath was heavy in your ear, ragged from the storm and something more, something urgent. The scent of wood smoke and leather mixed with the sharp tang of rain.

“You shouldn’t be out in this,” he growled softly.

You didn’t answer, your hands sliding over his strong arms, pulling him tighter. His lips found your neck, pressing slow, rough kisses against the skin. His teeth grazed lightly, a teasing nip that made you gasp.

Joel’s hands slid under your soaked shirt, warm skin replacing the cold fabric. His touch was possessive, demanding, as if the storm wasn’t the only thing threatening to break loose tonight. He grunted low in his throat, pressing into you, his body taut with need.

The fire crackled, casting flickering shadows on the walls, painting the two of you in gold and darkness. Joel’s lips left your neck to trail along your jaw, then down to your collarbone. His mouth was rough, insistent, as his hands roamed lower, fingers slipping beneath your jeans, brushing over your hips, your thighs.

Your breath caught, heart pounding. The storm outside was wild, but the heat between you was a different kind of storm, one that pulsed and roared in your veins.

Joel’s mouth found yours at last, fierce and demanding. His tongue tangled with yours, tasting, claiming. His hands gripped your waist like he was holding on for dear life, grounding himself to you in the chaos.

You pressed against him, needing him as much as he needed you. The storm had trapped you here, but it wasn’t the storm you feared. It was the raw hunger in Joel’s eyes, the desperate need he usually hid behind a hard shell.

His hands slid lower, fingertips tracing the curve of your hips, the small of your back, until he tugged you closer still. You could feel the hardness pressing through his worn jeans, a fire kindling deep inside him.

Joel’s voice was a rough whisper, almost a growl. “You’re mine tonight.”

You shivered, nodding against his mouth, your fingers digging into his back.

He lifted you easily, carrying you to the worn couch, laying you down gently despite the urgency in his touch. The firelight danced over his bare chest as he shed his shirt, revealing scars, muscles hardened by years of fighting.

Joel’s hands mapped your body with slow reverence, memorizing every inch of wet skin exposed to the warm air. His mouth followed, kissing a trail from your collarbone down to the swell of your breasts, making you arch beneath him.

The storm outside was distant now, drowned out by the pounding of your heart and the fierce rhythm of his lips and hands exploring, claiming.

Joel’s touch was both rough and tender, demanding and protective. The weight of the world fell away in this moment, just you and him, tangled together against the storm.

His hands found the waistband of your jeans, slowly, deliberately slipping inside to touch bare skin, sending jolts of heat through your body. You gasped, gripping his shoulders as he pressed harder, needing more.

Joel’s eyes met yours, dark and fierce. “You okay?” His voice was low, but there was something tender beneath the roughness.

You nodded, breathless.

He smiled then a rare, soft curve that melted the hard lines of his face before pulling you into him, deeper, harder, like he was making up for every lonely night lost to the apocalypse.

The storm raged outside, but inside, the only sound was the ragged symphony of your bodies finding each other, desperate and hungry, alive in the quiet chaos.

[dieseldame]

𝗠𝗲𝘁𝗮𝗹 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗙𝗹𝗲𝘀𝗵

Sevika x Mechanic! Reader

𝗪𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁: 2,2K

𝗦𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: Sevika arrives at your workshop late at night, battered and bruised from a brutal fight, seeking urgent repairs for her damaged mechanical arm.

𝗡𝗼𝘁𝗲𝘀: Angst, comfort, hurt/comfort, slow-burn, first kiss, mutual respect, found family vibes, detailed mechanics, strong female lead, emotional vulnerability.

In the Lower City, time doesn’t move the way it does above. There’s no rhythm here—only chaos. Machines wheeze and hiss, drunk men stumble out of alleyways, and the Shimmer lights the night with its sickening purple glow. A place where even silence feels heavy, where danger coils in the shadows like something alive.

And yet, there’s always the hum of a machine shop somewhere—your machine shop.

Most nights, the noise keeps you company. The grinding of gears, the hiss of steam, the soft vibration of metal meeting metal. You’ve carved a life out of this grimy corner of Zaun: hands blackened by oil, skin marred by burns, heart stitched together with the same steel you shape. You mend what others break, piecing together scraps to give back function. If there’s one thing the Lower City respects, it’s those who can make things work.

But not tonight.

The shop is quiet. Tools lie idle on the workbench, scattered like forgotten relics. You sit slumped against the wall, head heavy, breath shallow—your body aches, but it’s nothing you can’t endure. A stitched wound at your temple pulses faintly; the bruises across your ribs feel tight when you inhale too deeply. It was worth it, though, for what you’d built.

The machine gleams under dim lamplight.

A marvel of metal and innovation, an appendage worthy of the woman it’s meant for. State-of-the-art sensors—so small you nearly went blind assembling them—thread through the new limb like nerve endings. You’d spent months on it. Scavenging parts. Trading favors. Getting into fights when “negotiation” failed. All for this: a piece of art wrapped in cold steel, capable of letting her feel again.

Capable of giving Sevika back something she’d lost.

She doesn’t know. She wouldn’t have let you—wouldn’t have wanted you to bleed for her, as she would say. Sevika was stubborn like that. Built of sharp edges and gruff words.

And yet she always came to you.

As if the broken parts of her knew where they belonged.

The door bangs open, hard enough to rattle the hinges. You don’t jump—Sevika never knocks. She storms in like a thundercloud, leaving the door yawning wide behind her. Smoke curls from a half-burned cigar clamped between her teeth.

— Thought I’d find you sleeping. — she says, her voice rough, but she pauses when she sees you.

Her sharp eyes track the bruises at your jaw, the bloodstained stitches above your brow, the stiff way you’re sitting. A subtle shift passes across her face—something unreadable, but heavy.

You lift a brow. — You’re late.

Sevika scoffs and strides inside, her boots loud against the floorboards. The flickering lamplight catches on the dark red smear down her cheek and the gouge in her mechanical arm—a deep tear through the metal, sparking faintly with exposed wires. She looks worse for wear: hair tangled, coat torn at the sleeve, shoulders tight with the lingering strain of a fight.

You stand, biting back a wince as your ribs protest. — What happened?

She shrugs off her coat with a grunt, tossing it over the back of a chair. Her ruined arm whirs as she flexes it, and for a moment, you think she might try to downplay the damage. Instead, her lips pull into a humorless smirk.

— Some idiot thought he’d try his luck.

— Clearly, he didn’t win.

Sevika snorts, the sound dark and pleased. — Didn’t even come close.

You’ve heard this before—her coming in late, bruised and bloodied but alive. You’ve always admired that about her: the way she endures. Survives. Sevika’s not invincible, but she wears her damage like armor.

Tonight, though, something feels different. You can see it in her posture, the heaviness in the set of her jaw.

— Sit, — you tell her. — Let me look at it.

She does, with minimal grumbling, lowering herself onto a stool by the workbench. Her damaged arm hangs limply at her side, and you kneel beside it, fingers brushing the jagged metal edges. Sparks hiss where the wiring has frayed. It’s worse than you thought—too far gone to repair tonight.

— Damn it. — you mutter.

— Don’t hold back on my account. — Sevika drawls.

You shoot her a dry look before rising to grab your tools. The lamp casts your shadow long across the room as you search for something—anything—that could be a temporary fix. Sevika watches you, one brow raised, her good hand braced against her knee.

— I can’t patch this up, — you admit after a moment. — Not tonight. The damage is too deep.

Sevika grunts, not surprised, but her eyes narrow slightly. — Then what are you waiting for? Find another way.

You hesitate. It’s now or never.

— You’re right. I do have another way.

She frowns, leaning back slightly as you turn and cross the room. Your hand moves to the edge of the sheet that covers your secret—months of work, pain, and sacrifice hidden beneath it. You look at her then, at the woman who sits in your shop like she belongs there, like there’s nowhere else she’d rather be.

— Consider it an early birthday present.

And then you pull the sheet away.

The room seems to hold its breath.

The new arm lies on the table—a masterpiece in steel and precision. It shines silver under the light, sleeker than Sevika’s current appendage, but heavier somehow. Something about the design demands respect. The plating has been shaped to fit her perfectly, every joint reinforced and seamless.

But the real wonder lies in the small, intricate workings beneath the surface. The sensors, invisible to the eye, hum faintly with potential energy. Capable of transmitting touch—real touch. Warmth. Pressure. All the things Sevika’s flesh had lost.

You’d made her a gift.

Sevika doesn’t move. Her eyes rake over the arm, slow and careful, and for the first time in a long while, she looks… surprised.

— You made this? — Her voice is low, quieter than before.

You nod, throat suddenly dry. — For you.

She doesn’t speak. You’re not sure if that’s a good or bad thing, so you keep talking, filling the silence. — The sensors are custom-built. Took me weeks just to get the design right. They’ll let you feel things again. Temperature, textures. All of it. — You glance at her, searching her face for a reaction. — I thought maybe… you’d like that.

Sevika’s gaze drags from the arm to you. Slowly, her expression shifts, softening in a way that feels dangerous. Like something she doesn’t let anyone see.

— You didn’t just make this, — she says, voice low. — Where did you get the parts?

You look away.

Her eyes narrow. — Tell me.

— I got them, — you reply, a little too quickly. — That’s what matters.

Sevika rises then, moving toward you with a deliberate slowness that makes your pulse quicken. She’s too close now, towering over you with that sharp, unreadable look.

Her gaze drops to the bruises at your jaw, the healing wound at your temple. She takes you in like a puzzle she’s solving piece by piece—her good hand lifting to tilt your chin, forcing you to meet her eyes.

— You fought for this. — It’s not a question.

You swallow hard. — Zaun’s not exactly a charity.

— Idiot, — she mutters, though her voice lacks any bite. Her thumb grazes the edge of your jaw—light, careful, as though testing her own ability to be gentle. — You’re lucky you didn’t get yourself killed.

— It was worth it. — you say softly.

She blinks. For a long moment, Sevika just looks at you—searching, measuring, as though trying to understand something she doesn’t have the words for. You hold her gaze, unflinching.

— You’re a fool. — she says finally.

— Maybe.

Her hand drops, but she doesn’t step back.

— Sevika, — you start, — I just —

— You didn’t have to do this for me.

— I wanted to.

The words hang between you, raw and undeniable. Sevika stares at you, something unspoken passing through her eyes. You’ve seen her fight. Seen her spit blood and laugh through cracked teeth. But this is different. This is vulnerability—quiet and unarmored.

— You’re too soft for this city, — she mutters, but there’s no malice in it. Only something close to affection.

You smirk faintly. — And you’re too stubborn to accept a gift.

She snorts, shaking her head, but her mouth twitches at the corner—an almost-smile.

— Sit back down, — you tell her. — Let me fit it.

Sevika hesitates, then moves. When she lowers herself onto the stool again, you begin the careful process of removing her damaged arm, piece by piece, before fitting the new one in its

place.

The process is slow, deliberate. You work in silence, your fingers moving with the precision of someone who knows their craft intimately. Sevika doesn’t speak, but you can feel her watching you—her gaze heavy, lingering on your bruises, the faint tremble in your hands as you lock the new appendage into place.

The final connection clicks with a soft hum, and the arm comes alive. Its joints shift smoothly, a near-perfect mimicry of organic movement. Sevika flexes her fingers, and the sensors respond, lighting up faintly as they adjust to her.

— How does it feel? — you ask, watching her carefully.

Her brows furrow slightly as she tests the arm, running her metal fingers over the edge of the workbench. The faintest smile pulls at her lips when she feels the texture of the rough wood beneath her touch.

— Strange, — she admits. — I didn’t think… — She trails off, her voice softening. — I didn’t think I’d feel anything like this again.

Your chest tightens. — Good strange?

Sevika looks at you then, her expression open in a way that feels rare, like she’s letting her guard slip just for a moment. — Yeah. Good strange.

Relief washes over you, and you take a step back, suddenly feeling the weight of the night settle over you. Your ribs ache, your head pounds faintly, but it’s worth it—worth every bruise, every drop of blood.

— You’re something else. — Sevika mutters, shaking her head.

— What do you mean?

— You fight, you bleed, and then you do this? — She gestures to the arm with her good hand. — You didn’t have to. Hell, you shouldn’t have. But you did it anyway.

You shrug, trying to play it off. — Like I said, I wanted to.

She leans forward, her new arm resting against her thigh, the metal gleaming under the lamplight. — You’re not Zaun, you know that? Not like the rest of us.

You raise a brow. — What does that mean?

Sevika smirks faintly, but there’s no edge to it. — It means you’ve got more heart than sense.

You huff a laugh, shaking your head. — And you’re just figuring this out now?

Her gaze softens, her smirk fading into something quieter, more serious. — I noticed it the first time I walked in here.

The words catch you off guard, and for a moment, neither of you speaks. The weight of her confession—small but significant—hangs in the air.

— Sevika…

She stands suddenly, towering over you, her new arm flexing as she tests its range of motion. Then she reaches out, her metal hand brushing your cheek—light, tentative, as though she’s still adjusting to the sensation. The coolness of the metal contrasts with the warmth of her touch, and your breath hitches.

