#the wind that pulls back the tide | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bitterrfruit · 3 months ago

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iron tide [1]

fisherman price x reader cw: noncon undressing/bathing, dubcon touching. 11k words. 18+ mdni the crew aboard a deep-sea crabbing vessel rescue a woman adrift in the north sea. you wake up on a boat surrounded by men you don't know, with no memory of where you came from. or: john price rescues you from certain death and decides that you belong to him [masterlist]

Jonathan had long forsaken his godliness; but if he were to deify anything, it would be the Sea.

Great big blue, infinitely vast and infinitely deep. She was sweet when she was still, gentle, little ebbs like kisses against the barnacled hull — formidable when she was angry, titanic swells like mountains that crashed and shattered and sucked irreverent men down into the depths of her.

She took as much as she gave, demanded sacrifices for her gifts. Stole his father when he was a boy, swept off the deck of his ship by a rancorous wave and cast out into the expanse before she inevitably swallowed him. But what she purloined she returned in abundance — a cornucopia of life; fish, lobsters, molluscs — and enough crabs for John to make his living for the better part of his life once he retired from the Navy.

In more recent years, though, he had begun to lose faith in her, too.

The seas were violent and only getting rougher, warmer when they needed to be cold to let the crabs get meatier, colder when they needed to be warm so they could replenish their numbers.

A burgeoning resentment had rooted in his crew like a spreading cancer, minute at first but steadily swelling — every year they were paid a little less and damaged a little more, and who else was there to blame but their skipper?

Wrong spot, wrong depth, wrong time of year; he seemed to keep getting it wrong, despite decades and decades of seafare. As though the Sea was punishing him, as though he had taken too much — only a matter of time before it was his turn to give.

She made known her spite as he leaned over the paint-chipped railing of the deck-facing balcony, watching his crew haul in pot after pot from the raging ocean. Each cage more vacant than the last, the crabs smaller than he had come to expect from the once generous North Sea, soft brown shells where they should have been thick, ochre red, and thorny. Half of them too small to keep, so were begrudgingly tossed back into the deep.

The sun had set not ten minutes prior, hidden by black cloud and dense fog, the sea and sky smudged into a uniform shade of gloaming blue. The waves were tempestuous, whitecaps high and valleys low — the Iron Tide was a resilient girl, and she carved through the bulk of the swells, but even she could not avoid the plummets and climbs of an ocean this rough. He felt the mist of the cracking waves on his cheeks, the wind blistering cold and forcing him to squint.

As the Captain he had outgrown the need to get his hands dirty, he could stay in the comfort of the wheelhouse if he wished — but he still liked to venture down to the deck to pull ropes and haul pots when he could, if only to show his crew how it was properly done. He liked to ensure his callouses stayed thick and his mettle hadn’t turned soft.

“This’s a fucken’ suicide set, captain!” Roared Johnny from the deck, work-worn voice barely audible over the bellows of the waves on the hull. Lead deckhand with the attitude of a first mate.

The first mate himself, Simon, had begun ascending the rusty steel stairs with an uncharacteristic urgency, the hood of his fluorescent orange jacket around his shoulders, kept there by the wind.

“How many ‘ve we got?” John asked him, jaundiced, having to shout over the gale.

“Thirty-two,” Simon said rigidly, “from twenty pots.”

“Fuck’s sake,” John grunted, aggravated, smacking the rail with his palm. He cynically observed the next pot as it was hauled up, even emptier than the last one, and he made up his mind. “Alright, set ‘em back.”

“They’ve been soaking for twenty-four hours,” Simon disputed, but the pith of his irritation resided in the knowledge of how much labour had already been wasted. It was an inexorable fact, though — there was little point in retrieving them now, as empty as they were.

“It’s a waste of time to haul them all,” John barked. “What have we got, seventy to go? Set them back.”

Simon rubbed the bridge of his nose with a thumb, exasperated. “Alright.”

He echoed the Captain’s command in a roar down the stairs, deckhands looking up to listen before they obeyed — John watched, disenchanted, as they began launching the string of pots over the side of the deck one by one, throwing loops of yellow nylon rope and the bright red marker buoys out to follow them.

It was easy for John to fall into a sour mood, and after the abysmal stew Nikolai had thrown together for their supper, his fuse was cut even shorter. Seemed the Russian mechanic’s turn to cook always landed on the harshest nights, left everyone crotchety and indolent.

He needed nicotine.

He made his way back to the helm with a crease in his brow and his jaw in knots. The bolted windows spanning the length of the bridge were near impossible to see through, the battering of sea spray distorting the view of the dark ocean that extended unendingly past the bow. He glared out into the abyss for a beat, stoically watching the black waves, wondering what next the Sea would punish him with.

A blink of red pierced through the mist.

He almost ignored it, at first, rubbing his forehead as he twisted his spinning chair behind the helm — until it was there, again; a pin-prick of bright carmine, cutting through the blue sea fog and disappearing behind a wave.

Frowning as he leaned into the radar screen, his eyes scoured over the bright blue disk and immediately caught on a tiny yellow blip. Due north, twenty degrees west. It was faint, flickering every odd moment, and he stared at it vigilantly — a spot he would normally dismiss as sea clutter, if not for the blinking light he thought he saw on the horizon.

He reeled down the window by the seat and stuck his head out into the winds, squinting through the spray — at the top of a crest shone the little red light, blinking at half-second intervals, clear as day.

The realisation rinsed him colder than seawater.

A lifeboat.

He snatched the intercom radio from its hook by the wheel and held it to his lips.

“All hands—” He barked, “Secure the deck. Got a lifeboat up ahead. Prepare for rescue.”

Simon’s crackling voice quickly came back through the radio, from the call point on the deck. “D’you say a lifeboat?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Roger.”

John could hear the yelling on deck from the wheelhouse, all that fervour frothing up at the prospect of an emergency; a new challenge. He immediately spun the wheel to adjust the rudder, steering the boat in the direction of the blip on the radar. Gently pushed the throttle to catch up and felt the roaring engine quake through the boat, the sharp bow of his ship cut through the swells like a fist through a wall.

“See it,” Simon called through the intercom.

“What’ve we got?”

“Life raft.”

He tugged the throttle lever back to halt the boat on approach, aligning the vessel so that the lifeboat was portside, knuckles white on the wheel. He set the engine to hold station before marching out to the deck, bracing for the wind as he hurried across the steel balcony and down the ladder, knurled steel stairs clanging loudly with every thud of his boots.

“Any survivors onboard?” John shouted, joining his crew where they peered over the railing, as another wave cascaded over the gunwale, greenwater flooding the deck before gushing out of the scuppers.

There it was, neon orange and climbing up a steep swell. Hardly a lifeboat — an inflatable raft, little red light blinking atop a rounded corner. From the deck he could tell it was ancient, the bright skin of the raft peeling and blistering, exposing the ballooning black rubber within that kept it afloat. Modern regulations demanded modern lifeboats — fully enclosed boats with their own motors, search and rescue transponders equipped. He struggled to imagine the kind of vessel the raft had even come from; certainly not a cruise ship, or any legally operating fishing or passenger boat.

“Only one,” Alex answered, yelling over the roar of the ocean.

Nik let out a grunt, dismissing it all with a sweep of his hand. “That woman is dead.”

John squinted at the raft, and quickly determined that Nikolai wasn’t unreasonable for thinking so.

The woman aboard the raft lay face down in the orange bed, bare-footed, nothing on but a saturated ivory dress that clung to her skin like glue. Sodden hair webbed across her back, tresses floating in the inch of water that filled the basin of the boat.

Even if she were a corpse already, though, he wasn’t going to let the Sea digest her unchallenged.

“Alright,” he declared, chewing on his plan before he uttered it. “I’ll strap on the lifeline, jump in and grab her, then you lot can reel me back in.”

The disputes were quick to gush from his crew, all cursing and shaking heads.

“Get fucked,” Alex scoffed, appaled, “skipper jumping overboard? What world are you living in?”

“You gonna do it, then, Keller?” John retorted, lips in a line.

“I can,” Soap yelled, already shucking off his heavy jacket. Daredevil that he was.

John gritted his teeth. Wasn’t sold on the risk of losing his lead deckhand; but as he considered it, he would never be prepared to risk losing any of them.

“You sure?”

“Ah’m the best swimmer,” he boasted through a grin, now down to his thermals, shoulders raised in the cold and rubbing his hands together.

“Good man,” John nodded approvingly, and the crew quickly went to work strapping him in — hooked the harness over his shoulders and secured it in the front, fed the end of the long blue rope into the winch so he could be retrieved after the catch.

Came the thudding of boots on the deck, running towards the commotion; “Fuck’s going on? Why’s the engine idle?”

Kyle, the ship’s engineer, finally emerging from the engine room with a smudge of gear oil on his cheek. Must have had his earbuds in when the Captain issued the all hands directive.

John let out a huff, not prepared to give a long justification to the designated safety officer, conscientious as he was.

“Oh shit—” Gaz chirped, discovering on his own the gravity of the situation, as he glanced over the railing and spotted the raft. “Is she alive?”

“We’re about t’find out,” Soap said keenly, bouncing on the balls of his feet to warm himself up.

“You’re jumping in?” Gaz balked, “That’s — you’re fuckin’ mental.”

John let out a sharp huff. He didn’t disagree, but he thought it counterproductive to express any reluctance. “Got a better idea, lad?”

Gaz sighed anxiously as he clutched the guardrail, head hanging from his shoulders. He knew as well as John that this was the only option — it was that, or leave the woman adrift in the ocean to die, if she weren’t already.

John held fast to his pragmatism, but his morals were unyielding. Nobody gets left behind.

Men took turns giving Johnny good luck pats on the back as he climbed over the railing. He hung off the other side like a monkey with his fist around the bar, looking down into the furious ocean and taking an anticipatory breath.

The crew watched raptly and let loose a strident cheer as he launched off, diving into the waves with knife-pointed arms and sinking out of sight. Nik remained steadfast by the hydraulic winch, ready to set it off at any indication of either success or failure.

Soap reemerged from the water with a visible gasp ten-odd metres out, breaking through the white foam and powering ahead in a freestyle stroke. He reached the raft quickly, and climbed aboard like a wet dog, hauling himself up over the ballooning sides and almost pulling it under the water with him. He kneeled beside the woman once he was in, pulling her by the shoulder to assess her — he gave no indication to the crew as to her status before he hoisted her up and held her tight to his chest, arms hooked under hers so that she wore him like a backpack.

He pushed himself back into the water with an eager holler; “Got ‘er!”

Nik immediately pulled the lever on the winch and it zipped loudly as it began spinning, winding up the rope and hauling Johnny through the swelling sea. The crane arm of the davit extended far enough beyond the gunwale that he didn’t slam into the hull on his ascent, and he clung to the limp woman for dear life — John and his deckhands leaned as far over the railing as they could without toppling overboard, hooking the rope that suspended the swimmer and heaving he and his cargo onboard.

Soap coughed out a splatter of seawater as he gingerly lay the woman on her back, before rolling over and wiping down his face, dripping wet.

“Found yerself a mermaid, cap,” he sputtered, sniffing and shivering violently as he pushed himself to stand.

“Nicely fuckin’ done, Soap,” Alex lauded, smacking him on the back and earning a screech from the Scotsman.

“‘S too cold,” he bit, grabbing at his genitals through his sodden thermals. “Ma fucken’ balls are gone.”

“Go in and get dry,” the Captain barked, as he hurriedly crouched beside the woman, sweeping locks of drenched hair from where it stuck to her face.

“Jesus,” Gaz muttered concernedly.

Her skin was bitterly cold, but soft on her cheeks; some indication that resuscitation might have been possible, that her skin wasn’t as stiff and waxy as corpse skin would have been. Eyes were lightly shut, her thick lashes clumped together by seawater. He used a gentle thumb to lift up an eyelid, and her pupils were nice and black — blown out, but not clouded over. Laces of capillaries meshed through her white scleras. Blood still bright red.

“How’s she looking?” Alex asked, crouching beside John, pessimism in his throat.

“She’s frigid,” John said grimly.

“Could be hypothermic,” Gaz said from behind him, worry leaden in every word. “That water is barely higher than zero.”

“Mh,” John grunted in agreement, hastily pressing the palps of his fingers under her jaw into a spongy jugular, held there for a few seconds — no pulse. “We’ll worry about warmin’ her up once we get her breathing.”

He leaned back and interlaced his fingers, laying his hands knuckles down between her breasts. Pushed his weight into her sternum with a hard shove and her ribs sunk underneath him, bouncing back up when he released the pressure. Repeat. Over, and over, grunting with each desperate compression.

The heaving bodies of five men caging her kept the bulk of the angry waves from dousing her, the spray crashed over John’s back and dripped from him, beads landing on her body. Solemn silence hung heavy between them, as though fearful that expressing any hope would condemn her to certain death. Simon clutched John’s shoulder, grip encouraging.

He counted his compressions until he reached thirty, before he urgently keeled forward and pressed his mouth to her cold lips, pinching her nose and lifting her chin — pumped air from his lungs into hers with a forceful breath, then another, then another. Her chest rose as it filled up with his air, sunk again as he let it seep out from behind her teeth.

Returned to compressions. Push. Push. Push. He pressed so hard into her sternum that her ribs threatened to snap under the weight of him, but they were rubbery enough to withstand it.

Continued the next round until he reached twenty-one — when water began to rise up her throat, sloshing about in her open mouth and trickling out of its corners. He urgently halted his compressions to flip her onto her side and tip out the brine, hammering into the midline of her back with an open palm.

“C’mon, love,” John growled, teeth gritting. “Cough it up for me.”

As though she had heard him, a gurgle eked from her throat, torso retching as an eruption of water gushed out of her mouth and sprayed over the deck. A few weak coughs followed the first, and she shuddered — the men roared in shock and celebration as John returned her to her back.

Her eyes fluttered open for less than a second, shrinking pupils fixed on John for a heartbeat — wet, glittering under the beaming of the deck lights, carving straight through him and taking root in the marrow of his skull. Vacant and yet swollen, the glow of life anew, as though glaring right into the heavens — and with a little sigh, they feathered shut again.

He held a hand to her cheek, gave her head a soft shake; prepared to continue the chest compressions, but as he curled forward and held his ear to her lips, he felt her breathing, shaky and weak against the cartilage shell.

“She breathin’?” Simon asked bluntly, laden with apprehension.

“Yeah,” John huffed, relief potent as liquor flooded hot into his chest and made his temples throb.

“Good shit, cap��n,” Alex commended, releasing a puff of pent air, just as relieved as the lot of them.

John nodded dismissively, hands on his knees, before he pushed himself to stand. He stood over the girl and hoisted her up with his hands under her arms, before delicately draping her over his shoulder.

“Gaz, help me with her, will you?” He grunted, before marching toward the stairs up to the superstructure. “You three — fun’s over. Get back to setting the pots. I’ll send Soap back out once he’s in his dries.”

“Aye aye,” Alex said facetiously, shaking out his hands as he and the others returned to the stack they had just tied down.

“What’s the plan?” Kyle asked stiffly, in quick pursuit as John steamed up the stairs.

“Gotta get her warm,” John said.

“Yeah—” he agreed with a hesitant tone, “what d’you want me for?”

John’s eyes rolled into his skull. “You did a couple years of health science, didn’t you?”

“One year,” Kyle corrected.

John could have said that he wanted Gaz specifically because he was the ship’s assigned safety officer, or because he was the only man aboard with a university degree. But, in truth, he wanted him simply for the fact he was the least likely of all of his crewmen to make stripping the girl into something needlessly lascivious.

He carted her to the head in steady stride, passing Johnny through the narrow corridor as he dried himself off with a towel around his neck.

“She’s alive?” He asked hopefully.

“Uh-huh,” John rumbled.

Soap triple-smacked the veneer panel of the wall with a flat hand in excitement, all but bouncing off the ceiling with it. “Halle-fucken’-lujah! Need help warmin’ her up?”

“No. Get your skins on and head back out to deck, Johnny, y’got more pots to drop.”

Johnny groaned like a teenager, but he went off as he was told.

The head was small — enough room for a toilet, a shower, and a three-inch wide sink, not quite the floorspace to lay her down gracefully. John tore back the curtain and propped her up against the wall of the shower, nestling her into the corner so her head leaned against the perpendicular wall.

No sense in wasting time. He clinically peeled the sodden fabric of her white dress up her thighs, lifting her limp leg to tug the skirt out from under her.

“Christ—” Gaz grumbled, disquieted, he turned away.

“Will y’hold her arms up for me?” John monotonously requested, uninterested in the boy’s reservations.

Gaz sighed as he obeyed the order, taking her cold hands by the wrists and holding them above her head. John hiked up her dress without reservation, revealing the saturated bra and underwear she wore underneath, as he lifted it her arms up above her head.

“This’s fucked up,” Gaz mumbled.

“What is.”

“Taking her clothes off,” he said, reluctance poignant.

“You’d rather we let her freeze to death, eh?” John bit, not even dignifying the engineer’s aversion by turning to look at him.

He tugged her flaccid body towards him, and her head fell against his shoulder — he reached under her arm into the space between her back and the shower wall, unclasping her bra with a single hand.

“No,” Kyle acquiesced. “Do we really need to take off her underwear, though?”

“She’s not gonna get warm in wet knickers, is she,” John grumbled, frustration blossoming, releasing it in a sharp sigh. “Y’need to grow up, Garrick. Go and grab my jersey and a towel from the laundry, then.”

“Okay. Sure, yeah,” he agreed, marching out of the head like he might trip over in his haste.

John bit down on nothing as he pulled the straps of the girl’s bra down her arms, adding it to the pile atop her drenched dress. Didn’t help that she was a lovely thing — pudding-soft curves, pretty little face — might lend an explanation to the young engineer’s discomfort, couldn’t reconcile the attraction he felt to a near-dead woman while she was incognisant of her nudity.

John did not care, he had no qualms.

A pragmatist, through and through. He felt no shame for admiring her as he leaned her back against the laminate wall, nipples grey-purple and hard as pebbles by virtue of her palpable hypothermia. Soft lips were slack, not as blue as they had been when she was fished out of the ocean, now that her blood was pumping again.

He wasted no time ogling her, though, he was no reprobate. His only priority was getting her warm and awake. And that happened to involve hooking his fingers into the waistband of her knickers, saturated in seawater and cleaving fast to her skin.

He hooked an arm around her to lift her from the shower floor, used the other hand to tug her underwear over the swell of her bottom before he set her back down to reel them down her thighs.

Pretty cunt, too. Unshaven, how he liked them.

He reached up for the shower head, held it in a fist as he switched on the water. Already nice and warm, preheated by the engine-powered calorifiers. He held the stream of warm water over her chest, watching as it cascaded over her breasts and flooded between her thighs. Didn’t care if he got himself wet in so doing. Checked her pulse every odd moment with the pad of a finger on her wrist, ensured her chest continued to rise and fall.

Rubbed his free hand over her skin to scrub off all the salt; started modestly with her arms, shoulders, back — but was unhesitant in rinsing and scrubbing her armpits, down her belly, between her legs. Didn’t touch her pussy, though, even John felt that was a step too far. He simply rinsed it. Let the water run over her mons and channel down the cleft of her unaided.

He tilted her head back and ran the warm stream over her hairline, careful not to let too much water pour down her face. He combed thick fingers through the tresses, scrunching her hair into a ball to wring out the brine before rinsing it out again.

As he carded his fingers through her scalp, though, he felt a lump; just above her hairline, concealed by the locks. A squishy protrusion from the skull, with a frayed ridge through the centre of it. Only then did he see the diluted blood in the water that puddled at the bottom of the shower, originating from the ends of her saturated hair.

Add that to the list of ailments, he thought. Poor wee girl. They’d need to tend to that.

Kyle finally returned with a cautious knock on the door, a single knuckle.

“D’you fall overboard, Garrick?” John murmured — he had been gone far longer than it should have taken to find the items he requested.

“Sorry,” he said. “Couldn’t figure out which fleece was yours.”

John said nothing.

“She warming up yet?” Gaz asked tightly, likely not even looking in the direction of the shower, now that she was entirely nude.

The girl’s skin was now plush and pink under the heat of the water, and felt warm to the touch under the back of John’s hand; so with a satisfied nod he shut off the water and hooked the showerhead back into its fastening.

He reached backward with a gesturing hand, and Gaz handed him the crisp towel he had brought from the laundry without a word.

“Looks like she got hit in the head,” John commented, as he draped the towel over the girl's front, rubbing her down to get her dry. Arms, shoulders, armpits, thighs, feet. He was thorough.

“Shit,” Gaz said morosely, half-hearted. Soft young man, soft in a way John was almost envious of. Sometimes he wondered if he had grown too rough around the edges, too abrasive for his own good. “What the fuck happened to ‘er?”

“Not a clue,” John said. “Nothing good.”

“That life raft was — that was non-standard,” Gaz pondered aloud.

“Thought the same thing,” John replied, as he scrunched her hair in the towel, twisting it up to wring out the water. He was careful with the top of her head — dabbing her scalp gently, leaving dark red smears in the blue fibres.

“Ferry capsized, maybe?”

“We would’ve heard about a ship capsizing nearby,” John said. “‘Specially a passenger vessel. They’d have blasted the distress call out in every direction.”

“Mh,” Gaz agreed.

“She had no shoes on,” John remarked, tone sombre. “No gear, no jacket.”

“Running away from something?” asked Gaz, picking up what John might have been suggesting.

“Maybe,” John said, before hanging the towel around her back and hauling her up from the floor with an arm around her ribs.

He hung her floppy arms over his shoulder, kept her body tight to him, the towel just long enough to conceal her buttocks from Gaz, sensitive lad. He kept her up with a forearm under her rear, bounced her to adjust. She was impossibly easy to lift; John could have carried her one-handed, if he were less concerned about avoiding brandishing her nudity around the ship.

Gaz followed him out of the head, towards the galley.

“She had no belongings with her, eh?” Gaz asked, “no wallet, nothing?”

“No.”

Kyle let out a long sigh, worry oozing from his every pore. “Don’t wanna imagine how long she was drifting for.”

John nodded, as he sat her down on the bench seat of the dining table, the thin vinyl cushion squeaking underneath her. He dumped the towel, and grabbed his jersey from Gaz — one of his heavy Patagonia fleeces, fabric thick, plush like sheepskin, dark navy with a zip collar. He pulled it over her head, fed her arms through the long sleeves and adjusted it down her torso. It was long enough that it reached her mid-thighs, hands two-thirds of the way through the sleeves — big enough to conceal everything, and cozy enough to keep her warm. He pulled her hair out from inside the collar and lay it to one side over her shoulder.

“Grab me the first aid kit,” John ordered dryly, as he leaned her against the seat, holding her head upright with a hand at the back of her skull.

He fingered through her locks of damp hair, looking closely for the contusion that he felt ballooning out of her scalp — found it, eventually, dark purple and swollen, sticky burgundy blood coagulating around the open wound and gluing bits of hair together.

“Think she fell?” Gaz asked, as he returned with the red polyester pouch after rummaging through the galley cabinets, unzipping and unfurling it.

“S’there betadine in there?” John asked, before he had acknowledged the engineer’s question. “Hard to say, it looks rough.”

Kyle handed him the little brown dropper of iodine solution, popping off the cap for him. “You don’t think someone hit her.”

John’s jaw tightened. “If they did, they hit her bloody hard.”

“Fuckin’ hell,” Gaz grumbled, upset, watching with his arms crossed as John tipped over the little bottle. He squeezed out several rust-brown drops, they landed squarely in the wound in her scalp, emulsifying with the tissue. “This’s all — just wrong.”

“Least she’s alive,” John murmured, through a huff, as he put down the betadine. No use in attempting to bandage it, the laceration was small enough that it would heal on its own if left unbothered.

“Wonder where her home is,” Gaz mused, tone dismal.

“We’ll ‘ave to see what the bird says when she wakes up,” John said, laying the girl down on her side, tucking up her knees.

“What if she doesn’t?”

“She will,” John asserted as he stood, rapping an appreciative hand on Kyle’s shoulder. “Keep an eye on her, will you? I need to get back to the bridge.”

“Okay,” Gaz nodded tightly.

“And get her a blanket,” John ordered on his way to the ladder. “Call me if anything changes, yeah?”

“Will do, Captain.”

You tasted salt on your tongue.

It was dark, and your body was so heavy — your neurons fired off to raise an arm, and all they mustered was the twitch of a finger. Skin felt warm and viscid, lacquered in a tepid layer of tar as though fully submerged in gooey black pitch, too thick to move around in.

Your eyes perceived nothing but deep, liquid burgundy, and the sparking of white-and-red stars that encroached on the borders of your vision, writhing and swirling in the abyss of your blindness.

Still, salt on your tongue.

It was foul, overpowering, all consuming — that brackish grit in every corner of your mouth, between your teeth, crystallising in the back of your throat. It filled your nose, stung where it adhered to the delicate mucosa of your nostrils, every breath hurt to take in.

You could feel it in your lungs, too. Shards of salt embedded in your bronchioles, saline glutted alveoli, trachea plugged with viscous brine.

Your diaphragm spasmed beyond your control, body seizing as you erupted into a coughing fit — wet and phlegmy, salty fluid gurgling in your chest and hucking out of your mouth with every ragged splutter, you almost choked on it as you heaved in as much air as your lungs could imbibe.

Your eyes shot open, then, vision so blurry that you had to wrench them closed a few times before the membrane over your corneas began to dissipate.

A rubbery cushion under the side of your head, fuzzy fabric enveloping your arms and chest, something scratchy and heavy over your legs. Warm, sore — you ached everywhere, every joint stiff, every muscle burning, every organ twisting and floundering inside you.

Dizziness wracked through your head, brain swimming free within your skull, spinning around in circles and bouncing against the walls of its cavity as though you were being tipped forward and backward and forward again.

Nausea swelled up quickly, filled you up to the ears and made your stomach cramp and contort — bile rose up your throat and burned on its way up, you leaned over the surface you lay on and let it spill out from your teeth. Hardly any vomit, merely an oozing stream of chartreuse bile that dripped in strings from the corner of your mouth.

You heard a voice, a man’s voice, at first too disoriented to understand it.

“Shit — oh my god, you’re—”

A hoarse groan escaped your chest in response, not a noise you made on purpose, as you tried to roll onto your back.

“Are you okay?” He asked urgently, and suddenly you noticed a pair of knees under a table beside you, only as they shifted when the person stood. “Hey — you’re okay, you’re—”

You moaned again, squinting under the bright light above you, vision distorted by vertigo and brine. Tongue too fat to form any words yet.

“You’re okay, let me — let me get you some water.”

You heard the hurried thuds of boots away from you, and you rubbed your eyes with the heels of your palms, finally able to see properly once you opened your eyes again. Shakily pulled yourself upright with a hand on the table, muscles quivering so violently that they could barely hold you up — but fired adrenaline began to kick in, thumping out from your chest and buzzing in your fingertips as you glanced around the room, utterly alien to you.

“Where…” you croaked, soaking in your surroundings. Panelled walls of honey oak, an ugly veneered table in front of you, you sat on its bench seat. A small circular window sat above the table, bolted around its borders, and a single light bulb hung from the ceiling.

The room smelled like dish soap and body odour, fetid with the scent of an unwashed sponge and a hovering note of fish carcass. A small kitchen, as you turned your head around to check behind you — the man towered over a sink, you heard the hiss of running water.

“Where am I?” You finally asked, finding your words, but your voice was as frayed as if you had swallowed glass.

The man turned then, and you did not recognise him. Not at all. A complete stranger, with a furrow in his brow, and an awkward smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

You bolted up from the seat then, tossing aside the blanket that rested on your knees, fight-or-flight reigniting your muscles and setting your heart into overdrive — your head spun with it, and your balance was completely off kilter, you had to continually readjust your feet to keep yourself upright.

“Hey — hey, easy,” he said edgily, voice soft.

“Who the fuck are you?” You barked, immediately defensive, you tried to keep your eyes pinned to him while you made note of your peripheral surroundings.

“I’m — I’m sorry, I didn’t — I’m Gaz. Kyle. I’m Kyle.”

You scowled at him, panting, hackles raised high as you shuffled away from the table. “I don’t know anyone called Kyle,” you hissed. “Or anyone called Gaz.”

“We haven’t met before,” he said, body twisting to face you as you inched around him.

He put down the glass of water he held in his hand, and that only further enkindled your terror. Now his hands were free. He could tackle you, if he wanted to. Tall man that he was, muscular under his black jersey, his big doe-eyes did nothing to soften you to him.

“We found you in the water,” he tried to explain, “we thought you were dead. But we rescued you.”

“The fuck do you mean, found me?” You spat, now approaching the kitchen, your eyes scoured around for something to grab.

He could detect your scheming, inched closer to you on quiet feet, attempting to flank you.

So you dashed — bolted towards the small cooktop, where a magnetic strip mounted on the wall held an array of kitchen knives.

“Fuck—” He cursed, through teeth, failing to grab you in time before you snatched one by the handle, and held the blade in front of you with both hands.

You jabbed it at him as you backed out of his reach, arms so shaky you almost dropped it — but you kept it tight, holding onto it with vicious devotion, as though dropping it would be your death sentence.

He held up his hands, not in surrender, but as if he were attempting to settle a wild animal. “Okay, love, take it easy.”

“Stay away from me,” you shouted, trembling, backing away cautiously.

“Captain!” The man roared worriedly toward the ceiling, and you flinched. “Look, love, I’m not going to—”

“Fuck you,” you bit, before you spun on a heel and flew towards an archway.

“Shit.” He cursed as you escaped, but he had not yet pursued you.

You scurried down the narrow corridor, bare feet aching with every step, knife extended in front of you and prepared to slash at anything that got in your way. You were wobbling all over the place, as though the ground beneath you was rocking back and forth; you toppled into the wall on your right, yelping as you tried to get yourself upright again.

You reached a great big industrial door, painted blue and with a tiny circular porthole too high for you to see through. It had a wheel in the centre of it, connected to a series of bars that spanned it from top to bottom. Not a door you had ever seen before, but you inexplicably knew to twist the wheel — left, first go, and the bars shrunk away from the top and bottom, the steel door unsealing with a clank.

Now you heard the thuds of running boots, fast, growing louder, closer — you shouldered open the heavy door and leapt over the lip at the bottom, immediately blasted with an ice-cold wind that made you shrivel up and almost retreat back inside.

The sky was stark black, and you were blinded by floodlights. You stumbled towards the railing, hanging onto it for dear life as you almost slipped over on the frigid metal grating under your feet — it felt like barbed wire on your soles, and you whimpered with every step.

Your fierce desperation to escape trumped any pain, though, you burned hot as a boiler, thundering adrenaline keeping you aflame. You spun your head around to determine where you were; a pitch-dark abyss surrounded you on all sides — no sky, no ground, no lights on the horizon, nothing. You peered over the balustrade and realised then that you were on a ship, now seeing the building-tall waves that cascaded over the floor below, bedizened in ropes and grates and metal cages and buoys, populated with a few people in neon jackets.

“Hey—” Came a bark from behind you, and you shrieked — immediately scurrying towards a steep staircase, pole-narrow, almost toppling down it as you bounced to every second step.

