#let me know what you thought! | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

moonshine-nightlight · 2 years

Text

Nothing's Wrong with Dale: Part Fourteen

It’s been a week, but you’re fairly certain your fiancé accidentally got himself replaced by an eldritch being from the Depths. Deciding that he’s certainly not worse than your original fiancé, you endeavor to keep the engagement and his new non-human state to yourself.

However, this might prove harder than you originally thought.

Fantasy, arranged marriage, malemonsterxfemalereader, M/F

AO3: Nothing's Wrong with Dale - Chapter 14 - MoonshineNightlight - Original Work [Archive of Our Own]

[Part One][Part Two][Part Three] [Part Four] [Part Five] [Part Six][Part Seven] [Part Seven.5] [Part Eight][Part Nine][Part Ten][Part Eleven] [Part Twelve] [Part Thirteen] Part Fourteen [Part Fifteen] [Part Sixteen] [Part Seventeen] [Part Eighteen] [Part Nineteen] [Part Twenty] [Part Twenty-One] [Part Twenty-Two] [Part Twenty-Three] [Part Twenty-Four] [Part Twenty-Five] [Part Twenty-Six] [Part Twenty-Seven] [Part Twenty-Eight] [Part Twenty-Nine] [Part Thirty] [Part Thirty-One] [Part Thirty-Two] [Part Thirty-Three] [Part Thirty-Four]

It’s easier than you think, to find Dale’s tent—you might have guessed it would have a prominent Northridge banner on it. There isn’t a way to knock, so you cautiously pull the flap aside and ask, “Lord Dale?”

Your cheeks immediately heat because Dale’s taken the majority of his armor off and is changing his shirt. The muscles of his back ripple as leans down to pick up a fresh linen shirt, discarding the sweat stained one. “My lady?” he replies, surprised and starts to turn to face you. Without thought you spin around, knowing you’ll be unable to look him in the eye for days if you are confronted with the sight of his bare chest, alone in this small tent together. You’re not sure if simply the sight of his bare back is going to be enough to keep you from doing so anyways.

“My apologies,” you stammer. “I should have waited outside. In fact, I should—”

“It’s alright,” he says, sounding not offended, but mildly amused—which does nothing for your embarrassment. Now you feel like a sheltered child—the fact that you once were one is unhelpful in mitigating that feeling. You have seen others in various states of undress before—it's simply different with your fiance, with Dale. He’s attractive enough on his own, you knew that before, but then it was a fact, detached, when combined with his arrogance and peacocking—like the way a painting could be beautiful. Another reason for him to brag, for you to not quite meet him on his level.

This Dale, he doesn’t flaunt his appearance, for all he favors clothes that suit him still. The difference is in his attitude, in the way he bears himself. The way the sunlight lightens his dark brown hair, the dimple to his smile, the depth to his eyes, the warmer and warmer his skin has grown in color since the incident—it all catches you off guard now, at the most distracting moments, because he is not constantly shoving it to the forefront of everyone’s attention.

“I’m clothed now.” You slowly turn back around to find Dale’s fresh white shirt on and tucked in, his quilted vest on over it but unfastened. You aren’t sure whether you are grateful or not. “You’ll forgive me if I refrain from putting back on any additional layers or armor,” Dales says, with a small smile. “I am trying to recover from the heat as best I can during this reprieve.”

“Of course, of course,” you reply, trying to catalog miscellaneous details around the room to distract and hopefully calm yourself. Unfortunately, the tent is rather plain and so you note the various armor and refreshments far too quickly.

“What brings you to see me?” Dale asks, only curiosity in his voice—no annoyance at your interrupting his likely attempt to have some time to himself, no dismissiveness at your unneeded presence. You’re able to meet his eyes again, his expression is open before he frowns slightly, reaching to his vest buttons. “Is it already time to begin the next tilt? The Field Marshal said it would be at least another quarter of an hour..” He looks over at the small table in the corner where his pocket watch lays.

“No, no,” you hurry to reassure him. “Nothing like that, or rather, if the round is reconvening so soon, I do not know of it.”