— You went through hell for this, — she murmurs, her voice low and rough. — For me.

You swallow hard, your heart pounding in your chest. — I told you… it was worth it.

Her lips twitch into a faint smile, but her eyes stay on yours, searching, unreadable. — You’re a fool. — she says again, softer this time.

— Maybe. — you whisper.

For a moment, the world seems to stop. The noise of the Lower City fades, the sharp scent of oil and metal dulls, and all that exists is Sevika—her presence, her touch, her quiet intensity.

And then she leans in.

Her lips brush yours, firm yet hesitant, like she’s testing the waters. It’s not soft, not sweet—this is Sevika, after all. It’s rough around the edges, but there’s something real in it, something that sets your pulse racing and makes the ache in your ribs worth forgetting.

When she pulls back, her gaze holds yours, unflinching.

— Thank you. — she says, the words rough, almost grudging, but filled with a sincerity that takes your breath away.

You smile, your chest tight with something you can’t quite name. — Anytime.

Sevika chuckles faintly, shaking her head. — You’re gonna get yourself killed one day, you know that?

— Not if you’ve got my back. — you reply, grinning.

She smirks, and for the first time all night, she looks at ease. — Damn right I do.

As she steps back, flexing her new arm with an almost childlike curiosity, you can’t help but watch her, a warmth spreading through your chest. The bruises, the fights, the exhaustion—it’s all worth it.

Because this is Sevika.

And for her, you’d do it all over again.

ㅤㅤㅤ

[healinghyunjin]

Blossom

Pairing: Kim Seungmin x Reader (fem)

Genre: crack, smut, fluff; historical!AU, magic!AU, fuck-or-die(ish)!AU, enemies(ish)-to-lovers!AU, 18+

Word Count: 6.5k

Warnings: swearing, explicit sexual content, unprotected sex, outdated sexual norms/attitudes, public sex.

Author’s Note: After another ~long~ hiatus... I'm back! The premise of this fic is heavily inspired by a super old, now deleted AO3 fic I once read for a now dead fandom (showing my age here for you children lol). I love navigating these forced interaction scenarios - so please let me know your thoughts! Feedback and reblogs are love as always - and I now have a Ko-Fi that I would really appreciate contributions to as well (linked in my Bio)! Thank you for your support~

Summary: But what this ritual required of you, the High Sorceress, was not just some spellwork or incantations - no, this ritual involved you losing your virginity. To your King - to Seungmin. On the High Table. In front of the entirety of the royal court. 

You were sure you looked like a thundercloud - dark skirts swirling, white sparks crackling from your fingertips - as you stalked through the castle towards the royal chambers.

“Milady!” Changbin chased after you, your long-suffering knight trying his best to head you off. “His Majesty is in a council meeting right now,” he huffed out. “Maybe we can seek an audience another time?”

“I don’t ‘seek audiences’ from His Majesty, Bin,” the title grating in your mouth. “I talk to Kim Seungmin when I want to talk to Kim Seungmin - especially when he wants to pretend like I don’t exist.” 

You were laying it on a bit thick. But you were the High Sorceress. You had no insignificant amount of pride yourself, and nothing made your temper flare like Seungmin outmaneuvering you - exactly like he’d just done. 

You arrived at the heavy wrought iron doors of Seungmin’s private chambers and, with a swish of your palm, sent the doors flying open, almost rattling off their hinges. A tableful of lords turned around to gawk at you - but you only had eyes for the man at the head of the table. He leaned back in his chair, watching you stalk into the room with a barely concealed grin. “And there she is.” The faint note of humor in Seungmin’s voice made you want to wring his neck.

“Your Majesty,” you greeted in the frostiest voice you could muster up. 

Seungmin smirked. “You only use my proper title when you’re fit to rip my throat out, Lady Sorceress.” 

You ignored the barb. “We have an urgent matter to discuss, my lord.”

One of the old, stodgy lords piped up in a reedy, disapproving voice. “What can take precedence over matters of council and state, Sorceress?”

“Matters of national security, Lord Park.” Seungmin rose to his feet, making everyone else jump up to theirs as well. “Council is adjourned, my lords.”

You held your head high as the councilmen streamed out of the room around you, some barely bothering to disguise their resentment. Seungmin sauntered his way around the table, coming to stand right in front of you. You scowled as you inevitably had to tilt your head back just to look into his amused face. 

“You’ve been avoiding me, my witch.” 

“I wasn’t avoiding you,” you snapped back, cringing at how petulant you sounded even to your own ears. 

Of course you’d been avoiding him. Ever since he’d slapped those scrolls down on your worktable a week ago now, you hadn’t been able to think about him without flushing, let alone be in the same room as him. It would be for the good of the people, he’d announced crisply, looking so tall and prim and regal as he towered over you sitting on your little garden stool. I’m sure you won’t see any harm in it. You’d scanned through the parchment, ignoring the scribe’s careful translations to parse the ancient runes yourself. It outlined an ancient magical ritual to replenish the barrier wards for your nation if they ever fell - which they had. But what this ritual required of you, the High Sorceress, was not just some spellwork or incantations - no, this ritual involved you losing your virginity. To your King - to Seungmin. On the High Table. In front of the entirety of the royal court. 

Seungmin snapped you out of your thoughts with a brief “Ahem,” quirking a skeptical eyebrow at you. “I haven’t seen you in a week. Every time I’ve gone to your rooms since the day I gave you those scrolls, you’re conveniently ‘not there,’ and that poor fool,” he flicked a thumb over to point at Changbin, “is stuck trying - and failing - to make excuses for you.”

You shot a glare over at Changbin - he didn’t look sufficiently embarrassed of himself, but you would deal with that later. “Well, I’m here now, my lord. And I’d appreciate it if you could tell me how you unilaterally decided to add ‘Publicly Deflowering the High Witch’ to your agenda for this evening?”

You’d hoped to embarrass Seungmin, browbeat him - like you’d clearly done to Changbin, judging from the choking sound that came from next to you. But you’d underestimated your enemy. 

Seungmin sighed, clasping his arms behind his back. “Because we don’t have a choice in the matter, my dear witch. If you’d allowed me the chance to actually talk to you this week, I could have convinced you of that, and you'd have had time to prepare yourself. But - you didn’t, and so, I had to force your hand.” You shuffled uncomfortably under his piercing stare as he continued. “I know you translated the runes yourself - you know just as well as I do that this ritual needs to be done soon. Now, if we don’t want the Eastern Army taking advantage and invading us as soon as they muster up the forces. But unlike you, my lady - I don’t have the luxury to pretend like this problem will go away if I ignore it.” 

And that was exactly what you hated most about Kim Seungmin. He was smart and logical to a fault - enough so that he’d trained himself to not let pesky emotions get in the way of doing what needed to be done. You on the other hand… the less said the better on that front. 

Before you could snark something back at him or even just bristle up, Seungmin stepped away from you, rubbing his hands together. “Now that that’s been settled, I’m sure you have no more objections. Anyways, you have a busy afternoon ahead of you, Lady Sorceress. I’ve sent several maids to your chambers to help ready you for this evening - I’m sure you remember how exact the runes were in terms of preparation.” Seungmin wasn’t even bothering to hide his grin as he dismissed you with a wave of his hand, striding out of the room. 

That patronizing bastard. You briefly contemplated throwing a fireball at his laughing back - but being executed for treason wasn’t exactly the way you intended to go out. 

With a deep, soul-weary sigh, you turned on your heel to leave, resigning yourself to your fate. 

Of course, if you knew exactly how the rest of your afternoon was going to be spent, you might just have thrown that fireball at Seungmin and gotten it over with. 

After that useless showdown, Changbin frogmarched you back to your rooms, handing you off to an actually intimidating keeper - Chaeryeong, your personal maid. But, to your even greater chagrin, she wasn’t alone. As promised, an army of maids descended on you, all charged with different vicious tasks - stripping your skin bare and smooth with hot sugar paste; kneading various herbal, floral unguents into your skin before dunking you into cold and hot baths; brushing your hair out until it fairly gleamed in the fading sunlight. By the time you were passed off to Chaeryeong for her final inspection, you almost didn’t recognize yourself in the mirror. 

Chaeryeong clicked her tongue approvingly as she walked around you, tightening the laces on your virginal white chemise. “You finally look presentable, milady.”

You bristled. “Are you saying I usually don’t?”

“Last week I had to pull a twig out of your hair before sending you down to supper. There isn’t a single dress of yours that doesn’t have mudstains, milady, and you think a splash of cold water every morning or two is enough to care for your skin.” Chaeryeong looked scandalized.

You rolled your eyes. “Well, I’m glad one of us is satisfied with this situation.”

“You’re not?” 

“Why in the name of the Goddess would I be?”

“Sleeping with a man who’s young, tall, handsome, powerful, wealthy,” Chaeryeong giggled as she counted off each word on her fingers, “isn’t the worst thing in the world, milady.” She flicked you a mischievous glance as she smoothly slid to stand behind you. “Especially when the man in question has a major soft spot for you.”

You scoffed. “Kim Seungmin doesn’t have a soft spot for me, Chae. He can't even be in the same room as me without snarking at me - and I can't remember the last time he actually said anything nice to me.”

Chaeryeong’s fingers stilled in your hair as she stared you down in the mirror. “You really believe that, don’t you?” You arched an eyebrow at her in response. She let out a deep sigh. “For such a brilliant witch… you really can be dense.” She shook her head before reaching over to grab flowers to weave into your hair. “I hope you realize - the one thing standing between him and war is you. Most men - especially a King - would have just tossed you onto that table and had their way with you. And maybe they would have begged your forgiveness and understanding afterwards - maybe, if they were worried about you cursing them into oblivion. No one else would have spent a whole week waiting to try and convince you into doing this willingly.”

You opened your mouth to snap something back in your defense... and realized you had nothing to say. 

“See,” Chaeryeong murmured softly. “Sometimes it feels like you’re… willfully blind to His Majesty’s kindness towards you. He’s always treated you with respect - and made sure you’re treated with respect. I wouldn’t take that for granted, my lady - or ignore what’s behind that mask he puts up all the time.” 

As she put the final touches on your hair, you couldn’t help but reflect on Chaeryeong’s words. You had extraordinary freedom and liberties as the High Sorceress…but no, that wasn’t exactly right. You were given extraordinary freedom and liberties as the High Sorceress - by your King. If it wasn’t for his unwavering support for you - against the Council, against any and all reactionary forces - you wouldn't hold any of the power you did. Sure, he riled you up, jerked you around a bit - and you still hated just how easily he could outwit you. But you were being childish to fixate on that - to lose sight of the forest for the trees. 

“And here’s the final touch.” Chaeryeong sidled up to you with a long scrap of silk in her hands - your blindfold. “You’re not allowed to see His Majesty until the ritual starts.” Her quick fingers made short work of fastening it around your head - and being the jerk that she was, she put it on properly tight, making sure you couldn’t see a thing. “Maybe that’ll teach you to let yourself lean on him for once,” she mused, before pulling you up out of your chair with none too gentle hands. 

Chaeryeong, as always, was right. You were completely unmoored by the loss of your sight, limiting your magical abilities too. You were forced to rely completely, like a baby, on Chaeryeong to guide you through the halls to the oldest wing of the castle - and you only realized that you were in front of Seungmin when the two of you came to a sudden halt, a reverent “Your Majesty” coming from her lips. 

This was it. 

Chaeryeong subtly pulled you down into a curtsy, pinching you in the back to make sure you stayed low as she stepped away from your side. From the sound of her sharp footsteps receding down the hall and the lack of any other noise around you, you presumed she’d left - and you were now alone with your King. 

“You may rise.” Seungmin’s amused drawl sounded from somewhere high above your head. Disoriented by your imposed blindness, you stumbled a little as you stood up - but you were caught by warm hands encircling your arms, steadying you on your feet. “How low the high have fallen, hmm?” Such a tease, you thought. But the gentle tone of his voice, the circles his thumbs were rubbing into your arms… he was helping ground you, to put you more at ease - which only made you feel more guilty. 

“My lord,” you started softly - earning a harsh inhale in surprise from Seungmin. “I… I owe you an apology. My behavior earlier today - for this entire week - has been immature and not fitting for a ranking member of your court. Forgive me for my negligence.” You made to dip into a curtsy again - but Seungmin’s grip on your arms tightened, keeping you from lowering yourself. 

There was a heartbeat of silence before Seungmin responded, his voice more tender than you’d ever heard it. “I don’t know what prompted this… change, but - you don’t need to apologize. I knew we both knew this is what must be done, and I knew we were going to eventually do it - but that doesn’t make it any easier for you. You didn’t want this with me, and I know that.”

Why did that last statement sound a false note in your heart? You ignored it in favor of speaking out. “But I’ve spent the past week shirking my duty. You had to force me back in line.”

“And that is my responsibility as King, my sorceress. No harm done.” You could tell that he was leaning down closer to you, his voice loud and clear in your ear. “And remember - neither this kingdom nor I will ever forget this sacrifice.”