The floor of the deck consisted of slippery water-logged wood, and the soles of your feet struggled to find any grip as you sprinted across it. You weren’t even sure where you were running, just away, from the man who had followed you — but it became quickly clear you had no escape, and the orange-jacketed men on the deck had turned their heads to spot you.

“Oh, fuck—” One barked.

Another erupted in bewildered laughter; “She breathes, alright!”

“Oi — girl—” Called one.

“C’mere, hen!” Shouted another, Scottish. “We don’t bite!”

You sobbed as you ran, ravaged by a fear so potent it made your heart shrivel up like a raisin — you were sprayed by a crashing wave, blinded by the salt, and your feet slipped out from under you. Collided into the hard ground with a slam, a bounce, you skidded across the wood and your knife tumbled out of your grip, sliding out of reach.

Only as you flopped around on the greasy floor did you realise your nudity under the sweater you were wearing, bare thighs slick with cold sea water, ass bitten by the arctic wind. You scrambled to get yourself back up, crawling on your hands and knees towards your only weapon — until a thick arm hooked under your belly, swiftly hoisting you up from the ground with yank, and you squealed.

“Easy, now, woman—” Gritted the man, the hoarse growl of an old dog, and he held you flat to his chest. “In such a hurry to go back overboard, eh?”

You wailed, attempted to buck yourself free from him while your feet dangled off the floor, but he only secured his grip with another mammoth arm. The other men on the deck approached hastily, concern and confusion etched in their cold-ruddy faces, looking between each other as though waiting for somebody to decide what to do with you.

“Let me go,” you sobbed, paltry voice broken by hiccups, you spluttered and cried and kicked when you could muster it. “Please, please—”

“Put her down, Nik, for fuck’s sake.” Came the roar of another man, approaching from further away, an authoritative fury that your captor swiftly obeyed.

You landed on your bare feet onto the wet floor with a squelch, and a sob, but he kept a firm grip of your shoulder to prevent you from fleeing. You wouldn’t have, though — now, it was clear to you — there was nowhere to run.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Yelled the evident commander, “All of you? Christ, look, you’ve scared the shit out of her.”

You saw him, then, as he stood in front of you — towering, heaving, you felt the vibrations of his heavy feet on the deck with each step. Broad shoulders cloaked in a rugged navy jacket, the hood pooled around his neck, a pair of roomy yellow overalls strapped over the waterproof layer. A black knitted beanie sat on the top of his head, folded just above his furrowed brows. His lips were in a snarl under his dense beard while he addressed the other men, but they softened into a neutral line when he looked at you.

There was something familiar about him, not that you could place it; a face you might have seen in a dream, or crossing the street once. A face you could imagine with a glowing light beaming from behind it, as though the moon eclipsing a sun. You had no memory to tie to it, and yet, it settled you slightly.

“Y’alright, love,” he said, voice honey-warm and thick with gravel, he held a hand in your direction and gestured to follow him. “Come back in, will you? Too cold for you out here, eh?”

You sipped a shaky breath, shivering in the bitter wind, glancing at the men surrounding you from under your brow. Returning to the man that gestured for you, you gave him a feeble nod, and waddled in his direction.

“Tha’s it, c’mon,” he said gently, hovering a hand at the small of your back. He turned over his shoulder to shout at the others; “You lot have more pots to set, don’t you? Get back to fuckin’ work.”

He guided you gingerly towards the stairs, close behind you to ensure you didn’t slip over on the way up. Opened the weathertight door to let you in, but walked in front of you down the same corridor you had escaped through. You held your arms tight around yourself, left soggy footprints along the vinyl floor.

“Got yourself all wet again,” he said, an edge of irritation in his tone.

“D’you get her?” Came a call from the kitchen you had awoken in, and the man — Kyle — appeared at the end of the hallway. You froze.

“Go finish your work, Gaz, y’still got an hour on the clock.” He ordered flatly, and Kyle looked at you past him.

“Yes, Captain,” he grunted disdainfully, shouldering past the man in front of you, and squeezing around you where you pressed yourself into the wall. “Hope you’re feeling okay,” he mumbled sheepishly, before disappearing down a flight of stairs.

The captain looked back at you, flicked his head in the direction of the kitchen. “C’mon, let's get you dry.”

The kitchen was much smaller than you remembered it being not a few minutes prior — cozy, much warmer than outside but still not quite warm.

“Siddown,” he said from the kitchen, not as forceful as a command but just as compulsory. You gingerly sat yourself on the same bench you had woken up on, watching him carefully, lips sealed.

He approached you with a tall cup of water, held by the rim with the tips of his fingers. “Drink it.”

You took the cup timidly, but once it was in your grip you did not hesitate; tipped it into your mouth and skulled it down desperately, a dribble escaping the corner of your mouth. You had no idea how thirsty you were until fresh water touched your lips — fresh, not salty — you panted like a dog when the cup was empty, half-quenched.

He took it from you, filled it back up at the sink before bringing it back, and you drank the second cupful just as quickly.

“Better?” He asked, and you nodded, wiped your mouth with your hand.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

You watched as he grabbed a light blue towel from the tabletop, and for a moment you thought he might hand it to you — instead he crouched in front of you, and took your leg by the ankle.

You immediately chirped and attempted to tug your foot free on reflex, but his grip was firm; entire hand wrapped tight around your ankle, he gave you a tut.

“Settle down,” he snipped, resting the sole of your foot on his collarbone. “I’m only dryin’ you off.”

Said with such certainty that you began to doubt your instinct that it was inappropriate for him to put his hands on you — tempered by the feeling that he knew what he was doing, that he was only taking care of you.

He looked at you impatiently until your tensed muscles eased, before he nodded in satisfaction. He hooked your foot over his shoulder so that your ankle rested on his trapezius, before he bunched the towel up in a fist and ran it up the length of your leg.

You leaned on your arms behind you, heart in your throat, beating so fast that you could hear it buzzing in your ears.

He was focused, wiping the seawater and muck off your skin, up and down your thighs, down the underside of your leg.

“Took a tumble, did you?” He asked plainly, dabbing a fresh graze on your knee with the towel, making you flinch with the sting.

“Yeah,” you said meekly; you were sure it would bruise eventually, but it was largely painless for the time being.

He tutted you, but continued, wiped down your calf and dried off your foot last; he was fastidious about it, pushed the fibers of the towel between your toes, engulfed your foot in the cotton, scrubbed it along the sole of your foot and your toes curled with the tickle.

He set that leg down once he was done with it, and wordlessly demanded the other with a curl of his fingers.

Confounding yourself, you did as you were told, and offered him your other leg; he repeated the procedure, resting your foot on his shoulder and scrubbing your leg with the crunchy towel, unabashedly wiping up to the top of your thigh, between your legs, under your knees.

It didn’t escape your notice that you were naked underneath the jersey, and if he were to look a little higher his eyes would be square with your pussy. The thought made you tighten, and he gave you a disapproving glance when he felt it — but he finished with the other foot, and set your leg free again.

“Thank you,” you muttered, tight-lipped, dizzy with confusion.

“D’you want a new jersey?” He asked as he stood, swiping a hand over the sleeve shoulder, where seaspray had beaded on the outside of the fleece.

“I’m okay,” you said timidly, tucking your legs together.

He nodded, dropping the towel back on the table. “Alright, pet,” he said. “Let’s get you a cuppa, yeah?”

You were quiet, but he busied himself in the tiny kitchen anyway — followed the rumbling of a water boiler and the slosh of hot water, the opening and closing of cabinets and drawers, the tinking of a spoon in a teacup.

“Hope you take it with milk and sugar,” he said. “You’re getting it whether you like it or not.”

“That’s fine,” you croaked.

“Good girl,” he said, as he returned with a brown glass mug and set it down on the table in front of you. “Gotta get some sugar in you. You remember the last time you ate?”

You shook your head.

“Mh, well, let’s get you fed.”

“I’m not — I’m not hungry right now,” you said hesitantly, and when a divot pulled in his brows, you clarified; “don’t think I can keep much down yet.”

He nodded. “No problem, love,” he answered, with a pacifying grin. “How’s the head?”

“Where am I?” You asked pointedly, cutting to the chase, unwilling to take a sip of your tea out of lingering suspicion.

He sat down across from you, landing in the bench seat with a grunt, interlocking his fingers on the surface of the table. His glare was scrutinising, albeit gentle, as though checking rather than inspecting.

“You’re aboard the Iron Tide,” he said candidly. “We’re fishing for crabs in the North Sea.”

“Iron Tide?”

“That’s the name of the ship, love,” he answered, a little patronising. “I’m her skipper, I’m Jonathan. You met Gaz, he’s our engineer — he gave you a fright, I bet, but he’s a good lad.”

You nodded edgily, looking askance at him. “Okay… but, how did I get here?”

He smiled sombrely at that, crow’s feet pinching in the corners of his tired eyes. An oceanic blue, you noticed, little round seas reflecting the light that bounced off the table beneath him.

“Was hopin’ you could tell me that, pet,” he gibed, nodding at your mug. “Drink your tea.”

You took a sip, as you were told. Just cooled enough to sip with a slurp, blanketing your salty tongue, warm and saccharine, hot as it went down your throat. Earl grey. The taste made you feel tucked in, as though a blanket were over your legs, a pillow behind your head — but the murky memory was as fleeting as it was vague. You swallowed it with a sigh, and he looked pleased.

“So?”

“So what?” You asked, with a frown.

“How’d you end up on the high seas, hm?”

“I—” You cut yourself off, as you stared into the steaming surface of your tawny-coloured tea.

Words danced at the tip of your tongue, amorphous and flavourless, nothing you could place. Notions that, if you were to reach for them, would drift away, or turn to smoke.

You didn’t have an answer.

“I don’t know,” you said, voice shaky, glancing at him with worry knitting in your brows as though he might be able to remind you.

“You don’t remember?” He asked carefully.

A piteous heat swelled beneath your eyes, tears welling from their ducts and pooling in your eyes, your vision went blurry with it. You shook your head.

“S’alright, pet,” he said, fixing a hand to your wrist across the table. “It’ll come back to you. Do you remember anything at all? If you were on a boat, what country you’re from?”

Again you shook your head, sniffling, you wiped an errant tear with the soft sleeve of the oversized fleece you have no memory of putting on. “No.”

Concern cracked through his stoic expression, and it only made you more upset.

“Do you know your name, love?”

You vacuumed in a slow and trembling breath, eyes bouncing between your hands, as if they might hold the answer. You could think of names — Jessica, Lucy, Nina, Anna, Rebecca — but they were only that, random names floating about in the air around you, and you could not pin any of them as your own with any certainty.

“No,” you eked, followed swiftly by a sob, despite your effort to swallow it.

He exhaled, long and beleaguered, stroking the back of your hand with his colossal thumb. Hands as big as saucers, calloused and molten hot to the touch. Made your hand look like a pixie’s underneath it.

“Don’t fret, eh?” He said, failing to comfort you. “Y’got plenty of time to remember. Just finish your tea.”

“What do you mean?” You asked weakly, plenty of time comment making you uneasy. “Aren’t you going to take me to — back to land?”

He smiled, bemused, as he released your wrist with a pat and leaned back against the bench seat, hanging an arm insouciantly over the back.

“Not heading all the way back to port yet, love,” he said frankly. “We only left a couple days ago. Got a lot more crabs to catch.”

“I’m — I have to stay on this boat until you’re done fishing?” You asked, fighting back the tears that threatened another cascade.

He tilted his head. “This’s my job. If I don’t get crabs, I don’t get paid. Neither do the other lads, ‘n they won’t be letting that happen.”

You pouted, lip quivering and face scrunching, and he let out a huff.

“Look, sweetheart, what would I even do with you if I took you back now?” He asked, tone rigid. “Y’got no ID, no passport, no papers, nothing on you but that bloody frock. We don’t even know what country you belong to. You’d get snatched up by the authorities and tossed around immigration services until your head is on backwards.”

You sniffled, wiped your cheek with your sleeve. You had no argument, and even if you had the energy to muster one, you had no knowledge of how such a system worked, or where you would possibly go if they allowed you free movement. You’re sure you’d have a house somewhere, a family, someone out there must be looking for you…

The thought made you cry again, head falling from your shoulders and landing in your hands, you sobbed unremittingly into the dense fleece.

Jonathan sighed at that, evidently growing impatient, but he pushed himself to stand — he was suddenly next to you, planting himself on the bench with his thigh against yours, and he draped an arm around your shoulder.

“S’alright,” he crooned, voice as deep and rumbling as an engine, and you found yourself curling into him on instinct. Tucked up under his arm, head on his chest, a warm hand rested on the side of your head and smoothed down your hair. “We’ll sort it out.”

“I don’t even kn-know where my home is,” you blubbered into him, muffled by his jacket, still speckled with beads of sea mist. “Or if — if I’ve got a family, or a husband—”

“Y’look a little young for one o’ those,” he remarked, with a chortle.

“What if I don’t remember anything? Ever?” You cried, and he stroked the shell of your ear with his calloused thumb, fingers woven in your hair.

“None o’ that,” he grumbled, you couldn’t determine if he was rocking you or if it was simply the motions of the boat tipping over the waves. “No wallowing on my ship. Keep your chin up, and you’ll be fine.”

You whimpered, but nodded, and he petted your head like a cat.

“We got another nine or ten days at sea,” he said, comforting hand retreating from you, resting on his lap. Kept his heavy arm coiled around you, though, and you were daftly grateful for it. He patted you on the far shoulder with a stiff hand. “You’re a tough girl, yeah?”

“I dunno,” you sniffled, sitting yourself upright and reeling away from him. He released you, then, arms crossing over his chest instead.

“Well you survived God knows how long floating around in the North Sea, pet, I’d call that pretty tough.”

You attempted to compose yourself, sucking deep a breath and wiping down your face with your sleeves. Hoped that whoever’s fleece it was didn’t care about tears and snot being smeared over the cuffs.

“Is there somewhere for me to sleep?” You asked cautiously, in an attempt to come to terms with reality — nine or ten nights of sleeping on a fishing boat. It made you sick to think about.

He curled his lips as he thought for a moment. “You can sleep in my bed,” he said. “Skipper’s cabin is a lot nicer than the crew berths, I’ll tell you that.”

You blinked at him, uncertain — it was unsettlingly vague whether that meant he was offering you the bed to yourself.

“Or you can ask one of the lads to share a bunk with them, I’m sure they wouldn’t mind.”

You shook your head hastily, and he cracked a grin. “No, thank you, skipper’s cabin sounds good, please.”

“Alrighty,” he concurred, with a nod, the deal done. “Sleepy already, eh?”

You nodded sheepishly — for the most part, you just wanted to be alone, somewhere quiet and enclosed, out of sight. But you were utterly drained, left ravaged by receding adrenaline, body battered and bruised. Curling up in a bed sounded luxurious, and heaven only knows how long it had been since you slept in one.

“Y’only been awake for twenty minutes,” he joked. “And you’ve hardly touched your tea.”

He flicked his head towards the mug, and his imperious expression made clear that he wanted you to finish it.

So, if only appease him, you clutched the mug and tipped it into your mouth, sucking down the now luke-warm tea in five hefty gulps. Licked your lips when you were done, and dumped the mug back on the table.

“Happy?”

He smiled wide, let out a haughty chuckle. “Nicely done,” he said. “Alright, then, let’s get you tucked in.”

He pushed himself to stand with a grunt, finally freeing you from behind the table, and you followed him.

“Y’sure you don’t want a bite?”

You shook your head. “Maybe in the morning, if that’s okay.”

He laughed as he made his way toward an upward staircase. “Morning’s fine, but I’m not having you starve yourself.”

“I won’t.”

As you climbed to the top of the stairs you reached the bridge — a large control station with many screens, all showing different radars and panels and numbers. The wheel was there, too, a spinning chair with a sweater thrown over the back of it tucked in front of it. Sea spray made pattering rain-like noises on the thick windows, but very little light came in from them. The air was thick with cigar smoke and terpenic air freshener, the everpresent ghost of saltwater lingering in between.

“Just through here,” he instructed, and you followed him around to the other side, through a door, and down a shorter staircase.

There you were met with a bedroom; it was intimate, stuffed full of bags and boxes and papers. A fold-out desk jutted out from an warm-wood wall, covered in maps weighed down by protractors and a drawing compass. Coats hung over hooks, boots lined up by the door.

A cot bolted to the wall, perhaps a king single, unmade — a thick duvet with a red-and-navy plaid blanket tossed overtop, heavy wool that you could ascertain would be itchy without needing to touch it. A single pillow in a navy pillowcase, cream-coloured fitted sheet likely toned off-white due to age or overuse.

It was rich with musk in there, the single porthole window not able to be opened, and the heady scent made you dizzy. You imagined it was only a marginally diluted version of the same scent you’d get pressing your nose into his armpit. It was only tempered by traces of toothpaste and cigarettes, and the potent smell of Imperial Leather bar soap. Daft that you remembered that, and little else.

“Not a five-star hotel, eh?” He gibed, nudging you with his elbow. You didn’t have a response, at first, and he chided you; “Don’t be a sourpuss. No room for being fussy here, love.”

“No — this is perfect, thank you, I’ll sleep anywhere.”

He smiled and crossed his arms, rocking on the balls of his feet. “Alright, well, you get yourself comfortable then,” he said. “Loo’s just through there, if you need it. Use my toothbrush if you like, just give it a wash after, eh?”

You almost grimaced at the thought of sharing his toothbrush, but the lingering bile and salt in your mouth had you looking forward to the taste of toothpaste.

“Need anything else, pet?” He asked, still gruff. “Paracetamol? I can get you something else to sleep in—”

“I’m okay, thank you,” you insisted, perhaps too plainly eager to get him out of the room.

“Alright, love,” he said. “G’night, then. I’ll just be up there, still got some steering to do.”

“Okay.”

With a firm nod, he turned around and headed out of the cabin, shutting the door behind him.

You let out a pent breath once you were alone, potent exhaustion suddenly crashing into you like a train. You stumbled into the tiny ensuite — a small toilet and a sink, the shower head jutting out from the wall above the commode — rinsed his frayed toothbrush under the tap and globbed on some colgate.

Brushing your teeth made you feel marginally human again, and you spent a good five minutes scrubbing out every crevice of your mouth. You washed it afterwards, like he said, and stuck it to the wall with the suction cup on the back of it.

There was no mirror, and you found yourself glad of it. You couldn’t yet confront the fact that you did not remember what you looked like, an existential dread that simmered in your belly, but too tired to churn up.

Only then, as you glanced at his bar of soap (it was Imperial Leather, as you had guessed), did you realise how clean you felt — you wondered if he had washed you, and now you were certain that he had changed you. The thought made you shiver, and you tried not to think about it.

His bed was squeaky underneath you, and the mattress so soft that you sunk deep into it; the weight of him permanently embedded in the springs, you settled into the divot like a cat, curled up towards the wall. It was bitterly cold in the cabin, much like the rest of the ship, so you tugged the blankets up your cheek, rubbing your icy feet together to warm them up.

The sheets reeked of him, of man and musk, the pillow smelt of scalp and salt. It was unusually comforting. Such a human smell, and as you tucked yourself under his layers of blankets it swirled around in the front of your head and made you dozy.

Sleep called to you, dark and ebbing, and you slipped willingly beneath the surface.

You were roused, only slightly, at the sound of a door handle.

Not alert enough to open your eyes, you still floated deep in slumber, soft and warm. Your consciousness ascended close enough to the shallows to acknowledge the opening of a door, the footsteps across a hollow floor, but the sounds conveyed no meaning to you.

Sleep pulled you downward but you floated languidly back up at each noise; the fizz of running water, the scrubbing of brushing teeth, the spit of toothpaste.

A zip being undone, velcro being ripped open, boot laces being untied. The clunk of a shutting door, a cough, a grunt, and you finally broke the surface.

Now entirely awake, you remained completely still — not out of fear, you didn’t think — perhaps in the hope that he would leave you alone to keep sleeping, absolutely not ready to get up yet. He made no effort to be quiet, as he dumped his boots by the door, rummaged around in his belongings for a moment, coughed again.

You kept your nose close to the wall, eyes barely open. He flicked off a light switch and the room was abruptly drowned in darkness.

The blanket was lifted from you, then, and you flinched — with the cold air nipping at your skin, you realised your long jersey had been hiked up in your sleep, and your bare bottom half was starkly exposed.

You froze, curled up, tongue in your teeth; until a sudden weight plummeted into the mattress, bouncing you up before sinking deep behind you, causing you to slide into the dip.

With a grunt and a huff the blanket was pulled back up over you, scratchy wool brushing your cheeks. A titanic arm hooked over your stomach, and you squeaked — he paid no mind, yanking you backwards until your back was flush with his chest, ass nestled into his lower belly, his thighs tucked up behind yours.

You held your breath, skittish, not yet daring to move; he let out a deep sigh into the back of your head, warm breath seeping through your hair and into your skull.

His entire body was a furnace, burning hot, and you felt yourself melting into him whether you liked it or not. A mammoth hot water bottle, wrapped around and behind you, keeping you soothingly warm.

His hand ventured nowhere untoward, arm only hanging listlessly over the divot of your waist, forearm tucked into your chest. He felt clothed against you, sweatpants and a thermal on.

There was something wrong about it — something off, a survival instinct that buzzed around you, humming like a mosquito, a ringing in your ear, annoying and persistent.

But his pyretic warmth made you lightheaded, so comfortable tucked into him that it felt like you were already dreaming.

With a heavy blink, and a deflating breath, you sunk deep into him and let slumber swallow you whole once again.

#cunty little beanie is here #john price x reader #captain price x reader #captain john price x reader #call of duty fanfic #cod fanfic #cod smut #bella-writes

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carnalcrows · 2 months ago

Text

UNDER THE SEA

summary: When a voiceless prince of the sea washes up on shore, the last thing you expect is to fall in love with him. But Suguru is nothing like the legends — sharp-eyed, wild-hearted, and hiding more pain than he lets on. As your world turns upside down with stolen glances and forbidden touches, you're both pulled into a storm of old magic, royal wrath, and the kind of love that changes everything. In the end, the only thing stronger than the tide is the bond between you.

pairing: ariel! suguru geto x prince eric! male reader

content warnings: 18+, top male reader, the side characters are originally sea creatures but get turned into humans at the end (for the plot), shapeshifting, thoughts of suicide (implied).

word count: 8.0k

The coast was a living thing.

It breathed salt into the air, stirred the waves with invisible hands, whispered secrets through the sea grass curling around the rocks. You knew the shoreline better than you knew the royal gardens, better than the throne room where your future was supposed to be waiting. Here, at the ragged edge of the kingdom, you could pretend the world was yours alone.

Megumi barked at the foam licking the sand, then trotted back to nudge your knee with a wet nose. You smiled, absently scratching behind his ears as you watched the ships bobbing out on the horizon — pale ghosts against the setting sun.

Tomorrow there would be meetings. Talks of alliances, marriage contracts and duty. You had been reminded of it a hundred times this week alone. A prince's life is not his own, they told you. A prince lives for his people.

You tipped your head back and let the wind steal the breath from your lungs. Maybe that was true. Maybe that was why you spent so much time down here, pretending you could forget.

The first night you saw him, you thought he was a dream.

A figure cutting through the dark waves, black hair slicked back from his sharp, beautiful face, a flicker of something silvered and strange at his waist where legs should have been. He didn't speak. He only watched you from a distance, half-shielded by a jagged rock outcropping — until the tide rose too high and you had to retreat, pulse thundering like a drum.

You didn’t tell anyone. You weren’t even sure he was real.

But you came back the next night anyway. And the night after that.

⋆｡°✩

The sea above was never quiet.

It pressed against Geto's skin like a second heartbeat, a steady drum of currents and whispered storms. He learned long ago how to move with it, how to let the world pass around him without leaving a mark. Down here, nothing changed. Down here, he could be anything except free.

His father's court was endless: treaties with the southern pods, patrols against deepwater threats, lectures on duty and bloodlines. The weight of it wrapped around his ribs tighter with every passing year. One day, Gakuganji told him, the crown would be his. One day, he would lead their people. One day, one day, one day.

None of it ever felt like it belonged to him.

Only the surface did.

Only the wind-struck light dappling the upper currents, the forgotten shipwrecks rusting like bones, the songs carried down from the world above. Only the days he risked everything to rise to the rocky cliffs near the human harbour — to watch them, to imagine a life where he could breathe air and walk wherever he wanted, whenever he wanted, without permission or fear.

It was on one of those days that he saw you.

A boy standing barefoot on the rocks, hair tousled by the wind, face turned toward the horizon like he was searching for something he hadn't found yet. You looked out at the world the way Geto did from below — aching for it.

He should have swum away. Should have gone back to the safety of the deeps.

But he stayed. And he watched. And for the first time in a long time, the ocean around him didn’t feel like a cage.

⋆｡°✩

The night the storm hit, the harbour bells rang too late.

You had been aboard one of the trading ships by then, half-listening to the captain grumble about incoming weather and ignoring the pit twisting in your gut. The sky was already bruising purple when the first gust hit — tearing sails, snapping rigging. Men shouted, scrambling to reef lines and lower anchors, but the sea didn’t care for human hands.

It swallowed the ships one by one.

The deck pitched under your feet. You stumbled, slamming against the rail just as a wall of black water rose above the stern. Megumi barked once, sharp and terrified, before something wrenched you backwards — the mast, splintering free and crashing down.

You didn’t have time to scream.

The ocean yawned open and dragged you under.

⋆｡°✩

Geto felt it before he saw it.

The current shifted — sudden and wrong — churning with debris and panic. He surfaced just in time to see the human ships breaking apart like toys, to hear the distant wail of horns and voices swallowed by thunder.

And you.

Sinking.

He didn't think. He never thought, where you were concerned.

Geto dove, cutting through the wreckage, ignoring the jagged shards that scraped his arms. He found you drifting down like a broken-winged bird, limbs slack, hair fanning in the dark.

The ocean wanted you. It always wanted the beautiful ones.

Not this time.

He caught you around the waist and kicked hard for the surface.

You were heavy with soaked clothes and fading warmth. Every second dragged like chains. His lungs burned, his vision blurred, but he held onto you like you were the last real thing left in the world.

When they broke the surface, the storm was still raging. Waves tossed them like driftwood. He scanned the dark coastline — spotted the jutting rocks near the harbour mouth — and swam.

He didn’t know how long it took. He didn’t care.

He hauled you up onto the slick stones, shielding your body with his own as the rain lashed down. You coughed weakly, choking on salt, and he exhaled a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.

Alive.

You were alive.

⋆｡°✩

The sound of human voices echoed from the cliffs — search parties, flashing lanterns between the rocks. Geto looked down at you, memorising the line of your jaw, the stubborn set of your mouth even in sleep.

He wanted — stupidly, selfishly — to stay.

Instead, he pressed his forehead briefly against yours, whispering something he would never have the chance to explain. Then he slid back into the water and vanished with the tide.

By the time the villagers found you, the only trace of him was the salt drying on your skin.

The throne room shimmered with trapped light — columns carved from coral and salt-stained marble, banners heavy with the weight of generations. Geto stood in the centre of it all, dripping seawater onto the polished floor, heart hammering against his ribs.

"You endangered the whole pod!" Gakuganji’s voice cracked through the hall like a whip. His crown tilted slightly with the force of his rage. "You think the humans would hesitate to capture you? To carve you open and mount you on a wall?"

Geto said nothing.

There was no point arguing. Not when his father’s anger was loud enough to drown the entire ocean.

Beside the dais, Nanami stood stiff-backed, arms crossed. He didn’t look triumphant about reporting Geto’s surfacing — just tired, like he hated this as much as everyone else. It almost made it worse.

"You're heir to the throne!" Gakuganji thundered. "You have responsibilities beyond your childish fascinations."

Geto's hands curled into fists. He could still feel the weight of you in his arms, the raw terror of losing you to the storm. "I saved him," he said quietly.

"What?" The king leaned forward, incredulous.

"I saved a human boy," Geto repeated. "He would have died."

"You risked us for one human?!" Gakuganji slammed his trident into the floor, the impact echoing up the columns. "You think they would show you the same mercy? You think they would not hunt you down the moment they saw what you are?"

"They’re not all the same," Geto said, teeth gritted. "He—"

"Enough." Gakuganji's voice dropped to a dangerous rumble. "You will not surface again. You will not approach the humans. You will remember who you are."

"And if I don't?" Geto asked, before he could stop himself.

For a moment — a long, dangerous heartbeat — the throne room went dead still.

"You are my son," Gakuganji said, low and cold. "You have no other path."

⋆｡°✩

Later, in the empty coral gardens, Gojo found him — lounging sideways across a crumbling pillar, grinning like he hadn't just been chased out of a war meeting.

"Yikes," Gojo said cheerfully. "You sure know how to make an exit."

Geto didn’t answer. He stared up at the distorted sunlight filtering through the water, aching all over in ways he didn’t have names for.

"You’re lucky," Gojo continued, drifting upside down just to be annoying. "If it were my old man, I’d already be gutted and grilled."

"You're not helping."

"You never let me," Gojo huffed. He floated closer, peering at Geto. "So. You gonna tell me what’s got you risking excommunication? Or do I have to guess?"

Geto stayed silent.

Gojo tilted his head. "It’s a boy, isn’t it?"

Geto groaned and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes.

Gojo whooped. "I knew it! The brooding, the reckless endangerment, the classic tragic ocean prince move—"

"Shut up."

"Make me," Gojo said smugly. He poked Geto’s arm. "Come on, you big idiot. You’re already halfway to disaster. Might as well tell me the whole tragic love story before Nanami comes back and scolds you again."

⋆｡°✩

The sea grew colder as Geto swam downward.

Here, light barely touched the water — a place forgotten by even the boldest currents. The rocks twisted into cruel shapes, and whispers rode the tides like broken shells. If there was a place for mistakes to be made permanent, it was here.

He should have turned back.

He didn't.

The cavern loomed ahead, yawning wide, lit from within by a sickly green glow. Strange silhouettes moved against the walls — half-formed faces, reaching hands. Geto steeled himself and drifted closer.

"You’re a hard one to catch," a voice purred from the darkness.

Kenjaku.

The wizard drifted forward, robes flowing like smoke around his legs, face split by a smile too wide to be friendly.

"You want something, little prince," Kenjaku crooned. "I can smell it."

Two figures uncoiled from the shadows behind him — long, sinuous, sharp-toothed. Mai and Maki, twinned and terrible, circled lazily around Geto, eyes glinting with amusement.

"Look at him," Mai said mockingly, twirling a lock of her hair. "So serious."

"So sad," Maki agreed, baring her teeth in a grin.

"So stupid," they said together, and laughed — a low, rippling sound that made Geto’s skin crawl.

⋆｡°✩

"I need legs," Geto said, forcing his voice steady.

Kenjaku’s smile sharpened. "Legs, hm? For what, I wonder? A human? A flash of bare skin and you’re ready to drown yourself in heartbreak?"

"Name your price," Geto said flatly.

The witch tsked, floating closer until their noses almost touched. "Such a waste. Such beautiful magic, all tangled up in something as stupid as hope."

Behind him, Mai and Maki snickered.

⋆｡°✩

Kenjaku raised one hand, tracing a circle in the water. A contract shimmered into view — ancient script twisting around its edges.

"The price is your voice," Kenjaku said sweetly. "Three days. If he falls in love with you — truly — and seals it with a kiss, you stay human. If not..." His smile grew wider. "You belong to me."