“Oh, alright,” Dale relaxes a bit at that, his fingers falling from his buttons as he twists where he stands, stretching out some of his muscles.

“However, I did wish to speak to you about the current match,” you say, interlocking your fingers together so as not to fidget with them.

Dale’s eyebrows raise and his brow furrows. “Oh? I did not think you overly interested in jousting, not enough to wish to discuss one with me in the middle of the tournament. Is something wrong?”

“I am not—or, you are right,” you hastily say, not wanting him to take offense at your general disinterest in jousting. “Jousting seems far more dangerous than its worth, in my eyes. The most recent tilts though, well, I believe that perhaps, I have noticed…”

You bite your lip because he’s right, you’ve no idea about jousting or lance work—only minor prior knowledge and then everything you’ve overheard from your schoolmates or from the Northridges today. How can you think that you have noticed what they have not? What no one at the tournament has? What Dale himself has given no sign of thinking despite literally smashing into the man? Perhaps since you know Dale’s true nature, you might have slight informational advantage over Grandfather and the others, but Dale himself knows who he is.

“Noticed what, my Lady?” Dale’s voice cuts through your thoughts. He still doesn’t look annoyed or judgmental. He has one of his gauntlets in hand from when he thought he had to hurry, but he’s merely turning it in his hand as he often does, keeping his fingers busy while he thinks. You’ve seen him do it with his cane or a pen the other times you’ve discussed important information. He looks as interested in hearing what you have to say here and now as he has any other time he’s asked your opinion, for whatever reason.

You take a deep breath. You’d thought strongly enough about this back in the stands to come here. Which would you rather: warning Dale when it is unnecessary or failing to warn him when it is? That at least, is no true question. Still, you should be very careful about what you say next. “I believe Eastmount is cheating,” spills out instead.

Dale pauses, fingers freezing where they hold his gauntlet. He frowns as he looks back at you. “Cheating?”

You nod, swallowing under Dale’s scrutiny. “Yes, I believe he’s enhanced his strength somehow, or done something to his shield—with materials or energies from the Depths.”

Dale’s whole body stills at that. “From the Depths?”

“When the break was called,” you hurry to explain, “his squire came out to attend to him and he seemed angry. Obviously he didn’t expect you to be as strong as you are since he hasn’t been able to unhorse you as he has the others—he was reprimanding the squire, gesturing with his gloves and at his shield and saddle. He left all three with the squire, who then called over a stablehand who looked far more like a mage.”

Dale is still too rigid as he continues to stare at you without blinking. His gaze is calculating, weighing your words. “But you suspected something before this—you wouldn’t have been paying such close attention to them otherwise.” It’s not a question.

“Yes, I did,” you admit. “Eastmount seemed too strong.” You remember that subconscious way Dale had rubbed his hand. “I…” you swallow and meet his eyes straight on, hoping he understands what you aren’t saying, hoping that isn’t a mistake. “I know your strength. While you were unhorsed earlier, through technique, not force. In fact, I do not think anyone in the tournament could do such a thing,” you admit, fighting through the tightening that you can almost feel in the air, “and it appeared to me that he was matching it in a way I don’t think…”

You scramble for the right words as Dale stares back at you, dark eyes wide, “I don’t think possible, not without something to enhance his own.” Dale’s strength is inhuman, you think as you continue to look back at him, and so Eastmount would need something inhuman to match it.

“I see,” he says, muscles rigid and eyes still unblinking. You dare not look away, not even when the shadows seem to roil in the corner of your eyes. Slowly, he tilts his head to the side, his voice somehow emptier than it should be, echoing as if coming from a further distance away than simply his chest, “And what do you think should be done? About such a…challenge.”

At that, you can’t help but spread your empty hands. “I’ve no notion of what can be done. Particularly given the severity of the accusation and of what your grandmother’s response could be.” He straightens his head and you worry he’ll take that as a threat, when it's not what you mean so you stumble on, “You know how she feels about such things. A test of all competitors and their equipment would be likely and that is not the…ideal situation.”