There was an oddly charged moment of silence after that statement - which was abruptly broken by the sensation of the ground suddenly falling away from under you. You gasped as surprisingly sturdy arms lifted you up until you were cradled against a lean, hard chest. “Seungmo!” You squeaked, the childhood nickname slipping past your lips. “S-since when were you strong enough to do this?”

There was a pause - you were positive that Seungmin had rolled his eyes at you. “Just because I don’t have bulging biceps like that bodyguard of yours doesn’t mean that I’m a weakling, witch.” 

“Well, it won’t be good to kick things off with you tripping over your feet carrying me in,” you muttered sulkily. 

You couldn’t hold back a shiver as Seungmin tsked, his warm breath ghosting across the sensitive shell of your ear. “Such disrespect for your king? Bold, given that you’re at my mercy for the next hour.” 

“Next hour? That ego of yours is still clearly giant.”

Seungmin let out a husky laugh. “It’s not the size of my ego you should be worried about right now, sweet.” You thumped a useless fist against his chest - even as your core involuntarily clenched and slickened.

There was a ear-ringingly loud blast of trumpets, followed by the creak of the gates to the ancient hall being pushed open. The murmurs and chatter of the crowd awaiting your arrival fell silent, an almost eerie hush settling in as Seungmin strode into the hall. Even with the enormous fire spluttering away in the ancient hearth, the room was always chilly; gooseflesh pimpled your arms, and you almost automatically burrowed closer into Seungmin’s neck for warmth - at least, that’s what you told yourself. The sharp raps of Seungmin’s footsteps against the flagstones came to a halt, and you were securely sat onto a hard surface - the High Table. Your sacrificial altar, you mused to yourself cynically. 

You jumped a little as you felt gentle fingers clasp your hands, giving you a firm squeeze. Those warm fingertips then ghosted across your cheeks, twining through your hair as they searched for the knot of your blindfold. Your heart was bounding in your chest, blood roaring in your ears as Seungmin leaned into you, that familiar, titilatingly musky scent of his flooding your senses as he worked to unravel the tight knot, until the blindfold finally came free. 

You blinked your eyes open to mellow, golden light - and the sight of Seungmin standing over you, watching you carefully with a small, soft smile. The great hall was awash with candlelight, long tapering candles and sticks of smoking perfume burning all around you, throwing the faces of the crowd of onlookers beyond you into shadow - but bathing Seungmin in glorious, warm light. He looked impeccably regal as he stood above you in his smart black leather doublet and swan white shirtsleeves, his royal purple ermine-edged cloak clasped around his throat. His hair was up, brushed off his forehead, and the gold of his royal circlet shone out bright against the ink black of his hair - but the brightest of all were his eyes, warm and deep brown, steady and clear as he - your King, you truly felt down to your bones for the first time - held your gaze. 

Taking a deep breath, you let yourself fall back, the ancient stone of the table icy against your spine. While you couldn’t see any of the spectators surrounding you and Seungmin - the vaulted ceiling of the great hall the only thing in your line of sight - it felt like you could sense their gaze prickling across your skin, weighing you down. But before you could let your mind wander too far, Seungmin was there, leaning over you with those broad, square shoulders, blocking your sight of anything but him. You felt your cheeks flame as his hand came up to cup your face, and  your heart skipped a beat as he pressed a petal soft kiss to your forehead, breathily whispering into your skin. “It will be good, my sweet. Trust me.”

Maybe Chaeryeong was onto something… You searched his eyes, finding so much affection and reassurance beaming back at you that you blinked your own shut - before giving him a brief nod. 

He let his lips drag over to your temple, then down to your cheek, leaving open mouthed kisses in his wake as his lips trailed lower and lower, down your jawline, down your neck - and lower. Your mind reeled, your hands fisting the flimsy material of your gown. This was supposed to be brief and impersonal - you’d even readied a lubrication charm in preparation for the inevitable. But you should have known that Seungmin wouldn’t just do an adequate job like that. You were fighting for your life to stay silent as he added his teeth into the mix, working the thin, sensitive skin of your throat until you felt the sickly sweet pain of a bruise forming. His hand slid down from your cheek so he could softly thumb at the mark - his mark - marring your skin, and when he pressed down just right on the bruise, you whimpered - and watched as his eyes darkened to black. 

From there, he was insatiable. Your hands flew up to his shoulders at the swipe of his tongue against your hardening nipple; they desperately slid to clutch at his hair when he took it whole into his mouth, the wet heat tantalizing even through the cotton of your chemise. He palmed your neglected breast hard, the soft flesh spilling through his fingers. A whine finally tore itself free from your throat, and Seungmin snapped his head up to look at you, lips twisting into a triumphant smirk. “I thought you weren’t going to enjoy this, Lady Sorceress.” His fingers came up to tweak your nipple - hard - as he mouthed carelessly at your other breast, his eyes watching you hungrily as you writhed under his touch. The pleasure carried you away on a hazy cloud of lust, into the dreamland of dangerous possibilities. What would it feel like to have this dumb chemise out of the way, so his fingers and lips could traipse your naked skin? What would it feel like to have the heat of his bare skin pressed up against yours - the weight and friction of his hard chest crushing into your sensitive breasts?

Your attention was yanked back into the land of the living at sudden, discordant noise: gasps and murmurs, you quickly realized, rippling through your audience - for your King was dropping to a knee at your feet, hands sliding with promise up your legs under your chemise. You shot up onto your elbows, staring down at him in horror. “Your Majesty,” you hissed. “This is wanton.”

Seungmin arched an eyebrow. “I’d rather be wanton than have you in pain at my hands.” You felt a traitorous flutter in your chest. “And most importantly - when you have the kingdom’s most powerful woman laid out in front of you... you worship her.” 

Those large, long-fingered hands of his found purchase in the soft skin of your inner thighs, forcing them spread and keeping them spread with that hidden strength of his. He let out a small groan at the sight of your swollen folds, dragging a single, deliberate fingertip down the length of your slit. At the very first touch of his soft lips to your sensitive bundle of nerves, you choked out a moan - and startled as the candles around you all simultaneously popped. From between your legs, Seungmin laughed darkly. “Looks like I won’t need to ask you whether I’ve done a good job,” he said, the sensation of his breath and lips against your core making you squirm with stimulation. His hands slid up to your hips, anchoring you in place as he lapped languidly at your cunt, tongue flicking in and out of your aching entrance, nose rubbing up against your swollen little pearl. 

There was no chance in hell you could stay quiet any more. As a moaning keen spilled forth from your lips, your eyes flicked up to the shadowy figures in the crowd watching you. You’d thought they would be judgmental - critical, gossipy, as people always were in situations like this. Instead… there wasn’t a face you could make out that wasn’t flushed, expression glazed over. Seungmin slid his arms under your legs, yanking you down the table until the base of your spine rested on the very edge of the table, your core putty under his mouth as he supported your weight - and you watched as some woman in the crowd whimpered, biting her lip in response. 

Your head lolled back onto the table, and you started shuddering in Seungmin’s hands. 

“I guess I was wrong about needing an hour.” With a final kiss to your folds, Seungmin rose to his feet, leisurely wiping his mouth on the back of one hand, the other drifting down to the laces of his trousers. “I didn’t anticipate just how thoroughly you would enjoy my attentions, my witch.” Tease. His eyes danced with mirth as you whined in annoyance. You felt the blunt tip of him dragging through your folds, its weight catching deliciously against the tight ring of your entrance. “I’ll start slow,” he murmured, a hand coming up to brace himself above your head. And from the first breach of his length into your walls, you knew you were in trouble. 

“Big,” you gasped out. Seungmin let his free hand run loose over the flesh of your thighs and hips, kneading and caressing and soothing. “Relax for me, sweet - it’ll be easier if you let me in.” His voice was breathy and soft, eyes so warm - daresay loving - as he leaned in over you, covering your body with his. You gave him a small nod, breathing deeply and doing your best to let your body sink into the stone under you. As he carefully, firmly worked the rest of his length into your tight cunt, you couldn’t help but whimper, eyes squeezing shut at the deep, deep stretch of him, your spine arching off the table as your body contorted to accommodate him. “Beautiful,” he murmured, pupils dilated with lust. “Made to take me.” 

And as the sting and discomfort started to morph into the burning, insatiable stretch of pleasure, you were inclined to agree with him. 

“Let me know when I can move, sweet,” he asked, the flat of his hand rubbing soothing circles into your lower belly. “Please,” you rasped out - and the delightedly vicious grin that curled his lips in response only sent another surge of fire through you. Your limbs ached to twine around him, pulling him down into you, imprisoning him between your legs - but you were determined to maintain some public decorum. Seungmin made the decision for you though, salaciously bold as ever as he leaned forward into you, splaying your legs out wide, knees almost to your chest. He tested the waters with a rapid snap of his hips in and out - and the two of you stared at each other with wide eyes at just how deep it all felt in this position. Seungmin’s hips started rocking back and forth, almost as if on their own volition - almost as if they were enchanted - and your hands desperately scrabbled for purchase on the unyielding stone as he started pounding into you. 

Your hips canted up into his, trying to answer his thrusts with your own. And you were clearly doing something right, judging by his drawn out groans. “Mine,” he moaned. As he bore down on you, every thrust ground delicious friction into your bundle of nerves - and Seungmin’s hips were driving into yours at such a punishing pace that you were overwhelmed by stimulation. You were sure the two of you were making an absolute mess, the squelching sounds of him pumping into you only growing louder with every thrust. Just with his lips and nose and tongue, the friction and sensation and pleasure had all already brought you close to the cliff of your peak. You knew it wasn’t going to be much longer now before he dragged you over - but there was something positively strange happening to you. Your pleasure was merely riding the edge of some deeper, powerfully visceral sensation that had you gasping, shivering with every plunging stroke. But Seungmin, your ever-wise, your ever-aware Seungmin, had cottoned onto what was happening to you - and wrapping you tightly up into his arms, he only picked up the pace of his hips. “Let go, sweet,” he eked out. “I’ve got you safe, here - let go, my queen.” And before your mind could even process what he’d just given away, you felt yourself clenching up, eyes squeezing shut and nerves singing in pleasure as you hit your release - the pain of your fingers digging into the broad expanse of his back, the spasms of your tight cunt triggering Seungmin’s release simultaneously, spurts of his hot, thick seed flooding into your core, serving as a balm for your aching walls as he collapsed into your waiting arms. 

Before you could let the waves of pleasure carry away your mind with it, however - your eyes shot open at the gasps and shouts coming from around you. Gold - that was all you could see - a golden bubble encasing you and your King. Seungmin lifted his head up from where it was pillowed on your chest, a look of pure wonder on his face as the two of you watched the bubble slowly float and collapse inwards, coalescing into a glowing yellow orb hovering above all of your heads. The hazy whorls of incense and candle smoke in the air took on a bright golden hue - before it all whooshed outwards in a rapid gust of wind, rattling the windows of the hall as the orb and its golden mist exploded out into the sky . You recognized the magic for what it was - the largest, purest barrier charm you’d ever witnessed. 

You and Seungmin had pulled it off. A giggle of delight squeezed out of your chest, and you let your gaze snap back down to the man resting on his elbows over you. Seungmin was watching you with a small, mysterious smile, panting slightly as he tried to catch his breath. And as you looked back at him… you felt a wave of emotion wash over you, as powerful as if the ground had literally shifted under your feet. An almost unbearable fondness filled your heart as you beheld him - your King, your protector…your lover. 

You had been right about one thing - there would be no going back from this, at least for you. But now you found yourself wondering… why was that such a bad thing?

Ignoring the shuffling footsteps around you as your audience slowly started to disperse, you let your arms wrap around Seungmin, relishing the feeling of his muscles bunching under your touch as he slid his arms in turn around you, helping you to sit upright. His dark eyes were fixed on the place the two of you were joined as he slowly extricated himself from you, the feeling of his sticky seed trickling out from between your legs strange and foreign. That ever intelligent, searching gaze then slowly scanned your body, looking you over head to toe as he tucked himself away in his trousers, before his eyes fluttered shut. Seungmin let out a slow exhale before blinking his eyes open again - and you were startled to see that professional mask of his slide back into place. 

“Up you go,” he murmured, arm sliding around your back as he helped you off the table, supporting you as your legs quailed under your weight. With a few deft pulls, he unfastened his cloak, wrapping it around your shoulders instead. You were thankful for the warmth it provided - and the coverage, you realized, as you noticed the servants hovering at a respectful distance from the two of you. “Give me a second,” Seungmin said before turning away to address his valet and knight-at-arms. 

One of the maids stepped forward, a fan in her hand to put out the few lingering candles. Before you could even hesitate on what to do, she dipped into a low curtsy, bowing her head - to you. “Your Highness,” she breathed out, an almost reverent look on her face as she glanced back up at you. Awkward with the unfamiliar courtesy, you smiled hesitantly, tilting your head at her in acknowledgement. 

How had you misjudged this situation so badly? Part of your hesitation leading up to all of this had been because you’d thought that you’d be made out to be a slag - no better than the King’s kept woman. Why hadn’t you appreciated the power inherent in this? With the spectacular care with which he’d pleasured you, with the demonstration of your magic in front of the whole court, Seungmin had marked you - just as he’d told you with those hungry eyes - out to be the most powerful woman in the kingdom. 