The eels spun around Geto, tightening the circle. Their laughter dripped like venom into the water.

Geto hesitated — just for a breath.

Long enough to remember your face, lit by stormlight. Long enough to remember the way you clutched his hand even unconscious.

He reached out and touched the glowing contract.

⋆｡°✩

Pain flared in his throat — white-hot and merciless — cutting off his cry halfway. The magic stripped him clean, peeling his voice from his body like silk torn from skin.

He gasped silently, clutching his throat as the spell wrapped around him, crushing, reshaping, burning.

When it was done, he drifted there — smaller, heavier, different.

Legs where there had been fins. Silence where there had been song.

Kenjaku smiled like a man who had just caught a very rare fish.

"Good luck, little prince," he said, voice syrup-thick. "And do hurry."

Mai and Maki cackled as the currents carried Geto upward — toward the waiting world above.

⋆｡°✩

The morning broke soft and slow over the coastline, spilling gold across the restless sea. The world still smelled of the storm — salt-heavy, sharp with the tang of broken kelp — but the sky had cleared, vast and aching blue from horizon to horizon.

You stumbled barefoot across the sand, Megumi racing ahead, nose low to the ground. Every muscle in your body ached from the night before — the crash of the ship, the icy clutch of the water, the way your lungs had burned as you fought to surface. It blurred in your memory now, stitched together only by fragments: the cold, the fear — and something else. A hand, pulling you upward. A voice you couldn’t remember, except that it had made you feel safe even in the middle of drowning.

You had barely slept. You couldn't. Not when the memory of it kept clawing at you, whispering that there was more you were supposed to remember.

And then Megumi barked — sharp and urgent — and you saw him.

A body crumpled on the sand, half-buried in seafoam, black hair spilling in tangled waves across pale skin. He was naked — startlingly so — his skin marred only by the faint bruises of the storm, the faint shimmer of salt drying on him. There was nothing indecent about it; it felt more like finding something sacred, half-formed and left behind by the tide.

You ran before you even realised you were moving, dropping to your knees in the wet sand beside him. He wasn’t breathing — or if he was, it was shallow enough to terrify you.

"Hey," you gasped, pressing trembling fingers to his cheek. "Hey, wake up—"

He stirred faintly under your touch.

His lashes fluttered. His mouth parted in a soundless breath. Dark eyes blinked up at you, wide and dazed and afraid.

Relief crashed through you so fast it left you dizzy. "You're okay," you whispered, more to yourself than to him. "You're okay."

You sat back, heart hammering, and without thinking, yanked your jacket from your shoulders. You wrapped it hastily around his body, covering him, trying to shield him from the cold — from the world — from everything that had brought him here.

He flinched slightly at the contact, but didn't pull away.

"Can you speak?" you asked, softer now.

He shook his head.

Panic twisted low in your gut. You scanned the beach for any sign of help — villagers, healers — but there was only you, the boy, and the endless hiss of the tide.

"Alright," you said, forcing your voice steady. "Okay. You’re safe now. We'll get you help."

He looked at you then — really looked — and the vulnerability there, raw and unguarded, made your throat tighten.

You slid an arm under his shoulders, lifting him carefully. He was heavier than he looked, all wiry strength packed into his slender frame. Still, you managed to half-carry, half-drag him toward the path leading back to the village, Megumi trotting anxiously at your heels.

You didn’t even know his name.

But some part of you whispered — old and certain — that you would learn it.

Whatever it cost.

Sneaking an unconscious man into the palace was harder than it sounded.

You kept your head down, murmuring apologies to the few kitchen servants and gardeners you passed, trying to make it look like he was a drunken cousin you'd plucked off the docks rather than a half-drowned stranger you’d found lying naked on the beach. Thankfully, your reputation for odd charity cases preceded you, and nobody dared stop you outright.

Megumi pressed close to your leg, hackles raised, growling low at anyone who came too near.

The boy clung to you with what little strength he had, swaying on his feet, skin still clammy under your jacket. His eyes stayed downcast, wide and dark and unreadable, like he was waiting for the moment someone dragged him away.

You tightened your grip on his waist.

Not happening.

Not while you were breathing.

⋆｡°✩

You finally reached your wing of the castle — a small, sun-lit corner usually ignored by the court — and kicked the door open with your boot.

"Utahime’s gonna kill me," you muttered under your breath.

As if summoned by fate itself, Utahime appeared at the end of the hall, a stack of linens balanced precariously in her arms. She froze when she saw you — soaked, half-dragging a half-naked stranger through the corridor, dripping seawater onto the rug.

Her mouth opened.

Closed.

Opened again.

You spoke first. "It’s not what it looks like."

She raised an eyebrow so sharp it could have cut glass.

"Really?" she said flatly. "Because it looks exactly like you smuggled a drowned courtesan into the guest quarters."

"Utahime," you begged, "please. Just... trust me."

Her gaze flickered from you to the boy — to Geto — noting the way he sagged against you, the bruises on his skin, the way he flinched from sudden movement. Something softened in her expression.

"Fine," she said, voice clipped. "But if the king finds out you brought another stray into the palace, you’re explaining it, not me."

"Thank you," you breathed, genuinely relieved.

She rolled her eyes so hard you thought she might sprain something, then spun on her heel. "Hot water. Dry clothes. Quietly, if you have any sense left at all."

You turned to Geto, offering the barest smile. "See? It’ll be fine."

He gave you a look that clearly said he wasn’t so sure.

You shifted him toward the washroom, only to hear a wet slap! behind you. Startled, you turned — and blinked at the sight of a bright blue fish flopping awkwardly across the tiles, tail flicking madly.

"...Okay," you muttered. "Guess the tide brought in a few extra things."

Megumi barked once, chasing after the fish with a delighted growl.

In the basin, a large lobster scuttled up the side, clacking its claws indignantly. You laughed under your breath, because what else could you do? First the storm, then the mysterious boy, now sea creatures invading your house. It figured.

You shook your head and nudged the boy toward the warm towels waiting near the fire. "Come on. Let’s get you dry before you catch something worse."

Behind you, the lobster snapped its claws in what might have been furious disapproval.

You chalked it up to a very weird day and got to work.

⋆｡°✩

The water in the copper basin steamed gently, carrying the soft scent of rosemary and soap into the air. You crouched beside it, wringing out a clean cloth with careful hands, trying not to startle the boy any more than he already was. He sat on a low stool wrapped in one of Utahime’s thick linen towels, the oversized fabric drowning his frame. His dark hair clung wetly to his cheeks, droplets carving slow trails down his throat and collarbone.

You worked in silence at first. He didn’t speak — couldn’t, you remembered with a pang — but he watched you with those dark, endless eyes, wary and unblinking. Like he expected you to change your mind. Like he was waiting to be thrown back into the sea.

You hated that look.

"You’re safe here," you said softly, dipping the cloth again and squeezing it out. "I swear it."

He blinked once, the smallest tremor of a nod, and let you gently wipe away the sand and salt crusted on his skin.

The bruises were worse up close. A constellation of them across his ribs and hips, angry purples fading into sickly greens. You swallowed hard, your fingers trembling slightly as you cleaned him, careful not to press too hard. He bore it in silence, though his hands fisted white-knuckled in the towel whenever you touched a particularly deep mark.

"You really went through hell, didn’t you?" you murmured, not expecting an answer.

He just tilted his head slightly, studying you like you were a puzzle he hadn’t decided to trust yet.

You couldn’t imagine what he must be thinking — waking up in a strange place, surrounded by people he couldn’t understand, without even his voice to defend himself.

Still, he didn’t pull away from you.

That had to mean something.

⋆｡°✩

You helped him stand — slowly, carefully — and guided him to the clothes Utahime had left out. Simple trousers and a linen shirt, soft from years of washing. Nothing that would bind or restrict him. You turned your back politely to give him privacy, but you caught glimpses of him fumbling with the strange fastenings, his hands clumsy and uncertain.

You hesitated for a heartbeat.

Then — cursing the blood already rushing traitorously to your face — you turned back and crouched in front of him.

"Here," you said, voice low. "Let me help."

His hands trembled as he held out the shirt. You took it from him, sliding it carefully over his arms, mindful of the bruises. Your fingers brushed the bare skin of his back — warm now from the fire — and he shivered under your touch.

Not from cold.

From something else.

You swallowed against the tightness rising in your throat and focused on fastening the buttons one by one, your hands slow and steady.

He smelled of salt and clean water, of something older and wilder than anything that had ever lived in the palace. Being this close to him felt like standing at the edge of a cliff and daring the wind to take you.

When you finally looked up, he was watching you again — close enough that you could see the fine droplets clinging to his lashes, the faint pink rising in his cheeks.

For a moment — just a moment — the world narrowed to this: your hands still resting lightly on his ribs, his breath ghosting warm across your mouth, the almost unbearable weight of the things you weren’t saying.

You cleared your throat roughly and stepped back.

"Better," you said, aiming for casual and missing by a mile.

He smiled — small and uncertain, but real.

It hit you like a sucker punch.

Gods help you.

You were so, so doomed.

The next few days blurred into something slow and strange and golden.

You weren’t sure when the man slipped into the rhythm of your life. It happened so naturally that even Utahime stopped giving you suspicious glares after a while, though she still huffed disapprovingly whenever she caught you teaching him how to balance a teacup properly or helping him pronounce simple words by mouthing them slowly across the breakfast table.

He learned fast.

He struggled with some things — forks, for instance, and the baffling concept of shoes — but he watched you intently whenever you demonstrated something, his brow furrowed in fierce concentration. You found yourself performing for him more and more, exaggerating small daily tasks just to hear the faint huff of laughter he tried to hide behind his hand.

He was different from anyone you had ever known. He didn’t speak, but he listened. He didn’t understand your world, but he treated every clumsy new experience like it was precious — sacred.

And gods help you, every day you spent with him carved deeper into your ribs.

It wasn’t just the way he looked — though that was its own kind of torture, the way his hair curled damply against his forehead in the mornings, the way his smiles bloomed shy and bright when you praised him. It was the way he made everything feel new. Like you were seeing the world for the first time through his eyes.

It terrified you.

And you never wanted it to end.

⋆｡°✩

One evening, Gojo hatched a plan.

The fish flopped dramatically into Geto’s washbasin, splattering water everywhere, and gurgled out something that sounded suspiciously like, "You need a romantic setting, dumbass."

Nanami snapped his claws sharply at Gojo, looking scandalised, but Geto tilted his head thoughtfully, considering.

Thus: the boat.

It was old — a battered rowboat the castle’s fishermen had abandoned months ago — but you managed to patch it up enough to float. The little inlet near the gardens shimmered under the late afternoon sun, warm and heavy with the scent of summer roses. It wasn’t much.

But Geto beamed when you led him to it, and that was enough.

⋆｡°✩

The boat rocked gently as you pushed off from the shore, settling into the lazy current. Megumi whined once, left behind on the dock, but Utahime had promised to watch him with strict warnings about muddy paws on clean linens.

You and Geto sat side by side, knees bumping occasionally as the boat drifted.

He leaned over the side once, trailing his fingers through the water, eyes wide in quiet wonder. You watched him, unable to look away. The way the sunlight caught in his hair, the way the breeze toyed with the loose laces of his shirt — he looked like something dreamed into existence, something too fragile for this world.

Your heart ached with it.

Gojo and Nanami lurked somewhere nearby — you caught glimpses of them in the water now and then, little splashes and flashes of colour as they tried (very badly) to be subtle.

At one point, Gojo bumped a lily pad under your boat in what could only be described as a "subtle nudge."

You laughed under your breath.

Geto looked up, curious, and you smiled at him, helpless against it.

The boat drifted into a patch of golden reeds. The world narrowed to just the two of you, the soft lapping of the water, the gentle hush of the wind.

You turned toward him.

He turned toward you.

The distance between you shrank — slow, inevitable.

You could feel the heat of him, the tentative hope in his gaze, the silent question trembling between you.

You leaned in. He leaned in. Closer. Closer. Your breath mingled. Your noses brushed.

And just as your lips were about to meet—

A massive wave crashed against the side of the boat, nearly capsizing it.

You yelped, scrambling to grab the edges as Geto flailed, soaking wet, clutching desperately at the seat. The boat rocked wildly, slamming back into the reeds.

You twisted, scanning the water. No wind. No passing ship. Just... a single ominous ripple fading into the distance.

Your heart pounded with more than just adrenaline. Geto looked at you, his mouth tight with frustration, his fingers curling white-knuckled around the wood.

Something was wrong. You could feel it.

⋆｡°✩

You sat on the damp seat of the rocking boat for a long time after the wave struck, breathing hard and blinking salt from your eyes. The boy — the stranger — hunched beside you, gripping the edge of the hull so tightly his knuckles had turned bloodless. Water dripped steadily from his hair, trailing down his throat, soaking the thin fabric of his borrowed shirt until it clung to the sharp lines of his body. His mouth was a tight line, his brow furrowed in frustration, but when he turned those dark, searching eyes on you, all you could feel was the echo of something unfinished.

You almost kissed him. Gods above, you almost kissed him.

Your skin still tingled from the near-touch of it. Your heart hammered an uneven beat, deafening in the quiet. You didn’t know what you would have done if the kiss had landed — you barely knew what you were doing now, sitting here, pretending that the whole world hadn't shifted around you in the space of a breath.

You laughed under your breath — short, self-mocking — and shook your head. What was happening to you?

The boy watched you with something complicated in his gaze. There was no fear there, no hesitation. Only a kind of raw, aching patience, like he would wait as long as it took for you to understand something he couldn’t say.

The boat rocked gently again, nudged by a smaller ripple. You glanced around — no sign of the flounder or the lobster now. The water stretched flat and empty in every direction, save for the faintest shimmer on the horizon. For a moment, you thought you caught a glimpse of something — a shape beneath the surface, too fast and sinuous to be natural — but when you blinked, it was gone.

You chalked it up to exhaustion. To nerves.

You rowed back to the dock in silence, your arms aching with each pull. He helped where he could, clumsy but determined, his strength returning with every passing hour. He steadied you when you nearly slipped on the wet stones, his hands warm and sure on your waist, and you laughed breathlessly despite yourself.

He smiled back — that small, fierce thing — and your heart nearly stumbled out of your chest.

⋆｡°✩

That night, the castle felt different.

Quieter, heavier.

The halls echoed strangely under your boots as you made your rounds, half-hoping to spot him tucked somewhere unexpected — curled in the library window seat, maybe, trying to puzzle out one of the battered old books you kept stacked there. Instead, you found Utahime in the kitchens, snapping orders at the scullery boys while Megumi chased a half-plucked chicken across the floor.

"You should be resting," she scolded, tossing a towel at your face without looking up. You caught it, laughing. "I’m fine. Just... restless." She gave you a knowing glance but didn’t push.

You slipped away again, heading out into the garden where the moon silvered the paths and the roses breathed heavily in the night air. You thought of the boy — of how the candlelight caught in his hair, how he tilted his head like he was listening to music no one else could hear. You thought of how close you had been on the boat, how your bodies had leaned together like they belonged in the same breath.

You thought — for the first time — that maybe the world was bigger than the walls you had been raised inside. Maybe it had always been bigger. You had just never seen it clearly until now.

You tipped your head back and let the stars blur overhead.

And somewhere, far below the still surface of the ocean, something watched. And smiled.

It began the next morning, without warning.

You barely noticed her at first — a new arrival to the court, travelling with a merchant caravan from the northern coast. She was beautiful in the way painted icons were beautiful: too polished, too deliberate. Skin like porcelain, hair so dark it seemed to swallow light, a smile that felt just a little too fixed when it landed on you.

She introduced herself as Kaori.

The name meant nothing. The smile meant even less. You nodded politely, offered the customary welcome, and forgot her almost immediately, distracted by the far more pressing task of slipping away to find the boy — your boy, you thought, and then hated yourself a little for the possessive curl of it.

You found him in the gardens again, his bare feet tucked into the sun-warmed grass, his eyes closed, face tilted to the sky like he was trying to drink the sunlight straight into his bones. You stopped in the doorway, momentarily robbed of breath by the simple, devastating sight of him.

He didn’t hear you approach. He never did. He always felt you instead — like a tide pulling at his skin.

He opened his eyes slowly, smiling that small, secret smile that made your heart ache. You crossed the distance without thinking, dropping onto the bench beside him, letting the silence settle between you like a familiar cloak.

You wanted to ask him about the wave. About the way the boat had nearly capsized at the exact wrong moment. About the way he had looked afterwards — hollow-eyed, trembling. You wanted to ask if he felt it too — the wrongness riding the air like a brewing storm.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you found yourself laughing about something trivial — the look on Utahime’s face when Megumi tracked mud all the way across the main hall — and he laughed too, breathless and soundless, clapping a hand over his mouth like it would help.

It didn’t. You caught a glimpse of it then — a boy trying so desperately to belong in a world that wasn't made for him.

And gods above, you wanted to give him that world if you could.

⋆｡°✩

You didn’t see Kaori again until the next evening, at the palace banquet.

She appeared at the foot of the great staircase, clothed in sea-green silk that shimmered like scales. Her smile caught the candlelight and bent it in strange ways. When your gaze slid over her, something in your gut twisted — sharp and cold — but you forced it down. Court life was full of oddities. Beautiful strangers were hardly rare.

Still, when she moved toward you, the crowd parting instinctively around her, your hands clenched at your sides without you meaning to.

She spoke little, but when she did, her voice was soft and lilting, curling around your thoughts like mist. Every word sounded somehow heavier than it should have — harder to resist, harder to ignore.

When she laughed — high and delicate — you smiled back without wanting to. When she touched your arm, you didn’t pull away. Not because you wanted her to. Because your body wouldn't listen.

In the corner of the hall, you caught a flash of movement — the boy standing stiff and small near the tapestry-lined walls, clutching a goblet like it was a shield. His face was pale, drawn tight with something you didn’t have words for yet.

You started toward him — almost managed to break free of the invisible weight sinking its claws into you — but Kaori’s hand slipped through the crook of your elbow, light as a breath.

"Stay," she murmured. And you stayed.

You stayed while the boy you had dragged from the sea turned away, his shoulders stiff with heartbreak. You stayed while Kaori's smile sharpened at the edges.

You stayed while, somewhere deep in the castle’s belly, something ancient and wrong grinned wider in the dark.

⋆｡°✩

The days after the banquet blurred into a haze you couldn't shake.

Kaori was everywhere.

Always at your side — during morning council, during the endless, glittering dinners, during the quiet walks you used to sneak alone along the cliffs. Her hand found yours without asking; her laughter brushed against your ear like a ghost. She said very little, and somehow that made it worse — like a dream half-remembered, slipping through your fingers no matter how hard you tried to hold onto the pieces.

The boy — the one you had pulled from the wreckage of your life — withdrew further with every sunrise.

He stopped meeting your gaze across the long banquet tables. Stopped smiling when you stumbled over your words trying to make him laugh. Stopped trailing after you like a shadow you had learned to need without noticing.

You told yourself it was fine. You told yourself he was settling in, finding his place, finding a way to live here without needing you to hold him up.

But when you passed him in the garden one afternoon and he didn’t even glance up from where he was hunched over a battered book, something in your chest cracked so hard you almost stumbled.

You almost turned back. Almost said his name — whatever it was. Almost begged him to look at you like he used to.

Instead, you let Kaori curl her arm around yours and lead you back inside.

The court whispered, as courts always did. About alliances. About bloodlines. About destiny. The king, old and growing frail, watched you with something like approval warming the corners of his sharp mouth. His advisors began drawing up the paperwork without waiting for your consent.

The date was set. Three days from now. The engagement would be announced with all the pomp and ceremony a prince deserved.

You barely felt it happening. You smiled when you were meant to. You bowed and raised toasts and accepted the congratulations of men you hated.

You told yourself you were happy. You had to be happy.

Wasn’t this what you had always been raised for?

⋆｡°✩

That night, standing alone in your chamber, you caught sight of yourself in the mirror.

A stranger stared back at you — a boy dressed in a prince's clothes, weighed down by invisible chains.

You stripped the coat from your shoulders and let it fall unheeded to the floor. Your hands braced against the cold glass, and for a moment, you could have sworn you heard something — faint and broken — pressing against the edges of your mind.

A whisper. A cry. A name you had never been told, and yet somehow knew.

⋆｡°✩

Far across the castle, in the cramped little servants' room where he had been given a pallet and a worn blanket, the boy curled in on himself.

He clutched the locket around his throat — the one token of home he had been allowed to keep — and pressed his forehead to the rough mattress. Silent tears soaked into the fabric. His voice was gone, stolen by magic and bargain, and now the last thread tying him to you was slipping through his fingers like water.

He had almost kissed you. He had almost been enough.

Almost.

But almost didn't win. And the clock was running out.

The castle at night breathed differently.

Gone were the courtiers, the musicians, the easy laughter. The corridors stretched long and hollow, lined with flickering torchlight and the faint, restless whisper of the wind clawing against the stone. Somewhere in the kitchens, rats scrabbled unseen. Somewhere higher up, the great banners bearing your family crest sagged like forgotten memories.

And in a disused fountain tucked into a shadowed courtyard, two very angry sea creatures plotted treason.

Gojo flicked his tail in irritation, sending a ripple across the stagnant water. "I'm telling you," he hissed, voice low and urgent, "this is a full-blown, classic villain enchantment scenario. I’ve read about these things. You think princes just fall in love with creepy water-witch girls by accident?"

Nanami clacked his claws together in sharp agreement. "The signs are all there. Sudden behaviour shifts. Loss of free will. Proximity compulsion." His antennae twitched in frustration. "It's textbook dark magic."

"Exactly!" Gojo splashed dramatically. "And if we don’t snap Prince Broody out of it, he’s going to end up shackled to that creepy fake mermaid until death do they part."

Nanami adjusted his position with a weary sigh. "Do you have a plan, or are you just here to complain?"

"I always have a plan," Gojo said smugly. "Step one: cause chaos. Step two: expose the truth. Step three: make sure someone kisses Geto before the clock runs out."

Nanami paused, considering this. "You realise the 'chaos' part will get us executed if it fails."

Gojo grinned, showing far too many sharp little teeth for comfort. "Worth it."

⋆｡°✩

Meanwhile, across the castle, you paced your chamber like a caged animal.

Something was wrong. You could feel it — thick and choking in the back of your throat, wrapping around your ribs like iron bands. Every time Kaori touched you, your skin crawled. Every time you smiled at her, something inside you shrivelled smaller.

You had dreams now — strange, aching dreams where a boy with black hair reached for you through a wall of glass, his mouth open in a silent scream you couldn't hear.

You woke gasping, fists tangled in the sheets, heart battering itself bloody against your ribs.

And yet in the daylight, with the court watching, you went through the motions. Smiling. Nodding. Playing the part of the perfect prince. You told yourself it was a duty. You told yourself it was the expectation.

You lied so well, you almost believed it.

Until tonight. Tonight, something inside you snapped.

Standing before the mirror, dressed in the ceremonial clothes chosen for your engagement announcement, you caught sight of yourself — not as a prince, not as a puppet — but as a boy trapped in a cage of golden lies.

And somewhere deep in your bones, a voice you had never heard but always known whispered:

Find him.

⋆｡°✩

It began with a ripple.

A wrongness threading through the crowded ballroom — subtle at first, like a chill down your spine, like a pressure change before a storm. You stood at Kaori's side, the official proclamation clutched in your hand, the weight of duty coiling tighter and tighter around your throat. The court watched, expectant and smiling, their faces blurred at the edges of your vision.

And then the fountain at the centre of the hall exploded.

Water erupted sky-high, dousing nobles and chandeliers alike. Screams tore through the air. Plates crashed. Horses whinnied outside the gates. And in the chaos, two very familiar figures flailed onto the polished marble — one blue and flopping indignantly, the other red and clacking his claws with the frantic dignity of a man facing execution.

Gojo. Nanami.

You blinked, stunned.

Kaori gasped, stepping back from the spreading flood. Her hand brushed your sleeve—and for the first time, you felt it.

The illusion slipped.

The magic peeled away like rotted paint, revealing not a girl at all, but something older and hungrier. Her eyes flickered black for a heartbeat. Her mouth twisted, something wrong slithering just beneath the surface of her skin.

You staggered backwards, revulsion crashing over you like a tidal wave.The boy — your boy — caught your eye across the hall.

He stood frozen in the archway, soaked to the bone, clutching the locket at his throat like it was the only thing tethering him to the earth. His face was pale, his mouth trembling with words he couldn’t speak. His eyes — gods, his eyes — were wide and aching and full of so much hope you thought it might tear you in two.

You moved before you even realised it.

Across the ballroom, through the wreckage and screaming and magic unravelling at the seams, you ran. Kaori shrieked behind you, her voice warping into something guttural and wrong, but you didn’t look back. You tore past the courtiers, past the guards, past everything you had been trained your whole life to care about, and skidded to a halt in front of him.

He flinched — tiny, automatic — but didn’t run.

You reached out, cupping his face between your hands, feeling the tremor racing through him. He smelled like salt and sunlight and something sharp and ancient that had nothing to do with this world.

"You," you whispered, your voice breaking. "It was always you." His mouth opened — a gasp, a sob — but no words came.

He didn’t need them.

You surged forward and kissed him.

The world splintered.

The spell shattered with a soundless crack, like a mirror dropped from a great height. Light spilled from the locket at his throat, engulfing you both, washing the last of Kenjaku’s magic from the air. Somewhere in the distance, you heard a shriek — furious, inhuman — and then silence.

Only the two of you remained, tangled together, breathless and shaking.

He stared up at you like you had hung the stars.You couldn’t breathe. You didn’t want to.

You leaned in again, slower this time, pressing your forehead to his. His hands fisted in the front of your jacket, pulling you closer, anchoring you to him like you might still disappear.

"Stay," he mouthed.

You nodded, voice wrecked and raw. "Always."

And then you kissed him again — harder, desperate — and he melted into you like he had been waiting his whole life for this.

⋆｡°✩

You didn’t know how you got back to your room.

The storm had ended. The court was in chaos. Kaori — no, Kenjaku — had vanished with the tide. And yet, somehow, you were here, the boy in your arms, trembling like he couldn’t believe you were real.

The moonlight pooled across the floor in silver-blue waves. The bed creaked softly beneath your weight as you helped him sit, careful, reverent, like he might dissolve if you touched him too roughly.

His hair was still damp, sticking to his cheeks. His lips were red from your kisses. You didn’t know his name. You didn’t know his story. But you knew his eyes — you’d always known them — and that was enough.

He looked at you, chest rising and falling like he’d run miles just to be here. And when he reached out — hands clumsy, unsure — it was you who leaned in, pressing your mouth to his, slow and sure and deep enough to make him gasp.

Clothes slipped away like seafoam. Not rushed, not greedy — just... necessary. Like you’d both been waiting for this without even realising it. He was lean under your hands, sculpted by the current and salt and something softer underneath. He didn’t try to hide himself. There was no shame in the way he looked at you, only want. Trust.

You laid him back carefully, the way you’d handle something sacred. His legs framed your hips, his fingers tracing your jaw like he needed to memorise you. You kissed down his throat, over his collarbones, across his chest — pausing only when you felt the shiver run through him again.

"Okay?" you murmured, voice low.

He nodded, breathless.

You went slow.

You took your time with him — with your mouth, your hands, your everything. You kissed every inch you could reach. You made him fall apart with your tongue before you even pressed inside. And when he finally gasped and arched beneath you, eyes glassy with pleasure, it felt like the sea itself rose to meet you.

You held him through every thrust, every moan, every desperate whisper. And when he came — shaking, clinging, mouth open in a silent cry — you followed right after, burying your face in his shoulder, trying not to break in half from the way it felt to be wanted like that.

When it was over, you stayed tangled together in the sheets. Breathing. Listening to the ocean outside. Letting the quiet settle over you both like a promise.

His voice came at last — a hoarse whisper, barely a sound.

“...Suguru.”

You blinked. Looked down.

He gave you a tiny, tired smile. “My name. It’s Suguru.”

You swallowed hard. Nodded.

And in the silence that followed, you kissed him again.

Just because you could.

The sea had been quiet ever since Kenjaku vanished. No more sudden storms. No more secrets in the tide. Just warmth. Calm. Healing.

Suguru had never imagined he’d walk on legs — let alone walk down an aisle.

But there he was, dressed in white and gold, barefoot in the grass, arm linked with Gojo’s (who was somehow crying and smiling at the same time). The kingdom had gathered in the cliffside courtyard overlooking the ocean. Shells and petals lined the aisle. Musicians played softly. And at the altar, you waited — standing taller than you ever had, like the earth itself had been holding its breath for this moment.

When Suguru met your eyes, it was over. He laughed. You did too. Both of you lost to it — that stupid, breathless, aching kind of joy.

The ceremony was short. Sweet. Suguru’s father, still stiff with guilt, gave a reluctant blessing. Gojo (still sniffling) handed off the rings. And when you finally kissed him — husband and husband, above the sea, with the whole world watching — it didn’t feel like an ending.

It felt like the start of everything.

There was a party after, of course. Suguru twirled in his robes, kissed your cheek until you blushed, danced barefoot on the stone with his hair loose and his smile wild. Gojo sang an off-key love song while Nanami tried to shove cake into his face. Mai and Maki bickered over who got the bigger slice. You stood with Suguru’s hand in yours, watching them all, heart full in a way it had never been before.

And later — when the moon rose, and the guests had gone, and you carried Suguru into the bedroom like he weighed nothing at all — he whispered something against your chest that made you stop breathing entirely.

“I used to dream of being part of your world,” he said softly.

You kissed the words from his lips. “You are my world now.”

And outside, the sea sang softly to itself, content at last.

Taglist: @zolass @edensrose @tamias-wrld @ilovesugurugeto69 @planetxella @mazettns @longlivegojo @midnight-138 @literallyrousseau @vimademedoitt @useless-n-clueless @flatl1n3 @hikaurbae @lexkou @razefxylorf @abrielletargaryen @coco-145 @eagleeyedbitch @deathofacupid @gayaristocrat @porcalinecunt @whatsaheartxx @thecringes2000 @sageofspades @g4vcat @itsrandompersonyall @blvdprn @blueemochii @sappychat @onyxxxxqq @axetivev @s1llygo0s3 @crazydirectioner2000-blog @thestarsallowed @honey-valentin3 @academiq

#male reader #top male reader #x male reader #jjk x reader #jjk x male reader #x reader #geto x reader #geto x male reader #geto suguru #suguru x reader #gay #smut #suguru geto #getou suguru x reader

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swordgrace · 1 year ago

Text

𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐎𝐑 𝐃𝐄𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒.

༆ jacaerys velaryon x fem!reader.

SYNOPSIS: as lady-in-waiting to rhaenyra targaryen, you find that her eldest son, jacaerys, is the only true friend and comfort you have amidst a brewing war that threatens to tear the realm apart.

note: jacaerys is nineteen, reader is eighteen.

༆ 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐓𝐖𝐎 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄.

༆ 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄.

{ FORMAT: one shot — requested.

{ WORD COUNT: 11.5K (this is a long one, not sorry!)