He offers no response and while you try to convey your sincerity, you’re not sure it's getting across. He seems far less human than usual and your decision to meet him alone feels foolish now. What if he decides that you knowing what he is is a danger he cannot afford?

Then, something in his shoulders eases and he finally, finally blinks. “No,” he says, sounding wryly amused. “Not particularly. I’d noticed how tilting him felt rather like driving my lance into a brick wall. That his lance struck with a force more akin to a much larger foe on a much larger horse. I’d simply thought him particularly skilled. This makes more sense,” he admits ruefully.

You feel tension drain from you at Dale’s reaction, a weight you’d not realized you were carrying, lifts.

Dale taps his chin thoughtfully with the gauntlet. “This also puts what he said at the start of the match in a different context.” When you frown quizzically, Dale flaps his hand dismissively. “Something about seeing who had the most skill and may the smarter man win. I’d thought it odd since he doesn’t particularly like me and we’ve never jousted—now I remember, the last time he saw me, there was an argument about methods and which scholar had the better insight.”

Ah. The Dale from then and Eastmount must have both been interested in demonic power—Eastmount favoring tools, or so it appears to you, and Dale obviously having intended to enhance himself. While you’re not sure how the current result reflects on either of them, it also would further explain Eastmount’s particular frustration—he clearly has no idea he isn’t truly facing Dale and must feel he’s at a standstill in an intellectual debate in addition to a physical one.

“But what is there to do? From what I could see and from what you tell, clearly his shield and likely gauntlets and saddle are all steeped in power,” you say, frowning as you try to work through the problem. “I fail to see how anything that could be done to overpower him would be helpful or achievable.”

“Eastmount’s short-sighted,” Dale says, thoughtfully, “and unimaginative. His designs are likely all to do with strength and solid seating, anything to push his opponent away and to keep the same from happening to him. And I likely would have continued to simply put more of my strength into my tilts, but if that can’t work…”

His eyes light up. “Then I simply have to outmaneuver him.”

“He could be changing his strategy as we speak, same as you,” you caution, more because you feel you should than anything else because you’re not sure you believe he will. You recall his anger, his frustration, the way he berated his allies and then stormed off in a huff. As Dale says, he seems more likely to dig himself in deeper rather than one to adapt.

“Perhaps,” Dale nods before shrugging. “But staying my course at this point is foolish.”

You nod because you agree and a thoughtful silence fills the tent. Just as you begin to feel awkward, a smile spreads across Dale’s face. He lifts a hand, as if to reach for you, but ultimately, he merely adjusts his vest, as if thinking better of it. “I appreciate your insight, my Lady. If we had continued to clash as we have been… I’m certain someone one other than you would have noticed. And then who knows what sort of suspicion would have consumed this tournament.”

You feel heat flood your cheeks at the sincerity, the compliment. “I merely did not wish for any misfortune to befall you, if I could be of assistance in preventing such an event.”

Some of the ease in Dale vanishes at that and his gaze is far more calculating than it had been. “Yes, and why is that? Not that I do not appreciate your… delicate handling of such a matter.”

You know he must be referring to your disclosure of your knowledge of his own inhuman nature, though it's clear he’s unsure of what exactly you know. You don’t know what to say, any more than you did with Steward Bilmont. Somehow, admitting you prefer this him feels like a far too vulnerable admission on your part. As such, you simply give him a polite smile, “You are my fiance, how could I not?”

Slowly, very slowly, he nods for all he’s no longer blinking again. It's clear he doesn’t understand, but he’s not pushing you on it. “Still, I thank you.”

“You are welcome,” you reply before the urge to run, which you’ve been fighting since you left the stands to some degree or another, is irresistible. “I believe I should return to my seat. No doubt you shall be recalled to tilt soon enough and I would not want to interrupt such preparations.”

“Of course,” Dale says, fading back to his more blunted way of being human. Still, even then, there is some amusement to him as he says, “I shall see you when the tournament is over.”

You freeze, having forgotten that Grandmother had named you as the one to present the prizes to the winners. Between the joust and the melee, you’ll need to move to join her in the judges booth. “Yes, right. I shall see you then.”