You snapped out of your thoughts to see Seungmin making his way back to stand in front of you. You frowned to see that mask of his still in place, a strange awkwardness in his manner as he addressed you. “I can help you back to your rooms now. Or,” he turned to gesture behind him, “one of the servants can take you if you prefer.”

You arched a critical eyebrow at him. “Could we go to your chambers instead?”

His eyes widened for a second, before you watched understanding wash over his face. “Ah yes, that was careless of me - there’s too many stairs to get back to your chambers. You can rest in mine as long as you need.”

Wrapping an arm loosely around you, he let you lean on him as the two of you walked out of the hall. His rooms weren’t too far away, the royal chambers taking up a significant portion of the ancient wing of the castle. But an awkward silence reigned over the two of you, Seungmin stoically looking straight ahead as you limped along beside him. 

Something had clearly changed in you - because for once, instead of being the reactive fool you normally were, you saw the situation - and his reaction - for what it actually was. Seungmin was taking his turn to be the awkward overthinker - a role he’d grown out of once he’d become King… except when it came to a few specific things he couldn’t stay purely rational about. The things he cared about the most, the things that mattered most deeply… in this case - you. 

You sighed. You’d probably need to gift Chaeryeong a necklace or something after all of this was over. 

You bided your time until Seungmin finally shut the two of you into his chambers. He’d turned away to lock the doors behind him - and startled when he turned back around to find you standing right in front of him. As you stared up at him, watching his lips twitch in discomfort… you came to a shocking realization. 

“You never kissed me,” you breathed out, even more surprised as you said it. He’d kissed you literally everywhere else - but he hadn’t touched your lips. You gazed up at him with wide eyes. “Why?”

Seungmin shifted uncomfortably. “It felt too…intimate.”

What? “You took my virginity - in public. We unleashed a magical force field together,” you deadpanned, trying to get a laugh out of him - and failing, as Seungmin continued to look at you stoically. “I’d say that’s pretty intimate, my lord.”

He shrugged, hugging his arms around him and hesitating for a second - before bluntly, in Seungmin fashion, getting to the heart of the matter. “The reality is that… freely given sacrifice, prophecy, whatever you want to call it - I took something from you that you didn’t mean for me to have.” It was a testament to Seungmin’s poise that his voice stayed even, his eyes stayed steadily on you as he spoke. “I wanted you to have something - a part of you - you could still give away of your own will.” He sagged heavily into the doorframe, finally breaking eye contact as he trailed off. 

Poor baby. Your heart fluttered. “That is… quite thoughtful of you, my lord,” you choked out, taking a small step forward. Then another. And another, inching towards him. “So - that means it’s alright with you for me to do this, right?” Reaching up, you twined your arms around his neck, pulling yourself up onto your tiptoes to press your body into his. His hands reflexively grabbed your waist, steadying you even as his eyes widened in surprise - before fluttering shut as you pressed your lips to his. 

His mouth was divine heat - soft, pliable against yours. He gasped as you nipped at his lower lip, and you seized the chance to lick into his mouth, deepening the kiss until your head was whirling, ignorant of where you ended and he began. 

When you finally pulled away for air, his lips chased yours for a second before he caught himself. You giggled, beaming up at him. “How low the high have fallen, hmm?”

Seungmin let out a low warm laugh, such fondness in his eyes that you couldn’t help but shy away. “I have much, much lower to fall still, don’t worry,” he murmured as he bent down over you, his hair falling into his eyes as he smiled. In a single, smooth movement, he flipped the two of you around so he had you pinned up against the wall, his body pressed firmly into yours. 

You cleared your throat. “Y-you really like having me against hard surfaces, don’t you?”

He shrugged, focus elsewhere as his fingers busied themselves with the laces of your chemise. “Seems like it’s the only way to keep you good for me, witch mine.” You whined as his hand accidentally grazed your sore, tender nipple, the sound making his eyes snap back to yours. A dark, wicked smile curled his lips before he crashed his mouth back onto yours, long fingers working your breast deliberately, possessively. You responded with enthusiasm, tangling your own fingers into his silky hair, until the spell was broken - for you at least - by loud noises from outside his chambers. 

You pulled away from his lips with a loud smack. “What’s that?”

“Never mind that,” he rasped out, pulling you in tight against him. “Worry about it later.” Your breath hitched as he nosed his way into your neck, pulling at the loosened neck of your chemise to expose your collarbone for him to feast on. 

Steeling yourself, you pushed your hands firmly against his chest. “Seungmo, I want to worry about it now.” He groaned, rolling his eyes, but let you go without a fight, releasing you from his embrace. Turning on your heel, you tugged him along to his balcony. The sounds had seemed to come from the royal gardens, which were sprawled right below Seungmin’s chambers. Pulling your cloak - his cloak - more tightly around you, you stepped out onto the balcony - and froze, as an astounding sight brought the two of you to a standstill. 

Wherever you looked - below you, around you - every single plant and tree was in abundant bloom. Regardless of season, of age - fruit and flowers were everywhere, swinging in the breeze, littering the ground. You turned to Seungmin in shock - only to see him looking back at you with loving, wondrous awe. “That’s all you,” he murmured, brushing a fond hand against your cheek. “My powerful, mesmerizing sorceress.”

You flushed. “No, it’s not.” You stepped closer to him, wrapping your arms around his waist. “It’s us.” You tiptoed up to press a kiss into his cheek - and promptly hid into Seungmin’s neck as whoops and cheers rang up to you from the gardens below. 

Seungmin laughed, tucking you into his side as he led the two of you back inside. “Well, you know what this means,” he said.

You quirked an eyebrow at him. “What?”

Shooting a dazzling smile your way, he caught you up in his arms once again, the heady sensation already warm and familiar to you - before peremptorily throwing you onto his bed. 

“The fate of the flora of this kingdom is in our hands, Lady Sorceress.” He intoned in a faux serious voice - made only the more ridiculous by the sight of him crawling on all fours towards you on the bed. “We have crucial work to do, milady - and we must start posthaste.”

You threw your head back in laughter before wrapping your limbs around him. “Yes, my lord - let’s start immediately.” 

Fin.

~

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[sunsets-and-crows]

Let The Dead Watch Us Bloom

Chapter 2 - The stranger wife

Words: 6.4K

- - -

The flowers are dying. The gods are listening. And the deal you made in the dark is already binding. The price is written in blood and bones. How will you survive in a world so unlike your own?

Thank you to my gem and beta-reader @diamondtiger for the cover photo! 💎💎💎

Content warnings ⚠️

Hades/Sylus, Persephone/Reader, probably OOC for both, death, grief, eventual smut. Inaccurate use of Greek Mythology.

I'll add to this list as we progress through these chapters but let me know if theres something I missed please!

You were choking on air that wasn’t air. 

Heavy and perfumed, it coated your lungs like velvet: sweet with rot, rich with earth, thick as incense curling from an unseen censer. 

You didn't know where you were. You only knew it was not your bedroom. Not your life.

You sat up slowly, trembling hands slipping over silk the colour of blood. Your body moved, but each shift felt wrong. Your skin burned. Your mouth was dry. Your limbs felt like they’d been sewn together with unfamiliar thread. Everything was wrong.

Your hair, too long. Your skin, too smooth. Your bones felt lighter, your soul somehow heavier.

You gasped, scrambling, “Where-?” you croaked, then stopped.

Because your voice wasn’t your voice.

It was yours. And yet it wasn't. The pitch was too smooth, the timbre too honeyed. You bared your legs, raking your hands along the skin there, searching for any features you would recognise: a scarred knee from riding your bike as a child, a freckle, hell, even a hair. 

But every feature on your body was as unfamiliar as a stranger. 

It came back to you in fragments. A deal with a deity that left you… Well, where did it leave you?

You breathed deeply, the same sticky-sweet scent filling your senses. It was grounding in a way, shaking your frayed nerves and forcing you to focus on what was happening around you, even as you felt the panic creeping up your spine. 

Was it too dramatic to throw up? 

You peered over the edge of the boat as it rocked, 

The water, if it was water, was beyond black. Oily and iridescent, shifting like the surface of a raven’s wing or the belly of a thundercloud. The surface pulsed softly with a current that ran smoothly under the thick and endless river. 

You leaned forward, elbows braced against the edge of the boat, trying to steady yourself as another wave of nausea curled through your stomach. 

You’d thrown up in the back of a taxi once. That had been bad enough.  Vomiting in front of what looked like an ancient, ageless ferryman who hadn’t spoken a word in ten thousand years? Somehow, you sensed that it would go down even worse. 

The waters of the Styx were beautiful in a way. Their endless stretch perfectly reflected the surroundings, distorting everything around you with ripples and pulses. You gazed into the depths, trying to see how deep the river flowed.

Your face, warped, stared back at you. 

Except it wasn’t your face in the slightest. Black hair, piercing green eyes and perfect skin all stared back at you. Familiar, in a way that made your throat close around a scream that threatened to burst forth from between your lips. 

It was her. 

Persephone. 

Her features rippled across the river’s surface, and for one wild moment, you thought she was beneath it, watching you. Waiting.

You jerked back, breath catching in your throat, hand flying to your face like you could wipe her away. But the shape of your cheek, lips, and bones beneath your skin were hers now.

There was no one to see your quiet panic. 

Not a single soul to bear witness to the way the Queen of the Underworld cupped her cheeks and pinched her skin in an effort to ground herself. 

You were alone. 

On a boat. 

In the middle of the river Styx.

On the way to the underworld. 

Gods, you were fucked. 

The ferryman, Charon, stood at the helm of the tiny vessel. He hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t looked at you. But you knew.

He was older than memory, older than time. No eyes. No voice. Just that awful silence he wore like a second skin, the press of centuries clinging to him like smoke. His robes whispered as he moved. His hands, bone-white and ancient, gripped the pole with unwavering control. Steady. Every motion was deliberate, ancient. He had ferried thousands before you. He would ferry thousands more after.

The information whipped through your brain, unbidden, unlearned by you. 

You knew his name. Knew his oaths. Knew the exact number of coins once placed on the eyes of the dead to pay for safe passage and how many had tried to cheat him. You knew the rules of this place. The weight of them. The consequence of breaking them. The routes through Elysium. The twisting paths of Tartarus.

You knew it all. 

It was not your knowledge, the way the memories invaded your skull and pressed against the fractured seams of your mind told you as much. This was another thing that belonged to Persephone. They were her memories threading themselves through your mind, like ivy growing unrelentingly through old stone; soft, invasive, and inevitable.  

The goddess had said you'd share them. You hadn’t realised she meant it literally.

They came in flashes. Truth dropped into your skull like coins into a fountain, rippling outward until they changed the shape of you.

And with it came the rage.

Persephone’s rage burst through you, quiet and coiled and long-suffering. A grotesque and villainous husband snatching her from the light and deceiving her with the seeds of a pomegranate. The grief of a thousand springs stolen. The exhaustion of never quite belonging in either world. 

And deeper still, there was something else. Another echo. Something older than memory.

Power.

It licked along your spine, curled at your fingertips. A whisper of seeds buried in your mouth, of vines itching to grow from your footprints. Of life and death intertwined.

You clenched your hands. The boat kept moving. Charon made no sound, no gesture but the slow, steady push of his oar through that endless dark water.

The deal had been made. The ambrosia had sealed it. You had swallowed it down and thought you’d wake from a dream. But you hadn’t. You had woken up in a myth. A prison made of moonlight and smoke.

The wind shifted. You caught the sweet scent of datura mixed with a chilling vibration in the air. Somewhere on the shore, something monstrous began to howl.

You hadn’t realised that your journey was complete until the boat ground to an aching halt beneath you. It groaned, a long, splintering sigh, as it scraped along the shore. Like something carved from bone and old sorrow, reluctant to part with its passenger.

You stepped onto the riverbank, wincing as the soft and yielding earth gave underfoot. It was like grave-damp loam, thick with memory and rot, sucking at the soles of your sandals until they were encased in filth. The same filth clung to the hem of Persephone’s dress, your dress, as the crimson robes darkened with it, turning into something akin to dried blood. 

There was no sun, only a dull, sickly light that hung in the sky like a dying star. The world underneath was bathed in withered greens and bruised violets, hues that were never seen in your realm. The light touched nothing gently, casting shadows without shape, and turning the living grey and the dead luminous.

And somehow, you shone.

The unnatural light slid over your skin like moonlight over marble. It shimmered through your onyx hair. Reflected off your eyes. Persephone’s beauty was worn like a crown you had no right to carry.

The air reeked of soil, salt and something older than both, tasting hot in your lungs and making you want to sneeze from discomfort. 

Before you, the entirety of the underworld stretched out beyond the banks of the Styx, beautiful and endlessly vast. It reminded you of old maps from your favourite childhood books, familiar in a sense.

The River Styx wound down from the mountainside where you stood, carving black veins through the valley below. It split and forked meeting with four other rivers. The Lethe, the Phlegethon, the Cocytus and the Acheron, all converging to form a massive lake, wide as any city. 