{ WARNINGS: SMUT (mdni), friends to lovers, inexperience from both reader & jace, loss of virginity (mutual), first time sexual experiences, sexual tension, p in v sex (unprotected), missionary position, lots of kissing and sweeter antics, slight risk of getting caught, oral sex (fem!receiving), handjob, fingering, hair pulling kink, brief overstimulation, tiddy sucking, this whole thing is soft & sweet smut, nothing disgusting here, jacaerys is the epitome of a perfect lover :))

{ AUTHOR’S NOTE: I am lowkey transitioning into becoming a Jace girl, I absolutely love him and I’m really enjoying where his character is going! This was a request from an anon user who wanted something freeform! I hope you all enjoy it, thanks so much for all of the recent love & support for my work! It makes me so happy! ❤️

𝐒𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐘 𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐒 𝐏𝐄𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐄𝐊𝐒, harkened in from the gentle roll of the tides. Saltwater and dampened rock filled your nostrils, aided by the fluttering breeze as it danced across the obsidian cliffs of Dragonstone.

The castle stood the testament of time, a monolith to the rule of the Targaryens. It loomed overhead, less frightening in the lighter hours, blanketed by glittering rays of sunlight. A cloudless day — good for sailing, you thought, as vessels ushered in goods to the shoddy harbor below.

Beneath the vibrancy of a cloudless sky, you could see the shadow of a dragon soaring overhead — the Princess Rhaenys, from the horned shape above. You cupped your hand around your eyes, squinting to see, constantly mesmerized by such creatures.

In your fantastical dreams, you flew upon the back of a dragon, letting the wind scrape across your visage, feeling the weight of something so powerful beneath you. Of course, you were neither Targaryen nor Velaryon — possessing a dragon wouldn’t be in the cards for you, and perhaps that was a good thing.

As much as you enjoyed the beauty of Dragonstone, you much preferred the outdoors. The weather was splendid, and you took small victories wherever possible. With war on the horizon between your Queen Rhaenyra and her usurper brother, any chance at happiness was worth chasing after and holding onto, while you could.

House Celtigar had bent the knee to Rhaenyra, and your father sat at her council. You were made to be a lady-in-waiting, much your initial disdain. The station you held would’ve been considered a great honor to most young women, but you were inclined to be out in the ocean or on the back of a horse.

Now, you found enjoyment in it, wherever you could.

Oceanic air filled your lungs in a singular inhale, tinged with a saltwater sting. You stood near one of the many stone terraces lining the lengthy walkway to the castle’s entrance, accompanied by Joffrey. The boy had become your greatest joy amidst the brewing chaos, and you were rather grateful for it.

“Would you like to see the ocean, little Prince?” You held the boy’s hand, stooping down to wrap your arms beneath him, standing him up along the cobbled bannister. Joffrey’s laughter could brighten a whole room, and it did — it certainly lifted your spirits.

“When will I be able to ride a dragon?” He questioned, pointing towards the shape of Meleys in the sky. Joffrey was rather inquisitive — a sharp mind, one that would become a great leader someday.

You were unsure of how to answer such a question. Tyraxes was young and still small, just like Joffrey. “Whenever you grow up,” You hummed, a smile playing at either corner of your mouth. “You must be as tall as your brother, first.”

Joffrey toyed with the wooden dragon clutched between his hands, gaze falling toward the ground. “Luke wasn’t much taller.” He mumbled, and it nearly crushed your heart completely to hear the confusion and despair in a child’s voice.

Youth knew more than most, and in the mind of a child, something heinous could appear innocent, or something tragic was beyond their comprehension. Joffrey knew that Luke was gone — he wasn’t coming back. Silence drifted between the both of you, and you found it difficult to change the subject from Lucerys to something lighthearted.

“I miss him.” Joffrey’s sweet voice rang out like the pealing of bells, crystal-clear and downtrodden. You turned him around within your grasp, keeping your hands slotted underneath his arms to ground him. His eyes swam with unshed tears, prompting you to bring him into your embrace.

“It’s alright, my Prince. He’s still here,” You whispered, hugging the boy as tightly as you could. It was enough to rip at your heartstrings, tear you asunder as melancholy began to eat you alive. The fate of Lucerys was a tragic one — unfair and unwarranted, and now, a catalyst for destruction between kin. “We will remember him.”

From afar, Jacaerys observed you and his brother, standing along the ramparts with a palm atop the pommel of his shortsword. The emotional turmoil he continued to feel in regards to Lucerys happened to swell the moment he saw Joffrey clinging onto you — and he knew.

Wisps of a tempered breeze stirred his curled tresses, drifting across his regalia as it caught against his cloak. After the death of his brother, he had come out to the ramparts nearly every night, to sob and to curse the world, to pray to any God that would listen — return Lucerys, bring him home. He had lost count, and in turn, lost a bit of faith.

Remaining optimistic in the face of unavoidable danger was a difficult thing — fear had gripped him once, but no longer. He knew that the only time a man could be brave was in situations like these, where terror stared him in the face and dared him to submit.

Many still referred to him as a mere boy, with little experience and no real understanding of the world and its cruelty. Jacaerys had shed the raiment of boyhood the night he flew blindly into the darkness in the name of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen.

With the man born, he knew that whatever would come next, he was prepared to face such challenges head-on. Brazenness was not in his nature, but he had learned to adopt stoicism when it mattered most. It was easy to shed the facade around his family, and around you.

His friendship with you was a calm within the storm, a lull in the tempestuous hurricane you were all trapped within. You now had as much stake in this game as he did — your father served on Rhaenyra’s council with Celtigar bannerman pledging to fight in the war to come, and you served as his mother’s lady-in-waiting.

Your blossoming bond was a great comfort, and the tender way in which you cared for Joffrey was a wonderful thing. You had a soft heart — a good heart, and that was something rare to come by. The two of you were both of a similar feather, and the admiration he held for you only seemed to grow stronger each day.

The word friendship often tormented him, on days where you wore beautiful gowns and stood beside his mother, or whenever you smiled. It tormented him when you held Joffrey within your arms and protected him just as fiercely as Rhaenyra would.

Honor demanded that he simply remain just that — a friend, but Jacaerys found himself smitten with you in a way that transcended propriety. To cross that line, especially with you, invited the disdain of his mother and the ire of your father, amongst other things.

Betrothal would be upon him soon enough, likely with a young maiden from the Vale or the Reach to secure an alliance, but it left a sour taste within his mouth. He had little desire to be with anyone else when you were right there.

Jacaerys steeled himself, abandoning his whimsical line of thinking in regards to you. It was a fool’s errand, and he couldn’t afford to be a fool. He stepped closer, the crunch of stone resonating underneath his boots as he approached you and Joffrey.

“My Lady,” Jacaerys’s tone was amiable, like the comforting lick of a warm hearth. His gaze flickered toward Joffrey, bemused with his brother’s antics as you balanced him along the bannister. “What are you doing up there?” He asked, playful in the presence of his little brother.

“Flying,” Joffrey’s head lifted from your shoulder, eyes sparkling with mischief. You happened to carry him in such a way that he called it flying — and he was asking you to do it again. “Flying!”

With a giggle, you picked the boy up, swinging him up enough to let him get some air. His melancholy turned to jovial laughter as you soared him over to Jacaerys, who was more than happy to pick him up. Joffrey clung to Jace, hugging his brother with all of his strength.

“You are getting too big to fly,” Jace mused, holding Joffrey in one arm as he motioned for you to accompany him. His tousled curls and amicable smile sent your heart fluttering as it had many times before. It wasn’t subtle, your liking of Jacaerys, but you understood the nature of your affections. “Big enough for Tyraxes, soon.”

Jacaerys was perfect, with all of the hallmarks of what a true King should be. He was gentle and eloquent, honed with a blade, learned — and above all, he was kind. The rage that plagued him now was justified, and it pained you to see him become coiled with anger, but you understood why.

As Joffrey regaled the two of you with tales of childlike wonder, soaring his toy dragon around Jace’s head, Jacaerys seemed inclined to converse with you regardless. “I always know where to look, whenever I need to see you.” He mused, walking alongside you as you made your way up the ramparts.

“Is that so?” You chuckled, head canting to one side. “What did you need to see me for, your Grace?” It was a force of habit — he was the heir to the Iron Throne, after all. Jacaerys regarded you with a brief laugh, knowing that formalities were often abandoned whenever the two of you were together.

“Do I need a reason?” Jacaerys mused, voice light and inviting. The crash of the tide upon the beach provided a rather serene ambience, accompanied by the calling of gulls as they circled the bay.

You shook your head, skirts gathered in one hand as you narrowly avoided an upturned plate of stone. “Of course not,” You hesitated, gaze sparkling as your nose wrinkled in mild amusement. “Jacaerys.” You ensured to exaggerate his name, allowing for your conversation to become personal.

At the end of the ramparts, a flock of crimson-clad handmaidens awaited your return. It was likely that they were waiting for you to hand Joffrey over, much to your dismay. The black-headed boy looked to you as you neared the end of your walk.

“I don’t want to go,” He protested, reaching for you as you stepped forward, taking a hold of his hand. “When can we fly again?” Joffrey asked, lower lip jutting out in a rather innocuous pout. He leaned forward, partially out of Jace’s grasp to give you a hug.

“Tomorrow, my Prince. I will let you fly as much as you’d like.” You assured him, reciprocating his hug with one of your own, with all of the warmth one could muster. It was motherly in-nature, and you watched as Jacaerys planted him onto solid ground.

Joffrey took the outstretched hand of a handmaiden, glancing back at you and Jacaerys before they disappeared behind the castle’s massive gates. It always hurt you to leave him, but you knew that tomorrow would come swiftly. A begrudging sigh escaped you before you looked at Jacaerys, countenance somber.

Jace knew what you were about to say — something about Lucerys. The gaping wound left within his heart was barely healed, still oozing with pain, but he was making every effort to mend it. You helped — your resolute reassurance and shoulder to lean on, but sometimes, it wasn’t enough.

Instead, you reached for Jace’s forearm, giving it a brief squeeze of comfort. Whatever sentiments he held, you seemed to echo it, leaving it all unspoken. You and Jacaerys had already spoken about it all at-length — sometimes, he had little desire to tear himself open again.

His head hung low, heap of dark curls billowing in the wind. Jacaerys’s jaw tightened for a brief moment, and he imagined plunging his sword into Aemond Targaryen’s other eye — and then it passed, just as quickly as it had appeared.

A forlorn silence settled between the both of you, one that was born out of mutual understanding and empathy. Jace went quiet often, and you were content to sit in it for as long as he pleased. Instead, you stepped toward the bannister, palms planting themselves atop the stone as you gazed out toward the land surrounding Dragonstone.

“You are good with him,” Jacaerys broke the silence, deliberately stepping towards you as he stood by your side. Joffrey and his half-brothers, Aegon and Viserys, were all he had left. He would die for them if he had to. “He talks about you often.”

An exuberant smile crept onto your features, one of a sweet fondness in regards to Joffrey. “He is a sweet boy — very sharp-witted, though. I would imagine he will grow to be very wise.” You replied, idly tracing your fingers around some of the rocks socketed into the bannister.

“I remember the day he was born,” Jacaerys recalled, remembering the day that his mother, pale skin glistening with sweat, had wobbled into the drawing room, a newborn Joffrey in her arms. “It was a beautiful day, and Ser Harwin was there, and Ser Laenor …” He trailed off, recalling the way that Lucerys had begged to hold his younger brother.

The topic of both Laenor and Harwin were bitter ones — both men playing the role of father. Jacaerys loved them both, as any son would. Another gust of saltwater mist brushed along the ramparts, dusting your cheeks with wisps of moist air.

Wordlessly, you reached for Jace’s arm, looping yours around him as you let him lean against you for support. As much as Jacaerys insisted that he would recover and move on, you ensured him that grieving took time — it came in many shapes and forms.

Jace’s smile was wistful and threadbare, made sorrowful by memories of Lucerys. He didn’t want to sully the moment with his melancholy, holding his head high as he glanced toward you. You were not looking, but it allowed him a moment of appreciation and admiration.

Your beauty was unparalleled, your features delicate and smile like the warmth of a summer sunshine. The way in which you carried yourself was of a kindly disposition, made to be nurturing and helpful instead of imposing. Admittedly, you took his breath away — the feeling was a constant one.

Sunlight sparkled across your countenance, gaze soothing and full of empathy. The way in which you grasped his arm, kept yourself tucked away within his side, it invoked feelings of protectiveness — and newfound affection.

A dragon’s shrill cry reverberated throughout the skies, prompting Jacaerys to immediately look ahead. It was the familiar shriek of Vermax, his bonded dragon, who had grown exponentially. He was larger than Moondancer, with olive-colored scales and orange fins, eyes the color of a burnished gold.

“Māzigon, Vermax!” Jacaerys called, gaining the attention of his dragon as it began to approach, causing your heart to gallop within your chest. He looked at you with a hint of amusement, head canting to one side. “Would you like to see him?” Jace inquired, moving along the wall.

As majestic as dragons were, the wonder within your eyes had quickly shifted to wariness as it landed along the ramparts, rocks scraping underneath its talons. Vermax was much larger when in close proximity than he was flying overhead. “He is wonderful, Jace. Though, it is best if I keep my distance. He might not like me.”

Jacaerys laughed, amber-brown eyes sparkling with mirth. “Might not like you?” He mused, knowing that such a thought was outlandish. If he liked you, then Vermax most certainly would. A dragon could always pick apart friend from foe, and you were as far from an enemy as one could be.

“Yes, what — Jacaerys, that is a perfectly reasonable thing to say,” You countered, flustered by Jace’s reaction to your skepticism. His smile was cheery and heartfelt as he stared at you, and then offered his hand. “I do not think that this is a good idea.” A soft utterance emerged from under your breath.

“Trust me.” His tone softened exponentially, shifting from playful to gentle, reassuring. You hesitated before taking a hold of his hand, and Jacaerys nearly brushed his thumb across your knuckles out of sheer instinct. Whatever thoughts he had, he pushed them to the far recesses of his mind.

You trusted Jacaerys more than most, prompting you to nod as he ushered you closer to Vermax. His grasp was tender, as to not frighten you, which only made your heart flutter with affection. The dragon bristled and made a series of noises, some more serpentine than others.

Vermax lowered his head, pushing closer towards his rider as the dragon bowed to Jacaerys. You were close enough to feel the waves of heat wafting from his breath, close enough to outstretch your arm and feel his scales beneath your palm.

The scent of brimstone and dragonscale lingered upon Vermax, like a crackling fire and smoke. You watched with bated breath as Jace’s palm moved to Vermax’s snout, digits tracing along the olive-hued scales, and down toward his jaw. “Sagon iēdrosa,” Jace murmured, stepping closer to his dragon. “Sȳz.”

High Valyrian was an exquisite language, a beautiful symphony from an ancient era. Jacaerys had become proficient in such a tongue, and the way he spoke it had you mesmerized. With a gentle smile, he still held your hand, gesturing toward Vermax.

“What are you saying to him?” You inquired, losing some of your fear. It gradually waned the closer Jacaerys had inched you toward the dragon, who showed no ill will towards you at all. Instead, Vermax’s burnished hues glimmered with intrigue — you were a familiar scent, emblazoned upon Jace, but not a familiar face.

“I told him to be still for you,” Jacaerys replied, fingers flexing around your own as he carefully guided you toward Vermax’s neck, where the scales began to flare and thicken. Olive turned to emerald in some places, verdant shades clashing together. “Place your hand here.”

Your breath hitched within your throat as Jace became in close proximity to you, closer than he’d been before. His grasp was a tender one, placing your palm atop the dragon’s throat. Warmth crept along the length of your spine, filling your belly with an eruption of butterflies.

You made the mistake of glancing at Jacaerys for the briefest moment, able to spot the rosy flush of color within his visage and the gleam within his stare. As soon as you’d made contact, he happened to glance away, making a soft noise as it stirred within his throat.

Vermax chortled, the dragon’s attention fixated upon you as you brushed your fingers across his scales. Jace had dropped your hand, realizing the sliver of space between you both as he stepped aside, content to observe you with his dragon.

It was your enchanting laughter that lifted his spirits, the gentle way in which you stroked across Vermax’s neck and shoulder. “He is beautiful,” You hummed, countenance bright with a joyous radiance as you looked at Jacaerys once more. The gap between you had grown, much to your dismay. “How do you say that in High Valyrian?”

Jace hesitated, lips parting just slightly. His heart nearly skipped a beat when you smiled at him, expectant and awaiting his answer. He became so easily distracted in your presence, and it was somewhat vexing to behold. “Gevie,” He replied, briefly clearing his throat. “Gevie means beautiful, in High Valyrian.”

With a soft hum, you looked to Vermax, your grin toothy and amused. “Gevie, Vermax.” You spoke clearly, but the dragon did not seem to understand what you said — it wasn’t a command. Instead, he let out a series of reptilian noises, nostrils flaring with snort, almost like that of a horse.

Vermax’s lack of reaction made you frown, but Jacaerys appeared amused by it, at least. “Gevie isn’t a command,” He mused, head canting to one side. “Your High Valyrian needs improvement.” His tone was jocular, teasing — it made your heart stir within your chest.

“Fortunately, I have the perfect teacher standing before me.” You countered with a giggle, noticing the way in which a shade of pink settled into his features. Jacaerys was beautiful and handsome, but his flustered behavior only made him more perfect to you.

The dragon shook its head, seeking the embrace of his rider before he began to take flight. A massive gust of wind from the flap of his wings nearly knocked you down, causing you to crouch and grip the stone of the ramparts.

Jacaerys smiled, watching as Vermax ascended, taking to the skies above Dragonstone once more. You watched with a semblance of awe, slowly rising to your feet as the dragon became a mere specter amidst the cloudless sky. He did not stray too far, circling around with the likes of Moondancer and Syrax.

“Someday, I will take you flying with me,” Jace suggested, nose wrinkling slightly at your bewildered expression. “I would keep you safe.” He reassured you before words could emerge from your mouth, his chuckle amicable as he led you back toward the gates of Dragonstone.

“I trust you, but flying?” To see the world from such great heights sounded wonderful, but you feared the fall — and you feared the unknown of it all even more. “That might take more convincing than this did.” You mused, walking alongside him as the gates became closer.

A huff escaped him, hand dropping from the pommel of his shortsword to his side, a symbol of letting his guard down. A comfortable silence settled between the both of you, occasionally accompanied by a brief bout of laughter or tender smiles.

As the gates loomed over the both of you, Jacaerys hesitated, deliberating on what to say next. There were so many things he wanted to say to you — where did he begin? The nerves of first affection grabbed hold of him, but he remained resistant, wanting nothing more than to tell you how much you meant to him.

“Perhaps an exchange is in-order,” Jacaerys began, shifting his weight from one foot to the next. “You come flying with me, and I will teach you High Valyrian.” He mused, smothering his grin at your expression. You were clearly wary and unimpressed.

“Danger for something that I could learn in the comfort of a book? I think not, your Grace.” With a grin of your own, Jace happened to snicker, his visage invoking an unspoken challenge, albeit playful. “If I am ever feeling bold and spontaneous, I will inform you as soon as possible.”

Jacaerys hummed, head ducking for just a moment before he met your gaze again, doting and overflowing with a subtle warmth. “Thank you for this,” He began, tone heartfelt and genuine. “I would not know what to do if it weren’t for your company and comfort. I’ve found it difficult to remain jovial as of late, but it’s rather effortless in your presence.”

His genial compliments made your stomach turn with excitement, and you could soar away. Jacaerys would be an excellent ruler, should he take the Iron Throne — such grace, compassion, and gallantry were true hallmarks of what would make a good King. You felt the familiar, smitten flush dance along your skin.

“Of course, Jace — you never have to ask for it,” Your fingers twisted into the silk of your gown, an outlet for your growing nerves. “You’ve no idea how much your company means to me. We will get through this together, that much I know.” With a brief nod, you felt his stare grow in intensity.

Before he could bear his heart to you on a whim, the gates opened, revealing several Targaryen bannermen and Kingsguard. It was sudden and somewhat jarring, placing the two of you back within reality — in a realm on the brink of war.

“I should return to your mother, I fear I’ve neglected my duties enough today,” You murmured, offering Jace a kindly smile before dropping to curtsy. He seemed starstruck, as if caught within the depths of his own thoughts. “Good afternoon, your Grace.”

Formalities reappeared again, much to his disdain. He loved it when you called him Jace or Jacaerys, or your Grace whenever you teased him. To hear it used in the context of nobility made him feel distant, but he understood. You possessed a strong sense of propriety.

“My Lady.” Jace replied, watching as you took your leave to rejoin the other handmaidens and guardsmen. Jacaerys cursed himself for not making the most of the moment, but he knew that he could make his own opportunity, forge it if it never came about.

He intended to do just that.

𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐀𝐓 𝐃𝐔𝐒𝐊 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋, with braziers dancing across the obsidian interior. Stars sparkled above a clear night sky, dragons dancing above. It was almost like something from a fairytale or a painting, mesmerizing to behold as you gazed up at the scaling ceiling of your bedchambers.

Your quarters were small and homely, befitting of your status as lady-in-waiting. Rhaenyra had ensured that your lodgings and that of your father were enough — more than suitable, really. The feathered mattress you slept upon was made for royalty, you thought.

The constant flicker of candlelight provided a source of warmth as you rolled over within your bed, blankets hauled up beneath your chin. It was too early to fall asleep, too late to do anything of substance.

A knock at your door gave you pause, brows furrowing together as you retrieved your robe, lacing it around the sheer gossamer of your nightgown. Bare feet traveled across the cold stone, until you reached the metal hoop slotted atop mahogany.

With a pull, you opened the door, surprised to find Jacaerys, who had abandoned his traditional Targaryen regalia, hands occupied with a stack of various tomes and scrolls. His mop of dark curls framed his face, and even he seemed just as bewildered as you were.

“Jacaerys,” His nightly visits were rather uncommon — in fact, this was only the second time he’d come, the first following Lucerys’s passing. You swallowed the growing lump within your throat, stepping aside to allow him inside of your chambers. “Is everything alright?”

Jace placed the stack of books atop the table that sat amongst small lounge chairs, ensuring to clear his throat before he spoke. “Of course,” He replied, gesturing toward your newfound reading material. “I’ve brought you scripts to learn High Valyrian.”

You blinked, touched by such a thoughtful gesture. You smoothed your palms across your robe, stepping forward to inspect the books, many of which appeared ancient and weathered. “You didn’t have to,” You replied, head canting to one side. “Many of these seem important. Are you sure that no one will miss these?”

A brief chuckle escaped him before he shook his head. “The Maesters might, but they’ve read them a hundred times over, I’m certain of it. You will find more use.” He replied, retreating toward the threshold of your chambers. Jacaerys wanted to keep his visit brief — visiting a young woman’s quarters in the dead of night was not exactly an intelligent move.

“You’re leaving so soon?” Your inquiry held a twinge of disappointment, hoping that he would stay and converse with you, at the very least. “Jacaerys, I assure you that no one will admonish you if you stay for a few minutes longer.” The softness of your voice enticed him, and he very nearly confessed then and there.

The weight of growing sentiments felt as if they would swallow him whole if he did not speak them into fruition. With the threat of a looming war and the potential for oblivion, Jacaerys was unsure of what gave him pause. The fear of rejection, perhaps? That wasn’t it.

It took a moment for you to adjust, and when you did, you noted his own attire — a billowy tunic and dark trousers that happened to make him appear softer in the candlelight. The sharp black and crimson of his house’s colors made him intimidating and poised, but no longer.

You saw Jacaerys himself, doe-eyed and magnificent.

“I fear what will happen if I stay,” Jacaerys confessed, squaring himself with the door. If he continued to linger in your chambers without restraint or without additional eyes, he knew what would happen — he did not want to sully your honor. “I won’t.”

“Jacaerys,” You whispered, brows furrowing together to form a look of confusion and startlement. Out of concern, you stepped closer, abandoning the scripts of High Valyrian now scattered across your table. “What’s wrong? I don’t understand.”

The inner war he waged within seemed to reflect upon his countenance, as Jacaerys exhaled — it was laced with stress, a heaviness that you struggled to understand. He seemed flustered, not wanting to meet your amiable gaze. “It is best if I leave it alone.” He replied, taking a hold of your hands. “I would not tarnish your honor.”

That is what he meant.

Something boiled over inside of you, the butterflies and blossoming affection turning into a tidal wave that threatened to swallow you whole. As Jace held your hands, he seemed desperate to convey such a message — whatever he wanted, he could not have.

A brief exhale escaped you before you steeled yourself, thumbs brushing across his knuckles, over the veins of his hands. “You wouldn’t tarnish it,” You whispered, stomach churning with molten heat. “I know that you wouldn’t, Jace. I trust you the most.”

Jacaerys felt the stirring within his chest, the first inkling of arousal settling into his very bones. It was somewhat foreign — a new feeling, but exciting and exhilarating. “I would never hurt you,” He insisted, and you believed him wholeheartedly. “What I feel for you, I do not wish to feel this way with anyone else.”

If you could’ve collapsed then and there, you would’ve — you thought it would happen, with the way your knees rattled together beneath your nightgown. The beating of your heart accelerated into a violent crescendo, and then you felt the rush — the love you had for him, desire, admiration, neediness.

A tenuous silence drifted between you both, the tension thick enough to be sliced with a blade. Jacaerys had inched closer without thinking, able to peer down into your eyes, swirling with affection and bewilderment. “If I told you I felt the same?” Your voice barely rose above a whisper.

Deliberately, Jacaerys released one of your hands, allowing his palm to fully envelop your face, the pad of his thumb caressing your cheekbone. “I would never difile your virtue, or take it for granted. You must tell me if this is something you want.” He insisted, jaw tightening as he anxiously awaited your answer.

You knew that he wouldn’t — Jacaerys Velaryon was the most honorable man you knew, one that would never lay a finger upon you unless you consented. You couldn’t imagine a return to friendship if you happened to reject him — you didn’t want to reject him, either.

“I do,” A shudder ran down your spine, bringing a wave of thrill and anticipation with it. “I want this — and I want you, Jacaerys, if you’ll have me.” Part of you became nervous, knowing that you had never bedded a man before, but you pushed the thought aside.

“A hundred times over.” Jace uttered, dipping down to press his lips against yours. The kiss was incredibly sweet and delicate, something brief to test the waters as the two of you began to explore uncharted territory. Your hands reached for his chest, flat atop his sternum.

Allowing the kiss to linger, you tilted your head just slightly, enough to permit a sensual progression. He kissed you so sweetly, treated you as if you were precious, something to be worshiped. When he inevitably pulled away, you felt a twinge of nervousness.

“I’ve never done anything like this before,” Your confession was a strenuous one, and you hoped that he wouldn’t be disappointed by your lack of experience. Most men already had a plethora by the time betrothals and first love emerged. “Is that alright?”

“Of course,” Jacaerys reassured you with a gentle squeeze, brows furrowing together with insistence. He hesitated, somewhat sheepish to admit the very same, but he knew you wouldn’t admonish him for it. “I haven’t either, if that’s alright.” He mused, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smile.

A sweet bout of laughter escaped you before you nodded several times over, unable to keep from withholding your happiness. “I suppose that this will be quite the learning experience.” You felt his thumb stroke along your jaw, his lips molding themselves to yours in another kiss.

Passion and tension began to mount, a continuous climb of affection, prepared to turn into something fiery. Jacaerys worried that he would disappoint you, or perhaps feel clumsy and awkward, but those were mere insecurities — he knew that you wouldn’t hold it against him.

One of his hands dropped, finding the pliant curve of your hip as he sank his digits into you, able to haul you closer, until there was no space left between the two of you. Kissing felt effortless with Jace, despite your inexperience — he was gentle and deliberate, ensuring that he took his time with you above all else.

Your fingers wandered from his chest to his broad shoulders, finding the curls of hair at the nape of his neck. Jacaerys exhaled, a shiver rolling down his spine as you began to gently tug at his tresses. He canted his head slightly, enough to deepen the kiss and hold you close.

It was Jace who slowly broke the kiss, but just enough to speak, warm breath fanning across your face. “May I take you to bed?” He murmured, tracing across the silky plane of your jaw. His excitement began to grow, heart hammering within his chest.

In such close quarters to one another, you noticed the faint dusting of freckles along the bridge of his nose, spreading just underneath his eyes. You pressed a kiss against the corner of his mouth. “You may.” Eagerness replaced any nervousness you were experiencing, then and there.

Jacaerys found your hand, twining his digits with your own as the two of you inched toward your bed. It was plush, lined with furs and enough blankets to warm the Seven Kingdoms. He stood at the precipice of a cliff, preparing to dive headfirst — and it felt incredible.

He watched with bated breath, rapturous and enamored as your digits settled along the many ties of your outer robes. You began the sluggish process of untethering each one until the garment loosened, enough for you to shrug it aside and drape it over the chest at the foot of your bed.

Even with the veil of sheer, silky fabric, Jacaerys quietly admired your physique, shapely and beautiful in every way imaginable. “You are perfect,” Jace uttered, hands coming to settle around your hips, searching for any sign of hesitation on your end. “Beautiful.” He exhaled, feeling you coax him in for another kiss.

Through the slip of silk and gossamer, Jacaerys deftly felt his way along your body, taking his time savoring you. Every curve and dip, every little detail he committed to memory, lost within a sea of you. Your kiss became passionate, and he was more than happy to reciprocate, the intensity burning between you both.

Jace felt your fingers tease the hem of his tunic, enough to elicit a subtle gasp from him. The sensation of your flesh against his caused goosebumps to spread from where your digits brushed against his waist. He released you for a moment, long enough for him to assist you in removing his nightshirt.

A pang of admiration struck at your stomach, breath hitching within your throat. He was pretty — well-muscled for a young man, with sunkissed skin, smatterings of freckles along his shoulders. Jacaerys felt your lips press against the hollow of his throat, warmth fanning out from the simple contact.

“I want to take care of you, if you’ll let me.” Jace murmured, insistent on pleasuring you above all else. He knew very little of what ensued between a woman and a man within the confines of their bedchambers outside of the simple act itself, but it was easy to imagine.

Your lips parted, heat sinking into your bones as you reached for his curled tresses, digits slipping through his soft, dark locks. “Yes”, Your voice was barely above a whisper as you coaxed him in for another kiss, one charged with arousal and desire. “I want you, Jace.”

The heady, wanton way in which you spoke his name caused him to shiver, bare chest pressed snugly against your own. Even the veil of silken fabric could not hide your supple frame from him, the peaks of your breasts soft and pliant.

His kiss was so gentle — it was charged with lust despite its tame nature, not that you minded. You felt his hands fall to your hips, melding into your curves before he began to gather the fabric within his hands. Jacaerys looked to you before continuing, and you gave him a nod to signal your approval.

Silky gossamer slowly crawled up the length of your legs as Jace gathered your gown, sliding it upward. You couldn’t fight against the onslaught of molten heat that churned violently within your stomach, shamelessly pooling between your legs.

Jacaerys hesitated, likely thinking of what to do next. He had been educated on what consummation was, the act of making an heir — but there was more to it, more of you to explore. Curiosity consumed him as he placed his palm atop the bare skin of your thigh, using the other to ease you down onto your bed.

He sat beside you, leg to leg as he continued to push your nightgown up toward your hips, skirts gathering around the middle of your thighs. “May I?” Jace’s voice seemed to grow husky with arousal, desire burning its way through his veins.