You find yourself back in your seat surprisingly quickly, though you know you’ve been gone for longer than expected. You hope the wine you had the sense to procure on the way back is excuse enough. You let the talk wash over you, mostly listening for an increase in speculation. Luckily, you hear none, only grumbles about shoddy craftsmanship, the high heat of the sun, the time it's taking to resume the joust. Speculation regarding victors is still high, with only eight competitors left.

Dale has seemingly good odds to make it into the final four, even given the current tie with Eastmount. Knight Alry is also a favorite, who won against Dale in the elimination jousting round and so is a Knight from Genry. You overhear a comment from someone who must think you’re already seated with Grandmother and the judges, wondering aloud why a knight from the bride’s family isn’t here to compete.

You stiffen, keeping your eyes forward, and fail to hear the answer when an increase in crowd volume tells you that the Field Marshal has returned with fresh lances. You’re relieved to have missed the reply, wondering what they might have even said. Truthfully, your family did not see it necessary to send someone to compete for Portsmith, not for this simple marriage of their youngest. Honestly, you doubt it even crossed their mind to send someone.

Both of your brothers are skilled knights, but risking Asher, who is set to inherit, would not be an option and his children were too young to compete. Douglas likely would have competed out of his own desire, except that he’s on a military campaign in the North. You’re not even sure if your parents have mentioned your upcoming wedding to him, let alone if he’ll bother to put in a request to come to the wedding itself. Your sisters do not have the necessary martial skills for this type of tournament—your oldest sister skilled in the combat traditions of her husband and your other sister uninterested in anything of the sort, even more so than you are.

Other cousins are scattered about, but none are particularly close to you. You don’t think your parents considered whether it might be seen as an insult to not send someone to represent them, to bolster you, because the marriage itself is the key in their mind—and neither like tournaments as it is. You wonder how much of your own distaste is from them. You know they would not have thought to send someone to make you feel less alone, by yourself in Northridge for the last month and for the rest—it doesn’t matter, in the end.

A flash of red makes you realize you’ve been starting sightlessly at the field for likely too long and you blink yourself back to awareness. You’re relieved no one seems to have noticed your mental absence. Swallowing, you straighten in your seat and focus on that red that your eyes were already drawn to—Eastmount’s tunic with his coat of arms on it. Your eyes travel along from his gloves, which are already on, to the look on his face. Whatever frustration he previously felt has been replaced with smug confidence once more.

You strain your eyes as his squire hands him his shield, looking for changes, for differences to it, but you can’t identify any change—you don’t doubt there has been one though. In the very least the influence, the energy, has been refreshed. It must have been for Eastmount to no longer be concerned. You bite your lip and turn away from him, eyes landing on Dale at the opposite end of the lane. He’s adjusting his shield, his squire holding his lance for him while he does so. Once he’s happy with the shield, he glances around, scanning the stands and you swear he meets your eyes for just a split second, before his helm covers his face and he takes up his lance.

You take a fortifying gulp of wine as he gets in position. A hand lands on your arm and you jump in your seat. Turning, you see one of Dale’s cousins, his face pinched with what might be concern. “Are you alright, my Lady?”

“Yes, thank you for your inquiry,” you reply reflexively, but his frown only deepens, so you try for a sheepish smile. “My family is not overly fond of tournaments and I admit my nerves only grow each time it is Lord Dale’s turn for a tilt.”

Joel’s smile gentles. “I understand your trepidation, but Cousin Dale is skilled, we have physicians standing by—all will be well.”

You widen your smile and nod, not fully mollified, but strangely his words do help. “Thank you, perhaps I simply needed to hear it from someone other than myself.”

Before either of you can say anything more, a trumpet blast brings your attention back firmly to the riders. They’re already in motion, charging for each other, and before you know it, their lances hit shields. It’s almost predictable at this point, the way they both shatter. What isn’t expected is the way Dale leans in and catches Eastmont’s shield with his own. They lock together and Dale seems to pull him forward and sideways, twisting his very caught off guard opponent and then shoving him. Eastmont goes sprawling into the dirt.