You could see it clearly from this height, this ledge of stone and ruin where Charon had dropped you like an offering. The lake sat at the heart of everything, beating as the rivers brought life to everything around it. At least, they should have been. 

You had expected noise. Ravenous screams from souls suffering in Tartarus, endless voices clamouring to be heard over the roar of fire and water. But there was almost perfect silence. Only the wind whispered through the air, and even that seemed afraid to speak.

Persephone’s voice stirred inside you, bitter as wormwood.

 Let it rot for all I care. 

And it had. 

The Asphodel meadows, once said to stretch soft and endless, now lay collapsed across the landscape in a smear of greying ruin. A barren field of half-remembered things. Broken, colourless, withered flowers bent toward the cracked soil. Faded grass rasped in the breeze, dry, lifeless, and brittle.

Nothing bloomed properly.

An almost perfect mirror image of your little plant shop. Broken, dry and dead, the underworld reeked of the same neglect that ruined your livelihood.

It was hideous. Yet somehow, it was beautiful.

There was a ghost of memory clinging to the walls of your mind, begging you to think on it for just a moment, to admire what it had once been. The divine design was still embedded in the soil like perfume on silk, faded and cloying, desperate to be remembered. There was glory here once, a kind of mercy for the souls of the dead.

But the mercy had curdled.

Memories surged up behind your eyes, uninvited and warped. They were not clear thoughts, just feelings—impressions, like stained glass viewed from the wrong side—murky.

A meadow, long ago, with vibrant grass like crushed velvet. Blossoms the colour of wine and cream, blooming like soft stars. A hush of wind so delicate, carrying the perfume of new rain and crushed herbs, a solace in a world of death and destruction.

But even that memory turned to rot. Petals blackened at the edges, air turned sour, and the ground splitting roots like ribs bursting out of old skin.

Roots bursting out like ribs.

Let it die. 

This place does not deserve life. 

He does not deserve life. 

Not from me. 

Your hand clutched at your racing heart, pulses of nausea twisting through your chest, and a grief that did not belong to you catching around your teeth.

“I was wondering how long you were going to stand there, your majesty.”

The soft voice cut through you like the snap of a dry twig.

A girl stood on the path ahead, emerging from where the mountain slope curved down into the beginning of the valley. She appeared young, someone who had died too beautifully and lingered that way for too long, with half-wreathed mist curling and tumbling around her shoulders. A more tangible soul than anyone you had seen down the valley, and seemingly untouched by the same weariness that threaded through the land. Her robes were thin, gossamer silk flowing like smoke behind her. The robes of someone much higher up than the other souls that graced the banks of the great river. 

You didn’t know her, but you knew her. 

Eurydice.

The name bloomed inside of you, blossoming with Persephone’s recognition, a weary familiarity with no warmth or fondness. She was Persephone’s lady-in-waiting. 

She bowed. Barely. Just enough to be proper. Just enough to show she was choosing not to do more.

“Welcome home, my lady,” she said. Her voice was dry, polite, and unmistakably suspicious. 

Her gaze lingered too long. Her head tilted just slightly, like she was reading a smudge in a painting that shouldn’t be there.

You felt as though all your secrets had been laid bare before her, that she could see right through you, and there was nothing you could do about it. 

Your mouth opened. Nothing came out. 

Where were Persephone’s memories now? Surely there should’ve been a script, a routine, a phrase, a tone to mimic. But there was nothing. Eurydice’s face wasn’t attached to any clear memories of conversation, just a sense of quiet contempt. It was like they’d barely spoken. 

You nodded because that was all you could do. You reached for that cold detachment that she seemed to wear like perfume in her memories. 

“Things look… different,” you said. 

Eurydice's lip twitched. Not quite a smile, more like amusement sharpening the edge of her mouth. 

“This way, my lady. We should get you ready for your evening meal. Hades doesn’t like to be kept waiting. As I’m sure you know.” 

Did you know that? 

You weren’t sure of anything, other than the fact that you were so out of your depth, you wanted the ground to swallow you whole. Not that there would be any place left to go, you were already in the Underworld.

You followed her down a sloping path carved into the hillside. Narrow and crumbling, lined with low walls that might once have framed gardens or orchards. It reminded you of little British hamlets and medieval villages bustling with life and joy. Now they were marked with centuries of ruin.

Flanking the path were pieces of the Underworld. Shadowy plateaus, distant gates, and open pits shrouded in haze. You felt the weight of names pressing behind your eyes. Lethe. Tartarus. The Fields of Punishment. Each one a phantom that might solidify if you stared too long.

You kept walking, wondering if this is how Dorothy felt as she walked her path down the yellow-brick road. 

Probably not, this seemed a lot more daunting. 

The path narrowed as you descended, cutting into the mountainside like a scar, and then widening again as it plateaued off. 

You followed Eurydice along the base of the path, framed by jagged stone and mist, until you arrived at a gate. 

Like everything in the underworld, the gate was timeless and ageless, seemingly grown from the black iron vines that twisted into its monstrous arch. It latticed and spiked, humming with a kind of divine energy that you couldn’t comprehend. Behind it, you caught a glimpse of the main road leading toward the heart of the underworld, a fractured ribbon of stone vanishing into trees. What should have been gardens flanked the path, but like the rest of the land, they lay in ruin. Tangles of thorns and dying hedges hunched low like creatures too weary to stand. 

As you and Eurydice approached the gate, a low rumble vibrated through the soles of your feet. Your memories already understood, but your own mind struggled with the realisation of what the monstrous thing could be. 

Emerging from the mist with slow, deliberate thumps. His body radiated a menace born not just of size, but of age, of being feared for centuries unbroken. His paws were the size of dinner plates, claws curved and cracked, and his fur was dark, almost greying with matted, knotted ash and what looked like dried blood. One head watched you with cold reptilian stillness, the second snarled, low and guttural, lips curled to expose jagged teeth the size of your fingers. And the third… the third was already watching you like it knew something. Something important. 

Cerberus.

He was much bigger than you’d imagined. Bigger than anything had a right to be. He looked more like some cursed warhorse than any creature born of dogs. Massive, monstrous, and stitched together by a god with no concept of restraint. He was all muscle and hard bone, a perfect weapon for violence and keeping out the living. And yet, there was something else in him. Something old and raw. Grief, or loyalty, maybe. The kind carved into you through centuries of solitude and mistreatment. 

You gaped in awe of him, even as he snarled and grumbled. 

Beside you, Eurydice halted, her body tense as the low, warning growl rumbled through Cerberus’ chest like the echo of thunder. 

He moved toward you both, low, deliberate, heads dipping one by one as he crossed the threshold between territory and threat. Three pairs of eyes locked on yours, and for a breathless second, it was like staring into the centre of a storm.

Eurydice reached for your arm, terrified. 

But you weren’t. 

A dog is still a dog, after all; even one with three heads must exhibit some “normal” dog-like behaviours. You loved animals. All animals, even the ones that growled at you, ran away, or bit you. 

You were determined to make this one your friend. To try and heal some of the years of training him to be a tool, rather than a pet. 

You stepped forward, and the big puppy backed up just slightly, teeth bared now on all three heads, foam glistening at the corners of his mouths, hackles raised high and trembling with barely concealed anger.  You could feel his breath on your skin, hot and damp and laced with decay.

But Persephone’s body didn’t flinch.

So neither did you.

“What’s got you all riled up, huh?” you murmured, voice quiet and even, the way you used to speak to sick animals in your shop, strays with infected eyes and fur matted to the skin, feral things that didn’t know what kindness sounded like anymore.

Cerberus snarled. The middle head lurched forward. Eurydice hissed your name like a warning, like a prayer she didn't believe in. 

Cerberus would never truly hurt an immortal or one of the dead, so you were both perfectly safe. But somewhere deep, the part of you that was human wondered if having the soul of a mortal might make you the exception to the rule. 

“Sit,” you commanded, keeping that warmth in your tone, but something in the way you said it pulled taut in the air and the hound froze. 

All three heads went still. 

One blinked. Another growled, a questioning, unsettled noise, as if the sound had slipped out before he could stop it.

A moment passed. 

He almost nodded, and then Cerberus lowered himself to the ground. His hind legs bent first, tucking under himself with a small almost hop, then his front legs joined in, one paw folding delicately beneath the other. 

The stone almost trembled beneath his weight. 

Not quite a proper sit, but at least he wasn’t growling anymore. 

You took a step closer, slow and sure, your gaze steady even as your heartbeat battered your ribs like a bird trying to escape its cage.

“Good boy,” you whispered.

One head tilted toward you, the middle one, with a nicked ear and a scar down the muzzle. His tail twitched with the urge to wag. 

Deciding to push the boat, you reached your hand out to him, open and confident, letting him sniff your scent and get to know you. He would’ve met Persephone before, right? He knew her scent, right?

Cerberus leaned in, cautiously at first, as if he couldn’t quite believe what you were offering. Then, fully, burying the weight of his skull into your palm with a rumble that could have been a growl or a purr.

The other heads were not as patient.

The leftmost head shoved his sibling aside, nudging hard against your arm for attention, while the third snarled jealously and wedged his snout beneath your hand, baring his throat in submission.

“Oh,” you laughed, the sound breathless and strange in your ears. “So you’re greedy now, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

The three heads were fighting for affection, batting at each other like puppies in a litter, each trying to climb over one another to get closest to your touch. A low, vibrating growl buzzed through his chest, the kind that spoke of contentment combined with a tail that wagged so powerfully, that the earth rumbled with each slap of it against it. 

“Settle down,” you murmured. “There’s plenty of me to go around.”

Behind you, Eurydice still hadn’t moved.

Cerberus curled closer, still rumbling contentedly beneath your hand, each head jostling the others for space. Their massive shoulders pressed into your side, and you felt their breath ruffle the hem of your robes like wind through the dead grass.

You turned slightly, just enough to glance back at Eurydice who was still frozen in place. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes, sharp and knowing, had lost what little reverence they once held.

She tilted her head, curls falling over one shoulder.

Then, flatly, like it didn’t matter at all:

“He’s never…” she said, and her voice caught, barely audible. “Well, you're certainly not Persephone, but you must be the goddess of something if he’s reacting like this to you.” 

A pause. Not long enough for denial. Not long enough for excuses.

“She would never greet him like that. And she’s never once called him ‘sweetheart.’”

Eurydice swept past you, her robes whispering across the stone, and opened the gates before you could respond, her voice drifting back like an afterthought. “You’ll want to fix that before dinner, I suppose.”

The palace loomed before you like a memory half-forgotten. Spires of black stone pierced the sky, twisted and jagged like frozen lightning, curved from obsidian and the bones of giants. The gates yawned wide, swallowing you and Eurydice whole as you passed through them. 

You tried to focus on the details. You’d heard that it worked to anchor people in moments of high anxiety, so you listed them in your head. The echo of your sandals as your feet hit the polished stone floors. The scent of smoke and oud clinging to the hallways. The burgundy mosaics beneath your feet. The labyrinth of corridors that Eurydice led you through. 

Nothing worked. Your thoughts skittered uselessly, lost in the weight of the moment prior. 

Of course, she had seen right through you. Who were you kidding? You were nothing like the ageless Goddess of Spring. What did you think was going to happen? 

The truth had spilled, clumsy and raw, from your lips on the walk from the gate. Like a sinner confessing their truth from memory, unsure if any of it would be believed. How Persephone had come to your shop. How she’d offered you salvation. Everything. Or at least, everything you understood.

Eurydice hadn’t said much. She’d just walked beside you, her silence brittle. Until, finally, she broke the tension. 

“Of course she did,” Eurydice said, the words flat as ash. The tone of someone betrayed so many times, it had stopped feeling personal.

“She hates this place. Has since she stepped foot in it. The first crack in the stone was from her sigh of disgust.” 

You didn’t know what to say. So you said nothing. 

“That was your first mistake,” Eurydice chuckled humourlessly. “You were wayyyy too nice. He’s going to see straight through that. You want to be convincing?” She turned slightly, giving you a once-over. “You’ll need to carry yourself like you’ve got a sceptre lodged up your ass.”

Your jaw dropped open. “Should you be saying things like that about a Goddess?” you’d asked, shocked. 

She snorted. “Please. She can’t hear me. Not up in her precious mortal world.”

“But still-”

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. What’s she going to do, smite me again? What’s death times two?”

You didn’t know whether to laugh or wince. “Aren’t you worried?”

“About her?” Eurydice shrugged, then tilted her head, voice dropping just slightly. “No. About the others? Maybe. The gods don’t like being criticised. They like obedience. Worship. And silence.”

She looked you dead in the eye for a moment too long.

And then, softer:

“Just… be careful with your kindness, alright? It makes you easy to spot.”

You nodded, mulling it over and then straightening your back a little more. 

The dressing chamber smelled of citrus and sweet herbs, musky and oudy from incense and perfumed oils. It hung heavy in the air, thick like honey. Fabrics pooled across every surface in shades of every colour, black, bruised plum, blood wine, moonlight white, silver, and gold gossamer silk softer than anything you’d ever felt. 