Instead, you gingerly took a hold of his hand, guiding it underneath your gown as you parted your legs enough to allow him unhindered access. He caressed you wherever he could, shuddering when you held the trail of your nightgown in one hand to push it up around your hips.

You nearly squeaked when his palm brushed along your inner thigh, lips parting with a sharp exhale. Jace moved closer, as close as he could as his mouth graced your neck, digits inching toward the slick heat between your legs. When he found it, you let out a simpering whine, reaching for his forearm.

A hushed moan escaped you as two digits trailed across your cunt, exploratory and feather-light. Your hips canted forward into the sensation, desiring more — and Jace obliged, pushing both fingers inward until they slipped past your folds.

“Jace,” You whispered, eyes fluttering shut as he continued to pepper strings of sweet kisses along your neck, gown sagging enough to let him kiss your shoulder. “Do not stop, please.” That breathy plea exuded some power over him, and he was enthralled, prepared to do whatever you asked of him.

“Is that alright?” Jacaerys asked, digits becoming a touch more vigorous as he stroked at your slit, surprised at how wet you were. If it were a common thing, he would know what to expect in the future. His thumb grazed your clit, and you gasped.

With a soft hum of approval, you nodded, shifting your legs apart just a little more. “Y—Yes,” Absentmindedly, your fingers slipped from the taut muscle of his forearm to his hand, the one wedged underneath your gown. “I — Like this.” You instructed him to touch you how you had touched yourself.

Jacaerys watched through a half-lidded stare, beyond entranced with you. You were beautiful — so painfully ethereal that it made him want to kneel before you, a goddess made to be worshiped. You adjusted his fingers, ensuring that his thumb pressed against your clit with continuous pressure.

Despite his nonexistent experience, he was doing wonders for you — he was attentive and willing to learn your body as you saw fit. He was so handsome, lips curling into an affectionate smile before he kissed your jaw, digits continuing from where they’d left off.

Your palm fell across his thigh, nails beginning to dig themselves into the muscle there as he touched your clit, digits tracing around the rest of your cunt. The candlelight highlighted his features in such perfect detail, the illumination slight.

Reverence seeped into each action, every stroke of his fingers evoking a string of whimpers from you. He was passionate and careful, willing to learn your body better than you. He continued to caress your clit, the sensation sending jolts of electricity throughout your body.

His name became your prayer, devolving into desperate moans and whispered pleas as you rocked your hips into the sensation of his hand. “Jacaerys,” You sighed with passion, feeling the stirring within your stomach. Arousal consumed every part of you, just as it did him. “Jace.”

The dark-haired Prince let out a soft groan into the hollow of your throat, wanting you more than anything, and the hand you had perched atop his thigh did little to ease the fever. He kissed your neck again, scarlet-faced and beyond eager, whispering sweet nothings in High Valyrian against your skin.

Excitement and the heat of the moment seemed to get to you, as you used one hand to sloppily unlace the leather ties of his trousers. You wanted to touch him too, let him feel exactly how you felt — how he made you feel.

Jace shivered, not objecting, but he wanted to focus on you above all else. “What about you?” He asked, feeling his cock twitch with want. The ache he had for you was almost painful, threatening to tear him apart if he couldn’t find relief.

“Together,” You suggested, turning enough to crawl into his lap, much to his delight. Jacaerys held you steady, lips clamoring together in a messy flurry of tongue and adoration. It was the anticipation of youth — the desire and sentiments overrode everything else, made duty disappear. “You are perfect.”

His brief smile made all of your worry dissipate, fading into mere background noise. Your hands returned to the leather ties of his breeches once more, sluggishly loosening them. Jace steeled himself, a fire burning within his belly as you reached down.

A low, satisfied groan tore past his lips when your hand gently wrapped around his cock, searching his visage for any sign of discomfort. There was none — only desire, lust festering within his gaze. He resumed touching you, digits circling your clit once more.

Within your delicate grasp, his length hardened, your palm finding a careful rhythm. Your hips twitched, rolling into the sensation of his hand. It was heavenly — the way in which he handled you was gallant and gentle. Arousal continued to gather between your thighs, a new and sticky feeling.

Intermingled gasps and groans filled the air, the both of you clinging to one another. Jacaerys leaned forward, mouth seeking yours, the kiss hot and gentle. Between your careful, uncertain strokes along his length and his digits teasing your cunt, the both of you were lost within the throes of passion.

He slipped his other hand underneath your nightgown, with enough leverage to remove it, if he so desired. Jacaerys broke the kiss long enough to ask, chest heaving with heavier breaths. “May I?” He whispered, voice husky and hoarse with lust.

You nodded, maneuvering your arms over your head as your nightgown slipped to the floor, leaving you bare before Jacaerys. The saltwater breeze which fluttered through your quarters left you shivering, both from the brief chill and anticipation.

The awestruck way in which he stared at you left you hot, body feverish beneath his tempered gaze. He kissed your collarbone, eyes warm and affectionate. “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.” He stated, nearly breathless. His heart was yours — every fiber of his being devoted itself to you.

Smitten beneath his sweetly-spoken compliments, you trailed your fingers throughout his soft curls. The other slyly descended to reach for his cock again, but Jacaerys seemed to place your hand aside. You seemed confused, head canting to one side. “Do you not like it?”

His bemused chuckle filled your chambers, amiable and as warm as a cozy hearth. “Of course I like it,” Jacaerys murmured, kissing along your jaw and neck, holding you as close as he could. “I’d like to focus on you. There’s something that I wanted to try, if you’ll allow it.”

Surprised, you seemed open to whatever he wanted to try. “Anything you want, you will have. It’s yours.” You expected him to put you on your knees or turn you on your stomach. Instead, he coaxed you down onto your back, getting you to lay down as he crawled between your parted legs.

His mouth pressed a string of affectionate kisses along your shoulder and collarbone, beginning to dip lower toward the perky swell of your breasts. You squirmed slightly, uncertain of where this would lead to. You trusted Jace to follow his own instinct.

Your back arched when his mouth graced your breast, pressing kisses all around the pliant flesh. A moan escaped you, signaling your pleasure as he wrapped his lips around one of your nipples, gingerly suckling on the pebbled bud.

“Jace,” You squeaked, one hand flying to his mountain of dark curls, pushing your fingers through. He touched you in a way that evoked a sense of yearning, as if you were the only woman in the realm. His hand kneaded into your chest, a shiver coursing through him whenever you moaned his name. “Please.”

Heat simmered through him, a wave of desire that only seemed to grow in intensity, demanding to be extinguished. Your flesh tasted saccharine upon his tongue, but there was something else he wanted to taste. As he kissed your chest, he released his lips from your breast, continuing his descent.

He kissed you everywhere, reverence seeping into each brush of his mouth as he traversed your body. Jacaerys pressed his lips against your stomach, and then to your hips, palms sliding against your thighs.

A sharp exhale escaped you as he peppered a string of kisses along the inside of your thigh, showering you in little pecks of affection before he flattened himself entirely. You swallowed the lump within your throat; the sight of Jace’s face wedged in between your legs made you shiver, arousal following suit.

Everything was gentle, even the way in which his veined hands gripped the pliant flesh of your thighs to let them rest against his shoulders. He hesitated, allowing you a moment to adjust and steel yourself before he dipped forward, tongue raking hot embers across your cunt.

The singular, experimental stroke of his tongue caused you to shiver, hands curling into fists. If you could melt away into your furs, you would’ve, feeling his mouth press kisses against your core. “Jace,” You whined, attempting to hold still and cease your squirming. “Don’t stop.”

It was all the encouragement he truly needed, digits soothingly caressing along your thighs as he began to lap at your cunt, adopting a pace that was a little less sluggish. He nearly groaned when he felt your hand grasp at his curled tresses, sinking in toward the base of his skull.

In the nighttime gloom of Dragonstone, you found warmth and comfort in one another — affections intensified, and whatever bond you had before was now redefined entirely. Jacaerys loved you, he had never been more sure of himself until now, dutifully bringing about your pleasure.

A myriad of soft whimpers and whines escaped you, hand gingerly tugging on Jace’s hair as he buried his mouth in the apex of your thighs. His tongue vigorously lapped and traced over your core, savoring your taste, committing it to memory. Bathed in moonlight, Jace appeared more ethereal than ever, the muscles flexing within his back.

With slow, eager laps of his tongue, Jacaerys made sure to savor you, letting it flick across your clit. The short, dizzying gasp that tore past your mouth spurred him on, as he pressed another string of kisses against your slit. The continued sensation of your digits carding through his curls made him sigh with elation.

He brought you closer, heart leaping into his throat when you began to writhe beneath him, hips tilting forward into each stroke of his mouth. “You’re perfect,” Jacaerys whispered, ensuring that you could hear it. Soft utterances of High Valyrian were etched into the flesh of your thigh. “Perfect.”

Blossoming beneath his sweet compliments, your fingers curled against his scalp, unable to lay still as Jace resumed his previous ministrations. The warmth of his tongue left you with a blistering want, stomach churning with a wave of arousal.

As he lapped at your clit again, you whimpered, moaning his name as if to keep his attention there. Jacaerys’s tender expression also bore a great deal of concentration, dark eyes flickering toward you. “There?” He uttered, hoping that you would guide him to where he needed to be.

Your head bobbed up and down against the furs, flesh beginning to glisten with the first inklings of perspiration. Everything felt feverishly hot, as if you would be turned to ash where you sat. Jacaerys was attentive and loving, following your breathy plea as he pursed his lips around the pearl of your cunt.

Jace shivered at the sounds you made, enticed by each whimper and moan, every twitch of your body. He suckled on the sensitive bundle of nerves, alternating between that and greedy, vigorous laps of his tongue. He let himself be lost within bliss, arousal mounting from pleasuring you.

You reached for his hand, fingers interlocking atop the swell of your hip as he continued to lap at your aching core. He squeezed your hand as a sign of reassurance, buried deep within your sweet cunt, something that he wanted to have again and again.

He was at your mercy, the heir to the Iron Throne, the Prince of Dragonstone — and you hadn’t the slightest clue. Jace’s brow creased in concentration as he focused on what spots made you squirm the most, continuing to dutifully lap at your clit until your knees trembled.

“Jace,” A needy moan left you, reverberating within the obsidian confines of your chambers. Arousal rushed through you, molten heat oozing from between your thighs, a nectar as sweet as honey. “I—I think I’m close.” You groaned, unsure if it was just the throes of ecstasy or reality.

Nevertheless, you were on the verge of reaching your peak, and you didn’t want him to stop. Instead, you urged his head forward, fingers laced within his dark curls, right at the nape of his neck. Jacaerys groaned in delight, thoroughly enjoying the way you continued to coax him inward — he happily devoured every drop.

With another barrage of his tongue assaulting your cunt, you whimpered, turning malleable within Jace’s hands. He knew that you were on the verge, and so he pursed his lips around your clit once more, and that was more than enough.

His name emerged from your lips like a reverent prayer, the only name that you knew in that moment. Your release was hot, like a rush of fire that didn’t simmer immediately. The residual sensation lingered, and Jace helped you through it.

Your thighs twitched, absentmindedly attempting to clench together, but Jace held you apart, soothing you with kisses along your thighs. The blissful, contented expression that soon followed was a beautiful one — Jace was shocked to know that he could do that to you, bring you to ruin.

His gallant smile gave you pause as you studied the rosy flush within his features, the glistening sheen of your arousal upon his lips. Jacaerys seemed entirely unphased, basking in your aftermath all the same, his curls tousled and disheveled.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” Your tone was sheepish, realizing how much you’d tugged at his hair. If it were you, a tender-headed maiden, you would’ve been batting his hand away. Jace’s bemused chuckle caused you to duck your head.

Jace disarmed you with a charming, doting smile and a simple look of those earthen-brown eyes of his, and shook his head. “You could never hurt me,” He replied, his attempt at gentle flirtation. “I worry more for you.” His confession was soft-spoken.

The act of consummation was not intended to be a comfortable one — for a woman, at least. Jacaerys knew to broach this with care, to make sure that you were well enough before all else. He inched forward from between your thighs, resting his head atop your stomach.

He allowed you a moment of composure, feeling your digits trace the lines of his countenance, stroke at his tresses. Jace pressed a string of kisses all around your body, wherever his lips could reach. The moment was incredibly tender, lingering with the tension of a blossoming ardor.

Through the comfortable haze of silence, you cleared your throat, staring down at Jacaerys with what only could be described at a look of complete and utter adoration. He was so kind, so noble and gentle, yet with the fervor of the dragon’s blood, a desire to do good. You felt so fortunate, even moreso when he smiled at you, pressing a kiss to your hip.

“I want you, Jacaerys,” You whispered, watching as Jace began to sit up, letting your legs trap him on either side. “More than I’ve ever wanted anyone else.” It was the hitch within his throat that made you shiver, heart hammering beneath your breast as you began to confess your feelings — it was inevitable.

Jace reveled at the sight of you, naked and glimmering within the moonlit dusk, candlelight bathing your physique in shades of flickering orange. His descent was slow as he covered you with his body, lips parting to allow a shaky exhale before he kissed your brow. “You have my heart,” He uttered, forehead resting against yours. “Everything I am, is yours.”

Your palms moved to cup either side of his face, thumbs caressing along his cheekbones before you smiled, kissing the corner of his mouth. “I am yours.” You assured, your commitment resolute before the Gods — before Jacaerys Velaryon.

It was a poignant moment, one that seemed intermingled with the seriousness of your words, yet still tinged with the youthful excitement of a first love. He kissed you, slow and amorous, full of an unrestrained affection that no longer seemed weighed-down by unspoken sentiments.

“Are you certain that this is what you want?” Jace asked, his voice a soft caress through your haze of kisses. He would not fault you if you wanted to stop now — and he would if you wished it of him. As much as he desired you, he valued your virtue above his own.

“Yes,” You replied, your palms gliding from his soft visage to the taut muscle of his shoulders, lacing your fingers around the back of his neck. “Are you certain, too? I worry that you might regret lying with me.”

Jacaerys shook his head, brows furrowing together to reflect a semblance of disbelief. He reached down to caress your cheek, making sure that you understood every word. “Nothing in the world would ever make me regret this,” He murmured. “I’ve never been more certain about anything before.”

A brief stirring of adoration fluttered within your chest, and you knew that you wanted no one else ever again. You pulled yourself off of the mattress enough to kiss him, sinking into the sweet bliss of the moment as he reciprocated. His mouth moved in-tandem with yours, eyes beginning to flutter shut.

His hands planted themselves into the feathered pillow on either side of your head, but it didn’t last long. Jacaerys leaned back, maneuvering out of the leather of his trousers, flush against you once they were removed. You were so soft, like an ocean of silk beneath him.

He felt one of your legs hitch around his hips, bodies together beneath the furs. The chill of your chambers dissipated, replaced by the warmth of your skin. You kept your hands poised against his shoulders, dancing across the smattering of freckles there as you continued to kiss him, as if each one would be your last.

The hardened swell of his cock pressed against your lower stomach, and you could feel his breath grow heavier between kisses. He was perfect — flawless, so handsome that it made you ache with want.

Jace kissed you again and again, feeling the soft peaks of your breasts brush against his chest. He adjusted his weight, shifted his hips as he pressed the head of his length against your slick cunt. He was somewhat nervous — perhaps not as much as you, but anxious enough. He made sure to be careful, feeling your legs nudge themselves apart.

A look of mutual preparedness passed between you both, between your doe-eyed gaze of anticipation and Jace’s mounting look of want, there was little room left for uncertainty. He sat up enough to position himself against your aching core, his cock splitting past your folds before it prodded at your entrance.

You steeled yourself, and Jace made sure to be slow, afraid of hurting you enough to cause true discomfort. As he tilted forward, his length filled you, sheathing himself inside of you, inch by inch. Admittedly, it wasn’t a good feeling — not initially, anyway.

A sharp exhale escaped you as he bottomed out, staying still atop you as he allowed you time to grow accustomed to him. Waves of complete and utter bliss rolled through him, his own pleasure nearly overwhelming. You were tight, maidenhead intact for the next few moments until he began to move.

“Are you alright?” Jace whispered around the shell of your ear, pressing against you once more as he reassuringly kissed along the side of your face. He felt despicable for causing you any amount of pain, but you seemed to dismiss his concern.

“I am,” You placated him with a smile, coaxing him in for a kiss. It was best if you didn’t think about it — and with time, it would feel better. Everything was awkward and clumsy, the follies of youth, but as Jace began to move, a fire began to burn within your belly. “Jace.” You sighed, keeping your leg around his hips.

A soft groan resonated beside your ear as Jace adopted a sluggish rhythm, not wanting to intensify things so quickly. Your eyes fluttered shut, body content to bend to his thrusts, grow accustomed to the act itself. He reciprocated your kiss, black curls falling in front of his temples.

Bliss soon replaced discomfort, the more you allowed yourself to adjust. You shifted your legs further apart, one hand falling toward his bicep, the other remaining tangled at the nape of his neck. The sounds of your lovemaking soon filled your chambers, with your foreheads pressed together.

Your name fell from his tongue in a needy groan, and it made you shiver, body reacting with a barrage of gooseflesh along your spine. Perspiration grew upon his brow as he maintained his pace, digits curling into the furs on either side of you.

The sound of your pleasured moans made him feel better, a sign that you were no longer riddled with soreness and irritation. Jace pressed a trail of hot, messy kisses along your face, reaching to the sweet spot beneath your jaw. He kept himself anchored there, feeling your hand squeeze at his bicep.

“Jace!” You squeaked, flushed at the growing lewdness of the noises — the squelching, the passionate groans and heavy breathing. He was perfect, cock filling you in a way that left you completely satisfied. Jace felt your hand fall away from his bicep, reaching for his own, interlocked hands falling back against the cushions.

He shuddered, reveling in the way your cunt tightened around him, the sensation of your hand within his hair, hands joined at your side. Jace’s pace began to quicken, but only somewhat, enough to really feel the myriad of pleasure take hold.

You yearned for him in every way imaginable; your body ached with each movement, every thrust as he leisurely moved in and out of you. His cock pulsated with a dull throbbing, enough to fill his belly with a raging fire. He kissed you again, lips traversing wherever they saw fit, peppering every inch of your sweet skin.

Time seemed to move agonizingly slow in your presence — Jacaerys wouldn’t want it any other way. If he could capture this moment, he would’ve. Every moment was graced by a warm intimacy that sank into his very bones, his adoration for you furthered with each roll of his hips, sheathing himself inside of you.

His soft lips graced your collarbone, continuing to make love to you in the only way he knew how. It was passionate and gentle, in a way reserved for the deepest of lovers. Jace grunted when your hips involuntarily rolled upward to grind against him, lips parting as he squeezed your hand.

At last, he lifted his head, your eyes locking together. Your countenance was exceptionally beautiful, especially when painted with the shade of desire, and it had him aching with want. His jaw tensed when you brushed dark curls away from his eyes, palm lingering long enough to pull him down for a kiss.

His cock continued to hit your cunt with a tame fervor, filling you completely, testing your limits as he neared his peak. Jacaerys knew that there would be more moments like these in the future — his energy was waning, and perhaps, the unfamiliarity of it all contributed to this.

Your name spilled from his tongue, throat echoing with a soft groan as his pace became slightly erratic. It was difficult to control himself amidst chasing after his release, but he maintained what little composure he had, gritting his teeth together as he thrust into you again.

Pleasure contorted into ecstasy, becoming an unstoppable wave that was quick to take hold of him. Concentration intermingled with bliss were etched into his features, face pressing against yours, nearly breathless as you kissed him again.

With a groan, Jacaerys rocked forward again, spilling himself inside of you. In hindsight, it was both brazen and feckless, done in the heat of the moment, but he cared little of it for the time being. His cock throbbed, thrusting into you again a time or two before he stilled completely.

Heavy pants resonated between you both as you caught your breath, flush against one another in the aftermath. You pressed a kiss against Jace’s cheek, trailing your fingers throughout his hair. He was quick to kiss you, gathering his composure before he pulled himself out of you.

A rush of sticky warmth slathered the inside of your thighs, leaving behind a feeling of slight discomfort. Jace gathered a cloth for you to clean yourself with, returning to lay beside you as he rucked the furs up around your bodies. The air was colder at nightfall, injected with a saltwater mist.

“I apologize if I hurt you,” Jacaerys uttered, dark brows furrowing together as you wriggled closer, resting your head atop his bare chest. Your arm draped over him, allowing yourself to be close, a feeling that he wanted more than anything else. “It was not my intention.” He kissed the top of your head.

“You didn’t,” You replied, tracing soft patterns against his skin, angling your head up enough to kiss him. Jace cupped your jaw, leaning in to deepen the tender entanglement, lost within the bliss of your lips. “You would never hurt me.”

Jacaerys was fiercely protective over you, that much was true — even from himself. He kept an arm wrapped around you, cradling you at his side as he gazed into your eyes. He could see you, then — his beloved wife, the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Perhaps it was too early to tell, but he knew.

As the both of you settled in together, your maidenhead now lost, you couldn’t help but smile. Jacaerys had made your first experience more than anyone ever could — you hoped that it would stay that way forever. “Does your offer of teaching High Valyrian still stand?” You mused.

A huff of amusement left Jacaerys as he turned his head enough to look at you, a smile playing at either corner of his mouth. “I thought you wanted those dusty old books.” Admittedly, his offering of those damned texts is what started this in the first place — he had to be grateful.

“I knew that you would be kind enough to bring them to me,” You confessed, nose wrinkling in amusement. “An excuse to see you.” The look on Jace’s face was one of theatrical shock, and you erupted into a fit of laughter when he squeezed your hip.

“You might grow tired of me, if I am to teach you High Valyrian.” Jacaerys mused, his smile one of complete and utter warmth. Anyone would know that his love for you was obvious — there wasn’t any subtlety about it.

You shook your head, comfortably sinking against him, your upper body lounging atop him. “I could never grow tired of you, Jacaerys Velaryon.” You exhaled, exhaustion beginning to grip you. It was bound to happen eventually, given the abnormally late hour.

Jace was thankful that you weren’t looking — his face was dusted with a rather obvious layer of pink, and yet, the feeling was beyond satisfying. The two of you allowed the silence to sink through, accompanied by the sound of the encroaching tide as it broke upon the jagged rock and cliff sides surrounding Dragonstone.

“Will you stay?” You asked, hoping that he would be agreeable to it. It was a risky proposition, but Jace knew that he couldn’t leave you after this — he didn’t want to, either. No one would come clamoring about within his chambers at first light.

“Of course,” He murmured, lips twitching into a sweet smile. “Though, I should go at the first light of dawn.” Jace’s tone was one of clear disappointment, but it was best to keep suspicions low. You knew that he had duties that transcended you — he was the Prince of Dragonstone, the heir — and you were not betrothed.

A sense of understanding settled onto your features, but you still wanted him by your side — you wished that you could wake up next to him. “I hope that dawn never comes, then.” You whispered, taking his hand within yours as you pressed a kiss against his palm, knowing that there would be many more dawns to come with him at your side.

copyright @ swordgrace; please do not translate, steal, or copy my works and post them onto other platforms or claim as your own.

#house of the dragon #hotd x reader #jacaerys velaryon x reader #jacaerys velaryon x you #jacaerys targaryen x reader #jacaerys targaryen x you #jacaerys x reader #jacaerys x you #house of the dragon fanfiction #house of the dragon smut #jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys targaryen #hotd smut #hotd fanfic

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eowynstwin · 6 months ago

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peristalsis - i.

selkie!soap x reader. suicidal ideation. strangers to "lovers." . Running away from life to the Scottish Hebrides, you meet a man who won't leave you alone. . Masterlist. Ao3.

When your mother asks you if you’re planning to kill yourself, you have to lie to her.

To be fair to you, it’s a half-lie. You have no plans. Courage, you find, is as slippery as an eel in gloved palms—you don’t actually think you could do it if you tried. You’re deeply averse to pain of the bloody sort, and doing the deed would take a will and an energy you don’t really have.

But still. You’ve stopped looking both ways when crossing a street. You forget the stove is on, hot oil in the pan popping like the report of a handgun. The sound of shattering glass is the only thing that makes your heart sit calm in your chest, and the only thing that can make you fall asleep anymore is the notion that when you die, the earth will welcome the molecules of your body back into its folds.

So a half-lie is not the truth. You sit in the terminal, the afternoon smell of airport coffee in your nose as you swear to your mother that you’re not looking for a cliff to jump off of, or a convenient wave to pull you under. You’ve always wanted to visit Scotland, remember?

You can’t tell if she believes you. Probably not. People not planning to kill themselves don’t blow their savings on a first class ticket over the Atlantic with no scheduled return flight.

Especially not after quitting their job.

The flight over the Atlantic is uneventful. Quiet as money can buy. You sip champagne at your window seat, recline as far back as you can go, and watch the ocean, far, far below. Its depths exceed, you remember, the heights at which humanity can fly—but you can’t really tell, looking at it from so far above. It looks like nothing less than a thin veneer stretched overtop the crust of the earth. A puddle that could barely cover the soles of your feet.

There’s not a single murmur of turbulence across the fifteen hours you’re in the air. Much that you might’ve welcomed it.

Your connecting trip to the Hebrides is much shorter. The massive sprawl of Glasgow shrinks and recedes as you leave it behind, replaced not long after by a spit of an island chain that, from a distance, hardly looks worth populating.

You land on Barra, on a sandy stretch of beach still wet and compact from the receding tide. There’s a cottage here with your name on the rental agreement for the next month, and your mind is already there ahead of you, thinking about arranging your toothbrush and toothpaste on the bathroom counter and sitting and listening to nothing but cold island wind in the grass. The cottage’s owner has graciously agreed to drive you there.

When you step off the plane, you miss him at first. You’re expecting someone completely different—an older man in cable knit, perhaps more mustache than face, and the morose demeanor of someone for whom sunlight is as common on the island as veins of gold. So your eyes skip over the younger man, even despite the sign he’s holding with your name on it.

But then you look again. Because with a man like him, you can’t not look again.

He’s wearing a sweater, sure. But he also looks like a rugby team maverick—burly and tall, rugged, tattooed, flaunting a dumb haircut because he’s handsome enough to get away with it.

He stands out from the few people in the airport as if the whole world has adjusted its lens to bring him into focus, sharpening his image such that anything in his periphery is too blurry to notice. He does not in the slightest look like he rents out an old fisher’s croft in the least popular place in Scotland.

But then you catch your name. Do a double take. Clutch your suitcase handle a little tighter, because when you approach, the man’s eyes widen, look you up and down, and then crease with a too-confident smile.

“Bonnie!” he exclaims when you introduce yourself. He has a deep, rough voice, burred and low. More still, he’s kilted, plaid hanging at muscular knees, with an odd speckled pelt slung around his hips.

You’ve never seen that before—maybe it’s an islander thing.

“You must be Mr. John MacTavish,” you say. Up close, there’s a weathered look to him, as if buffeted by the salt in the wind.

“Johnny’s fine,” he says, winking. His eyes are a lively, vibrant blue. The color of the ocean in some place much nicer than this one. “Welcome to Scotland!”

Then, incredibly, “Johnny” pulls you into a hug before you even realize what’s happening, brawny arms closing around you like the noose of a snare. You go rigid—what the hell?—but this man, whom you have met only just now, doesn’t seem to notice, compressing you against the blazing pillar of his body in an embrace that flattens your lungs behind your ribs.

“Um,” you manage. He smells like axe body spray and diesel fuel, and cold ocean wind. It wipes the forefront of your mind blank, like sweeping an arm across drawings etched in sand.

After at least five whiplashed beats of your heart, Johnny pats your back several times and lets you go, grinning.

“Sorry, bonnie. Scots are huggers.”

Then without warning, he reaches for the handle of your suitcase, warm hand nudging aside your own. “Let’s get you down there ‘fore the tide comes in. Canny wait t’show you the place, I fixed it up m’self.”

You let him take your luggage and follow; he sets off at an energetic clip that you struggle to keep up with. He gestures with his free hand as he talks, motions rising and falling with the tenor of his voice.

“You know you’re m’first guest? Was startin’ to wonder if I was gonna have to sell the place, no one seemed all that interested. Guess I can see why, no internet, barely any signal. Me, I think that’s a good thing, people spend too much time on their phones, y’know?”

You make a noncommittal noise.

Were you this cold before he let go of you?

“But it’s a great little place to get away, I promise you, nice and quiet, and I updated everything m’self. Radiator in the bedroom and everything!”

Another noise from you.

Thankfully, you reach his car—a small truck, older than the both of you, with only one row of seats and what looks like large spools of rope in the bed. Johnny pauses briefly to secure your suitcase beside them with a couple of bungee cords, and then opens the passenger side door for you to get in.

“It’s not too far from town too,” he continues as he slides into the driver’s seat. You attach your seat belt. He does not. “You got your essentials there. A supermarket—think you call ‘em grocery stores? There’s that and a cafe and a pub. No bank though, so let’s get cash now if you need it.”

“I have some.” You’d exchanged for a few hundred pounds in Glasgow.

“Good! You want to stop by the store? Took the liberty of filling up the fridge too, but if there’s somethin’ you want—”

“No,” you say.

“Alrigh,’” says Johnny.

You feel his eyes on you—when you look at him, he’s smiling again. You are not pleased to find, through the benefit of close proximity, that he has dimples.

“What?” you ask, suddenly self-conscious.

“Nothin,’” he says.

Johnny drives you across the causeway from Barra to Vatersay, the latter of which, he helpfully informs you, is populated by less than a hundred people.

“More wildlife than anything,” he comments, as the ocean outside the window passes by. The water is dull and gray, hidden from the sun by an overcast sky. “That’s what the tourists come for. You here to see the seals?”

“Seals?” you ask.

“Aye,” Johnny says, grinning. “They come here for breeding season.”

You ignore the quirk of his eyebrows.

The cottage stands alone, a ways out from the island’s main village at the top of a modest hillock. Island grasses sway along the dirt road as Johnny directs the truck upwards, coming to a stop a few meters away from the house proper.

It’s quaint. Thatch roof, cobbled walls. A generator hooked up on one side. There are flower boxes flanking the front door, although nothing’s in bloom; it’s the wrong season for it. The window frames are unpainted, and the glass panes, despite looking recently cleaned, are crusted with salt at the corners.

And it’s smaller than it looked in the pictures online. Even close up to it, the blue-grey sky overhead, swimming with dun-colored clouds, swallows it up.

You exit the truck into a cold breeze that tugs at the collar of your fleecy sweater. You’d read online that this time of year was the last gasp of summer into the autumn months in the Hebrides—it hardly feels that way, with the chill that drags its fingers across your hairline.

“It’s on a septic tank so y’ve got alright plumbing,” Johnny goes on, hefting your suitcase over one brawny shoulder. “Canny say much for the water pressure in the shower, but other than tha’ it’s alright. Matters more that it’s hot, ‘f you ask me—and it is! Come on, I’ll give y’the tour.”

The cottage is not big enough to warrant one. Johnny shows you the four rooms—kitchen, sitting room, bathroom, and bedroom—in under five minutes. It ends with him leaned up against the counter, arms folded genially across his plush chest, grinning at you like he knows some embarrassing secret of yours.

“Was thinkin,’” he says, scratching the stubble on his jaw with one thumbnail, “this’d be kind of a honeymoon thing, y’know? That woman with the time travel show, lots a’folks been comin’ here lately ‘cause a’her.”