Half the crowd stands up as cheers ring through the stands at his maneuver. While it wasn’t unheard of for someone to do such a thing, it was unexpected enough that the crowd was quite entertained. In response to the noise, Dale pulls off his helm, tucking it under his arm as he bows in the saddle to his grandmother and then to the audience at large. He leans over the barrier to say something to Eastmont, back on his feet but clearly furious over the outcome. Grudgingly he accepts Dale’s offered handshaking, knowing the only thing worse than a loss is one suffered disgracefully.

As Dale lets go and starts to guide his horse back to where his squire waits to accept the reins, he looks back to the stands and you swear that he looks directly at you—and winks.

[Part Fifteen]

#my writing #story: nothing's wrong with dale #nothing's wrong with dale #story part #terato #exophilia #osha compliant #arranged marriage #male monster #monster bf #dale: once more with feeling #back on schedule #gonna lie down though cuz jsut got covid booster and flu shot #my last weekend ren faire with our himbo knight was super inspirational lol #but it was cool to see some irl jousting #didn't rly factor in here but it was a good time #there's gonna b another tournament part cuz this went longer than i expected #let me know what you thought!

387 notes · View notes

moonshine-nightlight · 2 years

Text

Don't Shoot the Messenger - Part Seven

Despite how it might seem, being a messenger for the feared sea-demon pirate, Admiral Satrasi, infamous far and wide for having an entire fleet of raiding vessels who answer to him alone, is a relatively safe job. After all, no one knowingly crosses the Admiral. However, it appears the most recent captain looking to join his fleet hasn’t gotten that bulletin yet.

Fantasy, pirates, male monster x female reader, male demon, M/F, Part 7 of 9

Story Status: COMPLETE

AO3: Don't Shoot the Messenger Chapter 7

[Part One] [Part Two] [Part Three] [Part Four] [Part Five] [Part Six] Part Seven [Part Eight] [Part Nine - NSFW]

You accept the water someone hands you, but no other medical aid—you want Critchley to see the full damage, regardless of whether or not he’ll care, it makes you feel more justified. And at the very least, everyone else does care. People keep sneaking glances at your neck and murmuring angrily.

When Critchley arrives, it becomes clear that he has no notion he’s in trouble. The smug curl to his lips shows his belief that he has been proven correct. That his summoning to Satrasi is merely a reflection of his own view of the world. That he truly is important enough to warrant a next day audience. His gaze sweeps the room and he seems pleased with the audience, preening at the sight of what are clearly other fleet captains. He even seems unaffected by a hangover and generally no worse for wear—it's obvious he slept like a babe.

The only thing that gives him pause, for even a second, is the sight of Satrasi, in all his inhuman glory. You've noticed there are no demons among his crew, which isn’t impossible—demons aren’t common—but they’re less rare among those living on the edges, so to speak, of society than within it. Additionally, as far you could tell, no crew other than men either.

His first mate has come with him, you can tell that’s who it is by how he stands and follows Critchley. An older man with a well-kept but full beard and the weather look of someone who’s worked on ships his whole life. Otherwise you don’t recognize him so he must have been watching the ship last night—not at the Saucy Siren.

He looks far more wary than Critchley, keeping a close eye on the ones who brought them here. He seems to at least suspect they’re guards, not escorts. He’s also better able to read a room, as the set of his shoulders tenses up as soon as he’s through the doors. His hand even starts to stray towards his gun subconsciously before he purposely stops himself, realizing that might be seen as a threat. His instincts are obviously screaming at him and he’s listening, though he’s trying not to act like it.

Critchley dismisses the rest of the assembled audience quickly, striding to stand in front of Satrasi’s desk. While he does so, your eyes notice the figure who slips in after them—Takis, the first mate of the Hungry Serpent. Their eyes find yours immediately and they wink. You appreciate the support, regardless of its superfluity, and smile back.