Eurydice didn’t speak. She moved through the fabrics with expert hands, brushing velvet and silk aside like a priest, so used to the ritual it had become second nature. 

Finally, she pulled a black gown from a carved wardrobe and held it up to the candlelight. It shimmered faintly, its surface swallowing the glow of light like a mirror to another world.

A perfect complement to the richness of Persephone’s hair, something that could drink in the sun and never return it. 

“Arms up,” she said, already stepping forward.

You obeyed. The fabric settled over you, clinging in places that made you flush, and flowing so perfectly with the curves of Persephone’s perfect figure. The sleeves swept from your shoulders like raven wings mid-moult. The neckline plunged. The neckline plunged with the waist sculpting itself into your ribs. When you caught your reflection in the nearest mirror, you stopped breathing.

She was beautiful before, in your tiny little shop, surrounded by dead flowers and dreams. But like this, she shone with an otherworldly radiance. It was unnatural, the intensity of a beauty meant to be worshipped and feared. 

“Hair,” Eurydice said next, already behind you, leading you to a vanity. 

Her fingers in Persephone’s curls were quick, precise, and practiced. Braiding like she was weaving armour and crowning you with coils of black and gold. Pins slid through your scalp like thorns through fruit. Your eyes watered, but you held still.

“Is this really necessary?” you asked, hating the way your voice trembled.

Eurydice made a sound low in her throat. Not quite a laugh. “You’re about to dine with a god. With your husband. You have to show up looking like she would.”

She reached for a slender vial on the vanity and poured silver oil into her hands. It glittered like melted stars, catching in the hollows of her palms. She worked it into your skin, your arms, collarbones, and throat until you gleamed with light that came from within. 

The scent was heady, creamy tonka and nutmeg mixing with the Goddess’ natural scent. 

Your skin drank it like water. And when she was finished, you barely recognised yourself.

Power looked back from the mirror.

Painted over your bones. Pressed into your mouth and eyes and all the spaces where fear used to live.

Eurydice stood behind you, her face unreadable. Her eyes flicked to yours in the glass.

“Try to act like you belong here.”

You stared at yourself for a long moment. At the gown. The braids. The liquid gleam of oil on your collarbone. 

“Who exactly is he?” you exhaled.

Eurydice blinked, needing a beat to realise what you were asking about, who you were asking about. “Hades?”

You nodded, averting your eyes to hide the spike of fear you felt. “I mean… I’ve seen him in her memories. Is he really so cruel? So…”

“Grotesque?” Eurydice offered, already turning away to put away the oils. You nodded.  “Mmmm, that makes sense.”

You hesitated. “So is he… like that, I mean?”

She chuckled, raising an eyebrow. “You’ll be able to see for yourself if you're patient enough. But no, Hades is a God after all, he looks like the rest of them.”

You looked at her reflection in the mirror. “Then why does he look like that in her memories?”

Eurydice leaned against the vanity, folding her arms. “Because that’s what she wanted to see. It’s easier to hate someone if you make them monstrous.”

Your mouth was dry.

“He’s a man, a God. They all have the ability to be monstrous, especially husbands, but he’s not the villain you’re expecting to see.”

She turned away, folding and organising a pile of already folded and organised silks.

You hesitated. You hadn’t wanted to ask, hadn’t even wanted to think it, but the words clawed their way out all the same. “Do I… what about marital duties?”

Eurydice laughed. A real laugh this time, sharp and unexpected. “Gods, no. He won’t touch you. He never has. Honestly, he’ll probably keep half the room between you so as not to incur her wrath any further. He’s had enough of her ire.”

You blinked. The image of a God shying away from a Goddess was almost laughable, given what you knew about mythology. “What, he’s afraid of her?”

Her smile faded into something harder to name. “He’s not what she says he is.”

You turned back to the mirror, taking yourself in again. The weight of it all. The crown of braids. The sharp bones of your borrowed face.

“And what does he want from me?” you asked, quietly.

Eurydice’s voice softened just slightly. “He wants peace, everyone here wants peace.”

The doors to the dining hall loomed ahead, vast and daunting. They were as beautiful as they were ominous. Twin slabs of obsidian veined with red and gold, each carved with a thousand ancient shapes too faded to name. The handles were sculpted into serpents devouring their own tails, mouths locked in eternal hunger.

Beautiful. Haunting. Fitting for the Underworld.

Eurydice led you as far as the threshold to the antechamber before stopping. She motioned toward the room with the air of someone giving instructions to a guest she wasn’t responsible for.

“You wait in here until you’re announced and then just… sit down and eat what’s put on your plate. Or don’t,” she paused, thinking. “Your choice.” 

Your pulse flared again, sharp as a needle to the chest. Something must have flickered across your face, perhaps panic, or something akin to it, because Eurydice hesitated for half a second.

With a single nod, murmured, “You’ll be fine.”

You wanted her to stay. She knew your secret; she was the only comfort you had in this place, the only thing you had become familiar with.

But before you could say anything, she turned and vanished down the corridor, her footsteps lost to the hush of her robes.

Your fingers twitched. 

You were alone. 

You breathed in deeply, then let it go slowly through your teeth. Again. Again. Just like your therapist taught you. Focus. Name five things you can see.

Doors. 

Stained glass windows. 

Marble floors. 

Wall sconces. 

Dead roses. 

Your hands tingled.

The antechamber was quiet. Unnaturally so. The silence wasn’t empty. It was cold and profound. The walls had memory. They watched and they remembered every step.

Cold crept up your spine. Not the fresh chill of air, but the kind that had been sealed into stone. The kind that soaked into your bones and whispered. You shouldn’t be here.

Gods. It felt like the entire underworld had been carved from your worst fear. Like it saw you. And was waiting for you to see it back.

Your legs were braced like they expected to run. Your fingertips prickled. Electricity danced beneath your skin, crawling over your knuckles, down into your palms.

You rubbed at them, trying to work the pins and needles out of them, needing the sensation to disappear. Dragging your hand across the nearest wall, you tried to shake it off, but the sensation only deepened. The roses were dead, colourless and brittle in a pot by the wall. Their scent had long since faded, yet the thorns remained sharp. Would it be too much to shove them into your fingertips? Would it alleviate the ache? 

You moved towards them instinctively, as a body moves towards an old habit. A low hum resonated behind your ribs. It was almost a feeling but more like sheer need. 

Your fingers grazed the leaves, the dried flowers, and finally, you pressed the pad of your thumb against a single thorn.

The sting never came, but the itch snapped. An electric pulse raced out of your hand like static, like something exhaled. Maybe it was you. A single drop of blood beaded at the puncture and fell into the dry soil.

And the plant breathed.

The petals unfurled into a bruised crimson, lush and heavy, the scent filling the air with sweetness and an almost unnatural perfume of the blooms. 

You staggered back, horrified. The heat of embarrassment flushing your skin.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” you whispered.

You didn’t even know how you’d done it, let alone why. One moment your thumb was bleeding, and the next there was breath and bloom. The roses had opened like a pair of lips. Like they’d been waiting for her.

Well, maybe not her. Maybe they had been waiting for you.

Panic swelled, thick and sour at the back of your throat. Someone would notice. Of course they would. The underworld was full of eyes, and a change that vivid would gleam like a beacon. The flowers were too red. Too alive.

They would see. And it would give you away.

It was clear that Persephone would never invoke blooms so beautiful in this place, it reeked of her neglect. So why? Why did it react so beautifully under your hands? Why was it so instinctual? 

You touched it again, hands trembling. "Stop," you whispered, as if words alone could undo what you’d done. You touched the nearest rose and pictured it as it was before, to force it back into its rotten state. Dry, brittle, folded in on itself like a secret too tired to keep living. 

It didn’t work.

The petals only leaned into you, soft and dewy and utterly alive. The scent grew sweeter.

“No no no-” your voice cracked, barely a sound, your fingers fluttering uselessly over their blooms. “I didn’t mean to-”

But the power wasn’t listening.

It wasn’t yours to reason with.

It belonged to the body you now wore, rooted in your bloodstream, and threaded through your bones like new ivy claiming an old wall. It was not something that could be borrowed or worn lightly. It was invasive, permanent, and it was the power that had chosen to react. 

You gripped the edge of the pedestal, trying to slow your breathing.

Persephone’s memories rose in your chest like a flood, slick with rage and decay and things that had grown in places they never should have. You saw her hand outstretched over a field, her fury curling through her fingers, vines tearing through soil like teeth. You felt the ache of it. It felt like grief and surrender. 

She’d tried to kill this place on purpose, but her power hadn’t obeyed. 

Because the power didn’t bow to Persephone’s wants and desires, it obeyed her essence. And that essence had always been to bring life.

You staggered back, breathing like you’d just run from something ancient. Your hands were sticky with oil and magic and rose-pollen. The antechamber swam slightly, shadow thickening at the corners of your vision. You tried to steady yourself, to quiet the magic pulsing beneath your skin.

This wasn’t something you could control. You were a mortal in a borrowed shape, a paper crown on a guillotine block, and if you weren’t careful, the entire Underworld would feel it. You needed to calm down. 

You barely had the thought when a sound broke the silence.

The groan of ancient hinges as the doors were opening.

You spun too quickly, nearly tripping over your own feet, the silks of your gown tangling around your ankles. You tried to stand taller, to steady your breath, to remember how a goddess would carry herself. You were still trembling when the dining hall revealed itself. 

The world stilled to watch you fall.

You stepped forward as if in a trance, your breath shallow in your throat. Every nerve lit up with dread. Persephone’s memories had painted this room in horror.

Stone floors slick with blood. A table piled with bones, a crown of teeth as the centrepiece. She remembered the reek of death curling in her nostrils like smoke. The way she said it always smelled of rot in here, like the Underworld itself was bleeding from the seams.

You braced yourself.

But there was no blood. No bones. Only silence. Only shadow. Only the flicker of golden light playing over obsidian.

The dining hall was cathedral-vast, shadowed and sacred. Obsidian columns rose like the bones of titans, wrapped in gilded vines and etched with stories written in dead tongues. The vaulted ceiling disappeared into ash. Braziers lit the space in slow pulses of gold, casting no warmth, their only purpose was gilding the cold edges of the room in firelight. The air tasted holy, heavy with incense and the quiet weight of expectation. At the centre of it all stretched a table long enough to bridge kingdoms.

At the far end of it, he sat.

He was everything you feared.

And nothing you’d expected.

Hades was nothing like the grotesque tyrant from Persephone’s memories. Not the skeletal, snarling God her rage had painted behind your eyes. 

He was something else entirely.

He reclined in a throne carved from black stone, his posture loose with power, his limbs arranged like he’d never been told no. He was unbearable in his beauty. A weapon forged in starlight and storm.

He wore robes the colour of midnight sins, draped across one shoulder and leaving the other bare, sculpted muscle gilded by candlelight. His bare chest was an artwork of lines and valleys, the planes of him cut sharp and perfect. A chain of obsidian circled his throat, nestled in the hollow like it belonged to no one else.

Rings glinted on his fingers, thick and ancient, each one more beautiful than the last, a perfect complement to his own divine beauty. His hands alone could ruin or resurrect.

Moon-pale skin stretched over sharp cheekbones and a jaw that could cut glass. His lips jutted upwards in a smirk that sent a wave of heat through you. His eyes, Gods his eyes, they dragged over you with the patience of something eternal. Red as old fire. Red as fresh blood spilled in silence.

Those eyes pinned you like a butterfly to velvet.

They didn’t roam. They devoured.

They flicked past you, just briefly, to the cluster of roses still blooming at your back. And when they returned to yours, there was something in them that made your stomach clench.

When he finally spoke, his voice resonated, booming through the room.

“I see you’ve already begun redecorating,” his words came low, warm, and slow. 

And it did something terrible to you—something the Goddess would probably take your head for.

You stood at the edge of his kingdom, wrapped in a body that wasn’t yours, trembling beneath a gaze that didn’t look away. The petals behind you rustled as if they too held their breath.

You were not ready. For this. 

“Darling wife, won’t you take your seat?”

DISCLAIMER: This is heavily inspired by Goddess of Spring, one of the books in the Goddess Summoning series by P.C. Cast.

❥ Like, reblog, comment, message me, ask me something, literally anything - I live for your feedback lovelies  ❥

@dramaticalsachan @idkmanimjusthorny @everythingistaken00 @iconoclastoc @napforalifetime

[itacats]

Butcher Shop Connection

FT: Simon x gn!reader

Warnings: DV, abuse, please let me know if anything else should be here!🙏

SUM: The truth finally comes to light and Simon’s protective instincts kick into overdrive. His fury, tempered by the desire to help, contrasts sharply with the polished, insincere concern Tom displays when he arrives at the hospital. Though Simon’s emotions boil beneath the surface, he holds back…for now. Alone at the bar later, Simon wrestles with his frustration, plotting a way to help you escape from Tom’s grip without rushing into a dangerous confrontation.