“Is there anything else to do here besides look at seals?” you ask.

Soap gazes at you through half-lidded eyes, smirking. “I dinnae think you leave the bedroom much on a honeymoon, do you?”

You flush. “I never really thought about it.”

“So you’re no’ married, then?”

“No. Not—not interested.”

Johnny lifts one brow. “In marriage?”

“In anything.”

He keeps fucking smiling. You have a barely controllable urge to smack him; you settle for wringing the hem of your sweater, imagining it could be his neck.

“So what brings y’here, then?” he asks, tilting his head like a cat playing with its food. “If no’ a honeymoon?”

You frown.

The truth is, of course, that nothing brought you here. Vatersay, nor the Hebrides, nor Scotland itself were actually of any consequence. You’re ambivalent about the ocean, and you certainly don’t care about seals.

You just hadn’t been able to think of anything you wanted when you asked yourself that perennial question. You wanted nothing.

You wanted nothing.

So you found as much nothing as you could and bought the soonest first class ticket heading toward it.

Your only stipulation had been no language barrier—so here you are now, cursing the lack of such, because it means this man, who belongs on this island no more than you do, is bothering to try and talk to you.

“Just wanted some peace and quiet,” is what you decide to say.

“Needed a change, aye?” Johnny nods sagely, as if understanding. “I did too, when I came here. Was in the army. Special forces.”

“O-okay,” you say, because you hadn’t asked.

“Didnae plan to stay,” he continues.

He turns his head to look out the kitchen window; on one temple is the ghost of a scar. A starburst-ripple in the shaved side of his dark hair—nothing more.

But something about it suggests that the wound it closed around was a horror to behold.

Then he turns back to you, the corners of his mouth quirked. “But somethin’ about this place is hard to leave.” The quirk turns into another smarmy grin “Bet when your month’s up, you’ll know what I mean.”

It seems rude to say probably not. “Maybe.”

The radiator in the kitchen breathes a swell of warm air through the room, blooming with Johnny’s diesel-and-ocean scent. There’s very little space between you, him against the counter, you across from him at the sink. Johnny’s bulk claims what little room there is to maneuver, and if you tried to move away, it would require first moving closer.

“So,” you begin.

“Here,” he intercedes. “Wanna show you somethin.’”

The only reason you comply is because he leads you outside, which is a step closer to him finally leaving you alone. Johnny circles around the cottage, revealing a footpath that leads down the hill. The ground transitions from soil to sand as you both walk; the wind picks up as the sound of waves grows. Eventually you reach what turns out to be a small cove, hidden by the curve of the island, flanked on both sides by cliffs of only middling height.

The tide is only now making its way in; probably why you hadn’t realized it was here earlier. You think you’ll be able to hear the waves when you go to sleep tonight.

“Oh,” you say, unable to hide that it’s impressed you.

“Yeah,” Johnny replies, smug. “All yours. Come down whenever you like. Dinna recommend skinny dippin’ this time a’year, though.”

You look at him, intending some sort of flat response, but what you see stops your words up in the chamber of your throat.

There’s something…different about him. There’s a sharp glint in his eyes that wasn’t there before. A dangerous cant to the angle of his grin. He suddenly feels very real to you—

Like standing in front of a wild animal.

Realizing, at the same time it does, that there is no barrier between it and you.

He looks you up and down. He doesn’t even try to hide it; too-blue eyes jaunt from yours down to your throat, the span of your shoulders, lingering on your chest before drifting down your stomach and hips. His nostrils flare as he inhales deeply, shoulders lifting as his chest expands, and you get the strange sense that he’s trying to smell you.

The ice that slithers through your veins, drips down the rigid column of your spine, wars with the spike of heat that breaks across your face. You feel here. You feel very present, your heart pumping wet in your chest, electrical wisps zipping to every nerve ending and back up your cerebellum to remind your brain of every part of your existing body.

Suddenly you are in Scotland, thousands of miles away from home, freezing fucking cold, only half of all the money you have in the world left in your bank account. Tomorrow stretching out in front of you. The next day after it.

Panic, which you thought buried, turns over in your belly, grave-dirt too light to keep it down. Hard earth is beneath your feet. A light drizzle is starting overhead. You begin to shiver, your nervous system’s effort to warm your hairless mammal body up, to save you from the cold and the wet and the fucking predator standing two paces away from you while gazing at you like it can’t wait to break your bones open for the marrow inside.

“Okay,” you finally snap, though you’re unable to keep your voice from quivering. “I really appreciate you driving me, Johnny, but—”

His eyes flash. The ocean-depths of them shift with an awareness beyond your ken, the dark edges deepening, the vivid blue swirling. The expression on his face transmutes into something unknowable—like the difference between the look on a pet dog’s face and a wolf’s.

Something isn’t there that should be, and what is in its place is entirely unfamiliar.

What is in its place is something your species evolved long past being able to understand.

Then, as quickly as it appeared, the flash is gone. Johnny is human again, as if he had always been in the first place. The thin crows’ feet at the corners of his eyes crinkle, as he gives you what he probably thinks is a sympathetic smile.

He doesn’t seem able, or perhaps willing to hide how amused he is, though.

“Long flight, I know,” he croons, meeting your gaze again. “Dinna worry, bonnie, I’ll let you get your rest.”

Whatever you were about to say dies. Your mouth hangs open. Johnny backs away from you, hands casually in his pockets.

“I’ll take you to see the seals tomorrow!” he calls to you before he turns away. A sudden gust ruffles the pelt hanging around his hips. “I know all the best spots.”

He throws you a casual wave, and then disappears over the rise.

You do hear the waves that evening, when you lay down to sleep. The covers are soft over you, cozy and warm even as the ocean wind hums outside.

You can’t stop shivering.

a/n: last fic of the year (probably)! i'm so into this one tbh. i figured out the ending a while ago and i'm so dang excited to get to it.

#soap x reader #soap x you #john soap mctavish x reader #john soap mctavish x you #john soap x reader #soap mactavish #soap mactavish x reader #soap mctavish #john soap mactavish #how the hell is his last name even spelled #mwritessoap #madi writes

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snail-day · 2 months ago

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Picturing the JJK men as dads on the beach!

Featuring: Gojo, Geto, Nanami

TW: Fluff, Established Relationships, It's silly if you think of Geto as a cult leader and you really don't know what he does for a living.

Gojo Satoru is definitely the playful type. Gently holds your toddler’s tiny little hand as they take their very first steps onto the beach. You, of course, are a few steps behind, recording the whole thing, his white hair blowing in the breeze, those bright blue eyes flickering back to you with the happiest smile you’ve ever seen.

When your little boy finally reach the wet sand, the first chill of seawater brushes over his little toes as he squeals, cautious of the water. Satoru crouches slightly beside them, steady and so full of joy. You can hear his soft giggles and gentle reassurances, “I got you,” and “Don’t worry, daddy won’t let anything happen”, as he coaxes him forward, step by tiny step.

Each time the waves grow taller, he lets out a playful, “Wooo!” before shielding your little one with his long frame, bursting into laughter that makes your chest ache with love. “That was a big one, huh?” he grins, scooping the toddler closer. Checking them over as they spit out salt water. Helping him rub his little blue eyes that resemble his fathers. “My brave little man”

Eventually, you make your way over, camera tucked away, the salty breeze tangling in your hair. Satoru looks up the second he senses you near, and his grin only widens.

“There’s mama,” he coos, squeezing your toddler's small hand, pulling them close, before reaching for your hand, lacing your fingers with his. “C’mon, join us. The water’s not so scary.”

And just like that, the three of you stand at the edge of the sea, the water coming in cold burts, shells dazzling in the sand. When the next one crashes in, he pulls you both close, laughing loud and bright as cold water splashes up your legs.

“See?” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your cheek as your little one squeals with joy. Small little kicks in the water. “Told you I’ve got you.”

------------

Now Geto Suguru, absolutely has a schedule in mind. A bit of time at the beach, a long scenic car ride timed perfectly for the twins to nap, then dinner at a place he made reservations for weeks in advance, with a menu that includes safe foods for the kids and views that he knows you will love.

You, of course, have no clue what the schedule is. You’re just following his lead, letting him steer the day. If he’s being a little overprotective? Well, he means well.

He kneels down to carefully lather sunscreen onto the twins' cheeks, smoothing it into their soft skin with those big gentle hands. Then he sprays down their arms and legs until their glistening (hey do you want two little ones complaining about sunburns? No? Thought so), before adjusting their sun hats and leading them down the sand toward the tide pools.

“The tide’s too rough for little girls,” he murmurs, glancing back at you with playful violet eyes as if daring you to challenge him. He’d said the same thing when school season came up, murmuring something about “not just yet” and “there’s still time.” You’re starting to realize he just doesn’t want them to grow up too fast.

Once you reach the tide pools, it’s like watching a nature documentary, narrated carefully with a smooth, honeyed voice. Suguru who crouches low, sleeves rolled up, pointing to colorful sea anemones and starfish nestled in rock crevices. The occasional hermit crabs scrambling about. He gently holds the girls back with one arm as he explains how we have to be careful, how these creatures are delicate, how we should never touch unless we’re invited. He asks them questions, listens closely to their little answers, and hums in thoughtful praise when they’re right.

You take pictures from behind for his little scrapbook - your husband hunched beside his daughters, the wind tousling his dark hair, a small smile on his face as they eagerly chatter about “funny sea goos” and “squishy blobs.”

Even when the four of you walk along the shore, he’s still tuned in. He picks up every seashell they hand him and slips them into his pockets, keeping each one safe. Talking to you that he will have them do a little craft, maybe decorate a frame for your next family photo. His other hand stays laced in yours, thumb brushing your knuckle like a quiet thank-you for being here, for trusting his rhythm.

And when the twins break into a run, he calls after them, not angry, just firm. Protective.

“Hey, stay where I can see you. Don’t go too far, yeah?”

You can't blame the man for being a little overprotective. He's just trying to protect the only family he has left in the world.

------

Nanami finally got his beach house.

It wasn’t something he ever really thought he’d have, not in the way people dream of it. Certainly not with a wife he adores more than life, and definitely not with a little girl who just turned one. Both surprises. Both blessings he never knew how much he needed until they arrived, warm, loud, full of life and love.

He lounges beneath a large umbrella, reclined in a low chair on the sand with your daughter curled up sound asleep on his chest. A small paperback rests in his hand, the other gently cradling her back as he reads aloud in a quiet, steady voice. Loud enough only for himself to hear. Enough for her to feel the rumble of his chest when he speaks. The soft rise and fall of her breathing tickles his cheek where her chubby face presses into him, her tiny hand curled in the fabric of his white linen shirt.

Every so often, he glances up from the page, eyes following you as you wander the shore barefoot, collecting small shells and smooth stones. Things for her little fingers to hold, to marvel at.

Sometimes, you join him again. Both of you kneeling in the sand with your babbling baby girl perched in your lap. You and Nanami take your time building crooked little castles, digging moats and shaping towers, only to watch her gleefully slam her tiny fists into them, squealing as the grains collapse under her touch. He chuckles each time, murmuring that it’s good for her sensory development, brushing sand from her face and little hairs before beginning again.

Every now and then, Nanami looks at you.

Just looks. Like the tide has swept something open in his chest and left it raw in the most beautiful way. Sometimes he’s still trying to understand how he got here, how he gets to have this. How he deserves to have this.

There’s a softness in his gaze that lingers longer than the shell rustling in the waves. A quiet, awestruck kind of love that doesn’t need to be spoken aloud, because it’s seen in every glance, every kiss to your lips, every shell gently placed in your daughter’s hand.

He never expected this life. But god, he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #Jjk fluff #Jjk x reader #Nanami kento #Gojo satoru #Geto suguru #Nanami x reader #Geto x reader #Gojo x reader #Satoru x reader #Kento x reader #Suguru x reader #Geto suguru x reader #Nanami kento x reader #Gojo satoru x reader

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springtyme · 7 months ago

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Simon Riley x afab!reader || Masterlist || Ghost playlist

𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖! ♡ 𝟏𝟖+ ♡ 𝐌𝐃𝐍𝐈

You are being pushed deeper into the soft mattress with each of Simon’s frantic thrusts. The squeaking of the bed echoes through the room, mixing with the sound of skin slapping against skin, a frantic symphony of urgency and desire.

It is hot and raw, if not downright primal.

The angle at which he’s drilling into you is just right, each powerful thrust connecting perfectly with that sensitive spot inside you that always makes your eyes well up with tears of pleasure and drawing the softest whines of pleasure from your lips.

You are dripping wet, and the adrenaline that is pounding through your body is making everything feel a thousand times more intense.

He is so big, his immense girth stretching you in ways that make your breath hitch. Your hands grasp at the sheets, fingers tangling in the fabric as you fight to find purchase, to ground yourself amidst the waves of sensation crashing over you. The heat radiating between you both intensifies, every thrust pushing you closer to the edge. You can feel the pleasure coiling within you, tightening like a spring, each movement driving it deeper.

Simon’s breath is ragged, his focus entirely on you, and the intensity in his gaze only heightens your need, his brown eyes piercing through the haze of pleasure. You arch your back, inviting him to delve deeper, urging him on with soft cries that slip through your lips effortlessly. You’re so close to the edge, and every instinct within you craves release. Simon responds to your signals, quickening his pace, the sound of the bed creaking in time with the rhythm of your bodies becoming a cadence of shared ecstasy.

The way he holds you down, powerful and possessive, sends electric jolts through your system. Your breaths come faster now, mingling with the heat of his body pressing down on you as he digs deeper into you, splitting you open for him. The air in the room feels charged, pulsating with the energy of the moment and the urgency of your intertwined desires.

With every thrust, the pleasure builds, winding tighter, threatening to snap at any moment. You can feel the exquisite tension pooling low in your belly, ready to surge forward like a dam breaking. Each thrust hits your sensitive g-spot, eliciting sharper gasps from you, each note a testament to how good he makes you feel, how he knows exactly how to push you to the brink.

If he can’t give you his love, he can give you this. You will always be greedy when it comes to him. You will always long for more from him, but you know he won’t give it. So you will take what you can get, drawing every ounce of pleasure from this moment, every fleeting second he’s willing to share. As he drives into you with unrelenting vigour, the world outside fades away, leaving nothing but the two of you, lost in this intimate moment of passion.

As he leans down to capture your lips in a heated kiss, you feel the last tether of control slip away. You know that he is only kissing you because he’s caught up in the intensity of the moment, but you let yourself drown in it, allowing the sensation of his tongue against yours to fuel the undeniable heat pooling within you. It’s reckless and intoxicating, igniting every nerve ending as you respond hungrily to him, your bodies moving in perfect sync.

With a cry muffled by his mouth, you arch your back, feeling the wave of pleasure wash over you, pulling him with you into bliss. Your cunt is clamping down around him, your body quaking as you ride the crest of the exquisite tide crashing through you. Every ounce of tension that has built up explodes outward, sending ripples of sensation across your skin, igniting every nerve ending in a glorious conflagration of pleasure. Simon groans into the kiss, the sound vibrating through you, intensifying the pleasure that grips your body. You can feel the pulsing rhythm of him as you milk every last drop of his release.

As the aftershocks of your climax begin to settle, you feel his movements slow, yet he doesn’t pull away completely. He remains buried deep inside you, as if he’s savouring the warmth of the moment, absorbing the intimacy that envelops you both. His breathing is heavy, an erratic mirror of your own, and you can feel the heat radiating from his body, wrapping you in his strong arms, like he is anchoring himself to the moment and to you. A short, silent refuge. A place where time stands still and the world outside fades away.

You will lay here for a while, you always do, but you won’t be saying anything. A part of you is happy that you don’t. It would be too much for you, you think. It would feel too real, and it would hurt all the more in the end. The rhythm of his heartbeat against your bare skin vibrates through you as you fight the sleep that is slowly but steady creeping up on you, because you know that when you wake again he will be gone. He always is.

But you will let the sleep come, if only to savour one last heartbeat before waking to a world that feels a little emptier without him.

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strawberry-nugget · 6 days ago

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Beach day with Katsuki + grinding and cuddling with him underwater in a sea cave. 🤧🥰

Pairing: Bakugo x fem!reader

Tags // Warnings: NSFW-ish, MDNI, grinding underwater, loads of kissing, fluff, i might write smut for this

Unbeknownst to him, Katsuki is the funniest person in existence and today, every time you look at him, you giggle a little more.

Maybe it’s because he’s too huge for the pedal boat the two of you rented for the day, or maybe because he looks ghostly white from the amount of sunscreen on his face. Or it’s both, paired with his ridiculous long sleeved white shirt that he said is specifically for swimming, while he’s peddling in the middle of sea.

Then again, it’s the ‘one piece’ style hat as well.

You’re not even sure when the laughing started—maybe when you first caught sight of Katsuki trying to stuff his long legs under the tiny canopy of the pedal boat, scowling like it personally offended him.

Or maybe it was when he insisted on applying a “proper layer” of SPF 100, smearing it across his nose and cheeks with the precision of a soldier applying war paint. Either way, it’s been downhill— rather, down current— since.

Because now, as he continues pedalling furiously across the open sea in his bright white rashguard, sleeves pulled all the way down despite the heat, face ghostly pale with the overzealous application of sunscreen, and his wide-brimmed fisherman hat flopping slightly with every gust of wind—you lose it again.

You giggle. Just a little at first.

He glances over his shoulder. “What.”

You bite your lip, shaking your head. “Nothing.”

But it’s not nothing. It’s quite literally everything.

It’s the way his knees keep hitting the bottom of the console, his arms comically too broad for the flimsy little steering lever. It’s the hat string tied snug under his chin like a five-year-old on a field trip. It’s the gruff, sun-drenched expression of a man trying to maintain dignity while slowly being baked alive by the sun and his own fashion choices.

“You’re laughin’ again.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. You’re lookin’ at me and laughin’, what the fuck is this funny?!”

You snort, trying to hide your grin behind your water bottle. “You’re funny.”

A new wave of laughter hits you and this time Katsuki shows his annoyance by painting it on his face. He squints his eyes and pouts, jaw almost slack to the side, nose scrunched “I’m careful of the sun. Im not funny”

“You are. You look like a diver ghost trying to cosplay as a sailor.”

He narrows his eyes at you, hat brim casting the perfect dramatic shadow across his sunscreen-smeared face. “You wanna swim back to shore?”

You burst out laughing, the kind that makes your stomach ache and tears well at the corners of your eyes. He glares, cheeks just barely turning pink beneath the layer of zinc.

But you see the tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth, the glint of embarrassment in his eyes and way past him, finally, the shore of the tiny piece of land in the middle of the shallow part of the ocean where there should be sea caves to explore.

“You’re so cute though Kats”

“Tch-whatever”

By some miracle—and Katsuki’s terrifying leg strength—you actually make it to the island without capsizing. It’s not much more than a slab of rock in the sea, scattered with tide pools and jagged inlets, but it’s quiet, glimmering under the sun like a secret.

Katsuki hops out first, water splashing around his calves. He grabs the edge of the boat and steadies it so you can step out—like he hasn’t just spent twenty minutes being heckled by you nonstop.

“Thanks,” you say innocently, taking his hand as he helps you onto the slippery rocks.

“‘Course,” he mutters, eyes flicking down to your feet like he’s trying not to look anywhere else. “Don’t slip, babe.”

The sun glints off the water, the air smells like brine and sunscreen, and everything feels a little too golden. You wander inland a few steps, the soles of your sandals squelching as you step over barnacles and shallow tide pools. Somewhere up ahead, under the overhang of rock, a dark slit in the stone opens up into a shallow cave.

“Oh,” you grin, turning over your shoulder. “That’s definitely swimmable.”

Katsuki squints at it. “Bet it’s cold as hell.”

“You scared?”

His brow twitches. “No.”

“I think you are.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

He steps forward suddenly, casting a shadow over you, his hat flopping forward like an exclamation mark. “Say that again.”

You’re grinning, not backing down. “You’re scared.”

Without warning, he bends down and throws you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing. You shriek—startled, laughing, kicking gently at the air as he stalks toward the cave entrance with you dangling upside down.

“Katsuki! Don’t you dare—”

“Too late,” he growls, amused and smug, wading into the water. “Say I’m funny again.”

“You are—you’re the funniest man alive—Katsuki, seriously—!”

And then you’re dropped.

Not hard—just enough for your legs to splash into the cold seawater with a high-pitched yelp as he lets go of your thighs. You scramble up, soaked and squealing, water rushing around your waist as you shove at his chest. He just smirks, towering, smug as hell, droplets clinging to his lashes.

You splash him back, hard, both hands against the center of his chest. He barely budges, but the water does, sending a spray straight into his smug face.

“Asshole,” you mutter, squinting at him through the salt. “This shirt isn’t even for swimming.”

“Yes it is,” he fires back immediately, swiping water from his eyes. “It’s UV-protective.”

“It’s ugly-protective.”

Katsuki scoffs like he’s offended, but his grin gives him away. “You’re pushin’ it.”

“Or what? You’ll throw me back in?” You gesture to the waist-deep water, arms flung out. “Go ahead, I’m already soaked.”

He stares at you for a beat too long. You can hear the waves lapping gently against the cave wall behind him, the muffled echoes of water in stone. The cave’s mouth darkens the light just enough that the world feels cooler in here, more private. Your laughter settles into your skin like warmth, like the sun above.

Katsuki’s smile fades into something softer.

He doesn’t answer with words—just wades in closer. His hands find your hips under the water, fingers curling with the casual certainty of someone who knows he’s allowed to touch you like this. You blink up at him, water dripping down your temples, your hair sticking wet and cold to your cheeks.

You reach up and gently push wet bangs from his eyes—those sea-glinting, vermillion eyes that always look a little wild when he’s outside, untamed by four walls or mission structure. “You’ve got sunscreen on your eyebrows,” you murmur.

He rasps a laugh. “Don’t fuckin’ care.”

You lean in. Press your mouth to his in a kiss that tastes like salt and sun and the tinny sweetness of your water bottle. His lips are hot and dry and then not—they part, wet now, his breath low and uneven against your cheek as he leans down into you, both of you half-floating in the cool sea.

It’s unhurried. Lazy and warm and something else, too. Something that simmers right under the surface.

His hand slips down your back, tracing the dip of your spine. The heat of his palm feels sharp against the coolness of your skin, and you shiver—but definitely not from the temperature of the water.

You tilt your head and kiss him again. Deeper this time. He makes a sound at the back of his throat, quiet and wrecked, like you’ve caught him off guard. His grip on you tightens—just slightly—and he walks you backwards until your hips hit the slippery rock ledge at the edge of the cave wall.

Water sloshes up, foams around your waist.

“Katsuki,” you breathe against his mouth.

He exhales, lips brushing yours as he kisses you again—slower now. Hands sliding up under the sides of your bottoms, knuckles grazing then the band of your bikini top. “Fuckin’—look at you,” he murmurs, forehead against yours. “Drippin’, laughin’ like that, makin’ fun of me…”

You grin lazily. “You liked it.”

“Did not.” He pouts

“You love it when I tease you.”

He leans in and kisses your jaw, your cheek, just beneath your ear where his breath makes your skin rise in goosebumps. “I like shuttin’ you up.”

“Mmm.” You tangle your fingers in his hair, damp and briny, push it back so you can see the flush rising on his cheeks. His hat is long gone, washed back into the sea like a tiny white flag of surrender, housing his silly UV protective shirt in it as well. For a second you chuckle at the thought.

He looks beautiful like this—messy and wet and glowing, skin ever so slightly kissed by the sun and heat and your hands.

“Then shut me up,” you whisper.

And oh well he does.

Not all at once—he’s too deliberate for that. His kisses turn slow again, wet and open-mouthed, tasting you like he’s letting the heat build in his chest before it bursts. His hand slips under your thigh, lifts your leg around his waist so he can press closer, even though you’re both still half-submerged in seawater. It doesn’t matter. Everything feels far away except the friction of his body and the way he holds you like he’s trying not to lose control in the middle of an Okinawa island.

It’s slow. It’s messy. And it’s summer—thick and golden and heavy in the air between you.

And when he finally pulls back, breathing hard, hands still curled around you like he might pull you under, you rest your forehead against his and smile through the salt on your lips.

“You still look ridiculous,” you murmur before licking your lips “And you taste like sunscreen”

“Yeah,” he grumbles. “But now you’re wet and clingin’ to me, so who really won here?”

You laugh, low and breathless. “Shut up.”

He kisses you again. And this time, you let the water take you both.

You don’t know how long you stay like that—held against him, half-kissing, half-laughing in the shadow of the cave—but at some point, the heat gives way to something quieter. Softer. The rush of saltwater settles around you like a warm hush, your limbs suspended, your thoughts weightless.

Katsuki’s arms stay locked around you, solid beneath the surface, palms smoothing over your back as if anchoring himself just as much as you. His thumb brushes slow circles against your spine, and your fingers stay curled in his hair, gently scraping at his scalp. You think he likes that, from the way his shoulders drop just a little, from the breath that stutters out of him like he’s finally letting go.

Your chest presses to his. Stomach to stomach, hips to hips. Nothing between you but warm seawater and soaked layers of fabric that stick in all the wrong places.

You shift, just slightly, adjusting your hold on his waist—but that’s all it takes for your pelvis to slot directly against his. You freeze.

So does he.

The contact is faint—filtered through your swimsuit, through his swim shorts, through the fluid drag of the water—but it’s unmistakably… there. Real. And close. His body is warm beneath yours in the cold water, legs braced wide, feet anchored to the rocky sea floor as if he knows the second he moves, he’ll give himself away.

You don’t move. Not yet. Your lips hover just beside his ear, and nearly trembling with a soft whine.

“Kats,” you murmur.

He makes a sound. Low, nearly voiceless—like a caught breath, or a confession too small to speak. His hands slide lower, splaying across your waist now, thumbs brushing your ribs as he tries—badly—not to shift against you.

He doesn’t want to let you know how hard he is from grinding against you underwater… But your thighs tighten around him.

You pull him closer, wrapping both legs around his hips with a lazy sort of slowness. The water makes it feel effortless, sensual in a way dry land never could. Skin glides over skin without resistance, your bodies suspended, pressed together in a floaty kind of weightlessness that feels too intimate for daylight.

Your forehead rests against his. “Feels nice like this,” you whisper, voice thick with heat.

He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes are dark, half-lidded, mouth parted like he forgot how to close it. But he’s blushing—bright and sharp across the top of his cheeks, even beneath the faint smudge of sunscreen. And not just there. It trails down his neck, creeping beneath his collarbones like warmth spreading from inside him out.

His hands tighten on your waist. “You’re not helpin’,” he grunts, voice rough and low.

“Helpin’ with what?” you tease, nudging your nose against his cheek. “I’m just swimmin’.”

“You’re—fuckin’—” He groans under his breath, the sound vibrating against your collarbone. “You’re grindin’ on me like that and sayin’ you’re swimmin’?”

“You didn’t say stop.”

“Didn’t say keep goin’.”

“Then stop me.”

He doesn’t—Of course he doesn’t.

Instead, his grip slips under your thighs, fingers digging in as he lifts you higher, tilts you just slightly until your core rubs right over and against his. The sensation is muted but unmistakable, heat blooming in your gut, your pulse syncing with the lazy roll of your hips. The water licks at your skin, cool in contrast to the fire rising in your stomach, and Katsuki watches you like he’s somewhere between wrecked and mesmerized.

Your lips find his again—slower this time. Deeper. Salt and sun and breath shared back and forth as you move against him, as the gentle waves lap at your sides like they’re urging you on.

“You feel good,” you murmur between kisses, and you feel him tense—just briefly—before relaxing into you again, letting the truth of your words melt him a little even if he’s hiding from the sun.

“So do you,” he grits out. “Too good.”

You smile into his mouth, pressing your forehead back to his. His hair’s wet, matted, dripping over his blond brows in messy clumps, and you push it away again with gentle, pruney fingers.

There’s a silence between you then, charged by the soft sound of water and lust. Like the sea itself has paused to let this moment happen and in it, you feel everything.

His heartbeat through his chest.

His breath on your cheek.

The twitch of restraint in his thighs.

The unmistakable swell of tension between your hips, straining against its own boundaries in the water.

“You gonna lose it if I keep doing this?” you whisper.

Katsuki exhales shakily. “Fuckin’ maybe.”

And god—you like that. The admission. The edge in it. How he wants to be good for you, even when his body’s fighting against it.

You kiss his neck, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Then maybe we save the rest for when we get back.”

“You’re so evil,” he mumbles, voice hoarse, lips pouty.

“You like it.”

He doesn’t deny it. He just kisses you again, deeper now, like he’s holding himself together with your mouth. Like if you just keep kissing, he might make it back to shore in one piece.

Likes, reblogs and comments are all appreciated equally

Dividers by @/cafekitsune

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humaling · 2 months ago

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Nothing's Ever Gonna Hurt You, Baby.

pairings: finnick odair x victor!reader

summary: it's supposed to be another normal day with your husband—but it takes a turn when you wake up to eerie silence.

warnings: anxiety attack

word count: 3.8k

author's note: based on a req! i tried my best to write an anxiety attack. i got a bit lazy w the ending heh

When the war ended, you and Finnick moved back to District 4. It was a heartbreaking sight—the town lay in ruins, everything you once knew and loved buried beneath the rubble. But not all was lost. Some homes near the shore or deeper into the outskirts had been spared the worst of the destruction. A few were falling apart, some had been looted, but they were still standing.

Like the old family beach house you grew up in. Tucked away at the far edge of District 4, hidden behind thick jungle, it had always been out of reach—too remote for Snow’s influence to ever fully touch.

You hated living there as a kid. The jungle terrified you at night—the shadows, the sounds, the way the wind moved through the trees like whispers. You begged your parents to move closer to town, to where life felt brighter, safer.

Now, decades later, you and Finnick—your husband—have made that same beach house your home. It's the only thing that still feels familiar, untouched by the Capitol’s hand. Even with its isolation, or maybe because of it, you both prefer it here. It offers a kind of peace, a quiet freedom neither of you ever had before.

For a while, you both tried to believe that peace was enough. That the quiet meant safety. That the crashing of the waves and the rustling of the jungle could lull you into something like normal. You planted herbs in the garden. Finnick fixed the broken shutters. You spent long afternoons sitting in the sand, your feet buried in the warmth, watching the tide come in. There were even moments—brief, fleeting—when it almost felt like healing.

But peace is a strange thing when you've lived without it for so long. It starts to feel unfamiliar, almost threatening. You wait for it to be broken, because it always was before. Your body remembers even when your mind tries to forget.

But freedom, you’ve learned, comes with a price. Snow may be gone, but the scars he left on both of you remain.

They linger in the quiet moments, in the in-between spaces—when the chores are done, when the sun dips behind the trees, when the fire crackles low and there’s nothing left to distract you. That’s when it creeps in. The past. The memories. The ache you’ve tucked so carefully behind smiles and routines.

That’s when the silence changes.

Some nights, it’s too quiet.

That kind of quiet that creeps under your skin and settles in your bones. The kind that isn’t peaceful at all—it’s heavy, still, like something’s waiting to happen. You’ve come to hate that silence. Because that was what it sounded like the morning you were reaped. No birdsong. No waves crashing. Just this eerie, unnatural calm. The air so still, it felt like the world itself was holding its breath.