Once his first mate catches up to stand at his shoulder, Critchley inclines his head in greeting. “Captain Critchley of the Lux Lady. A pleasure to meet you Admiral Satrasi.”

“Yes, Captain Critchley. Your reputation precedes you,” Satrasi says, his red eyes full of disdain even if his voice is even. He leans back in his chair, the movement’s appearance nonchalant, but your eyes trace the tension in his muscles which betrays his iron control.

“Our latest victory was rather impressive, if I do say so myself,” Critchley obviously thinking Satrasi is referring to whatever naval battle and subsequent booty had landed him his interview for the fleet in the first place.

You find it’s fairly entertaining, watching him make all the wrong assumptions.

“Captain Jack certainly took notice, but that was not what I was referring to,” Satrasi corrects mildly.

Critchley frowns, some of his arrogance tarnished. “While I admit we’ve had some other decent scores, none were as successful.” He gives a careless wave of his hand, “You know how it is when you start out—lots of small fish. What else have you heard? I’m afraid they might be mere rumor.”

“That’s precisely what I’d like to determine. You see, it seems as though there might have been some sort of…” Satrasi pauses as if thinking, “misunderstanding with my messenger last night.” Critchley’s eyebrows raise and a flash of anger and contempt flickers over his face even before Satrasi nods to his right and you step forward.

Critchley’s eyes land on you and you can see the brief hesitation as he realizes he has to make a decision. He’s no longer in a tavern with alcohol, he’s gotten what he thinks he wants: a meeting with Satrasi today—he can back off without doubling down on his treatment of you. He can say he was drunk, that he did misunderstand, that perhaps he hadn’t been aware that you were in fact a personal messenger and not someone having him on. But you see when he very clearly sneers at you instead, his eyes lingering on the bruises on your throat—not with regret in the stark light of day, but with satisfaction.

“I don’t know what that one told you, but I’m sure it was a lie,” he says confidently, jerking his thumb at you as he turns back to face Satrasi. “She was refusing to do her job and didn’t know her place. Not sure if she was trying to delay my joining your fleet or someone paid her to do so against you, but she was putting me off our meeting. First asking when I wanted to see you, but then claiming the day and time I chose weren’t possible. Trying to make me wait days when, of course, you’d want to see me far sooner.”

“And when someone ain’t listening to me,” he gives a careless shrug and smirks at you in what he probably thought was an intimidating manner. “I make them listen.” He turns back to Satrasi. “The lying chit has more guts than I thought, to try to turn it around me by tattling and whining in your ear.”

Satrasi nods slowly and you wonder if he’s ever met someone who so hugely misunderstood or underestimated the situation he found himself in, who just kept digging himself in deeper while blissfully unaware of what he was doing—you certainly haven’t.

“I see,” Satrasi says after a second’s pause—as if wanting to be sure Critchley’s done spewing bile. This is also clearly the first time the first mate has heard this story. He pales, looking rather as though between his knowledge of his captain and his ability to read between the lines that he knows what might truly have gone down. His hand finds a religious pendant of some kind that hangs around his neck as he stays silent, waiting in trepidation. Good, you think, at least one of them is worried.

“Well, I’ve had her side and now I’ve yours. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you they don’t agree,” Satrasi says dryly. Critchley grins, obviously mistaking which side of the joke he is on.

“Admiral, if I could speak?” Takis steps forward, one hand in the air like they’re in the classroom. They look a bit worried to be stepping in without the Admiral's say-so, but determined to speak if permitted. You hadn’t realized they cared this much—about you or justice or some blend of the two. You make a note to look into them more closely, do them a good turn in reply. “I was there last night, heard the whole thing.”

“Takis of the Hungry Serpent,” Satrasi acknowledges and waves them closer. “Yes—if you’d like.”

“Thank ye kindly,” they say with a rough bow to Satrasi. “I’ve not heard what the Marlin had to say and I’ve no notion of what your orders were—and I’ll not guess at that—but there was no lip or rudeness on the Marlin’s side of things. Said you couldn’t see ‘im until three days time, two days now I suppose, and he said he wanted to meet today. They were at a stand still, both gettin’ frustrated with the other. Marlin made no motion to attack and the captain gave no warning. Only let go when the blade was put to his skin. Marlin left after askin’ for him to pick a time given to ‘im and he refused still.”