A/N: Cue the heavy emotions. This chapter pulls no punches: it’s raw, painful, and brimming with emotional tension. Simon’s transformation from concerned friend to protective warrior is starting to take shape, and it’s hard not to feel for him as he struggles to do the right thing without putting you at further risk. As for Tom? He’s a smooth talker, but Simon isn’t going to let him off easy. Get ready for more intensity ahead. 🥊

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10

Part 5 - The Breaking Point

"Who did this to you?"

Your throat feels tight, the weight of the moment pressing down on you. You turn your head, unable to meet his gaze. "It’s... it’s nothing," you whisper, but even you don’t believe the words.

"Don’t lie to me," Simon says, his voice firm but not unkind. He’s kneeling closer now, his hand brushing lightly against yours. "Please. Tell me who hurt you."

Tears well up in your eyes as you try to speak, but the words catch in your throat. You’re too scared, too ashamed. And yet, there’s something in Simon’s expression—an unwavering determination—that makes you feel safer than you have in years.

“It was Tom,” you finally admit, your voice trembling. “My husband.”

Simon’s expression darkens, the storm in his eyes now a raging tempest. He takes a deep breath, his jaw clenching as he tries to steady himself. “He’s the reason you...?” He gestures toward the bruises, his voice trailing off.

You nod silently, your tears spilling over. “Please don’t do anything,” you beg. “It’ll only make things worse.”

Simon’s fists clench at his sides, his knuckles turning white. He wants to fight, to fix this, but he knows you’re right. Charging headfirst into this could backfire. He takes another breath, forcing himself to stay calm. "Alright," he says quietly, his voice thick with emotion. "But you can’t keep going back to him. You deserve better than this."

Before you can respond, the dizziness hits you again, and your vision begins to blur. Simon’s voice becomes distant, calling your name as your body starts to give out. He catches you before you hit the floor, cradling you against him.

"That’s it," he murmurs, his tone resolute. "You’re going to the hospital. I don’t care what he thinks. I’m not letting this go."

Simon carries you out of the shop, his movements quick but careful. The world around you feels like a blur, but his presence anchors you. As he helps you into his car and buckles you in, his hands linger for a moment on yours.

“Stay with me,” he says softly, his voice a lifeline. And even as darkness tugs at the edges of your consciousness, you hold onto that small piece of hope—Simon’s unwavering determination to protect you.The hospital room smells sterile, the faint scent of disinfectant lingering in the air. The hum of monitors fills the silence as Simon stands near your bed, his body taut with restrained fury. His question lingers in the air like a thundercloud, charged and heavy.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were married?” His voice is softer now, laced with a bewildered pain.

“It wasn’t relevant at the time,” you reply, tears burning the corners of your eyes. Memories of your laughter with Simon, of moments that felt so light and easy, now feel stained by the weight of this truth.

Simon’s jaw tightens, his fists curling briefly before he releases them. His eyes soften, but there’s a fire behind them that won’t be extinguished. “You don’t have to stay with him,” he says, his voice low but earnest. "If you need a way out, you don’t even have to ask. My door’s open to you. Always."

His words seep into the cracks Tom left in you, offering a glimmer of hope. But before you can find the courage to respond, the door swings open with a force that sends the moment scattering.

Tom strides in, his polished shoes clicking against the tile floor, his face painted with concern that feels more rehearsed than real. "Sweetheart, I just heard you were here. I came as fast as I could!" His voice oozes charm, but it scrapes against your nerves like nails on a chalkboard.

Simon steps back, his entire body rigid as he watches Tom approach. The air shifts, thick with tension. Tom barely acknowledges Simon beyond a cursory, insincere nod. "Thanks for your help, pal," Tom says smoothly, his tone dripping with practiced gratitude. "I’ll take it from here."

You shrink under Tom’s gaze as he turns his attention to you, his smile tightening like a snare. "Let’s get you going home, alright?" he coos, his hand brushing your arm in a way that feels more like a warning than affection.

Simon’s hands curl into fists at his sides. Every muscle in his body screams to act, to stop Tom, to protect you. But he knows—one wrong move here, one sign of defiance, and Tom might make things worse for you. So, he swallows his rage and stays rooted in place, his eyes burning holes into Tom’s back as he escorts you out.

Later that night, Simon sits at the corner of a dimly lit bar, a pint of beer clutched in his hand. Around him, the raucous laughter of coworkers and the hum of chatter feel distant, muted. He barely hears the words of encouragement or the half-hearted jokes tossed his way. His thoughts are locked on you—your bruises, the fear in your eyes, the way you shrank under Tom’s presence.

He downs another drink, the bitterness of the alcohol mirroring the frustration churning inside him. He vents to his coworkers, his voice low but taut with emotion. "I can’t just stand by and let this happen. They don't deserve this. No one does."

One of them claps him on the back, offering platitudes about patience and planning. But Simon barely hears them. Every instinct in him is screaming to act now, to confront Tom, to tear you away from the man who’s hurt you. Yet, deep down, he knows rushing in without a plan could make things worse—for both of you.

As the hours drag on and the bar clears out, Simon sits alone, his pint glass empty and his resolve solidifying. He doesn’t know exactly how yet, but he’s going to get you out of this. He’s going to protect you, even if it means facing demons from his own past—memories of fights and confrontations he thought he’d left behind.

One thought loops in his mind as he steps out into the cool night air: Tom may think he’s won, but he hasn’t met someone like me yet.

Here's the current post schedule with some upcoming stories to look forward to!

[fountainfever]

Trigger warnings: kidnapping, non-con, manipulation,crime organization, pregnancy complications.

The bass from the club’s speakers rattled the floor, and the scent of expensive perfume hung in the air like a velvet curtain. Simon Riley, the most feared mafia boss on the East Coast, sat in his private booth overlooking the dancefloor. His dark eyes, as cold and calculating as a blade’s edge, scanned the crowd with idle interest—until he saw her. She wasn’t like the others, with their manufactured smiles and hungry stares. No, she moved with a kind of unintentional grace, laughing genuinely with her friends, unaware of the wolf that had just set his sights on her.

Simon sipped his whiskey slowly, the gears already turning in his mind. She was stunning—long hair cascading down her back, a dress that hinted at curves but didn’t flaunt them. Her innocence was intoxicating in a world so thoroughly soaked in corruption. His underboss leaned over and muttered something about business, but Simon waved him off. Tonight, there was a different prize he intended to claim. He was a man who never asked twice, and once he wanted something, it became his. That was how he built his empire—and it would be no different with her.

As the night grew darker, he made his move. Simon sent two of his men to intercept her as she made her way to the restroom. They approached casually, smiles on their faces, pretending to flirt. Before she knew what was happening, she was ushered through a side door, her protests silenced with a cloth soaked in a sweet chemical scent. Her last sight before darkness took her was Simon, standing just inside the exit, smirking as though he had just caught a butterfly in his hand.

She woke up in a room that looked more like a palace than a prison. Gold accents lined the furniture, thick velvet curtains blocked out the daylight, and the bed beneath her was softer than anything she’d ever known. Her head pounded as the events of the night came flooding back. Panic set in quickly. She leapt from the bed, searching for an exit, but the heavy door was locked from the outside. Moments later, it opened with a creak, and in stepped Simon, dressed impeccably in a black tailored suit, his presence filling the room like a thundercloud.

At first, she fought him—furious, terrified, demanding to be released. But Simon was patient. He didn’t shout or raise a hand to her. He simply sat, calm and immovable, explaining that she belonged to him now. The sheer arrogance of it was infuriating, but there was something more—something magnetic in the way he spoke, in the way his dark eyes seemed to see straight through her defenses. Over days that blurred into weeks, his careful attention chipped away at her hatred, confusing it with a kind of reluctant fascination.

She learned his real world was one of danger and power, of loyalty bought with blood and betrayal punished by death. But he treated her differently. He shielded her from the violence, kept her wrapped in luxury, indulged her whims with a tenderness that didn’t match the reputation that preceded him. Against all logic, against all reason, she found herself craving his touch, longing for the security of his arms. By the time he first kissed her—slowly, almost reverently—she was already lost to him.

The weeks became months, and their passion grew wild and reckless, a secret flame burning between them. One late evening, as a storm battered against the windows, she realized she was late. Panic seized her at first, but Simon’s reaction stunned her. When she told him, he didn’t shout, didn’t curse. Instead, he knelt before her, placed a hand on her still-flat stomach, and whispered something in Italian that she didn’t understand—but somehow felt in her soul.

The pregnancy was not an easy one. From the beginning, there were complications: relentless nausea, dizzy spells, an aching fatigue that clung to her bones. Simon became even more protective, forbidding her from leaving the mansion, hiring the best doctors, surrounding her with every luxury imaginable. Yet there were nights she would lie awake, feeling the life growing inside her, and wonder what kind of world her child was about to be born into. Could there be safety in a life built on violence?

The day her water broke, a cold fear unlike anything she’d known gripped her. Simon was at her side instantly, barking orders, his usual calm fractured by worry. The labor was brutal. Hours stretched into eternity. The doctors’ faces grew more tense with every contraction, and when they finally realized she was carrying twins, not one child as they had believed, the room turned chaotic. She drifted in and out of consciousness, the pain consuming her, until at last—two sharp cries filled the air.

When she woke again, it was to the sight of Simon cradling two tiny swaddled bundles in his arms, tears streaming freely down his face for the first time she had ever seen. He pressed one of the babies—an impossibly small, perfect girl—into her arms, and then the boy, strong and stubborn even in sleep. She was weak, trembling, but when she looked into their faces, all the fear melted away. She understood then: she would kill for them. She would die for them. They were her entire world.

Simon sat beside her on the bed, their babies between them, and took her hand in his. His voice was rough with emotion as he made her a vow—not just to protect them, but to change for them. He would carve out a future free of bloodshed, if not for himself, then for his family. It would not be easy; enemies circled like vultures, and the old life was not so easily abandoned. But he meant it. For the first time, the king of the underworld bowed to something greater than himself: love.

And so the girl who had once danced in a club, oblivious to the eyes that watched her, became the queen of a world she had never even known existed. Not a prisoner. Not a possession. But the heart that tamed a monster. Together, they would build an empire—not of crime, but of family, loyalty, and love stronger than any blood feud or bullet could destroy. It would not be perfect. But it would be theirs.

[buggysangel17]

The Bride of A Warlord

Summary: You have arrived to what you now call your new home, it was scary and confusing, but at least you have someone else to keep you company. Characters: Dracule Mihawk x Wife!Female Reader (Amihan). Perona Word Count: 1,198 Chapter Warnings:  Alternate Universe-Canon Divergence (I am still in episode 20 of OP Anime so please bear with me on the fucked up timeline of events here)

Masterlist | Series Masterlist || Send Me An Ask?

You were consumed by a cocktail of fear and excitement.

But that was only natural to feel in your current predicament. Taken from your home due to circumstance that was no longer in your control. You turned to what you now call your husband. Dracule Mihawk was a man not to be trifled with, one of the Seven Warlords and dubbed the Greatest Swordsman in the world.

“I will have your room prepared as soon as possible.” Mihawk spoke, interrupting you from your train of thoughts.

All you could do was nod. You were taken from your own home, miles away from what you had once been so familiar with, a place that you had deemed had become your own prison. Any form of freedom you would take, even if it means being under the circumstantial marriage with one Warlord such as Mihawk.

“Yes, Sir.” You nodded, having no right to complain or react negatively for a short wait.

Even without looking at him, you’ve noticed his sharp yellow eyes glued fall to you. Turning to looking up at him, you noticed his narrowed eyes, a frown that was something you had gotten so used to rest on his lips.

“You will call me by my name, I do not agree to have you calling me of anything else while under you are under my care.”

You gulped, but nodded your head in agreement. This man, as handsome as he was, still scared you. Having caught firsthand the destruction his sword could make to your entire island should his will make it.

“You are not here as my prisoner, you can freely explore the castle should you wish to do so. All I ask is you not to leave unless you tell me or have me to accompany you, is that understood?”

“Yes—Mihawk.” You responded quickly.

As you step off the grandiose boat onto the rocky shore of Kuraigana Island, your heard races with anticipation and uncertainty. The sea breeze carries the scent of salt and new adventure, but it’s the sight before you that leaves you breathless. Your new husband’s castle, looms high above, perched on a ragged cliff that seems to defy gravity.

The castle is a dark, imposing fortress, its jagged spires reaching towards the heavens like the fingers of a giant’s skeletal hands. The stone walls are as grey and foreboding as the thunderclouds that hover over the island. You can’t help but shudder at the stark contrast between the castle and the vibrant, tropical island that surrounds it.

Your arrival has not gone unnoticed. From the castle's towering parapets, you catch glimpses of shadowy figures watching your every move. As you start to climb the narrow, winding path that leads to the castle gates, your footsteps echo in the eerie silence.

The closer you get, the more details you can make out. The castle is adorned with intricate, Gothic architecture, with gargoyles leering down from the eaves. The windows are narrow and slit-like, like the eyes of a predator, and they seem to be keeping a watchful gaze on you. The walls are covered in ivy and moss, as if nature itself is trying to reclaim this imposing structure.