It was the same during the Quarter Quell. That silence before they called your name again. Before they dragged you back.

Now, even here—years later, with the war over, with Finnick beside you—you can still feel it. That weight. That pause before the storm. It comes without warning. You’ll be chopping vegetables or brushing your hair or just standing on the porch watching the sea, and then… silence.

Your hands start to tremble. Your breath gets shallow. And for a moment, you’re not in the beach house anymore. You’re sixteen again, standing on that stage, eyes fixed on the Capitol seal. Or you’re in the arena, cold and bloodied, waiting for a cannon.

Finnick notices every time. He doesn’t say much—he just comes close, presses his hand over yours, or pulls you into his arms, grounding you with his presence. Sometimes that’s enough. Sometimes it isn’t. But he never leaves you in it.

You wake to the sound of nothing.

No gulls. No wind through the trees. No boards creaking under Finnick’s footsteps. Just stillness.

The kind that wraps around the house like fog, thick and quiet and wrong.

You sit up slowly, the sheets tangled around your legs, damp with sweat. The sun’s already risen—soft light spills in through the window, casting long, golden bars across the floor. Finnick’s side of the bed is cold.

You already know he’s gone to the market. He mentioned it last night, just before falling asleep with his hand resting on your back. “Won’t be long,” he’d said. “Back before lunch.”

Still, knowing and feeling aren’t the same.

The silence isn’t peaceful. It’s oppressive. Heavy. Your chest tightens before your brain can catch up, before you can remind yourself that you’re safe, that this is your home now, that there are no cameras, no Games, no Capitol.

It doesn’t matter.

Because this is the kind of quiet that used to come before something awful. The kind of quiet that filled the square before a name was read out loud. The kind that settled over the jungle before a trap snapped shut.

You throw the blankets off and plant your feet on the wooden floor, grounding yourself with the texture, the temperature, the reality. You breathe in through your nose, slow, steady. Just air. Just the smell of salt and sun and old pinewood.

You tell yourself to move.

You go through the motions like it’s all fine—open the shutters, wash your face, tie your hair back. Pretend the pounding in your chest is just leftover from a dream. Pretend your fingers don’t shake when you reach for a cup. Pretend the silence is just silence.

You don’t let yourself cry. Not today. Not over nothing.

By the time Finnick returns, basket in hand, salt in his hair, humming something low under his breath, you’re sitting at the table slicing fruit with a steady hand.

He leans down to kiss the top of your head like he always does.

“You sleep okay?” he asks, voice soft.

And you lie with a smile. “Yeah. Just a little too quiet this morning.”

You don’t look up when you say it. Just keep slicing the fruit—steady, even strokes, the way you were taught back in the Capitol when everything had to be perfect.

Finnick pauses.

It’s just a moment, barely more than a breath, but you feel it. The way his hand stills on the back of the chair. The way his body goes quiet, not tense, just still. He’s watching you—reading more into your voice than the words you gave him.

You don’t have to explain. You never really have with him.

Still, he doesn’t say anything right away. Just slides the basket onto the counter and starts unpacking it like nothing’s wrong. Fish, bread, a jar of honey. A few apples, bruised but fresh. His movements are easy, casual—but his eyes flick to you now and then, like he’s keeping track of your breathing, your shoulders, the way your hand tightens just slightly on the knife.

“You know,” he says after a minute, like it’s just a passing thought, “the gulls were making a racket near the dock this morning. Could barely hear myself think.”

You glance up, and he’s got that look—half-grin, half-concern. The kind he wears when he’s trying to make you smile without calling attention to why you’re not. It’s light, but it’s there: the worry, tucked behind his lashes.

“They must’ve all flown off the moment I got back,” he adds, turning to rinse a piece of fruit in the sink. “Didn’t want to compete with your mood.”

It’s not a joke, not really, but the way he says it—soft, teasing, careful—it makes something inside you loosen. Not all the way. Not enough to stop the thrum of anxiety under your skin. But enough to let you breathe a little deeper.

You set the knife down, wipe your hands on a towel, and lean against the counter next to him.

“They’re cowards,” you say quietly.

He huffs a laugh. “That’s what I’ve always said.”

You don’t say thank you. He doesn’t need it. He just bumps your shoulder with his and starts slicing the bread, like the silence never touched either of you at all.

The kitchen settles into a soft rhythm. Finnick slices the bread while you arrange the fruit. The air smells like salt and citrus, and for a little while, it feels almost normal. The silence no longer presses—it breathes. Shared, it’s lighter.

You’re halfway through whisking eggs when the old telephone in the hallway buzzes. It’s a low, crackling ring—the kind that always startles you, even though you’ve lived with it for years.

Finnick wipes his hands on a towel and glances toward the doorway.

“I’ve got it,” he says, already moving.

You nod, not looking up.

The moment he steps out of the kitchen, the room changes.

It’s subtle. No footsteps. No hum under his breath. No weight in the air beside you. Just the eggs, the sound of your whisk scraping the bowl, and the sharp scent of rosemary from the sprig he’d dropped onto the cutting board.

And that’s what does it.

The rosemary.

The Capitol had used it in everything—on meats, in oils, in perfumes they gave to the stylists. That crisp, herbal scent that once meant luxury now coils in your chest like smoke. It clings to your skin, to the walls, and suddenly you’re not in the kitchen anymore. You’re in a room too clean, too white, too quiet, the kind of quiet that hums just beneath your ears. The kind of quiet that always came before someone screamed.

Your grip tightens on the whisk. You blink. You try to breathe, but your lungs don’t seem to want it. The light from the window feels too bright. The bowl is too loud. The silence is back—but it’s not empty this time. It’s waiting.

You tell yourself you’re here. That the war is over. That you’re home.

But your chest keeps rising too fast. Your hands won’t stop shaking.

You try to stir again, but the motion turns frantic. The whisk hits the side of the bowl too hard. The sound is sharp—like metal clashing—and it yanks you deeper into the memory.

Your vision blurs. You press your palms flat against the counter, the wood solid beneath your skin, grounding—but barely. Your knees threaten to buckle. You think about calling out to Finnick, but your throat’s too tight. You can’t make a sound.

Your palms are flat against the counter, your breath shallow and ragged, but it’s not helping. You’re still not in your body. You're still not here.

You're there.

The scent of rosemary thickens, warping into something else—metallic, sterile, suffocating. The kitchen tilts just slightly, enough to make your stomach twist. The light in the window shifts too fast, too bright—like the artificial sun in the training center, never rising, never setting. Just watching.

Your heart pounds against your ribs. Hard. Fast. Like it’s trying to outrun something. The room feels too small. Too loud. Too quiet. Your fingers twitch. Your jaw clenches.

And then—your elbow bumps the bowl.

It clatters off the edge of the counter and crashes to the floor. The sound shatters through the silence. Eggs spill across the wood in a yellow bloom, splattering up your legs. The metal whisk bounces once, then rolls, slow and mocking.

You fall to your knees in the mess, your hands trembling uncontrollably. Your chest tightens until there's no air, no space to breathe. Your vision blurs as your mind races, latching onto one terrible, impossible thought:

They’re sending you back.

You don’t know how or why or when, but it’s happening. The Capitol found a way. They always do. You can already hear your name echoing through the square again, see the seal flashing in the sky, feel the grip of peacekeepers dragging you toward that same metal door. You’re sixteen again. You’re twenty again. You’re never free.

“I can’t,” you whisper, voice cracking. “Please—I can’t do it again—”

Your hands are over your ears, trying to drown out a sound that isn't there. Your body curls in, trying to disappear, but the panic swells bigger than your skin. You can’t breathe. You can’t breathe.

Then you hear it—footsteps. Fast. Familiar.

Finnick bursts through the doorway, breath catching at the sight of you on the floor.

“Hey—hey, I’m here,” he says immediately, voice low but firm, already dropping to his knees beside you. “You’re okay. I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

His hands don’t grab, don’t rush. He’s careful—always careful. He slides one arm around your shoulders, the other gently covering your trembling hands, coaxing them down. He presses his forehead lightly to yours, anchoring you.

“You’re not going back,” he murmurs. “You’re never going back.”

Finnick’s voice seems distant, muffled—like it’s coming from a far-off dream. You can see his lips moving, but you can’t hear him. The world around you is too loud, too chaotic. Your mind is racing, drowning in the fear, in the terror, in the impossible thought that this will never end—that you will always be herded, always be a tool for their games. Always.

His hands are on your arms, his voice in your ear, but it’s not enough. You’re still trapped. Still choking on the panic that rises up like a wall around you.

Finnick tries again, sliding his arms around you, holding you close. His warmth is solid—his touch soft but urgent. You feel him against you, but you can’t seem to grab onto the reality of it. The world is spinning too fast. You’re suffocating in it.

His thumb gently presses against your wrist, soothing, steady, but your breathing is still ragged, too fast. You can’t catch it. Can’t catch anything.

“Look at me,” he murmurs, a calm insistence, but it feels like your eyes are stuck behind glass. “I need you to look at me, sweetheart.”

You don’t.

He doesn’t press, doesn’t pull your face toward his. Instead, he leans in, just enough to let his breath brush against your ear. His words are a quiet hum, just soft enough to slip under your skin. He knows you’re listening, even if you can’t hear him all the way.

“Focus on me,” he whispers. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

But your mind can’t stop spinning, and all you can feel is the pressure—the terrible pressure—in your chest.

You feel him adjust his hold, and before you can process what’s happening, his hand is on your wrist, gently pulling it toward his chest. The rhythm of his heartbeat fills your senses—strong, steady, frantic with worry, but there. You press your palm flat against the warm, firm skin under his shirt, the thump of his pulse grounding you.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just watches you with his warm, quiet eyes, letting the gentle rise and fall of his chest work through the shaking of your body.

"Feel that?" he murmurs, voice soft like a lullaby. "I’m here, honey. I’m right here, and you’re not alone. You’ll never be alone."

You press your palm harder against him, feeling the frantic rhythm of his heart in time with the panic still swirling inside you, and for the first time, it anchors you. His heartbeat, frantic but real, becomes your lifeline. Something solid. Something constant.

He continues to breathe deeply, slowly, and as his chest rises and falls under your hand, your own breath starts to find its rhythm too. You can hear his voice again, soft and soothing, cooing gently at you.

“Deep breaths, sweetheart. In and out. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

It’s as though his heartbeat is guiding you, leading you back to yourself. You press your face against his shirt, taking another shuddering breath, then another. The panic still clings to the edges of your mind, but Finnick doesn’t let go, doesn’t pull away. He simply holds you, holds you together, as the storm inside you starts to quiet.

With every beat of his heart against your palm, you begin to feel the ground under your feet again. Solid. Real. Safe.

You cling to him, your hands still trembling, but now they’re locked onto the front of his shirt, holding on like he’s your lifeline, like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to this world. Your fingers dig into the fabric, needing to feel the warmth of him, the solid reality of him, beneath your touch.

You press your face into his chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat the only thing that makes any sense. The terror still lingers at the edges of your thoughts, but Finnick is here. He’s always been here.

And that thought—he’s here—becomes the anchor you need.

He’s murmuring softly into your hair, his voice smooth and quiet, like he's speaking only for you, only to you. His arms are wrapped tightly around you, holding you close, his hand running up and down your back in soothing strokes. His warmth seeps into you, calming the tremors that still shake your body.

“They won’t bring you back,” he says, his voice firm but gentle, a promise etched in every syllable. “No one is ever going to send you back into those arenas. Not again.”

You try to breathe, to pull in the air that’s been so elusive, and the simple truth in his words begins to seep through the fog of fear. But the panic is still raw, still sharp. You squeeze him tighter.

He presses his lips gently to the top of your head, a soft kiss, as if that kiss could chase the darkness from your mind. “It’s just me and you now. Always. You’re safe here, sweetheart. I’m right here, and I always will be.”

Your hands move to his back, desperate to feel every inch of him, like you need to make sure he’s real. That this—this life, this peace—is real. You try to nod, but your body doesn’t quite follow.

“You’re safe, sweetheart,” he murmurs, pulling you even closer, his voice low, rhythmic, like a lullaby. “No one can take you from me. Not ever. It’s just us, okay?”

You breathe again—slow, even this time, like you can finally draw the air deep into your lungs. The crushing weight of it all lightens just a little. You feel him there, solid and unmovable, his warmth wrapping around you like a shield. The fear begins to loosen its grip, just a little, but the feeling of him—his strength, his presence—grounds you more than you ever thought possible.

You press yourself closer, clinging to him like you’re afraid of letting go, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t pull away. He lets you hold on. Lets you take the time you need to breathe through it, to feel the trembling ease.

“It’s just us,” he whispers again, voice soft, so tender. “And we’re gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

The words feel like the only truth in the world right now, and slowly, the storm inside of you begins to quiet. With every breath you take, with every beat of his heart under your hand, you start to feel yourself coming back. More grounded. More here. More safe.

The panic still lingers at the edges, but Finnick’s presence is a steady reminder that it won’t take you again. That this is your life now, and he’s right beside you in it.

You slowly lift your head from his chest, meeting his eyes, still clinging to him as though you never want to let go.

“I’m here,” he says softly, his thumb brushing against your cheek, wiping away the last of the tears. “And I always will be.”

The world starts to shift back into focus, but you stay in his arms. You don’t want to move, don’t want to break this fragile moment just yet. His warmth is like a shield, keeping you safe from the echoes of fear that still try to creep up from the depths of your mind.

For a while, you simply breathe. Slow, steady, in and out, matching the rise and fall of Finnick’s chest beneath your palm. It’s like he’s breathing for you, keeping the rhythm until you can catch it yourself.

His arms are still wrapped around you, one hand resting gently against the back of your head, the other at your waist, keeping you close to him. You don’t say anything, neither of you do, but there’s a quiet, unspoken agreement in the stillness between you.

You’re safe here. Safe with him.

Every time the panic tries to sneak back in, Finnick seems to sense it. His thumb continues to stroke up and down your back, the motion comforting, calming. He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t push you to speak or explain. He knows. He understands.

And for the first time in a long while, you feel like you don’t need to explain. You don’t need to hide the fear. He knows it, just like he knows the quiet spaces inside of you—the ones no one else could ever touch.

“Whenever you need to,” he says softly after a while, his voice steady now, without the urgent tone from before. “You can hold me like this. You don’t have to face it alone. Not ever.”

The sincerity in his words settles over you like a blanket, the warmth of them seeping into your bones. You nod slightly, still curled into his chest, your cheek resting against the fabric of his shirt. Your hands are still gripping him, but not in panic anymore.

The silence between you now feels different. Not like the heavy, oppressive quiet you felt earlier, but something softer. Like a shared space where nothing is expected—just two people breathing together, letting time stretch out around them.

Minutes pass, maybe even an hour. You lose track of time, caught in the comfort of his presence, the steady beat of his heart against your palm. Slowly, the tension in your body starts to ease, the sharp edges of fear softening, melting away. You can still feel the residue of it, just a faint echo, but it’s nothing compared to the suffocating weight it had before.

You take a deep breath, letting it fill your lungs. And then another.

“Thank you,” you murmur against him, the words thick with emotion, but they feel right. You’re not sure you’ve ever said them with more honesty.

Finnick presses his lips into your hair, the lightest kiss, and you feel the soft smile in the movement. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t loosen his hold. Instead, he just stays there, holding you as you settle back into yourself, as you piece together the fragments of calm you can finally feel.

“I told you,” he whispers softly, voice laced with that quiet confidence that’s always been a part of him. “I’m not going anywhere. Not now. Not ever.”

You don’t have the words to respond. All you can do is hold onto him, close your eyes, and allow yourself to let the fear fade into the background. The world outside can wait. For now, it’s just you and Finnick, and the peace of this moment, fragile but real.

#finnick odair x reader #finnick odair x you #the hunger games x reader

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sunnyrosewritesstuff · 11 months ago

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Day 5- Haddotin

My dear Haddotin fans, I know that I'm super slow with any kind of an update for this fic so thank you so much for sticking with me and being patient!

The Wind That Pulls Back the Tide- Chapter 3: Shipyard Troubles

Rating: T

Warnings: N/A

Status: In-progress (3/?)

Tags:

Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses | Tintin Typical Action and Mysteries | Hiding in Plain Sight

Summary: Tintin as the god of the wind believes he’s finally deserving of his independence from Mother Nature. However, after a small mishap, Tintin has set in motion a series of events that could exploit another god’s plot to rule the mortal realm, and he’ll need the help of the mysterious god of the sea if he’s to save the day.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Whoa! Heads up, lad!”

A hand reached out grabbing the back of his shirt right before a crane swung a crate over the spot he would have been standing. Tintin could feel his heart still pounding in his chest as he released a relieved sigh. It’s not like it would have killed him, but it still would have been an unpleasant experience. Tintin turned back to the man behind him with a thankful grin.

The man was a bit taller and thicker than him. Dark hair sprinkled with grey peeked out from under a captain’s hat matching his gruff beard. However, it was his eyes, lit by his smile, but nearly the same shade as the ocean that captured Tintin’s attention the most.

“You alright? Are you lost?” He asked.

“I’m fine.” Tintin responded before realizing maybe this sailor’s knowledge would be invaluable to him. “I’m looking for the Karaboudjan. Can you help me?”

The other man laughed, deep and merrily. It was a very welcome and infectious sound that had Tintin’s grinning along with him.

“You and everyone else.”

For more of this chapter, please click the AO3 link above!

#birthday wips and things #the adventures of tintin #haddotin #the wind that pulls back the tide #gods au

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mysticalcrowntyrant · 1 month ago

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Yandere Centaur x Reader

The roar of the Colosseum is a beast all its own—thousands of voices, a sea of faces twisted with hunger for blood and spectacle. The heat is a living thing, a stifling, oppressive weight that clings to your skin, made worse by the press of bodies all around you. The sun glares down, unyielding, reflecting off the polished armor of the gladiators below.

But your eyes are on him.

The centaur stands at the center of the arena, a monstrous figure of sinew and strength. His human torso is bare save for the crisscrossing scars that mark his tanned, powerful chest, muscles rippling beneath a sheen of sweat. His arms are thick, corded with strength, one clutching a massive spear that he wields with impossible ease. From the waist down, his form melds seamlessly into the body of a towering black stallion, every muscle taut, every movement a testament to raw, untamed power. His mane is wild, a cascade of dark, tangled hair that frames his fierce, sharp-featured face. You’ve never seen anything like him.

Even now, as he stumbles, blood running down his flank, you can’t tear your gaze away. The lion’s claws left vicious gouges in his equine side, and one of the human gladiators had managed to strike a deep, ugly gash across his shoulder before being thrown aside like a ragdoll. Yet he stands triumphant, defiant, even as the blood stains his dark hide.

The crowd's cheers are a distant, thunderous rumble in your ears. You should be leaving—everyone else is, pushing and shoving to get to the exits—but you can’t. Not until you see him led away, limping but proud, his head held high even as the arena attendants drive him forward with spears and shouted commands.

You snap back to your senses just in time to be caught in the press of bodies. Panic claws at you as you’re jostled and shoved, the mass of people surging like a tide, and you’re barely able to keep your footing. Someone slams into you, and you stumble, nearly falling. A sharp cry escapes your lips, but it’s lost in the deafening roar.

The world is a blur of shouting faces and crushing bodies. You twist, trying to fight your way free, but it’s hopeless—until you spot a narrow doorway just ahead, partially obscured by a tapestry. You lunge for it, squeezing through the gap and stumbling into the cool, shadowed passage beyond. The noise muffles, the oppressive heat fading slightly, and you allow yourself a gasp of relief.

But the relief is short-lived.

The corridor is dark, winding, the air heavy with the smell of damp stone and something animalistic. You know you should turn back, find your way out, but curiosity pulls at you, and your feet carry you forward almost without thought.

Ahead, a flicker of torchlight casts a sickly glow over iron bars and thick chains. Cages line the walls, some empty, some not. Low, pained groans and the restless shuffling of beasts fill the air. You press a hand to your mouth.

Then, you see him.

The centaur stands in one of the larger cages, his massive form barely fitting within the confines. His legs tremble beneath him, his head bowed, dark hair falling over his face. Blood mats his coat, pooling beneath him, and his breath comes in ragged, labored gasps.

The attendants who had driven him in here have already moved on, their jeering laughter fading down the corridor, leaving him alone—wounded, trapped.

Your heart twists painfully at the sight.

You should leave. You should go. If you’re found here—

But you take a step forward.

“Are you—” Your voice is a whisper, a breath, but his head snaps up, fierce, brown eyes locking onto you. His lips curl, a low, rumbling growl rolling from his chest.

Your breath catches, fear rooting you in place. But beneath the anger in his gaze, you see it—the pain, the exhaustion, the desperation of a cornered beast.

“I—I just…” The words die in your throat, but you force yourself to breathe. “You’re hurt.”

Silence stretches between you. His gaze doesn’t soften, but he doesn’t lunge or snarl again. He watches you, each ragged breath shaking his massive frame.

Something within you hardens. The fear doesn’t vanish, but it dulls beneath a rush of something else. Pity? No. Something stronger, something that drives you to take another cautious step closer.

“I can help you,” you say, more firmly this time. “If you’ll let me.”

For a moment, you think he might laugh—mock you, dismiss you. But his gaze stays fixed on you, and there’s a flicker of something there. Not hope, not trust—but a desperate, unspoken need.

And then, with a shuddering breath, he lowers his head ever so slightly, a wordless, reluctant acceptance.

You swallow hard, stepping closer to the bars, your mind racing.

How do you even begin to help a creature like him? Your hands tremble, but you force them steady as you search the dim corridor, eyes darting over the scattered refuse, the damp straw strewn across the floor, and the rusting iron hooks hanging on the walls. Nothing. Nothing useful. Your pulse hammers in your ears, but you can’t let panic take over.

Think.

“Are… are there any healers here?” you ask, though it feels foolish to even ask. He’s a beast to them—a spectacle, a monster to bleed for their entertainment. Would anyone waste their skills on him?

His lips curl back, exposing gritted teeth. “Not… for me,” he rasps, his voice a deep, rumbling growl tinged with pain.

Your chest tightens, but that hint of speech—it means he understands, means you can talk to him.

“Wait here.” The words feel absurd even as they leave your mouth, but you turn and run, your sandals slapping against the cold stone, the damp air rushing past. You don’t know this place, don’t know the twisting halls, but the faint glow of light and the muffled roar of the Colosseum give you some sense of direction.

Storage. There must be something—linen, ointments, anything.

You dart through another archway and stumble into a small, cluttered room—old armor, discarded weapons, and a rough wooden shelf lined with clay jars and rolled cloth. Your hands shake as you snatch a few jars, hoping they contain some kind of salve, and a strip of linen. Not enough, not nearly enough, but it’s all you can carry.

You run back, and he’s still there, his head hanging lower, but his gaze snaps to you the instant you appear, suspicion mingled with a faint, weary surprise.

“I told you I’d help,” you say, more to steady yourself than to reassure him. Carefully, you kneel just beyond the bars, laying out what little you’ve brought. “This… this might hurt.”

He huffs. “Pain… is nothing new.”

A small smile touches your lips, and you reach for the first jar, dipping your fingers into the thick, cool salve. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

Your hands brush his human shoulder first, and you flinch at the heat of his skin—feverish, likely from the wound. But you force yourself to keep going, gently smoothing the salve over the gash, wincing at the angry, torn flesh. He tenses beneath your touch, muscles going rigid, but he doesn’t lash out, doesn’t make a sound.

Blood slicks your fingers, staining the linen as you press it against the wound, trying to stanch the worst of the bleeding. “I’m sorry,” you whisper.

His dark eyes remain fixed on you, studying you with an intensity that leaves you breathless.

As you move to his equine side, you feel the trembling in his legs, the tension wound through his massive frame. “You should lie down,” you murmur, pressing the salve into the gouges left by the lion’s claws. “It will be easier.”

“I will not… bow,” he growls, even now clinging to that pride. But his legs buckle, and with a shuddering gasp, he sinks to his knees, his front legs folding awkwardly beneath him. The movement brings you nearly face-to-face, his head level with yours, and for a moment, you forget how to breathe.

“You… Why are you doing this?” His voice is low, ragged, and there’s a note of disbelief.

You should have an answer—should be able to say something brave or selfless. But all you can manage is the truth. “Because you looked at me like you didn’t want to die.”

The silence stretches, his gaze searching. His mouth opens, then closes, some response dying on his lips.

“I’m going to clean the rest,” you say, shifting to his flank, letting your hands work while your mind races. This is a madness—a dangerous, reckless thing you’re doing. You could be caught, punished, or worse.

But when his pained breathing seems to ease, just a little, you feel something warm bloom in your chest.

“Will they make you fight again?” you ask quietly.

A low rumble rises in his throat. “Until I am of no use to them.”You press your hands to the wound on his flank, the blood staining your fingers as you continue to work.

"How long can you survive like this?" Your voice cracks slightly, barely audible in the dim space.

He shifts beneath you, but it’s not a movement of discomfort. It’s a shift in his gaze—something dark and unreadable that makes your breath hitch. "As long as I must," he says.

You press the linen firmly against the worst of the bleeding, the makeshift bandage already soaking through, but at least it’s something. Your heart is still racing, each heartbeat a frantic drum against your ribs.

“You shouldn’t have to…” you murmur, barely realizing you’ve spoken aloud.

“Should?” His voice is low, rough, almost amused, though it’s laced with bitterness. “Do you think a beast has a choice in such things?”

“I don’t think you’re a beast.” The words leave you before you can stop them. Your hands still, your gaze lifting to meet his. Those sharp eyes bore into you, and you wonder if you’ve just made a terrible mistake.

But instead of laughing, instead of mocking you, he’s silent. The air between you feels heavy.

You tear your gaze away, forcing yourself to focus. “I can’t stay much longer,” you whisper, your fingers fumbling with the linen. “But I’ll come back. I’ll bring more supplies—proper ones.”

“Foolish,” he growls. “If they find you here—”

“I won’t get caught,” you insist.

He laughs then. “You are… strange.”

A smile touches your lips. “You’re not the first to tell me that.”

You finish the bandaging, your hands stained with blood, your clothes smudged from the dirt and straw of the cell floor. You have to go. Every moment you linger is another chance of being discovered.

But you don’t want to leave him. Not like this.

“I will come back,” you promise again, rising to your feet. “I swear it.”

His gaze stays on you as you turn away. You half expect to hear the thunder of hooves, the crash of iron bars, to feel a massive, clawed hand seize you, demand that you prove your promise with something more than words.

But there is only silence.

Your feet thud against the cold, uneven stone, and the darkness of the corridor seems to swallow you whole. The flickering torchlight paints twisted shadows. You barely remember the turns you take, stumbling through the maze of passageways, the smell of damp and decay clinging to your clothes, the phantom warmth of his feverish skin still tingling against your fingers.

Somewhere above, the sun still blazes down on the sand-strewn arena, the crowd’s hunger for blood never sated. But here, beneath that cruel world, is a labyrinth of suffering and forgotten things—caged beasts, both human and not, shackled to a fate that is not their own.

And you’ve seen him—seen the pain and pride tangled in his brown eyes, the way his massive form shudders beneath his own weight, the way his voice rumbles with bitterness and defiance, even as the blood pools at his hooves.

You can’t leave him like that. You won’t.

The narrow passage finally gives way to a larger hallway, brighter, bustling with the hurried movements of slaves and attendants. You force yourself to walk with purpose, your stained hands hidden in the folds of your tunic, your heart racing but your expression carefully blank. No one spares you a second glance.

But your mind races. How can you help him? A few jars of salve, some linen—those are nothing against the brutality of the arena, the claws and blades that will tear at his flesh again and again. He needs more—food, real medicine, protection. He needs freedom.

Freedom.

The thought is a blade of ice, too sharp, too dangerous. You barely know him—don’t even know his name. You’re not some wealthy patrician who can buy his freedom, nor some cunning gladiator who can win it. You’re just… you. And yet, something inside you refuses to let the thought go.

“I will come back.” Your own voice echoes in your mind, a promise that feels both foolish and impossible.

But it’s a promise you’ve made.

The rest of the day is a blur. The noise of the markets, the smell of spiced wine and roasted meat, the chatter of merchants and customers—all of it washes over you, distant and hollow. Your mind is trapped in that damp, dark corridor, in the flickering torchlight and the soft, ragged breaths of the wounded centaur.

Night falls, and with it, the city’s restless energy gives way to a quieter, cooler darkness. The torches lining the streets cast a warm, wavering glow, and the moon hangs heavy and silver in the sky. You should be home, should be curled beneath your thin blanket, but you can’t rest—not with the thought of him bleeding and alone in that cage.

You sneak back to the Colosseum.

The gates are locked, but the shadows know their own secrets. You slip through the narrow alleys, press yourself against cool stone walls, your breath caught in your throat each time you hear a voice, each time the echo of armored footsteps draws near. The guards are few, their patrols lazy—they’ve seen enough blood and suffering for one day, and they do not care for the beasts in the bowels of the arena.

But you care.

You find a narrow, broken grate—a crack in the foundation, just wide enough for someone to squeeze through. Your tunic snags, a rough stone scratches your cheek, but you push forward, scraping your way back into the darkness beneath the Colosseum.

It’s quieter now, the low groans and restless shuffling of caged creatures muffled, some sleeping, some simply too weak to move.

He is still there—his breathing slow. The makeshift bandages you wrapped around his wounds are dark, soaked through, but they seem to have stopped the worst of the bleeding.

“Hey,” you whisper, half afraid he won’t respond.

But his head lifts, those dark eyes finding you once again. A flicker of something passes through them—surprise, perhaps even a hint of relief.

“I told you I’d come back,” you say, feeling a faint, shaky smile touch your lips.

“Fool,” he rumbles, his voice a rasping growl, but there is no anger in it. Only a weary, grudging acceptance. “You should have stayed away.”

“Maybe I’m not that smart.” You step closer, your hands fumbling with the jar of salve, the fresh linen you managed to steal. “But I’m stubborn.”

A rough, almost bitter chuckle escapes him, a sound that fades into a low, pained groan as you begin to reapply the salve, wiping away the old, soaked bandages.

“You should be afraid of me,” he murmurs, his voice barely more than a rumble beneath his ragged breathing. “They all are. They cheer for my suffering… because they fear what I am.”

“I’m not them.” The words come easier this time. “I’m not afraid of you.”

“Then you are a fool.” But there is something else in his voice now, something almost soft, almost sad.

You hesitate, your hands stilling against his wounded flank. “What’s your name?”

He’s silent for a long moment, his gaze piercing, as if weighing whether to answer.

“Theron,” he finally says, each syllable slow and heavy. “They call me ‘the Beast,’ ‘the Monster’… but I was once just Theron.”

Theron. You let the name settle in your mind, and it feels… right. A name is something real, something true, and it pushes back against the heaviness that tries to swallow him.

Silence stretches between you again, but it is not empty. You work carefully, cleaning the wounds, replacing the bandages, and he endures the pain without a word, his eyes never leaving you.

When you finally sit back, your hands stained once again with his blood, your heart is a wild, aching thing in your chest. “I should go,” you whisper, but the words are weak, empty. Your gaze clings to him, to the harsh lines of his face, the way his dark hair falls in tangled strands, the flickering torchlight casting his features in shadow and faint gold.