“You sleepin’ with this whore?” Critchley cuts in, going for condescending, but for the first time it felt like a veneer to cover up some trepidation. He can’t stop his eyes darting to Satrasi’s face to see his reaction, and he doesn’t seem to find the lack of one particularly comforting.

Takis sneers at him. “Wouldn’t matter if I were—I’m only tellin’ how things happened.”

“Thank you, Takis,” Satrasi says, bringing both of their focus back to him. “I appreciate your stopping by to lend your voice to this matter.”

Critchley looks like he wants to object to so kind a description to what he just called slander.

“Captain Critchley.” Satrasi leans forward, elbows on the desk, fingers laced together. “‘Admiral’ is not just a title I took to spark some fear in the easily persuaded. My fleet is what makes me the Admiral, the myriad captains and crew that answer to me is where my power comes from. I command the best, the fastest, the strongest, and the smartest on this side of the Unbroken Sea. The only who compares is the Commander of the Red Flag Fleet in the east—and I plan to sail as far from her as I can.

“We’re no mere coalition, loosely held together by mutual self-interest.” Satrasi’s gaze is unwavering, his voice commanding, “We are still here because we are one unit, one enemy that no nation can match. This is my fleet and I am it's Admiral.”

“I know this,” Critchley seems to both be annoyed and to be pleading, his arrogant attitude at war with the way the back of his head must be prickling with the awareness that he’s in danger, that this conversation is not going to go his way even as he fights that thought off. You find the conflict in his expression, in the lines of his body, as he fights between self-importance and deference fascinating—like watching someone try to play chicken with a brick wall. “That’s why I seek to join in the first place. You don’t need to convince me of your greatness.”

“And yet, you do not seem to have the faintest comprehension of that which you claim to wish to join.” Satrasi is no longer pretending to not be angry, his voice is deeper and harsher, his eyes glaring. “Do you know how many ships I have under my command already? Do you know how many petitions to join up I get? Do you know how many I could take, if I so desired? Ships are not what I lack. Bodies are not what I lack.

“And because I have numbers, I can afford to be specific in who I allow to join up. Intelligence, loyalty, novelty—people who have some’at new and therefore valuable to bring to me,” Satrasi continues, voice so powerful that you don’t think Critchley could interrupt if he wanted to.

“The actual challenge of managing my fleet? It’s communication. Ensuring my captains know what their orders are, ensuring they have the most current information, that they know of changing tides and needs. Not only do I need speed in communication, but I need trust. I need to know that I have those who are loyal and competent to bring my messages where they need to go as accurately as possible. I don’t let anyone take on that role without years of service, who have proven themselves worthy. My elite messengers are my organization’s lifeblood.”

You feel pride sing through your veins at such a generous and explicit description of how much Satrasi values you and the other messengers, at how deep regret has etched itself into Chritchley face.

“They are my sincerest representatives. When they speak, it is with my words, when they answer, it is with my words.” Satrasi punctuates each “my” with the jab of a finger at the desk and Critchley flinches both times. “Whatever is done to them in the course of their duties is done to me.

“And you degraded and brutalized one of them, on my protected grounds, out of pettiness and an overly inflated sense of your own importance,” Satrasi condemns, tendrils of hair wiping around as if in a stiff sea breeze. Critchley’s face is contorted in a fearful mask. You’re sure his knees have locked in place out of fear, likely the only reason he’s still standing. His eyes are wide, pupils dilated as he starts to shake.

“You’ve got no distinction, you’ve no interesting booty, you’ve no particular coin to your name.” Satrasi has escalated to hitting his desk with a flat palm with each point and Critchley jumps at the sound every time. “And now I’ve seen you’ve no brains in your empty head, only hot air. I’ve no need of such a person in my fleet.”