You can't help but feel a sense of unease as you approach the massive, iron-bound gates. The air feels heavy with centuries of history, and you can't shake the feeling that the castle holds secrets, both wondrous and sinister, within its ancient walls.

As the gates slowly creak open, revealing the cavernous darkness beyond, your heart pounds in your chest. You have entered a world unlike any you have ever known, a world of mystery and danger. And as you step across the threshold, you can't help but wonder what awaits you in this forbidding castle on Kuraigana Island.

As you step through the imposing gates of Mihawk's castle, your heart is still pounding with trepidation. The exterior of the castle had filled you with a sense of foreboding, but as you cross the threshold and enter the grand foyer, you are struck by a stark contrast.

The interior of the castle is a complete surprise. The space is bathed in warm, inviting light that spills from ornate chandeliers hanging from the high ceilings. Elaborate tapestries hang on the walls, depicting scenes of epic battles and exotic landscapes. The polished marble floors beneath your feet reflect the glow of the many candles that line the corridor leading deeper into the castle.

Your husband, Mihawk, takes your hand and leads you forward, his expression unreadable. His grip is reassuring, grounding you in this unexpected change of atmosphere. You exchange a glance with him, and for a moment, you both share a silent understanding of the paradoxical nature of the castle.

The air inside is fragrant with the scent of fresh flowers, and the walls are adorned with vibrant paintings and delicate porcelain vases filled with blossoms.

As you explore the interior of the castle, you discover cozy sitting rooms with plush sofas and grand dining halls set with opulent feasts. The contrast between the grim exterior and the opulent interior is almost surreal, and you can't help but marvel at the transformation.

Mihawk guides you to a balcony overlooking a breathtaking garden bathed in moonlight. The sight of it takes your breath away, and you realize that the castle holds a world of beauty and wonder that you could not have imagined.

As you stand together on the balcony, surrounded by the enchanting sights and sounds of the castle, you can't help but feel a glimmer of hope and excitement for the future that awaits you here, in this magical, enigmatic place.

It wasn’t your home, no, far from it, but with this new found freedom, all you could think of right now is what the world could possibly be able to give you now.

“You have a guest along? That’s surprising from you.”

You tensed, immediately finding yourself stepping closer to the man you now call your husband. Turning to the owner of the voice, the sight of a pink-haired girl over a decade younger than you had floated towards your direction with what you think were ghost accompanying her.

“Not a guest.” Mihawk explained his gaze was on you, you tensed as his hand had rested on the small of your back. “My wife.” He introduce without much of a hesitation in his tone.

“Wife?!” The girl gaped and was immediately all over you, questioning you and your life decisions and how much of a sour sport Mihawk was to her especially as he had left her all alone in the castle.

“You have a daughter?” You inquired.

“No, just an unwelcomed guest.” He explained earning the offense of the girl that you now learned was named Perona. “But she will keep you company for the instance that I will be out for a while.”

You nodded turning your attention to the package that came with now living in the same home, in the same castle, and in the same Island as your new husband. It was a chaos that you were slowly but surely coming to enjoy as time goes by.

[gingerteafairy]

the bonds we break (killick x reader x turner)

But now, caught between their cold stares, warm smiles and sweaty uniforms, you wondered if their bond would ever recover—or if love always came at the cost of something precious.

tags: drabble, angst, threesome, breedingkink, no use of y/n, no dialogue, unprotected, smoke.

It was 1938, a year soaked in glamour and unrest, where movies dazzled, parties flourished, and military men strutted in their immaculate uniforms. But for you, it was a fragile solace, a reprieve from the year before—a year you could only describe as the worst. The memory of that harrowing time had been banished to the shadows of your mind, replaced by the vivid recollection of meeting two brothers.

They were opposites in spirit, yet eerily alike in appearance, as if sculpted from the same marble. Dark hair framed their pale faces, their rosy lips soft yet somber, and their oceanic blue eyes—cold and unyielding, like a storm just passed. They were beautiful, almost unnervingly so, but their allure lay not just in their looks but in the profound dichotomy they represented.

William Killick, the elder, carried an air of gravitas that made people stand still. His presence was cloaked in mystery, his pain concealed behind the wisps of smoke curling from his expensive cigarettes. Every movement, every word, hinted at a history he would never share, a heaviness he bore alone. He was serious and intense, like a thundercloud waiting to break, yet there was something undeniably magnetic about him.

Then there was Robbie Turner, the younger brother, whose innocence shone like a light in the dim world around him. His smile carried a warmth that William seemed to have forgotten. Robbie’s eyes brimmed with hope, a naive optimism that made you wonder how he could still believe in goodness when the world seemed to fall apart. Unlike William, who seemed defined by despair, Robbie was untouched by war, unscarred by its horrors—or so it seemed.

You couldn’t help but be drawn to both, caught between the brooding darkness of William and the gentle radiance of Robbie. They were two halves of a coin, two conflicting forces pulling you in opposite directions. And somewhere in the middle, you stood, wondering if love could survive a war of hearts.

You weren’t the type to seek out the bustling world of pubs and parties. Your friends, ever quick with their jabs, often teased you for being a hopeless introvert, the kind of girl who’d never catch a husband. Not that you cared—marriage wasn’t a prize you longed to win, and the notion of trading your youthful freedom for the chains of children and housework felt almost laughable. And yet, your footsteps began leading you to the pub with surprising regularity, drawn by something—or rather, someone—you couldn’t quite resist.

It was there, in the dim haze of laughter and cigarette smoke, that your gaze often lingered on the two brothers. Your eyes darted toward Captain Killick’s icy stare, unwavering and calm, before drifting to Robbie Turner’s softer, gentler features, with a smile that could defeat the devil himself. There were moments, fleeting and stolen, when you allowed yourself to wonder—what would it be like if one of those perfect faces, those striking blue eyes, were mirrored in a child of your own? The thought startled you, the idea of their creations taking shape within your womb—a fantasy you were quick to push aside but never fully able to banish.

They weren’t oblivious to your interest. It was Killick who made the first move, sliding a drink across the bar with a confidence that was both commanding and disarming. His dominance, the natural aura of a man accustomed to leading, brought an unexpected warmth to your chest. For the first time, the idea of a domestic life—tied to a man as formidable as he—didn’t seem entirely unbearable.

Robbie, meanwhile, lingered on the edges of your thoughts, a quieter kind of presence. He didn’t fight for your attention, nor did he compete with his brother’s boldness. Instead, he watched from a distance, his kindness untainted by the sharp edges of ambition or dominance. It was as though he had already surrendered his own feelings for you, yielding to Killick in an act of selfless devotion. After all, William was at the age when men married, when they started families. It seemed only natural for Robbie to step aside and let his brother take the lead.

But it was precisely that selflessness, that pure-heartedness, that made your heart ache for him. Unlike Killick, whose rugged charm hinted at darker depths awakening desire, Robbie felt untouched by the roughness of manhood—a softness you found yourself longing to preserve. You stood at the edge of a precipice.

You weren’t quite sure how it had happened—how you’d found yourself naked nestled between the two brothers, their perfectly pressed uniforms brushing against your body as they leaned in, each vying for your attention, to your heart. Their moans filled the air, both determined to outdo the other, throwing witty marks and charming kisses your way, their voices laced with laughter while they see you arching your back, panting luscious on their hands.

William, ever the commanding presence, was the one to fill you from your delicate hole, his deep voice and moans carrying the kind of authority that silenced a room. But Robbie, with his gentleness and boyish charm, was genuinely happy to watch you drool on the length of his manhood, his eyes lit up in triumph to get a single drop of your DNA that he could think of when he was alone at the war.

You could sense the tension crackling between them, as the bed underneath you, a subtle undercurrent of competition bubbling beneath their polished exteriors, pumping inside you their seed, making true your wonder to have a baby of theirs, precisely Killick, who took his fingers inside to not waste any drop of his sperm, already wondering your extended belly and swelling tits.

For the first time, you began to see cracks in their relationship, fissures carved by the growing question of who truly deserves your attention. You hadn’t meant to cause this rift, hadn’t imagined that their affection for you could wedge itself between them so profoundly. But now, caught between their cold stares, warm smiles and sweaty uniforms, you wondered if their bond would ever recover—or if love always came at the cost of something precious.

[yuesya]

“Hey! Over here!”

There’s a heavy storm going on; black thunderclouds rolling across the skies and blotting out the heavens above. The rain is so heavy that it’s impossible to make out individual droplets –it feels like there are bucketfuls of water hammering them down into the muddy ground, making each step forward more of a struggle than it already is.

Luckily, it seems that Arni had managed to find a small cave ahead, perfect for waiting out the torrential tempest. Brynja pauses to make sure that none of the children are falling behind, waving her other clansmen onward ahead of herself–

Lightning flashes, illuminating the terrible darkness. For one moment, Brynja can see in perfect detail the weariness on her clansmen’s faces, the tremble in their frames even as they grit their teeth and force themselves to move forward–

And, to the hills behind them, there is a white-haired stranger standing in the rain.

What?

Brynja is one of her tribe’s best archers; her eagle eyes don’t lie. For a single instant beneath the lightning’s glow, Brynja sees a white-haired stranger standing stock-still in the middle of a dangerous storm, and–

And Brynja is moving before she knows it.

“Asco, take over for me for a minute!”

“Brynja, you fucking–”

Asco’s words are drowned in the rumbling thunder that echoes around them, a terrifying roar that Brynja can physically feel down to her bones.

But Brynja is not called fleet-footed for nothing. She reaches her goal swiftly enough.

“Hey! You alright, stranger?” Brynja calls out as she approaches, “This storm is strong and dangerous to wait out with no cover. Would you like to seek shelter with us?”

Even through the gloom of darkness, the stranger’s silhouette is clearly visible –particularly so now that Brynja has closed the distance between them. It startles Brynja to realize that this is quite a young girl, lost and stranded by herself in the middle of a storm like this. Had she been separated from her own clan?

The thought strikes a pang of sympathy within her; Brynja herself was a lost child who’d been fortunate enough to be accepted into her clan when one of their scouts had come across her. Her memories of those times are faded, but there are faint snippets and pieces that she remembers from living like a wild child in the woods.

“Are you lost?” Brynja gentles her voice. “My clan can help.”

For a moment, the white-haired child does not respond. Then, the young girl moves, turning around–

“I’m not lost.”

–and oh, she’s quite pretty, isn’t she? There’s something that’s almost scary about those blue eyes of hers, too; Brynja is a seasoned hunter, and yet even just an idle gaze is enough to send shivers down her spine.

But this does not change the fact that she’s a child.

“If you’re not lost, then why are you standing by yourself in this storm like this?” Brynja coaxes patiently.

“… his voice.”

The wind whips wildly around them; Brynja had lost most of those words just now. “What?”

“I was listening for his voice,” the girl repeats herself quietly.

… She was listening for someone’s voice? In the middle of a storm?

Brynja feels a sudden burst of pity for the child, “There’s no one else out here, child.”

The strange girl shakes her head, “No. He’s still here.”

Brynja thinks that she’s starting to put the facts together: The girl had gotten separated from her clan in this storm, and was listening for a familiar voice in order to find her family. But as far as Brynja is aware, she and her clan are the only other humans around this part of the woods, so the girl must be quite lost.

But, it should be alright. “Even if you’re looking for someone, there’s no point getting yourself sick in the rain like this. Your clan must be headed for that new settlement around these parts too, right?”

“… New settlement?”

“Yup,” Brynja nods. “That’s where my clan is headed, too –apparently the god of these lands is powerful enough to keep their people safe from roaming beasts, so we’re also here to seek sanctuary, gods willing. If your people are headed for the same destination, then you’ll definitely be able to reunite with them there.”

The girl looks at Brynja for a moment, then turns away. “That’s unnecessary.”

Brynja huffs, “Now’s not the time for pointless pride; this storm is dangerous–”

Lightning flashes again. Brynja finds herself freezing, words cutting off on their own in her throat, because…

Why? Why is the girl smiling?

A soft little smile, no more than a slight curve of pale lips on a pale face.

“No storm is dangerous to me.”

… What does that mean? Brynja opens her mouth to ask–

“Brynja! Gods, Brynja, why did you suddenly just take off like that?”

Brynja whirls around, “Asco? Why are you–”

“Do you really need to ask that?” her fellow hunter gives her a withering look, then rolls his eyes and grabs her by the wrist. “C’mon, you’re the last one, let’s get out of this goddamned rain already.”

“Wait, wait, wait!” Brynja struggles against her friend’s grip, “We need to help the kid–”

“What kid?”

“Are you blind? There’s a little girl… right… here…?”

Brynja trails off slowly. Because in the spot where that strange white-haired girl had been standing, there’s no one at all.

There’s nothing but empty rain, falling incessantly from the heavens.

Asco frowns, and reaches his other hand up to press against her forehead. “You’re not running a fever, are you?”

“I’m not hallucinating and seeing things!” Brynja knows what she saw. And she’d literally just been talking to the girl! … Even though the girl had somehow just… managed to disappear in the blink of an eye. What was up with that?

“If you say so,” Asco responds dubiously.

Brynja scowls, and kicks him in the shin.

“Motherfu–”