Theron’s eyes remain fixed on you. “Then why don’t you?”

“I… I don’t know.” You should say more, should find some excuse, some way to explain this madness—the danger, the risk, the pounding of your heart that refuses to calm. But the truth is, you can’t leave him. You don’t know why.

His lips curl, a smile twisting his mouth. “Perhaps you think you can save me. Free me.” His gaze darkens, a shadow passing over his face. “You cannot.”

“I can try,” you whisper fiercely.

“Naive. They will kill me in the arena one day. That is the only freedom they will grant me.”

“Not if I can—”

“Enough.” His voice is sharp now. But even in his anger, you see the fear beneath it—the fear of hope, of believing in something only to have it torn away.

Silence crashes between you, and your hands tighten in your lap, fingers curling around the blood-stained linen. You don’t dare speak again, your mind racing, your chest tight with helpless fury.

But then his gaze softens, just barely. His head tilts, his long, tangled mane shifting to one side. “You are strange… and foolish. But you are not like them.” There’s something almost gentle in his voice now, a rough, reluctant kindness. “Go. Leave this place. Do not become another prisoner beneath these sands.”

“I will come back.” The words are not a question, not even a promise—they are a certainty, as unyielding as stone. “Tomorrow. And the next day. As long as you’re here, I won’t abandon you.”

Theron watches you, his eyes reflecting the wavering torchlight. For a moment, he says nothing, but the tension in his shoulders eases just a little, his head bowing, his mane brushing the dirty straw beneath him.

“Do as you will,” he murmurs.

You rise to your feet. Turning, you force yourself to walk away, each step pulling you from the dim, damp corridor, the smell of blood and sweat, the piercing sadness of his gaze.

Sleep is a distant, impossible thing that night. Every time you close your eyes, you see him—feel the rough heat of his fevered skin beneath your touch, hear the low rasp of his voice. Your hands ache with the memory of his blood staining them, your heart pounding with the fear of what you’ve promised yourself.

You don’t just want to help him. You want to save him.

But how?

The question is a poison, twisting in your mind as the city wakes, the sun rising over the crowded streets and bustling markets. You force yourself through the day—your work a distant, hollow thing, your smiles and greetings empty shells that mean nothing.

When night falls again, you are already moving, slipping through the alleys, the shadows a comforting cloak. The guards are still lax, their patrols lazy, and the broken grate welcomes you once more.

Theron is waiting. His head lifts the instant you approach, and though his wounds are still raw, still aching, there is a tension in him that eases at the sight of you. You bring more salve, fresh linen, a flask of water you stole from a distracted merchant’s stall. He drinks, his lips barely grazing the flask’s mouth, but the relief in his eyes is clear.

“You returned,” he murmurs, his voice a rumble, but there is no bitterness now.

“I said I would.” You kneel beside his cage, carefully unwrapping the soiled bandages, your touch gentle, your heart racing. “I meant it.”

Days become nights, nights become days, and a fragile, dangerous pattern takes root. You return to him, every time. You bring stolen scraps of bread, bruised fruit, strips of dried meat you manage to sneak away. You clean his wounds, change the bandages, your touch growing surer, more familiar. And you talk.

He tells you of the arena, of the battles he has fought, the beasts and men he has slain, the cheers that are nothing but a cruel song of death. In return, you tell him of the city above—of the crowded markets, the gossip of merchants, the colors of the sunset over the Tiber. You speak of freedom, not as some distant dream, but as something real, something that can be touched, tasted, felt.

“Tell me again,” he murmurs one night, his voice a soft, rumbling whisper, his head resting against the bars, his eyes half-lidded. “Tell me of the river.”

“It’s silver at dawn,” you whisper, your fingers brushing the matted hair from his brow, careful not to touch the bruises beneath. “It glitters, and the mist rises off it like a ghost. The fishermen call to each other, their boats swaying gently on the water, and the city is quiet, just for a moment. Peaceful.”

“Peace…” His voice is almost a sigh. “I can hardly remember it.”

“You will,” you promise, leaning closer, your heart pounding. “I swear you will.”

But the world outside your whispered words is not kind. The guards grow more watchful. The beastmaster—a cruel, scarred man with a voice like grinding stones—begins inspecting the cages more often. And each time Theron is dragged into the arena, he returns with new wounds, new scars. Each time, he is slower to rise, his strength waning beneath the endless punishment.

You see it happening, piece by piece—the defiant strength in Theron’s eyes dimming with every fresh wound, every day spent shackled in the darkness.

But even as he weakens, he clings to your presence like a lifeline. His gaze finds you the moment you appear, and though his pride keeps him from asking for comfort, you see the relief in his eyes every time you kneel beside his cage.

“Theron,” you whisper one night, pressing a fresh bandage to a brutal gash that cuts across his flank. “We can’t keep doing this. They’ll kill you if you keep fighting.”

“I know,” he rasps.

“Then let me help you escape.” The words are desperate, reckless, and his head snaps up.

“Escape?” He laughs. “And where would we go? I’m a beast to them, a monster. They would hunt us—hunt me.”

“They would hunt us,” you insist, your hand trembling against his sweat-matted hide. “But we can go far away—beyond the city, to the mountains, to the forests—anywhere but here.”

“And you would run with me?” His voice is a challenge, but beneath it, there’s a trembling, desperate hope. “A slave’s life is worth so little to them. They would not hesitate to kill you for aiding a creature like me.”

“Then I won’t get caught.” You grip his massive hand, his fingers curling around yours, rough and warm. “Please, Theron. I can’t just… I can’t watch you die.”

He is silent, his gaze piercing, searching your face for some hint of doubt. But there is none. There is only the wild, aching truth.

Finally, he closes his eyes, a shuddering breath escaping him. “Foolish… reckless… But if there is even a chance…” His grip tightens, almost painful. “I will fight for it. For you.”

That night, you do not go home. You stay by his cage, your fingers brushing against his.

And the plan begins to take shape. You watch the guards, memorize their patrols, learn the beastmaster’s schedule. You steal a key—risky, dangerous, but your hands are quick, and the guard you take it from never even notices. Each night you whisper your plan to Theron, your voice steady even as your heart races.

“Wait for my signal. The guards change at the third watch—they’ll be drowsy, inattentive. I’ll bring a cloak, food, water. You’ll have to keep your head down until we’re clear of the city.”

“And then?”

“Then we run,” you say, trying to sound confident, though the thought of the open roads, the dark forests, the unknown beyond the city terrifies you. “And we don’t look back.”

The night of the escape is a feverish blur. Your heart pounds against your ribs as you slip through the familiar grate, the stolen key cold and heavy in your hand. The torchlight flickers, shadows dancing along the damp walls. Your palms are slick with sweat, your breath a frantic whisper.

Theron is awake, his massive form shrouded in shadow, but his eyes are bright.

“It’s time,” you whisper, fitting the key into the lock. It sticks for a moment, your pulse pounding in your ears, but then it turns with a sharp click. The gate swings open, and he is there—trembling, scarred, his strength barely enough to keep him upright.

“I can walk,” he insists, his pride flaring even now. But his first step is a stumble, and you rush to his side, slipping beneath his arm, his massive weight pressing against you. He smells of sweat and blood, his breath hot against your cheek.

“We go left,” you whisper, your voice shaking. “Quickly.”

The corridors twist and turn, the darkness pressing close. Your steps are silent, but his hooves, though muffled with cloth you had stolen and wrapped around them, still seem deafening in the quiet. Your fingers cling to his, your heart racing with every shadow, every flicker of torchlight.

The guards are sparse, lazy with boredom. You slip past them, breath held, until you reach the narrow grate. It is barely wide enough for you, let alone Theron’s massive frame.

“Theron—” Panic claws at you, but his jaw clenches, and with a fierce, desperate strength, he pushes forward, his muscles straining, the metal creaking.

It tears—jagged edges scraping against his flanks, but he forces his way through, the grate falling to the ground with a muffled clatter. You scramble after him, pulling the makeshift cloak over his broad shoulders, leading him into the twisting alleyways.

The city is a labyrinth, the moonlight painting silver patterns on the cobbled streets. You press close to the walls, the shadows wrapping around you like a cloak, your heart pounding so loudly you’re certain it will betray you.

Theron’s breath is harsh, ragged, his strength fading with every step. But he never falters, his hand gripping yours, his eyes locked on you.

When you finally slip through the city’s outer gate—an old, crumbling section of the wall where the guards rarely patrol—Theron stumbles, collapsing to his knees. You fall with him, your arms wrapping around his neck, his sweat-damp hair brushing against your cheek.

“You did it,” you whisper, tears blurring your vision. “We did it.”

His head rests against you, his breath warm against your neck. “You… saved me.” His voice is a rough, shuddering whisper. “Foolish… beautiful creature…”

You cling to him, your hands buried in his tangled mane, your lips brushing against his brow. “You’re free, Theron.”

He shudders, his massive frame pressing against you, his arms wrapping around your form. “I will never leave you,” he breathes, his voice a raw, trembling promise. “Never.”

In the shadow of the ancient walls, beneath the cold, silver light of the moon, you hold each other.

But even in that moment of freedom, you feel it—Theron’s grip, strong and unyielding, his breath hot against your skin, his whispered vow seeping into your soul like a brand.

You saved him—but you have also chained yourself to him.

And in his eyes, you see something fierce, something possessive, something that makes your heart race with both terror and a dark, thrilling warmth.

He is free. But you are his.

Masterlist

#yandere oc #oc x reader #x reader #yandere #male yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #male yandere x reader #yandere fanfiction #yandere imagines #yandere male #yandere centaur

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gr4cier4cie · 2 months ago

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♡ the sand, the sea, and that goddamned orange dress ♡

or: carlos had suggested you take time off. visit his family in spain, eat copious amount of home-cooked food, go to the beach. he did not, however, tell you he was planning to fuck you on said beach. with his family just a walk away.

warnings: PURE SMUT. either i'm wriitng angst or the dirtiest shit known to man, thank you to @mikeyspinkcup for this ask!!

♡

it started at dinner. you'd worn that dress to mess with him—maybe. maybe not. but carlos was already tense when you stepped out of the guest bedroom, legs bare, hair undone, collarbone glowing damply in the candlelight. the neckline of the slip itself was harmless, really. just a soft scoop across your chest. nothing scandalous. but the hem? carlos suddenly found himself very interested in whether the linen tablecloth reached the floor.

his fork stalled halfway to his mouth, and for a second, you could've sworn he forgot how to chew.

you acted like you didn’t notice. slid into the seat beside him with that little smirk (knowing. teasing). crossed your legs. leaned your elbows on the table like nothing was wrong, like you hadn’t just walked out here looking like you belonged on your back. the clink of cutlery on ceramic rang through the air, followed by the hum of laughter, the rich smell of fresh garlic and oil clinging to the air. you huffed at his cousin's nonsense joke, reaching over to interlace your fingers with carlos' under the table. his knee bounced under the table, once, then stilled.

“¿tienes suficiente, cariño?” his mamá asked, offering another scoop of arroz, her gold bracelets clinking gently as she reached for your plate.

“sí, muchas gracias,” you said sweetly (how could you even think with the way his eyes burned into the side of your head? he was losing his touch), and blushed when his mamá touched the side of your face, murmuring about how pretty you looked. (and it was true. you looked very pretty. he probably should have told you so.)

you kicked him under the table when his hand found the inside of your thigh. a nudge. teasing. harmless. his pinky slipped beneath the hem of your dress like a secret. like a promise.

his eyes flicked from your legs to your mouth, slow and deliberate. like he was choosing which part of you to bite first. a muscle in his jaw ticked. he was with his family, por dios, sitting around a dinner table with the people who had raised him.

and he was thinking about you.

you took a sip of water, and the condensation on the glass slicked your fingers. he wondered if you'd taste of the champagne you'd had earlier if he kissed you now, if he pulled you to him by the throat. he reached for your hand—his palms were calloused, still a little dry from the sun and salt lingering from your afternoon adventures—and watched your lips pull in an unrestrained smile. (there she was. his girl.)

he stood up after dessert, calm as anything, brushing off his palms and ruffling his cousin’s hair. “we’re going for a walk along the beach,” he said casually, pressing a kiss to his aunt’s cheek. “too full to sit.”

his mamá nodded, already beginning to gather leftovers for you to take home. “don’t stay too long. the tide comes in fast.”

your stomach dropped clean through the floor. you barely had time to slip on your sandals before his hand found yours—tight, warm, firm—and he tugged you out the door without another word. you followed him mutely down the winding hill, past coolers and towels, toward the dunes.

"carlos, what—" carlols' mouth found yours (hungry, desperate) before the words could fully form. teeth scraped—gentle then not—against your bottom lip as he walked you backward toward the dunes. the sand shifted beneath your feet, soft, giving way, while his fingers hooked into your panties, tugging them down with practiced ease. like he'd rehearsed this moment. like he'd played it out in his mind until the movements became muscle memory. (you were dripping, he realized with wonder, and he suddenly couldn't breathe. couldn't think. could barely remember his own name with his hands on you like this.)

"i should be a gentleman," he muttered against your throat, voice rough like sandpaper as he dragged the strap of your dress down. his lips followed the path of exposed skin, marking territories previously unexplored. "but then you wore this dress."

the fabric pooled at your waist (a whisper of silk against heated skin) as he guided you down between two sheltering dunes. the ocean murmured secrets behind you, wind dancing across newly-bare skin until your nipples tightened in the salt-sweet air. his eyes tracked the reaction—molten, hungry—while his fingers tightened against your spine.

the sand beneath you pressed the day's warmth into your back (like him, like this) as he laid you down. his weight settled over you, and when he kissed you again, it was deeper—messier—all clash of teeth and greedy tongue until your lip throbbed purple-sweet and swollen.

his gaze dropped (lower, lower) to where your chest heaved with each desperate breath. to where your thighs pressed together, seeking friction. seeking him. one hand slid behind your knee, hitching it up around his hip as he settled between your legs. you felt him there—hard, aching through denim—and when he rolled his hips down (just once, just a taste), the gasp that escaped you sounded foreign to your own ears.

"mírate," he breathed, fingers finding their way between your thighs where you were bare now. exposed. dripping, just for him. always for him. "so fucking wet for me."

his knuckles dragged along your slit (slow, torturous) and the sound he made was animal-raw, as if it hurt him to touch you. as if he couldn't stop himself from doing it again, slower this time, just to feel you open for him. just to watch your face as you fell apart.

"dios mío," he whispered it like a prayer against your skin. "you don't even need me to do anything, do you? just soaking through that pretty dress, all by yourself."

you whined when his hand pulled away (empty, empty, you were so empty) but then—oh—then he was sucking his fingers clean. eyes locked on yours as he tasted you. deliberate. devastating. "sweet," he groaned, and your back arched straight off the sand. wanting. needing.

he caught your wrists as you reached for him once more, pinned them above your head where sand stuck to damp skin. "no," he said, voice tinged in velvet. in steel promises. "not yet. you want it too bad. makes me want to take my time."

and god, did he ever.

when he pushed into you (finally, finally, the head of his cock notched against your leaking hole as if to tease you further), the world narrowed to achingly acute sensation, to the delicious stretch of him filling you, to the weight of him pressing you into warm sand. to the rough scratch of hair on his stomach against your oversensitive skin, to the way his hips fit perfectly against yours, like you were made for this. for him.

(somewhere distant, the ocean kept time with your heartbeat.)

"carlos—" his name spilled from your lips like a prayer. your fingers dug into his back, feeling the way his muscles rippled beneath salt-slick skin. he was everywhere—surrounding you, consuming you, breaking you apart piece by perfect piece. "carlos, oh, fuck, i—"

he fucked you like he was trying to ruin you for anyone else. each thrust deliberate (devastating), deep enough to make you see stars. galaxies themselves flashed behind your closed eyelids, your dress bunched uselessly around your ribs while the thin straps dangled empty against your arms. sand clung to your skin everywhere he wasn't touching, as if to sink you into its clutches.

(he owned this moment. owned you.)

"gonna come for me, hermosa?" carlos' lips brushed your temple, voice rough with promise. "right here?" a particularly deep thrust made you gasp, hands flailing wildly against his shoulders. "where anyone could see how pretty you look taking my cock?"

you nodded frantically, words lost somewhere in your throat. he moaned, swearing in a low string of spanish, gutteral and deep. when your orgasm hit ("oh, fuck, fuck—!"), it was like drowning. like burning. like being reborn. he caught your cry with his palm, muffling the sound of his name on your tongue while pleasure wracked through you in endless waves. "shh, baby. shh. don't want them to hear us."

he followed you over with a broken sound—something close to your name—spilling hot and deep inside you as his forehead pressed to yours. for a moment, neither of you moved. he broke the reverie: soft kisses. gentle now. reverent. his lips found your cheek (your neck, your shoulder) while his hands—still trembling slightly with the aftershocks of his orgasm—traced patterns on your skin.

"c'mon," he murmured finally, tucking himself away with careful movements. "can't keep the family waiting forever."

(but oh, how you wished you could.)

your eyes widened. "we're going back?"

he shrugged, as if your legs weren't still locked around his waist. "you think they didn't notice we were gone?" (you wanted to smack him. or kiss him again. or maybe both.)

as you walked back up the path, still reeling, the wind cooling your sticky thighs, you realized—he was grinning. smug. satisfied. you barely made it back to the table before collapsing into your chair with a shaky breath. his mamá squinted at you, reached across the table, and gently brushed a strand of hair from your damp brow.

“carlos,” she asked worriedly, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “¿qué le hiciste a la pobre niña?” what did you do to the poor girl?

you went still, blinking. carlos hummed, scooping a bite of remaining flan onto his spoon. “nada." he chewed slowly. swallowed. then added, low and shameless, "nada que no haya pedido.”

nothing she didn't ask for.

♡

note: hehehe enjoy this!! i am nOT GOOD at writing smut so i apologize for the lack of detail!!!! MWAH ALWAYS AND FOREVER I LOVE YOU!!

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pellucid-constellations · 1 year ago

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Of Oblivious Minds (2)

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: You're positive Azriel is in love with Elain. It seems so obvious. But Cassian is laughing at you and suddenly nothing makes quite so much sense anymore.

Word count: 3k

Warnings: Angst!! More pining and yearning

a/n: Here is part two! I love writing this little series :) There will definitely be more! let me know what you think ♡♡

Part 1, Part 3

Sometimes you hated being a scholar.

There were plenty of upsides to having such a cushy job, especially when your employer was the high lord himself. You got paid generously, got free access to the best libraries, and never had to pay rent. Millions of fae would kill to have your position.

But as Cassian punched you in the ribs—for the third time—you found yourself questioning your role within the night court’s inner circle.

“Okay,” you breathed out, hunching over with a hand cradling your side. “Okay, please, Cass. Can we take a break?”

Unfortunately, Cassian didn’t appreciate quitters. So, your feet were abruptly swept from under you and your back made contact with the floor. With a soft oof, the wind was knocked from your lungs.

“C’mon, y/n, you’re better than that. I know you are.”

You responded with a wheeze, blinking into the pale sun.

This morning had been rough.

You’d been having some trouble sleeping, but that wasn’t necessarily unusual. Being alive for so long meant you had seen quite a few things, so nightmares came and went with the tide. You were going through a rough patch with them at the moment, and the lack of sleep was starting to catch up with you.

“You planning on laying there for the rest of the day?” Cassian asked, his large silhouette coming to block the light.

You squinted up at him. “Maybe.”

“Yeah, not happening.”

You fought back a whine as the Illyrian pulled you up by your shoulders and steadied you. He nodded, giving you a moment to ready yourself back into position, and then bent his knees. Gods, you were going to be so sore later.

It didn’t take long for you to end up on the floor again, this time on your stomach. Your chin cracked against the padded ring, your teeth snapping together at the impact. The sound made your brain vibrate as you rolled onto your side and held your temple.

Cassian crouched down to the floor beside you and you could make out his worried brow amidst the shakiness of your vision.

“What’s going on with you?” He brought his hand up to brush against your already bruising jaw. “We’ve been working on that move for weeks. You had it a few days ago.”

You breathed through your nose and tried not to groan at the ache rolling through your body. “I think I’m just tired. I haven’t been sleeping very well.”

At that, Cassian plopped down to a seat, keeping a hand at your elbow as you brought your own body up to mirror his.

“You want to talk about it?” he questioned.

“There isn’t much to say. I can’t remember them this time. It’s kind of strange—usually I remember them too much and that’s what makes it worse.”

Cassian hummed in contemplation. He was always the one you went to the morning after a sleepless night. Cassian would listen as you talked through your nightmares, and you would do the same for him. He was a logical pillar in your life.

But it was always Azriel you went to in the midst of them. You never talked about what you saw and he never asked. But it was always Azriel in the middle of the night. His shadows were a comfort in the pitch black and he was always quick to wrap his wings around you when it became too hard to breathe.

You hadn’t gone to him these last few times.

The fact that you couldn’t remember your dreams was an unfortunate factor. Because if you knew what was causing you to wake up in a cold sweat every night, at least then you could talk about it. Or take a moment to rationalize.

There was no rationalizing when the only thing you had to go off of was fear and hurt.

“What does Azriel think?” Cassian asked after a small lapse in silence.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, when you go to his room at night. What does he have to say about you not remembering?”

You scoffed. And then scoffed again. “What? I don’t know what you’re talking about, I barely do that.”

Cassian stared at you with a blank expression. “So we’re still doing that then. Got it.” He heaved himself up from the ground and then yanked you up alongside him.

“Still doing what?” you asked, trailing behind him as he reached for his canteen. He didn’t answer you, favoring the long gulps of water he was taking. You waited for him to finish and then asked again. He chose to unwrap his knuckles instead. “Cassian.”

The man sighed. “Nothing, y/n. It’s just… It wasn’t a secret that you would go to his room after you had a rough night. Why do you think I never dragged you out here those mornings?” You cringed at his words. He shook his head. “There’s nothing wrong with that. Why do you hide it?”

You didn’t have a good reason—well, you didn’t used to. You’d always sneak out of his room after the sun rose and never bring it up again. And there was never a solid explanation for why you evaded the topic. You knew Azriel would never hold it against you and you weren’t embarrassed for others to know that you sought out comfort in a friend. It just seemed like something you should keep to yourself.

Now, though—now there was a good reason to wipe your actions from memory. To pretend they never happened and to never repeat them.

“Cassian, Elain is my friend. Even if I did that in the past—in a friendly way—it would be wrong now.”

A muscle in Cassian’s jaw twitched. “Right. Have you ever actually talked to Elain about her feelings?”

“I don’t need to.” You reached down for your own water, ignoring the twinge in your side and the pulsing in your head. “She never stops talking about him. And they’re always together. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were already seeing each other.”

“Who’s seeing each other?”

The cool tone of Azriel��s voice washed over you and you whipped around to find him standing at the foot of the training ring, blades in hand.

A nervous laugh fell from your lips and you fought the urge to slap your hand over your mouth. “Um, no one, just some friends I know.”

“Who?” he asked again.

“Oh, you don’t know them. Old friends.”

The Shadowsinger raised a brow, sending Cassian a fleeting look. “I thought I knew all of your friends.”

“You don’t. I know way more people than you. Even though you're older than me. Not by that much, though. Have you talked to Elain lately?” Words were spewing from your mouth in the worst combinations. You were never nervous around Azriel. What in the cauldron was wrong with you?

Azriel’s raised brow turned into a furrowed one and he blinked, assessing your face with a scrutinizing gaze. “Do you have a concussion?” He turned the Cassian, expression going from confused to provoked. “Did you give her a concussion?”

“Honestly, maybe.”

“I don’t have a concussion,” you rushed out, cutting off Cassian’s admission. “I was just leaving though. I’m tired. You guys can fight each other.”

There was so much sudden pent-up energy inside of you that you had no intention of sleeping, but just seeing Azriel made you feel like you were intruding on something. Which was absurd. Azriel was your friend and had been your friend for centuries. Just because he loved Elain didn’t mean you had to avoid him.

But this energy had to come from somewhere, and that somewhere was telling you to avoid him like the Illyrian flu.

Making a break for it, you freed yourself from the training ring and attempted to skate past Azriel with a quick side smile, but he apparently had other plans. He caught your wrist as you walked past, glancing up at a “preoccupied” Cassian before turning to you with his wing out, giving the illusion of a private conversation.

“You’re not sleeping well?” he asked, voice low.

You warped your smile into one that met both sides of your mouth. “I’m okay.”

Shadows crept over his shoulders and along his ears. His expression shifted and pinched and then returned neutral. “You know you can come to me if you need it.”

“I’m okay, Az. Really.”

“Would you tell me if you weren’t?”

Maybe before.

“I’m a paper pusher, Az. I’m not out in the throes of battle,” you jested, scrunching your nose as you smiled up at him. “Nothing is that serious for me.”

A lie. Something was that serious—serious enough to keep you up at night for the past week—but you couldn’t figure out what it was.

“That is not what I asked,” he countered, sliding his hand up from your wrist to turn your chin. “You need to ice your jaw. Cassian shouldn’t be so rough with you.”

“I’m okay,” you said again, words a pathetic repetition because your heart was beating so fast now and you needed to leave. Something was pulling at your chest and you needed to leave.

“As you’ve said,” Azriel muttered, his fingers brushing down along the column of your throat. When his eyes flickered up and met your own, something inside of you lost its alignment.

You looked away before the feeling could return. Everything righted itself. You took a wobbly step back.

“Have a good training session.”

You turned on your heel and stalked away, feeling equal parts the betrayer and the betrayed.

“You mean that girl off-continent? The one from a century ago?”

Cassian hummed. “Yeah, her. What I wouldn’t give for a visit from her.”

“You’re a pig,” Mor replied, a scoff sharp on her lips.

“She didn’t think so.”

You were eavesdropping. You didn’t like to, but somehow, in the time you’d spent in the inner circle, you’d picked up the habit. Oops.

Technically, you weren’t really eavesdropping. You had been in the room first. It wasn’t your fault Cassian and Mor decided to speak very loudly with only a few shelves separating you. If they wanted privacy they should have checked the area.

“Is it that hard for you to get laid? You have to search off-continent?”

Cassian’s responding laugh was almost defensive. “I’m sure you’d love to know about my sex life.”

“I really wouldn’t, actually. You brought it up.” Mor paused. You heard her shift on the lounge chair. “I am, however, interested in Azriel’s.”

“Aren’t we all,” Cassian droned. “Pretty obvious that he doesn't have one at the moment. Hasn’t had one in a while.”

You felt your neck jolt at the reveal of that information. Azriel always kept his partners discrete, but you’d always known he’d had them. Many of them. You had no idea who they were or where he met them, but you would hear the girls occasionally... smell their perfume on a few rare nights.

“You think? This whole time?” Mor asked, curiosity raising her voice an octave.

“Mor, I think the sight of other females makes him want to vomit.”

The book in your lap was all but obsolete.

“Don’t be so dramatic.”

Cassian tsked. “I’m not. He’s told me.”

“I suppose that’s what having a mate does to a person.”

Your fingers became abnormally cold, the center of your chest caving slightly.

Azriel had a mate? No, he would have told you.

He would have told you.

Mor’s sweet voice slammed against your ears, harsh despite its nature. “Do you think he’ll tell her soon?”

Cassian’s reply had you standing on shaking knees. “Hope so. He’s so in love with her it's suffocating. You should see when—”

You were out of the room in a wisp, sliding out the small back door. The book you’d been reading was still clutched in your frozen grip and you held it against your chest as breathing became impossible. With a hand pressed to the wall and your head hung low, you sucked in air, greedy for some type of reprieve.��

You were happy for him. You were so, so happy for him.

Right?

The book fell from your grip, clattering to the floor. The pages collapsed in on themselves as it fell face down, and you listened to the paper crumple as your throat closed. Both hands now pressed to the cold wall. Why were you freezing?

This made sense. It made sense.

Of course Azriel had a mate and of course it was… Elain?

No, it couldn’t be Elain. Elain was Lucien’s mate.

Now you were confused as well as consumed. Your body was left aching from training and your mind was in a frenzy and you couldn’t even understand why you were reacting the way you were.

It was completely plausible that Azriel had a mate and didn’t tell anyone about it. He was a private male who kept his lovers to himself, so of course he would keep his mate to himself as well. But he did tell someone about it. He told Cassian. And Mor knew.

Your fingernails dug into stone.

Azriel didn’t love you.

The thought came on so suddenly that you almost looked over your shoulder. It was as if the words had been whispered in your ear by some cruel, vicious wind.

You had never cared if Azriel loved you before, because you knew that he did love you. Like a sister. You were Azriel’s family and he was yours.

But as the thought of Azriel having a mate invaded your mind once more, your shaky legs propelled you forward, running from the creased book and the hallway that contained all of the worst things.

You ran until you couldn't, until your toes hit the edge of the balcony on the far side of the house and the cool air of winter hit your cheeks. You had been so cold inside, but somehow the breeze felt even colder across your skin.

“Y/n?”

You gasped, whipping around and gripping the railing as it pressed into your spine. You couldn’t formulate words as Azriel stood before you. His hands raised up to his waist, reaching for you as he took in the way your chest heaved.

“What’s happened? What’s wrong?” he rushed.

You only shook your head, squeezing your eyes shut. Embarrassment and confusion and a twisted sort of fear coursed through you. You couldn't look at him, afraid you would somehow see the bond connected to his chest—somehow notice things about him you hadn’t before. Maybe another shade of hazel in his eyes or a softness to his lips that you had never looked for.

As you considered it now, it was obvious that you’d never let yourself look.

Azriel was never supposed to be yours.

“Talk to me, angel.” Azriel’s sweet whisper brushed against your skin. He was so close to you. You could feel him, but you refused to look.

To see how everything had changed.

“Let me fix it.”

You heard the rush of wind from his wings as he expanded them outwards, followed closely behind by the whirling of his shadows, and it all clicked then.

The images came quickly, dissipating just as fast. But they did their job, sending heavy, hot tears past the tight scrunch of your eyelids.

Azriel with Elain. Azriel with Mor. Azriel with random, faceless women.

Him, in every iteration, with everyone that wasn’t you.

That’s what had kept you up—the dreams plaguing your every resting moment. And you realized then that nothing had really changed at all. That you’d been in love with Azriel for longer than you’d been in love with anything.

Your jaw trembled, your body rejecting the anguish that swept through you. Wind softly flowed from the west, swaying your skirts with a gentleness that made your breath shudder. That kind of gentleness was impossible. The world felt so cruel.

“Y/n, tell me what happened. Should I get someone else?” Azriel pleaded. “Should I get Rhys?”

Rhys could knock you out, and that would surely be a relief. You felt paralyzed by this overwhelming array of devastation. But Rhys would also have access to your thoughts.

You shook your head. “No,” you said, but the word was lost in the wind. Azriel seemed to hear it anyway. “No, I want—I need to—go to sleep.”

“You need to go to sleep?” He touched you now, something he seemed to have been avoiding. His hands came to rest behind your neck, thumbs at your jaw, and you pried your eyes open at the contact. You’d never seen the shadowsinger look so ruined, his hair askew, his eyes wild and panicked. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

His expression was beseeching you for something you couldn’t give him. You hiccuped your next words out.

“I’m—’m tired.”

You wished you’d stayed oblivious. That you had never become privy to the depth of your feelings.

This pain was immeasurable.

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