“So, I’m afraid I’ll have to decline your petition to join my fleet,” he smiles, but it's only to better show his teeth. There’s no remorse or indecision in his face. “And that I’ll be taking the Lux Lady and her crew as recompense for the grievous insult done to myself and my messenger.”

Critchley starts to protest, you can’t make out any individual words, only his desperation and fear and outrage all bubbling up and over each other. Satrasi merely shakes his head, almost gently, as he says, “No, no—your presence is no longer required.”

Quick and silent as shadows, two strong black tentacles move out from behind Satrasi, press to either side of Critchley’s head, and snap his neck. Critchley’s body falls to the ground like a marionette with its strings cut and Satrasi’s tentacles retreat back behind him, out of sight, but at the front of everyone’s mind. You feel all your remaining tension and anger melt away. You knew Satrasi would take care of the problem, would take care of you. Now Critchley can't bully anyone else, now he knows he never should have set a finger on you.

“Wicklow,” Satrasi says, eyes back on his paperwork since Critchley is dealt with and no longer worth notice. “Strip the Lux Lady and her crew of anything of value, then dump the crew at the nearest port.” He smirks at you. “You can have first pick.” You smile and nod your thanks, wincing slightly at the way the motion aches unexpectedly. His eyes seem to spark as he presses his mouth into a frown, eyes flicking down to stare at the paperwork on his desk. “Who is on our short list of new captains?”

While Wicklow slides a list over to Satrasi, you think if the first mate could have gotten any paler, he would have. “Admiral, sir, I beg your mercy. I understand that C-critchley’s disrespect required action, but the rest of the crew did nothing.”

“Correct, they did nothing while my messenger was assaulted,” Satrasi replies, voice hard and dismissive. “Be grateful you do not share his fate.”

“Admiral—” the first mate falls silent at a glare from Satrasi before he licks his lips, seemingly unable to say he didn’t put up more of a protest. All he says is, “He was our captain, sir.”

Satrasi’s eyes are sharp as he looks the man over. “Very well, inform the first mate of the Huzzah that she is now the captain of the Lux Lady. She can have her pick of the crew and the rest can be given scut work on the carrier until we find out what else to do with them. Any who wish to go ashore can. Any who object, throw them into the sea.”

Satrasi points at the first mate. “It’s up to you to impress upon your mates what their options are, understood?”

“Yes, sir,” the first mate gives a jerky bow, obviously aware of the precarious position he’s in. “Thank you, sir.”

“Take him back to his ship and inform the crew,” Satrasi orders the crew who brought the Lux Lady men here. “Then tell Jimena of her new command.”

They agree easily and the first mate walks away with them, without fuss. After they leave, Satari’s eyes flick to the body and then to one of the crew nearby. “Dollen, clean that up—you can have whatever you want off him.” Dollen bows, eyes already on Critchley’s silver and you figure his body’ll be fed to one of Satrasi’s demon pets that swim near the carrier or his personal ship.

Satrasi motions Wicklow to look at some sheafs of paper in his hand, noting the change in positions and the new ship to the fleet while the rest of the room waits quietly.

When Wicklow straightens with a nod and the papers in hand, Satrasi pushes back from his desk. “This has already been a more disruptive day than I wished for,” Satrasi says with a scowl. He flaps his hand at the room at large. “Leave me.” He points at you before you even think to move. “Except for you, my messenger.” His eyes trap your own. “Stay.”

“Of course.”

The others leave without fanfare, only Wicklow stopping to say, “You want me to send a doctor to ye?” His face is serious, but his eyes when they dart to yours are kind.

Satrasi shakes his head though. “Not necessary.” He stands and beckons you to follow him into his private office. “Come with me.”

[Part Eight]

#my writing #story: don't shoot the messenger #story part #don't shoot the messenger #terato #exophilia #monster bf #male monster #male demon #osha compliant #monster romance #reader #hope ya'll enjoyed the consequences #this part is basically the whole point of this story lol #satrasi is the admiral #all we've got left is the wrap up #mayb some personal attention to injuries in Satrasi's private office?#maybe some other things in his office?#let me know what you thought!

280 notes · View notes